Martine’s aunt, all in black YSL and as chic as ever, poked her head into the office. “Mes filles, watch the shop for me like good girls, yes?”
“Oui, Tante Cybile.” Martine stood and kissed her aunt’s cheeks. After she left, Martine burst into laughter. “Her cinq-à-sept amant; they get younger and younger.”
Aimée wished she had Cybile’s luck. A vision of Beno?t’s abs floated in front of her eyes, the warm touch of his hand. She shoved it aside.
“How’s your article going, Martine?” she said, passing the plate of pistachio macarons she’d bought across the street at the rue-du-Bac boulangerie.
“Making progress.” Martine’s fingers clicked over the keys. “Got a quote from the Ministry of Health. If I can just get the clinique to comment on this Doctor Estienne’s violation of the medical-ethics code …” She lifted her blouse’s neckline and plastered a Nicorette patch on her shoulder. Once a pack-a-day smoker, Martine had quit and gained a kilo, and looked healthy for it.
Aimée scanned Delavigne’s list. Two more to locate. The key to all this lay in the police cover-up.
“Gianni’s cousin’s suggesting dinner Friday,” Martine said. “So consider that evening booked—and maybe the rest of the night.”
Aimée groaned. “If I make it to Friday.”
Her phone rang. An unknown number.
“Aimée, weren’t you coming to la soirée des fian?ailles?” said Thomas Dussollier.
Merde! She’d forgotten his daughter’s engagement party. He’d sent the invitation with Chloé’s gift.
“Bien s?r. Something just came up at work, but …”
“We need to talk. I found what you’re looking for, tu comprends?”
Her blood raced.
“The reception’s at the Rodin, right?”
“Get here for the champagne toast,” said Dussollier.
“I’m en route,” she said, hanging up.
“Invited to la soirée des fian?ailles?” Martine said. “Impressive. Usually engagement parties are about the parents meeting each other, the man presenting the ring. He must regard you as family. Not to mention at the Musée Rodin. Pas mal.”
“I don’t have a gift, or anything to wear.”
“My tante’s got a shop full of gifts.” Martine headed to the register. “I’ll be a good girl and ring up a sale for … quoi? Say, toile de Jouy pillowcases?”
Wasn’t that a wedding gift? But if Martine thought it would do, that was good enough for her. “Parfait.”
“Keep writing, Martine,” she said. “Finish the macarons.”
Aimée ran up the narrow spiral stairs leading to the living quarters. “I’m borrowing your Versace.”
THE FASTEST WAY to reach the Rodin museum, which was around the corner and up three blocks, was by foot. Even in Martine’s red-soled Louboutins. She hurried through the Faubourg Saint-Germain, for once dressed for the occasion. She passed the entrance to the imposing limestone H?tel Matignon. Noted the guards and security and the old dames who stopped to chat with them. A village all right—for a certain classe who kept to themselves.
“Invitation, Mademoiselle?” asked an ex-military security type with a shaved head, one of three at the gate, as he gave her the once-over.
She’d forgotten it. Great.
“Aimée Leduc; please check the guest list.”
A moment later he looked up. Smiled.
“Of course, Madame and Monsieur Dussollier’s guest. Welcome. The reception’s out through the door and in the party tents.”
Some big boys and big names here, if this level of security was anything to go by.
Her heels clicked over the cobblestoned courtyard lit by white paper lanterns. A hundred or so friends mingled among Rodin’s bronze sculptures and the sentinel-like cypress trees, and crowded into several large, white, candle-lit canvas tents. Not exactly an intimate family affair. Laughter and clinking of glasses accompanied the melodies of a string quartet. Another world.
Wouldn’t Morbier be there? But she caught no glimpse of him in the designer-clad crowd. And where was the father of the soon-to-be bride?
She set her gift among the others on a table covered with a white cloth. Quite a haul—the boxes were all wrapped in Bon Marché or Hermès paper with matching ribbons.
That done, she found the tent serving hors d’oeuvres and helped herself to a sliver of smoked salmon on endive. On the lookout for Dussollier, she caught snatches of conversations drifting in the warm air with the clink of glasses: “Mais oui, it’s always better to do a dull thing with style than an interesting thing without,” came from a woman wearing a large white hat. “How true, Comtesse,” nodded another guest who had several strands of pearls around her neck.
Her phone rang. René.
She found a secluded spot behind a cypress tree and answered.
“Chloé’s almost decapitated at the park and I don’t find out until now?” His voice quivered. “And you’re what, out of the country?”
“It would take too long to explain,” she said, keeping her voice low. “It’s better this way, René.”
She still hadn’t seen Dussollier. The newly engaged daughter, sporting a sea-foam silk confection and a sparkling diamond ring, was walking arm in arm with her navy blue–suited fiancé, accepting congratulations from guests on the lawn.
“What’s that music?”
“I’m at an engagement party,” she said. Suddenly, a wave of anxiety engulfed her. After the van and the smoking man this afternoon, she wasn’t sure she should have left Martine’s hideout to come to this, no matter how vital Dussollier’s information was.
“You pick this time to attend a party?” said René in disbelief. “Who’s getting married?”
“A woman wearing Dior. You don’t know her. Neither do I. I know her father, and I’m wondering how he can afford a lavish spread like this on a flic’s salary.”
“He probably inherited the money on his wife’s side. Now, Aimée, look—”
She hadn’t thought of that. “Tell me you’ve found something in Drina’s notes. Figured out the Romany.”
“We’ll talk about that later, Aimée,” he said.
His voice sounded strange.