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Chapter 04 - "Morning"

"Why, Bobby Goren, what are you doing here...as you Americans would say, 'in my neck of the woods'?"

He had been drifting dreamily in a sea of lavender, along with Alex's own lilac-tinged, unique scent when suddenly his eyes opened and Nicole Wallace smiled at him.

Oh, it was her voice, with her distinct Australian pronunciation of his first name, but the face shimmering before him was from two decades earlier, the one he and Alex first knew as "Elizabeth Hitchens," her challenging, cocky visage observing him from a college instructor's desk. A dream, then.

"You're dead, Nicole," he said firmly.

"Well, that may be so," she said coquettishly, "but I don't see that as any reason for not carrying on a conversation with you."

"Go away," he said, closing his eyes.

Then her voice echoed an admonition from the past: "Don't think for a second that this is the end of us, Bobby."

Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tapa-tap. TAP-TAP-TAP.

Bobby awoke fully to a discreet knocking on the door. Odd—he'd thought he'd merely been dozing, slitting his eyes open occasionally in the half-light of the bedroom to watch Alex with her nose half-buried in the pillow before his eyes shuttered again, but, judging by the odd dream, he'd fallen into REM sleep instead.

What would have happened next, he wondered, if the knock had not come?

"Yes?" he answered aloud.

"Monsieur Goren, it is nine o'clock. Breakfast will be served at ten. Madame has instructed me to return just before ten to escort both of you to the dining room."

He thanked her—certainly it couldn't be Christine Duchon from earlier that morning; this woman had a Haitian accent as well as a higher-pitched voice, and he would expect Duchon to be off-duty by now—then brushed errant wisps of hair from Alex' face.

"I heard her," Alex said matter-of-factly, not opening her eyes. "So we've been summoned by the Dragon Lady herself?"

He chuckled. "She doesn't know you hold grudges."

"We don't have to 'dress' for this breakfast, I hope," she grumbled, pushing back the covers.

"I don't intend to, although technically I will be 'dressed.'"

She understood perfectly—since Bobby prepared the majority of their meals, his being 'dressed for breakfast' usually meant him cooking in the rattiest of his t-shirts and pajama pants in case of food spills. Breakfast at Maison Duplantier would require a more dapper turnout.

They rushed through usual morning routines to be ready for their escort's return, but by the time the servant—Alex fretted about having to use the term, but "maid" sounded, to her, even worse—arrived, she wore a long-sleeved bottle-green cotton blouse and navy-blue skirt, shod in comfortable flats; he was dressed in an open-collared button-down grey shirt and darker grey trousers and his ubiquitous Dr. Martens. She did a final check of her makeup, examining herself in the full-length mirror between the door and the attractive writing desk where some Parisian postcards, stamps, and a pen had been provided.

"You're not going to let a family of enormously wealthy French businesspeople intimidate you, are you, Eames?" he teased, and her cynical expression made him laugh and at the same time told him everything he needed.

Their escort at the door, a petite, tawny-skinned young woman with long black hair captured in a snood, wore an A-line pink dress with a white Peter Pan collar—based on the appearance of Christine Duchon the previous night, this appeared to be the official uniform of the female workers of the household. She cheerfully bid them good morning, then escorted them down two flights of stairs, telling them the weather report for the day (partially cloudy with a high of 14C) and chatting about some of the paintings they passed on the stairwells.

In the brighter lights illuminating the home for the daytime hours, they could now clearly see the restrained but costly decor throughout the residence; no Victorian or Empire excesses as might have been used in such an older estate—instead, the corridors as well as the stairways were papered in a conservative satin buff offset with polished white chair rails and crown molding, and on the walls and on narrow, clean-lined display tables, a scattering of classic artworks and modern sculpture spoke of wealth yet moderation.

At the very end of the first-floor corridor along the south wing of the house, they entered a long, spacious dining room painted a rich forest green with the white wainscoting making the color pop. A large fireplace with a surround of Portoro marble, glossy black shot with gold veins and white filaments, was centered on the opposite wall with an abstract still life hung over it, and Bobby's eyes widened slightly when he saw the painting. The walls held yet more food-themed arrangements, including one he could identify as a Paul Cezanne, all presumably original artworks. Dominating the room was a long ebony dining table of a more traditional style, capable of seating two dozen people, centered with a twisted sterling silver candelabra on a runner of hand-worked Belgian bobbin lace.

However, only two people stood to greet them at the head of the table, a tall dark-haired man in his very late 20s dressed in a black-moire silk shirt open at the collar, sleekly creased black trousers, and highly-polished black Testoni oxfords, and Alex's "Dragon Lady" herself, Madame Pepin, looking much the same as in the two-year-old studio portrait that had been included in their dossier file, sleek and catlike in a black dress appropriate for mourning (and cocktails, thought Alex cynically) accented with a jet choker, dark stockings, and black pumps which wouldn't have been strangers to classic film stars.

"Good morning, Monsieur et Madame Goren," she said with a little nod of her head, walking forward to extend her hand. "I am Evangeline Pepin, and this is my son Laurent."

"Please call me Robert," Bobby said, still distracted by the artwork over the fireplace.

