There is nothing quite like onion soup on a cold December day, Katherine thought. Slivered onions simmered for a long time in broth and white wine, scented with thyme, topped with thick slabs of baguette and French Comté cheese, then toasted under a broiler and served in bowls decorated with the melted cheese. This bistro’s version was perfect, testimony to the experience and patience of the chef, a bald, middle-aged man who popped out of the kitchen now and then to call out “Bonjour” to another regular customer. His wife, or at least Katherine assumed it was his wife, bustled around the small restaurant, setting up tables as soon as they emptied and bringing fresh glasses of wine to the happy diners.
“I’ve never been here,” Pippa said, her face flushed from the heat in the room, or maybe from the warmth of the soup. “I think I could order it myself if I came here on my own. I’ve been too shy to try it. My French, you know?”
“Onion soup is onion soup. You can’t mess that order up. But it really is time to take lessons. It’s not possible to appreciate France if you can’t talk with people, even if it’s only in simple sentences. You can’t even flirt with your gendarme without some conversation. I’m no good as a teacher, but there must be someone.” Pippa agreed although she reminded Katherine she lived on very little money. Perhaps, she said, her father would give her some extra money at the holidays.
Later, over slices of warm pear tart and espresso, the two women rehearsed in low voices their visit to the gendarmerie. “I want to find out if there was anything we should have seen right when we came on the body, something obvious that it was our duty to make note of and inform the investigators.”
Katherine was dubious that Pippa’s approach would get them past the gendarme at the reception window. “I think you’re going to have to say you have evidence in the murder case. Ask for your policeman by name, so they realize you’re already involved.”
“I can’t do it unless you’ll translate for me,” Pippa said, beginning to look nervous.
“I’ll do my best although my French for criminal activity is a little sparse. Don’t worry, we’ll manage. Are you ready to go into the lion’s den, as they say?” Katherine lifted a hand to get the server’s attention. The women split the bill and gathered up their coats. “Courage,” Katherine said in French, patting Pippa’s shoulder as they left the warmth of the bistro.
* * *
There was more than courage needed at the gendarmerie. A different but no more helpful officer sat behind the window, peering up at them as Katherine explained more than once why they were there. It was only when Pippa fished Philippe’s card from her wallet that the man on duty seemed to understand they had a possible reason for showing up in his kingdom. “Ah, oui, Philippe. Bien sûr. Un moment, mesdames.” He picked up his phone, talked rapidly into it with great feeling, and replaced the receiver with a small bang. “Un moment,” he said again as he waved them to a couple of wooden chairs across the room from him.
It was much more than a minute, but eventually a door opened and the handsome policeman peered around its edge. “Ah, hello. Yes, you are here, Madame Hathaway, perhaps to assist us again with this tragic case?” he said in English, a small smile flitting across his face before he replaced it with a stern frown.
“This is my friend, Katherine Goff,” Pippa said, waving an arm loosely and almost knocking Katherine’s hat off. “She found the body too, you know.”
“Really? How strange. Two of you.”
“Actually, a whole van full,” Katherine said. “On a tour of the museum. It was a terrible shock.”
“Of course, of course. And you have something to share?” he said, turning back to Pippa.
“Perhaps we could speak in your office?” Katherine said when she saw Pippa’s hands were shaking and she was biting her lip.
“Office? I am afraid I do not have an office, Madame. But someplace less public, bien sûr. Please,” and he opened the door to whatever lay beyond the reception area. As they passed through it, Katherine noticed the officer on duty scrutinizing them.
It proved hard to begin. They were in a large room with a dozen or more desks, a noisy copy machine making what might have been a hundred copies of something, men and one woman talking and laughing from their desks. Katherine and Pippa perched on two more wooden chairs, as uncomfortable as the ones in the lobby, and tried to tell their story in low enough tones not to be overheard by anyone who wanted to listen. Judging by the curious looks other uniformed officers shot their way, there was at least some interest. After all, how many murders were there in a small city like this one, and how many non-French people were involved in Avallon’s crime scene?
Pippa asked about the missing wig, explaining only that the museum’s director had described one and that it didn’t appear to be in the salon where the murder took place.
“A perruque? The false hair on the makeen? Do you know where it is?”
Pippa seemed lost in her thoughts, gazing at his face. Either she couldn’t understand the French words for “wig” and “mannequin” or it was his extraordinary eyes, Katherine thought. “No, she doesn’t, but you see Pippa thinks it might be important, that for some reason the man who did this terrible thing to Mme Sabine might still have it.” Philippe looked genuinely confused.
