Murder in Belleville (4 page)

Aimee knew Anais was fading fast.

“Vivienne, tell
le Ministre
she’s had a sudden attack of food poisoning,” Aimee said. Aimee surveyed the plates. “Those,” she pointed. “Tainted mussels. Apologize profusely to the guests.”

“Of course,” Vivenne said, backing into kitchen drawers.

“I’ll get her upstairs,” Aimee said, worried. “Bring some bandages. Towels if you have to; she’s bleeding again.”

Aimee grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and tied it tightly around Anais’s leg.

Vivienne picked up a tray of
crudites
and bustled out of the kitchen.

They made it upstairs and down a dimly lit hall, the wood floor creaking at every hobbling step.

“Maman!” said a small voice from behind a partially open bedroom door. “Where’s my
bisou?”

The child’s tone, so confident yet tinged with longing, rose at the end. Aimee melted at the little voice.

“Un moment, mon coeur,”
Anais said, pausing to regain her breath. “Special treat—you can come to my room in a minute.”

Had she ever asked her mother for a goodnight kiss? Had her mother even listened? All Aimee remembered was the flat American accent saying, “Take care of yourself, Amy. No one else will.”

In the high-ceilinged bedroom, with pale yellow walls and periwinkle blue curtains, Aimee helped Anais out of her clothes.

She wiped the blood from Anais’s legs, helped her into a nightgown, then got her into bed. Aimee set several pillows beneath her leg. Again, after she applied direct pressure, the leg stopped bleeding. Thank God.

Aimee tied her own damp sweater around her waist.

A great weariness showed in Anais’s sunken face. But when a carrot-haired child, in flannel pajamas dotted with stars, peered around the door, her face brightened.

“Maman, what’s the matter?” asked the child, her brows knit together in worry. She padded in bare feet to her mother’s side.

“Simone, I’m a little tired.”

“I couldn’t wait to see you, Maman,” said the child.

“Me neither,” Anais said, opening her arms and hugging her daughter. “Merri, Aimee. I’m fine now.”

Aimee slipped out of the room, passing Vivienne who cast a large shadow, carrying antiseptic and towels.

“Please call Anais’s doctor,” she said. “The bleeding’s stopped for now, but she should be checked for internal injuries.”

Vivienne nodded.

“Keep checking on her, please,” Aimee said. “I’ll call later.”

Down at the kitchen doorway Aimee paused and peered at the reception in progress. A mosque fashioned out of sugarcubes, with details painted in turquoise and embellished with a gold dome, stood near chilled Algerian wine and fruit juice. Knots of men, some in
djellabas,
others in suits, clustered under the de Froissarts’eighteenth-century chandeliers. Conversation buzzed in Arabic and French.

She hadn’t seen Philippe de Froissart since the wedding, but she recognized him huddled among uniformed military men. He’d aged; his beaklike nose was more prominent, his mottled pink cheeks lined, and his black moustache graying. His thick black hair, white around the temples, curled over his collar. A member of the aristocracy, he’d once been a card-carrying Communist. Now he’d become a watered-down socialist, she thought, like everyone else.

She didn’t want to crash the reception, smeared with mud and blood—his mistress’s blood. But she had to get his attention and tell him what happened. She waved at him, standing partly behind the door.

Finally Philippe saw her. He reluctantly excused himself, causing several of the men in his group to turn and stare in her direction.

“Why, Aimee, it’s been a long time, the food poisoning—is Anais all right?” Philippe said, surprised.

“Vivienne’s calling the doctor,” she said as she pulled out a stool by the counter and closed the kitchen door with her foot.

He noticed her outfit, and his eyes narrowed. “Of course food poisoning is serious, but how are you involved?”

“Sit down, Philippe.” She leaned on the glasslike granite counter, her mouth dry. She chewed her lip.

“The minister’s here—what’s the matter?” he asked, watching her intently.

“Philippe, there was a car bomb,” she said.

“Car bomb—Anais?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing. He started for the door.

“Hear me out. Sylvie Coudray’s dead.”

Philippe paused. “Sylvie … No, it can’t be,” he blinked several times.

Aimee read shock on his face. And sadness.

“I’m sorry,” Aimee said. “Sylvie turned on the ignition and then—”

He sat down heavily, shaking his head.
“Non,
not possible,” he said, as if his words would negate what happened.

