“During that time”—Detective Grimaldi looked to Celine—“did you interact with anyone else, Miss Rousseau?”
Celine didn’t even bother glancing toward Arjun for cues. It was clear Detective Grimaldi already knew the answers to the questions he was asking. He was trying to trip them. To muddy the waters. To what end, Celine could only hazard a guess.
“I believe you know that answer already,” Celine said primly.
Nevertheless he waited for her response.
With a small sigh, she continued. “During that time, I shared a brief conversation with the owner of the establishment.”
“Mr. Saint Germain.”
Celine nodded.
“And was he present throughout the entirety of your visit to Jacques’?”
Awareness flared through Celine, hot and fast. Detective Grimaldi was after Bastien, not them. She should have realized it earlier, based on their mutual enmity from last night. Relief flooded through her like cool water on a parched day. Her mind whirled as it considered whether to disclose her observations about the yellow ribbon.
But every word she spoke needed to be above reproach. And she lacked incontrovertible proof.
“No,” Celine replied carefully, “he was not.”
Arjun stopped writing, his pencil stilling above his notebook for an instant. Then he grinned to himself before resuming his scribblings. But that breath of time had revealed his hand. The truth of why the erstwhile attorney was here at all sharpened into sudden focus.
He wasn’t here to help them. He’d come to protect Bastien. To make sure his employer was not implicated in anything untoward. These blackguards had inserted themselves into Pippa and Celine’s unfortunate situation to safeguard their own interests, proving they cared not a whit about anyone else. Even though Arjun had said as much to Celine, her anger rose in a sudden spike. The revelation about the yellow ribbon threatened to burst from her lips in a spate of uncontrolled fury, lack of proof be damned.
“Is something wrong, Miss Rousseau?” Detective Grimaldi asked.
Curse him for being so observant. Celine cleared her thoughts with a toss of her dark curls. “Apart from the fact that I’m being questioned by the police, I can think of nothing that might be wrong.”
“I meant that you seemed piqued all of a sudden. As though something of note had captured your interest.”
“I only came to a troubling realization. That’s all.”
“May I inquire after it?”
Pointedly, Celine slid her gaze to Arjun. He met her glare, then leaned back in his seat, the wood beneath him creaking at the shift in weight. The corners of his hazel eyes narrowed, his monocle glimmering as if in warning.
“It is with respect to Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine said.
Michael Grimaldi did not move a muscle, his stillness belying his interest.
“Though I only saw it for a moment,” Celine began, “the image of Anabel in death will forever be seared onto my mind, and I wanted to be certain you’d caught every detail.”
The detective nodded.
Arjun tapped the end of his pencil against the black leather of his notebook, a serene smile upon his face, though he kept his attention locked on Celine.
Wordlessly, she dared him to stop her.
“Her pallid skin,” Celine continued. “Her eyes frozen open in terror.” Beside her, Pippa shuddered. “Her unbound hair across her face . . .” She watched to see if Arjun had any reaction. Save for the continued tapping of his pencil against his notebook, he was devoid of all emotion.
“And”—Celine paused—“that horrible, jagged wound.”
The detective waited.
“A kind of wound that would have produced a great deal of blood, no doubt,” Celine said. “It would be all but impossible for anyone present last night—including Monsieur Saint Germain— to have committed such a heinous crime, then drain their victim of blood and remove all traces from their person in time.”
Detective Grimaldi steepled his hands before him. He stared at Celine thoughtfully. She could not tell if he was impressed or irritated. “I came to a similar realization myself, Miss Rousseau,” he said. “But precautions can be taken. Stained clothes can be changed. Coats and gloves can be doffed just as easily as they are donned.” He bent over his joined hands. “To that end, did either you or Miss Montrose encounter anything you might deem suspicious?”
Bastien had discarded his frock coat. Numerous members of La Cour des Lions had carried weapons on their persons. Knives, guns, ice picks, even rings that could double as instruments of torture and violence. Suddenly the small red stain on the collar of Odette’s shirt did not seem quite so innocuous.
Odette, a murderess? Celine almost laughed to herself. Then her blood ran cold.
Celine was a murderess.
Anyone was capable of committing ghastly deeds. And everyone in the Court of the Lions appeared to possess otherworldly gifts. Some could taste the flavor of deceit. Could make chess pieces move about, bidden by the mind. Could foretell the future, with naught but a touch.
Arjun himself had stilled a man into a stupor, simply by grabbing his wrist.
Celine looked about, fear seeping into her soul. All these individuals were beyond the ordinary, their abilities extending far past parlor room tricks. But to what extent? Again she recalled what the two young women had revealed earlier in the square, about “the Court” likely being responsible for the decapitated girl along the docks.
The Court. La Cour des Lions.
Celine did not believe in coincidences.
And only a fool would provoke creatures with untold appetites and unknown abilities.
If Celine wished to keep herself safe—to keep Pippa safe—she needed to bend with the wind, no matter the bitter taste it would leave on her tongue. Suddenly she understood why the other officers of the New Orleans Metropolitan Police had granted Bastien such a wide berth.
Cognez au nid de guêpe, et vous serez piqué.
Strike a wasp’s nest, and you will be stung.
Celine smoothed her apron overskirt. She met the detective’s penetrating stare, refusing to flinch. “I’m sorry to say I saw nothing of note, Detective Grimaldi.”
Disappointment flashed across his face. He looked to Pippa.
Surreptitiously, Celine reached under the table for Pippa’s hand. Squeezed it tightly.
“I’m sorry, Detective Grimaldi,” Pippa said in a clear voice. “But I didn’t see anything either.”
* * *