22

David Navarre was curled on the floor like a fetus. Crouched beside him, Dr. Molinier was trying to console the actor with tissues, a glass of water, even whiskey.

“David, you must be strong,” Molinier said softly as he stroked the sobbing man’s hair. He had come to the estate to deliver the news: Simone had died at six fifty-three that morning. Her body was lying in the basement of the Institut médico-légal, in locker No. 7, waiting for someone to claim it.

The sight didn’t surprise Benjamin. David, the likable yet self-absorbed actor, hadn’t gathered the courage to go to his lover’s bedside. For most of her absence, he had chosen to stay at the estate and drink himself senseless. Now that Simone was gone, he was writhing on the floor, cursing himself.

“She was getting better! How could she leave me this way?” Tears streamed down David’s face. “I should have been there! And I should have stopped that bastard director. I let her down when I should have been by her side through everything.”

Benjamin walked over to the two men and put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. The touch startled Molinier.

“Oh, Mr. Cooker, thank you for coming so quickly.”

“What happened?” Benjamin asked. “I thought Simone was coming out of her coma.”

“She was. But then she went into respiratory arrest. They did everything, but they couldn’t revive her.”

What a tragedy. Benjamin thought. He felt a wave of compassion for David. He had failed Simone. Still, he had loved her.

“He’s drunk,” the doctor said. “Would you help me get him on the couch?”

Benjamin and Molinier tried twice to pick up the actor, but hoisting eighty-two kilos of limp despair was nearly impossible.

David howled and curled up on the floor again. “I should have confronted that SOB Armond. Simone was right for wanting to sue the weasel. We would have sucked every euro out of him!” Then, a moment later: “She’s a bitch for leaving me! I don’t deserve it!”

“I just gave him an injection. It should take effect pretty soon,” Molinier said.

Benjamin crouched alongside Molinier, who was stroking the actor’s hair again.

“Sleep, David, sleep.”

A few minutes later, he was babbling. The winemaker and the doctor waited a moment longer.

“There, he’s asleep,” Molinier murmured, rising to his feet.

“Will there be an autopsy?” Benjamin asked.

“At present, I can’t tell you. She was teetering between life and death for some time, and in cases such as this one, a reversal isn’t uncommon. I’ll know more after I speak with her attending.”

Benjamin nodded. “If there’s an autopsy, please forward the results.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the doctor answered, tucking a pillow under David’s head “We did get the results of the rape kit. Simone wasn’t sexually assaulted. Maybe when David’s calmer, he’ll take comfort in that.”

“But now homicide appears to be the more likely intent, although we can’t rule out a thwarted rape. David won’t take any comfort in that.”

“You have a point.”

The two men watched silently as David’s chest rose and fell with each breath. He was snoring.

Benjamin turned back to Molinier. “I have another request. Could you have this analyzed and tell me what it is?” He handed over Lee’s capsule.

Molinier examined it. “I can’t tell by looking at it. May I ask why you want it analyzed?”

“Let’s just say I’m curious.”

The doctor slipped the capsule into the right pocket of his jacket. Molinier looked back at David and shook his head. “I had no choice but to come and tell him about Simone. I tried to break it to him gently, but he had already drunk a bottle of whiskey.”

“There’s no reason for you to blame yourself, doctor. Moments like this are extremely difficult, especially after your hopes have been raised.”

“At least I could tell him she died quietly, Mr. Cooker. There was no need to use a defibrillator. It’s often a lifesaving piece of equipment, but it’s violent. Simone just stopped breathing and slipped away.” Molinier pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his eyes.

“Here one moment, gone the next,” Benjamin thought as he watched the doctor fold his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. “Not unlike the way she lived.”