“Philippe, her car blew up right in front of us.”

He sat, stunned and silent.

“Do you understand?” Aimee said, her voice rising. “We were thrown by the blast; Anais might have internal injuries.”

He looked as if he’d hit a cement wall. Full force.

“What does it have to do with you, Philippe?”

“Me?” Philippe rubbed his forehead.

The clink of melting ice cubes accompanied the hum of voices from the other room. Platters of wilted salad sat by the sink.

“Sylvie tried to tell Anais something.”

Philippe stood up, anger flashing in his eyes.

“So?”

She wondered why Philippe was reacting this way.

“Anais could have been in that car,” she said.

“Never,” he said. “They didn’t get along.”

What an understatement.

“I helped Anais escape—”

“Escape? What do you mean?”

“Some men followed her,” Aimee said. “They came after us when your mistress was murdered.”

“But Sylvie’s not my mistress,” he cut her off. Philippe paced past the stainless-steel refrigerator. Preschool paintings with ‘Si-mone’ scrawled in pink marker covered most of the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“But Philippe,” she said, “Sylvie tried to tell Anais—”

Aimee was interrupted by two men, their arms around each other, who burst through the kitchen doors.

“Why all the secrecy, Philippe? Eh, hiding in the kitchen,” said a smiling man with curly hair and flushed cheeks, pushing up the sleeves of his
djellaba.
He had laughing eyes and cinnamon skin. He saw Aimee and his brows lifted.

“Call me a party crasher,” Aimee said, wishing they would leave. “Excuse my appearance, I’m in rehearsals,” she said to explain her outfit. She wanted to keep it vague. “A German miniseries—a Brecht adaptation.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked the man. Of the two, he appeared the more personable.

“My wife’s friend, Aimee Leduc,” Philippe said reluctantly. “Meet Kaseem Nwar and
le Ministre
Olivier Guittard.”

Both men smiled and nodded to Aimee. Guittard gave her a once-over. Already she didn’t like him. It had nothing to do with his Cartier watch or perfectly brushed hair. She imagined him having a matching blond wife and 2.5 blond children.

Kaseem turned to Philippe. “Of course, you’re announcing the joint venture with continued funding of the humanitarian mission tonight?” He spoke with a slight Algerian accent and seemed intent on cornering Philippe.

She saw Philippe stiffen.

“Tiens,
you’re impatient, Kaseem!” Philippe said, his tone even. He put his arm around Kaseem and shot a look back at Aimee that read,
Keep your mouth closed.

Aimee didn’t like this, but she gave Philippe the benefit of the doubt. No reason to blurt out what had happened to these men.

“You know that’s a quality I admire, but the Assembly thinks along different lines,” Philippe said. “Last night we recommended that the delegation count on next year.”

“Kaseem’s plan depends on the dry season, Philippe,” Guittard said. “We don’t want to disappoint him or his backers.”

“Social gatherings require wine, Olivier, don’t you agree?” Philippe said, reaching to uncork a bottle of Crozes-Hermitage on the counter. “Or juice for Kaseem?”

Aimee couldn’t see Philippe’s face while he redirected the conversation. Or tried to.

“What about your wine, Philippe,” Olivier said. “Has Chateau de Froissart yielded a good vintage yet?”

“Soon,” Philippe said. “Winemaking takes time, everyone struggles the first few years.”

“So you keep your women in the kitchen like we do, Philippe?” Kaseem grinned. He turned to Aimee. “Don’t be offended, I’m joking. Some women feel more comfortable.”

Aimee gave a thin smile. She didn’t think she looked like the domestic type.

Philippe rubbed his white, fleshy thumbs together. A bland, masklike expression came over his face.

“Excuse us.” He motioned his guests in the direction of the dining area.

Philippe returned, his eyes dark.

“I’ll take care of Anais,” he said, guiding her toward the back door.

“Philippe, why are men after her?”

His face was flushed. “How do I know what you’re talking about? Let me speak with Anais.”

And he shut the door on her.

In the taxi on her way back, Aimee wondered what Philippe was hiding. And she realized she hadn’t seen one single woman at the reception.

