Learning to Swim (27 page)

This was not fun. I think most women’s shoes are apparatuses of torture, designed to deform—the modern-day equivalent of old Chinese foot binding. I flat-out refused to wear spike heels or pointed-toe shoes. But finally we found a pair I could wear, more or less comfortably.

After lunch I ventured on my own to a department store. I’d called Kate, who knew about makeup, and she’d told me what to buy and what to do with the stuff.

I ended up giving the list to a saleswoman and buying what she handed me. Then I stopped at an ATM and got more Canadian money. I could charge most things, but for some things you need cash: a candy bar, a bag of chips, poutine.

I had reservations about leaving Paul at home—we’d never left him with just Elise, except for this morning, but evening seemed more ominous. But of course the house was secure; of course Philippe would check with Elise throughout the evening. Nothing would happen.

Paul was more excited than I about the party. He kept popping into my room when I was getting ready, and by the time I emerged
he was jumping up and down. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done this with his mother, if it was a routine they’d had when she’d gone to functions.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” he declared.

I’d pulled back the sides of my hair loosely and secured them with combs Kate had told me to get. My hair springs into long curls if I don’t tie it back, and even I knew it looked good. The eyeliner made my eyes stand out, and I began to understand why women used this stuff. I rummaged through my toiletry bag for the one piece of jewelry I owned, a birthstone necklace my parents had given me when I had turned sixteen.

When I came out Philippe smiled. “You look wonderful,” he said.

To say that I was nervous would be a vast understatement. Cinderella didn’t go to the ball every day of the week. But when I stepped out of the car at the Château Laurier, I made a conscious decision not to let my nervousness rule the evening. We chatted with people Philippe knew, nibbled hors d’oeuvres, and drank dry wine. And danced. “Philippe, I don’t know how,” I hissed as he moved us toward the dance floor.

“Don’t you go dancing in Lake Placid?”

“Yes, but not
real
dancing. Not party dancing. Not steps or anything.”

“It’s easy. I’ll show you.” And he did, urging me onto the dance floor and leading me until I was moving without conscious thought.

“See? I knew you could do it.” He smiled at me, and I swear I felt my heart move. Clichés exist for a reason.

On the way home, I relaxed into the leather seat of his car. “Thank you,” I said.

“For what?”

“For taking me tonight. For a fun evening.” I waved my hand.
For treating me like a girl. For showing me I can do this
.

He smiled but didn’t speak, and I fell asleep before we reached the house. I woke up to tiptoe in to give a sleeping Paul a good-night kiss, hang up my beautiful dress, pull on a T-shirt and shorts, wash my face, and fall into bed.

At breakfast Elise showed me an
Ottawa Citizen
, folded to the society section. “Look,” she said happily. “A picture of you and Monsieur Dumond.” There we were, caught as we were entering the Château Laurier. Philippe looked handsome and natural, and for a moment I didn’t recognize myself. I couldn’t help but remember the photo of Madeleine from the Montreal magazine I’d seen an eon ago.
You are no Madeleine
, that unpleasant little voice said to me.

Which of course I knew. But neither was I the Troy I had been.

After everyone was done with the newspaper, I cut out the photo and tucked it away.

M
ONDAY MORNING WE BEGAN THE NEW WEEKLY ROUTINE
, and I was living the most regimented existence I had since high school.

After a cheerful breakfast, Paul drove Philippe to school and went on to his office. I worked, read, ran or took a bike ride, and visited with Elise. Then I would pick up Paul, and after he had his snack, take him out to play with Tiger, Philippe and I having agreed that it seemed safe for Paul to be out with me and a large German shepherd–looking dog. Then he rested or played until his father got home, and after Happy Family Dinner came a quiet evening with homework or a game until his bedtime. Claude came for dinner regularly, and I got used to parrying his ripostes. I began to think of conversations with him as a game where I tried to turn the tables on him. Occasionally I succeeded.

I didn’t do any cooking or cleaning or even grocery shopping, except once in a while when I was going out and Elise asked me to pick something up or when I had a hankering for something she didn’t normally get. I tried to do my own laundry, although Elise had become adept at finding it either just before or after I did it, and ironing all the things she thought needed ironing. So I was looking significantly tidier than usual.

If this were really my life—if not for uncaught kidnappers and suspicious policemen, and if I wasn’t going to bed alone every night—it would have been wonderful.

