ask me. Medieval.”
Aimée needed to steer this back to Meizi. “Mademoiselle, the investigating
flics
suspect Chinese in your nephew’s murder.”
“You’re the detective,” she said without skipping a beat. “You found his body. What do you think?”
Aimée had thought a lot of things, all related to Meizi. Hoped to God she wasn’t involved in his murder. Thoughts, like air, came cheap. “That’s not my job. I’m looking for Meizi.”
“Pascal never drank, hated gambling. He was so shy and awkward around women,” said Mademoiselle Samoukashian. “No Chinese would kill him. No one here, young or old, trusts the
flics. Alors
, he spent all his free time volunteering at the Musée.”
Whatever his involvement with Meizi, he had kept it from his great-aunt. Aimée had a thought. “Mademoiselle, with Pascal’s
grande école
credentials, I wouldn’t have thought he’d teach at an engineering trade school. Couldn’t he have had any job he wanted?”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian bristled, her eyes sparklingwith anger. “Aimed higher, you mean. Command a top salary. Serve and sup with the elite.”
Aimée wanted to kick herself. Tactless again. “
Desolée
, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Of course you did.” She shrugged. “You’re not the first. Blame my Bolshie upbringing, but Pascal did me proud. He wanted everyone to benefit, not just a sliver of the top crust.”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian took Aimée’s demitasse, studied the dregs coating the sides. Nodded.
“I see a road. A long road. A wall, rounded like a tower. You are going to see a person. A place.”
Foreseeing such a vague future in coffee grinds, Aimée thought, was less than helpful.
“Weren’t you the one in the paper?” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said suddenly. “A kidnapping, murder case before Christmas?”
Aimée cringed at the memory—her godfather, Morbier, had been a suspect in his girlfriend’s murder; then there were the high-profile repercussions of recovering a Spanish princess who had been kidnapped by Basque terrorists. Aimée had hated the reporters besieging the office, the new flood of calls for help from distraught families of murder victims. She had promised herself all that was over. She’d never do criminal work again. And she’d kept that promise for all of a month.
“My firm does computer security,” she said.
“But you’re also a licensed private detective,” Mademoiselle said, looking at Aimée’s card. “According to this.”
Aimée could learn nothing else here. She stood, slid her arms in her coat sleeves, and took a step toward the old woman. “Wonderful café, Mademoiselle.”
“But this woman, this Meizi, you said there’s a connection to Pascal?”
Aimée nodded, hoping this had jogged her memory. “Maybe you remember something Pascal said?”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian clamped Aimée’s hand in an iron grip. “But you’re looking for her. You think she saw who murdered my Pascal.”
“I don’t know,” Aimée said.
“God shouldn’t let a child die before his parents,” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said, her voice small. “But I don’t qualify; I just raised him.”
Aimée leaned down and hugged her where she sat in her thatched chair, felt the thin shoulders, the heaving chest of this tough little old woman. Like her own grandfather, who’d stepped in to help raise her when her mother left. He’d pitched in when Aimée’s father was on a stakeout, taken her to piano lessons, the auction gallery, supervised her homework.
When Aimée looked up, she saw tears pooled in those dark brown eyes. A look of despair.
“I don’t trust the
flics
,” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said. “Won’t you help me?”
“I’d like to, but …”
“How much?” She reached under the piled napkins, pulled out a rubber-banded wad of francs. “Never mind, take it,” she said, and thrust it into Aimée’s hand.
“Mademoiselle, I can’t take your
Aimée needed to steer this back to Meizi. “Mademoiselle, the investigating
flics
suspect Chinese in your nephew’s murder.”
“You’re the detective,” she said without skipping a beat. “You found his body. What do you think?”
Aimée had thought a lot of things, all related to Meizi. Hoped to God she wasn’t involved in his murder. Thoughts, like air, came cheap. “That’s not my job. I’m looking for Meizi.”
“Pascal never drank, hated gambling. He was so shy and awkward around women,” said Mademoiselle Samoukashian. “No Chinese would kill him. No one here, young or old, trusts the
flics. Alors
, he spent all his free time volunteering at the Musée.”
Whatever his involvement with Meizi, he had kept it from his great-aunt. Aimée had a thought. “Mademoiselle, with Pascal’s
grande école
credentials, I wouldn’t have thought he’d teach at an engineering trade school. Couldn’t he have had any job he wanted?”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian bristled, her eyes sparklingwith anger. “Aimed higher, you mean. Command a top salary. Serve and sup with the elite.”
Aimée wanted to kick herself. Tactless again. “
Desolée
, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Of course you did.” She shrugged. “You’re not the first. Blame my Bolshie upbringing, but Pascal did me proud. He wanted everyone to benefit, not just a sliver of the top crust.”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian took Aimée’s demitasse, studied the dregs coating the sides. Nodded.
“I see a road. A long road. A wall, rounded like a tower. You are going to see a person. A place.”
Foreseeing such a vague future in coffee grinds, Aimée thought, was less than helpful.
“Weren’t you the one in the paper?” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said suddenly. “A kidnapping, murder case before Christmas?”
Aimée cringed at the memory—her godfather, Morbier, had been a suspect in his girlfriend’s murder; then there were the high-profile repercussions of recovering a Spanish princess who had been kidnapped by Basque terrorists. Aimée had hated the reporters besieging the office, the new flood of calls for help from distraught families of murder victims. She had promised herself all that was over. She’d never do criminal work again. And she’d kept that promise for all of a month.
“My firm does computer security,” she said.
“But you’re also a licensed private detective,” Mademoiselle said, looking at Aimée’s card. “According to this.”
Aimée could learn nothing else here. She stood, slid her arms in her coat sleeves, and took a step toward the old woman. “Wonderful café, Mademoiselle.”
“But this woman, this Meizi, you said there’s a connection to Pascal?”
Aimée nodded, hoping this had jogged her memory. “Maybe you remember something Pascal said?”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian clamped Aimée’s hand in an iron grip. “But you’re looking for her. You think she saw who murdered my Pascal.”
“I don’t know,” Aimée said.
“God shouldn’t let a child die before his parents,” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said, her voice small. “But I don’t qualify; I just raised him.”
Aimée leaned down and hugged her where she sat in her thatched chair, felt the thin shoulders, the heaving chest of this tough little old woman. Like her own grandfather, who’d stepped in to help raise her when her mother left. He’d pitched in when Aimée’s father was on a stakeout, taken her to piano lessons, the auction gallery, supervised her homework.
When Aimée looked up, she saw tears pooled in those dark brown eyes. A look of despair.
“I don’t trust the
flics
,” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said. “Won’t you help me?”
“I’d like to, but …”
“How much?” She reached under the piled napkins, pulled out a rubber-banded wad of francs. “Never mind, take it,” she said, and thrust it into Aimée’s hand.
“Mademoiselle, I can’t take your
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