O
N
I
LE
St. Louis, Aimee asked the taxi driver to stop around the corner from her flat. Dropping change on the floor, she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. She needed a drink. The dim lights of the bistro Les
Fous de L’lsle
shone on rue des Deux Ponts. She tucked a hundred francs under his lapel.

“Call me next time,” the driver said, giving her his card, which read “Franck Polar.”

“Don’t log the fare, Franck,” she said. “That’s if you want me to call you again.
Merci.”

She got out and inhaled the crisp air, her bruises and cuts smarting. Dankness emanated from the leaning stone buildings and she pulled her sweater tighter. Ahead, leafy quaiside trees rustled, and the Seine lapped below Pont Marie. She narrowly missed stepping on dog droppings, which reminded her of Miles Davis, her bichon frise—time for his dinner.

She heard strains of music wafting over the narrow, wet street. Outside the bistro a blackboard announced in blue chalk, QUINTET JAZZ! She opened the glass doors plastered with accepted bank cards and edged past the tall potted plants. The warm, hazy smoke hit her. She’d chew nails for a cigarette right now.

The quintet had paused while the female drummer did a solo. The piano player sat upright, eyes closed, with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth, while the saxophonist, trumpet player, and contrabass player stood together, swaying to the notes. Every table was full of patrons eating. A standing crowd overflowed the bar. The beeping cell phones, blue cigarette haze, and familiar gap-toothed grin of Monique at the bar made Aimee feel at home.

She squeezed in at the counter between a
Bourse
stockbroker type with a nice profile and an aging longhaired man. He proudly told anyone who’d listen that his daughter Rosa played the saxophone, even though she was in the
Conservatoire de Musique.

“Ca va,
Monique?”

“Bien, Aimee. You working?” Monique eyed her, setting a glass of house red in front of her.

Aimee nodded.

“Et apres?”
Monique asked.

“Steak tartare to go,” she said.

Monique nodded solemnly.

“Une tartare pour
Meek
Daveez,”
Monique said turning to the chef, her brother, also gap-toothed. Maybe it was genetic.

“For me a cheese
tartine,”
Aimee said.

“Your usual, eh?”

Aimee nodded, sipping the heavy
vin rouge
and drumming her fingers in time to the beat.

The stockbroker lit a cigarette, talked earnestly into his cell phone, and smiled. He exhaled a snake trail of smoke near her ear. She wanted to grab his filter-tipped Caporal and suck the tobacco into her lungs, but instead she reached into her pocket for Nicorette gum.

He raised his wineglass in salute, his dark blue eyes holding hers. She raised her glass, then ignored him. Not her bad-boy type.

The solo ended; then the quintet resumed, with the piano player singing a smooth, unsentimental variation on Thelonious Monk’s version of “April in Paris.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

Aimee didn’t want to hear any more. She picked up her food, wedged the franc notes under her glass, and slipped into the crowd.

Miles Davis greeted her at the apartment door, his wet black nose sniffing her package of steak tartare. She kicked the hall radiator in her twenty-foot-ceilinged entryway twice until it sputtered to life, pulled her damp wool sweater off, and stepped out of her leather pants. She sniffed. Something smelled musty.

“Time for dinner, Miles Davis,” she said. She scooped him into her arms and carried him to the dark kitchen at the back of the apartment. The Seine flowed gelatinous and black below her tall windows. Lantern lights dotted the quai, their pinprick reflections caught in the heavy water. Almost as though they were drowning, she thought.

Bone weary, she peered outside to look at the quai, her nose touching the cold glass. The only person she saw was a figure walking a German shepherd. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt she wasn’t alone. Foreboding washed over her.

Miles Davis licked her cheek.

“A
table,
furball,” she said, and hit the light switch. The chandelier flickered, then emitted a feeble glow.

She took his chipped Limoges bowl, spooned in the steak tartare, and set it down for him. After changing his water, she plopped her
tartine
down on the counter, too tired to feel hungry.

Her thoughts turned to her last boyfriend. She pictured Yves, his large brown eyes and slim hips. When he’d accepted the Cairo correspondent post, she’d stuck pins in a Tutankhamen doll until it resembled a pincushion. Right now the only male in her life was on the floor at her feet with a wet nose and wagging tail.

Aimee heard the cat door thump shut. The hairs on her neck stood up. Miles Davis growled but didn’t abandon his steak tartare. Who could that be?