Spectacle(83)
“I have some news, though,” said Christophe, his expression serious. “We know for sure Damien Salvage is the Dark Artist. His home matches the description you gave of the hall and living room, including the rug and the table. What’s more, he had a cart for his business, and they found a cedar chest with bloodstains inside. Presumably that’s what you saw in the vision.”
“Little by little it’s making sense.” Relief shaded her words.
“Somewhat,” said Christophe. “They’ve only just begun sorting through his things. He lived beside his shop, with an alley in between. Not one of these tall, modern Hausmann-style buildings. He was his own neighbor, so to speak. Lots of privacy.”
Nathalie leaned forward, resting her hands on his desk. “Any clues about who might have killed him? Someone who knew what he was doing and took matters in their own hands? Someone seeking revenge?”
“The police are exploring every possibility—nothing so far. We did receive an anonymous tip about the ‘attractive young man on display,’” he said, “and it supports your vision. Someone was strolling along the opposite shore and overheard an abrupt struggle between two men, followed by a choking sound and shortly thereafter, a splash.”
“That’s it?”
Christophe shrugged. “As you know, the fog was thick.”
Fog that shielded him as he stole into the night to blend in with the rest of Paris, Nathalie thought. Just like the Dark Artist had. “Hidden in plain sight, both of them. Like Poe’s purloined letter,” she said, referencing one of her favorite short stories.
“It happens more often than you’d think.”
After a few minutes, Christophe excused himself to return to the display room. Nathalie wrote her article in his office (he offered, and who was she to decline? She felt close to him, sitting in his chair). She went right to Le Petit Journal afterward. From there she stopped at Simone’s to let her know what the police had discovered.
When Nathalie finally got home, she caught Stanley sniffing an exquisite arrangement of flowers, every hue imaginable, in a vase on the dining room table.
A voice called from her parents’ bedroom. “Is that ma bichette?”
Joy hugged her heart, letting it go just long enough for her to respond. “Yes, Papa!”
* * *
Nathalie spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying time with her family. They talked about many things, good (Nathalie’s marks at school, Maman’s jam-making, Papa’s stay in Martinique) and horrible (Agnès’s murder, Maman’s accident, Papa’s ship having a yellow fever outbreak) and even some of the mundane that had shaped their lives since the three of them were last together in April.
Except for Nathalie’s magical ability.
Maman had taken her aside and asked her to wait until after dinner to tell Papa. She wanted one last dinner as a family, she said, before “everything changed.”
Even though everything already had, Nathalie wanted to say.
Nevertheless, she knew how important these family moments were to Maman. Not to mention, she was glad Maman hadn’t already shared her secret. She wanted to tell Papa directly.
She kept her mind occupied by helping her mother make dinner (ratatouille, her father’s favorite). As they cooked, Papa told stories of his recent months at sea, and Nathalie watched her mother’s hands, more dexterous than before. At dinner Papa’s strong hands were uncharacteristically stiff and maladroit.
He’d already healed Maman.
After dinner, they played cards. Nathalie couldn’t relax, however, and kept making mistakes. They played hand after hand, and by the time Maman served a torte, Nathalie’s stomach was so stuffed with dinner and expectation alike that she couldn’t eat. At some point a thunderstorm broke out, inspiring Stanley to find shelter on her lap, while her parents enjoyed a bottle of wine Papa had brought back from South America.
Then Maman pushed her cards into the center of the table and finished her glass of wine. “I think you two have some catching up to do,” she said, standing up. She tousled Papa’s bushy hair and leaned over his broad shoulders, kissing his cheek. With a wink at Nathalie, she retired to the bedroom.
Nathalie gathered the cards, tapping them into a neat stack. She continued straightening it longer than necessary. “I have something to tell you, Papa. Something … good, I think. Maman knows and wanted me to tell you the news myself.”
“That you’re the best journalist Monsieur Patenaude has ever hired?” he asked, his eyes giving away his smile.
“I can’t say he’s quite told me that.” She chuckled and set the cards to the side, looking her father in the eye. “I have a magical ability, Papa. Like you and Aunt Brigitte and the other … Insightfuls.”
“Insightfuls. I didn’t know you knew—” Papa’s jovial demeanor melted into incredulous surprise. He peeked over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door. Perhaps he wondered what Maman had thought, how she’d reacted, when she found out, what she’d told Nathalie. No doubt they’d discuss it later. “What sort of ability?”
“Visions. Of the Dark Artist murders,” she began. Papa clenched his jaw and released it, and his “worry vein” appeared in his forehead. She was suddenly cognizant of how staggering a revelation this must be for him.