Spectacle(13)

As she got closer to the entrance, she noticed the elderly woman selling flowers. What was it M. Gagnon had called her? Vallette? Vallery? Valois? Mme. Valois. Nathalie had seen her yesterday and the day before. But not today. Until now. Regardless of the story told by the coins missing from her pocket and the wilted blossoms at home.

The old woman held a bouquet in each hand—one composed of small white flowers, and the other of deep pink blossoms. Everyone in the queue thus far had dismissed her. Nathalie studied the woman as she got closer.

No. She hadn’t seen her today.

Nathalie was certain.

When the old woman approached, her stare was like a poke. She glanced at the trousers and then back at Nathalie’s face. “More blooms, Mademoiselle?”

More. Proof that the woman recognized her. Proof that the woman had sold her the flowers this morning.

Nathalie met the old woman’s unblinking gaze and shook her head. Mme. Valois regarded the brown trousers, narrowed her eyes, and looked up at Nathalie again before proceeding down the line.

She thought she’d experience relief, even a small amount, if the flower question was undeniably solved. She should have.

But she didn’t.

Minutes later she entered the morgue. The man who stood guard inside the viewing room this morning, the one who’d sent her to talk to M. Gagnon in the back office, had been replaced by another.

M. Patenaude was right. No new corpse. Nothing had changed with the display since this morning.

Nathalie’s stomach sank when her eyes fell upon the victim. The nameless girl with the bloodstained dress. It didn’t matter that Nathalie had seen her several hours ago. The horror and pity hadn’t dissipated.

Not so long ago the victim had been a girl. She probably loved Paris much like Nathalie did. She had a family, maybe some brothers and sisters, and friends like Simone and Agnès. She had favorite books and dresses and foods and went to sleep at night on a pillow and wrapped in blankets. She laughed and dreamed and had memories that vanished forever when she took her last painful breath.

And then Nathalie knew.

She had to touch the viewing pane again.

What if she saw something that could help this poor girl? Or could find out her name?

Nathalie looked at the Medusa door, so foreboding earlier today. It was just a door with a decorative carving. She felt foolish for having been unnerved by it, for thinking she’d heard one of the snakes hiss.

Whatever had happened earlier, she was prepared to encounter it again.

Discreetly.

M. Gagnon stood in the display room, again next to the curtain on the left. Nathalie was on the far right, glad to have so many people obscuring her. She didn’t want to get pulled into the interrogation room again if something happened.

He crossed over to Nathalie’s side and bent over to pick something off the ground; she retreated into the shadows before he stood up again. When he did, he casually eyed the onlookers.

Nathalie turned her face away, hoping he didn’t catch a glimpse of her. After a pause she took a peek; M. Gagnon was back at his post.

She positioned herself slightly toward the outer wall. The more she could hide, the less likely she’d be to give herself away. If it happened again.

If if if.

Her body tingled like the kiss of a breeze on sun-soaked skin. With a slow inhale, she reached forward and pressed her fingertips on the glass.

Nothing at all.

She took one step closer to the glass and tried again.

Nothing.

Then something occurred to her. Her fingers trembled on the glass as the realization emerged.

Simone had said maybe Nathalie knew the killer. That could explain why she couldn’t repeat what had happened earlier.

Perhaps her vision wasn’t really a vision, or a moment of delirium, or her imagination. Until now she hadn’t considered that it might be a memory.





6


Sleep, fickle and unsympathetic, abandoned Nathalie that night.

She lay in the darkness, petting Stanley to remind herself that she was in the here and now. Her imagination, showing off how wicked and shrewd it could be, was devoted to convincing her otherwise. She pictured the killer—faceless, hidden, more like a spirit than a man—whispering in her ear. Telling her she was insane. Teasing her about what she saw, asking if she enjoyed watching the murder.

Nathalie couldn’t stand it anymore; she needed to get up, to move, to do something else. Tossing off her sweat-dampened sheets, she lit her kerosene lamp and slid out of bed. She grabbed her journal, a pencil, and a small box off her desk. Stanley jumped down from the bed, tail curled into a question mark, ready to follow.

“Only if you promise to be quiet,” she said. “And not swat at my pencil when I’m writing.”

She put on her shoes and picked up her kerosene lamp. With careful steps, she made her way to the apartment door and slipped into the hallway, shutting the door delicately after Stanley came through. She shuffled down the oak floor of the hall and up three flights on the winding staircase. The door stood before her, proud and menacing, such that she could almost picture it with arms folded.

Thank goodness she was tall, or she’d never reach the key over the door. Simone wasn’t tall enough to reach it, and it was a happy day when Nathalie finally could. From then onward, the Rooftop Salon, as they called it, became a favorite new retreat.

She pushed open the heavy door. Stanley pranced forward onto the moonlit roof and leapt onto the ledge. Nathalie took light steps along the perimeter—people lived in the apartment immediately below—and sat against the wall. Voices from Josephine’s, the tavern on the next street, danced along the summer air.