Heat got out her notepad, making complete her transition from houseguest to cop. “Who asked you that, M. Bernardin?”
“A telephone caller. Let me think. He said it so quickly. An American voice, I think he said … Sea—crest, yes, Mr. Seacrest. He said he was a business associate of my daughter’s. He called me by my first name, so I had no reason to doubt him.”
“Of course not. And what exactly did this Mr. Seacrest ask you?”
“He was concerned a package of Nicole’s might have been misdirected here by error. I told him nothing had arrived for her here.”
Rook asked, “Did he describe what kind of package or what might be in it?”
“Mm, no. As soon as I said nothing had come, he got off the line quickly.”
Heat quizzed him about the caller and any characteristics about his voice—age, accent, pitch—but the old man came up at a loss. “Do you remember when the call came?”
“Yes, a few days ago. Sunday. In the evening.” She made a note and he asked, “Do you think it is suspicious?”
“It’s hard to know, but we’ll check it out.” Nikki handed him one of her business cards. “If you think of anything else, and especially if anyone contacts you again to ask about Nicole, please call that number.”
Lysette said, “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Nikki.”
“And you,” she said. “I feel like you gave me a glimpse into a big part of my mother’s life that I missed. I wish I could have learned more about it from her.”
Mme. Bernardin got up. “Do you know what I want to do, Nikki? I have something I’d like to share with you that you may find enlightening. Excusez-moi.”
Heat sat again, and in Lysette’s absence Emile topped their glasses, even though neither had gone beyond the toast sip. Nikki said, “My father met my mother when she was playing at a cocktail party in Cannes. He said she had been getting by doing that and giving piano lessons. Did she start that here during the summer she visited you?”
“Oh, yes. And I am proud to say that I was instrumental in finding her employment.”
“Were you involved in music?” she asked.
“Only to sing in the shower,” he said. “No, no, my business was commercial and corporate insurance. Through that work I developed a relationship with an investment banker—an American who was living here who became a dear friend of the family. Nicole adored him so much she called him Oncle Tyler.”
“Uncle Tyler,” said Rook.
“Very good,” said Emile with a wink at Nikki. For no reason other than instinct she asked his name. “Tyler Wynn. A charming man. I got a lot of business through him over the years. He was very well connected to international investors and knew anyone who mattered in Paris. And Tyler’s generosity of referrals didn’t just extend to me. No, no. Whenever Nicole was home from Boston, he would find her summer work as a music tutor for the children of some of his wealthy acquaintances. It was good experience for her and paid very well.”
“And kept her out of trouble,” said Rook.
Emile pointed a forefinger to the air. “Best of all.”
Nikki had done the math and urged him on. “So this Tyler Wynn also found tutoring clients for my mother that summer?”
“Exactly. And Cindy was so good at it, soon she had appointments every day. Tyler made more referrals and one job led to another. Some of her patrons who had vacation homes would even hire your mother to come along with their family on les vacances to continue the tutoring. A week in Portofino, another in Monte Carlo, then Zurich or the Amalfi coast. Travel, room and board, all first class. Not a bad life for a woman of twenty-one, eh?”
“Unless your life was supposed to be something else,” she said.