Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

God, what a fool she was. The first thing she should do was take a vow of celibacy, so that her body wouldn’t blind her brain. For one year she wouldn’t go to bed with anything more active than a hot-water bottle, for one year she’d wait, she’d think, she’d give herself time to know herself and what she wanted in life. When that time was over she’d consider getting involved again. There were plenty of good men like Tom Parkhurst around. She just hadn’t been looking for them.

Still and all, there was something about him … The telephone shrilled in her ear, breaking through the dangerous reverie. This time when she reached for the phone she didn’t knock it on the floor. This time when her greeting met with dead silence she didn’t panic. She merely said something extremely Anglo-Saxon and replaced the telephone, breaking the connection. And then she took the receiver off once more, tucked the phone under the extra pillow, and curled up to sleep.

Malgreave didn’t leave the office till after eleven. Vidal had left ages ago, Josef had finally gone half an hour before him, and the hallways were dark and deserted as the chief inspector made his way down to the street. He was not in a good mood.

One couldn’t be cheerful if one spent hours staring at photographs of corpses, he reasoned, climbing into his car and heading homeward through the brightly lit streets. Brightly colored pictures, with vivid hues. He should retire, move with Marie to her parents’ deserted farm in Normandy and raise chickens.

That’s exactly what he would do, once he solved the murders. The newspapers might think it was all over, but he knew otherwise. He knew Yvon Alpert had been an incompetent bungler, messing up his one sloppy murder. The other killings had been handled with more finesse, more expertise, God help him, more loving care.

The other murderers were still free to try again. Rocco Guillère and at least two others, perhaps three. Until he caught them, Normandy would have to wait. Josef’s wife’s ambition would have to wait, Marie would have to wait. He only hoped she would.

“I’m going with you,” Claire announced, draining her third cup of coffee and trying to sound efficient. It was a losing battle. She hadn’t been able to sleep. As if she hadn’t been spooked enough, those two silent phone calls had put an end to any hope of rest for her. When she finally drifted off, her stubborn brain had tormented her with erotic fantasies of Tom Parkhurst, something her conscious mind had studiously avoided. She doubted she’d ever be able to see those large, long-fingered hands again without remembering the dream-induced feel of them on her bare skin.

Not that she had any intention of seeing him again. Not with the uneasy possibility of Marc lurking around, hiding, watching.

“Going with me?” Nicole echoed, pushing her plate away. “Why?”

“I wish to talk with your grandmother. And don’t tell me she doesn’t speak English—I know that. We’ll have to make do. If worse comes to worst you can translate. Or we can use sign language, or charades.” Claire moved to the sink and began washing the paper-thin porcelain tea cup, missing Nicole’s look of surprise.

“Grand-mère doesn’t like unexpected guests,” she said. “I think it would be better if you waited until you were invited.”

“Will I be invited?” Claire didn’t bother to turn around. The soapy cup slipped from her fingers and dove into the iron sink, smashing into a dozen pieces. Claire stood there, looking at it, her blood running cold.

The running water drowned out the sound of Nicole’s footsteps as she crossed the room. She stood beside Claire, looking down at the cup in the sink, then reached over and turned off the water. “Don’t worry, Claire,” she said in her most practical voice. “Those belonged to Mother, and she’s dead. She wouldn’t care what happened to them.”

“They belong to Marc …” Claire began, but Nicole shook her head.

“No, they don’t. This apartment and everything in it belongs to me. Marc has the use of it during his lifetime, but my mother’s will left everything to me. That’s why Marc hates me.” Her tone was cheerful, matter-of-fact.

“He doesn’t hate you, darling,” Claire protested, moving away from the sink, leaving the shattered pieces where they lay. “Fathers don’t hate their daughters.”

“Perhaps not. But Marc hates me,” she said flatly. “I don’t know if Grand-mère will agree to see you.”

Claire dried her shaking hands on the linen towel. “She’ll have no choice in the matter. I need some answers to some very important questions.”

“Such as?”

Claire hesitated for only a moment. “Such as why your mother would leave everything to you and nothing to her husband,” she said finally.

Nicole shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said, her French accent and unnatural gravity making the American idiom amusing. “But I can answer that for you. She didn’t trust him.” And on that note she left the room, leaving Claire staring after her.

It was depressing to think a nine-year-old had more sense about people than an adult, Claire thought, three hours later. It was unnerving to have her worst fears justified, her paranoia validated, her neuroses exposed for what they were. Only a neurotic fool would have fallen for Marc Bonnard. And Claire was tired of being a fool.

Madame Langlois had been sitting in her pale pink and blue living room, thumbing through a magazine, when the silent maid had ushered the two of them into her presence. Claire had just enough time to notice that the magazine Harriette was reading was an English one when Nicole vaulted herself toward the old lady with the first show of open affection Claire had ever seen from the child. She had begun to think Nicole incapable of it, but now she knew she was wrong. Nicole was capable of great affection, she just hadn’t been around anyone who’d earned it.

And then Madame Langlois’s steely eyes had spotted her by the door. They had run down Claire’s narrow, neatly dressed body with sharp precision, assessing her merits and demerits with ruthless efficiency. And then she’d risen, crossing the room with ancient grace, and stood before her, greeting her in liquid, musical French.

Claire turned to Nicole for translation. “She says welcome. She says you aren’t what she expected.”

“I’m not?” Claire said warily. “What does that mean?”

Nicole grinned, suddenly looking her age. “I imagine she thought you would look like a bimbo. That’s the word, isn’t it?”

“Nicole,” the old woman said in a reproving voice.

“Tell your grandmother I’m grateful she agreed to see me …” Claire began.

“I didn’t agree to see you.” The old woman spoke in sudden, astonishing English. “You simply appeared in my salon. Now that you’re here we might as well talk.”