French Twist Page 4

  To put the Savatiers at ease I say something that I don’t fully believe. “This is nothing to be alarmed about.”

  Then I quickly add, “Listen. The Preakness is next Saturday. I’ve got work to do up here. But if you need me, I’ll drop everything and join you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” says Nicolas.

  In the background, just before I hang up, I hear Marguerite’s voice in a loud stage whisper: “Tell him to come down now.”

  Click.

  The butter for the eggs is now burnt to a foul brown grease, and the smoke detector is screaming at me. So my dinner becomes a bowl of Special K and two large glasses of Bouchard Montrachet.

  I don’t sleep. Not a wink. My bedtime companion is the relentless stream of grim BBC detective shows and one more glass of the soft chardonnay. Between the ending of Wallander and the start of Vera comes dawn.

  Chapter 13

  Mara Monahan

  2 East 79th Street

  Today Burke and I visit the Manhattan apartments of the three beautiful murder victims. Burke has made some interesting connections in the three cases: Each one of the murdered women was, of course, beautiful and wealthy. But there’s something more. Each of them had an only child below the age of three. All these rich women, of course, also had household help—maids, drivers, housemen, housekeepers, cooks, nannies. It’s the nannies who interest Burke and me. In reading the reports, Burke noticed that all three of the nannies were placed by the same employment agency in London. Funny. In detective work you have to be very careful of coincidences, and then again, you can’t be too careful.

  An attractive, excessively energetic young woman with a demure hairstyle opens the door of the Monahan apartment.

  The young woman wants to appear properly somber, but she cannot hide the sometimes chronic American characteristic of perkiness.

  “I’m Congressman Monahan’s District Assistant, Chloe Garrison,” she says. “Please come in.” We walk into a big foyer with traditional Upper East Side black-and-white tiled marble floors.

  “The congressman wanted to be here himself to speak with you,” she says, then quickly adds, “But he was on the first flight down to DC today. There’s an environmental waste bill in debate…and…well, he thought it would be most helpful if he got back to work.” We agree again.

  “NYPD has already spoken to Mr. Monahan,” Burke says. “He’s been very cooperative…especially given the painfulness of the situation.”

  Chloe nods. “Congressman Monahan is taking Henry, their little boy, out to Montauk this weekend. Like you said, the whole death thing is pretty…tough.”

  “No doubt about it,” Burke says.

  The assistant grants our request to speak to Henry’s nanny, Mrs. Meade-Grafton. “If it’s all right, you’ll meet in Congressman Monahan’s home office.”

  The home office has a spectacular view of Central Park, and Mrs. Meade-Grafton does not remotely look like what I thought a British nanny named “Mrs. Meade-Grafton” would. She is wearing stretch jeans that cling quite snuggly to her ample hips and thighs. She sits on a black leather sofa, and her legs are tucked beneath her. Her white T-shirt has these words printed on the front:

  I LISTEN TO BANDS THAT DON’T EXIST YET.

  We introduce ourselves. Mrs. Meade-Grafton does not stand to greet us, but she does extend her very fleshy hand. The congressional aide leaves the room.

  “Is young Henry around?” Burke asks.

  “Oh, the little one is watchin’ telly. Cook’s keepin’ an eye on ’im,” the nanny says. English is definitely my second language, but you don’t have to be ’enry ’iggins to know that it is a fairly lower-class accent.

  I ask how she and the late Mrs. Monahan got along.

  “Like two peas,” she says. “An’ why not? We didn’t see very much of one ’nother. I was with little ’enry when she wasn’t. And when she was seein’ to the little lad then myself mostly wasn’t there. But Mrs. M was a decent enough sort. Quite a loss, o’ course. Not sure the ’usband ’as took it all in yet. An’ to be honest, little ’enry might be thinkin’ his mum’s still just out shoppin’.”

  She laughs. A lot.

  Chapter 14

  Jenna Lee Austin

  156 Perry Street

  Julia Highridge prefers to be called Miss Highridge, and she prefers to be called a governess, not a nanny. Wardrobe? A dark plaid tweed suit, sensible shoes, hair in a bun. Miss Highridge is probably forty years old, but with her grooming and wardrobe she could pass for fifty. She is as formal as Mrs. Meade-Grafton was informal.

