I nodded back at him.
“Of course, it will take weeks to get the toxicology results. They’ll have to see if she had any drugs or alcohol in her system.”
“That’s true, Jacques. The tissue analysis can take quite some time.”
“They haven’t found a car yet, so they have no idea how she got to the pond. No purse, no ID, not even shoes, unless they’re under all those lotus blossoms-so if it hadn’t been for you, Luc, we’d still be struggling to figure out who she is. Just that all-white outfit, like she was heading for your party.”
“And I assure you she was not. I printed out the guest list for you. It’s behind the bar, next to the cash register.” Luc walked over to get it.
“You were right, too,” the captain went on, “about the stones in the pocket.”
“Sorry?”
“That woman you told me about who killed herself. That Fox woman.”
“Woolf? You mean Virginia Woolf?”
“Probably so. If you hadn’t mentioned the heavy rocks she put in her pockets, I might not have looked there.”
Belgarde leaned forward and opened his left hand. Displayed against the rough skin of his thick palm was a small object, two inches long and an eighth of an inch thick. Its cardboard casing had shriveled-soaked in water it seemed-and the laminated paper that covered it had curled up on the ends.
Luc put the list of names on the table between us as I leaned in to look at Belgarde’s offering. It was a matchbook-a tiny box, really-the fancy type that restaurants gave away to advertise.
The captain held out his pinky and straightened the paper with his fingernail. In spring green print against a sharp white background was the single word LUTÈCE. He flipped it to show the other side-Luc’s name in all caps-as he belted back a slug of Scotch.
“Now where do you suppose Lisette got hold of this, eh? You’re not even in business yet in New York, are you?”
Luc had on such a poker face that even I couldn’t gauge his level of discomfort.
“It’s just a mock-up, a prototype,” he said, waving his arm around behind him. “My staff has been handing them out here for weeks, and at the party last night, we gave them away with cigars after dinner. I’ve got my friends distributing them at the newsstand in the square and at lots of the bars in Cannes. It’s just to start up some buzz.”
“It’s done that, my friend. I assure you. Even the investigators want a word with you.”
Luc put his hands on his hips. “For this?”
“A dead girl isn’t the smartest way to advertise, do you think?” Belgarde looked from Luc to me as he put the glass to his lips. “You’re very quiet this evening, Alexandra. Any more tricks you want to pass on to me?”
“I made my views about your attitude pretty clear this morning.”
“All a matter of style, madame, and there are those who believe I have none.”
“Je suis d’accord.”
“So you agree with that, Alexandra. Understood. But your accent is a bit leaden,” he said, turning his attention to Luc. “They’re more interested in the fact that your ex-it’s Brigitte, isn’t it?-that your ex felt it necessary to leave town before letting the detectives get the story of her contretemps with the late lamented Ms. Honfleur. Such bad advice you gave her, my friend.”
“You know better than that, Jacques. I didn’t advise her to do anything. I couldn’t advise her. She’s a stubborn woman.”
“Apparently that didn’t stop you from trying.”
“It’s my sons I went to see. You want me to arrange for the investigators to talk with Brigitte? Let me just get my boys out of the house.”
“The officers were quite surprised to find neither she nor your children were at home.”
“Where? At Brigitte’s? When?”
“Eight o’clock. Just over an hour ago.”
“Let me call her,” Luc said, holding his hand out to the bartender for the portable phone. “They’re not leaving till morning. I’ll tell her what they want. See if we can get her to be reasonable.”
“What they want, actually, is that you stop communicating with her for the moment.”
“She’s the mother of my children, Jacques. She’s my-she was my wife for fifteen years.”
“It’s okay, Luc,” I said. “I’ll go back to the house and you two can work this out.”
“Awkward for you, Alexandra, I’m sure,” Jacques said. He was chewing on a piece of baguette, amused at the thought he was stirring something up between Luc and me.
“Not the slightest bit, Captain.” At least I hoped it wouldn’t be, if I could wiggle my way out of the banquette, sucking in what was left of my spirit. “I’m so glad Luc’s devoted to his family.”
“Let me walk Alex home, Jacques. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I need to tell you about something else that happened today.”
“Just don’t let me starve while I’m waiting.”
“Of course not. Your dinner is on its way.” Luc took my hand to guide me out.
“Very generous of you, Luc,” Jacques said. “You know, one of those big-city detectives made a very rude observation. He thinks if you hadn’t been so stingy on the alimony, Brigitte might have been able to hire a housekeeper with a little more class.”
We were almost out the door, but Luc turned to take Jacques Belgarde’s bait.
“I defended you to him, my friend. Told him how generous you are to my men.” Jacques’s mouth was full now, with whatever delicacy the waiter had placed in front of him. “But he says the housekeeper gave you up in a flash. Didn’t like the way you raised your voice at Brigitte, Luc. Didn’t understand why you demanded she get in the car with the boys when it was almost their bedtime and leave town so quickly tonight.”
TEN
We were ten steps away from the restaurant door when Luc started to speak.
“Save it for later. I can get myself home from here, and I have no interest in what went on between you and Brigitte. Truly I don’t. You go duke it out with Jacques.”
“Wait up for me, darling. I can explain everything.”
The prosecutorial part of my brain had grown tired of explanations over the last ten years. I’d have been out of business if people didn’t find it necessary to give reasons for bad conduct and behavior.
“I’ll be awake.” I was way too wired to sleep.
“That’s my angel.”
“Look closely, Luc. I’ve traded in my wings and halo.” I was beginning to question everything Luc tried to tell me.
This time when I reached the bottom of the alley, the heavy door opened easily. Gaspard lumbered to his feet to greet me and escort me through the garden and alongside the pool to the threshold of the house. I left him in the kitchen and mounted the winding staircase that took me up to the bedroom.
I undressed, got into my robe, and put on some music, then climbed onto the bed with Luc’s laptop to Google Baby Mo and the facts of his arrest.
As soon as I pressed enter, dozens of hits popped up, starting with all the French news sources before I scrolled down to see the American, European, and African sites.
I took a blank notebook from Luc’s desk-the kind in which I usually recorded the spectacular meals and memorable wines from my travels with Luc. It was inevitable that I would have questions for Mercer Wallace and my colleagues on his team, and maybe some ideas as well. I wanted to jot them down as I read through the press accounts.
Some long-distance Monday-morning quarterbacking of the MGD affair-even though it was only Sunday evening-would be a pleasant distraction.
I read the first story from the leading French news site. The impression that I got from scanning it was complete support for Mohammed Gil-Darsin. It described him as one of the most distinguished economists in the world, educated at the Sorbonne in Paris, with a graduate degree from the London School of Economics. He was, after all, a resident of France, with a distinguished heritage and a brilliant future as the next president of the Republic of the Ivory Coast.