Murder in Belleville Read Online Free PDF Page B

in, but you can’t stop.”
    True. But Aimee wanted to run into the dark wet night and not look back.
    “Right now,” Aimee said, “we’ve got to get you inside.”
    She turned to the taxi driver and slipped him another of An-ais’s hundred-franc notes. “Please wait for me.”
    She helped Anais to a cobalt blue side door, set back along a narrow passage. After several knocks a buxom woman opened the door, silhouetted against the light. Aimee couldn’t see her face but heard her gasp.
    “Madame … ca va?”
    “Vivienne, don’t let Simone see me,” Anais said, as though accustomed to giving orders. “Or anyone. Get me something to put over this.”
    Vivienne stood rooted to the spot. “Monsieur le Ministre …
    “Vite, Vivienne!” Anais barked. “Let us in.”
    Mobilized into action, Vivienne opened the door and shepherded them inside. She thrust an apron at Anais.
    “Help me get my jacket off,” Anais said.
    Vivienne gingerly removed the blood-stained jacket and dropped it on the kitchen floor.
    Anais staggered and clutched the counter, where trays of hors d’oeuvres were lined up. Vivienne’s lips parted in fear, and she clutched her starched maid’s uniform.
    “But you must go to I’hopital, Madame,” she said.
    “Vinegar,” Anais whispered, exhausted by her efforts.
    “What, Madame?”
    “Soak the bloody jacket in vinegar,” Anais muttered.
    Aimee knew Anais was fading fast.
    “Vivienne, tell le Ministre she’s had a sudden attack of food poisoning,” Aimee said. Aimee surveyed the plates. “Those,” she pointed. “Tainted mussels. Apologize profusely to the guests.”
    “Of course,” Vivenne said, backing into kitchen drawers.
    “I’ll get her upstairs,” Aimee said, worried. “Bring some bandages. Towels if you have to; she’s bleeding again.”
    Aimee grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and tied it tightly around Anais’s leg.
    Vivienne picked up a tray of crudites and bustled out of the kitchen.
    They made it upstairs and down a dimly lit hall, the wood floor creaking at every hobbling step.
    “Maman!” said a small voice from behind a partially open bedroom door. “Where’s my bisou?”
    The child’s tone, so confident yet tinged with longing, rose at the end. Aimee melted at the little voice.
    “Un moment, mon coeur,” Anais said, pausing to regain her breath. “Special treat—you can come to my room in a minute.”
    Had she ever asked her mother for a goodnight kiss? Had her mother even listened? All Aimee remembered was the flat American accent saying, “Take care of yourself, Amy. No one else will.”
    In the high-ceilinged bedroom, with pale yellow walls and periwinkle blue curtains, Aimee helped Anais out of her clothes.
    She wiped the blood from Anais’s legs, helped her into a nightgown, then got her into bed. Aimee set several pillows beneath her leg. Again, after she applied direct pressure, the leg stopped bleeding. Thank God.
    Aimee tied her own damp sweater around her waist.
    A great weariness showed in Anais’s sunken face. But when a carrot-haired child, in flannel pajamas dotted with stars, peered around the door, her face brightened.
    “Maman, what’s the matter?” asked the child, her brows knit together in worry. She padded in bare feet to her mother’s side.
    “Simone, I’m a little tired.”
    “I couldn’t wait to see you, Maman,” said the child.
    “Me neither,” Anais said, opening her arms and hugging her daughter. “Merri, Aimee. I’m fine now.”
    Aimee slipped out of the room, passing Vivienne who cast a large shadow, carrying antiseptic and towels.
    “Please call Anais’s doctor,” she said. “The bleeding’s stopped for now, but she should be checked for internal injuries.”
    Vivienne nodded.
    “Keep checking on her, please,” Aimee said. “I’ll call later.”
    Down at the kitchen doorway Aimee paused and peered at the reception in progress. A mosque fashioned out of sugarcubes, with details painted in turquoise