She caught the bus on Boulevard Magenta, trying the Hôtel Dieu twice on her cell phone to inquire as to Laure’s condition. Both times a message machine answered. Frustrated, she could only leave her number.
From the bus window, she saw the St. Vincent de Paul’s vans parked where they were setting up the soup kitchen near Gare de l’Est. A line of men was already forming for the evening handout.
She’d been lucky that food had always been on the table. It had not been easy for her father, she imagined. She remembered her excitement and the wonder in Laure’s eyes as their fathers cooked crêpes for them for La Chandeleur, the feast of Candlemas on February second. This coming weekend. They’d observed the tradition of flipping crêpes with a coin in hand to make one’s wish come true. She’d wished for her mother to come back. Georges had been the only one to flip without breaking the crêpe.
On the bus sat an old man with his dog in a basket; a teenager wearing headphones and nodding to his own beat; a silk-scarfed woman reading Balzac, rubbing shoulders with a cornrowed mother, her coat covering a bright, flowing African boubou, a stroller at her side. Faces of Montmartre from the other side of the hill, away from the tourists and Sacré Coeur, where affordable apartments adjoined the African Goutte d’Or quartier.
Her thoughts turned to Jacques’s ex-wife, Nathalie. She dreaded an interview with the woman who’d already filed a lawsuit against Laure. But it was all she had left to go on.
AIMÉE STOOD in front of Nathalie Gagnard’s work address, 22 rue de Douai, a Second Empire mansion. The building stood on the corner of the rue Duperré, a street of white stone buildings with shuttered windows and balconies bordered by black iron grilles. A one-way street, lined with parked motor scooters and a car with an AUTO-ÉCOLE sign on top. Across from her in a nearby café’s window, a leftover lumpy St. Nicolas figure still lugged presents. A mobile phone store and several immobiliers, real estate agents, indicated this was an upscale slice of the quartier below Place Pigalle.
Aimée skirted an open hole in the pavement, blocked off by plastic orange webbing, revealing the sediment and rock below. It brought back her geology teacher’s rhapsodies describing the nuanced aroma of schist, the gypsum and stone layered under the streets. To Aimée, limestone or shale, it all smelled the same. This quartier had been built over an ancient lepers’ cemetery, he’d told them. She doubted the residents would be happy to know what lay moldering underneath their feet.
Fluttering cloth banners across the front of the building advertised espace, space available for events. She entered the foyer, reached by a marble staircase beneath a hexagonal wooden fretwork of inlaid lights. Somehow she’d have to get Nathalie Gagnard to talk.
Gilt chairs were turned upside down on tables in the high-ceilinged salon. Aimée almost tripped over a waiter sitting on the parquet floor, his eyes closed, rubbing his stockinged feet. As she neared the reception desk, she saw a gaunt-faced woman in her midthirties, with black wispy hair and gold hoop earrings, wearing a white shirt, black skirt, and sensible low heels, stacking brochures on the zinc bar.
“Bonjour, we do private receptions, wedding parties.” The woman smiled, coughed, and covered her mouth. Her voice was low and grating, a smoker’s voice. “Here’s a brochure. Perhaps you’re interested in having an event?”
Aimée returned the smile and pulled out her card.
“I’d like to speak with Nathalie Gagnard,” she said before the woman could launch further into her sales pitch.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, taking in Aimée’s navy pinstriped trouser suit, pointed boots, and leather backpack.
“Regarding?” Her charm evaporated.
“A police matter. Does she work . . . ?”
“You’re investigating my ex-husband’s murder?” The woman’s grip on Aimée’s card tightened.
Aimée inhaled, determined to try a tactful approach, a skill René often told her she needed to practice.
“So you’re Madame Gagnard?” Aimée said. “Please spare me a few moments to clear up some points in the investigation.”
“About time.” Nathalie Gagnard looked at her watch. She straightened the brochures. “I’m done. Take a seat over there,” she said, her voice clipped as she pointed to a smaller room lined with carved wood boiserie.
Aimée heard Nathalie give instructions to the waiter concerning wineglasses. Sculpted cherubs and a frieze beneath a ceiling mural surrounded her in an eclectic mixture. Stone sculptured caryatids of women held up the ceiling; gold and painted glass panels framed the outer salon. It was a nineteenth-century potpourri.
The thick expensive brochure proclaimed that here Bizet composed his opera Carmen, and his wife held salons attended by Proust and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, a neighbor across the street. Later, Aimée read, the mansion had become a working-class bouillon canteen; later still, a bordello, until they were outlawed; and most recently, a post office.
“Cornered the bitch, have you?” Nathalie said, sitting down, pulling out a gold-filter-tipped cigarette, and flicking the flame of a plastic lighter.
More than hostile, she was vindictive.
Nathalie took a deep drag, then exhaled a plume of smoke and leaned forward in her chair. “I swear, she went after Jacques like a cat in heat the minute he was nice to her. Can you imagine? Jacques would give the shirt off his back to help someone.”
Even if the shirt belonged to someone else, Aimée wondered? From what she’d gathered, Jacques could make an omelet without eggs, a real débrouillard—what some people called a wheeler-dealer.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“That harelip, the whiner,” Nathalie said, tapping her ash into a white porcelain ashtray.
Cruel, too. But much as she’d like to slap the woman, it wouldn’t help her.
“You’re referring to Laure Rousseau?” she said, determined to keep her emotions in check and probe deeper into Jacques’s life.
“The murderer. So jealous . . .”
Rolling a boulder uphill would be easier than talking to Nathalie.
“Help me to understand this,” Aimée said, curious about the Gagnard woman’s delusions. “According to the file, their professional relationship worked well. Why do you suspect her?”
“Who else? Despite her, Jacques and I were getting back together.” Nathalie’s shoulders heaved and she covered her eyes, sobbing. The smoke spiraled into Aimée’s face.
Surprised, Aimée ground out the cigarette, pulled out a tissue, and passed it to Nathalie.
“She’ll pay, the bitch,” Nathalie interrupted, blotting the tears on her cheeks.
“From what I gather,” Aimée said, reining herself in with effort, “your divorce was finalized a few months ago.”
“Where’s justice, that’s what I want to know.”
“Justice. That’s what we want,” Aimée agreed. “But we have to dig, find the evidence, put the pieces together, and nail the perpetrator. Procedure dictates questioning and investigating every aspect to get a complete picture. Going to the newspaper doesn’t further your cause, Nathalie, does it?”
“At least it gets attention.” Nathalie reblotted her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. Suspicious now, she asked, “Who do you work for?”
“Nathalie, what if there’s an accomplice? Others may be involved.”
Nathalie stuffed the tissue into her purse. “I asked who you worked for.”
“I’m investigating on Maître Delambre’s behalf,” Aimée said. She figured Nathalie wouldn’t know which side he represented. At least not yet. She pulled out her cryptography notebook. Pretended to consult it, flipped through some pages, then stared at Nathalie’s face, disappointed at the firm set of her mouth.