“Merveilleux,” she said.
Monsieur and Madame Bernardin greeted them in the foyer of their spacious apartment, a duplex comprising the top two stories of their six-floor building. In spite of the Left Bank’s Bohemian pedigree, that stretch of Boulevard Saint-Germain whispered unpretentious wealth tidily wrapped in Louis XV facades. The block of apartments rose above street-level shops that were limited to elegant necessities. In this neighborhood, it would be easier to find a wine boutique or seamstress than a place to get a tattoo or Brazilian wax. The couple, in their mid-eighties, reflected the neighborhood in their attire. Both were smartly dressed in understated classics: a black cashmere pullover and tailored slacks for her; a maroon sweater vest under a butterscotch corduroy blazer pour monsieur. No velvet smoking jackets, but these were certainly not matching-track-suit seniors, either.
Lysette accepted the small bouquet of white lilies Nikki had bought on their walk there with a mix of thanks at the kindness of her gesture and sadness at their grave symbolism. Emile rasped a heavily accented “This way, please,” and they followed him as he hobbled to the living room and his wife disappeared in search of a vase. As they sat, he apologized for his slowness, blaming a recent hip replacement. She returned with the flowers and placed them on a corner table with some other condolence arrangements that surrounded a framed photo of their daughter. To Heat’s eye, the portrait was identical to the New England Conservatory yearbook photocopy in her murder file.
“Thank you for seeing us today,” said Nikki in French. “I know this is a difficult time, and we are truly sorry for your loss.” The old couple facing them on the couch took each other’s hand simultaneously and held it comfortably. They were both thin and small like Nicole, but seemed even more so—almost birdlike under the load of mourning their only child.
They thanked Nikki, and Emile suggested they continue in English, as they were both fluent and could see that M. Rook would like to be more included. He limped around the coffee table with a bottle of Chorey-les-Beaune to pour into the wineglasses that had been set beside a small plate of petits fours in anticipation of the visit. After a muted toast and polite sips, Lysette set her glass down, eyes riveted on Nikki. “Pardon me for staring, but you look so much like your mother,” Heat heard again. “It is so strange for me to sit here across from you, who are occupying the same chair Cynthia liked to use. The sensation is as if time had … what is the word …?”
“Warped,” said her husband, and the pair smiled and nodded in unison. “We cared very much for Cindy, but I am sure you know that.”
“Actually, this is all new to me. I’d never met your daughter and my mother never mentioned her to me.”
“That is odd,” said Lysette.
“I agree. Did my mother and Nicole have some sort of falling out at some point? Anything that might have caused them to become estranged?”
The Bernardins looked at each other and shook no. “Au contraire,” Emile said. “As far as we knew, their relationship was always strong and happy.”
“Forgive me if this is sensitive to discuss, but I believe Nicole’s murder is somehow connected to my mother’s, and I hope to learn as much as I can about their relationship so I can find the killer.”
“They were like sisters,” said Emile. “They had their differences, though.”
“It’s what made up the friendship,” said Lysette. “Opposite personalities that complemented each other so beautifully. Our Nicole, she was always an esprit libre.”
Heat translated for Rook. “A free spirit.” He nodded like he got it already.