Murder in the Latin Quarter (20 page)

She felt a thickness in the back of her throat. She hated that she'd hung up on him.
It was such a childish thing to do and he doesn't deserve it.
But it had been a stressful day in a lot of ways. Not that that was any excuse. She picked up her phone. He wouldn't be asleep and he wouldn't play games and not answer either.

All she had to do was apologize.

But she knew him. He was less interested in her
mea culpas
than in her proving her contrition by doing what he asked—by packing up and getting on the next train south.

And that she was not ready to do.

She put the phone back down.

She set the little car by the door. Someday Jemmy might like to have the toy his father played with as a boy. When she took her seat again and tried to decide which box she'd go through next, she noticed a piece of molding on the wall behind one bookshelf.

Getting to her feet to take a closer look, she could see that the molding surrounding the panel about three feet square. The panel looked like the sort of built-in door that usually went with a dumbwaiter or cupboard. By kneeling and reaching behind the bookshelf, Maggie could get her hand on the door. There was no latch but a hole at one end of the door. She reached a finger through the hole and was able to slide the panel an inch to the left.

Why put the bookcase in front of a door?
Her heart began to pound with excitement.

What was in there?

She needed to get the heavy bookcase away from the wall. She pulled all of the boxes off the bookshelf except some smaller ones on the bottom shelf and then removed all of the books. This took about twenty minutes. Then, hugging the bookcase with both arms and shoving hard with her hip, she was able to move it several inches away from the wall.

There couldn't be anything valuable stored in there, she reasoned.
What sense does it make to shove a bookcase in front of a cupboard or whatever it is?

Unless whatever was in there was something someone did not want to be discovered.

She stood up and wrapped her arms around the bookcase again and put her whole weight into shifting it. Every time she moved it a few inches, she'd stop briefly, massage the small of her back to make sure she hadn't done any permanent damage, and then put her shoulder and hip back into the job for another few inches. Finally, she had it shoved far enough from the wall.

She knelt in front of the panel. Had it been created when the apartment was built? Or had it been made afterward? Maggie ran her fingers across the surface of the panel, trying to imagine people hiding their jewels or children from the Nazis during the occupation. Is that what this was?

She stuck her finger through the hole in the panel and sucked in a quick breath, hesitating momentarily.

Was she really ready to see what was behind here? Maybe a skeleton? A festering rat's nest?

Without thinking more about it, Maggie pulled on the hole and pushed with her other hand. The panel slid away and onto the floor, leaving a gaping square of darkness. She started in surprise but nothing jumped out at her. No animal crept out, no skeleton rattled its bones at her.

She pointed her cellphone light into the recesses of the hidden alcove.

A face appeared and Maggie dropped her phone and jumped backwards. Finally her brain caught up with her panic. The face wasn't real.

She picked up her phone and directed the light inside the hole.

It was an unframed painting.

And it was absolutely beautiful.

Maggie reached into the recess and gingerly pulled the small canvas out into the light of the room.

In soft, evocative colors, the painting portrayed a ballerina, nude, brushing her hair, her face half shielded by her long hair.

Maggie felt her heart pound in double time.

Could this be real? Is that possible?

Maggie knew very little about art but even she knew a Degas when she saw it. She could not stop staring at the painting

Can this possibly be real?

Her eyes went to the corner of the canvas where the artist had signed his name:
Edgar Degas
.

Why would anyone hide a fake?
A chill went across her skin
.

But if it is real…

A thought wormed its way into Maggie's brain and she carefully put the canvas down, leaning it beside the opened panel. She picked up her phone, aware that her fingers were trembling.

She typed into the search engine window:
Degas girl brushing her hair.

As she waited for the search results to appear, her mind was spinning.

It can't be real. It just can't be.

Then Maggie saw the words on her phone screen that she hadn't dared to form in her mind.

With her heart racing, she stared at them, re-reading them over and over again as if they might somehow disappear.

“Dancer brushing her hair” 1890, Edgar Degas. Believed stolen by the Nazis in 1940. Never recovered.

M
aggie stared at the painting
, her mouth open in mute shock.

What is it doing here? What is Delphine doing with it? Does Delphine know it's here?
She rubbed her arms as if she'd felt a sudden chill.

