The Paris Librarian Page 11

  “How do we do that?” Hugo asked.

  Cason went to her desk and opened a drawer. She took out a folder and extracted a sheet of paper. “If you fill this out, I will give it to her nurse, and she will discuss it with Madame Severin. If she wants to meet with you, one of us will call.”

  “Very good,” said Hugo, taking the paper. “Thank you.” He filled it out hurriedly and left it with Janelle Cason, giving her his warmest smile. “We’re grateful for the help, really. And hope to see you again soon.”

  Claudia said nothing, just followed him out to the car. When they reached it, she said, “You’re not giving up that easily, are you?”

  Hugo gave her an innocent smile. “Whatever can you mean?”

  “Do you know which cottage is hers?”

  “Let’s just say that I found her here thanks to Tom.”

  “Which means you know which cottage is hers, and probably which side of the bed she sleeps on.”

  “The man has his uses.”

  “Which is why I’d consider marrying him.”

  Hugo winked. “Sure you would. Hop in the car, her place is at the back of the property.”

  He drove slowly, avoiding the golf carts used by groundskeepers and the residents themselves. The shiny, black embassy car drew plenty of lingering looks, but, using his phone, Hugo managed to locate Isabelle Severin’s wooden cottage without being stopped. The front door was painted light blue and either side of it large ceramic pots bristled with yellow and orange flowers.

  Hugo and Claudia stepped out of the car and looked around, but the nearby cottages were as quiet as this one. The only sound was a lawnmower some distance away, and the gentle put-put of someone’s golf cart. Hugo knocked softly on the front door and they waited. He was about to knock again when the door opened and he found himself looking down at the smiling face of one of the world’s most famous actresses.

  She looked nothing like her movie posters, of course, but Hugo was struck by how beautiful she still was. At almost one hundred years old, her skin was pale and clear, smooth like a child’s. And her blue eyes sparkled, just like they did on the silver screen. She was tiny, though, and Hugo stepped back instinctively, not wanting to tower over her, intimidate her. And he had no idea whether to speak in French or English.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he began, before switching to their native tongue. “My name is Hugo Marston. This is my friend Claudia de Roussillon.”

  Her brow knitted together as she looked back and forth between them, seeming to study their faces and especially Claudia’s.

  “De Roussillon?” she asked finally. “Are you Gérard’s wife?”

  Claudia stepped forward. “No, madame. I am his daughter.”

  “Oh, my,” Severin said, smiling. “How you’ve grown. How is Gérard?”

  “I’m afraid he . . . he passed away not too long ago,” Claudia said.

  The smile fell from her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You better come in.”

  They followed her into the little house, and Hugo looked around once inside. They were in the main living room, carpeted and comfortable with heavy furniture built to last. To their left was a breakfast bar and, behind it, a small kitchen. To the right, a closed door, which Hugo assumed led to Madame Severin’s bedroom and bathroom. Large windows filled the room with light, and opposite him were French doors leading onto a small patio, also bordered with potted plants and flowers. The place was small but had a cozy, warm feel to it.

  Isabelle Severin gestured for them to sit on the couch, while she perched on the seat of an armchair. Hugo wondered whether, if she sat back on it, her feet would even touch the floor.

  “You were telling me about your father,” Severin began. “How is he?”

  Claudia exchanged glances with Hugo. “Well, I’m afraid he passed away.”

  “Oh, no!” Severin clasped her hands together. “Was he ill?”

  “He had dementia, I’m afraid.” Claudia was telling the truth, although it wasn’t the disease that had killed her father.

  “I can’t tell you how many good people I’ve lost to that darned affliction.” Severin shook her head sadly. “Too many, simply too many.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you knew each other,” Claudia said.

  “Quite well, really. When I used to be a little more social I’d see him at various functions. And I think he bought some of my books when I sold off a lot a few years back. Maybe five years ago?”

  “He had a wonderful collection, I still have it.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. Not really room for books here. I don’t read much anymore, anyway. My eyes aren’t as good as they once were.”

  “True for all of us,” Hugo said with a smile. “We don’t want to take up much of your time, do you mind if I ask you about a couple of things?”

  “Remind me who you are, dear. This young lady’s husband?”

  “No,” Hugo said. “We’re good friends. I work at the American Embassy, the head of their security.”

  “Oh, I see. What on Earth could I help you with?”

  “Well, you donated your papers to the American Library recently.”

  “Yes, I did. Very good of them to take all that stuff.”

  “How did that come about?”

  She frowned in thought. “Gosh, let me think. I don’t recall. I really have no idea.”

  “Did it have anything to do with Michelle Juneau, your former assistant?”

  “Such a lovely girl, I do miss her. But why would she have anything to with it?”

  “I just wondered,” Hugo said, “because she works at the library now. It crossed my mind that you arranged a job for her there as kind of a favor.”

  “If I did, I’m afraid I don’t have any recollection of it. A super young lady . . . how is she?”

  “She’s fine, I just saw her yesterday.”

  “Do give her my love, she was such an angel to me.”

