a voice Juliette had learned to recognize among thousands when she called for news of David. There was a third voice, too, a woman’s, that she couldn’t identify.
She moved closer to the door.
“At a moment like this,” Patterson cut in, “the least you could do would be put aside your differences.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Béatrice!”
“I refuse, that’s all. I, too, have a reputation to think about.”
“No one knows anything about it,” replied the unknown woman.
“Exactly. I don’t want this business suddenly coming out in public.”
“Look, I’m sure there’s a way to work this out,” said Patterson, ever the diplomat.
Juliette gently pushed open the door: “Excuse me …”
All three stared at her, astonished. They’d stopped talking, so to relieve the tension, Juliette said, “If you’re discussing the funeral arrangements, I’d like to …”
“We weren’t expecting you this early, Juliette,” exclaimed Patterson, walking toward her. “But you did the right thing coming here.”
He turned to the unidentified woman. “Let me introduce Deborah Cournoyer.”
The woman, in a grey suit and with a red scarf knotted at her neck, approached, smiling, to shake Juliette’s hand.
“Are you with the funeral home?”
Patterson shook his head. “Deborah’s an old friend of Philippe and Béatrice.”
Béatrice stood to one side, watching and frowning. There was no reading her thoughts, but one might hazard a guess. Of the three, she was the only one still in a bad mood.
“If I’m in the way, I can come back later.”
“Your husband was an exceptional man,” said Deborah Cournoyer, “and his death is a great loss for us all.” She stared Juliette straight in the eye insistently in a way that made her uncomfortable.
Béatrice suddenly switched on again. “We’ll leave you two alone.” She took the unknown woman by the arm and guided her out.
On her way out, Cournoyer said again, “I’m delighted to meet you. It’s a shame it had to be under such sad circumstances.”
As the two women left, Juliette turned to Patterson, who was standing before her with a sheaf of telegrams in his hand: “Condolence messages from all over, especially embassies and High Commissions in New Delhi. Foreign Affairs, too.”
“What business?”
“Excuse me?”
“Béatrice said, ‘I don’t want this business suddenly coming out in public.”’
Patterson hesitated a moment, then said, “Nothing for you to worry about, Juliette, I promise.”
She looked at him, but said nothing. She’d talk to Béatrice about it tonight.
Patterson changed the subject. “The minister’s coming to the funeral.”
Killed in the line of duty, so the Canadian flag would be draped over the coffin. Gawkers would clap as they exited Notre Dame Basilica facing Place d’Armes where the calèche drivers hustled tourists. Juliette would have to stand erect, proud, looking elegant in a black suit, and next to Béatrice, of course. “I know what to do. I’ve been there before.”
Her head was spinning all at once … must be the heat.
“Then Mount Royal Cemetery for another very short ceremony.”
“Private, I hope.”
“The media and the public are allowed at the church — we can hardly refuse them — but at the cemetery …”
“And I’ll need to say something, I suppose.”
“At the basilica? Sure, if you want to. Normally, it would be …”
“Mr. Bernatchez?”
Patterson nodded. “Raymond gets here this afternoon. He’ll be at the funeral home and at the funeral itself: the usual tribute, and of course some mention of Philippe. The son joining the father … that sort of thing.”
Juliette was incredulous. Patterson gave her a comforting smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll write it.” He waited a moment, then added, “I can modify the program if you want to speak, too.”
“No, no, I have nothing to say, not to tourists visiting Place d’Armes, anyway.”
As she was getting out of the elevator a few minutes later, Max called. It was their first conversation since David’s death. She regretted not having told him about her decision to cut short her husband’s suffering. She was afraid that in apologizing she’d break down completely, and she was never going to cry again, ever.
“You going to get through this?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got an unlimited supply of chocolate,” she reassured him.
Max’s troubled laugh came over the line. He cleared his throat. He wanted to change the subject. Juliette was expecting some sort of revelation, but he had more questions than answers. He was clearly working hard at piecing together bits of the investigation that first seemed unrelated. He struck her as a labourer lumbering painfully through an overgrown field, moving ahead, but at a very slow pace.
“You knew about the strongbox under the stairs?”
She’d forgotten about it. “Oh yeah, that. David had it put in when we got there.”
“What for?”
“It was a gift from Béatrice.”
“What?”
“She started doing it in Rabat — a ‘secret’ vault was essential, she said, so when he was posted to Delhi, she gave it to him.”
“What exactly was in it?”
“Nothing all that important. A bit of money.”
“Yes?”
“Two thousand to three thousand U.S. dollars, just a precaution. But it would have been better in a bank.”
“Any Nepalese rupees?”
“Must’ve been some. He dipped into them for one trip or another. Why?”
“It was empty. The dollars and rupees were gone.”
Juliette was puzzled, but Max didn’t think the theft had any connection with the attack.
“I’m sure of only one thing: someone was in that house after you and the police had left.”
“Maybe the cops emptied it.”
“It’s hidden under the stairs. They’d have to know that. I think someone else was there.”
“A few thousand dollars …”
“Who else knew about it besides you two? Household staff?”
“No, of course not.”
“Vandana?”
“David may have mentioned it to her.”
Max cleared his throat. “Does the name Tourigny mean anything to you?”
“Who’s that?”
“It was scribbled on the envelope of David’s airline ticket in the vault.”
On his way back to the hotel, Max had tried that number in Delhi, then Montreal, then Toronto, even Paris. Nothing.
“You ought to ask Vandana.”
16