Like Aimée didn’t know that?
The blonde’s brow knit at Aimée’s nonplussed expression. “Désolée, I’m pinch-hitting as hostess. Only married a few months, I don’t know all the ropes.” Before Aimée could reply, the young woman gave a smile that revealed her big teeth. “Aaah, you’re having un bébé, how wonderful.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Congratulations. I know we’ve just met, don’t want to be indiscreet, but my husband and I are trying, too. I want a baby so much. Champagne? Oh, silly me, of course not! Some juice?”
She seemed overwhelmed but genuine. Better get this woman on her side.
“Non, merci.” Aimée took her hand. It was warm to the touch. “Madame Vasseur’s got information for me. A girl’s life’s in danger.”
“Danger?” the blonde said, worry clouding her open face. “Does this have to do with her poor daughter, Mélanie?”
Aimée nodded, looking back into the filled salon. Madame Vasseur spoke, smiling, holding the audience in thrall, thanking donors. Aimée prayed this wouldn’t take long, so she could get the hell out.
The blonde leaned closer, her grip on Aimée’s hand tightening. “Has Mélanie’s condition worsened?”
Before Aimée could answer, a young Asian cellist began playing her instrument to the side of the speaker.
“You’ve met my wife, Brianne?” A beaming twenty-something man slid his arm around the blonde’s shoulder. He had a fresh, angular face and bright blue eyes. His velvet-collared smoking jacket was unbuttoned, a green, leafy stalk of anise sticking out from his shirt pocket. He reached to shake Aimée’s hand. “Renaud Lavigne.”
He noticed Aimée’s look at his pocket and grinned.
“We’re babysitting my niece émilie’s pet rabbit. He loves anise, go figure.” He gestured to the little girl, about ten, standing by the chamber ensemble in a mauve velvet dress and matching patent shoes. The girl smiled back. Renaud pecked Brianne’s forehead. “My wife doesn’t want me to forget to feed him.”
Brianne answered with a look of adoration.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “My father’s endowing a music chair in Madame de Langlet’s honor at the Conservatoire.”
The victims’ violin teacher. The woman hadn’t answered again when Aimée had tried before she’d left. “Of course, Madame’s here tonight, non?”
“She’s en route,” Brianne said, nodding. “It’s all about music tonight.”
In a place that could double as a wing of the Louvre, she thought. Morbier’s oft-repeated saying came back to her: look to what wealth hides and what it buys. She doubted mention of the poor girls’ assaults sat on Madame Vasseur’s agenda tonight.
Brianne’s brow creased again. “But Renaud, a girl’s in danger.”
Aimée flashed her PI license. “Look, there’s a serial rapist on the loose, a missing girl whose life is at risk. Madame Vasseur’s daughter, one of the victims, called from a Swiss clinic and left a message I need to hear, something that could be important to the investigation.”
Renaud sucked in his breath. “I understand, mais encore …” He lowered his voice. “She’s welcoming the new board and the benefactors of the scholarships.”
Noticing Aimée’s pained expression, Brianne took her husband’s elbow, her face pleading.
“Can’t you do something?” Aimée asked. “Take over for her? Or have your father?”
Renaud’s father, the old man who’d introduced Madame Vasseur, had to be in his late seventies.
“The only thing that matters is that I get to listen to the message on Madame’s cell phone as soon as possible,” said Aimée.
Several distinguished heads turned. “Shhh,” came from a dowager sporting medals on her lace cocktail dress.
Laughter erupted, echoing off the crystal chandeliers. Madame Vasseur had warmed up her audience.
“How can I interrupt her now?” For a moment Renaud had a lost look on his face, but it was replaced by determination. “But I’ll try to hurry her up.”
She grew aware of two older women in designer black leaning closer, listening to their conversation. Felt their palpable disapproval and condescending looks. She wanted to shout at them, but the words died in her throat. This upper crust exuded a glacial frost. Like black crows picking gossip from another’s misfortune.
Aimée was overcome with despair. Zazie in danger and all this time wasted.
Renaud stepped forward into the salon and waved to the dais. From across the heads, he caught Madame Vasseur’s attention. He lifted his wrist and tapped his watch. Madame Vasseur nodded.
“Merci,” Aimée whispered to Renaud. She hoped that would hurry Madame Vasseur up. Now she had to check in with René. “Excusez-moi.”
She tiptoed past the vulture ladies back out into the corridor. Three young male violinists tuned their instruments in the corridor. She hurried toward a quiet corner in the adjoining room—another salon with oil paintings covering the walls. The crackled veneer and ornate frames testified to old masters and Impressionists, and she didn’t know what all else.
A museum, all right.
René answered on the second ring. Finally.
“Where are you, Aimée?” He sounded cranky.
“Me? Zut! I’ve been trying you for hours. It’s not le Weasel, René.”
“I know.” She heard defeat and tiredness in his voice. “I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say I made a fool of myself.”
Poor René. She could have told him if he’d answered his phone instead of playing the avenger. But this wasn’t the time to scold. “Ecoute, René, I went back to jog Cécile’s memory.”
She gave him an edited version of everything that had happened since they’d parted, including her enlistment of Beto to check out the NeoCancan owner.
Behind her the damn violins were tuning up. She put a finger in her ear.
“Where are you, Aimée?”
“Madame Vasseur’s daughter remembered something, left a voice mail.”