  “I will,” said Hugo. “Can I ask, was there—”

  “Do you happen to have her address? I’ve taken up letter writing, just like in the old days. My doctor tells me it’s good exercise for my eyes, my hands, and my mind. And I’ve never much liked computers. So, if you have her address, I’d like to write her.”

  “Let me look it up for you,” Hugo said.

  “Thank you. There’s a pen and paper on my desk.” She turned to Claudia. “I paid for nice paper, a lovely pen, I even have a letter opener for when people write back.”

  “I’m glad they do.”

  “Mostly, yes. But I don’t have all that many people to write to, that’s the problem. Most of my friends have passed away or are in no condition to write letters. And, of course, people just use computers these days.”

  As she spoke, Hugo pulled up the library’s address. He went over to her roll-top desk, which was open with a clean blotter, capped Mont Blanc pen, and hefty letter opener. In a wooden slot, thick writing paper and envelopes sat together snugly, awaiting use. He slid out a sheet of paper and used his own pen, a cheap embassy ballpoint, to write down Michelle Juneau’s name and the address of the library.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “You’re welcome.” Hugo was on his way back to his seat, his mind grappling with how to ask about the secret papers, maybe even her history with the Resistance, when someone knocked at the door.

  “I am popular today,” Madame Severin said. “Would you mind getting that?”

  “Of course.” Hugo moved to the door and opened it. The woman opposite him had her hands on her hips and a furious expression on her face. “Ah,” Hugo said. “Madame Cason.”

  “Monsieur, I do not appreciate you deceiving me and ignoring my very explicit instructions.”

  “Yes, well.” Hugo tried a disarming smile. “Turns out Madame Severin and Mademoiselle de Roussillon here are old friends.”

  “That may be so, but Madame Severin has a medical appointment in fifteen minutes.”

  “Right, if we’d made an appointme
nt then we’d know that.” He turned to Madame Severin. “Just a couple more questions?”

  The old lady suddenly looked confused, uncertain. “Well, I don’t . . . What about? I should get ready for my appointment. I had no idea.”

  Cason moved past Hugo into the little house. “These people are just leaving, madame, I will take you. There’s no rush, so please don’t worry yourself.”

  “Oh, well, then.” Severin stood and moved to Claudia. “It was lovely to see you. Please do give my regards to your father.” Her face brightened. “If I have his address still, I’ll write him. How about that?”

  “Yes, sure, that would be lovely,” Claudia said. “So nice to . . . see you again.”

  Hugo took Severin’s hand when she offered it, as gently as he’d ever held anything. “Thank you for your time, madame, perhaps I will come back when you’re less busy.”

  “Such a handsome, charming, man,” Severin said with a smile, “I can see why she married you.”

  She turned and walked toward the bedroom, and Janelle Cason gestured toward the open door. “Please remember that this is private property, monsieur. We are very protective of our residents, and if you return without permission, I will be forced to call the police.”

  “I quite understand,” Hugo said. “My sincere apologies for the inconvenience.”

  Cason watched them from the doorway as they climbed into Hugo’s car.

  “Think she’ll pass on our request for an appointment?” Claudia asked, as she pulled on her seatbelt.

  “I don’t know. You think it’s worth my while to come back?”

  “She clearly has dementia, to some degree anyway.”

  “Yeah, a lot of that going around. And once I realized that, I felt like kind of an ass peppering her with questions.”

  “But you have to come back, surely? If her collection has anything to do with what’s happened at the library, you need to know if there is some kind of secret someone’s keeping.” She shrugged. “And today, you didn’t find out anything.”

  “Not entirely true,” Hugo said. “Did you see what she uses to open her mail?”

  “No, I didn’t notice.”

  “I did. And it looked a little too heavy, and a little too stabby, to be a mere letter opener.”

  Claudia gasped. “You think that’s the infamous dagger?”

  “No idea.”

  “Oh, merde, I wish I’d seen it. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was trying to when we were interrupted.”

  “No, to me, about the dagger. I want to see it.”

  “Oh, well, in that case.” Hugo reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He pulled up his photo stream and clicked on a picture. “Here you go.”

  “You took a photo of it?” Claudia snatched the phone from his hand and studied the screen. “That could absolutely be a dagger. The dagger.”

  “It could also be a vicious letter opener.”

  Claudia reached over and squeezed his leg. “Yes, but now we can show this to an expert or two and maybe find out which. You clever, handsome, sneaky, charming man.”

  “Why, thank you.” Hugo put the car into drive and pulled slowly away from Isabelle Severin’s cottage, and the watching eyes of Janelle Cason. “Clever, handsome, sneaky, and charming enough for a pretty lady to buy lunch?”

  “Bien sûr.” Claudia laughed. Of course. She gave his leg another squeeze, a little higher up this time, adding, “And maybe dessert.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Camille Lerens called as they neared Paris, and Hugo put her on speaker phone.

  “Salut, Hugo,” she said. “Are you busy?”

  “Bonjour. Not busy, out and about with Claudia. How can I help?”

  “I’m at Sarah Gregory’s apartment, doing a more thorough search.”

  “It’s murder after all?”

  “Still trying to figure that out,” she said. “Can you come by and look at a few things that are in English?”

