Coup de Grâce

I carefully sandwiched my journal and the manila file folders between a few sets of clothes. It was a small suitcase, I wanted to travel light. I had digital copies of everything and considered leaving the files behind, but there was something about having all the pieces fanned out around me that allowed my mind to consider possible connections or find a new curiosity to question.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” my sister, Kristin, said. She stood in my doorway with her arms crossed and an incredulous expression on her face. “What do you expect to find?”

I shrugged. “Maybe some answers. Maybe an untold part of the story. Or maybe just a dead end.”

“My bet is on the latter.”

“And maybe you’ll be proven right. But I’m going regardless.” I zipped my suitcase shut.

“I just don’t understand why this is so important,” Kristin said. “It’s been three years and you’re still obsessed with her. She barely even knew you existed, Mave. It’s weird. It’s always been weird.”

“I’m not obsessed,” I said defensively. And I wasn’t. Not with Camille anyways. But maybe a bit with her story and its abrupt end.

“Sure,” Kristin said sarcastically. “Sitting up night after night staring at the same pictures and rereading the same news stories isn’t obsessive at all. Neither is taking a gap year just to go around harassing Camille’s family and poking at their grief.”

“It’s for a podcast,” I retorted. “One that will help me get into journalism school.”

Kristin rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Mave. I’d say enjoy your trip, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to suck out all the fun of going to Paris.”

I picked up my suitcase and squeezed past Kristin. I was half way down the stairs when she called out “Au revoir.”

***

I wandered down a wide sun-filled street with a map in my hand. My eyes searched the tall stretches of window plated buildings on either side of me. I had tried to sneak peeks at the map to avoid looking like a tourist, but it was like the label was tattooed on my forehead. Fortunately an older woman had taken pity on me and had given me some directions in English, so I knew I was at least headed in the right direction.

When I finally found – or more accurately stumbled upon – the right address I felt a wave of nervous energy surge as I pressed the call button for the third floor apartment.

“Allô?” said a voice through the speaker.

“Hello, it’s Mave Collins. I have an interview scheduled with Mrs. Courtier.”

A buzz sounded at the door handle and I let myself in. After walking up the stairs, I knocked on the apartment door.

It swung open and a middle aged woman with fierce blue eyes looked me over.

“Good morning, Mrs. Courtier,” I said. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.”

Mrs. Courtier flashed the briefest of smiles, “Come in, I have some refreshments in the lounge. You’ve had a long trip. Take a few moments to get settled and then you can begin asking your questions about my niece.”

I took in the glamorous furnishings and beautiful artwork as I followed Mrs. Courtier into the apartment. This was the second time I’d entered a lavish living space to conduct an interview about Camille. The first had been with Camille’s mother several weeks ago. I’d expected it to be a tear filled meeting, but it had been quite the opposite. It had felt like bringing up Camille’s death had been more of an inconvenience and embarrassment than a source of sorrow.

I politely sipped some tea and nibbled a bit of a pastry as Mrs. Courtier did the same. After a few minutes she set her cup down and stared at me intently.

“So you were friends with my niece?”

“We played on the soccer team together. Well, she was on varsity and I was on the freshman team.”

“Ah, yes. Camille was quite a talented player. And she loved it too. We would go to games when she would come to visit me here.”

“Did she visit you often?”

“A couple times a year. My brother and his wife have always been very diligent at sending their kids away: boarding schools, summer camps, relatives living abroad.” She winked at me.

“So when she visited you that final time there wasn’t anything unusual about her coming to stay with you?”

“She typically would come for a few weeks in the summer, so it wasn’t an unexpected visit, but she did change her plans last minute to come earlier than she had originally planned.”

“Do you have any idea why she decided to come early?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. She was restless and distracted when she arrived. I think she would have confided in me when she was ready, but obviously our time together was cut too short.”

I nodded. “I know the detectives interviewed all her French friends and that none of them could explain how she ended up at a hostel in the twentieth arrondissement the night she was killed. Is there anyone else Camille knew that they might have missed?”

Mrs. Courtier was silent. It was the first question that had caused her to pause. “Answer a question of mine first,” she finally said. “Why do you care about what happened to Camille? It seems everyone else has moved on: her parents, her friends, even her boyfriend is engaged to someone else now.”

I cleared my throat uncomfortably, squirming beneath her steady gaze. “I – I honestly don’t know exactly. Camille was so perfect; beautiful, smart, popular. And she didn’t even seem to care. Everyone wanted to be friends with her, or date her, or be her. I did. I wanted to be just like her. And then her story just ends in a way so contrary to who she was: terrible, ugly, and sad. Camille’s gone and the mystery of what made her special can’t ever be solved, but maybe the mystery of her death can be.”

