Murder in Montmartre

Friday Morning

LAURE SAT UP IN the hospital bed, the computer keypad propped lecternlike on her hospital tray table. A hospital phone stood on the night table next to the violets Aimée had brought.

“Très bon, wonderful progress, the commissaire’s so pleased you can use this special equipment,” said the young therapist, beaming at her. “Each time you tap a key, I copy down a letter. So far, you’ve said, ‘I remember’ and what looks like a name and phone number, oui?”

Laure blinked. If only she would stop running off at the mouth and hurry up. Why didn’t this saccharine-voiced woman call Aimée?

“I’ll inform the officer on duty and we’ll take it from there.” She patted Laure’s arm. “He wants to hear right away about anything you know that may help with their investigation.” Laure blinked twice for no.

She slid her finger onto the letters n . . . o . . . w.

“Now?”

Laure blinked. Cold saliva drooled down her chin and she felt her shoulders sliding down the damn pillow.

“Excuse me, Laure,” the therapist said, “I must check with the officer first.”

The therapist stepped out of the ward. Laure slid further down, her head sinking into the pillow. And then she saw the pencil. She gripped it between her thumb and index finger. If only she could knock the telephone receiver off its cradle. With all her might, she swatted at it with the pencil. The smudged receiver wavered but held.

She tried again, this time wedging the pencil under it and levering it up. As the receiver fell she heard the dial tone. Quick, she had to do it fast, before the therapist returned or the recorded message came on and said, “If you’d like to make a call . . .”

She tapped Aimée’s eight numbers. Where was the connect button?

She heard footsteps, saw the blue uniform.

“What’s she doing?”