not a man you’ve only kissed once in your life. Not to mention one you met only twenty-four hours ago.
Still, she couldn’t seem to shake the memory of those moments in the garden at Chetwynd. Nor could she forget the taste of his lips. She watched him pour himself a glass of wine, watched him raise the glass to sip. Again, their eyes met, this time over the gleam of ruby liquid. She licked her own lips and savored the aftertaste of Burgundy.
“So what brings you to Paris?” she asked, raising her glass.
“Claude, as a matter of fact.” He tilted his head at Daumier.
At Beryl’s questioning look, Daumier said, “When I heard my old friend Richard was in London, I thought why not consult him? Since he is an authority on the subject.”
“The St. Pierre bombing,” Richard explained. “Some group no one’s ever heard of is claiming responsibility. Claude thought perhaps I’d be able to shed some light on their identity. For years I’ve been tracking every reported terrorist organization there is.”
“And did you shed some light?” asked Jordan.
“Afraid not,” he admitted. “Cosmic Solidarity doesn’t show up on my computer.” He took another sip of wine, and his gaze locked with hers. “But the trip isn’t entirely wasted,” he added, “since I discover you’re in Paris, as well.”
“Strictly business,” said Beryl. “With no time for pleasure.”
“None at all?”
“None,” she said flatly. She pointedly turned her attention to Daumier. “My uncle did call you, didn’t he? About why we’re here?”
The Frenchman nodded. “I understand you have both read the file.”
“Cover to cover,” said Jordan.
“Then you know the evidence. I myself confirmed the witness statements, the coroner’s findings—”
“The coroner could have misinterpreted the facts,” Jordan asserted.
“I myself saw their bodies in the garret. It was not something I am likely to forget.” Daumier paused as though shaken by the memory. “Your mother died of three bullet wounds to the chest. Lying beside her was Bernard, a single bullet in his head. The gun had his fingerprints. There were no witnesses, no other suspects.” Daumier shook his head. “The evidence speaks for itself.”
“But where’s the motive?” said Beryl. “Why would he kill someone he loved?”
“Perhaps that is the motive,” said Daumier. “Love. Or loss of love. She may have found someone else—”
“That’s impossible,” Beryl objected vehemently. “She loved him.”
Daumier looked down at his wineglass. He said quietly, “You have not yet read the police interview with the landlord, M. Rideau?”
Beryl and Jordan looked at him in puzzlement. “Rideau? I don’t recall seeing that interview in the file,” said Jordan.
“Only because I chose to exclude it when I sent the file to Hugh. It was a…matter of discretion.”
Discretion, thought Beryl. Meaning he was trying to hide some embarrassing fact.
“The attic flat where their bodies were found,” said Daumier, “was rented out to a Mlle Scarlatti. According to the landlord, Rideau, this Scarlatti woman used the flat once or twice a week. And only for the purpose of…” He paused delicately.
“Meeting a lover?” Jordan said bluntly.
Daumier nodded. “After the shooting, the landlord was asked to identify the bodies. Rideau told the police that the woman he called Mlle Scarlatti was the same one found dead in the garret. Your mother.”
Beryl stared at him in shock. “You’re saying my mother met a lover there?”
“It was the landlord’s testimony.”
“Then we’ll have to talk face-to-face with this landlord.”
“Not possible,” said Daumier. “The building has been sold several times over. M. Rideau has left the country. I do not know where he is.”
Beryl and Jordan sat in stunned silence. So that was Daumier’s theory, thought Beryl. That her mother had a lover. Once or twice a week she would meet him in that attic flat on Rue Myrha. And then her father found out. So he killed her. And then he killed himself.
She looked up at Richard and saw the flicker of sympathy in his eyes. He believes it, too, she thought. Suddenly she resented him simply for being here, for hearing the most shameful secret of her family.
They heard a soft beeping. Daumier reached under his jacket and frowned at his pocket pager. “I am afraid I will have to leave,” he said.
“What about that classified file?” asked Jordan. “You haven’t said anything about Delphi.”
“We’ll speak of it later. This bombing, you understand—it is a crisis situation.” Daumier slid out of the booth and picked up his briefcase. “Perhaps tomorrow? In the meantime, try to enjoy your stay in Paris, all of you. Oh, and if you dine here, I would recommend the duckling. It is excellent.” With a nod of farewell, he turned and swiftly walked out of the restaurant.
“We just got the royal runaround,” muttered Jordan in frustration. “He drops a bomb in our laps, then he scurries for cover, never answering our questions.”
“I think that was his plan from the start,” said Beryl. “Tell us something so horrifying, we’ll be afraid to pursue it. Then our questions will stop.” She looked at Richard. “Am I right?”
He met her gaze without wavering. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because you two obviously know each other well. Is this the way Daumier usually operates?”
“Claude’s not one to spill secrets. But he also believes in helping out old friends, and your uncle Hugh’s a good friend of his. I’m sure Claude’s keeping your best interests at heart.”
Old friends, thought Beryl. Daumier and Uncle Hugh and Richard Wolf—all of them linked together by some shadowy past, a past they would not talk about. This was how it had been, growing up at Chetwynd. Mysterious men in limousines dropping in to visit Hugh. Sometimes Beryl would hear snatches of conversation, would pick up whispered names whose significance she could only guess at. Yurchenko. Andropov. Baghdad. Berlin. She had learned long ago not to ask questions, never to expect answers. “Not something to bother your pretty head about,” Hugh would tell her.
This time, she wouldn’t be put off. This time she demanded answers.
The waiter came to the table with the menus. Beryl shook her head. “We won’t be staying,” she said.
“You’re not interested in supper?” asked Richard. “Claude says it’s an excellent restaurant.”
“Did Claude ask you to show up?” she demanded. “Keep us well fed and entertained