Mrs. Courtier had tears forming in her eyes. “I think you saw her more clearly than most. So I will trust you with something I did not tell the detectives. Camille had a very close friend here in Paris that no one else knew about. He may know something more than I do. If you go to the Colombe d'Argent, you’ll find him. Ask for Henri.”

“The hostel where Camille was killed! Why didn’t you tell the police about him?” I asked. “What if he’s Camille’s killer?”

“No, I know he’s not guilty.”

“How?”

“The night Camille died he was with me.”

My confusion must have been clear on my face.

“Many people call Paris the City of Love, but really it’s a city of passion. I tried to keep my indiscretions hidden from Camille, but I don’t know if I succeeded and I pray she didn’t follow in my footsteps. Passion can be nurtured into love but more often than not it becomes hate.”

I nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Courtier. And for trusting me with Camille’s secrets as well as your own.”

***

I walked into the lobby of the hostel. It was bright and clean, not at all the way I imagined the place where Camille was stabbed to death.

At the desk I asked the receptionist if I could speak to Henri and she led me to one of the hostel rooms that was under renovation. Inside two men were speaking very quickly and animatedly in French. The younger of the two seemed to be unhappy with the color of the walls.

“Henri,” the receptionist called out. “This American is here to speak with you.”

The younger man blasted out a few more phrases to the older and then approached me.

“Bonjour, what can I help you with, mademoiselle?”

“An acquaintance of mine, Mrs. Courtier, sent me to see you. She said you might be able to help me.”

Henri’s brow furrowed.

“It’s about Camille.”

Henri nodded solemnly and gestured to a set of bunk beds covered in a drop cloth in the center of the room. “Let’s sit.”

“How did you know Camille?”

“I met her at one of her aunt’s soirees years ago when I was nineteen and she was sixteen. We became fast friends.”

“Just friends?”

Henri smiled. “‘Just friends’ is such a strange phrase. Suggests friendship is something small, doesn’t it? Truthfully, I loved her. But I loved her enough to just be her friend. So many others wanted more from her. She needed a friend. She was an angel and I was content with watching her fly.”

“And she had a boyfriend back home.”

“Sometimes she did and sometimes she didn’t. That boy did not deserve her. He broke her heart just to keep her from flying out of his reach.”

“Did Camille come here to see you the night she died?”

“No, she knew I would not be here. Her aunt tried to keep our affair a secret, but Camille was clever and I could not lie to her.”

“Then why was she here?”

Henri sighed. “Camille had a big heart and she was finally realizing someone could love her much more than her parents or her boyfriend ever did. She’d gotten involved with someone back in America and he was going to be in Paris the night she died. She had plans to meet him. That’s why she was here, he was staying at this hostel.”

My heart was racing. This mystery lover could be the killer.

“I know what you’re thinking, but he did not kill Camille. He may have loved her more than her boyfriend, but he was a coward. He decided to leave a note for her, telling her he couldn’t be with her and then he left. He was on a train to Venice when Camille was killed.”

“Who was he?”

“His name was Patrick.”

And just like that my world came crashing down.

***

I waited to call until I was back in New York. But after hours on a plane I still didn’t have a clear plan of what to say.

“Hello?” his voice flooded my ears and memories flashed through my mind.

“Hi, Patrick.”

“Woah, it is you. How are you, Mave?”

“I’ve been better.”

“What’s wrong? Is it Kristin? Did something happen?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Nothing bad has happened to Kristin,” I replied.

“Oh, okay. Why are you calling?”

“You, Kristin, and your friends went to Italy for your graduation trip, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said warily.

“Did Kristin know?”

“Know what?”

“About you and Camille.”

Silence.

“What are you talking about, Mave?”

“Did she know?”

“No. At least I don’t think she did. Did she say something? I could talk to her if so, but we’ve been broken up for a couple years now so I don’t know how much good it would do.”

“No, don’t call her. Promise me you won’t.”

“Okay, I promise. But what’s going on?”

“Probably nothing. I hope I’m wrong.”

“Wrong? Wrong about what?”

“Bye, Patrick.”

***

When I arrived home I walked upstairs, but didn’t go into my room. Instead I entered Kristin’s. I started pulling journals and books off the shelf, flipping through the pages. Nothing. I was starting to think she might not have kept it. Then I grabbed her senior yearbook and as I fanned through it a piece of paper fell to the floor. And my stomach plunged with it. There was a dark smudge on the edge of the note. Blood.

I unfolded the page with trembling hands.

The first words: My dearest Camille

The final words: Your beloved Patrick

I had traveled to another continent in search of clues to who killed Camille only to find her murderer had been sleeping in the next room.

Author’s Note: This was written for the Autumn 2024 Short Story Writing Battle.