informed about the recent developments around Clothilde’s case?” Doubira asks as they reach the door.
This house was clearly built for toplofty people. The door towers at least a head over Doubira and he’s not exactly short. The wood is polished to a shine and intricate carvings of what seem to be hunting scenes run along all four edges. A modern doorbell appears slightly out of place to one side of the door—the not-so-modern one hanging above it was probably installed when the house was built. It’s a metal knocker, shaped like a bell, and with no less than three sparrows frozen in song on top. A chain hangs down at shoulder level, inviting anyone who dares to ring it.
Evian seems tempted to pull on the chain but finally opts for the modern version. Very faintly, we hear a gong going off inside the house.
“Well, we didn’t tell her,” Evian replies to Doubira. “We only went through the uncle. He was the one who was listed as next of kin and had all the necessary paperwork in order to allow the exhumation.”
She assumes her usual parade rest position, squaring her shoulders. “Even though we found de Villenouvelle’s DNA on her body, I don’t think the link to that case has been made official yet. The press doesn’t know about it.” She meets Doubira’s gaze. “She might not know anything has been going on with her sister at all if Klein didn’t tell her.”
Doubira nods and swallows as he eyes the solid door in front of him. “So how do you want to play this? How much do we tell her?”
“Nothing,” Clothilde says, right into Evian’s ear. “You tell her nothing. Not until you get enough information out of her to understand why she’s betrayed me like this.”
I gently pull Clothilde away from Evian. “Let her do her job, Clothilde. This isn’t the time to distract the captain.”
A frisson runs through Evian’s body, but her expression doesn’t change. She’s getting used to our interventions. “We’ll keep our cards close to our chests for the moment,” she says. “Just follow my lead on what we tell her, all right?” She pauses a second, then adds, “No lying, though. Omitting some details is okay, but not downright lying.”
Doubira nods and is about to reply when a loud clank sounds and the right-hand side of the doors starts to swing inward.
A woman in her sixties appears on the other side. She’s neither skinny nor overweight, stands a little shorter than Evian in her black flat-soled shoes, tan trousers and pink pastel blouse, and has shoulder-length dark brown hair with bangs. I don’t think I’m taking much of a risk by claiming the color came out of a bottle. Her only adornment is a golden necklace, with what I think is the medallion for some saint.
Clothilde is completely frozen next to me, so I assume this is Joséphine. I don’t see the resemblance, though. Sure, they have approximately the same color hair, but so does half the population in this part of the country. They’re close to the same height. And I guess the eyes are similar. It’s difficult to tell for sure since I’ve never seen Clothilde’s eyes other than in hues of gray as a ghost. They could be the same green as Joséphine’s.
But the look in those eyes, and the way the woman holds herself straight and proper with not a hair out of place, is nothing like my Clothilde.
“This is your sister?” I have to ask.
Her nod is so slight I can barely see it.
“Was she always like this?”
Clothilde’s eyes never leave her sister. “Like she’s got a stick up her ass and considers herself above anybody else, you mean? No.” Worry lines appear on her forehead and her lips thin into a line. “No, she wasn’t always like this. She was nothing like this.”
Once the door is open, Evian introduces herself and then Doubira.
Joséphine shows no reaction to finding two police officers at her door, only waits politely for them to state their business.
“We’re working on an old case that concerns your sister, Clothilde Humbert,” Evian says. “Would you be willing to answer some of our questions? We’re looking to understand what Clothilde’s life was like in the last years of her life.”
At the mention of answering questions, Joséphine visibly reacts. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her back straightens even more. Then, when Evian explains about learning about Clothilde’s life, she relaxes back to her original position.
“She immediately assumed they were going to accuse her of something surrounding your death,” I say.
I’m shocked at this discovery, but my reaction has nothing on Clothilde’s.
Her entire body flickers, like it can sometimes do with ghosts going through very strong emotions, and for a second or two, I see her as a girl of no more than ten or eleven, eyes wide with fear and hurt.
Then she’s back to her normal shape. She doesn’t even try to hide the hurt in her voice, which tells me just how upset she is about this. “What the hell is going on? What did she do?”
