Dearly Departed (6 page)

CHAPTER 7

A
my did not sit down. Instead, she took her phone out onto rue du Vertbois, away from the noise of the bistro. The air was chilly, and the narrow cobbled street glistened from what must have been a passing shower not long before.

It was well after midnight on what had already been a long day—until now a long, satisfying day. She listened more than spoke, first to Marcus, then to Fanny, then to Marcus. What they told her was both far-fetched and made a horrible kind of sense. MacGregor had always been a receptacle for her people's secrets. And now, even in death, she was holding onto one final one. With her free hand, Amy pulled her pashmina around her shoulders, imagining it as a blanket and wanting nothing more than to be snugly asleep in bed.

Back inside the bistro, behind the red checkered curtains, a few stalwarts continued to drink and laugh and trade more Paisley MacGregor stories. Peter Borg listened with mixed feelings. There was no doubt that his maid had been a colorful character. And the stories were great. But he wondered, quite seriously, why he wasn't as fond of colorful characters as other people were. Did this mean that he lacked the joie de vivre necessary to enjoy them? Or did it mean, as he preferred to think, that colorful characters were best enjoyed from a distance, preferably in someone else's stories?

“Did she have any relations?” Maury asked. They were sitting side by side at the end of the bar, with Barbara Corns just around the bend of polished mahogany, nursing a club soda. It took Peter several seconds to realize the question had been directed his way. “As far as you know from her will? No family?”

“Um, no,” Peter said, pushing through the mental haze of brandy enough to recall.

“She was an only child,” Barbara interjected, filling in the blanks. “No husband. No kids. Evan did some legal work for her.”

Maury nodded. “So, what's happening with all her stuff?”

“You mean her inheritance?” said Peter. It seemed a rude thing to ask about your maid, even if the woman did die with millions. “We're going to be reading her will in Hawaii. That's what she wanted.”

“No, I mean her stuff.” Maury motioned the bartender to pour Peter another brandy. “Photos and scrapbooks and papers. Personal stuff.”

“Why? Is there anything you want?”

“No, no,” Maury said quickly. “There's just some things Laila and I gave her over the years. Not the stuff from Laila's mother, trust me,” he laughed, then paused as the bartender slid another brandy smoothly across the bar top.

“I probably shouldn't say this,” Peter said, but he was saying it, anyway. “Most of the presents we all gave her, for holidays and birthdays . . . she never opened them.”

“You're kidding.” Maury looked disappointed. “Really?”

“They're all crammed into a big closet, some of them still in the wrapping paper. I opened the closet one day by accident. I couldn't believe it. Who doesn't open a present?”

“I guess they weren't important to her,” Maury said.

“It was the thought that counted,” said Barbara. “I know that's a cliché, but I know MacGregor loved the fact that we gave her things. She did.”

“I know,” said Peter. “But still . . . when you search all over town to find her the right perfume at a good price, and then she never even opens it . . .”

“It makes you think about things,” mused Maury.

“Like perfume?” asked Barbara.

“Not that,” Maury said meditatively. “The personal stuff. All the things that make up a person's whole life—papers and letters and files and photos . . .”

“I imagine the estate will hire someone to sell it,” said Peter. “I was the executor when my aunt died,” he went on, dredging up the details in his foggy mind. “A houseful of junk. But the funeral home knew someone. The furniture was sold at an estate sale. And the personal stuff was just thrown out. If you're worried about a stranger reading something personal, diaries or letters . . . I don't think that will happen. People do this for a living.”

“It all gets thrown out,” Maury mused with a crooked grin. “That makes sense.” When he glanced up at the mirror behind the bar, he was surprised to see Amy standing right behind him. She had an odd, almost stricken look. “Amy, is something wrong?” He turned to face her directly. “Your call home?” He pointed to the cell phone dangling from her hand. “Everyone good?”

“Everyone's great. You were asking about something that your wife gave to MacGregor? Was this like a letter, an envelope, something you want back?”

“Something Laila wrote? No, no. It was just a general question.”

 

Later, after finally stumbling back to her room at the Crillon, Amy did not spend the night snugly asleep, but tossing and turning on her six-hundred-thread-count sheets. She tried not to obsess about her suspicions.
Think about something else
, she ordered herself as she wound the duvet mercilessly around her torso. Perhaps she should confide in Peter. That would be the logical thing.
Amy, stop it. Stop thinking.
But she couldn't.