This painting was stolen by the Nazis over seventy years ago. The fact that it's not hanging in her living room means Delphine knows she's not supposed to have it.

Why
does
she have it? Why does she have it hidden in a secret panel behind a bookcase in a locked room?

Why hasn't it been returned? How did Delphine get it in the first place? Did Camille receive it from her German lover? Did she somehow give it to Delphine? Did Delphine find it among Camille's things?

Maggie double-checked the Internet site on her phone. There was no mistake. Carefully, with shaking fingers she set the painting back inside its hiding place and replaced the panel.

Her mind could not stop buzzing with questions. The biggest even beyond
How did it get here
was
Does Delphine know it is here?
This was always answered in her mind by…

How could she not?

What was it Delphine had said when she gave Maggie the key? That she had been protecting Laurent and Gerard's birthright? It hadn't made sense at the time but if Delphine meant the painting—
a stolen painting worth millions but impossible to sell
—as if it was somehow a way to protect them, then she was clearly not as sane as Maggie had believed.

Knowing she was in for a long sleepless night, Maggie picked up Laurent's wooden car, turned off the light and locked the storage room behind her.

She would ask Delphine about it tomorrow. And if at all possible she would try very hard not to fill in the answers for herself in the meantime.

Maggie went again to Delphine's bedroom door and listened to the elderly woman's snores before going to her own room and undressing. As she slipped under the covers, her phone vibrated dully against her bedside table.

It was a text message from Grace.

<
Meet me in the Tuileries tomorrow noon. I have something for you
.>

Maggie fell back into her pillows and fell almost instantly asleep to dream of Nazis and German storm troopers pounding without end up the spiral staircase to where she lay.

T
he next morning
Maggie dressed herself and Mila. She had a very difficult conversation ahead of her with Delphine but she couldn't see any way out of it. She had to know if Delphine knew about the painting and if she did…Maggie forced herself not to get ahead of things. Delphine would have an explanation, she was sure of it. When she brought Mila into the kitchen, Maggie was surprised to see that Delphine was not in the kitchen. Maggie went to her bedroom door and tapped lightly.

“Delphine?” she called. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh,
oui, chérie
,” Delphine said in a weak voice. “I have days like this, I'm afraid, after a big outing.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“
Non
, I just need to rest. I will be fine tonight.”

Maggie didn't feel good about leaving Delphine but if she really was just going to sleep all day…

“Mila and I are headed to the park,” she said. “I'll call when we're on our way back to see if I can pick up anything, okay?”

“That would be fine,” Delphine said, her voice sounding even weaker.

“Feel better,” Maggie said. She turned back to the kitchen.

The questions about the stolen Degas would have to wait.

She typed a quick text to Laurent: <
Sorry
.>

Knowing him, the only text he wanted to read was
I'm on my way home
but she felt better after having sent it. She noticed the message was delivered and read immediately. But he didn't answer.

Maggie quickly fed Mila her breakfast and then tucked her in the back carrier. She'd debated about the stroller but in the end, because their day appeared to be a long outdoorsy one traversing several parks, the carrier felt like a more sensible choice.

She had two hours before she was to meet Grace in the Tuileries which worked out perfect time-wise since she'd also arranged to meet Michelle in less than thirty minutes.

A
rmed soldiers walked nonchalantly
in front of the entrance to the Jardin du musée de Cluny, their fingers on the triggers of their military-style assault weapons. Massive sycamore trees sprouting new bright green leaves lined the boulevard Saint-Germain. The uniform cream-colored apartment buildings that faced the park and its massive black wrought iron gates were the perfect backdrop behind the trim and orderly sycamores. A rotating poster kiosk with its large onion-shaped dome reminded Maggie of the Paris of her childhood visits.

Maggie had gotten to the park before Michelle. She sat down on her usual bench with Mila at her feet. The baby was too little to play with the other children—all of whom were running about the playground squealing feverishly. The same group of parents and nannies sat on the other benches gossiping, smoking, eating and occasionally calling out to the children.

Maggie was determined not to think about the stolen painting until she could ask Delphine about it. She thought about telling Laurent but found herself hesitating and not just because of their fight the night before. Something was odd about Laurent in reference to Delphine. With everything that was going on with her he hadn't behaved particularly protective of his aunt.

