La Femme Bleu

Crime Fiction by Lissa Muir

Abigail was, if you took her apart piece by piece—he didn’t, but he could have—altogether average. Five foot three or five depending on her shoes, straight brown hair, tawny skin, hazel eyes, a light dusting of freckles across her nose if she didn’t feel like wearing makeup. The cliché about identical twins, duplicates in looks but opposites in personality, was true for Abigail and Camille. Though they were both very smart, only Abby had the recklessness that sometimes accompanies extreme intelligence. Not arrogance, though. Abigail was not a know-it-all. But she did have a strong desire to learn, to figure out, to push the envelope and assume things would work out well for her. Camille’s intellect drove her, instead, to vigilance. Constantly on alert, she looked out for obstacles and if she couldn’t persuade her sister to avoid them, she did her best to move them safely out of the way. Abby was in constant motion, always seeking the next adventure, while Camille craved a quiet Friday night in. Abby was straight up whiskey and olives. Camille, ice cold pinot grigio and buttered popcorn. Everyone wanted to be Abigail’s friend and she theirs while Camille accepted few into her circle. Each woman’s social life, though, centered around the other twin.

Camille and Abigail were raised in an irreligious home, the scientific method the only sacred source their parents—both having rejected the unquestioning Christianity with which they had been raised—abided. Their mother, a professor of neuropsychology, revered the almighty sympathetic nervous system, and taught her daughters to do the same. It vexed her that Abigail, when she felt her palms dampen and heartrate quicken, interpreted those signals as excitement, and always heeded their call. She was buoyed, though, by Camille, for whom tachycardia and overactive sweat glands were reason for pause and reflection. Which is why, when Abigail met the hot man at the hotel bar while waiting for her current beau, she gave him her number. Which is why, when Abby later relayed the meeting to her sister, having dumped the beau over text in anticipation of meeting up with the new man, Camille told her not to answer his messages. Abby, used to her sister’s fretting, ignored the warning and, later that week, accepted an invitation to have dinner with the man. Camille, used to her sister’s foolhardy ways, insisted she be given information about the restaurant, which Abigail reluctantly but promptly provided.

When Camille did not receive the requisite text—always accompanied by the eyerolling emoji—that Abby was safely home after her date, she bombarded her sister’s phone with calls and texts. At first, Camille was more annoyed than worried because she knew Abby could be forgetful when she on one of her escapades. By the following morning at ten, having allowed for sleepovers and sleeping in, still not having heard back from her sister, Camille picked up two heavily sweetened Americanos and headed over to Abigail’s apartment. She had a key fob, of course, but still she buzzed in lest her sister’s dearth of communication was in service to ongoing and engrossing sex. No answer had Camille tapping the fob on the sensor while holding both coffees in one hand. Abby’s building, a ten-minute walk from Camille’s own apartment, was one of those new condos with more amenities than elevators, so Camille had to wait a while for one to take her to the tenth floor. When she finally stood in front of the door to Abigail’s unit, she didn’t bother with a courtesy knock, using her key to enter as her concern for her sister steadily rose.

***

He hummed The Cure’s Friday I’m in Love. It was Saturday morning, but his mind was still on the night before and the congruousness of it all made him smile. Abigail owned a French press and kept whole beans in a glass container on the stainless-steel counter, which he appreciated. Eyeballing two tablespoons, he placed them in the black spice grinder and pushed the start button, letting the sound momentarily drown out his humming. Then he put the fresh grounds in the French press, poured hot water over them and set a timer on his watch for four minutes. Though he liked the feeling of the air on his freshly showered skin, bleach could do unthinkable things to sensitive areas, so he threw on yesterday’s undershirt and boxers. Donning the bright yellow dishwashing gloves he’d brought with him, he snagged the hand vacuum from its holder in the laundry room on the way to the bathroom, taking note of the three minutes and thirty-five seconds that remained of the timer. It would be a challenge to finish in such a short time, but he loved to challenge himself.

The timer beeped and he stood back and surveyed the space. He’d removed the used tissues and makeup containers strewn about and cleaned all surfaces beneath thoroughly, but they would need a few minutes to dry completely before he replaced the litter where he’d found it. Enough time for coffee. He’d have to drink it black—a quick perusal of Abigail’s fridge had revealed it to be empty—but she used Roaster Bar coffee, which he knew to be particularly smooth. No food in the cupboard meant he was grateful to have brought an Rx bar with him. By the time he’d finished his makeshift breakfast, put all the dishes in the dishwasher, and set it to “sanitize”, it was time to finish his chores, so he carefully put the yellow gloves back on his hands.

