The Paris Librarian (14 page)

“Nope.” Claudia shook her head. “You're dead in this scenario, remember?”

Hugo laughed. “I forgot.” He raised his glass to her. “Here's to cyanide-free dessert.”

She clinked her glass against his. “For now, anyway.”

The mention of cyanide had made him think of Paul. Not that his friend had been poisoned, only that if he
had
died of unnatural causes, poison seemed like the most likely way. Except, of course, the lack of puncture wounds and clean tox screen. But Hugo decided to tell Claudia about it, get her impressions and maybe rouse the journalist into helping him poke around the foggy corners of events.

First, he finished telling her about Merlyn and Miki, the latter's interest in the Severin collection. Claudia had heard the rumors about Severin's involvement as a spy, but she hadn't heard about the dagger, the Gestapo story.

“Speaking as a journalist, proving that story would be quite a scoop,” Claudia said.

“Agreed.” Hugo then laid out the facts as he knew them, Paul's death followed by Sarah's and the bruises on her neck and chest. And, most significant to him, the figure in Sarah's apartment at the time she died.

“Definitely murder,” Claudia concluded.

“I spoke to Camille yesterday. She's still not convinced. No evidence in Paul's case and the marks on Sarah are inconclusive.”

“And the stranger in her apartment?”

“As Camille pointed out, maybe someone innocent who found her and panicked.” He shrugged. “Or maybe I didn't hear anyone at all, I certainly didn't see anyone.”

“Your instincts and senses are pretty good.” Claudia nodded, thinking. “Perhaps the first, someone was there and panicked. After all, you wandered in and found her, I suppose someone else might have.”

“Maybe, but I'm not buying it.”

She paused, her lips pursed in thought. “Why would someone kill Paul and Sarah?”

“I can't help thinking it has to do with the Severin papers, the dagger, and that great scoop.”

“That's assuming it even exists.”

Hugo smiled. “That's what I intend to find out tomorrow.”

“How?”

“I asked Madame Severin's former personal assistant and couldn't get a straight answer.” Hugo took a measured sip of wine. “So tomorrow I'm going straight to the source.”

“Wait.” Claudia sat up straight. “You're going to see Isabelle Severin?”

“I sure am.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“Not exactly. Tom located her and I plan to use my wiles and charm to get in to see her.”

“I'm sure it'll be a worthwhile visit, handsome.” A smile spread slowly over Claudia's face. “And I'm coming with you.”

“Actually, no. You're not,” he said mildly.

“Give me one good reason why not?”

“Because civilians should never be part of any investigation. And because I don't want to crowd the woman and scare her.”

“First of all, this isn't an investigation. You basically just told me that you have no evidence of any crime, so this is a fishing expedition at best.”

“Well, as a matter of—”

“And second of all, two's company, not a crowd. And I'm hardly an intimidating presence, especially when compared to a hulking brute like you. In fact, I should go interview her while you sit in the car.”

“Hulking brute?”

“Compared to delicate little me,” she said. “Plus, I'm a journalist and know how to get people to talk.”

“Yeah, I didn't get any training or experience at that in my years at the Bureau,” Hugo said. “Silly me for thinking that a profiler might be able to wrangle an answer from an old lady.”

“Now you sound like a cowboy,” she laughed. “A mean one, wrangling old ladies.”

They fell silent as the waiter arrived with their desserts. “This is a variation on an English trifle. We have a light sponge base that normally would be a little dry and . . .” He seemed to struggle for the word.

“Unexciting?” Claudia filled in.

“
Exactement.
But the base of the dish is a shallow pool of rum, which the sponge absorbs and transfers to the custard on top. Even into the thin layer of strawberry preserves, which we make here.” He held up a reassuring finger. “But don't worry, it's not all about the rum. I think you'll find the balance of flavors just right.”

“Sounds delightful,” Hugo said. “
Merci bien.
”

“But wait until I bring your next wine. I will not make you guess, it is a very good Sauternes.”

