no words. Drink it. Enjoy it. Trust me, it is . . .” and then, putting the tips of his fingers to his lips, he kissed them into a petite explosion signifying nothing, signifying perfection. We tasted the wine. “Just remember it,” he said. “Ça suffit.”
The meal was impossibly delicious. I hadn’t realized how ravenously hungry I was, and as I ate, I felt completely restored.
We ate in silence. When we had finished I said, “So, who is guilty? Other than me, I mean,” and winced.
He placed his knife and fork on his plate and pushed it back.
“À la fin, we arrive at an understanding of la famille Pitot. And truly, it is an unhappy story. Remember what I said of Pasteur. His insight was that the process by which wine is degraded is biological. The hatred of Françoise, it is like a bacterium, a germ, and it feeds on her, devours her, and through her, the entire family. Does it derive from her father? Her mother? Is this defect biological, genetic? Perhaps, but I am not a scientist, mon ami, I am a detective, a cop. What we know is that first she poisons her mother-in-law with her spitefulness, a woman who already lives secretly in disgrace; then she poisons her sister with her cupidité, how do you say, her greed. Then she infects her husband, who, too, is ashamed, though she does not yet know the secret of Henri’s birth. All she knows is that he’s a failure, so she uses her lover, her own sister’s husband, to inflict the ultimate injury on her husband, and then doubles back, as you say in your Westerns, and corrupts Carrière with her hatred, itself an infection passed from father to child. Even so, she is not finished. No, she has a son, and she will not be finished until she turns him to acid, too.” He paused. “Would you like a little fromage? Some dessert? I have a petite tarte aux pommes from the patisserie.”
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but, to mangle the words of Brillat-Savarin when he stood on the verge of death and was peering into the void, life is short. Let’s dispense with the cheese course—and in this case, dessert, too—and have a cigar with the last of the wine.”
“Formidable,” Sackheim said and fetched his humidor.
We took our time over the ritual.
“So, who is guilty?” I repeated.
“Who is guilty? Who committed the crime?” Sackheim asked. “It begins with Etienne Pitot, who is ashamed of the bastard he must call his son, and Pascal Ginestet, who is, in his own eyes, a failure. But how can you say they are guilty when one had taken his own life and the other . . . Well, I think he took his own life, too. One by the rope and one by the bottle. And of course, there is Robert Wilson and his son.”
He took a long drag on the cigar and blew two perfect smoke rings, the second passing through the first and blowing it apart.
“Magnifique!” I remarked at the feat. “But what about Françoise? I don’t get it.”
“She is the most important. The mother.” He nodded gravely.
“I get that,” I said defensively.
“No, I mean, she is the mother of the crime. Remember what Monique said today—maybe the one true thing she has said: ‘It was all her idea.’ It is Françoise who gives birth to the plan. She uses her son, her husband, her lover, everyone around her as if they are weapons.” Sackheim took a deep sip of wine. “Françoise wanted her revenge. By the time she met Monique, she knew the truth of her husband’s paternity. These things came together in her mind—and yet, she has killed no one. In fact, she is a victim herself.”
“What do you mean, by the time she met Monique?” I said.
“Ah, forgive me.” He got up from the table and reached into a briefcase that sat by the front door. “Monique asked me to give this to you.”
He handed me a letter. It had already been opened. On the envelope, in a feminine hand, was written BABE.
“Please, go ahead,” Sackheim said. “I have already read it.”
My hands were shaking as I opened the letter.
30
Dear Babe,
I am sitting alone in my cell. It is quiet and dark. I have never been so lonely in my life.
I know the case is coming to an end. I’m not sure how it will finish. No one tells me anything, not even you. I