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Chapter 06 - "Faces"

This time shy young Irène Goudeau, Alex's height, not much more than a teen, with a pale, winsome heart-shaped face, escorted them to the salon for the reception; they were ready when she knocked on their door, Bobby in his navy-blue suit, a deep blue shirt, and a muted navy blue tie, Alex in a navy-blue dress and high heels, with her mother's pearls forming emotional armor, her hair caught up in two barrettes in what Bobby had nicknamed her "Princess Ozma" look. When the knock came, she rubbed the engraved clasp on the silver bracelet that had been her New Year's gift the previous year as if for luck and looked up at him steadily. "Ready, Mr. Prufrock?"

"With you at my side, always," he said, and they followed Irène downstairs. It was, as they realized as they stood within the open glass doors at the foyer side of the salon, as bad as they feared: a sea of inscrutable faces that had nevertheless sized them up in a second and found them wanting, all to meet via introduction by either Madame Pepin or Laurent. The former did so as a perfunctory, almost bored duty, introducing them to cabinet ministers and other government officials as well as industrial moguls simply as "American friends of Marcel's, associated with law enforcement," which gained them several uncomfortable looks from both men and women.

"Makes you wonder what they're hiding," Alex murmured to him at the next opportunity, and he had to duck his head to hide his smile.

Laurent, however, had indeed found more interesting individuals for them to meet, including two journalists, Hélène Vachon, formerly with Le Monde, and Sébastien Anouilh, who had been at "Charlie Hebdo" the day of the 2015 massacre, and Gabriel Denis, a former Police Nationale captain who knew Joachim St.-Clair, the detective who'd discovered that Nicole Wallace was still alive and living in Paris. Laurent had also arranged the seating at dinner so that the Gorens would sit with him and these three individuals, so dinner, as opposed to the ordeal of the reception, would be at least an interesting affair.

When all were assembled, Madame made a short speech in French, then she and Laurent led a toast to Marcel Pepin. Nicole, of course, did not come up in conversation, but neither of them had expected any tribute.

The only troubling event of the evening occurred directly before dinner was announced, when Bobby had excused himself to use the toilet. On the return trip, he was about to turn back into the hall which led to the salon when he spied Madame Pepin and Laurent together talking just around the corner. He halted immediately, then retreated, hoping they hadn't seen him, and pulled out his cell phone, pretending to consult it, but also inclined one ear toward them.

Evidently mother and son were so deep in conversation that neither had spied him, because Laurent was saying urgently in English, "Maman, we simply cannot count on it. You should not have forced Maître Achard to show you the documents after they had been witnessed. That was highly illegal."

Madame Pepin retorted "Putain!", which surprised Bobby—it literally meant "whore" but stood in for a baser English four-letter expletive—and then added more calmly, now in English, "Did you think I wouldn't want to know beforehand so I would not be surprised? I will be in control of what happens at the reading of the will, Laurent."

"You would really go against mon père's wishes? She was also part of his life, and you know what he intended! You accepted it."

"He cared too much," she said scornfully, then there was a pause. "I see you have invited your useless friend from 'Charlie Hebdo' to amuse the Gorens. Laurent, you have not seen that woman he introduced you to again, have you?"

Laurent's sigh was audible. "No, Maman. But I don't understand what you have against Noémie. She is beautiful and accomplished."

Madame Pepin sniffed. "You know your papá and I always preferred Philomène. Also beautiful and accomplished."

Unfortunately the dinner bell rang, so no further discussion was forthcoming; Laurent silently offered his mother his arm and Bobby hastily retreated five steps to the toilet between the breakfast room and the library, thus appearing as if he had just emerged from the facility. He nodded cordially to the pair as they came around the corner, then made his way back to the salon to rejoin Alex and accompany her to the dining room, where they took their assigned places with their backs to the Marc Chagall painting over the fireplace.

The incident tickled the back of his mind as they proceeded through savory courses of chestnut soup, baked monkfish in a herb sauce, grilled lamb chops with potatoes Lyonnaise, green salad with raisins and nuts, and finally a final course of cheeses. Alex kept glancing at him during dinner, since when he was not talking with the reporters and the former police detective, his face had an introspective expression that troubled her. Finally, when the dinner guests began to drift back to the salon one by one for more conversation and champagne, Alex excused them both to Madame, saying they were still tired from their jet flight. The woman nodded dispassionately, and simply returned to her remaining guests, and Alex smoldered quietly until they reached the safety of their room.

"That woman is a stone-cold bitch," she hissed. "I don't care if she just lost her husband! No wonder he was attracted by Nicole. Even as a murderer, she had more life in her and more to offer!"

There was a twinkle in his eye and she added, "Oh, come on, Bobby, don't tell me you don't think the same thing."

"I'd prefer to cuddle with a stone wall," he admitted.

"Now, what's going on?" Alex coaxed. "After you came back to the salon, you had the oddest look on your face."

So Bobby repeated the conversation he'd heard and now his frown was mirrored on Alex's face. "I'm drawing on my high school French here—isn't Maître something to do with lawyers?"

When he nodded, she said in indignation, "Then I take it...she's already seen the will?"

"But of course she would have. You and I know what is in each other's wills. She was probably one of the witnesses."

"Then why Laurent's protests? Why does she mention needing to be in control? And why was Madame referring to Nicole?"