Peter, if she told him, would probably be logical and say it was a coincidence. That's what Peter did. It was his strong suit, to see everything as normal, and she often admired this quality. But what if everything wasn't normal?

That's where someone like Marcus would be better, wouldn't he? Impulsive, conniving Marcus—someone who refused to just stick his head in the sand. So, should she confide in Peter, after all, or should she . . .
Augh, stop thinking.
Why couldn't she stop thinking?

CHAPTER 8

B
y mid-morning everything seemed fine again.

It was surprising what a perfect April day in Paris, along with a little shopping, could do to a girl's mood. There were three of them sharing this excursion: Laila Steinberg, Nicole Marconi, and Amy, who had beguiled them with the promise of some exquisite little shops hidden among the steep, twisting alleys of Montmartre.

She made a single purchase that morning, an irresistible set of antique buttons, etched silver with mother-of-pearl inlays, which could just possibly renew her Lanvin silk jacket for a few more years. While the others continued to comb through every nook and cranny of the boutique, Amy accepted an espresso from the gracious owner and stood in the doorway, observing Parisian life on the street.

Just a few doors down, a woman with a shaved head and a neck tattoo was sitting on a stoop, rolling a cigarette with expert ease. Across the street, a pair of grandparents alternately laughed and panicked and did their best to chase down a three-year-old on a tricycle. Young girls in uniform skipped by arm in arm and absently played with a few handfuls of grape leaves. They were only a block or so away from Clos Montmartre, Amy seemed to recall, a tiny hillside vineyard, the last vineyard left in Paris.

“We got some real steals,” Nicole whispered as she sprang through the doorway, her string bag full with half a dozen colorfully wrapped baubles.

Laila Steinberg followed with another string bag, plus two large shopping bags. “I am so ready for lunch,” she laughed, gasping out the words, as if she'd just completed a marathon.

Lunch was at Le Moulin Orange, a trendy brasserie on rue Lepic. The place had been hard to track down. Laila's husband had seen a rave review in the
Times
praising its unusual blend of French and Italian, a heretical concept for a Parisian brasserie. They settled in at a window table, and Laila ordered a lamb chop, highly recommended in the same
Times
review, according to Maury. Nicole stuck to her diet with a
salade niçoise
, dressing on the side. And Amy, who never worried much about weight, ordered a traditional cassoulet, a sentimental favorite and a surprising find on a springtime menu. Paisley, of course, would be paying.

“Help me understand.” Amy was sipping more than her share of the cru Beaujolais and feeling emboldened. “Why all this fuss about a maid? I know it sounds callous. She was quite wonderful, and this is a free trip. I get it. But all of you . . . most of you . . .” She avoided glancing over at Nicole. “You can afford your own first-class travel. And you have such busy lives.”

“So why are we taking off eleven days to spread her ashes around the world?” Laila stared out over the rims of her narrow, enviable maroon frames. “Because she asked, I guess. It never occurred to us to say no. I can't speak for Nicole. . . .”

“The same,” Nicole said with a nod. “Paisley would do anything for you, no questions, no judgments. That becomes very seductive. Inside a week this woman would be your best friend. Inside a month, you couldn't live without her, which is stupid.”

“Not that she would ever betray a confidence,” Laila asserted. “Or ever remind you that she knew.”

“You don't realize until after she leaves and the spell is broken.. . .” Nicole pushed aside her untasted wine. “I think part of being on this trip is the therapy. Sharing all the Paisley stories. You realize how many others put themselves in that same position. Smart, well-adjusted people, like my parents, who left her nearly everything, for God's sake. I was a teenager, so I was probably less susceptible to having this kind of best friend.”

“Therapy,” Laila said and nodded back. “An apt way of putting it. At the time, it seemed all good, like an addiction does, I suppose.”

Therapy? Addiction? Amy had been expecting a simpler, sweeter explanation, similar to the testimonials everyone had been spouting last night on the yacht. The perfect servant—from Jeeves to Hazel to Batman's Alfred—was an easy, comforting cliché. But perfection could have its dark side, she realized.

