Free Murder in Passy by Cara Black Page B

the parlor, then, s’il vous plaît .”
    Humor her, Aimée thought: she might know a detail, might have noticed something over the past few days. Aimée scooped up the rustling, yellowed newspapers and followed Madame de Boucher.
    The cracked leather-bound volumes filling a wall of bookshelves and worn, brocaded Louis chairs couldn’t mask the faded charm of the nineteenth-century parlor. A chandelier with missing crystals cast a dim glow on the high-ceilinged, carved-wood boiseries bordering the cream wood-paneled walls and dried flower arrangements under glass globes.
    She felt like she’d entered a Proust novel. Except for the chrome high-tech medic alert remote-control device and the blue-and-yellow-plumed singing parrot perched near a matching cloisonné vase on a claw-footed table.
    “Hector’s particular, you know,” Madame said, pointing to the dirty wire cage.
    The parrot’s repetitive singing grated on Aimée’s ears. She set the gâteau Basque down on the table.
    “He’s my companion of twenty-five years now,” she said.
    Aimée’s nose crinkled as she pulled out the birdcage tray clumped with bird feces dotted with feather fluff. Slants of light from the window lit the faded Turkish carpet, turning it a dull red, reminding her of old blood.
    She changed the newspaper lining and jerked her chin toward the window. “What a wonderful view over the garden.” She paused, pretending to put it together. “That’s Xavierre’s garden, non ?”
    “They use it like a parking lot these days. Disgusting.”
    Aimée nodded. “Of course you notice the comings and goings. How can you miss seeing, eh? Especially last night, Irati’s big party, the noise, guests.… ”
    “My stupid cousin widened the gate. In my grandfather’s time it was just wide enough for a fiacre. ”
    A horse-drawn carriage from the last century.
    “Nowadays they’re garages,” she continued.
    “I suppose you knew Madame Xavierre?”
    “What’s it to you?” The old woman bristled, her tone changed.
    Bad tactic. “Madame, I’m—”
    “Snooping and asking questions, like they did,” Madame de Boucher interrupted.
    Aimée’s ears perked up. The parrot’s tone shrilled. She shoved the clean newspaper-lined tray back inside the cage and tried not to sneeze. If only the damned bird would shut up.
    “Who do you mean, Madame?”
    “I told them nothing, you understand. Like always.”
    “But weren’t you worried? Upset? Your neighbor’s murdered in her garden almost outside your window?” She tried to keep her voice level.
    “ Et alors, I heard nothing.” Madame de Boucher’s mouth tightened.
    “Help me understand the timeline, Madame,” she said. “The report places the murder at seven forty-five. A Mercedes pulled out of that driveway minutes later. Did you hear—”
    “The Bomb could drop while I listen to my program on Radio Classique and I wouldn’t hear it,” Madame de Boucher interrupted. “I knew the poor woman to say ‘Bonjour’ in the morning, that’s all.”
    Disappointed, Aimée knew she needed to change tactics. This woman, who’d lived here eighty years, had to know something. And didn’t like the flics.
    “But it’s a person like you, Madame, who knows the quartier , the rhythm of life here, who can help me the most.” She smiled, determined to ingratiate herself. “So quiet and peaceful here.”
    Madame de Boucher snorted. “C’est un village ici.”
    Aimée nodded. “ Bien sûr. Maybe you noticed a person you hadn’t seen before in the past few days?”
    Madame de Boucher guided Hector, now perched on her ebony stick, into the cleaned cage. With one hand she covered the cage with a black flannel cloth, and the parrot quieted at once. She sighed, sinking into the armchair brocaded with fleurs-de-lis, setting her stick against the armrest.
    “A detective?” said Madame de Boucher, her eyes hooded with suspicion, glaring at Aimée’s suit. “Since when do the flics wear couture? Or do