Page 3 of Nothing Left

His voice was cultured, and although he spoke in French, Juliette's ear picked up a British accent. So this was her new neighbor. Perhaps he was an academic teacher at the university nearby. That was her first guess, but she didn't have time for more. And she definitely did not have time to wait.

"I'll take the stairs. Good luck with the move. We're neighbors, I see," she said, giving him a quick, polite smile. It wasn't his fault that she was rushed off her feet, thanks to this surprise opportunity.

Then, forgetting about the small delay, Juliette raced to the end of the corridor, down the two flights of stairs, and out onto the street, breaking all land speed records as she sprinted for the train station.

***

Exactly half an hour after leaving her apartment, she arrived at Paulette's address. It was one of the older, roomier, and more upmarket apartment buildings in Paris, built overlooking the river. Juliette knew that an apartment here would cost a serious amount of money. It told her that Paulette was a wealthy woman.

She tapped on the ornate front door, feeling nerves now churn inside her, wondering if she would have her husband with her or not. There were so many unknowns. Did she know who Juliette was, or had she guessed? Would she be willing to talk?

The door opened, and there she stood. Her father's lover.

A petite woman, who was probably fifty years old, with luxurious, dark hair curling to her shoulders and bright green eyes. She wore cream-colored linen pants and a camel-colored blouse with a blue scarf at her neck. Quality, tasteful clothing. Staring at Juliette, her eyes widened. Recognition, most definitely, was in her gaze.

"If I hadn't already realized who you were, I would know now," she said softly.

"Mr. Hart was my father," Juliette acknowledged in a sad voice. She felt a sense of shock that she was here at all. This entire experience felt surreal.

"Come in," Paulette said. "Please, come in."

Feeling a massive sense of relief that she'd gotten this far and that Paulette seemed willing to cooperate, Juliette walked inside. She wondered if the dynamic between herself and her father's ex-lover would change when she started asking the hard questions.

This was going to be a potentially explosive meeting, and Juliette knew she'd have to tread carefully. She was not here on an official investigation. She had no police status. She was merely doing her own research on a cold case that mattered to her more than she wanted to think about.

The place was sumptuously decorated, with a panoramic view of the Seine River through the massive plate glass window in the living room. Paulette invited her to sit down on a leather-covered chaise lounge while she took an armchair.

"Coffee?" she asked, every inch the attentive hostess in this surprisingly weird situation.

"No, thank you," Juliette replied but waited before getting to the gist of the matter, sensing that Paulette needed some time to get to grips with her presence in this living room. Perhaps Paulette would prefer to take the lead in this conversation. Mixed emotions surged inside her as she looked at the woman who had slept with her married father, who had been with him just days before his murder, and who surely must have known something about it.

Either she knew something that she was aware of and had been hiding, or else she might have learned something that she didn’t realize was connected to this crime. She might have information that she could reveal if Juliette asked the right questions. Pillow talk might have provided intimate and important facts.

Scenarios whirled through Juliette’s mind as she forced herself to stay quiet, to keep a calm and polite demeanor, and to wait for the timing to be right.

"So," Paulette said, seeming ready at last after a long pause. "Tell me why you are here?"

CHAPTER TWO

Paulette was ready to talk. Now, there might be answers.

Juliette spoke calmly, trying not to give away how close to tears she suddenly felt inside. "Paulette, I am here because I want to know what happened to my father. I'm sure you know about his murder. You were seeing him at the time. I found a letter you sent him."

She swallowed. This was surprisingly difficult. And she sensed that now, Paulette's demeanor was less sympathetic than it had been when she'd arrived. Now, she guessed, Paulette was suspicious. Perhaps she was realizing the implications of saying anything at all. At any rate, the atmosphere in the room seemed to have cooled.

Paulette's eyes flickered. Her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. "I see," she said after a moment, her voice low. "And you think I might have information that the police couldn't find?"

Juliette nodded. "Yes. I do think so because you were close to my father, and you were with him shortly before he was killed."

"I know nothing about the murder," Paulette said, her voice now sharp.

"There might be something you do know," Juliette said. She didn't want to say the wrong thing. She might already have come across too strongly, despite her best efforts at diplomacy, learned from the finest teacher of all - her father himself. But in this situation, she didn't know if it was working or if she was even approaching this in the right way. She sensed she was treading her way through a minefield.

Paulette leaned forward, her expression serious. "I understand your desire for closure, Juliette. But I'm not sure how much help I can be. Your father and I had a very brief relationship. We saw each other a few times at the most. It was not, and was never going to be, lasting."

"You were married?" Juliette put the pivotal fact on the table. That was what she'd gathered from the love letter. It was why her suspicions flared every time she thought about the murder.

"Separated," Paulette said. "My husband and I were discussing the possibility of divorce, and we ended up amicably divorcing a few months later. It was a very sad time. Traumatic in so many ways. But I was not the killer, and nor was he. He knew that I was seeing others. He was, too."

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