He droned on. It was obvious the old man relished the opportunity to expound on his collection to a semi-captive audience. She stifled her impatience, crossed her legs.
Gerard nodded, gave her a wink as if to say, humor the old man. She checked the time again. Fumed. If she didn’t hear Mélanie’s message soon, she’d scream.
Oblivious, the old man carried on. The lecture had moved on to connecting painting with music, two related forms of symbolic art. “Take Debussy’s violins in La Mer, conveying the rising storm waves as a string of color,” Lavigne was saying.
Her dress chafed her expanding stomach. She’d give anything for a cigarette. Or a nicotine patch. She craned her neck toward the salon, checking on Madame Vasseur’s progress. Lavigne paused, noticing her look. “Forgive me, it’s my passion.”
Was he tasked with keeping her occupied so she didn’t disrupt the reception?
Gerard mopped his brow with a handkerchief. How could she grab the conversation back with politesse and glean more while Madame Vasseur toadied up to her benefactors?
Gerard glanced at the champagne. Helped himself to a flute. “Santé. To Renaud and his beautiful new wife,” Gerard handed Monsieur Lavigne a glass and clinked his to it. “Going to carry on the tradition and family business, eh?”
“Renaud was our unexpected blessing late in life,” said Lavigne. “His mother passed away when he was a child.”
Translation: spoiled, privileged brat expected to continue the dynasty. Yet given Renaud’s rarefied upbringing, he seemed down-to-earth. She’d liked him and Brianne.
“Ah, Gerard, there’s not enough music in the world.” Old Lavigne raised his cane, moved it back and forth across the polished parquet in time to the violin quartet.
Maddening.
“But of course you know this piece—from Bizet’s Carmen, Madame?”
“It’s Mademoiselle.” But play along with him. She pretended to recognize it. “Ah yes, of course.”
“You hear, yes?” His mouth pursed. “But do you feel it?”
She gave a quick nod. Parched, Aimée sipped the limonade. She saw Madame Vasseur on the dais, awarding certificates to benefactors amid applause. When would she finish? In the meantime Gerard checked his cell phone, bored, no doubt, and timing a getaway. “Désolé. I’ve got to take this call.”
Gerard disappeared. She wished she could join him instead of enduring the art and music lesson. But now that he was gone, she could try to get something new out of the old man. Her father’s words sounded in her head: never leave an interview without a name, an address, a hair color, a type of tree—even the most insignificant-seeming details, he’d drummed into her, would add up. Instead of stewing until Madame Vasseur ended, she needed to try a hunch.
“Is the actress Béatrice de Mombert, your neighbor a few streets over, one of your Conservatoire benefactors?” Maybe there was a link to the “nice man.”
“De Mombert? I knew her father.”
“I’d imagine Béatrice’s ex-husband Zacharié and his business associates must donate.”
“Never met him.” Old Lavigne shrugged. “Or her.”
Another dead end.
Yet she had to reach him somehow. She went back to their earlier conversation, determined to press harder.
“But the rumors must concern you, the implications that the Conservatoire’s bright talent is being targeted by the rapist.”
Old Lavigne looked confused for a moment. “Rumors? Targeted? But the attacker is in custody.”
“Last night another girl was followed after her lesson at Madame de Langlet’s. She escaped, thank God.”
“That’s news to me.” Old Lavigne shook his head. His cane wavered on the floor.
“The attacker’s loose. Still on the street.” She took a gulp of fizzing limonade. “The girl remembered him humming her Paganini piece. Madame de Langlet’s been questioned by the police.”
His face reddened. “Terrible. But why? I can’t understand this … Non, I don’t believe there can be a connection. Impossible.”
Denial.
She wanted to explode. Instead, she took a deep breath, wished she could burp and rubbed her stomach. “Madame Vasseur’s daughter’s traumatized,” Aimée persisted. “But of course she’s told you.”
He nodded, and weariness settled in his face. “It sickened me,” he said. “We’ve offered all our support to Mélanie’s family. But Madame Vasseur’s a trouper, keeps soldiering on for the Conservatoire.”
And neglects poor Mélanie, shipping her off to a clinic.
“It’s a village here,” he said. “We met with the Brigade des Mineurs, offered to help in any way we could.”
And look where that led. Nowhere. Another do-nothing unit whose captain assured Zazie’s mother she’d run away or gone partying. No break in the rape case. All static.
His thin shoulders sagged. “It is troubling, though …”
“More than troubling, Monsieur,” she said, leaning forward to relieve the pressure on her back. “How can you think there’s no connection? Madame de Langlet won’t answer my calls. She’s afraid.”
Understanding shone in his eyes. The light gone out of them, he looked his age. “I promise I’ll talk to Madame de Langlet,” he said. “She’ll confide in me … but I don’t want to spoil this evening for her.”
“Where is she?”
“Delayed.” He shrugged. “How can I get back to you?”
She thrust her card into his hand.
Brianne approached the salon with Madame Vasseur, helping her with her white jacket. About time. Behind them she saw Renaud mounting the dais, leading the applause.
“Monsieur Lavigne, I’ve been called back to the office,” said Madame Vasseur. “Renaud’s stepped in. Sorry to run short.”
Short?
Aimée followed her out, tried to keep her impatience down as they reached the elevator. She needed to hear this message and question the woman in private.