Pause. She heard car horns blare in the background on René’s end.
“Zazie’s friend in the Swiss clinic, that girl?”
Aimée looked around. No one was listening. Just a ballerina statue that looked like a Degas.
“Her mother said Mélanie left a message about the rapist’s description. The FotoFit tech got something wrong,” said Aimée. “I don’t know. I’m stuck waiting for her to finish her damned speech.”
“Is that the sonata from L’Arlésienne playing in the background?”
“You’re asking me?” One piece of classical music sounded like another to her.
“Sounds like Bizet, Aimée. A chic soirée. So, this ‘nice man.’ How can we find him?”
Think, she had to think.
“Or maybe it’s too late,” René said, a different shade in his voice—grim, determined.
Her heart wrenched. Non, not that. Forced herself to try and allay René’s fears. To smother her own. Somehow concentrate on the plodding details—all she could clutch at for the moment.
“We have to keep going step by step, René,” she said. “I left Marie-Jo’s father’s parole officer an urgent message. He’s got to be in contact.”
“You think the father will cough up info on the ‘nice man’ if he hasn’t already? You’d trust a man just out of prison who dodged answering you?”
“Any other ideas, René?” She rubbed her ankle.
“Think he’ll tell you if this ‘nice man’ hums Paganini?” he said. “Get real, Aimée.”
“Once I hear Mélanie’s message with the rapist’s real description …” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to ignore the growing knot of tension in her shoulders, this gloom and sarcasm René emanated. “I’ll let you know right away and alert Beto in Vice.”
Pause. “You’ve always said if you hit a wall,” he said, “go back to the beginning.”
Her father’s words drilled into her.
“Exactement. With any luck the NeoCancan bar owner knows more—”
René’s sigh interrupted her. “I’ve got a bad feeling, Aimée.”
Her patience exhausted, she wanted to kick him. “So you’re giving up on Zazie?”
But René had clicked off.
A male voice spoke behind her. “You appreciate the Vuillard, I see. That’s what they used to call the square, Place Vintimille.”
Startled, Aimée turned around.
Renaud’s father, leaning on his gold-handled walking stick, smiled at her. This family smiled often.
Old men liked to be gallant, non? She clutched her stomach. “Désolée, I need to sit down.”
Alarm spread over old Lavigne’s face. “But of course, let me get you something to drink.” She sank down into the chair he proffered, a gilded Louis-something museum piece adorned with brocaded velvet.
“You asked if I appreciate the Vuillard painting—but ‘appreciate’ is a subjective term, Monsieur.” She said the first thing that came out of her mouth. Stared back at the painting to study it.
“Forgive me, my dear.” He handed her a fizzing glass of limonade and cleared his throat. “I thought since you were standing in front of it …”
Aimée grinned and tried for charm. “But I’ve passed that square countless times. Just yesterday.” She gave what she hoped came off as a sigh of wonder. “This work breathes. I feel the wind rustling through the linden trees. Hear the leaves scuttering over the cobblestones. Timeless.”
The old Lavigne’s eyes lit up. “Exactement. Vuillard painted from his atelier overlooking the square. Must have painted this scene twenty times over his life.”
Madame Vasseur’s voice carried from the salon on the microphone. “… for young musicians whose careers have been made possible by the generous endowment of our host this evening …”
Stupid. Why hadn’t she put this together before? This rich old coot might know something. “So Madame Vasseur told you I’m a detective, Monsieur?”
The old man blinked. “Vraiment? Mais how exciting! Things have changed since Inspector Maigret, non? But I’m only her messenger—she apologizes, instructs me to ask that you wait.”
Zazie’s life hung in the balance. She ground her teeth and felt like screaming.
“But Monsieur Lavigne, with all these attacks, aren’t you concerned? Your young protégés, the ones who you’re endowing with scholarships, whose futures you’ve invested in?”
“I’m horrified,” he said. “These girls burst with talent. They’re close to my heart. But what do you mean?”
“Can’t you see the connection, Monsieur?”
“Connection? But these were isolated attacks. The commissaire assured me,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve raised the issue with him.”
She caught herself before she slapped him. With this laissez-faire attitude, no wonder the rapist got away.
“Think again, Monsieur. The one thing all those girls have in common is your Madame de Langlet. Four girls have been attacked after violin lessons in six months. At least some of them were scholarship students of the fund you’re raising money for tonight.” She didn’t know that for sure, but it had to link.
Worry crossed his brow. “You think I should have offered a reward? But they caught a suspect. I heard that on the news.”
Before she could answer, another seventy-ish man, this one with a white walrus mustache, had entered and embraced old Lavigne. “Ready for my tour, mon vieux?” His accent was a burred Languedoc.
“Excusez-moi, but I promised to show Gerard around.”
Great.
Old-man Lavigne pointed with his cane and tugged Gerard forward to his wall of paintings. “My father collected works by the locals here.” His voice swelled with pride. “Vuillard, Degas, who met with Pissarro and Manet just around the corner, Gauguin, Delacroix, Ingres, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, though only because his doctor lived below …”