When he'd left them alone, Claudia poked her fork into the dessert, a little dubious. “I never would have imagined a French chef emulating an English pudding.”

“Maybe, but I will say,” Hugo said, savoring a bite, “in this case, be glad. Be very glad indeed.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The drive took them a little less than two hours. Once out of Paris it was a straight shot northeast, a fast and picturesque drive along the E50, about 150 kilometers along a road that ran for more than five thousand, from the French port of Brest through five other countries and ending in Makhachkala on the Caspian Sea. Claudia sat beside him, buzzing with the energy of an excited schoolgirl. Or, in this case, a journalist with the tip of her nose in a potentially huge story.

The retirement home lay south of the main road, a wide-open property made up of manicured lawns and one-story cabins. Hugo was surprised to find the entrance ungated, and said so.

“We had this discussion when you first came to my house,” Claudia said. “Crime happens but we're not paranoid about it. No fences, no guns.”

“But she's one of the most famous movie stars in Hollywood history,” Hugo said. “And God knows who else lives here, probably politicians and sports stars.”

“None of whom want to pay a lot of money only to live behind bars, I expect.”

“I guess.” Hugo peered through the windshield. “There's the office, let's start there.”

He parked and they let themselves into the administration building that looked more like a French country house. The receptionist smiled and looked behind them, as if they were a loving couple about to donate their mother to the place. She was an attractive woman in her late forties, and the nameplate in front of her read
Janelle Cason
.

“
Bonjour
,” Hugo said, and continued in French. “My name is Hugo Marston, I'm with the American Embassy in Paris.” He slid his credentials onto the desktop as he spoke, and ignored Claudia's fidgeting. Maybe it wasn't an official investigation, but two dead Americans was justification enough for the badge to come out. “I was hoping to have a quick talk with one of your . . .” He hesitated, unsure how a retirement community might refer to its own inhabitants.

“One of our residents?”

“Yes, exactly. Madame Isabelle Severin.”

“Oh. Is she expecting you?”

“No, madame, she's not.”

Cason frowned. “I will have to see if she's available. It is usually advisable to make an appointment, especially for someone as eminent as Madame Severin. She does not like to see new people.”

“It's very important,” Hugo said gently.

“Can I tell her what it's about?” Cason asked.

“
Bien sûr.
It relates to the generous donation of her papers to the American Library.”

They sat and waited as Janelle Cason disappeared into a back office and made contact with someone, presumably the supervisor responsible for access to their residents. Hugo flicked through a fashion magazine without seeing the pictures, only noticing what he was reading when he saw Claudia smiling at him.

“Put that away, Hugo, you dress fine.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Sure. Do you mind if I record our meeting?”

“If it happens, be my guest. But be subtle and make me a copy.”

“Deal.”

Cason reappeared a minute later. “I'm sorry, we were unable to reach her.”

“Unable to reach—?”

Cason smiled. “She's fine. Taking her morning nap, is all.”

“We can wait,” Hugo said.

“Her nurse would rather you didn't.”

“She has a nurse?”

“The community is made up of a hospital, a recreation center, a dining room and lots of individual cottages, all fitted for the elderly. For every five cottages there is a nurse, who is more than just a medical provider. She's like the residents' caretaker.”

“More like gatekeeper,” Claudia muttered.

Cason shot her a look. “People come here for privacy and to live out their years in dignity. I've yet to come across someone in their late nineties who welcomes a surprise visit from complete strangers, especially when those strangers carry badges. Now, if you make an appointment, maybe you can see her.”

“How do we do that?” Hugo asked.

Cason went to her desk and opened a drawer. She took out a folder and extracted a sheet of paper. “If you fill this out, I will give it to her nurse, and she will discuss it with Madame Severin. If she wants to meet with you, one of us will call.”