Which was odd because if there was one thing Laurent was in spades it was protective. Seriously, deeply, annoyingly protective.

Oh, yes. There is a story there,
Maggie thought
.

She saw Michelle enter the park. Maggie watched with amazement as the woman tiptoed through the gates, looking around as though she'd never been on a playground in her life. She seemed to be regarding the children as if they might attack at any moment.

Maggie lifted a hand to indicate where she was sitting and as soon as Michelle spotted her and began to walk toward her, Maggie started to wonder if this had been a very good idea. At all.

Michelle reached her and her eyes went instantly to Mila seated on the ground playing in the grass.

What is with this woman?
Maggie thought with annoyance. She touched Mila on the shoulder more to reassure herself than the child.

Michelle sat on the bench on the other side of Maggie. She wore baggy workman pants and a gray pullover sweater frayed at the cuffs. Her hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail and her nails were bitten and dirty. Her eyes darted around the playground.

It suddenly occurred to Maggie that Delphine hadn't been hyperbolic when she said Michelle was crazy.

Michelle really
was
crazy.

Maggie's stomach lurched and she fought the temptation to pull Mila into her lap.

This woman had possibly killed Gerard and maybe Isla too. She was desperate.

And she was insane.

“I need your help,” Michelle said, her eyes still on Mila. She spoke French with a strong nasal twang that Maggie was barely able to understand.

“What can I do for you?” Maggie said guardedly. Her body was tensed as if ready to snatch up Mila and bolt with a second's notice.

“You can tell your aunt to put me back in her will before things get ugly.”

“Okay.”

Michelle snapped her head to look at Maggie. “You think I lie?”

“Not at all. I'll tell her.”

Michelle's eyes dropped to Maggie's clothes. Maggie was wearing jeans and a cashmere cardigan over a t-shirt. She supposed, to Michelle, she probably looked affluent.

“I know a secret that Madame Normand would not want the world to know,” Michelle said, her lip curling over yellowed teeth.

When Maggie didn't respond, Michelle turned to face her fully on the bench.

“A child out of wedlock. Are you shocked?”

“Since this isn't 1905, not really. Unwed mothers are no big deal.”

“How about collaborating with the Nazis during the war? A little bigger deal?”

Maggie felt her heart hammering in her chest but she kept her face impassive and merely shrugged.

“Nobody cares what happened during the war any more,” she said.

“Oh no?
Madame Normand
cares. She cares very much to keep the family name from dipping into shame.”

“What do you think you know?”

“Oh, no, Madame. I don't give my secrets away so easily.”

“Because you don't know anything.”

“I know Madame Normand had a child out of wedlock. She confessed it to my father the day he proposed to her.”

“Again. This 2016. Nobody cares.”

“I know she committed a war crime in 1944.”

“I don't believe it.”

“You don't need to. My accusation will be enough. Formal state investigation will follow. She will live out the last years of her life—if not in prison then in complete disgrace.”

“What is this about? Money?”

“I want what's mine. She stole my inheritance.”

Maggie had had enough. She picked up Mila and slipped her back into the back carrier.

“Where are you…what…?” Michelle stood up, her eyes going from Mila to Maggie's face.

“You know, Michelle,” Maggie said as she hoisted the carrier onto her back. “I think you should do whatever you think you need to. But just for the record? I bet if your dad had wanted to leave you money he would have. So if you come to Madame Normand's apartment again, I'll call the cops.
Comprenez-vous
?”

Maggie turned and strode toward the exit of the park, feeling way less confident than she hoped she appeared to Michelle.

At the sound of footsteps running up hard behind her, Maggie whirled around to see Michelle charging her. Her face was flushed and her teeth bared in a grimace but she veered around Maggie at the last minute and made for the gate.

With her heart fluttering in her chest, Maggie concentrated on controlling her breathing as she watched Michelle leave.

That woman fit all the criteria for both murders and yet the cops hadn't even questioned her.

Opportunity?
Michelle was at Gerard's apartment the day he died.

Check
.

Motive?
He's in Delphine's will whereas she was left out
.

Check
.

Means?
Both murders were done with a knife at close range.

Maggie watched the thickset Michelle stomp away, flexing her fists in fury as she went.

Check and double check
.