“Let’s hope Evian will be able to find out.” I put a hand on her shoulder. I know she can’t feel it, but seeing it will also have its effect.
“Of course I’ll answer your questions,” Joséphine replies. She pauses, clearly hoping they can do the Q and A out here, but when Evian makes no sign to start talking, Joséphine sighs and steps back to let the officers inside. “Why don’t we take this to the veranda?”
She leads the way through a dark and badly lit hallway running straight through the house. There’s a narrow stairway leading upstairs on the left and several doors I assume lead to various rooms, but none of them are open. The floor is covered in worn white and black checkered tiles, another classic.
The grandeur of the house is definitely mostly on the outside. The inside is rather ordinary, with wallpaper that’s probably from my time, in the eighties, and dubious paintings on the wall.
The hallway ends on a nondescript door that opens into a veranda.
Here, the grandeur is back.
A large deck spreads out behind the house. It runs from one end of the house to the other and at least ten meters out. Only half of it is covered, and this is where we come out. Both walls and roof are made of glass, and everything is immaculately clean. I can’t help but wonder how they go about cleaning the roof on the outside.
Along every wall, hundreds of plants vie for attention, covering every single spot. I don’t know much about flowers and plants myself, but they go from small to human-sized, from only thin stalks with elegant flowers, to overflowing with thick leaves and exotic flowers. Every color of the rainbow is represented.
I can only imagine what this place must smell like.
Several chairs and tables are set out, one cluster on our left and another on our right. Joséphine aims for the right, where we will also have a view of the outside garden because the flowers along the wall are of the low, crawling variety.
The French garden outside is as huge and neat as I expected.
“Beautiful flowers,” Evian comments as she sits down.
“Thank you.” It’s the first time I see Joséphine smile, and all of a sudden I can see the resemblance with her sister. “I spend most of my time in here, tending my flowers. They are my pride and joy.”
Clothilde has come to stand in front of her sister. She curls her lips at this last statement.
“Flowers are your pride and joy? What the hell happened to you, Jo?”
“She is over sixty, Clothilde,” I remind her. “It’s quite a common occupation for women her age.” I refrain from telling her that not everyone gets stuck as the rebellious teenager like Clothilde.
That wouldn’t be helpful.
Clothilde has to step away when Joséphine takes her seat. She stays hovering over her sister’s shoulder, frown firmly in place.
“Why are you looking into Clothilde’s suicide at this time, officer?” Joséphine asks of Evian. “That was a very long time ago.”
I find it interesting that she hasn’t offered her “guests” anything to drink. For someone who clearly puts a lot of importance on appearances, it’s quite the blunder. From Doubira’s surprised glance around the room, I think he agrees.
Evian clears her throat. “I take it you haven’t been in contact with your uncle, Lucien Klein, recently?”
“Tonton Lucien?” Joséphine’s hand goes to cover her medallion on her chest. “I don’t think I’ve talked to him in several years, actually. Have you seen him recently?”
I halfway expect Clothilde to make some flippant remark about us seeing him die only yesterday but she keeps silent. There’s a sad tilt to her eyes that I wish I could make go away.
“Monsieur Klein was kind enough to authorize the exhumation of your sister’s body some time ago,” Evian says. “We had reason to believe Clothilde’s death was linked to a larger case we were working on.”
Joséphine’s lips are moving, but at first, no sound comes out. She takes a deep breath and visibly steels herself. “Exhuming her body would mean you know where it was buried.”
“Yes, quite,” Evian confirms easily. “Monsieur Klein was the one to arrange the funeral, so naturally, he knew where the grave was.”
“Tonton knew?” There’s no way Joséphine is faking her reaction to this news. People of her ilk try to never show emotion of any sort, so if anything, she’s probably more shocked by this revelation than she’s letting on. “He’s the one who stole her body?”
“I—” Evian draws up short and Doubira’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
Clothilde, now standing with the lower half of her legs through the floor to be on eye level with her sister, is looking at the elderly lady like she’s lost her mind. “What are you raving about, Jo? You weren’t the one who was usually accused of making up fantastic lies in our family.”
Recovering quickly, Evian leans forward in her seat and folds her hands loosely. “What do you mean, ‘the one who stole her body’?”