Murder in the Latin Quarter (7 page)

A
fter their trip
to the park, Maggie and Delphine went by a small outdoor produce market where Maggie picked up fruit and vegetables for their dinner. They returned to the apartment in time for both Delphine and Mila to take long afternoon naps.

Maggie sat in Delphine's sunny salon and tried to read a book on her smart phone.

Her mind wouldn't focus.

It was impossible for Maggie to imagine the horror of seeing your best friend arrested and then executed.
Could you ever get over something like that? Poor Delphine. Seventy years isn't long enough to forget the horror of losing your best friend so violently—by people you thought were on your side…

And here I was thinking poor Camille got her head shaved.
Maggie flinched at the image of the Resistance dragging a teenage girl out of her home weeping and hysterical
—
to be
hung
.

Delphine hadn't talked of Camille again after that and Maggie hadn't pushed it. It was clear from the way she'd hidden the photo earlier at breakfast that Delphine was still haunted by the experience. Well, anyone would be.

Maggie gazed out the salon windows—the same windows that had been there she reminded herself—when Nazi squads roamed the streets below or pounded up the stairs to wrench open the door and—

Mila whimpered in her sleep, breaking Maggie out of her thoughts. She put a comforting hand on the baby but Mila's eyes popped open fully awake. Maggie glanced at her wristwatch. It was just before dinnertime. She glanced toward the kitchen wondering what Delphine normally did in the evening when Maggie wasn't bringing takeout. The kitchen had looked pretty bare when Maggie was putting the fruit and veggies away after their shopping trip.

“Why don't we slip out and find a nice curry to go?” she said to Mila who was starting to fret noisily. “That way your Aunt Delphine can get a few extra minutes to nap without listening to you blubber—no offense, darling girl—and I can sort out dinner. Sound good?”

Maggie jotted down a note for Delphine and left it on the kitchen counter, then bundled Mila up in her stroller. As she was pushing the button on the elevator, her phone rang. It was Grace.

“Hey,” Maggie said as she positioned the stroller in the elevator. “I was just heading out the door. Where are you?”

“Where I said I'd be at this time,” Grace said. “Did you forget?”

Maggie hesitated. She
had
forgotten. She was to meet Grace and André tonight. It occurred to her that Delphine likely had no expectations beyond what Maggie had promised in her note—a meal some time tonight. She hoped if she were late getting back she wouldn't worry.

“I remembered,” Maggie lied. “
Les Deux Magots
. I thought we said six?”

“We did. But if you can come now, we can girl talk a bit before André gets here. I'm dying to catch up.”

A
s Maggie approached the café
, she realized why she'd originally thought that meeting here had been a bad idea. A serious hotbed of tourist activity,
Les Deux Magots
was packed even on a Wednesday evening. She knew from past experience that a baby and a stroller would not be welcome in the dining room so she looked for an outdoor table.

“Darling!” Grace called, waving to her from one of the outdoor tables closest to the front door. “
Ici, chérie
!”

Maggie pushed past a queue of gawking tourists on the sidewalk taking pictures of the restaurant. She nodded at the waiter who glowered at Mila and turned abruptly on his heel and slipped back into the restaurant.

Grace stood up and kissed Maggie on both cheeks.

“I ordered you a glass of wine,” Grace said, reseating herself. She wore a lilac linen shift with a simple pashmina draped around her shoulders. As usual, she looked effortlessly glamorous. Maggie already felt the dampness in her clothes from her sweaty walk up the rue du Bac. Worse, she was seriously regretting not changing Mila's diaper before heading out the door.

“Great,” Maggie said, settling down at the café table. American and Japanese accents floated around her from the other tables.
No self-respecting Frenchman would be caught dead here
.

“Tell me everything,” Grace said, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke away from the table. “Have you found all of Laurent's secrets yet?”

Maggie took a sip of her wine and felt herself relaxing. The weather was beautiful and the jovial mood of the surrounding diners felt infectious. For that matter, Grace herself was so cheerful that it was impossible not to get pulled into her good mood.

“I'm working on it,” Maggie said. “For one thing, I discovered that both Laurent and Gerard were basically thugs as teenagers.”

“That's hardly a surprise about Gerard,” Grace said. “Could your aunt be misremembering Laurent?”

“I don't know. I think Laurent was pretty wild when he was younger.”

“That's so hard to imagine. He's always so controlled.”

“And get this—he was raised by his grandmother.”

“Really?” Grace frowned and tapped the ash from her cigarette. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Maggie regretted them. Questions of children and the people who might or might not raise them would understandably be an uncomfortable subject for Grace.

“What happened to his parents?”

“I don't know. And so far, Delphine isn't telling.”

“How bizarre. So, what's her story? She's rich as Croesus, isn't she?”

“I haven't seen her income tax statement yet,” Maggie said dryly. “But she does have an amazing collection of artwork. Some of the paintings hanging in her living room look like they belong in the d'Orsay.”

“Oh! I wonder if André knows her,” Grace said, fully engaged now that the conversation seemed to have stretched to her beau. “He runs a gallery in the Latin Quarter, you know. Off rue du Four.”

“Is he coming to the party tomorrow night?”

“I haven't asked him yet. Will Laurent be there?”

Maggie made a face. “He said he's too busy.”

“What is with Laurent and family? Is
Delphine
the Greek word for monster?”

“Not at all! She's very sweet. You'd love her. And she's had a fascinating life.”

Grace ticked the items off her slim, beautifully manicured fingers. “Let's see. Rich. Lives in the Latin Quarter. Has paintings that could hang in the national gallery. I'd say she's had a fascinating life.”

“That's true. But it's also been fascinating in a terrible way. She told me today about how when she was a girl her best friend was executed by the Resistance.”

