Seated for a late breakfast, Sandra and Émile Cinq-Mars are noticeably subdued. Their time in New Hampshire has been hectic, not without troubles and emotional pitfalls, and shortly a pleasant bedlam will consume them: Sandra’s niece and her niece’s girlfriends are to arrive. In the interim they’re content to sip coffee, await croissants and jam, and enjoy precious downtime with their own thoughts.
For Sandra, recent days have been a hardship. Her eighty-nine-year-old mom is in palliative care and family members have been preparing for the demise of their matriarch. Adding to the sadness of failing physical health marked by an almost daily diminishment of organ function, the matriarch’s mental state has dwindled from formidable to frail in the blink of an eye. In coming down to New Hampshire, Sandra expected to share old memories with her mom, final thoughts and her deepest expressions of love. All that has been taken away. As natural as an impending death for an aged and frail person may be, she’s finding herself affected far more than she expected, in large measure because this sudden decline in her mom’s faculties has made the last days wretched. Being on the cusp of her passing has released a welter of emotions. No one can prepare for the loss of a parent. Having spoken such words to others on occasion, she now needs to repeat them to herself.
They’ve arrived ahead of time. Sandra remains within herself, while Émile looks through the morning paper, subdued as well, although they both intend to be chipper once the girls show up. The next two weeks lead to the commencement ceremony at the Dowbiggin School of International Studies, which Émile and Sandra are attending to honor their niece Caroline’s graduation. As the young woman and her chums will be harnessed to their own madcap social agenda as the big day draws near, uncle and aunt are treating them to a breakfast gathering early on. Unsaid, yet understood by all, the couple may be more involved with a funeral and with grieving by the time commencement day arrives. For that added reason they’ve elected to celebrate in advance.
While the couple showed up before the appointed hour, expecting to be on their own for a bit, their guests are now officially late. Sandra stretches. She feels a need to rouse herself from a sluggish disposition, and inquires if anything is interesting. She means in the news.
Her husband—Émile Cinq-Mars, the famous and now retired detective—stately at sixty-six even at this fresh hour of the morning, is more than willing to be attentive. He’s glad to be sharing a meal with her while she’s not reduced to weeping.
“Remarkably, no. I suppose that’s a good thing. Today’s main topic is the weather.”
“No wonder. Is it ever coming down. It’s teeming!”
“Hmm,” Émile says.
She interprets his tone. Her detective-husband’s noncommittal expression to denote his disagreement with prevailing opinion is, if not legendary, all too familiar.
“You don’t agree?” she probes. “That it’s raining? Or is your semigrunt an indication that you don’t think it’s raining particularly hard?”
“It wasn’t a semigrunt,” he objects.
“All right.” Sandra has always enjoyed being feisty in debate. Utilizing a hockey metaphor, Émile has told her that she’s tough along the boards, that she gets her elbows up in the corners. His intellectual and intuitive strengths may actually be legendary, although she knows his buttons and how to press them. As a consequence, their verbal jousts usually turn out to be fair fights. He doesn’t get that from many people, and now that he’s a little older, and she remains nineteen years his junior and probably sharper, she prevails more often than once she did. “A full-fledged grunt then.”
He recognizes that she’s being as playful as possible under the circumstances. Folding the paper, he welcomes another sip of joe before responding. “I agree that it’s raining. I also agree that it’s raining hard. Where I disagree—”
“You see? I knew it. Here it comes.”
“Where I disagree is with your comment ‘no wonder.’”
She’s puzzled. “You don’t think a newspaper should write about the weather?”
“I didn’t say that. I simply find it remarkable, and a wonder, that they are writing about the weather before the weather actually happens. It’s here now. The paper was printed overnight. They’re not reporting on the news, they’re predicting the news, the weather, before it gets here. See? All of which tells me that they had a very slow news day. No murders—”
“Why should there be murders? Because you showed up? Why do you check newspapers for murders, Émile?”
“No murders,” he repeats. “Nor am I looking for any. I’m just pointing out. No traffic accidents. No local political scandals. All they could find to write about is the prediction of violent weather and make that the news. Which, in the greater scheme of things, is probably welcome.”
She’s amused, and that’s welcome, too. Lately it’s been difficult to lighten up. The change in their mood has come at an opportune moment, for Caroline and two of her friends are bursting into the restaurant with much laughter and shrieking from being out in the torrent. It’s a dramatic entrance, which garners the attention and amusement of other patrons. People notice their flattened hair and wet tangles, their plight, and grin.
One soaked girl is feeling exposed.
“What’ll I do?” she cries in a half-whisper, her arms desperately crisscrossed over her chest.
