Malcolm went out for another bottle of champagne, which they drank without orange juice. Frances discussed her epiphany over a fresh, bubbling glass. “Malcolm fucked a witch on the boat over,” she told Mme Reynard.
“That’s nice,” said Mme Reynard, and she patted Malcolm’s knee.
Frances asked Malcolm, “She understood him, didn’t she?”
“I think she did,” Malcolm said.
“Why can’t we ask her where he is?”
“I don’t know that she’d know,” he said doubtfully. “And I don’t know where we’d find her, either.”
Mme Reynard was nodding. “I would like,” she said, “for one of you to explain to me just what it is you’re talking about, please.”
Frances said, “The fucked witch and Small Frank were connected.”
“Let’s not call her that,” said Malcolm.
“She understood about him,” Frances continued.
“Yes,” Mme Reynard said, “but what is there to understand about Small Frank, exactly? I’m puzzled, and this is what’s puzzling me.”
Frances looked to Malcolm, as if to ask what she should do. Malcolm shrugged, which she took as a blessing to continue. “It’s not something we typically discuss, Mme Reynard, but the long and short of it is that my dead husband lives inside that cat.”
Mme Reynard’s eyelid began to twitch, and she touched her hand to her face to retard this. “Is that a fact?” she asked.
“An unfortunate fact.”
“And how do you know this?”
“It’s an understood thing.”
“Can you make it understood to me?”
“I don’t know that I can. I wish you’d be good and take my word for it.”
“I’ll try,” said Mme Reynard bravely. She was having such an exciting time, so that she could have shrieked with delight. She clamped one hand atop the other, squeezing with all her strength, telling herself to be calm.
Frances, unbidden, announced, “Small Frank ran away because I told him something he didn’t like.”
“Oh? And what was that?” Mme Reynard asked.
Frances shook her head. “I won’t say.” She looked at Malcolm. “I’m sorry but I choose not to. Anyway, I believe she might be able to help, and so we should seek her out.”
“Seek out the fucked witch,” said Mme Reynard.
“That’s right,” Frances said.
“Let’s,” said Malcolm, “let’s think of something else to call her besides that.”
Frances said, “How might we find her, is the question.”
The three of them took silent sips of champagne.
“I’ve got it!” Mme Reynard declared, jumping to her feet and knocking the crown of her skull on the low iron lamp hanging over the coffee table. She dropped back onto the sofa, holding her head and pressing her eyes shut in pain. Through pursed lips she said, “Private investigator.” She opened her eyes to study the blood painting her palm.
“I have quite a lot of first-aid products,” Malcolm said, then left the room to gather these. By the time he returned, however, the volume of blood was such that the situation seemed beyond him, and he proposed they call a doctor. Mme Reynard became enthusiastic at this. She adored her physician, she said; also she was a believer in the wisdom of the phrase the more the merrier. Whoever could deny it as an unimpeachable truth? Frances thought she could but she elected not to, if only to save herself the trouble and time.