  We sit in the first floor Victorian parlor of an impeccably decorated Greenwich Village townhouse. We are only a block from the West Side Highway, the Hudson River just on the other side of that.

  “So, you look after Ethan?” Burke asks.

  “That would be Master Ethan. And yes, Master Ethan is my charge.”

  Then she gestures to a small table. On the table is a silver tray covered with a silver teapot, teacups, a large plate of cookies, and various pastries.

  “I thought you might need some tea. I’ve also had the cook bring in some puddings and cakes. You may not be familiar with all of them, these especially…”

  “I am happy to tell you that I am completely familiar with these. They are canelés, and I have not seen them ever before here in New York,” I say. “Je les adore.” I adore them. “They are my favorite.”

  I am not merely being a polite guest. I am telling the truth about the crunchy little dome-like butter pastries that are in every patisserie in Paris. I’ve not found any that taste as good as they do there. And believe me, I’ve tried every one in New York.

  “Ah,” Miss Highridge says. “An authentic Frenchman. Perhaps you would like to conduct the interview in French. I’m fluent.”

  “No,” I say. “I think English is the more appropriate language for an NYPD investigation. Plus, my colleague might not…”

  Burke interrupts. She is not at all amused. “Have a canelé, Detective Moncrief. And let’s get on with it.”

  Miss Highridge goes on to tell us that she was enormously fond of Mrs. Lenz—“That would be Mrs. Austin to you.”

  Burke, losing none of her edge, says, “We know her husband is Bernard Lenz. He’s been interviewed twice already.”

  We ask for her opinion of Jenna Lee Austin.

  Her answer: “She was an actress. That should tell you everything.” Then she proceeds to pop a third canelé into her mouth.

  “That really does not tell us very much, Miss Highridge,” I say.

  “Then let me explain. She knew how to act like a mother. Just as she knew how to act like a good wife. But…please, have another cake…”

  Both Burke and I decline.

  “In any event, I suppose she wanted to be a good mother. But her career came first. She cared so very much about her career. The lessons, and the private trainer and the yoga instructor and the homeopathic doctor and the nutritionist and…oh, so many people to help her. But Mr. Lenz didn’t seem to mind.”

  Miss Highridge pauses, pops another pastry, then speaks: “Her husband had his life. She had hers. And Master Ethan had me.”

  We talk some more. Miss Highridge says that Jenna Lee seemed to have a lot of friends.

  “How about her marriage?”

  “The marriage was what most marriages are. A series of small compromises.”

  When we are ready to leave, she agrees to get in touch if she thinks of anything helpful. But, she tells us, “That seems unlikely.”

  Then she says, “Let me have these extra canelés wrapped for you. You can take them with you.”

  “Non merci, mademoiselle. You enjoy them.”

  “Oh, dear. It’s the last thing I need,” she says. She pats her significantly round belly, and we escape without the little cakes.

  Chapter 15

  Tessa Fulbright

  River House, 435 East 52nd Street

  Mazie McCray loved Tessa Fulbright. My insti
ncts tell me that immediately.

  “First I raised her mother, Mrs. Pierce. Then I raised Tessa…I mean, of course, Mrs. Fulbright. And now my last job will be raising Andrew. But I never expected not having his mother by my side while doing it.”

  Mazie dabs at her eyes with a crumbled tissue. Mazie is black and round and perfectly charming. Mazie, Burke, and I are sitting on low children-sized benches in Andrew’s bright-yellow nursery. Andrew toddles around, chubby arms extended. He falls. He giggles. He laughs. He gets up and walks some more.

  Suddenly Mazie stands up and walks quickly to Andrew. Mazie lifts the child. He rests in Mazie’s arms, and Mazie uses her free hands to cover the boy’s ears.

  “Tessa, Andrew’s mother, was fine, absolutely fine, a wonderful child, a wonderful woman. Then she married Mr. Fulbright. Then she started in with ‘I’m not pretty enough. I’m not young enough.’” Mazie shakes her head thoughtfully, and then fixes her eyes on Burke and me.