“My uncle Émile won’t look.”
“He’s not the only person in here exactly.”
“Kali, I’ll spoon-feed you. Keep your arms crossed until you dry out.”
More laughter, these girls don’t let one another off the hook easily. “Slut, don’t play innocent. When you left the house you knew this would happen. Anyway, you’re wearing a bra, what’s the big deal?”
“I’m poking through!” She peeks down at her chest, and patrons are looking too, despite her whispering. “The rain’s made me cold! I’m shivering.”
“Oh no,” the lone blonde among the three remarks.
“What?”
“Addie’s not here yet.”
“Drear. Where is that girl?”
They bounce on over to Émile and Sandra’s table.
In the flurry of greetings, Caroline takes a moment to place a hand on her aunt Sandra’s shoulder, look her in the eyes, and convey an ongoing sympathy for their circumstances. She’s about to lose a grandmother she’s been close to from birth. The two women acknowledge the cloud they are under even as they break off and enter the festivity of the morning.
“My God, this rain!” Kali exclaims. She accepts Caroline’s light jacket to maintain her modesty, and there’s more laughter about that as Émile stares at the ceiling while she puts it on. She can finally uncross her arms and Caroline makes a comment that it’s too bad she won’t uncross her legs which has everyone groaning and Émile adopting an artificially censorious expression. Anastasia, then, needs to be introduced, as she is the one friend the older couple hasn’t met since arriving back in New Hampshire. Émile is immediately drawn to her bubbly personality and innate cheerfulness. She’s a tad short and happily plump, a marginal chubbiness that bequeaths to her the bright cheeks of a cherub. Her eyes have a way of jumping around that expresses a buoyant spirit. She’s smart and in love with life, he can tell. He thinks that if he was ever blessed with a daughter and allowed to choose, if that’s how procreation worked, he’d want her to turn out like this one. Or be this one.
“Where’s Addie?” Sandra inquires.
“That’s the question of the hour,” Caroline reveals. Émile and Sandra’s niece, she’s the tall one, slender, and carries herself with the posture of a girl who’s been on horseback since birth. Like her aunt, she has a highly competitive streak, and she’s ridden a few mounts in the hunting class that did well in New England meets. She’s also a swimmer who lacked the upper-body strength—and the desire to acquire it—to bring home ribbons. The boys love her, although she’s strict with them. She tends to gain the upper hand early in any relationship. Once a boyfriend understands the lay of the land, he either moves on or is moved along, at least that’s the pattern she’s confided to her aunt Sandra. She expects to be a CEO one day and is off to law school in the fall, this time at Boston University. “We haven’t heard from Addie since yesterday. She’s gone. Poof! Vanished.”
“Is that typical behavior?” Émile asks, his tone reverting to his days as a detective before retirement.
“Not typical. Not without precedent.” Aware that she’s talking to a professional sleuth, she catches the tenor of his interest. “Addie tends to turn into a ditz whenever she meets a new guy she likes. It’s just that we haven’t heard that that’s happened.”
“Unlike Kali, Addie doesn’t waste time,” Anastasia adds. She manages to be tongue-in-cheek while also deferring to the seriousness of the retired cop’s query.
“She also has that other thing,” Kali brings up.
Anastasia promptly squelches the subject. “Not happening,” she says, a bit stridently, a bit too forcefully, and Émile has the impression that sharp kicks on Kali’s shins have occurred under the table.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Sandra says, then looks down, as though to acknowledge that it’s illogical that her desire for all to be well should trump their legitimate worries. Yet the girls don’t seem overly concerned, either.
“Call Vernon yet?” Kali asks. She keeps tugging the jacket more tightly around herself, unnecessarily, as though still feeling half-naked.
“Putting it off,” Caroline admits, then explains to her aunt and uncle, “Vernon’s her ex. One of. The one who’d rather not be an ex. See why I don’t want to involve him? She was supposed to show up at a party last night but never did. We were hoping she’d be here, she knows where to come. She may still show up. She’s just way late. We’re way late. Sorry about that. The rain.”
“Text Vernon,” Kali suggests. “You’ll worry otherwise. She’s probably hungover. Or maybe she had a relapse and they’re back together.”
“She’d keep that to herself, wouldn’t she?” Anastasia tacks on, agreeing, again being serious with a humorous undercurrent. Émile loves her already.
Caroline concedes, mutters, “Okay,” and taps out a message on her phone as the waitress comes by with menus and to confirm, as it turns out, that everyone wants to start with orange juice and coffee.
“This morning,” Émile warns, “each of you is on a splurge diet.”