“How awful. What did she do to cause that?”

“Fell in love with the enemy.”

“Oh! I got tingles when you said that! Leave it to the French to have
amour
at the crux of it all.”

“I know, but Delphine is still affected by it over seventy years later. She cried this morning when she told me about it. Like it had just happened.”

Maggie noticed that Grace seemed distracted, her eyes watching the crowd outside the café. She dashed out the cigarette she'd only half smoked and lit up another one.

“Speaking of family,” Grace said as she motioned for the waiter to bring more wine, “have you made your mind up about going home for the summer?”

Maggie fished out a bottle of formula for Mila from a pocket in the stroller.

“I told my mom I'd come.”

“Why the hesitation? I thought you loved Atlanta.”

“Two months is a long time. What if I get used to four-hundred channel cable TV and people understanding me when I speak? It took me ages to settle down over here.”

Grace lifted her wine glass and observed Maggie over the rim.

“Is that the whole reason?”

Maggie handed the bottle to Mila who grasped it with both hands.

“My brother seems to be having a nervous breakdown or something.”

“Well, that's hardly a surprise. But I'm so sorry, Maggie.” Grace scanned the crowd again as she spoke. Suddenly her face cleared and she waved to someone on the sidewalk approaching the café. “There he is!”

A tall man with close-cropped blond hair and a mouth a little too large for his face, approached the table, his arms held out wide as Grace stood and slid into them. He was handsome, Maggie thought, as she'd expect in a guy for Grace. Maggie scooted her chair back to allow him room to maneuver between her and Grace. He held out his hand to her.

“
Bonjour
, Maggie,” he said, his dark brown eyes glittering. She shook his hand and found herself wondering—with those dark eyes—if he was a natural blond.

“
Bonjour
to you, too,” Maggie said. “I'm so glad to finally meet you.”

The waiter showed up with a bottle of Côte du Rhone and an extra glass and then disappeared.

Amazing
, Maggie thought,
how they act when they think you're not a tourist
.

André pushed his chair close to Grace's and slipped his arm around her shoulders in a possessive gesture that surprised Maggie. Grace nestled into him as if she'd been waiting to do it all day.

Maggie felt a prickle up the back of her neck and she worked to shoo the feeling away. She had a habit of making her mind up about people way too soon and she was almost always wrong.

The fact was—within thirty seconds of having met him, she knew she didn't like André.

That was a record even for her.

“So this is Zouzou,
hein
?” André said, leaning down to prod Mila with a large forefinger. Mila frowned and moved her bottle away as if concerned this stranger might take it from her.

Maggie looked at Grace. She and André had been dating for nearly two months. Was it possible he'd never met Zouzou? Grace appeared to be studiously working at not returning Maggie's glance.

“Of course not,
chérie
,” Grace said. “This is Maggie's baby. Zouzou is at home.”

“Oh, yes,” André said, pouring his wine and clearly not caring one way or the other. He turned to Grace and the two kissed languidly for several seconds.

Maggie felt her annoyance build in her as she looked away, then took a sip of her wine and straightened out her napkin in her lap. Finally, she coughed.

“Oh! Sorry, darling,” Grace said, still leaning into André like a simpering schoolgirl. “It's just been so long since we've seen each other.”

Maggie knew that wasn't true but she repressed her irritation. It was mildly possible her annoyance had less to do with being ignored than it did with the fact that Grace was getting the opportunity to fall in love again.

“
Chérie
, Maggie was just telling me that her aunt has this amazing collection of paintings in her home and I was thinking you might know her.”

André turned expectantly to Maggie. “Ah, yes?”

“Her name is Delphine Normand. Have you heard of her?”

André clapped his hands together, forcing Grace to sit up straight in her chair.

“But of course!” he said. “Madame Normand is known in all of Paris for her patronage of the arts. That is remarkable!” He turned to Grace with excitement. “Her late husband's excellent art collection was well known.” He turned back to Maggie. “I would love to meet Madame Normand if that would be possible.”

“Maggie has invited us to her aunt's birthday party tomorrow night, darling,” Grace said.

“This is true?” André said to Maggie, his face open in an expression of pure joy. “I would be so happy to come to Madame Normand's apartment to celebrate her special day.”

Well, then I guess that just works out great for everyone
, Maggie thought, smiling to hide the fact that André now appeared to be the very picture of a classic opportunist.

“Maggie was telling me a fascinating story about her aunt,” Grace said.

Maggie looked at Grace, aghast that Grace seemed to be on the verge of revealing their private conversation.

“Ah,
oui
?” André prompted.

“It seems that during the war Delphine had a best friend who was killed by the Resistance after the city was liberated in 1944. Can you imagine? That's correct, isn't it, Maggie?”

Maggie flushed with anger and looked away. Although she'd never specifically said Delphine's story was a secret, somehow it felt like cheap gossip to have it blurted out like that to a total stranger.

“But that is remarkable!” André said, motioning to the waiter to bring their menus. “I must be sure and ask Madame Normand all about it when I meet her tomorrow.”

Maggie stood up abruptly. This was too much. And it was her fault. She had shared Delphine's most guarded, heartbreakingly personal secret and now the poor woman was going to be quizzed about it at her own birthday dinner.

“Maggie? Darling?”

“Sorry,” Maggie said, pulling the stroller away from the table. “I can't stay. Mila needs to…I have to get back. Maybe another time.”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes!” Grace said in annoyance. “Why did you bring the baby? I told you not to. This is unbelievable!”

Forcing herself not to respond, Maggie nodded goodbye to André. She maneuvered the stroller through the tight wedge of café chairs and tables to the street, fighting to hold her tongue or to turn and give Grace one last goodbye glare.