“You’re scared,” he said, his tone changing to concern.
“No wonder you’re a detective,” she said. Her mind went back to poor Yuri tied to his kitchen sink, to Madame Figuer, his neighbor, the sobbing tale of her brother water-tortured on rue des Saussaies.
Dombasle enveloped her hand in his warm ones. Calming and firm. “You’re shaking.”
“Going to ask me to dance?” she said.
A smile lit up his gold-flecked eyes. “Tango’s more my style. I want you to meet that man drinking cider over there.”
Aimée’s phone vibrated. She needed air.
“Meet you in a moment, I’ve got to take this call.”
She didn’t want to talk to anyone, but it could be Saj or René. Another breakin attempt?
“Aimée, given any thought to chapter titles for my book?” Martine asked.
“Book?” Her heel caught in the cracks of the damp cobbles. She grabbed the ivy trellis for support just in time.
“The style editor’s on my back.”
“Right now, Martine?”
Martine blew a long exhale. Aimée imagined the nicotine rush, the cigarette’s spiraling blue smoke. She’d kill for a cigarette right now.
“What’s wrong? I hear it in your voice. But you can’t bail on me, Aimée. Not now.”
A couple hurried past her into the Breton center.
“You know you’re going to tell me,” Martine said.
Where to begin?
“Does this have to do with Saj running over that Serb?”
“He didn’t kill him.” She gave Martine the capsule version. And threw in how she’d seen Melac lip-locked with a blonde.
“Not that again! You know you were wrong before—remember, with Guy, the eye surgeon, the one I liked? He had his arm around his sister. And you were blind. Literally.”
Like she could forget.
“If Melac’s undercover … Alors, he’s got to do.…” Martine’s voice wavered, “what he’s got to do.”
“Not like that.”
“Bon, at least René’s back.”
“I can’t count on him with all—”
“But his tuxedo’s still at the cleaners, non?” Martine interrupted. “He’ll escort you to the wedding. The couturier alteration appointment’s the day after tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
Aimée wanted to smack herself. The vintage blue Dior. No way could she fit into it.
“But I’ve gained a kilo.” More.
“It’ll be a piece of gateau for an old pro from Patou.”
“Letting out seams for a whale?” she said. “Martine, she’ll have to sew me into it.”
“Like Marilyn Monroe, eh?” Martine said. “By the way, ELLE’s sending a photographer to the wedding.”
She cringed inside. The camera would add even more kilos.
“Vintage couture works at a hip wedding,” Martine went on. “We’ll make it the book’s last chapter, of course. C’est parfait.”
Then it hit her. An idea that Martine, a born journalist, would eat up.
“What if I interested the oligarch’s wife in an interview with you? Couple it with a fashion shoot—besides the usual magazine sidebar on the über-wealthy slum-shopping? With a photo spread?” Aimée said, thinking as she spoke. “If you got the style editor on board and suggested an ensemble piece … you know, a little fashion voyage you whip into an article and use in the book. Nothing wasted.”
A little suck of breath. “You could make that happen, Aimée?”
“Her bodyguard likes me. Her female bodyguard.” A little too much.
“A female Russian bodyguard? Ooh, that could work for the shoot. I see Slavic cheekbones, toned body in a black leather catsuit.”
“Picture a business suit and biceps, Martine,” she said. “I’m meeting her for a drink later.”
“Bien s?r, you’re a big girl, you can handle yourself,” Martine said.
“The things I do for you, Martine,” she said, letting out a sigh. “She can take people down. Probably trained at the KGB.”
“It’s the FSB now.”
The second person to tell her that today.
“Then you’re interested?” Aimée paced back and forth on the dimly lit cobbles.
She heard keys tapping on a keyboard.
“Don’t be silly. I’m emailing the editor right now to see if we can make this month’s deadline.”
“So do me a favor. Explore her husband Dmitri Bereskova’s projected ‘art’ museum, who he owes krysha, and if a Modigliani would put him back on top.”
Martine sighed into the phone. “Why do I think you’ve been angling me into getting information all along?”
Dombasle waved from inside.
“Remember Bereskova’s art museum, Martine. Dombasle’s beckoning.…”
“Dombasle as in Rafael de la Dombasle, son of the noted painter?”
Did that explain his intello air? “Told me he’s an art cop. Got to go.”
AT THE COUNTER Dombasle introduced her to Huppert. Mid-thirties, sparse brown hair, black jacket and jeans, he stood a head shorter than her, with a glass of sparkling apple cider in hand.
“This is the one I told you about,” Dombasle said.
“You know I only do business at the gallery,” Huppert said. No smile.
Feeling awkward, she wished they’d open a window. The close air of too many bodies coupled with the pounding feet made it hard to think. She wondered why Dombasle insisted on meeting this uninterested man.
“We won’t have a chance later. You’re always busy at receptions,” Dombasle said.
“I’ve got to report on Maiwen’s progress to my wife,” Huppert said. “Her Breton culture’s like a religion to her. Wants Maiwen to learn Breton, move to Vannes.” He smiled at a flush-faced young girl, thick black hair in a ponytail, who winked back at him. “I draw the line at living near Montparnasse, that’s as Breton-ville as I get. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Give this man high points for rudeness. Then again, one had to respect people’s privacy. But Dombasle was not going to let him go so easily.
“Show him the photo from Luebet’s envelope.”