Murder in the Latin Quarter (24 page)

It was bad.

The darkness was so complete that Maggie knew she could turn herself around completely without realizing it. If she did that enough times and she did decide to go back to the house, she'd never make it. She would just walk in slow circles until she and Mila both died of starvation. She put a hand up and touched the damp wall of bones. She recoiled with disgust at the feel of a human skull.

But she quickly steeled herself and touched the bones again. She knew that without a light she would have to depend on touching the walls in order to escape this labyrinth.

Dear God, can this get any worse?

She walked another hour hoping her eyes would adjust to the total darkness, touching the bones of the dead with every step. Instead of feeling as if they were helping her, she couldn't escape the feeling that they were waiting to turn her and Mila into bones too. She knew that was crazy. But walking in the pitch dark surrounded by the remains of thousands of centuries-old Parisians felt a little crazy too.

Just when she thought she couldn't take the dark any longer and she reached for her phone to give herself a moment of light, she felt a faint vibration in the tunnel. Her hand froze on the phone. She took a silent step forward. And then another.

She realized she'd been sensing a low-grade thrumming in the walls ever since she started touching them. The sound had gotten noticeably louder. The more steps she took forward, the more distinct the sound became.

She was coming toward something.

She flipped on her light and pointed it down the tunnel. Still nothing. She took several quick steps forward and the noise was definitely louder. She switched off her light and used the wall of bones again to guide her forward until she realized the tunnel had gradually become less dark.

There was light coming from somewhere!

She hurried forward, waking Mila with her jogging. The baby cried out and lashed a fist out that struck Maggie in the face. Maggie barely noticed. There, up ahead, was a splotch of dim light on the stone tunnel floor. Her breath turned into quick pants as Maggie ran to the dim patch of light and then looked up.

There was clearly light above. She whipped out her phone light and directed at the ceiling. As she moved the beam back down the facade of macabre bones and skulls, she saw something that was not bones. There, embedded among the bones on the wall, were rusting iron bars.

Maggie reached over to touch it.

It was a ladder.

She looked up again. Somewhere, somehow, even though she couldn't see it, there was a light source up there. And there was a way to get to it. There was a planned, expected, way to get to it. Maggie was about to turn off her phone when its battery died and it winked off by itself.

She shoved the phone in her jacket pocket and found the first rung on the ladder three feet off the ground on the wall before her. Gripping the sides of the iron ladder with both hands, she pulled herself up to the first rung.

M
aggie climbed slowly
, awkwardly with Mila between her and the wall of bones. Twice her knee brushed the edges of sharp protruding pieces of bone. Both times her jeans ripped down to the skin.

This had to be a way out.
Why would they put a ladder here if it wasn't a conduit of some kind?

The further Maggie climbed, stopping occasionally to hug the ladder and rest, praying her freezing fingers and shaking knees could make one more step and then one more, the louder the hum of the noise became until there was no doubt she was hearing street traffic.

She nearly cried when she realized she was getting closer to where people were. Even if it was the middle of the night there would be somebody who would hear her cries for help. If she could hear traffic, surely they would be able to hear her!

After what seemed like an hour of painstakingly crawling up the ladder, she could finally see where the source of the light—a street lamp up above. The opening she was looking for appeared to be a grilled manhole cover.

She didn't care if it was positioned in the middle of the Champs-Élysées, she was coming out of that sewer hole. She'd rather take her chances on a hundred crazed French drivers than one more minute in this mass burial pit.

Slowly, she reached the top and grabbed the metal lattice work of the sewer cover. It shifted slightly but was too heavy to move more than that. She tried not to think of how high she was, holding on to an iron ladder with numb fingers and a kicking, actively awake six-month old baby strapped to her chest.

She was getting out of this pit if she had to lift the manhole cover with her head and spend the rest of her life in a wheel chair with a crooked spine as a result. It was either that or die trying, because she wasn't going to be able to hold on much longer.

“Mommy's going to make a big noise, okay, pudding?” she said hoarsely to Mila. “Don't be afraid, okay?”

Mila looked at her uncomprehendingly.

