A neon-green skull flashes in my head.
but what was done to her body
A shriek shatters the silence, and my muscles clench, barbwire wrapping my spine in a tight, tingling squeeze.
Pulse fluttering in my throat, I glance at the windows overlooking the gardens. I set aside the laptop and cross the room. Shades of night create shapes outside: an expanse of grass, shrubbery, and winding paths. But nothing else.
Thinking on the sound, I’m not sure it was human. But it was terrifying—so sudden and sharp.
Instinctive fear still chills my blood as I scan the dark garden again. Then shadows shift near the base of the tree, and a small creature emerges. A little black cat, slinking along the hedge.
Relief deflates my lungs, and I rub my calming heart. “Please don’t make that awful sound again. You scared me to death.”
Although, dark-tourism-guy is really more to blame. Talking about murder and dead bodies. His gruesome teaser is like anunfinished puzzle, and I’m itching to get it done. To close it up in a box once and for all.
What was done to this poor, unknown woman from the past? The not-knowing is what keeps me unsettled, allows my imagination to paint the picture.
And the picture I see is grisly.
Better if I just find out for myself, then I can focus on my work.
Huffing, I delete the film’s title in the search bar. One letter at a time.
In its place, I typeMaison Marteau Paris murder. Articles about the mansion fill the first page. Out of curiosity, I follow a few links to society pages and other sites discussing the influential family.
From what I can tell, the Marteaus have been in the chocolate business since the 1800s, which explains the excessive wealth.
Everyone loves chocolate.
A few more clicks and I land on a website with history and obscure trivia about Parisian mansions. The page shows an old newspaper article with a grainy black-and-white photo. The paper is from 1922. A line through the middle marks the fold, the original scanned to create an electronic copy.
ATROCITÉ À LA MAISON MARTEAU
In the photo below the headline, a couple poses with two children. The mansion stands in the background. As I scan the text, a few words leap out at me—Marteau,chocolat, suicide.
Suicide?
The article is in a photo, so I can’t copy and paste. Typing in words makes translation more difficult and time consuming. I check the spelling and accent marks, and write the first paragraph into my language app.
Luckily, one paragraph is all I need. A murder-suicide and suspected love triangle. A man named Mathieu Marteau killed his wife and himself, leaving one child behind. A son.
Tragic. Sad. Needless.
But not the horrid murder dark-tourist guy made it out to be. And I still don’t understand why he mentioned the woman’s body.
Working backward, I type in “body” and get the French wordcorps. Methodically, I scan every line, searching. I find no mention of the word.
Maybe the details were too graphic? Too scandalous for the times?
Or maybe the powerful Marteau family kept the newspaper in check.
Shocking or not, it happened over a hundred years ago. Their tragedy has nothing to do with the here and now. Nothing to do with me.
Outside, lampposts glow in the park, disembodied white orbs floating in the night.
A sudden chill overcomes me. I pick up my tea, but it’s gone cold. So has the room, lit only by the lamp on the desk. Shadows encroach from every corner, making me wish for a fire.
Murder house. Such a ghoulish description.