Once finished, he put his blue trousers and checked shirt over his undershirt and boxers and put the used supplies into the white kitchen garbage bag he’d brought with him. He couldn’t help looking in on Abigail one last time. He first pulled the covers up to her chin, but it felt wrong to hide such beauty, so he removed them again, leaving all but the feet visible. There, he thought, that’s better. He hovered his hands a mere centimetre above Abigail’s skin and breathed deeply, longing to touch her one last time, to kiss the back of her neck one last time, to plunge the knife into her smooth skin one last time, but he knew it wasn’t possible. His watch beeped—five minutes before seven—and he forced himself to exit the bedroom. It was getting harder and harder not to stick around for the aftermath, but he would never let his good instincts be overruled by emotion. Garbage bag in his gloved hands, he left the apartment. Soon, the gloves were in the garbage bag, the bag was down the garbage chute, and he was pulling his black cap down low on his head. Keeping his eyes on the grey marled carpeting, he walked to the elevator, pushed the down arrow with his elbow, and smiled as he waited.

***

Calling out Abigail’s childhood nickname, Abominable, and holding the Americanos as talismans in front of her, Camille scanned the space. Quickly walking through the condo, Camille did not find Abby in the living room. Nor in the kitchen. Nor in the tiny bathroom littered, as usual, with discarded tissues and makeup. Camille opened the door to the laundry, which was illogical because the only way Abigail could be there was if she’d stuffed herself into the apartment-sized dryer, such was the smallness of the space. Before entering the bedroom, Camille retraced her steps to the kitchen and placed the coffees on the stainless-steel countertop. Later, she would wonder why she had wasted time doing so. Not that it would have made any difference, but it was a strange impulse to have wanted her hands free of hot liquid when she entered Abigail’s bedroom.

Pushing with the toe of her Blundstone, Camille nudged the door open and stood at the threshold. Right away, she could see Abigail spread-eagled on the bed, stomach down, covers bunched at her ankles. Both Abby and Camille ran cold and used heavy duvets year-round, so the lack of coverage was noticeable. Still, it shouldn’t have been enough to cause the near convulsive throbbing in Camille’s chest and the scream that erupted from her mouth. Reaching the bed in two quick strides, the thumping of her blood blocking out the sound of her own ragged breaths, Camille began to shake her sister roughly. When her fingers registered the cold skin, when her muscles noticed the stiffness of Abby’s limbs, when she saw the slits cut into her sister’s torso, Camille fell to the floor and crab-walked backward. Hitting the door jamb, she stopped abruptly, pushed her feet into the floor and stood motionless, taking in the scene before her. Finally, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and dialed the three numbers.

“My sister’s hurt. Please, send help. Oh, God, I think she’s dead, my sister’s dead.” Camille gave Abigail’s address and then let the phone drop to the floor, covering her face with her hands and sinking beside it. She wanted to pick her sister up in her arms and hold her, but she and Abby had spent their teenaged years in thrall to CSI and Law and Order and FBI—education as much as entertainment—and she knew not to disturb the scene. Whatever evidence had been left behind, and she hoped it was plentiful and DNA in origin, she wanted the police to find. Time either sped up or slowed down, Camille couldn’t tell, but at some point, the tinny voice of the 911 operator coming from her phone’s speaker was interrupted by a loud banging at the door.

“Come in,” she called, not sure if she was screaming or whispering or if she’d perhaps only thought the words.

“Ma’am, are you ok?” A female uniformed police officer appeared at the doorway to Abby’s bedroom. Camille nodded and gestured to the bed and then broke down in sobs that had obediently waited for a safe moment to let loose. The police officer approached the bed and reached out gingerly toward Abigail’s body.

“Wait,” a voice behind the officer said, and Camille turned to see a male police officer pulling gloves from his pocket. “Don’t touch anything without these.” The female officer reached for the gloves, put them on, and then touched her gloved fingers to Abby’s neck. Turning back to her partner, she shook her head. Her partner nodded and turned to Camille.

“Ma’am, I would like you to come with me. We’ll take care of this from here.”

“She’s my sister. We’re twins,” Camille said, and the officer nodded.

