The Girl Who Remembered the Snow by Charles Mathes Page B

socks. She parked both safely in her pocket alongside the money she had removed from her emergency candy box.
    Emma sat on Pépé’s suitcase and closed the latches, surprised at how little space her life fit into. She had left her magician’s getup hanging in the closet. There were no bookings on the horizon, and white tie and tails wouldn’t exactly fit in on the unemployment line—not that she qualified for unemployment, anyway. She could have somebody else retrieve her books and paintings later. She was not coming back.
    At the front door, Emma turned and gave one final glance at the only home she had ever known. Then she walked out and locked the door behind her—for all the good it would do. Whoever had taken the lives of Jacques Passant and Henri-Pierre Caraignac had already also taken what he had wanted from the house.

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    â€œHello, anybody home?” said Emma, poking her head through the glass reception window of the law offices of Charlemagne Moussy, Esquire. “It’s me.”
    A tall, slender woman with lips the color of blood and nests of wrinkles around her eyes appeared from around the corner of the filing area. Her straight brown hair, cut in a pageboy, bounced. It was Charlemagne’s secretary/receptionist/all-around gal Friday, the unfortunately named Jean Bean. Upon seeing Emma, she rushed to the window, nearly dropping the stack of manila folders she was holding.
    â€œOh, Miss Passant!” exclaimed Jean in a voice as rapid as the heartbeat of a hummingbird. “It’s so nice to see you, we were all so sorry to hear about your grandfather, he was such a kind, sweet man, it’s just terrible. How are you holding up? Is everything all right? Do you need anything?”
    â€œI’m fine, thanks,” said Emma, relieved to be among friends again. Her hands had been shaking for the entire drive downtown to the old building on California Street where Charlemagne had his office. It was a little after nine A.M. now, and last night’s rain had left San Francisco cold and wet.
    â€œYou know, your grandfather was the first client I met when I started working for Mr. Moussy,” said Jean Bean in a sympathetic voice, opening the inner door for Emma and helping her off with her coat.
    â€œYes, you’ve told me that before.”
    â€œIt must have been fifteen years ago,” Jean rattled on, “no, what am I saying? More like twenty. It was the same year that Mother came down with colitis, which certainly didn’t make her any easier to live with, not that she’s what anyone would call easy now, mind you, but at least we don’t have to worry about the colitis anymore, thank God, though of course there are a million other things wrong with her, at least to hear her tell it, and she’s probably not lying about all of them. But I’m sure you’re not interested
in my mother and Lord knows I’d just as soon forget about the woman, if only I could! Coffee?”
    â€œThat would be great,” said Emma. Jacques Passant had always referred to Jean Bean as “she who speaks like the machine gun.” He had liked her, too.
    â€œSo you’re all right?” said Jean, leading Emma to the little kitchenette off the filing area. “There’s nothing you need, nothing we can do for you?”
    â€œActually, I was hoping I could see Charlemagne. Is he very busy this morning? I’ll be happy to wait.”
    â€œNo, no, no, no,” said Jean, pouring coffee into a dainty porcelain cup with a gold rim and handing it to Emma on a matching saucer. “He doesn’t have any appointments until eleven, and I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you. It will give him a perfect excuse to avoid catching up on his paperwork. He keeps promising me he’ll do his paperwork, but somehow he never seems to get around to it. You take your coffee black, right?”
    â€œRight,” said Emma,