A Noël Killing by M. L. Longworth

Author:M. L. Longworth [Longworth, M. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Goodreads: 44093151
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 2019-11-12T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Marine tried not to yawn; she had seen that it was 11:00 on the stove’s clock when she was making tea. That meant that it was almost midnight now. She knew now how long it took to smoke certain cigars; she had seen the Bolivars Antoine had selected and she thought an hour and a half. “Have you seen any good expos lately?” Marine asked, using the go-to question raised at almost every Parisian dinner party.

Margaux sat back and sighed. “The Pierre Soulages exhibition at the Pompidou was sublime,” she said. “I went twice.”

“Oh, we were invited to the opening,” Marine said. “Antoine lent them a painting for the show. We just got it back.”

Margaux sat up straight. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, would you like to see it?”

“Of course!”

Marine got up, thankful that the cleaning woman had been at the apartment all afternoon, as the painting was in their bedroom. “Follow me,” she said. They walked down the hallway to the bedroom, Margaux making pleasant remarks about the framed photographs that lined the hall’s walls, mostly purchases made by Marine; a few were by her friend Sylvie, from a time when Marine could still afford Sylvie’s work.

“There it is,” Margaux said when they walked into the bedroom. She stood in front of the enormous painting, its black paint thick and shiny like oil even in the dimly lit bedroom. “They’re not sad, despite the fact that there’s only one color,” Margaux said.

“I agree.”

Margaux walked backward, still looking at the painting, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. Marine was surprised at her boldness; she had always thought that beds were intimate places, even when she was young. Her bedroom had always been a sanctuary. She continued looking at the painting when she heard what she thought was a quiet weeping. She turned around to see Margaux Perrot—grande dame of the red carpet—sitting on Marine’s bed, her head in her hands, crying. Marine sat down beside her. “May I help in any way?” Marine asked.

Margaux got a tissue out of her sweater pocket and blew her nose. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind this evening. It’s moving here, I think. I miss Paris. And it’s Léo, too. I know he’s worried about his business but he won’t confide in me. So my husband is keeping secrets from me, and here I am, away from Paris, where other, younger, actresses are going to snap up all the good roles before I can get back.” She dried her eyes and smiled.

“I’m sure your agent is looking out for you,” Marine said. She guessed that Margaux was approaching forty, and that part of her blues had to do with the lack of women’s roles at that age and older. At least that’s what she’d read. “You’re not the only actress who lives in Provence, either.”

“You’re right. I’m just feeling cut off.”

“I understand.”

“Do you think you could speak to Antoine about Léo?” Margaux asked. “I know that Léo was very worried

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