Read Online Seen and Not Heard by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Stuart
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laid out on her silk-covered bed like a medieval effigy. God, it makes me sick to look at them. I’d rather there were more blood, signs of a struggle, not that damned formal lying in state, be they a comtesse, a nun, or a cleaning woman.”
Josef shook his head, unconvinced. “It couldn’t have been, sir. We’ve checked with everyone in the building. A man like Rocco would have stuck out like a sore thumb. We showed his photograph to everyone we could find, and not a soul had seen him.”
Malgreave shrugged. “You know what your great strength is, Josef? Your stubbornness and adherence to facts. Youknow what your great weakness is? The very same traits. We know there are several people in Paris going around murdering old women, and Rocco Guillère is only one of them. Logic tells us that he isn’t the one responsible for last night’s killing. It wasn’t his area of town, and people like him respect territory. A woman like Marcelle Boisrond would never have let a creature like Guillère near her. It stands to reason one of the other killers is responsible.”
“Exactly,” said Josef, not daring to feel smug.
“So when I insist that it was Rocco, despite everything, what will you think?”
Josef didn’t even hesitate. He huddled deeper into the fancy British coat his wife had made him buy. “I’ll know that Rocco did it,” he said flatly.
Malgreave nodded. “Good man. I tell you, Josef, this was one murder too many. We’re going to get him for it, and nothing is going to get in our way.”
And Josef, torn between conflicting emotions, hunched his shoulders against the encroaching wind and followed Malgreave to the corner bistro.
The wind had finally stopped. There was a quarter moon, hung lopsided in a blue black sky, and the bare branches of the trees stretched upward, looking, Claire thought, like desperate arms reaching for rescue.
Morbid fancies, she thought, not turning away from the ghostly landscape. Marc was asleep in the bed behind her, his suitcase was already packed, and in another few hours he’d be gone. She should be back in bed, curled around his warm body, not standing barefoot on icy floors, staring out into the night.
Claire stared down at her clenched fists, deliberately relaxing them, stretching the fingers out. No rings. She’d told Marc tonight that she’d wear one; she’d marry him when he came back from the tour. It was a decision that had needed to be made, and she’d made it. She only wished she’d made the choice somewhere else, over coffee, in a bistro, even walking in that depressing park. It was a choiceshe would have made sanely, rationally. Why did she feel he’d wrung it out of her in bed that night?
She shivered. Was she simply afraid of commitment? Had she gone directly from a married man to a widower, subconsciously hoping both men would be too involved with their wives, both living and dead, to demand too much from her?
The next month would give her time to sort through her feelings, to decide where neuroses began and ended. And when Marc came back, she would tell him about Brian and the accident.
The Paris moon was a mournful one, she thought, looking upward. For all the talk about lovers and Paris, it wasn’t a romantic sight. It was cold and lonely, shining down over the sleeping city, shining down on the corpses of old ladies, murdered before their time.
Claire shivered again, turning back to the bed. If she were very careful, Marc might sleep through the night. And tomorrow her last few weeks of freedom would begin.
“Tell me about this woman Marc lives with,” Harriette ordered, leaning her frail body back against the chintz sofa and surveying her favorite grandchild with well-disguised fondness. “She’s an American, I gather. Is she loud and vulgar?”
Nicole fiddled with her scratchy wool skirt. “Not really,
grand-mère
. She’s very quiet and pretty.”
Harriette snorted her disbelief. “Doesn’t sound like she’s Marc’s type.
Josef shook his head, unconvinced. “It couldn’t have been, sir. We’ve checked with everyone in the building. A man like Rocco would have stuck out like a sore thumb. We showed his photograph to everyone we could find, and not a soul had seen him.”
Malgreave shrugged. “You know what your great strength is, Josef? Your stubbornness and adherence to facts. Youknow what your great weakness is? The very same traits. We know there are several people in Paris going around murdering old women, and Rocco Guillère is only one of them. Logic tells us that he isn’t the one responsible for last night’s killing. It wasn’t his area of town, and people like him respect territory. A woman like Marcelle Boisrond would never have let a creature like Guillère near her. It stands to reason one of the other killers is responsible.”
“Exactly,” said Josef, not daring to feel smug.
“So when I insist that it was Rocco, despite everything, what will you think?”
Josef didn’t even hesitate. He huddled deeper into the fancy British coat his wife had made him buy. “I’ll know that Rocco did it,” he said flatly.
Malgreave nodded. “Good man. I tell you, Josef, this was one murder too many. We’re going to get him for it, and nothing is going to get in our way.”
And Josef, torn between conflicting emotions, hunched his shoulders against the encroaching wind and followed Malgreave to the corner bistro.
The wind had finally stopped. There was a quarter moon, hung lopsided in a blue black sky, and the bare branches of the trees stretched upward, looking, Claire thought, like desperate arms reaching for rescue.
Morbid fancies, she thought, not turning away from the ghostly landscape. Marc was asleep in the bed behind her, his suitcase was already packed, and in another few hours he’d be gone. She should be back in bed, curled around his warm body, not standing barefoot on icy floors, staring out into the night.
Claire stared down at her clenched fists, deliberately relaxing them, stretching the fingers out. No rings. She’d told Marc tonight that she’d wear one; she’d marry him when he came back from the tour. It was a decision that had needed to be made, and she’d made it. She only wished she’d made the choice somewhere else, over coffee, in a bistro, even walking in that depressing park. It was a choiceshe would have made sanely, rationally. Why did she feel he’d wrung it out of her in bed that night?
She shivered. Was she simply afraid of commitment? Had she gone directly from a married man to a widower, subconsciously hoping both men would be too involved with their wives, both living and dead, to demand too much from her?
The next month would give her time to sort through her feelings, to decide where neuroses began and ended. And when Marc came back, she would tell him about Brian and the accident.
The Paris moon was a mournful one, she thought, looking upward. For all the talk about lovers and Paris, it wasn’t a romantic sight. It was cold and lonely, shining down over the sleeping city, shining down on the corpses of old ladies, murdered before their time.
Claire shivered again, turning back to the bed. If she were very careful, Marc might sleep through the night. And tomorrow her last few weeks of freedom would begin.
“Tell me about this woman Marc lives with,” Harriette ordered, leaning her frail body back against the chintz sofa and surveying her favorite grandchild with well-disguised fondness. “She’s an American, I gather. Is she loud and vulgar?”
Nicole fiddled with her scratchy wool skirt. “Not really,
grand-mère
. She’s very quiet and pretty.”
Harriette snorted her disbelief. “Doesn’t sound like she’s Marc’s type.
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