Murder in Bel-Air by Cara Black

Author:Cara Black
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2019-03-08T18:05:14+00:00

Thursday, Midday

Uneasy, she reached Avenue du Bel-Air four blocks away, turned right into rue du Pensionnat. She was scattering crumbs for Hlili, for her mother, but what if she was only attracting predators?

How well she remembered those low buildings on rue du Pensionnat. The long ivy-covered gate, the uneven cobbled courtyard of the old coaching inn that her grandfather used to point out to her after they’d spent a day at Foire du Trône in Bois de Vincennes—the huge carnival fair of medieval origins. She remembered holding her grandfather’s hand in one of hers, in the other the traditional sticky gingerbread pig, cochon aux épices. She remembered him telling her the story of how, in the twelfth century, the king’s son had died after falling off his horse, which had reared up, scared by a wild pig. How the sad king had banned pigs in Paris, the only exception being the pigs kept in the abbey of Saint-Antoine. How, thankful for the king’s favor, the monks had baked pig gingerbread cookies for the fair and how the tradition had continued for eight hundred years.

She remembered how they’d always detour home via the bar owned by Tino, Grand-père’s old colleague, off Avenue du Bel-Air. Tino’s bar was named Verse Toujours, an old phrase meaning, “Keep pouring, nonstop.” The first time she’d heard the name as a little girl, she’d thought Tino’s arm must have hurt from all the pouring and had offered him a Band-Aid. How her grand-père had laughed. The bar was still there, on rue du Pensionnat between Impasse des Arts and rue des Colonnes du Trône, the former wagon route that had once carried victims to the guillotine.

Drink in hand, Tino would sit her at the outdoor table by a bollard, and they’d play jeu de 7 familles with the same worn card set. Her grand-père was busy helping a friend, Tino would say—only years later had she realized Grand-père had been “helping” his mistress.

After cards, Tino would bring her another limonade, and they’d play the guessing game. Her favorite. He’d ask her how many streets radiated from Place du Trône, as he still called it. Or which dauphin the king had imprisoned at the Château de Vincennes. Or how many horses the stables in the old coaching inn across the rue held.

Tino, a retired beat flic, had grown up within the range of the bells of nearby Église de l’Immaculée Conception and seemed happy to stay there. He knew everyone in the quartier, their children, and their affairs, and he never forgot a face. She’d thought she’d stop by the bar and see what Tino knew about the EDF managerial enclave across the street, and about the Hlilis.

But now she stood in Bar Verse Toujours and barely recognized it. The old elaborately framed mirrors had disappeared, as had the zinc counter. The bar had been redecorated with American diner decor—the new rage—red tiles on the floor and the leather-seated banquettes replaced with stools and Formica tables. The

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