  “You two saw her,” she says. “You must’ve seen photos. She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman. Even more important, she was a good woman. I knew her. I raised her. I knew her better than anyone.”

  A long pause. Then K. Burke speaks softly.

  “What do you think happened?”

  Mazie places Andrew back on the floor. The little boy returns to his giddy, happy walking. Mazie takes a deep breath, shakes her head, and speaks.

  “I wish I knew. Dear Lord, I just wish I knew.”

  Chapter 16

  I sleep well. But don’t assume that sleep comes to me easily. No, not at all. My sleep is a chemical and musical trick. It requires 10mg of Ambien, followed a half hour later by 5mg of Xanax, and then I queue up the Luc Moncrief Artist of the Week on the sound system. This can be anything from Chopin to the Rolling Stones. This week, I’m sleeping with the little-known Vienna Teng. Her music is just slow enough to lullaby me a bit, just fast enough to let me know I’m still breathing.

  Sleep arrives suddenly. And just as suddenly I am awake. The telephone is ringing. It is morning. The big bedroom is filled with soft morning light.

  I grab the receiver.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Luc? It is so early,” comes the old woman’s voice. I recognize it immediately.

  “Marguerite, what’s wrong?” I say.

  My neck hurts. My lips are dry. An Ambien-induced sleep brings sleep, but it rarely brings peace.

  “Many things. I’ll put Nicolas on.”

  “The news is bad,” he says.

  I can only imagine. And I want to know everything right this moment. I do not want the Servatiers to begin dithering.

  “Stop! Do not tell me anything except what the goddamn problem is,” I say. I have purposely chosen the curse word to demonstrate my seriousness.

  “It is a murder,” the old man shouts back at me.

  “A murder. A murder of whom? Tell me. Keep talking.”

  I don’t understand what he’s saying at first…then I deduce a horse has been killed.

  “Which horse?” I ask. Nicolas says something I don’t understand in half-French, half-English.

  “Say it again, sir. Say the horse’s name again.” I hear something like “Charlene Bay.”

  “Charlene Bay?” I ask, just one impatient step away from a shout.

  “No. Not Charlene,” he says.

  “A bay? The horse is a bay?”

  “Luc. You are not listening properly,” Nicolas says.

  I restrain myself from becoming angry at the anxious old man.

  “Speak slower…slower and louder,” I say.

  He says the name again. Slower and louder.

  This time I get it. “Charlie-Boy? The horse’s name is Charlie-Boy?” I ask.

  “Ah, oui. Son nom est Shar-lee-Boy. Charlie-Boy.”

  He continues.

  “The security people say they heard a noise. They go into the stable, and there he lay. His throat was sliced, they think, with the electrical saw, the machine a man uses to cut down a tree. It made me sick. Marguerite wept.”

  My response is “Holy shit!”

  Nicolas has yet more information.

  “Charlie-Boy was the Pimlico exercise horse. The warm-ups. As you know, the warm-ups are so important.”

  I remember. Only a few days ago Nicolas described the important job of the warm-up horse to K. Burke and me. But the lesson here, in the most graphic terms possible, was: Do as I say, or Garçon is next.

  As I am recalling that excellent lesson, Nicolas passes the phone to his wife.

  “What should we do?” says Marguerite.

  I am, of course, thinking of the note the Savatiers received. Win the Preakness. Or you will suffer the consequences.

  There is just one thing to do. I tell them what they want to hear.

  “I have to come down there immediately,” I say.

  She conveys this news to Nicolas. I can hear him talking loudly in the background.

  “No, Luc. We do not want to be a bother. We only…”

  “Au revoir, mes amis. I’ll see you both soon.”

  “But Luc…” I hear Marguerite, and I am forced to be an American.

  “Gotta go, guys.” Click.

  Chapter 17

  We walk toward Stable A-2 at Pimlico Race Course.

  It is almost noon on Wednesday. The sky is clear. The temperature is seventy-six degrees.

