Free The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery by R.W. Wallace Page A

direction. Actually, Louis noted with resignation, they were turned in his direction.
    A tall man with long hair standing at the front of the group spoke above the din of the group. “Well done last night, Louis. The city of Toulouse is lucky to have you back.”
    Louis shook his head at the man. All he’d done last night was get drunk and then get shoved into the canal.
    The journalist must have realized Louis didn’t understand. He pulled an iPad out of his bag and found what he was looking for. He turned the screen toward Louis. The blaring sun made it difficult to make out much detail, but he recognized the Canal de Brienne seen from the road above and made out quite clearly one figure standing alone, facing off a group of seven men, a finger pointed out in accusation. His drunken stand-down with the arguing idiots from last night. Those girls had taken photos.
    “We’re happy to see the Saint-Blancat family still standing strong,” the long-haired man said. “What was the argument about?” He turned his microphone in Louis’s direction and all the other journalists followed suit.
    Louis turned to his sister, who was clearly still scheming. She eyed the picture the journalist was holding up, then Louis. Louis didn’t want to answer the question; repeating what was said last night wouldn’t do anyone any good, least of all Toulouse. In any case, he was too hung over to produce any viable sentences. When Audrey got the message, she smiled and put a hand on his shoulder.
    “What the argument was about is not important,” she said, drawing all the microphones and cameras in her direction again. “The important thing is that, as you observed, Marc”—she nodded to the guy with the iPad—“the Saint-Blancat family is still here to serve Toulouse. I am still a very active member at the Republican Party and my brother is one hundred percent behind me.”
    That should teach me to let my sister talk for me. Louis closed his eyes and prayed the torment would be over soon.
     

 
    Nine
    Catherine ambled past Arnaud’s desk, trying to make out the details of the article he was working on. The police held a press conference the day before and Audrey Saint-Blancat had attached herself to it, promoting her own work within the Republican Party. Apparently, even her brother Louis made an appearance, though a rather dirty and rugged one.
    She saw nothing on Arnaud’s screen; only his mail was open. Catherine shook her head. One stupid joke and she was off the hottest subject in months. Trying to find a way to persuade her boss she could be trusted, she had tossed around all night. All she had to show for it were dark circles under her eyes and a perpetual yawn. At the mere thought, her jaw strained and she covered her mouth.
    As she sat down at her desk, her gaze fixed on a large brown envelope sitting alone on her clean desk. It was addressed to her personally. She flipped it over, finding no return address. Catherine pushed her handbag under her desk and used a ballpoint pen to rip the thing open in her usual messy fashion.
    The envelope contained two letter-sized pictures. She pulled the first one out and stared. It showed a naked woman reclined in a position Catherine associated with rich and lazy Romans from Caesar’s time. Her body looked perfectly relaxed, but her expression was one of profound horror. Her mouth was wide open and neck extended, as if she was reaching for air.
    Catherine noticed the background of the photo. She recognized the ice-cream stand from the Galerue in front of the Capitole. No, it couldn’t be… She tore out the second photograph. And there he was. The deceased mayor, Pierre Saint-Blancat, also naked and prostrate in front of the reclined woman, a hand extended toward her. Like a Muslim during prayer , Catherine remembered the prostitute said, except he’s facing the wrong direction .
    Catherine’s heart rate doubled. She looked around the open-space office, but nobody paid her any