The smell drew her to a desk, where she found a handkerchief embroidered with a T. On a notepad was written Baret, Peltier, Royant, Dufard. Those same names-a hit list?
The drawers held a tin pastille box of photos, a Clairfontaine ledger with amounts entered in old francs, a leather-bound diary held together by a rubber band.
She removed the band and thumbed open the diary. Pages of blue ink, still vivid, with entries in sections from 1942, 1943, 1944.
She thumbed back to the front page. Ninette Minou's diary. That name . . . why did she know it? And then she remembered-Clement said the blacksmith Minou had been one of the men to find the mayor's body by the river, that Minou had died at Liberation.
In a photo similar to the one she'd seen at the bookstore office were the same men, and a younger version of Madame Jagametti. Beautiful. Was she his sister? Cousin? His widow, who'd remarried?
Fascinated, she sat down on a creaking wood chair, set down the photo and started reading.
Pasted on the first page was a picture of three teenagers swimming in the river. The photo was labeled Therese, me, and Minou on my birthday and showed a young Madame Jagametti, a freckle-faced Ninette, and a stocky, short man.
Dear Diary, you are my birthday present from my best friend, Therese, today, August 14, 1942.
So Madame Jagametti-Therese-had kept her best friend Ninette's diary. But why?
Aimee read through the wartime descriptions of how Ninette's mother scraped together a chocolate creme cake, trading Minou's horseshoeing with the chicken farmer for eggs. Normal teenage entries that went on for pages-crushes on the postman, black-market cotton her mother sewed into a dress for her, the kittens born in Therese's cellar. A life of a young girl-unremarkable apart from the German soldiers in the occupied zone across the river who eyed her when she went swimming. Little line drawings of cats filled the margins. A yellowed picture of a movie star Aimee had never heard of cut from a magazine.
A sweet girl, Ninette.
Aimee skipped to November. Now Ninette's entries expressed horror at the executions across the river. Four dead German soldiers had washed up on the riverbank. Everyone lived in fear. Ninette's parents feared letting her go outside or to see Therese. The baker was spreading a rumor that there had been a fifth German soldier who had gotten away-that he would come back for revenge.
Aimee paused as she read that. Her heart was racing.
Dated December, after Christmas, was an entry about how Ninette had woken up at night and overheard Minou telling their father he'd been melting gold bars. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone-it involved those four dead German soldiers and how Alain, Philbert, and Bruno were afraid of the people in Givaray. How the Resistance shot the mayor but her friends didn't believe it.
Aimee pulled her coat around her, rubbed her hands together for warmth. Read more. How did this connect to why the men were being killed off now?
In 1943 Ninette's entries concerned how daily life got harder. In January, the Germans occupied the town. Minou was angry all the time, always shouting at her. She wrote about her mother's TB.
Later, in the spring, Ninette wrote about how Philbert Royant, Alain Dufard, and Bruno Peltier paid people good money to dig tunnels for bomb shelters. Everyone was grateful for their generosity-the wheat harvest had been ruined and the winter was hard. No one was asking where the money came from, but Ninette thought Minou knew. Ninette didn't help with the tunnels-she worked replanting the fields. She heard noises from the cellars at night, but she was supposed to pretend not to hear.
Aimee paged ahead to 1944. In August 1944, at Liberation, only one entry: Dear Diary, I should be happy-the Allies are coming, people are dancing in the street. But they murdered Minou-the greedy bastards-in cold blood. Took his share of the gold.
Her jaw dropped.
Angry and devastated, Ninette had wanted the truth remembered, and she had put it all down here. Aimee flipped ahead; there were still pages of feverish writing. A thought curdled her stomach: Had Therese Jagametti been paid off for hiding the incriminating evidence in her best friend's diary? Had she been using the diary to blackmail the conspirators?
Cold air wafted as if from an open window. Or from the door above? Someone was coming. Shuffling footsteps, not the kid, Bertrand.
Quickly she stuffed the diary into her jacket just as an old man with a silver froth of hair burst into the shelter. Huffing, he shook his cane at her, smiling. He was stout and square in his cashmere coat, full-faced, with the red-veined nose of a drinker.
