Read Online The Orchid Shroud by Michelle Wan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Wan
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forecourt. Another car, a green Renault with a dog in it, was already parked there in the shade.
“Hé!”
An old man in dungarees came trotting around a corner of the house. He brandished a pitchfork at the BMW. The driver, a toothy man with slicked-back hair, put his head out the window. There were other people in the car. Laurent slowed and veered onto the verge of the lane. He pulled off his helmet but kept the bike idling, balanced between his legs.
“Filez!”
Didier yelled, stabbing at the air. “Get lost!”
The driver ignored the threat. “Say, old fellow, is it true they’ve uncovered a whole crypt of bodies in there?”
“You’re trespassing,” shouted Didier. “Fsst! Move it or I’ll call the cops.”
The driver laughed at the gardener’s ineffectual jabs.
“He said beat it.” A strapping lass with big arms and muddy knees appeared from another direction. She wore shorts, a tank top, and ankle boots and carried a bucket.
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” said the toothy driver. He swung his door open and got out. “I’ll give you twenty euros—Hey!” The contents of the bucket—a soggy mixture of coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, and fish bones—hit him in the face.
“Now shove off, you ghouls!” shouted Didier’s granddaughter, Stéphanie. She grabbed the pitchfork from her grandfather, who stood by cackling, and prodded the intruder with authority. “Unless you want to wear this up your backside.”
There was a moment of shouting and arm-waving before the driver stumbled back into his car. The BMW shot forward, swung around, and roared away down the lane, nearly clipping Laurent’s bike in passing.
“You, too!” Stéphanie yelled, striding toward him. “Push off.”
“I’m a cop.” Laurent switched off his engine, hung his helmet on a handlebar, and dug into his pants pocket. “Laurent Naudet, Sergeant.”
“You don’t look like one.” She barely glanced at his identification. “Anyway, he’s not seeing people.” The young woman was tall,although still a good head shorter than he. Her fair skin was covered in a dusting of freckles, and she wore her maize-yellow hair in two short braids. Her legs were as stout as a rugby-player’s. Laurent admired the way her knees locked, showing the muscle definition of her thighs.
“I don’t need to bother him. Monsieur de Bonfond, that is. I just wanted to have another look at the room where the baby was found.”
Stéphanie wheeled around to her grandfather. “Says he’s a cop.”
“I
am
a cop,” Laurent insisted firmly. “I’m the one who came out on Wednesday.”
But she had walked away and was conferring with the old man. Laurent stamped down the bike’s
kick
and went after her.
“Okay.” She gave him an unfriendly head-to-toe with wary blue eyes. “I’ll take you up. But make it fast. Some of us have work to do.” She did not bother with the servants’ stairs but led him, almost at a jog, across the forecourt and up the steps to the big front entrance.
“What’s your name?” Laurent asked, following in her train.
“Stéphanie,” she said without turning around.
They crossed an echoing vestibule. Laurent had an impression of tall paneled doors and a large expanse of black and white tiles. He knew that a sharp cop would be soaking up every detail, checking for clues. Somehow, his vision remained glued to his guide’s solid posterior as it bobbed, roughly at eye level, up the grand stone staircase ahead of him.
Someone else was already up there. It was the woman he had questioned the other day, the one who had been hired to tear down the walls. She wore the same jeans and T-shirt (he didn’t know English, but he recognized the words “book” and “dog”) as on the day he had met her. Laurent experienced a momentary alarm, thinking that she and her men had resumed work. But she wasalone, standing in the middle of the litter of stones and broken plaster, gazing at the wrecked wall.
“Hé!”
An old man in dungarees came trotting around a corner of the house. He brandished a pitchfork at the BMW. The driver, a toothy man with slicked-back hair, put his head out the window. There were other people in the car. Laurent slowed and veered onto the verge of the lane. He pulled off his helmet but kept the bike idling, balanced between his legs.
“Filez!”
Didier yelled, stabbing at the air. “Get lost!”
The driver ignored the threat. “Say, old fellow, is it true they’ve uncovered a whole crypt of bodies in there?”
“You’re trespassing,” shouted Didier. “Fsst! Move it or I’ll call the cops.”
The driver laughed at the gardener’s ineffectual jabs.
“He said beat it.” A strapping lass with big arms and muddy knees appeared from another direction. She wore shorts, a tank top, and ankle boots and carried a bucket.
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” said the toothy driver. He swung his door open and got out. “I’ll give you twenty euros—Hey!” The contents of the bucket—a soggy mixture of coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, and fish bones—hit him in the face.
“Now shove off, you ghouls!” shouted Didier’s granddaughter, Stéphanie. She grabbed the pitchfork from her grandfather, who stood by cackling, and prodded the intruder with authority. “Unless you want to wear this up your backside.”
There was a moment of shouting and arm-waving before the driver stumbled back into his car. The BMW shot forward, swung around, and roared away down the lane, nearly clipping Laurent’s bike in passing.
“You, too!” Stéphanie yelled, striding toward him. “Push off.”
“I’m a cop.” Laurent switched off his engine, hung his helmet on a handlebar, and dug into his pants pocket. “Laurent Naudet, Sergeant.”
“You don’t look like one.” She barely glanced at his identification. “Anyway, he’s not seeing people.” The young woman was tall,although still a good head shorter than he. Her fair skin was covered in a dusting of freckles, and she wore her maize-yellow hair in two short braids. Her legs were as stout as a rugby-player’s. Laurent admired the way her knees locked, showing the muscle definition of her thighs.
“I don’t need to bother him. Monsieur de Bonfond, that is. I just wanted to have another look at the room where the baby was found.”
Stéphanie wheeled around to her grandfather. “Says he’s a cop.”
“I
am
a cop,” Laurent insisted firmly. “I’m the one who came out on Wednesday.”
But she had walked away and was conferring with the old man. Laurent stamped down the bike’s
kick
and went after her.
“Okay.” She gave him an unfriendly head-to-toe with wary blue eyes. “I’ll take you up. But make it fast. Some of us have work to do.” She did not bother with the servants’ stairs but led him, almost at a jog, across the forecourt and up the steps to the big front entrance.
“What’s your name?” Laurent asked, following in her train.
“Stéphanie,” she said without turning around.
They crossed an echoing vestibule. Laurent had an impression of tall paneled doors and a large expanse of black and white tiles. He knew that a sharp cop would be soaking up every detail, checking for clues. Somehow, his vision remained glued to his guide’s solid posterior as it bobbed, roughly at eye level, up the grand stone staircase ahead of him.
Someone else was already up there. It was the woman he had questioned the other day, the one who had been hired to tear down the walls. She wore the same jeans and T-shirt (he didn’t know English, but he recognized the words “book” and “dog”) as on the day he had met her. Laurent experienced a momentary alarm, thinking that she and her men had resumed work. But she wasalone, standing in the middle of the litter of stones and broken plaster, gazing at the wrecked wall.
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