I try to hide my surprise, but I fear it shows. No one can pay for this with a housekeeper’s pension. Mireille either inherited big or invested like a pro.
“Please,” she gestures to a sofa.
I sit, crossing my legs at the ankles. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
The maid sets down a tray loaded with porcelain cups, a silver teapot, homemade cookies, and lemon slices. Mireille pours for both of us.
This is the part where I’m supposed to make small talk, but I’m too wound up to delay my questions.
“I want to ask,” I begin, watching her hands, “about the old duke’s death.”
Something flickers in her eyes. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” I argue. “Did you hear or see anything unusual?”
She sips her tea before answering. “No. Nothing. His Grace fell. It was an accident. The coroner said as much.”
How very neat,I think to myself.
Aloud, I say, “But you were in the house then. Was there noise? An argument? Did anyone seem… unsettled?”
Of course, I have no idea if she was in the house, but I know how to play poker. I can bluff.
Mireille’s fingers tighten on the cup. “I don’t recall.”
I lean forward. “You left suddenly after Rodolphe’s death. No farewell party, no explanation. Why?”
She replies quickly. “I had personal reasons I’d rather not revisit.”
Unlike the first dodge, this one is smooth, practiced. But the nonverbal cues I’ve learned to read at the poker table give her away. Her eyes dart left, her fingers fidget, she rubs her nose, blinks too often… She knows more about Rodolphe’s death than she’s willing to admit.
I sip my tea, though it tastes like metal in my mouth.
“I’m done with lies, Madame Girard,” I say. “I drowned in them for too long. If there’s something, tell me. Please, tell me the truth.”
For a second, she looks like she’ll break. But her expression hardens as she sets her cup down.
“Truth will poison you,” she says, her voice heavy.
I gasp. “So, there is something!”
“What happened that day was judged already, by a higher hand,” she says cryptically. “If you’re wise, you’ll let it rest.”
I clench my fists in my lap. “It’s funny you bring up divine retribution. My mother-in-law did the same recently. She called it karma.”
“What exactly did Madame Brigitte say to you?” Mireille asks, her expression sharp.
I weigh my words. “She said Geoffroy had committed a mortal sin, and his half brother, Alexandre, had been wronged.”
Mireille stares at me, flabbergasted.
Did I go too far?Maybe.
Did I add my interpretation of Brigitte’s words?Certainly.
But I do believe that’s what she meant.