She stared at the photo of the men she'd set on the desk and then back at him. "Monsieur Royant, I presume."
He blinked. His blue, rheumy eyes teared in the cold.
"Close. I'm the one next to him."
"Dufard?"
"And you're Peltier's brat. Good job, kid." He stuck out a Monoprix plastic bag. "Fill that up with everything in the desk, and don't slam the door on your way out."
Was Dufard the killer? Her heart beat so hard it almost jumped out of her chest. The pieces flashed in front of her-the men in the picture, the gold, the mayor murdered on the bank.
She tried to make sense of this-two of the four men had been murdered. Wasn't Dufard in danger? Or had she read this wrong? Like an idiot, had she put herself in front of the killer?
She stood. Eyed the door to escape. "Don't you realize you could be next? You and Royant." Keep talking and get to the door. "Peltier and Baret's murderer is ready to tick your dance card." That old phrase of her grandmother's had popped into her head.
A muscle in Dufard's jowly cheek jumped.
"I need you to give me everything you've found, young lady."
She needed to get out of here. "I'm afraid not. Elise hired me."
"And paid you well for it, I know." He grinned. Stepped in front of the exit, blocking her. "Haven't you figured out we've been following you, mademoiselle la detective?"
Old men had her under surveillance and she hadn't even known? Talk about amateur. "Following me?" Now the centime dropped. How could she have been so stupid? "So you had a gypsy taxi attack me outside Baret's bookstore last night. Now you're here to finish the job."
Surprise crossed Dufard's face. What she took for fear. Then it was gone. "What? No. I drove Elise's mother to the hospital yesterday afternoon. Elise was a basket case, so I had to do the paperwork to get her mother admitted."
Easy enough to check. Though she didn't like him, she believed him. "Why follow me, then? Didn't you know this shelter was here all the time?"
"Did I?" Dufard scanned the desk. "Let's say I'm tying up loose ends I didn't know about."
Loose ends? Had he assumed Madame Jagametti kept valuables-or the diary-in a safety deposit box?
"What's so important to you?" Aimee squeezed the diary tighter under her arm. Shivered. "Has this woman been blackmailing you and the others?"
"We had an understanding. Always have. As I said, loose ends."
"Why didn't you just come down here yourself and take them?" She bit her tongue before adding, "They're your tunnels."
"I heard you're smart. A medical student. Too busy to worry about what you don't understand. So let's keep it that way." He shoved the crinkled Monoprix shopping bag toward her. "Keep earning your fric."
Fric, slang for money-a kid's term at his age? This old man trying to act au courant sickened her.
"Empty the drawer in here like a good little girl."
Like hell she would. "Do it yourself," she said, backing toward the wooden steps.
Dufard's cane shot out across the doorway. "Not so fast, young lady."
Should she kick it away, knock over an old man? Outrage battled with fear inside her. "Stealing a woman's war mementos-that's criminal."
And even worse criminal activity was alleged in the diary. Part of her didn't want to believe this old man and his cronies were murderers, war profiteers who had corrupted the village. The other part-reason, deduction, and her gut-knew it only made sense.
"You've saved me time." Dufard stepped closer, pulled out a long-handled flashlight and a wad of cash. "Glad Elise found you to lead us to what we needed."
Her insides wrenched. She felt she'd been socked in the gut. Used, she'd been used by Elise, sucked in by a family sob story to lead these old crooks to what they were looking for. Nave.
Her father had been right.
Tired of waiting for her to act, Dufard was pulling out the drawers and scooping the contents into his Monoprix bag. Without an excusez-moi he'd reached in and riffled through her bag on the floor.
"Who's after you, Dufard?"
"You have no idea, cherie. Open your pockets."
"Why?"
The diary was wedged tight under her armpit. She could overtake this old man-kick him in the shin or balls . . .
As though he had read her mind, he stepped back.
"Popular girl," Dufard said, picking up her pager and scanning the numbers. She'd put it on mute. "So who's this calling you all the time?"
She had to put him off track, get out of here before the diary slipped out of her armpit.
"My ex-boyfriend."
