“Find out who murdered him by volunteering at the museum?”
“Long story, René.” The image of Pascal Samour’s corpse flashed in her mind. “I took the job. Five thousand francs retainer.” Not to mention Tso’s cash “retainer,” but she kept that to herself. “You in, René?”
“The old lady reminds you of your grandfather, n’est-ce pas?”
Maybe she did.
“And Meizi’s still a suspect,” Aimée said.
Pause. “I’m in. See you at the office in a few hours.”
Saturday, 6 P.M.
“OUR MUSEUM DEPARTMENT appreciates your donation of time and expertise,” said Madame Chomette, the curator, a tall, slender woman with white hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She was dressed head-to-toe in black, which highlighted the silver teardrop pendant hanging from her neck. “I think that’s all, Mademoiselle Leduc. It’s been a long day.”
All? Aimée stared at three centuries of the Musée des Arts et Métiers’ cataloged holdings to digitize.
“We hope you don’t mind the accommodation, as we can’t transport the documents. Legal issues.”
Madame Chomette gestured to the alcove office carved out behind a Gothic strut pillar. Worn Latin was just visible in the floor paver. The extensive renovation of the museum revealed that the walls stripped down to eleventh-century stone. Thoroughly medieval, apart from the power strips and space heater.
“Tomorrow we’ll have a desktop operational for you and functioning within the museum network.”
Aimée wouldn’t hold her breath. After one look at the antiquated system, she’d decided to bring a laptop or three for backup.
Now to the meat, and finding Samour’s project. “To prevent duplicating Monsieur Samour’s efforts, perhaps you could tell me where he left off?”
She wondered if Madame Chomette was in on this, or a friend of Samour’s. Or both.
“So sad. Such a loss.” The conservator paused. “But I’m new, on loan from the archives to finish things up by the reopening deadline.” She gave a small shrug. “I met Samour last week for five minutes. But each person who worked on this logged the details.”
“Who did he work with?”
Another shrug. Madame Chomette glanced at her watch. “He was a wonderful help, that’s the memo I got. I’m late for a meeting. Desolée.”
Did this woman really not know? Aimée tried again. “I’m looking for a fourteenth century document.”
“The museum building was a church until the sixteenth century, so our holdings don’t go back that far,” Madame Chomette said. “We concentrate on inventions and machines from the eighteenth century on.”
“Could there have been another collection? A mistake? Or might it have been misfiled?”
Madame Chomette shook her head. “Not to my knowledge.”
Was Aimée some pawn in an elaborate setup? She wondered at how eagerly they’d accepted her services. Or was this more paranoia?
“But open one of our storage cellars and you’d be amazed at what’s in there,” Madame Chomette said, perhaps noting the dismay on Aimée’s face. “Believe it or not, the Archives Nationales kept things here during the Occupation. It wouldn’t surprise me if some were left. In most cases no one’s looked at these things in a hundred years. We’re overwhelmed and so grateful for your generous offer. It’s a true gift, this expertise you’ll furnish.”
Aimée believed the woman. Felt a brush of guilt for her ulterior motive, but groaned inside. It sounded like an exercise in futility. Still, she had to begin somewhere.
“I’ll program a laptop and start tomorrow.”
“Merci.” Looking again at her watch, Madame Chomette motioned her out. “Vardet, the security guard, will furnish your badge and outline security protocol.”
Saturday, 6:30 P.M.
COMMISSAIRE MORBIER NODDED to the driver of the unmarked police car. “Relay to dispatch that I’m detained. Breaking revelations in the investigation, the usual.”
He’d miss another commissariat meeting he couldn’t afford to miss. Like every other hurry-up-and-wait bigwig caucus he’d missed in the throes of this damned investigation.
“Compris, Sergeant?”
Trained to cover Morbier’s ass, the driver nodded. Morbier glanced at his cell phone. Two calls from Aimée. Nothing he wanted to deal with now.
He powered off his phone and slammed the car door. Set his shoulders for this grief-therapy session that Honfleur, the police psychologist, mandated. Otherwise he’d face a week at the stress unit “intensive” outside Paris. The last thing he wanted.
His breath steamed in the cold, twilit air. He walked back a half block to the Sainte Elisabeth church in case the driver kept him in his rearview mirror. Morbier gripped the stair railing, taking each ice-slicked step one at a time. I’m just another old man, he thought, frustrated, terrified to break a hip. All of a sudden the thick, carved wooden doors slapped open. Two laughing boys ran out like rifle shots, just missing his leg.
Had he ever been that young, or moved so fast? He straightened up in the cold church vestibule. Melted candle wax and frankincense, smells so familiar, rooted in some saint’s day, he forgot which. The traditions of his childhood.
Deep notes sounded from the organ above. A refrain played again and again. Saturday evening organ practice, Morbier thought. “The Lord washes away our sins,” a staccato voice joined in.
No bets on that from his corner.
On the community notices tacked near the side chapel, under the flyer for Narcotiques Anonymes, he found “Grief Group Meeting, Room 2, Rear Stairs.”
Merde. More stairs.
The room held twelve or so men and women, gathered around the pastries and coffee on a refectory table. A wall poster invited parishioners to bring guitars to Sunday sing-along Mass. Surprised, he noticed people of all ages.
“The pastries come from the pâtisserie on rue du Temple,” he overheard a young woman saying, “off Place de la République. Wonderful pain au chocolat …”
She looked up. Clear, steady gaze. Warm smile. “We take turns providing refreshments,” she said, not showing surprise that an extra-old codger had just appeared. Morbier hadn’t signed up. Almost backed out at the last minute. “Welcome, I’m Jeanne. The coffee’s not bad. I made it myself.”
After a round of introductions—first names and how long they’d attended the grief group—Jeanne stood and smiled. “We’d like to welcome the newcomers to share if they wish. Speaking and getting support is what we’re all about here.”
Not that he had any intention of “sharing” with strangers. A typical bunch of whining types with time for a pity party. He noticed a patch of mildew on the wall below a simple wooden cross.
“For a year I couldn’t face this hole in my life,” Jeanne was saying, “always being reminded by the little things.”
Alors, just what he’d expected.
“I was so ashamed when I burst into tears at everyday, mundane things,” Jeanne said. “His tie I found behind the armoire, the one I’d forgotten to dry-clean. His crumpled Post-it about my library fine, which I found in the bottom of my bag. How I still listen to his voice on our answering machine.”
“Me, too.” Several heads nodded.
“My life’s like treading underwater and not breaking the surface,” a voice added.
“They dismissed my brother’s death as an industrial accident,” said another. “The elevator controls failed … nothing even left to bury.”
Morbier lapsed into his own thoughts, an opaque, dismal netherworld. The ache that hadn’t gone away since Xavierre’s murder. His survival was work. Good thing they’d kept him on the internal corruption investigation.