Cara Black - Murder in the Marais

Hartmuth nodded. He knew the election was to take place the next week, and Cazaux's party was heavily invested in the trade issue. Hartmuth's job would be to bolster Cazaux by signing the trade agreement. The Werewolves had ordered it. Unter den Linden.

Cazaux and Hartmuth moved to an alcove overlooking the limestone courtyard.

"I'm concerned," Cazaux said. "This new addendum, these exclusionary quotas-frankly, I'm worried about what might happen."

"Minister Cazaux, I'm not sure of your meaning," Hartmuth replied cautiously.

"You know and I know parts of this treaty carry things a bit far," Cazaux said. "I'll speak for myself. The quotas border on fascism."

Mentally, Hartmuth agreed. After being in diplomatic circles for so many years, however, he knew enough to keep his real feeling to himself. "After a thorough review I'll have a better understanding," he said.

"I feel our thinking is probably very close on this," Cazaux said, lowering his voice. "A dilemma for me because my government prefers to maintain the status quo, reduce unemployment, and pacify les conservatives. This treaty is the only way we can pass economic benefits on throughout Europe, standardize trade, and get uniform guidelines."

"I understand," Hartmuth said, not eager for Cazaux's added pressure. No more needed to be said.

The two men rejoined Quimper and the other delegates in the hall. More kissing and jovial greetings were exchanged. Hartmuth excused himself as soon as it was diplomatically possible and escaped down the staircase. He paused on the marble landing, a floor below, and leaned against an antique tapestry, a forested scene with a naked wood nymph stuffing grapes into her mouth, juice dribbling down her chin.

As he stood there, alone between floors, Sarah's face appeared to him in a vision, her incredibly blue eyes laughing. What he wouldn't give to change the past!

But he was just a lonely old man full of regrets he'd tried to leave behind with the war. I'm pathetic, he thought, and waited for the ache in his heart to subside to a dull throb.

A PUNGENT SMELL OFcabbage borscht clung to the hallway of 64 rue des Rosiers. Abraham Stein answered Aimee's knock, his faded maroon yarmulke nestled among his gray streaked black curls, a purple scarf riding his thin shoulders. She wanted to turn away, ashamed to intrude upon his grief.

"What do you want?" he said.

Aimee twisted her hair, still damp from swimming, behind her ears.

"Monsieur Stein, I need to talk with you about your mother," she said.

"This isn't the time." He turned to close the door.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me but murder is never convenient," she said, wedging behind him, afraid he'd shut the door in her face.

"We're sitting shiva."

Her blank look and foot inside the door forced him to explain.

"A ritual mourning. Shiva helps acknowledge our suffering while we pray for the dead."

"Please excuse me, this will only take a few minutes of your time," she said. "Then I promise I'll go."

He put his scarf over his head and led her into the dark-paneled living room. An open prayer book rested on the polished pine sideboard. The dining-room mirror was swathed in black cloth. Lit tapers sputtered in pools of wax, giving off only a faint light. Women clad in black, moaning, rocked back and forth on sticklike chairs and orange crates.

She kept her head down. She didn't want to breathe the old, sad smell of these people.

A young rabbi, his ill-fitting jacket hanging off him, greeted her in a jumble of Hebrew and French as they passed him. She wanted to flee this apartment, so dark and heavy with grief.

She overheard French rap from a radio in a back room, where sulky teenagers congregated by an open door.

The crime-scene tape was gone but the insistent noise of the leaky faucet in the dingy bathroom and aura of death remained. She'd always see the scuffed black shoe with the worn heel and the vacant white face carved by that swastika. An odd, tilted swastika with rounded edges.

The crime-scene technicians had left neat stacks of Lili Stein's personal items on the rolltop desk. The bloated angelfish and tank were gone. A knitting basket full of thick needles and multicolored yarn spilled out across the hand-crocheted bedspread. Issues of the Hebrew Times were piled in the corner and beside the bed.

"Yours?" She picked up a folded section. The paper crinkled and a color supplement fell out.

"Maman ignored French newspapers," he said. "Refused to own a television. Her only extravagance was a subscription to the Hebrew newspaper from Tel Aviv."

The boards on the window facing the cobbled courtyard were gone. Ribbons of yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed the view of the drab light well below.

"Why did your mother board up the window?"

He shrugged. "She always said the noise bothered her and she wanted privacy."

Aimee pulled a wicker chair, the only chair in the room, towards the window. The uneven chair legs wobbled, one didn't touch the floor. She indicated he should sit on the bed.

"Monsieur Stein, let's…"

He interrupted. "What were you doing in this room?"

She wanted to tell him the truth, tell him how cornered and confused she felt. After the explosion, when her father's charred remains had been carted away, she had lain in the hospital. No one had talked to her, explained their investigation. Some young flic had questioned her during burn treatment as if she'd been the perpetrator.

Mentally, she made a sign of the cross, again begging for the dead woman's forgiveness.

"Frankly, this is classified but, Monsieur, I think you deserve to know," she said.

"Eh?" But he sat down on the bed.

"Your mother was the focus of a police operation mounted to obtain evidence against right-wing groups like Les Blancs Nationaux."

Abraham Stein's eyes widened.

How could she lie to this poor man?

But she didn't know any other way.

Not only Leduc Detective's depleted bank account and overdue taxes forced her to take this case. Part of her had to prove she could still be a detective: flics or not, justice would be done her way, administered in a way victims' families rarely saw. The other part was her father's honor.

Abraham cleared his throat, "She was cooperating with the flics ? Doesn't make sense. Maman avoided anything to do with the war, politics, or police."

"Rare though female detectives are in Paris, Monsieur, I'm one of them. I am going to find out who killed your mother."

He shook his head. She pulled out her PI license with the less than flattering photo on it. He examined it quickly.

Aimee ran a hand over the worn rolltop desk, trying to get the feel of Lili Stein. Yellowed account books were shelved inside.

"Why would a private investigator care?" he asked.

"I lost my father to terrorists, Monsieur. We worked with the Brigade Criminelle, as part of surveillance, until the plastic explosive taped under our van incinerated my father." She leaned forward. "What eats at me still is how his murderers disappeared. The case closed. No one acknowledges the victims' families…I know this and I want to help you."

He looked away. From down the hall came the muted moaning of the old women. Medieval and dark, this apartment echoed with grief. Ghosts emanated from the walls. Centuries of birth, love, betrayal, and death had soaked into them.

"Tell me about your mother."

His face softened. Perhaps the sincerity in her tone or the isolation Abraham Stein felt caused him to open up.

"Maman was always busy knitting or crocheting. Never still." He spread his arms around the room, every surface covered by lace doilies. "If she wasn't in the shop below, she'd be by the radio knitting."