“Very good,” said Hugo, taking the paper. “Thank you.” He filled it out hurriedly and left it with Janelle Cason, giving her his warmest smile. “We're grateful for the help, really. And hope to see you again soon.”

Claudia said nothing, just followed him out to the car. When they reached it, she said, “You're not giving up that easily, are you?”

Hugo gave her an innocent smile. “Whatever can you mean?”

“Do you know which cottage is hers?”

“Let's just say that I found her here thanks to Tom.”

“Which means you know which cottage is hers, and probably which side of the bed she sleeps on.”

“The man has his uses.”

“Which is why I'd consider marrying him.”

Hugo winked. “Sure you would. Hop in the car, her place is at the back of the property.”

He drove slowly, avoiding the golf carts used by groundskeepers and the residents themselves. The shiny, black embassy car drew plenty of lingering looks, but, using his phone, Hugo managed to locate Isabelle Severin's wooden cottage without being stopped. The front door was painted light blue and either side of it large ceramic pots bristled with yellow and orange flowers.

Hugo and Claudia stepped out of the car and looked around, but the nearby cottages were as quiet as this one. The only sound was a lawnmower some distance away, and the gentle put-put of someone's golf cart. Hugo knocked softly on the front door and they waited. He was about to knock again when the door opened and he found himself looking down at the smiling face of one of the world's most famous actresses.

She looked nothing like her movie posters, of course, but Hugo was struck by how beautiful she still was. At almost one hundred years old, her skin was pale and clear, smooth like a child's. And her blue eyes sparkled, just like they did on the silver screen. She was tiny, though, and Hugo stepped back instinctively, not wanting to tower over her, intimidate her. And he had no idea whether to speak in French or English.

“
Bonjour, Madame
,” he began, before switching to their native tongue. “My name is Hugo Marston. This is my friend Claudia de Roussillon.”

Her brow knitted together as she looked back and forth between them, seeming to study their faces and especially Claudia's.

“De Roussillon?” she asked finally. “Are you Gérard's wife?”

Claudia stepped forward. “No, madame. I am his daughter.”

“Oh, my,” Severin said, smiling. “How you've grown. How is Gérard?”

“I'm afraid he . . . he passed away not too long ago,” Claudia said.

The smile fell from her face. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. You better come in.”

They followed her into the little house, and Hugo looked around once inside. They were in the main living room, carpeted and comfortable with heavy furniture built to last. To their left was a breakfast bar and, behind it, a small kitchen. To the right, a closed door, which Hugo assumed led to Madame Severin's bedroom and bathroom. Large windows filled the room with light, and opposite him were French doors leading onto a small patio, also bordered with potted plants and flowers. The place was small but had a cozy, warm feel to it.

Isabelle Severin gestured for them to sit on the couch, while she perched on the seat of an armchair. Hugo wondered whether, if she sat back on it, her feet would even touch the floor.

“You were telling me about your father,” Severin began. “How is he?”

Claudia exchanged glances with Hugo. “Well, I'm afraid he passed away.”

“Oh, no!” Severin clasped her hands together. “Was he ill?”

“He had dementia, I'm afraid.” Claudia was telling the truth, although it wasn't the disease that had killed her father.

“I can't tell you how many good people I've lost to that darned affliction.” Severin shook her head sadly. “Too many, simply too many.”

“I wasn't aware that you knew each other,” Claudia said.

“Quite well, really. When I used to be a little more social I'd see him at various functions. And I think he bought some of my books when I sold off a lot a few years back. Maybe five years ago?”

“He had a wonderful collection, I still have it.”

“Oh, I'm so glad. Not really room for books here. I don't read much anymore, anyway. My eyes aren't as good as they once were.”

“True for all of us,” Hugo said with a smile. “We don't want to take up much of your time, do you mind if I ask you about a couple of things?”

“Remind me who you are, dear. This young lady's husband?”

“No,” Hugo said. “We're good friends. I work at the American Embassy, the head of their security.”

“Oh, I see. What on Earth could I help you with?”