Murder in Pigalle Read Free

once.
    “Don’t I remember,” said Virginie.
    Warm air rippled in from the street, and a dog barked outside the open door. Aimée caught Virginie’s eye. “Can we talk before Zazie gets back? It’s important.”
    “Zazie’s late.”
    Aimée felt a prickling up her spine.
    One of the flushed-faced World Cup fans walked up to pay.
    “
Verez
,” Virginie said. “Do me a favor and make two
cafés crèmes
for those ladies down the counter? And help yourself to an
express.
”
    “
Pas de problème
,” she said. Not the first time she’d barista’d. She whacked the grinds out from the stainless steel, frothed the milk with a whoosh and dolloped foam. The steaming brown–black liquid dripped
serré
, double strength, for her.
    Sipping her
express décaféiné
, she followed Virginie behind the zinc counter to the unventilated back kitchen. Steaming heat came from the stove. “You’re working by yourself tonight?” Aimée asked.
    “Pierre’s gone for more wine, the baby’s with my niece.” Virginie wiped her face with a towel, reached for a tray. “This World Cup makes for booming business. We’re run off our feet. Pierre’s brother’s supposed to help.” Virginie sighed. “Don’t know why I gave in and let Zazie use his phone when she won’t answer it.”
    Zazie wasn’t answering her phone? Aimée made herself take a deep breath. There could be a reasonable explanation. Not the horrific one her mind jumped to. “
Dites-moi
, how late is she?”
    “An hour.” Virginie glanced at the wall clock. “More. Not like her with exams coming up. She’ll have to answer to her father now.”
    All Aimée could think was that Zazie had gone to surveil the bar again. She was underage, but she would somehow talk her way in. Or watch this “rapist” she thought she’d tracked down from the street.
    Aimée pulled out her phone, scrolled to the number she’d entered for Zazie. “Let me try her.”
    No answer.
    “She could be in the Métro and have no service. Stuck in a—” She caught herself before she said dead zone.
    Virginie blinked. A momentary stillness settled over herand then she grabbed Aimée’s arms. Irritation mixed with fear in her eyes. “She’s told you about Mélanie’s assault, hasn’t she? Her silly plan. I forbade her to get involved.”
    “That’s why I wanted to talk.”
    “She said she was going to study with Sylvaine tonight.” Virginie emanated an almost palpable tension. “It sounded perfectly safe, but now she’s so late and not answering her phone …”
    This feeling piercing Aimée’s gut told her Zazie had another agenda. Calm, she had to stay calm for Virginie. “Do you know Sylvaine’s number?”
    Footsteps and someone entered the café. Hope and anger fluttered in Virginie’s eyes. “There she is. About time.”
    But it was Pierre, her husband, wiping his forehead with a bandana and pushing a dolly loaded with wine cases. “Zazie’s still not here? Tables five and six want to order. Number seven needs their bill.”
    On the board above the sink Virginie took down the business card of a cheese shop on rue de Rochechouart. “Sylvaine’s family run this shop and live above it. I’ll call them.”
    “Does Sylvaine have a cell phone, like Zazie?”
    “Impossible. Georges, her father, is old-fashioned.” Pierre winked.
    “And
très religeux
—the whole family is,” Virginie said. “That’s why Pierre thinks Sylvaine’s a good influence on Zazie.”
    Aimée wiped her perspiring brow, wishing for a whisper of air in the hot kitchen. Standing next to Virginie, she listened to the ringing and ringing. “
Zut
, they won’t answer this late …”
    But Aimée heard a click. Muffled sounds. “
Allô
, Georges, it’s Virginie,” she said. “What? Say that again.” A whisper of fear went up Aimée’s neck. “An ambulance?”
    Virginie dropped the receiver into the sink. Time slowed for Aimée as an explosion of Persil soap suds and