“You haven’t found it, then?” Pippa said, shaking herself like a dog getting rid of a flea itch. “You see, if it wasn’t simply discarded, he might have kept it, or it might even be in his car or something. It could be a clue.”
The gendarme didn’t seem as excited as Pippa was by this insight. Across the room, a pretty young policewoman was glancing at the trio, her mouth twitching to subdue a smile. Katherine saw her bump an elbow into a man near her, then whisper something in his ear, at which he turned and stared directly at Pippa. This wasn’t going well.
“Pippa, you had something you wanted to share with the gendarmes?”
Pippa’s misery was evident. She rubbed the fingers of one hand with the other, slumped in her chair, looked at the far wall, but said nothing. Philippe looked puzzled, and turned his head from one woman to the other.
“If there’s something—”
“Not really,” Pippa said, and jumped up, knocking her chair into the corner of the closest desk with a loud bang. “Honestly, I can’t think what good I thought coming here could do. Come on, Katherine. We’d best get back. Thank you.” She held out her hand and pumped the one Philippe was forced to offer. He and Katherine stood up and followed Pippa, who was moving fast. Not fast enough to keep from bumping into the policewoman who had been watching them and who had strolled over to intercept the trio.
“Sorry,” Pippa stammered as she backed away and shifted to go around the block.
“Ah, l’écrivaine, oui? The crime fiction, yes? You have more to teach us today?” Her smirk was accompanied by a wink at Philippe.
“What? Oh, hello. I remember we met in Serein.” Pippa was so obviously eager to leave that Katherine felt pity for her. Whether it was a crush on Philippe that was upsetting her, or this unfriendly gendarme in her face, Pippa was about to lose it.
“Come on,” Katherine said, taking her arm. “Merci, Monsieur, thank you for your time. I didn’t realize we have to be someplace soon. You were good to see us.” With that, she pulled Pippa through the doorway, only to be dragged by Pippa all the way to the lobby, with Philippe following.
The same gendarme was on duty, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. As they pulled on their coats and hats, an old man opened the outer door and staggered in. The gendarme on duty shouted something at him that seemed more affectionate than threatening, and the old man hiccupped and collapsed into a chair. Drunk, Katherine decided, and the bright color of his nose suggested this might be a frequent condition. Philippe made as if to say something to Pippa, but she was tugging the outer door open, and he shrugged instead. As she followed Pippa out the door, she heard Philippe say something to the old man. She turned, and he had gone to stand in front of the drunk’s chair. Philippe looked once in Katherine’s direction, his brow creased, then turned back to the new visitor.
“Stupid, stupid,” Pippa was muttering as Katherine caught up to her and walked beside her. “He’d think I was daft if he knew me better.” Her eyes were shining with tears, and her head was down. “I’m going to throw that bloody cross away, into the Serein maybe, and be done with this. It’s too stupid.”
She paused for breath and Katherine said, “I don’t know. You did choke up back there, but I doubt he thinks you’re stupid. He was listening carefully. I admit it’s going to be harder now to tell him about the cross. He seems nice, which is more than I can say about the woman. What was up with her?”
“She was at the river that day. I tried to tell her about the mannequin and how I thought it was connected to the murder.” Pippa stopped near the car, now hemmed in even tighter than it had been when they parked. “I told her I write murder mysteries. I wanted her to understand I wasn’t an ordinary bystander with crazy ideas, you see? But my French wasn’t helping so she called him over. That’s when we met. Or, I met him. I know I was some silly English girl to him, to both of them.”
“We’ve had enough of this town for one day. Let’s go home and we can think about what we know and how to get that cross to your gendarme without a fuss, okay? I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing standing out here.” Katherine smiled and rubbed her gloved hands together. What she wanted was to go home to a cozy house with a bright fire, a smiling husband, and the motivation to cook a lovely meal for two.
Pippa nodded and pulled the car keys out of her bag. Katherine grabbed the passenger door handle, prepared to open the door when her friend unlocked it. Pippa swung her door open. Suddenly, swiftly, she jumped back and began to scream. She didn’t or couldn’t stop. Katherine couldn’t see through the side window so she ran around to where Pippa was standing in the middle of the street, still making loud, incoherent sounds. And no wonder. Lying outside the car, grinning up at Katherine with half-closed eyes, its tongue hanging out, was the bloody head of a pig. A real pig, a large pig, a recently deceased pig.
Katherine heard a new scream and realized it was her own.