Until I Die - By Amy Plum Page 0,11
switched the phone off and said, “Geneviève’s husband died this morning. He went to bed last night and never woke up.”
The group inhaled as one and stood there, stunned. “Oh, my poor Geneviève,” said Gaspard finally, breaking the silence.
“Has she notified—” Jean-Baptiste began.
“The doctor already certified Philippe as dead, and his body was picked up by the coroner. She would have called earlier, but was afraid that if Charlotte knew, she wouldn’t have gotten on the train.”
Jean-Baptiste nodded.
Although Geneviève lived halfway across town and wasn’t often at La Maison, she and Charlotte had been friends for decades. Charlotte had once told me that it was hard hanging out with guys all the time. Before I had arrived, Geneviève was the only girlfriend she had, and Charlotte would run off to her house every time she and Charles had a brother-sister spat.
“She hoped that a couple of us could come over to help with the funeral plans. Kate, do you want to come with me?” Vincent asked. I nodded.
“I’ll come,” Jules and Ambrose said as one.
“Ambrose, I had hoped to have your services moving Violette and Arthur into their rooms,” Gaspard said. “But of course …” He held up a quivering finger, as if he was unsure of the fairness of his request.
Ambrose hesitated, torn, and then relented. “No, you’re right, Gaspard. I’ll follow you back to the house. Give Geneviève my love, and tell her I’ll stop by later,” he said to us, and then, shifting his motorcycle helmet to his other hand, clapped Vincent on the shoulder and strode out, with Gaspard and Jean-Baptiste following close behind.
Jules, Vincent, and I hopped into one of the taxis parked outside the station and within fifteen minutes were at Geneviève’s house on a tiny street in the Mouzaia neighborhood of Belleville.
As we climbed out of the car, I looked around in amazement. Although we were still within the Paris city limits, the streets were lined with little two-story brick houses complete with tiny front yards—instead of the typical multi-floor Paris apartment blocks. We walked through a white picket fence and across a tree-shaded yard to the front porch, where Geneviève waited, leaning on the door frame as if she couldn’t stand without its support.
As Jules and Vincent approached, she fell into their arms. “He died in his sleep. I was reading when he went, and didn’t even notice,” she confessed in a dazed voice. Her pale blue eyes were shiny with tears and fatigue.
“It’s going to be okay,” Vincent soothed, handing Geneviève over to Jules. We followed them down the hall and into a bright, spacious living room. Jules seated her on a white couch as carefully as if she were made of spun glass and then settled in next to her. She cuddled up to him and dabbed at her swollen eyes with a tissue as Vincent and I sat on the floor at their feet.
“What needs doing?” Vincent asked softly.
“Legally? Nothing. Philippe and I have been preparing for this for a while. The house and money is mine—you took care of that paperwork for me a while ago,” she said, nodding tearfully to Vincent.
“A law degree does come in handy when you have to register property and a bank account in a dead woman’s name.” He smiled grimly.
“Philippe had already decided on his own funeral arrangements. No church service, no announcement, just a small ceremony among our own at Père Lachaise.”
Only the most famous cemetery in Paris, I thought with awe, remembering a tour my mother and I had gone on that included the graves of Victor Hugo, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, and Jim Morrison, among others. Philippe—or more likely Geneviève—must have some powerful contacts to have secured a gravesite for him there.
“I would love a cup of tea,” Geneviève said to no one in particular.
“I’ll get it!” I popped to my feet, grateful to be given a task. “Just point me to the kitchen.”
Once there, I lit the gas burner under a kettle and rummaged through the cupboards until I found a teapot, some cups, and a box of tea bags. Framed photos hung on the kitchen wall, and I wandered from one to the next as I waited for the water to boil.
The first was an old black-and-white photo of Geneviève in a wedding dress, being carried in the arms of a tuxedoed man through the front gate of this house. Geneviève’s dress and crimped hairstyle dated the picture from around World War II. They were both laughing