"And Alexandra, please," she requested as they shook hands.

"And excuse me if this is the first thing I ask," Bobby added, awed, "but—the painting...over the fireplace...that is a Marc Chagall, correct?"

"Ah, you are a...fan? Yes, that is Nature morte."

"It's beautiful," he said in hushed tones. "After breakfast, if it's permitted, I would like to have a closer look."

"Of course," Madame said, as if that were the only fit answer, then directed him to the seat next to hers. Alex reached for her own chair, only to find Laurent holding it out for her. "Thank you," she said in a soft voice.

"Do you also enjoy Chagall, Alexandra?" he asked.

"I like certain pieces of his religious art," she said with a smile, "but I'm afraid I'm much more mundane and the impressionists are my favorites," then she lightly pushed at Bobby's foot when she saw the swift flash of his eyes that showed her that he still remembered their case with Sylvia Moon.

"You must see our Manet, then," Madame said graciously. "It is in...Marcel's study."

They both heard the hitch in her voice and Alex added gently, "We were so sorry to hear about your husband, Madame. He visited our home last year and we enjoyed talking with him. A very warm, friendly gentleman. And the wine he gave to us as a gift was quite generous and tasted exquisite."

Bobby said mildly, "Yes, we opened it back in December to celebrate the arrival of the advance copies of Alex's book."

Now Laurent's attention had been piqued. He was extraordinarily handsome, reminding Alex somewhat of the 1960s film star Jean-Pierre Aumont, but with sapphire eyes which contrasted strikingly with his nearly black hair. "You have published a book, Madame?"

"We both did," Alex said. "Mine is about my career with the NYPD. Bobby wrote a short memoir about his childhood growing up with books. But neither is actually released yet. The original release was supposed to be mid-January, but at the last minute the publisher decided that a spring date would be better. That will be in four weeks, and we'll be on a book tour soon afterward."

"They've chartered a tour bus for us," Bobby chuckled.

Laurent relaxed in his chair, amused. "So you will tour like a rock band, no?"

Alex quipped, "Just like Springsteen."

"I was told you worked together as police officers, is that true?" Laurent continued.

"Police detectives," Bobby corrected, "in New York City, but that was a dozen years ago. The Major Case squad. Alex later worked as a Homeland Security liaison and finally became captain of the unit before retiring."

"And you," Madame said speculatively to Bobby, "went on to become an operative for the FBI and are now, as well, retired."

"Yes, Madame," he nodded while Alex kept her counsel. Sometimes even she didn't understand Bobby's status with the FBI, but had long ceased to care. The work kept him content and grounded, even at its most unpleasant.

A bell tinkled and they watched as a server who had been standing quietly at the far end of the room open the slide to a dumbwaiter, after which the welcome scent of warm bread and hot cafe au lait enveloped them. Someone in the kitchen evidently was either looking out for American tastes or Madame didn't subscribe to what Alex had read was a typical light French breakfast, for selections included croissants as well as tartines (portions of French bread), scrambled eggs with herbs, wholemeal toast, oranges peeled and sliced, pats of butter like fallen dominos on a plate, and strawberry and blueberry jams in cut-glass bowls. Alex breathed in the fragrant cafe au lait happily. They were asked to serve themselves first, but instead waited until their hosts had obtained their own portions before taking a turn.

When some minutes had passed and their initial appetites were satisfied, Madame said pleasantly, "After breakfast, Laurent and I will give you a short tour of the house, followed by a tour of the city—the usual landmarks and any requests. Laurent will be your escort for the latter as I have Duplantix business to attend."

"Thank you, Madame Pepin. We will very much enjoy it," Bobby said graciously, "but if we could also–"

"Yes?" she asked, one eyebrow arched.

"We would like to see Mignon, please," Alex said, politely but firmly.

They both spotted the momentary black look which crossed the older woman's face and Laurent arched his eyebrows curiously, but Alex noticed a touch of a smile as well.

"Mignon is currently in the nursery working at her studies since she was temporarily withdrawn from school," Madame said steadily. "Marcel was always quite firm about her schoolwork being completed on time. Luisa is supervising her as always; visitors will only be a distraction. Perhaps this evening, before dinner, you could have a few moments–"

Alex responded with a tact she had to force upon herself. "Surely she can take a short recess to say hello to us? We're old friends."

"We met her last year," Bobby continued, seeing Alex's lips set in a tight line. "She's a good deal like your late husband, Madame. So bright and articulate, and very intent on her schoolwork. When we first met her, she was identifying flowers for a school project. You could tell what a positive influence he had been on her."

Why, Bobby Goren, Alex thought to herself, still serving snow jobs after all these years!

And indeed Madame looked slightly mollified, even flattered. "Very well, Robert. I will give you and Alexandra a short tour around the house, then Laurent will take you to visit the child."

