“And you’re just telling me now?” She couldn’t ignore the hurt spreading inside her. Didn’t they tell each other everything?
“What was I supposed to do, come and stay with you while you have Melac and his witch woman on your back?” Martine took her hand. “I’m at my aunt’s around the corner on rue du Bac.”
“Handy. You’re welcome chez moi anytime. Chloé’s mostly sleeping through the night.” She chewed the bread. “I’m also considering switching from espresso to cocaine.”
Martine nudged her and pointed out the window. “Look, there he is. Gianni’s showing some diplomats around.”
A voice came wafting in from the tall windows: “Adjoining the embassy you’ll find the cultural institute which houses the Italian library as well as exhibitions, musical soirées and cooking classes. Here, in the former residence of Talleyrand, where he met a young Napoléon …”
The tall, broad-shouldered man with black curly hair waved to their window and flashed a big, white-toothed smile at Martine. Aimée blinked. He could have stepped out of Italian Vogue or L’Uomo.
“Not bad, eh, Aimée?”
“He fills out the Armani suit, Martine.” She tapped her forehead. “Anything up here?”
“Enough.” Martine grinned. “And don’t worry, I checked. He’s got a cousin.”
Did the cousin look like him? Aimée wondered.
“I’m trying to engineer the four of us having dinner this week.”
Aimée felt a flush up her neck. Martine was always trying to set her up. How long had it been? Between Chloé and starting back at work, she rated sleep higher than romance.
Aimée wiped her mouth. “I’m all for your new relationship if it means you’ll cook like this for me.”
The warmth and aromas gave the school’s kitchen a homey feel. She looked around at the glassed-off section with its stacked ovens, tendrils of tagliatelle in the baking area hanging from racks, and a chef deep in discussion with his white-aproned students.
Maybe she could take a cooking class. But then maybe she could go to the moon—if only she had the time.
“Alors, met with Ma?tre Benosh yet?”
“You knew?”
Martine’s eyes narrowed. “She’s the best. As Chloé’s godmother, I recommended her to Morbier.”
Interesting that Morbier had passed her off as his contact.
She couldn’t keep anything from Martine for long. Told her how Donatine had waylaid her and she’d been dragged into a conversation.
“Don’t miss the appointment. Mon Dieu, she’s booked for weeks, months.” Martine set down her wooden spoon. “But back to the Italians. I can count on you for dinner with Gianni and his cousin, non?”
“Nervous, Martine?”
“Can I?”
Aimée still hadn’t found her father’s killer, or Nicu’s; she faced a probable custody battle with Melac, and her ribs ached from landing on the bakery truck.
“Only if you promise me that the hospital ethics article on Drina gets traction. Raises questions, an investigation.”
“Don’t worry. He owes me a favor. Big time.”
“Look at these, Martine.”
Martine loosened her apron, leaned over the kitchen counter as Aimée spread out the photo and the old Paris Match. “See the Leseur chateau, those distinctive funeral urns? You’ll notice the same urns in this little family scene.”
“Et alors?”
“I’d say the Assemblée Nationale député Pascal Leseur fathered the Gypsy boy, Nicu, who Drina raised.” Aimée pointed to the names written below—Djanka, Nicholás and Pascal.
“That’s all the proof you’ve got?”
She gave Martine a brief rundown. “It’s all heating up. Haven’t you heard any rumors lately?”
“Ancient history, Aimée.” Martine studied the photos, tapping her spoon on the dish. “But interesting history. There’s a tell-all memoir by a former minister’s young boyfriend that got pulled, I heard. First there was going to be a Libé exposé, then there’s not, then a few copies appeared on someone’s desk anonymously.”
“What’s the connection?” She could tell something had clicked in Martine’s mind.
“In our business that means we all know the story exists, but no one can use or quote it. But as you know, Pascal Leseur’s dead and so are most of the other people involved.”
“Pascal Leseur’s mentioned?”
Martine nodded then wiped her mouth.
“And a Monsieur X. It’s news for a day, then phfft, over. I haven’t read it. That’s from my connection at Le Monde.” Martine gave a knowing nod. “Alors, Leseur’s in the memoir, but again, it was twenty years ago—who cares now?”
Hadn’t Thiely almost said the same thing? Advised her to leave it alone?
Well, she cared. “Drina was abducted and Nicu murdered because someone wanted them silenced. Someone high up. So memoir or not, this story is still hot. And Drina was trying to tell me with her last words that Djanka’s murderer killed my father, Martine. Pascal Leseur’s linked to this.”
“All happening here in the most chic and exclusive quartier of Paris?” Martine’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Très discret and full of the elite—why, even the Monoprix tucks its sign out of sight.”
“There’s a Monoprix in the seventh?”
“I’m quoting Yves Saint Laurent; he lives around the block from it.”
“If YSL shops at Monoprix, then …” Words failed her.
“But you could have hit the mark, Aimée. After all, this might be a chichi quartier, but it’s home to ministries, and we all know there’s nothing more seedy than what goes on behind politician’s doors.” Martine crinkled her nose. “That special odeur de corruption.”
Aimée’s phone vibrated in her bag. René.
“All good with de Brosselet, René?”
A horn blared in the background. “We need to meet.” She heard the stress in René’s voice. “Maxence is with me.”
“Can’t it wait?”