Hoping she wasn't condemning her child to a lifetime of mental therapy, Maggie waited until the sounds of traffic shifted to a lower ebb and then threw back her head and screamed as loudly as she could: “Help me! I'm in the sewer!”

Mila promptly burst into tears and it occurred to Maggie that the added noise of the wailing baby couldn't hurt.

Maggie screamed again, feeling all the fear and panic and anger course through her in one exhausting, cathartic release.

“Help meeeeeeeee!” she screamed to the street above.

As she sucked in another long breath for a third scream, terrified because she could now not feel her fingers on the ladder, a male voice yelled down to her.

“
Qui est là
?”

Looking up, she saw a face looking down at her. A beautiful, angelic face.

Mila sealed the deal by raising her screams another octave before Maggie could answer the man.

“
Nous sommes…perdus
,” Maggie said, her voice a tearful rasp.

Praying she didn't let go in a reflex of pure relief, she watched the man as he wrenched the manhole cover off, flinging decades of trash and leaves onto her upturned face. Before she could realize what was happening, strong hands grabbed her arms harshly but surely and pulled her free.

H
e gripped
the phone receiver so tightly he felt the plastic crack beneath his fingers. When the man finally answered, it was all he could do not scream.

“How is it you let a woman with an infant in her arms slip by you?”

“Bitch went into the catacombs!”

“So? You coward!”

“Americans carry guns. I am not getting paid to be shot.”

“You're not getting paid at all if you can't catch a single woman and a baby!”

“Am I supposed to kill the baby too?”

The caller let out a snort of frustration.
The world is populated with morons and they all seem to be working for me.

If only I could do this myself!

“Forget it,” he said, attempting to regain some calm in his voice. “We'll go about this from a different angle. Perhaps one that even you can comprehend. Go to the old woman's apartment on rue du Bac. The American is constantly coming and going from there.”

“I thought you did not want me seen in that neighborhood?”

“That was before I knew what an incompetent imbecile you were!
Go
to the rue du Bac! I don't care if it's the middle of the night or broad daylight! I don't care if the president himself is standing outside having a smoke! Go to the apartment on the rue du Bac and kill her!”

M
aggie sat
in the back of the taxi. She had a hundred euros in her wallet and gave it all to her good Samaritan. When he was pulling her to safety, she could have sworn he was the size of Thor, but it turned out he was a young homeless man in his early twenties. He escorted her to an all night taxi stand and she gave him her phone number. She wasn't through thanking him for saving her life.

She might never be through thanking him.

She fleetingly considered calling the police but knowing they would keep her answering questions the rest of the night at the police station and likely turn up a big fat nothing as far as her assailant, she decided against it.

After she gave the taxi driver Delphine's address—and confirmed that he took credit cards—she spent the twenty minute ride attempting to calm Mila with no success. The baby was wet and hungry and not nearly over the trauma of hearing her mother scream her head off at close range.

Come to think of it
,
I don't think I'm quite over it myself.

Once on rue du Bac, she over tipped the driver and looked down the darkened sidewalk before darting out the door to stand in front of the heavy double doors of Delphine's building. She plugged in the security code and hurried up the stairs, ignoring the elevator. As exhausted as she was, she'd had enough of small narrow places to last her a lifetime.

As soon as she had a moment to think of something other than their immediate survival, Maggie knew that this was not random. The guy had followed her with a knife. He hadn't wanted money. He'd wanted Maggie. And if she had to guess, he'd wanted her dead.

But why? What am I doing?

It can't be that I'm investigating Gerard's death
.
Nobody cares about Gerard.
Was his murder an organized crime hit? Perhaps they thought, since Maggie went to his apartment that she knew something about whatever scheme or skullduggery Gerard was involved with?

But Gerard was alive when Maggie was followed the first time. So that didn't add up. Because there was no doubt in her mind that the two incidences were related.

Maybe it had nothing to do with Gerard?

But then why?

Her cell phone was still dead and she cringed to think of the series of texts and phone messages that Laurent must surely have left her. She hoped Delphine had gone on to bed and that they could deal with all this in the morning.

What could Maggie possibly tell her that wouldn't worry her?

I was delayed and couldn't call because my phone was dead?

All night?

Pretty weak.