  “Sure, anything in particular?”

  “Some papers of hers. Or Paul Rogers’s. Both maybe. And generally, it’d be good to have your profiling experience here in case I’m missing something.” He heard a smile in her voice. “I’ve heard you’re good at that stuff.”

  “Thanks, but I doubt you’ve missed anything.”

  “Come anyway. You knew the guy, and her too, so . . . you know. Can’t hurt, right?”

  “Absolument. I can be there in,” he checked the car’s clock, “let’s say forty minutes. Save me a parking spot out front.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re on police business, you can park on the sidewalk if you need to.”

  “Entendu. See you soon.” He disconnected.

  “You going to let your favorite journalist tag along?” Claudia said, batting her eyelids dramatically.

  “You should’ve asked Camille; this one isn’t my call. So probably not this time, sorry.”

  “Didn’t think so. That’s OK, I have stuff to do anyway.”

  “Just to be clear, you’re not writing anything about this yet, right?”

  She shot him a fierce look. “Hugo, come on. I told you I won’t write anything until the story’s complete. Are you seriously asking me that?”

  “Sorry. Just . . . you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. You being a jerk.”

  “Not for the first time. Where would you like the jerk to drop you off?”

  “Any metro will do. How about Gare de Lyon?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll let you navigate, though.”

  “Great, thanks.” She put her hand back on his leg. “Jerk.”

  Hugo ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape, stopping in his tracks when a uniformed officer put one hand to his holster and held out the other as a warning for Hugo to stop. Hugo had his credentials ready and held them up, breathing a sigh of relief when Lieutenant Camille Lerens appeared behind the flic.

  “He’s with me,” she assured him, and the policeman nodded his acquiescence. “Come on in.”

  “Find anything?” Hugo asked. “I’m wondering whether she had a prescription for those roofies.”

  “No sign of those, but let’s see what you think. We made a point not to disturb the place—I figured that might throw you off.”

  Hugo smiled. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes, you know. I think you overestimate my capabilities.”

  “Well, see what you can see. If you see nothing, you’ll be on the same page as me.”

  Hugo moved slowly through the apartment, and despite Lerens’s assurances, it was clear that a lot of Sarah’s and Paul’s things had been moved and put back in the wrong place. Not by much, and God knew by whom, but by enough that anything truly out of place would be disguised. Eventually he stepped into the room they used as a study. It was the same in there, drawers almost closed, papers in untidy stacks.

  “I’ll be honest, Camille.”

  “Please do.”

  “If you really want me to do my thing, call me before you guys go through it all. I can’t tell you anything, except that I hope you all took more care looking at things than you did putting them back in place.”

  Lerens eyed him for a second. “We messed it up?”

  “People tend toward tidy or messy. Not always in the same areas, either.” He waved an arm toward to the apartment. “This place is neither one nor the other, which suggests to me it was tidy when you started but now . . .”

  Lerens sighed. “Pushed for time. But you’re right, I’ll make sure to call you first, next time. Sorry Hugo.”

  “Hey, no worries. You said you found some papers?”

  Lerens moved past him into the study. “Here, I put a few things on the desk. See what you think.”

  Hugo leaned over and looked at four stacks of papers. He leafed through the first to read a few lines on different pages, and said, “These are drafts of his novel. Some nice turns of phrase here.”

  “Literary genius?”

  “I’m no
t the one to judge that, but I know a nice metaphor when I read one.” Hugo replaced the papers and looked at the next stack. “Architectural plans?”

  “Looks like it, for this address, too.” Lerens poked a finger at the top of the first paper. “Which is odd because how do you add to a second-floor apartment?”

  “Maybe it’s internal, structural changes,” he suggested.

  “What few talents I have don’t include reading architecture plans, so maybe.”

  Hugo unfolded several sheets of paper and leaned over them. “You know, I think this is for the ground-floor apartment, Paul’s mother’s.”

  “Oh, that makes more sense.” She looked over Hugo’s shoulder. “Yes, you’re right, the apartment number there is hers.”

  “Finally, we solve a mystery,” Hugo said with a smile. He looked at the third pile of papers.

  “That one I figured out. It’s the information about the retirement community Madame Rogers is going to. Looks nice.”

  Hugo pulled a color brochure from the small stack and looked through it. “Saint Joseph’s in Amboise. Paul was a Catholic?”

  “No idea,” Lerens said. “He was your friend, you should know. Or maybe just his mother is.”

  “Maybe.” Hugo inspected a stapled sheaf of papers. “This is the contract, looks like five hundred Euros a month for all expenses. Nice price.”

  “In my limited experience, the religious homes are the cheapest and usually the best. Hardest to get into, as well, for those reasons.”

  “Well, she managed it.” Hugo looked at the first page. “Move-in date is not filled in.”

  “With all that’s happened, you think she’ll still go?”

  Hugo shrugged. “Probably makes even more sense, to be honest. She doesn’t have anyone here to take care of her anymore.”

  “Ah, oui, c’est vrai,” said Lerens. That’s true. “One other thing I’ve not found anywhere.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A will,” Lerens said. “Do you know how they work here?”