I give you Burp Morrow.”
Another opportunity missed. Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
“Bean, dear, come to Mommy.”
Marianna patted the piano bench and the child walked over and leaned against it. Marianna thumped the bench with more force, but Bean didn’t budge.
“Come on, Bean. Up you get. Sit beside Mommy.”
Bean ignored the thumping, glancing down at the ever-present book instead.
“Mommy, have you ever seen a flying horse?”
“Only once, dear. In Morocco after a particularly good party. I’ve also seen a few fairies.”
“You mean Uncle Scott and Uncle Derek?”
“I do. They fly sometimes, you know, but I don’t think either could be called a stud.”
Bean nodded.
“Bean, do you like your name? I mean, wouldn’t you like Mommy to change it for you?” She looked at the serious child. “Why don’t you jump?”
Bean, used to Mommy’s verbal veers, followed easily. “Why should I?”
“Well, people do. That’s why we have knees, and arches on our feet. And ankles. Ankles are little wings, you know.”
She made fluttering actions with her fingers, but Bean looked skeptical.
“They don’t look like wings, they look like bones.”
“Well, yours have probably fallen off. Disuse. It happens.”
“I think you jump enough for both of us. I like it here. On the ground.”
“You know what would make Mommy happy? If I could change your name. What do you think about that?”
Bean shrugged. “Suppose. But you won’t make it stranger than Bean, will you?”
The little eyes narrowed.
Chlamydia Morrow.
Very pretty. Too pretty, perhaps. Not quite right. Soon everyone would know if Bean was a boy or a girl and that little secret would be blown. The best way to infuriate Mother would be to give her only grandchild a really ridiculous name.
Marianna looked at the child, strange by even her family’s standards.
Syphilis.
Marianna smiled. Perfect.
Syphilis Morrow. Leads to madness.
Jean Guy Beauvoir leaned back in his chair in the library and looked around. Not really taking in his surroundings, but feeling at ease. Normally he’d be making notes on his computer, checking messages, sending messages, surfing the Web. Googling.
But there was no computer. Just a pen and paper. He chewed the pen and stared ahead, using his brain to make connections.
He’d spent much of the afternoon going over writing samples, trying to find out who’d written those notes to Julia. Someone had reached out to her, and from what little they were gathering about the lonely woman, she’d be almost incapable of not reaching back.
Had it killed her? Had she been murdered by her needs?
Beauvoir had had a need of his own. For the first hour and a half he’d concentrated on one suspect. The man he knew had done it. Pierre Patenaude. Far from being difficult to find, samples of his writing were everywhere. Notes on menus, staff rotation lists, evaluation forms and even French tests he’d given the young staff, trying to teach them that the night wasn’t a strawberry and flaming mice wasn’t a menu option. It seemed the only thing the maître d’ hadn’t written were the notes to Julia Martin.
But after another hour of digging and comparing, of leaning over an old-fashioned magnifying glass taken from a display of butterflies, Beauvoir had his answer. He knew beyond doubt who’d written to Julia.
Bert Finney drew the curtains to block out the sun and watched as his wife undressed for her nap. Not a moment of any day went by when he wasn’t astonished by his good fortune. He was rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
He was patient, but then he’d learned that years ago. And it had paid off. He was even willing to pick up after her, since it got him what he wanted. He gathered the clothes from the floor where she dropped them, trying not to notice the little gasps of pain coming from this tiny woman. Who felt so much, but mostly felt she couldn’t show it. The only argument they’d ever had, and that only once, had been when he’d tried to persuade her to explain all this to the children. She’d refused.
And now Irene Finney stood naked in the center of the dim room, tears streaming down her cheeks. He knew they would end soon. They always did. But lately they’d been going on longer.
“What is it?” he asked, and knew immediately how ridiculous it sounded.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.” He picked up her slip and bra and underwear and looked up into her face.
“It’s the smell.”
And that might be true, but he thought it was more than that.
Irene Morrow stood at the Manoir Bellechasse sink, her young, pink hands