“Listen, Robin, I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“To tell you the truth. Meet me tonight at Isabelle’s office on the island. Seven-fifteen.”
“The island?”
“Don’t play dumb. And there’s no need to swim this time. The boat will be tied up at the dock. Go back to your cabana and rest up. Tonight is the final act. We’re going to lay all our cards on the table and so, I hope, will you.”
“But I don’t have any cards,” I said, doing my best to hide my panic.
“Sure you do,” she said. “Don’t be late.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“Let’s just say there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Aspen picked up her gloves and put them back on slowly. “Now get the hell out of my garden.”
With a mixture of excitement and annoyance, I returned to my cabana. I was just walking in the door when I got a notification that Guillaume Étienne had entered my Zoom meeting.
“Shit!” I’d forgotten about Guillaume and his grandmother.
I grabbed my notebook and set up my computer. Trying toappear professional and prepared, I logged in and entered the room. When they turned on their video, the image on the screen made me feel like I’d been transported to a fairy-tale cottage.
“My apologies for being late. I was having problems with the internet,” I lied. I didn’t like lying, but I’d found recently that I was curiously good at it.
The old woman who sat beside Guillaume was ninety if she was a day, but there was glimmer to her cat’s eyes that hinted at a much younger woman lurking somewhere inside. Around her shoulders she’d wrapped a mint-green shawl that sparkled when the light hit it just right, and a large amethyst hung pendulous from a chain around her neck.
“We weren’t waiting long,” said Guillaume. “Can you hear us all right?”
“Just fine. Thanks for agreeing to talk with me, Madame Étienne.”
“My pleasure,” she said in a deep, husky voice.
There was nothing overtly frightening about Jeanne Étienne, but as I looked at her, I noticed fear blossoming in my chest. This woman had elements of Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother and the big bad wolf all rolled up into one.
“Grand-mère, this is Robin,” said Guillaume. “She wants to ask you about Sabine.”
The woman squinted at the screen, an inscrutable smile playing on her lips.
From what I could see of the room they were in, it was decorated with shawls and doilies. Fringed lampshades sat haughtily atop the many small tables that dotted the space. Jeanne sat in a green wingback armchair, and with a flourish, she produced a cigarette holder and lit the slim pink cigarette she’d inserted in the tip. She inhaled, and when she exhaled, a great billow ofwhat I imagined to be lavender-scented smoke exploded into the room.
“Tell me,” she said in a thick French accent, “up at Hildegard College, what kind of food do you eat?”
“Excuse me?” I said, leaning forward. “What kind of food do we eat?”
“It’s a simple question, my dear.”
“I don’t know,” I said, perplexed. “Normal food. Why do you ask?”
“When I was a little girl, my grand-père was the cook at Hildegard. His position, it was a very elite position, very high class. Everything he did there was secret. He had to sign an agreement that he would never disclose the truth of what he saw there. But I never signed a thing.”
She leaned back in her chair as a sly smile spread across her lips.
“She visited as a child,” said Guillaume.
She nodded. “Several times. My grand-père took me with him to see the parties.”
“There were parties?” I asked, feeling strangely uneasy, almost like I was choking—as if even over Zoom the smoke in the air was getting to me.