They’re fine with that, and Anastasia, his new favorite, scrunches up her face and pumps both fists while mouthing the word yes! These three are young women of privilege, possessed of intellect, talent, and refinement. They’ve also applied themselves to their studies as elite students and are exulting now in a cloudburst of freedom and adventure pending the rest of their lives.
As coffee for the girls and juice is brought to the table, the senior couple is informed of summer plans and career choices. Anastasia will be backpacking through Europe. Her parents are on their way in from Oregon, “to find out if they got their money’s worth,” then after commencement she flies to Amsterdam, “boyfriend in tow. I’ll see if I can’t do a student exchange along the way.”
“You want to return to school in Europe?” Émile asks, unaware that he’s being slow. He looks up into that bright laughing smile.
“No, sir, I mean, I’ll see if I can’t find a new and improved boyfriend along the way. I was thinking Italian. Maybe French. I’m open to anything, really.”
After that, she’d like to work on third-world agricultural concerns, and may take another year or two of study for that. No specific plan as yet, although she’s aware of her options while being open to anything. Émile could take her home right now and show her off. “I wonder if your parents, when they fly in from Oregon, would consider, I don’t know, giving you up. What do you think, Sandra?”
His wife is puzzled, but Kali gets it. “I’m officially jealous.”
Anastasia gets it, too. “My folks say they’re willing to take on a chunk of my student loan. If you’re willing to make them an offer … they might be persuaded. I did work my way through school, scored a scholarship or two—”
“Or four,” Kali corrects her.
“Or four. The debt’s not too bad. You can swing it.”
“Actually, we’ve been thinking of selling the farm. I could take a look at my credit line.” Émile’s happy to have his remarks rewarded with a laugh. He and Sandra exchange quick smiles, as it’s true about the farm. And moving here.
Everyone pauses as Caroline’s mobile device announces a response. Her look is soon distressed. “Oh my God,” she whispers.
“What?” Anastasia rests a hand in the crook of Caroline’s elbow and leans in to get a peek at the iPhone screen.
“Death at—” She draws the letter a in the air and circles it, to indicate the at sign on a computer keyboard. “Dowbiggin. That’s his subject line.”
“What’s that about?”
“Something’s happened.” Caroline reads the text. “Vernon says a girl’s been found on campus.”
“What do you mean, found?”
Anastasia’s question goes unanswered as the phone suddenly plays a hard-rock song. Caroline checks the screen, answers, and says, “Vernon?” She listens. “Oh my God.” The phrase is spoken quietly.
“What is it, Caroline?” Émile Cinq-Mars asks.
The girl continues on with her caller. “It can’t be, that can’t be. No, we haven’t seen her—” She listens and she’s fidgeting now and when her eyes pass over her uncle’s she’s clearly upset, verging on panic. “Find out!” she commands her caller. “Ask them! Find out, Vernon!”
He has apparently signed off, and Caroline taps a button to conclude her end of the conversation. The others await news. Her eyes look hurt.
“A girl’s been found on campus. Dead. Vernon heard someone say there wasn’t any blood, so maybe she fell down the stairs.”
“What stairs?” Kali asks.
“I don’t know what stairs!” Caroline snaps back. She implores her uncle with her eyes. “Vernon says the library’s been evacuated. By the police. Uncle Émile?”
He’s the one who’s lived these scenes before, who’s investigated murders, who’s taken biker gangs apart, if the myths be true, with his teeth. He’s plowed the Mafia underground in his home city of Montreal where once they were kingpins, where once they governed the darker alleys. Given all that myth and hearsay, she wants to know, and pleads through her facial expression, if he will help. Can her uncle, the retired policeman, discover what’s going on? Why is there a dead girl on campus, and more importantly, who is she?
“I have no standing here,” Émile demurs. That’s not good enough, of course, a judgment reflected on the faces of the four women, including his wife’s. A wait-and-see attitude will only compound their worry. Appearances count for something, as does action, and Émile concludes that in this circumstance it’s probably beneficial to appear to be helping out. Especially with four women waiting for him to act, not because he’s the only man, as they’re not inclined to lean on men, but because he’s in the business. “Okay. To be on the safe side, let’s go over there. Me and you, Caroline. Find out what’s up.”
“Everything will be fine, I’m sure,” Sandra adds, and understands why she’s saying that even as the words spill out. She can handle only so much sadness right now and has already maxed out her limit.
Caroline retrieves her jacket from Kali, who crosses her arms again, then she and Émile wend their way back through the café, pausing at the front door where they brace themselves for the ferocity of the storm.