Maggie slipped in the front door with Mila still whimpering and fretful and was surprised to see that the living room light was on. Imagining that Delphine had left it on for her, Maggie went straight to her bedroom where she stripped off Mila's clothes, washed her, powdered her, put a fresh diaper on her and put her in her pajamas before bringing her into the kitchen where Maggie made a bottle of formula as quietly as she could.

There was so much to think of—so much that she'd learned today—from the diary to the nursing home and everything that happened after—that Maggie was so weary she couldn't keep all her thoughts straight in her head.

She remembered in the moments before she realized she was being followed that she'd been thinking about confronting Delphine with what she'd learned at the nursing home. But now that she was back in Delphine's apartment, all her eagerness and determination to find out the truth seemed to have dissolved.

She plugged her phone into its charger in the kitchen and watched as all of Laurent's texts began to appear. She quickly texted him <
Sorry. Mila and I are fine. Phone died. Call you in a.m
?> She had barely set the phone back down before it dinged musically.
> he'd written. Maggie smiled. It was two o'clock in the morning. She felt his love like a bond that wrapped around both children and pulled her snugly into his strong arms.

And after a night like tonight, just thinking the words brought tears to her eyes.
Tomorrow
. She would be on a train heading home to him tomorrow. There was no reason to stay in Paris any longer and she needed to be with her family again. She needed to feel Laurent's arms around her. His strength and fortitude flowing from him to her. How long had it been since she'd held Jemmy? A week?

Never again.

Not until he goes off to college am I being separated from him for this long again.

She held the blessedly quiet baby in her arms and fed her the bottle. Noticing again the living room lamp was on she stepped into the living room to turn it off when she stopped abruptly.

There, seated hunched over in the largest creweled wing chair in the room was Delphine. Her head was cocked at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were closed.

“
I
t's
two in the morning, you selfish jerk,” Grace said through the haze of sleep and an encroaching hangover.

“I've tried calling you at an hour that's convenient for you, Grace,” Windsor said tightly. “It doesn't seem to matter so I thought I'd make it convenient for my attorney whose office I'm now calling from.”

“More threats?” Grace said, pinching her cheeks to wake herself up. She pulled back the covers to slip out of bed so as not to disturb André but saw that he was not in the bed.

“I've got a court order for both kids. Maybe you'll hear this since you refuse to hear anything else.”

“What are you talking about?” Grace stood up and walked to André's side of the bed as if expecting to find him on the floor hiding.

Did he leave in the middle of the night?

She and André had slept at her place for a change of scenery. It had been André's idea. He still hadn't met Zouzou and so she and André had brought takeout to the apartment. It had been a delightful evening. Not only did André get along wonderfully with Zouzou—dangling her on his knee and singing silly French songs to her—he'd even helped Beatrice clean up the dishes afterwards while Grace had given Zouzou her bath.

It had felt like a family again for the first time in a long time.

And now Windsor was talking about breaking all that up?

“It's called good faith, Grace. This is the last bone I'm throwing to you and trust me I'm only doing it because Taylor begged me to.”

“Taylor?”

“Yes, you remember her? Your daughter? The deal goes like this. Bring Zouzou home immediately and I'll okay a shared custody arrangement. Make me come to Paris and get her and I swear you'll be lucky to see her once a month with supervision.”

Why had André left? Had something happened?

Grace sagged to a sitting position on the bed and passed a hand across her face. She drew her hand back and saw it was smeared with mascara. She hadn't washed her face before falling into bed.

“Oh, and Grace?” Windsor said, “Not that I think you'd make the effort, but if you try to take my daughter and run I'll see that you go to prison. Ask me if you think I'm serious.”

Before Grace could respond, he hung up. She sat for one moment with the phone in her hands, staring at it in disbelief before dropping it to the floor and burying her face in her hands. Her sobs came from deep inside her like a wild animal clawing to get out.

Beatrice tapped on the door and opened it to peer inside. Her eyes were wide with concern.

“Madame Van Sant?” she said breathlessly. “Is everything all right?”

M
aggie propped
Mila on the couch with her bottle and knelt by Delphine. Her mind was a whirl. She noticed the telephone receiver was still in Delphine's lap.