The table fell into an awkward silence as the waiter arrived with their lunches and a second bottle of Beaujolais. When he walked away, the talk resumed and became small, the usual inspection and smelling of the food and comments about the weather, over the background music of knives and forks and quiet chewing. And breathing. Someone was breathing. Loudly.
A little annoying
, Amy thought casually as she dove into yet another spoonful of white beans and meat, this time a succulent shred of duck.
Very annoy . . .

When Amy looked up from her cassoulet, Laila had dropped her fork and was grabbing at her throat. At first, Amy didn't think,
Choking, or too much salt
. She automatically thought,
Poison
. “What's wrong?” she asked, trying to get Laila to focus. Of course, it couldn't be poison. Who would poison her here? The chef? The waiter?

Laila couldn't answer. By now she had both hands on her chest, her eyes staring down at the lamb chop and the brown stuffing as if they were terrorists.

“Allergy?” Nicole asked with surprising calm.

Laila bobbed her head.

“I thought so. Shellfish?” Nicole continued, as if in a game of Twenty Questions. “Of course not. Peanuts? Tree nuts?”

Laila bobbed again and, with a shaky hand, tried to reach down for the purse at her feet. Nicole helped her to grab it.

“It's anaphylactic shock,” she said to Amy. “I've seen it before.”

Amy was already pushing herself up from her chair and calling for the waiter. “Monsieur?”

He was nearby, discussing with his customers their choice of starters. Everyone at the table stopped their chatter and looked perturbed. Americans could be so pushy.

“Monsieur,” she said again, the panic rising in her voice. “Ces côtelettes d'agneau. Y a-t-il des noix?”

The waiter blinked at Amy, then blinked at his customers, a well-dressed table of six. “Bien sûr. Pâte de marrons.” Of course. Chestnut paste. The others all murmured in agreement—“Chestnut paste in a lamb stuffing, of course”—as if it were a ridiculous thing to ask, and so rudely put, without even a “
Pardon
” or an “
Excusez-moi
.”

When Amy looked back, Laila had collapsed on the marble floor. Nicole was still going through Laila's purse. A second later she pulled out a small zipped pouch and out of the pouch an EpiPen. Amy had never seen one before, but she knew what it was.

“My niece has a nut allergy,” Nicole said, still relatively calm. The device looked like a Magic Marker; it was around the same size and shape. Nicole made a fist around the pen, pressed it against the thigh of Laila's silk dress, and pushed. Laila was still gasping. Nicole held it in place for nearly twenty seconds.

Amy wasn't sure what she should expect. Nothing as dramatic as an instant recovery, maybe. Maybe a slow recovery of breath or a calming effect. Certainly not a worsening of the symptoms, not like this. Laila gasped in desperation. Her face flushed. Her eyes widened, searching the room, begging for help, even as they seemed to lose focus.

“It's empty,” said Nicole, finally losing her calm. She sent it scuttling across the floor, then turned back to the purse and began rummaging for another. “Who the hell brings an empty pen?”

“No,” Laila managed to say between her gasps.

“Damn. That was the only one.” Nicole had emptied everything out onto the marble. Nothing looked even remotely like an EpiPen case. “Was that your only one?”

“No,” Laila said again. Her voice was weaker now.

Amy was about to reach for her phone when she remembered it was back at the Crillon. She turned to face the rest of the room. By now the waiter and his patrons and everyone else were staring, openmouthed. “SAMU,” she shouted to everyone and no one. “Appelez le SAMU! Composez le quinze. Vite!”

A dozen phones materialized out of pockets and purses. All it would take was one call getting through to the emergency number fifteen. And after that, how long? Amy had experience with the emergency response in Rome, not in Paris. And Rome had not worked out well. She tried not to think about that.

“
Ici
.” A woman's voice cut through the concerned murmurs and the soft beeps of a dozen phones. The woman rising from her chair on the other side of the brasserie—young, under twenty—was looking straight at Amy, holding something in the air.

At first Amy thought it was another phone.
What? You want me to dial for you? You can't dial your own . . . ?
Then she realized.

The woman and Amy edged through the tables and chairs and curious diners and met halfway. “
Merci
,” Amy said, filling the word with as much meaning as she could. Then she took the stranger's EpiPen, raced back through the tables and chairs and curious diners, and handed it off like a baton. Nicole grabbed it in her fist, removed the cap, and jabbed it smartly into Laila's other thigh.