Spectacle(99)

“She’s also not well,” said Nathalie. She thought of Aunt Brigitte’s written words, how coherence became drivel. “That’s why she’s there. We don’t know what’s madness and what isn’t.”

“Instead of being disappointed, I wish you were able to feel happy. Relieved. Delighted that it looks like this will all be over soon.” Christophe bit his lip. “I don’t think you’ve been genuinely relaxed or content since I’ve known you, and my wish for you is … peace.”

Nathalie cracked a smile. Peace? She’d forgotten what it was like to have a life of relative tranquility and ordinary worry. “In the meantime I suppose it’s time to be a reporter,” she said, rising from the bench.

Christophe walked with her to the morgue entrance and, assuring her that this was nearly over, bid her adieu.



* * *



Afterward, Nathalie joined Papa at the restaurant and wrote her morgue report over lunch. From there they went to Le Petit Journal. Papa had been to the newsroom before but was nevertheless amazed by the noise and intensity and movement throughout.

“M. Patenaude?” she said, knocking on his half-open door. He was shuffling through a stack of newspapers and told her to come in.

Papa led the way. “I have a lead for you on a good restaurant, but it’s in Morocco.”

M. Patenaude was so surprised to see Papa that even through the thick glasses his eyes noticeably widened. “I could certainly use a long lunch,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a laugh.

Nathalie put her article on M. Patenaude’s desk and settled into a chair. She and Papa told M. Patenaude the events of the last day or so, and he sat with creased brows, pensive. He knew about the suspect—he’d be meeting with the police later to interview Blanchard—but was much more intrigued by Aunt Brigitte’s dream than Christophe had been.

Christophe’s lack of faith in Tante still bothered her. She understood it, and in the same position, she’d probably think the same. That still didn’t take away the disappointment of his skepticism.

“Brigitte hasn’t had a predictive dream in quite some time, correct?”

“Not that we know of,” said Papa. “Certainly not anything this specific.”

“That alone makes me think it’s valid. And this has nothing to do with my own gift. Madness has tainted her ability, yes, but—”

The door burst open and slammed into a wall. They turned to see a man holding a sketch pad, cheeks flushed.

“M. Patenaude, I’m sorry to interrupt. This is urgent.”

The man, presumably a sketch artist, raised a brow at M. Patenaude. Papa thanked M. Patenaude, and he and Nathalie left the room. The door closed behind them, but Nathalie lingered.

Just long enough to hear.

“A murder,” said the sketch artist. “Throat cut. Our man on the scene mentioned a bizarre detail—something about a small bottle of blood next to the body.”





47


Nathalie implored M. Patenaude to let her go to the crime scene with the sketch artist, but he firmly said no. As did Papa.

“You can wait here, though,” M. Patenaude said, opening his cigarette case. “Be one of the first to know what happened. We’ll run an edition tonight.”

She graciously accepted his offer, then paced around his office in and out of smoke clouds as he and Papa talked. Despite being in the same room, Nathalie heard very little of what they said. They tried bringing her into the discussion at times, to distract her from worry. And themselves. They spoke of everything but the murder and what it might mean and the Dark Artist and everything else important.

Questions flitted around her mind like skittish birds.

The man who turned himself in, Blanchard? Did he kill someone else and then go to the police?

No, Blanchard was wrapped up in jealousy, not swimming in bottles of blood. That didn’t fit.

Only Mme. la Tuerie made sense.

Did Blanchard kill her? Lie about killing her? Kill her after she killed someone?

Or was she working with someone else? What if she had another Dark Artist, another partner?

The questions spun faster and faster.

I thought I was going to be the next target.

And then the query that came back again and again, like a pesky gnat.

Why?

After M. Patenaude had gone through several cigarettes (two at least, possibly three), a harried reporter came in and dropped a draft on his desk. “This is all we know right now. Still a lot of details to work out.”

Finally.

The reporter rushed out with a wave of acknowledgment as M. Patenaude thanked him.

Nathalie watched her boss read. It took hours. Wasn’t he in a hurry? She’d never seen anyone read so slowly, much less M. Patenaude, who—

“Victim was a man, lived alone. An invalid who couldn’t get out of bed.”

A man wrapped in a blanket.

Nathalie sat down on the edge of a chair. “The man in the dream wasn’t the Dark Artist after all.”

Papa murmured in agreement.

M. Patenaude continued. “A jar full of blood was next to the body, as we know. No note in it but one on the body: ‘I killed him, too.’ And … a piece of burgundy cloth.”

“It’s not a hoax and it’s not some mystery man. Madame la Tuerie—I mean, Klampert,” said Nathalie. “All of it.”