Something about the way Delphine was positioned told Maggie as loudly as if the words were spoken aloud that she was not sleeping.

“Delphine?” Maggie said gently, reaching for her wrist. Delphine's face was bone white. The veins in her face were harshly visible beneath her thin, fragile skin. Her pulse was faint and thready.

Maggie put a hand to Delphine's face and the old woman's eyes fluttered open.

“
Chèrie
,” she said in a whisper.

“I'm here, Delphine,” Maggie said.

Delphine's eyes closed again. Maggie jumped up and ran to the kitchen snatching up her phone and dialing the Paris emergency number. She gave the address and then poured a glass of water and hurried back to the living room. Mila had fallen over on her back on the couch but was still drinking her bottle. Maggie went to Delphine and hung up the telephone next to the chair.

She set the glass of water down on the floor and took Delphine's hand.

Delphine tightened her fingers on Maggie's hand.

“It is just,” she said in a small breathy voice. She sighed once, emitting a deep rattle in her chest as she expelled the breath.

And went still.

Maggie watched Delphine's face lose all tension. She watched the life and warmth leave her, leave this world.

“Delphine?” Maggie said hoarsely, but she knew she was gone.

This cannot be happening. I didn't get enough time with her. She never got to know Laurent again.
A wellspring of sadness and tears brimmed up in Maggie's heart and she bowed her head over the old woman's hand. The world felt like it had slowed down and there was only this living room in the whole of Paris—and the sounds of Maggie's grief.

After a moment Maggie heard the bottle drop onto the carpet and she looked up to see Mila on the couch yawning.

“She's gone, sweetie,” Maggie said as she picked up the baby and hugged her close. She sat on the couch facing Delphine and held the baby until she heard the first purrs of the child's snores in her arms.

Maggie sat there for a long time, watching Delphine's face in repose. Did she imagine that Delphine looked finally at peace?

She thought back to Delphine's last words:
it is just
. What was just? Dying?

An enigma to the end
, Maggie thought sadly.
Just like the whole family

She needed to call Laurent. She needed him here. With her. Now.

She carried the sleeping baby to the bedroom and settled her in her bed, then went to the kitchen and called Laurent. He answered on the first ring.

“Laurent, Delphine just died. I'm so sorry. I…” Maggie broke down. “I need you, Laurent. I need you up here.”

Laurent's voice came to her deep and comforting. “I am coming,
chèrie
,” he said. “I will be there before breakfast.”

“And Jemmy too…”

“
Bien sûr
, Jemmy too.

“I've missed you so much, Laurent. I can't believe she's gone. I can't believe you didn't get a chance to see her one more time.”

“
Anon, chèrie
,” Laurent said, his voice soothing and warm. “I will meet you at my aunt's apartment in a few hours.”

“No, meet me at Grace's. It hurts too much to be here.”

They spoke a few minutes longer and then disconnected. It helped so much to talk to him, to hear his voice, so strong and assured. Maggie wiped her tears and took in a deep breath and let it out. She felt a little better.

She pulled her suitcase from behind the dresser in her bedroom and began to pack her and Mila's clothes. All of a sudden the sadness of this apartment—and of the poor tormented woman who'd lived and died here—was just too much to endure. Maggie wouldn't wait for morning. She would take a taxi back to Grace's as soon as the ambulance arrived.

She looked at her open suitcase and realized there were a few things of Delphine's that needed to come with her to Grace's. She might not get a chance later and for Jemmy and Mila's sake—and possibly even Laurent's—she needed to take them now before the estate locked things down.

Leaving Mila in the bedroom, she went to the storage room. She unlocked the door and stood for a moment looking around. Nothing had been touched since she'd been here last. She went to a small box of photos and letters that she'd set aside the day before and tucked them under her arm. Before she could do anything else, she heard the distinct sound of a key in the front door.

She froze. Her heart leaped to her throat.
Who has a key to Delphine's apartment?

And who would use it at two in the morning?

She held her breath as she heard footsteps enter the apartment.

Mila!

Maggie made a move toward the door when she stopped—her hand still outstretched.

The doorknob to the storage room was turning.