But I was aware of the fine line I walked. I was part of their life, but not quite. Paul had his father, and he had Elise. He was going to school five days a week, and after another week or two, it would be time for me to head back to Lake Placid and a life that seemed no longer my own.

The thing was, I had plenty of spare time to spend on the internet.

Crimes have been solved by people being recognized from a Facebook account, so I decided to put up the equivalent of a personal ad on Craigslist. I resized the jpgs of the two men, and under the Vermont Personals, I wrote:
Looking for two French-Canadian men, who may be from the Montreal area and likely lived in or near Burlington recently and were fluent in French—any info appreciated
, and uploaded the drawings. I used the anonymous email address Craigslist provides, and didn’t list my name anywhere.

When I checked emails I saw that one to my fake identity had arrived from Gina:
Yeah, I’ve been wondering, too. Just got an email from her but that’s all
.

Okay, go for broke. Mouth dry, I wrote back:
Want to meet for coffee or lunch and chat?

Gina must have been sitting at a computer, because I had an answer within a minute.
I’m free tomorrow at 11:30, how about you?

I took a deep breath and emailed back:
Sure, where would you like to meet?
She suggested a café on this side of Montreal; I pulled up MapQuest and saw it was about two hours away. Yes, I could do this. I emailed a confirmation.

I couldn’t even pretend I was doing this just to try to find the kidnappers. Yes, I wanted clues, but I also desperately wanted to know more about Madeleine, to meet someone who knew her and would talk about her.

Claude came for dinner that evening. I honestly wasn’t sure why he came, unless he thought he was supposed to—or just wanted to
torment me. Or maybe for Elise’s cooking. Tonight he made only token attempts to engage Paul, and when Philippe left the room briefly, Claude nodded toward Elise, who was just leaving the room after refilling the coffee cups.

“Elise is very good,” he said.

“Yes, she is,” I said brightly.

“And devoted to Paul.”

“Yes, she’s fond of Paul.”

His tone matched mine in blandness. “Perhaps a trifle too fond.”

He knew I had to react to this. What was he implying? Or did he just want to rile me? “How would you know that?” I asked.

This wasn’t quite the reaction he wanted. Something flashed in his eyes. “My sister told me.”

I didn’t have to respond, because we could hear Philippe returning. Later that evening I brought up Claude, asking Philippe how long Claude had been working for him.

Philippe thought for a moment. “Nearly six years now. He wasn’t living in Montreal then, but he wanted to be closer to his sister, so I suggested that he come to work for me, and it’s turned out quite well.”

I couldn’t quite hide my look of surprise.

“Oh, Claude is very good—he’s phenomenal at closing deals. But I know he likes to tweak people. For a while he was giving Colette, the receptionist, a hard time, until she learned to ignore him. But that ability that lets him see how to tweak people makes him a superb salesman.”

I suppose if you know how to annoy people, you probably also know how to please them. “I guess moving here was a big adjustment,” I said. Surely Claude had had friends in Montreal; surely he had had a life there besides his sister.

“I think he wanted a change,” Philippe said. “He’d been starting to see someone, and apparently it ended suddenly and badly. Starting up the business again here was a challenge, and it kept him busy. But I think since he’s spending more time managing the office and not working as directly with clients he’s getting a little bored.”

A bored employee, I thought, is a dangerous one. But I didn’t say
so. This was Philippe’s brother-in-law, and would be a part of his life forever. For better or for worse.

The next morning two responses had come in to my Craigslist ad, one an ad for a dating service and the other from someone who had interpreted my ad as a come-on. I decided it was time to try something more specific. I posted a message on Twitter:
Anyone know these guys? May have been involved in abduction of a 6-year-old boy last December
, with a link to the Craigslist posting. This would go out to my hundreds of followers. Some would repeat it so all their followers would get it, and so on—like a virtual, endless chain letter. You never knew who might see it.

Then I checked Madeleine’s email account. There was one new one, from a sender called Gaius:
Julia o Julia, what game are you playing?

I reread it. This was the first person who had used the name Julia, which implied a certain intimacy. Maybe this was someone Madeleine had been involved with—and perhaps was irate because he hadn’t heard from her. This was tough; I didn’t know how to respond. But if this person knew Madeleine well, maybe I could ferret out something. I typed,
What do you mean?
and hit the Send button before I could think better of it.