Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

She wasn’t even ruffled. “Then maybe I’d better find someone to fill in while you’re gone.”

They started back down the sidewalk, her arm tucked companionably into his. “You know I would kill you if you did.” His voice was teasing. “Don’t forget, I’m French. We’re a very jealous, passionate race.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She was relaxing, despite the cold. Marc seldom teased—life was much too serious a business for him. She loved him best when he was tender, lightly mocking. “At least, the passionate part. I’ve never given you cause for jealousy so I’m not sure how you’d be.”

“I would be dangerous.” He steered her into the park. “Very dangerous, chérie.”

She could have wished he’d chosen another place. Not that she was feeling guilty about the American she’d met yesterday. There was nothing to feel guilty about. It was just an innocent encounter between expatriates, an hour and a coffee ice cream cone. But Marc wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t believe she’d already forgotten the man’s name, the flattering warmth of his blue eyes.

“What do you suppose is going on?” Marc murmured in her ear, drawing her closer.

She would have thought the park would be deserted on such a blustery day. In part she was correct. There were no old people sitting on the benches, huddled against the sudden cold, no ice cream vendor plying his trade. In their place were close to a dozen uniformed police, with several plainclothes men just as clearly connected to the authorities.

“Let’s leave,” she said, pulling against his arm. There were other people there, a scattered crowd of curious bystanders, watching with great interest as the police milled about.

“Stay right here. I’m going to find out what’s going on.” He released her arm and headed toward the most official-looking of the men. She didn’t even consider moving, much as she longed to escape. She didn’t want to know what was going on. She wanted to keep walking on this cold, bright day and not think about the police.

She wrapped her arms around her shivering body. Marc was deep in animated discussion with the man, and she watched both, unconsciously comparing them. Marc never ceased to surprise her with his beauty. Every bone, every muscle in his body was perfectly formed, exquisitely trained. Even the unruly curl of dark hair obeyed him, landing at just the right spot in his well-shaped forehead. He caught her watching him, turned and smiled, that charming, possessive smile that never failed to warm her.

In contrast the man beside him was almost ugly. He must have been in his late fifties, with a lined, weary face and ancient eyes that had seen too much. He was tall, taller than Marc’s average height, and his shoulders were slightly stooped, as if under a great weight that he just managed to support. His clothes were rumpled, as if he slept in them, and his thinning hair needed cutting. And yet there was something about him, a hint of compassion around a grim mouth, a suggestion of morbid humor in the dark eyes, that Claire liked.

A moment later Marc rejoined Claire. The tips of his ears were red from the cold, and he rubbed his hands together briskly before once more taking hold of her. “As I suspected,” he said, looking mournful. “It’s this nasty business of the old ladies. I didn’t want to disturb you, darling, but another one was killed last night. She lived near the park, and the police suspect she might have been seen here yesterday.”

“The poor woman.” Even pulling the coat tightly around her, she couldn’t seem to get warm.

“These people are animals,” Marc said somberly. “They’re going to post a warning at the entrance to the park. The inspector told me they simply couldn’t guarantee the safety of the old people in Paris. They haven’t got the manpower.”

“How ghastly.”

“Be glad you’re thirty and n

ot eighty.” He smiled, dismissing the morbid subject. “As long as you behave yourself you’re safe. Let’s go, chérie. There’s no ice cream on such a cold day, and I don’t like the way all these men are looking at you.” He pulled her up tight against him, pressing a soft, damp, open-mouthed kiss against her chilled lips.

It was too cold to respond, though she did her best. When he released her they started back toward the street. She looked about her curiously, wondering which of the busy policemen had offended Marc with his importunate eyes. They all seemed intent, unaware of the well-dressed couple heading out of the park. Marc’s paranoia, she thought, dismissing it. She should never have responded to his teasing.

Still, she could feel the eyes on her. She turned to say something to Marc, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder.

The American was there, surrounded by a handful of shorter Parisians. He was looking straight at her, and his blue eyes were mournful.

Tom, his name was. Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst, she thought. And Marc had noticed him. Damn, and double damn.

“Let’s take a taxi,” she said, huddling closer to him.

Marc’s eyes clouded in surprise. “Why, darling? We’ve only a short walk.”

“Because I can’t wait to get home with you,” she said in a low voice.

He kissed her again, and she put all her enthusiasm into it, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her hips against his. When they drew apart she was breathless, and if Marc had had suspicions she’d managed to banish them. “I doubt we’ll find a taxi,” he said, “but we can always run.”

She laughed, suddenly happy. “Or at least walk very fast,” she said.

“You always do.” They hurried from the park, in perfect amity.

Louis Malgreave watched them leave. A good-looking couple, he thought. Not the sort who usually frequented this park, not the sort he ran into in the course of his days. Their kind didn’t murder, their kind didn’t rape or deal drugs. The man looked vaguely familiar, and it only took him a minute to place him. He was a mime. Marie had grown more interested in the theater, and he’d taken her to a performance of Le Théâtre du Mime last fall. He recognized the man even without the whiteface and baggy costume, recognized the bone structure and the graceful carriage. Malgreave prided himself on never forgetting anyone. In his job he couldn’t afford to.

The woman had been a question mark. English, perhaps, or American, though she didn’t have the brassy, self-assured look he associated with American women who slept with French men. Not married, he guessed. His assessing gray eyes slid over to the tall, unhappy-looking man down by the little pond. And perhaps not faithful.

That was the least of his worries. They had nothing to do with Marcelle Boisrond’s death. For the moment that was all he could allow himself to think about, not Marie at home alone on a Sunday when he’d promised to take her to see Margritte. Not curious couples walking the icy streets of Paris. Only murder.