Aimée wondered what Sylvie had been trying to tell Anaïs. Sylvie could have gone to the window to see if she’d been followed or was afraid Anaïs had.
“Was Philippe aware you were meeting her?” she asked.
“Why should he be? Philippe told me he finished with her months ago,” Anaïs said. “Things between us were getting better.”
Aimée stared at Anaïs. Had she gone to make sure he’d kept his word?
“Why did you want my help?”
“Call me a coward,” Anaïs said, biting her lip. “I’m ashamed I thought she wanted money. But she asked me to forgive her.”
“You mean forgive her for the past?”
“Told me how sorry she felt over things escalating,” Anaïs said, breathing quickly.
“Escalating?”
“That’s the term the pute used. Can you believe it?” Anaïs shook her head. She leaned back and took more deep breaths.
By the time they’d reached the angle where the streets met at Jourdain, the driver had definitely lost the Twingo. But he circled the winding streets around Saint Jean Baptiste Church several times to be safe.
The taxi followed the terraced streets intersected by lantern-lined wide stone stairs. Nineteenth-century rooflines faded below them. At rue de la Duee, they turned into narrow, cobblestoned Villa Georgina. This little-known area, she realized, was one of the most exclusive and expensive pockets of Belleville.
“I’m hiring you,” Anaïs said, “to tell me what this means.”
She reached in her bag, pulling out the Fat’ma and another wad of francs. “Consider this a retainer.”
“The Fat’ma?” Aimée said, as Anaïs put the bronze, blue-beaded talisman in her hand.
Anaïs stuffed the francs in Aimée’s pocket.
“Maybe this means nothing, but I want to know who killed her,” Anaïs said. “Find out.” Her eyes shuttered.
“Anaïs, talk to Philippe. You’re in deep water,” Aimée said, exasperated by her reaction. “If they blew up Sylvie’s car and saw her pass something to you …”
“That’s why you need to keep it,” Anaïs said, her eyes black and serious.
Too bad this hadn’t helped Sylvie, Aimée thought.
“My little Simone will think I’ve forgotten her,” Anaïs said, worry in her voice. “I always put her to bed.”
Lights blazed brightly from the upstairs windows as the taxi pulled up.
“Qnelle catastrophe—Philippe’s hosting a reception for the Algerian Trade Delegation!”
“Worry about that later,” Aimée said. “Look, Anaïs, we’ve broken a chunk of the penal code tonight, I want to stop while I’m still free on the street.”
“You’re in this with me,” Anaïs said, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry I dragged you in, but you can’t stop.”
True. But Aimée wanted to run into the dark wet night and not look back.
“Right now,” Aimée said, “we’ve got to get you inside.”
She turned to the taxi driver and slipped him another of An-ais’s hundred-franc notes. “Please wait for me.”
She helped Anaïs to a cobalt blue side door, set back along a narrow passage. After several knocks a buxom woman opened the door, silhouetted against the light. Aimée couldn’t see her face but heard her gasp.
“Madame … ça va?”
“Vivienne, don’t let Simone see me,” Anaïs said, as though accustomed to giving orders. “Or anyone. Get me something to put over this.”
Vivienne stood rooted to the spot. “Monsieur le Ministre …
“Vite, Vivienne!” Anaïs barked. “Let us in.”
Mobilized into action, Vivienne opened the door and shepherded them inside. She thrust an apron at Anaïs.
“Help me get my jacket off,” Anaïs said.
Vivienne gingerly removed the blood-stained jacket and dropped it on the kitchen floor.
Anaïs staggered and clutched the counter, where trays of hors d’oeuvres were lined up. Vivienne’s lips parted in fear, and she clutched her starched maid’s uniform.
“But you must go to I’hopital, Madame,” she said.
“Vinegar,” Anaïs whispered, exhausted by her efforts.
“What, Madame?”
“Soak the bloody jacket in vinegar,” Anaïs muttered.
Aimée knew Anaïs was fading fast.
“Vivienne, tell le Ministre she’s had a sudden attack of food poisoning,” Aimée said. Aimée 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,” Aimée said, worried. “Bring some bandages. Towels if you have to; she’s bleeding again.”
Aimée grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and tied it tightly around Anaïs’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. Aimée melted at the little voice.
“Un moment, mon coeur,” Anaïs 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 Aimée 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, Aimée helped Anaïs out of her clothes.
She wiped the blood from Anaïs’s legs, helped her into a nightgown, then got her into bed. Aimée set several pillows beneath her leg. Again, after she applied direct pressure, the leg stopped bleeding. Thank God.
Aimée tied her own damp sweater around her waist.
A great weariness showed in Anaïs’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,” Anaïs said, opening her arms and hugging her daughter. “Merri, Aimée. I’m fine now.”
Aimée slipped out of the room, passing Vivienne who cast a large shadow, carrying antiseptic and towels.
“Please call Anaïs’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,” Aimée said. “I’ll call later.”
Down at the kitchen doorway Aimée 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.