Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Saturday, 6 P.M.

“OUR MUSEUM DEPARTMENT appreciates your donation of time and expertise,” said Madame Chomette, the curator, a tall, slender woman with white hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She was dressed head-to-toe in black, which highlighted the silver teardrop pendant hanging from her neck. “I think that’s all, Mademoiselle Leduc. It’s been a long day.”

All? Aimée stared at three centuries of the Musée des Arts et Métiers’ cataloged holdings to digitize.

“We hope you don’t mind the accommodation, as we can’t transport the documents. Legal issues.”

Madame Chomette gestured to the alcove office carved out behind a Gothic strut pillar. Worn Latin was just visible in the floor paver. The extensive renovation of the museum revealed that the walls stripped down to eleventh-century stone. Thoroughly medieval, apart from the power strips and space heater.

“Tomorrow we’ll have a desktop operational for you and functioning within the museum network.”

Aimée wouldn’t hold her breath. After one look at the antiquated system, she’d decided to bring a laptop or three for backup.

Now to the meat, and finding Samour’s project. “To prevent duplicating Monsieur Samour’s efforts, perhaps you could tell me where he left off?”

She wondered if Madame Chomette was in on this, or a friend of Samour’s. Or both.

“So sad. Such a loss.” The conservator paused. “But I’m new, on loan from the archives to finish things up by the reopening deadline.” She gave a small shrug. “I met Samour last week for five minutes. But each person who worked on this logged the details.”

“Who did he work with?”

Another shrug. Madame Chomette glanced at her watch. “He was a wonderful help, that’s the memo I got. I’m late for a meeting. Desolée.”

Did this woman really not know? Aimée tried again. “I’m looking for a fourteenth century document.”

“The museum building was a church until the sixteenth century, so our holdings don’t go back that far,” Madame Chomette said. “We concentrate on inventions and machines from the eighteenth century on.”

“Could there have been another collection? A mistake? Or might it have been misfiled?”

Madame Chomette shook her head. “Not to my knowledge.”

Was Aimée some pawn in an elaborate setup? She wondered at how eagerly they’d accepted her services. Or was this more paranoia?

“But open one of our storage cellars and you’d be amazed at what’s in there,” Madame Chomette said, perhaps noting the dismay on Aimée’s face. “Believe it or not, the Archives Nationales kept things here during the Occupation. It wouldn’t surprise me if some were left. In most cases no one’s looked at these things in a hundred years. We’re overwhelmed and so grateful for your generous offer. It’s a true gift, this expertise you’ll furnish.”

Aimée believed the woman. Felt a brush of guilt for her ulterior motive, but groaned inside. It sounded like an exercise in futility. Still, she had to begin somewhere.

“I’ll program a laptop and start tomorrow.”

“Merci.” Looking again at her watch, Madame Chomette motioned her out. “Vardet, the security guard, will furnish your badge and outline security protocol.”