When breakfast ended, Bobby had his fill admiring the Chagall painting. Next they strolled the rooms on the main floor: the smaller, less imposing breakfast room next door, with a folding connecting wall so it could be merged with the huge dining room for even larger dinner parties; the small old-fashioned wood-paneled library lined with filled bookshelves rising to the high ceilings that made a wistful expression cross Bobby's face, the whole furnished with sturdy Morris chairs and Napoleonic-themed objets de art; the very formal family living room that gave Alex the shudders with a flashback of an aunt's plastic-covered sofas and "don't touch" side tables; Marcel Pepin's tidy study with yet more shelves crammed tight with books and a handsome inlaid, dark-paneled captain's desk, where Alex could admire the Manet to her heart's content; then into the more feminine morning room in unrelieved pink and leaf green, with a rose theme throughout.

"This is Maman's domain," Laurent said as Madame smiled at him indulgently, sweeping his hand to the custom dark green filing cabinets and oak-finished wooden barristers' bookcases. "Much of her work for Duplantix is done here."

The room was dominated by a modern wooden executive desk with a floating top and carved sides, perched on thin metal legs. Her desk accessories were of sleek green metal save for the pen holder, where Mont Blanc pens were shown off to fine advantage in a square, swirled pink and green stained-glass cup, the desk kept immaculate, a leather executive chair completing the workspace. Alex had to grin at the one personal touch: three small photos of the Pepin children lined up at the edge of the desk. There was a square-faced little boy with blond-brown hair against a nursery rhyme background, an oval-faced little girl with a bright blue bow in her cinnamon-brown hair sitting in a miniature ladderback chair, and finally the third, a mischievous-faced boy with sun-lightened dark hair clapping his hands before him. "Is this you, Laurent?"

He laughed. "Yes, that was one day in Nice. Such a silly face I had back then. I was age one at the time, I believe. Yves is also age one in his photo, and Stéphie about fourteen months. Now come see some real art."

Madame proudly escorted them through the large L-shaped salon hung with contemporary art, including a Jackson Pollock, an Andy Warhol, and, to Bobby's amusement, a Lucien Freud piece at which Alex quirked her lips. Eventually Madame excused herself to retire to the morning room.

Once she'd departed, Laurent said more seriously, "Maman simply will not bend about Mignon."

"As a woman, I can understand her feelings toward another woman who was an interloper," Alex answered soberly.

"But it's hardly Mignon's fault," Bobby added, troubled, his eyes dark. Even casual indifference to children infuriated him, and Alex was grateful he was holding his resentment in check, since it had been difficult to control her own feelings at Madame's remark about Mignon's studies. "She's such a bright child, surely she knows she's unwanted and ignored."

"I do not ignore her," Laurent answered with slight indignation. "I have escorted her and Luisa on sightseeing trips and shopping expeditions many a time. And what a child for museums! Not just the art museums, like some young ladies, but our science and industry museum, and the natural history museum as well. And bookstores. No jeux vidéo...video games or dolls for our Mignon! I have never seen a child her age so crazy for books."

Alex saw Bobby glance at her and knew he could read her face plainly: Nicole taught her well.

"Madeleine," Bobby said, referring to the name Nicole Wallace had chosen for herself once she moved to Paris, "was an instructor of literature, after all. She instilled a love of books and learning into Mignon."

"That is true," Laurent admitted.

Then he led them upstairs, showing them first the north wing where the majority of the family rooms were. The house was U-shaped, with rooms opening on one side of the main corridor and oversize windows overlooking the central garden on the opposite side. "I wanted you to know a little of the schedule for this week. Tonight there is a formal reception and dinner party in tribute to Papá. Most of the guests are, of course, government associates of his, or business associates of Maman and mine. When I saw the guest list I thought it would be trop ennuyeux...too dull for you both, so I 'slipped in,' as you might say, a few people you may find more interesting—and so will I! Tomorrow is Papá's funeral—and Madeleine's, of course," he said hastily, Nicole as an afterthought.

"Next there are two free days in which you may take advantage of the sightseeing, as it would be a shame to have you fly here and not see some of la Belle France. On the sixteenth Papa's will shall be read, and you will depart on the seventeenth."

Alex glanced at her Fitbit to make certain she wasn't mistaken about the date. "His will is being read on a Sunday?"

"Maman would not have time taken away from Duplantix business," Laurent said almost primly, then paused briefly to turn away to raise one of the custom-made dark green window shades with their old-fashioned pull cords, at which time Alex shot Bobby an almost incredulous glance.

"The garden is not yet beautiful at this time of the year," he said regretfully, but they could still appreciate its classic lines. Paved slate walks in a Celtic pattern cut through the plot, the flower beds within the walkways still dormant, a still-bare overhanging arbor at either end. "Those are Maman's pet roses. She's very particular about them. It's a pity you couldn't be here in June when they bloom. She has all colors and rare breeds, including Gallicas."

Finally, he shepherded them to the end of the south wing corridor and a set of double doors. "Here is the little mademoiselle's domain. Papá saw to it that Mignon and her nanny had their own little suite, here where it is private."

Alex thought resentfully, Near the servants' stairway on the opposite side of the house, where Madame will not have to deal with either of them.

"Laurent," Bobby said quickly, stopping him from knocking, "I...was reluctant to ask your mother, but...why exactly are we here? We're strangers to you and Madame."

Laurent blinked mild eyes at him. "Were you not told? You are here for the reading of the will."

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