He said slowly, "I don't think she was."

. . . . .

Next morning found them properly dressed for the funeral, Bobby in black with his silver-grey shirt and the tie Alex had chosen before they left Connecticut; Alex looking slight and subdued in a plain black A-line dress with a silver cross marking the hollow of her throat, and black pear-drop earrings rather than the sparkly rhinestone studs she usually affected. A small black clutch holding tissues and lozenges and her silver bracelet completed her ensemble along with the dark-grey hat with a narrow black scarf fitted around the crown to mute the bright grosgrain ribbon. They donned their coats, Bobby took his hat, and they were ready.

Once again Irène escorted them downstairs, and in the sunlit foyer people were milling in and out of the salon's open doors. Coffee and tea were being served, and Alex and Bobby threaded their way into the room to get a cup. People chatted quietly as they sipped and waited for the funeral procession to the church: family, business associates, friends, their adult children. Finished with their coffee, they wandered back toward the foyer where Laurent stood in unrelieved black with an ebony boutonnière, at that moment alone.

"Laurent, where is Mignon?" Alex asked him, puzzled. "I don't see Luisa, either."

He looked shocked. "A small child at a funeral–"

Outrage flooded her body, turning her cheeks scarlet, and she had to restrain the urge to shout, and simply hissed, "The child whose mother is being buried!"

Then she saw color burning Bobby's face and overflowing until it reached the tips of his ears, and his eyes were so fierce she was surprised he didn't spontaneously combust. She hadn't seen him so furious since their penultimate Major Case investigation together, when he finally forced the disdainful wife of a City Alderman to admit that she, not an intruder, had killed her 27-year-old son with Down syndrome because she "couldn't bear looking at his ugly monkey face any longer." But today he only took three quick, decisive cleansing breaths, then stepped in front of Laurent, pulling himself to full height, squaring his shoulders, just his attitude making him larger, slightly feral. "Was Mignon asked if she wanted to attend? If she was, did she say no? If she didn't say no, did you consider she might want to say farewell to her parents?"

Did Laurent see what she did, Alex wondered, the knight who lived in Bobby's heart, doing his best for the unavenged? To her he was standing there shining, the sunbeams penetrating the arched, mullioned transom windows over the double front doors making a halo of the silver hairs at the top of his head, St. George fighting the dragon. Yet Dr. Chaudry would have approved, because he strictly managed his anger, holding Laurent steady in an implacable gaze, the way he had unnerved suspects so long ago.

Laurent turned his eyes away first. "She was not asked."

"Then," Bobby said, his voice lowering in register, "I shall." And he went up the stairs two at the time, vanishing in seconds.

In a few minutes Madame Pepin approached her—in yet another one of her designer mourning gowns, Alex thought resentfully; this one was either a vintage Christian Dior or a superior knockoff—to ask curiously, "Where is Monsieur Goren? We are almost ready to depart."

Alex lifted her chin, locking eyes with her squarely, and she used her Captain Eames voice, the one that could even give Bobby pause. "He will be down shortly. He had something to attend to."

Twelve minutes later, Robert Goren, standing at attention as if he were back in CID, his face smoothed of emotion but his eyes alight with resolve, stepped purposefully down the front stairs with Mignon by the hand. She wore a plain, long-sleeved navy blue dress with a pleated skirt over navy leotards, with black Mary Jane shoes and an ebony headband holding back her honey-colored curls; her recently-scrubbed face was a study of tragedy and awe. The crowd that had been chatting softly minutes earlier suddenly hushed as man and child came into view of everyone gathered in the foyer, then the whispers began and Alex was galvanized into action. As Bobby and Mignon reached the final step, she quickly crossed in front of them so that she was on Mignon's right, taking her free hand as the two gained the parquet floor of the foyer. The little girl stared at her with respect, for Captain Alexandra V. Eames' face dared anyone to cross her.

It was difficult to tell who was angrier, Madame with her flushed face as she watched the crowd check out Mignon, or Alex, who was holding her tongue so hard she might bite it in two. Then Laurent pulled his mother aside, his hands working as he spoke to her softly, and Madame stiffened, then lifted her head gracefully, took his arm, and allowed him to escort her outside.

Alex turned her head slightly to the left and found Bobby looking at her with inexpressible pride. For a moment she flashed on Major Case, and any trial brought to victory by Ron Carver from evidence gathered by their work. This was what they did. They were Goren and Eames and they fought monsters, even benevolent ones with Marc Chagall art and haute cuisine.

Now a tall, slender man almost Bobby's height, gaunt-faced with a mop of Einsteinian white hair, twisting his fingers while looking backward almost fearfully at where Madame had been standing, approached them. He said in formal English with a marked French accent, "I am Thomas Sauveterre, the funeral director. This is Miss Haynes' daughter?"

"Yes, monsieur," Mignon said in a clear voice before either of them could speak. "She is...was my maman."

"And you–" the slender man asked of them.

"Monsieur Robert O. Goren," Bobby said with steel in his voice, "and Madame Alexandra V. Eames. Ma femme."

"You will...escort Mademoiselle–"

"Mignon," was the child's stiff reply. "Mignon Olivia Pepin."

"Oui," said Sauveterre with a nod. "You will ride in the hearse with Miss Haynes?"

Bobby looked at Mignon. She shivered once, then agreed, "Yes, we will ride with Maman."

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