  “I wish we could bottle this weather and save it for next Saturday’s race,” says Detective Kwame Clarke of the Baltimore Police Department.

  I am walking with Detective Clarke, Marguerite and Nicolas Savatier, two Pimlico officials, and Nina Helstein. Miss Helstein is an investigating officer from TOBA, the Thoroughbred Owners and Breeders Association. They have kept the scene intact for us.

  We walk, almost like people in a funeral procession, into the stable.

  We stare down at the lifeless body of Charlie-Boy.

  My father raised horses at his home in Avignon, but they never particularly interested me (especially since Avignon was only a two-hour drive to the beaches of Nice, with their beautiful waters and topless women).

  Perhaps because I have spent so little time with horses, whenever I see these animals I am always surprised that they are so big.

  This dead horse, Charlie-Boy, looks…well…gigantic. A huge dead pile of tremendous muscles, a heap of giant thighs and legs and torso. Yards of white linen bandages are tied tightly around Charlie-Boy’s massive neck. The bandages are splotched with red blood. Bloody hay is scattered around the horse’s neck and head. The straw is also caked with blood.

  Marguerite looks down at the floor. Nicolas looks up toward the wooden rafters. After what feels like an appropriate amount of time, Detective Clarke speaks quietly to me.

  “There’s a trainers’ lounge in Stable A-4. I’ll wait for you there. Say, in about ten minutes.”

  I nod yes, and then I walk with the Savatiers to another stable, the stable where Garçon is being kept. Both Marguerite and Nicolas break into sobs when they see their horse. Armand Joscoe, Garçon’s jockey, smiles gently. Joscoe and a tall young man are methodically stroking Garçon’s neck and back.

  “Ah, Monsieur Moncrief,” says Armand. “Une véritable tragédie.”

  The young man with Joscoe addresses me: “Bonjour, Monsieur Moncrief.”

  I have no idea who this teenager is. Then Armand Joscoe tells me in French that “Perhaps you remember Léon, my little boy. He is all grown up.”

  “He certainly is,” I say. I am amazed Léon has become a veritable six-footer. He is quite handsome, freshly showered, and I can’t help but notice that he is impeccably dressed. I also can’t help but notice how expensive his clothing is. He looks more like one of the well-heeled spectators than his hard-working father.

  The Joscoe men and I all smile at the different heights of father and son, but our smiles do not come from the heart. It is impossible. The stable is too filled with sadness and fear.

&nb
sp; Here, the second step on the way to the Triple Crown, a wonderful horse with wonderful owners, an occasion that should be so festive. Now it is all so terribly grim.

  A few minutes later I walk into a room attached to Stable A-4. The room is small, with two worn leather sofas, a stack of dirty, smelly jodhpurs in one corner, a soda machine in another corner.

  Detective Clarke smiles when I enter.

  “You were probably expecting something a bit fancier for Pimlico,” he says.

  “I never expect anything,” I say. “That way I’m never disappointed.”

  “That’s a perfect New York philosophy,” says Clarke.

  “It is also a French philosophy, I think.”

  Clarke is a small man, black, and completely bald. He also wears a suit (I can’t help myself from comment here) whose cut and quality seem quite elegant for what I know a detective’s pay level to be, especially in Kentucky. In any event, he is smart, and he is extremely likable.

  “Your friends have filled me in,” he says. “And Miss Helstein is talking to yet more of the track officials.”

  “The Savatiers are terribly frightened,” I say.

  “With good cause,” he says.

  He hands me a neatly folded letter-sized piece of paper. I open it and see that it is a copy of the threatening note that was sent to the Savatiers.

  Win the Preakness. Or you will suffer the consequences.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “I think that it is very much what it appears to be—a scary, gruesome, inscrutable threat. I really wish you or the Savatiers had contacted me earlier…”

  “They only told me about it yesterday.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I sent the original note to the lab. Frankly, I don’t think they’ll come up with anything. Prints and stuff like that only happen on TV. All we can do is keep watching Pimlico, up and down, east to west.”

  “Any other suggestions?” I say.

  “Well, I would strongly suggest they try to persuade their horse to win the race on Saturday.”