He threw her pager against the stone wall, shattering it into pieces which he picked up and put in her hand. "This should stop him for a while, cherie. Royant," he yelled up the stairs, "get the car started! We're getting out of here!"
He tossed the wad of cash into her bag. Throwing money at her as if it could make this all go away.
"Alain, what's taking so long?" Fear quavered in the reedy, old voice that came from the tunnel above the old bomb shelter.
Despite the bravado, these old men were scared. Maybe there was someone they couldn't bribe anymore.
This stank. Hurt, anger, and disgust made her want to kick herself. Or do serious damage to the old fart.
Up in the tunnel, his colleague Royant was smoking a cigar. He was fatter and wider in a camel-hair coat. A long, white comb-over-a ladies' man, he must figure himself. Dissipated roue to her. But something cunning, too. Sharp. He reeked of pastis-that licorice smell on top of the cold dank of mildew made her gag.
"She delivered." Dufard puffed up the steps. "Let's go."
Such a damn smug look on his fat, jowly face. These old men were cockier than teenagers. What the hell did they plan on getting away with-and how?
Time to act on a hunch and hope it burst their bubble. "Haven't you forgotten about the fifth German?"
The Monoprix bag dropped. Photos and notebooks scattered on the dirt floor, kicking up dust motes in the flashlight beam. She'd struck a nerve.
Apart from the dripping water and the fat one's breathing, silence.
"You know, that missing Boche who never washed up. Back when the sixty villagers in Givaray were shot-the German reprisals."
"Ancient history." Dufard got down on his haunches, shuffled things hurriedly back into the bag. "Long gone."
"Not according to Madame Peltier," she called after them as they took off down the tunnel. But what else did Madame Peltier know?
The whole time she'd been investigating she'd felt so smart, so organized, documenting her work, thinking about what her father would do. And in the end she'd failed-been an unwitting stooge.
Idiot. Should have listened to her father in the first place. But she'd never tell him that.
She retraced her steps, surprised to find the trapdoor open. The Jagametti kitchen was warm and full of the aroma of coffee. Madame Jagametti, whom she'd shared the train compartment with, was hunched over the kitchen table, holding ice to her eye.
What in the world . . . ? And would this woman start yelling at her for trespassing?
"Pardonnez-moi," Aimee said, searching for excuses. "Bertrand . . ." She didn't want to get him in trouble. Nothing for it but to be direct. "Madame, I apologize for intruding, but is this yours?" Aimee pulled out the diary.
A spark of surprise flitted across her dark brows. "Pas du tout. It's Ninette's. She's long gone, it doesn't matter now."
"But I think it does, madame. You've kept it for years. You knew Ninette wanted the truth remembered. Wasn't she your best friend?"
She gave a harsh laugh. Shrugged.
"What happened?"
Rain pounded on the windows, wind shook the bare-branched trees outside.
"Ask those two who stormed into my kitchen and did this to me. Your employers." Her lip trembled. She emanated fear and helplessness.
Aimee shivered.
"Not my employers. Elise Peltier hired me-I have nothing to do with those men. Please, I'm asking you."
"I don't want to talk about the past."
"Where's Bertrand?"
"Pac-mania, that boy has," she said. "Since you weren't invited, I can't ask you to leave. But I expect you to."
But this was the person she'd come to see. She couldn't just walk out.
"Desolee, madame. Can't you help me? Help me understand what happened here in the war that's still so important now?"
Madame Jagametti's thin mouth turned down in defeat. "Open secrets and closed mouths, comprends? It's about men leading double lives and a village that protected them."
Aimee sat down uninvited. Should she take the woman's hand to show she was sympathetic? Would the woman even let her? She reached for rough, calloused, arthritic fingers. Madame Jagametti shook her off. Bad idea.
"Please, just go."
But she couldn't give up.
"I will, madame, but you were Ninette's best friend," said Aimee. "Et alors, you know more than anyone, I imagine. You're the only one who can explain how what happened in the war led a bunch of wheat farmers to live in the exclusive quarter of Paris."
Madame's arthritic fingers clenched. "What's it to you? You're working for them."
"No, I'm not. Elise used me."