“We’ll take care of your sister, ma’am. We’ll take good care of her, I promise.” Camille nodded and allowed the officer to lead her out of Abigail’s apartment, where one of the building’s security guards stood waiting, walkie-talkie in hand. “Sir, if you could take…”
The police officer turned to Camille, and she provided her name. “If you could direct Camille to a break room? Maybe get her a glass of water or a cup of tea and sit with her until we’re done here?” The security guard nodded and gestured for Camille to follow him. As they walked toward the elevator, the female officer came out of the apartment and spoke to her partner.

“It’s just like the other two. It’s the same motherfucker, I just know it.” Camille turned back and asked the officer what she meant. The same as what other two? What motherfucker? Did the police already know who hurt her sister?

“I don’t know, ma’am, I don’t know. But I promise you I will do my damndest to find out who did this to your sister. He won’t get away with this.”

The elevator dinged and the security guard—Rohan according to the badge pinned to his shirt—allowed Camille to enter before he followed and pressed the button for the lobby. “Ma’am, I am so sorry for what happened to your sister,” he said, and Camille nodded without looking his way.

Later, when Camille’s hands had been wrapped around a mug of tea long enough to no longer feel any heat, the officers entered the break room with an older woman, who they introduced as Detective Eva McKinnon. “I’d like to speak to you about what happened, if that’s ok,” the detective said, and Camille nodded. The officers and security guard were dismissed, and the detective sat across from Camille at the wooden table she occupied.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Camille. And thank you.”

“I understand the deceased was your twin sister, Camille. Is that right?” Camille nodded and the detective continued. “If you can give me a rundown of what happened when you found her—”

“Abby. Abigail. My sister’s name is Abigail.”

“Abigail,” the detective repeated, waiting a beat before continuing. “Ma’am, Camille, it would be really helpful if you could tell me, step-by-step, how you came to find Abigail this morning.”

Camille nodded and told the about picking up americanos for her and Abby from their favourite coffee shop, La Femme Bleu, which was halfway between their homes. She told her about buzzing first before using her key fob to enter the building, about the clench in her gut that made her abandon politeness and barge into tenth floor unit without waiting. About searching the apartment quickly but returning to the kitchen to drop off the coffees before checking the bedroom.

“It sounds like you had a feeling you might find her there,” the detective said. “Can you tell me, Camille, is it your habit to bring your sister coffee on a Saturday morning? Would she have been expecting you?” Camille shook her head but then shrugged. She and her sister saw or spoke to each other every day, she told detective McKinnon, so while Camille wasn’t expected, Abigail would not have been surprised to see her.

“She had a date with a new guy last night,” Camille said. “And she was supposed to text me when she got home. That was our habit.”

“Smart,” detective McKinnon said. “You can never be too safe.”

“I had to check on her because she never texted. I thought she just forgot.” Camille broke down, dropping her head into her hands. Detective McKinnon let her cry for a moment before she interrupted.

 “What can you tell me about the man Abigail went to dinner with last night? Had you met him?”

Camille said she had never met the man. “Abby only met him a week ago while she was waiting for her boyfriend at a bar. She actually broke up with her boyfriend to go out with him.

“So, she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend to date this new guy?” Detective McKinnon leaned forward.

Camille explained that Abby had only been dating the ex for a month and that the relationship wasn’t serious. Still, the detective asked if she had any details about Abigail’s ex-boyfriend and Camille provided his name, address, place of employment and brother’s contact information. “He’d said he had nothing to hide,” Camille said, and the detective nodded as she took down the information.

“And the man Abigail went to dinner with last night? I presume you have the same information about him?”

Camille was ashamed to say that she didn’t. All she knew was that he had dark hair—Abby had called him swarthy.

“So, no name or other identifiers?”

“Oh, no. I mean yes, Abby thought it was so cute when he told her his name was ‘Teddy, as in bear’.”

---

Bio: Lissa Muir is a Toronto-based writer whose short stories have appeared in After Dinner Conversation, Grande Dame Literary, and Agnes and True. She also writes at
middleagedneophyte.substack.com. When not writing, she listens to true crime podcasts while going on increasingly slow walks with her fourteen-year-old Newfoundland dog, Molly.

This story is part of a series she is writing. The other installments on The Yard include, First and Teddy As In Bear

Cover photo by pexels/Francesco Ungaro

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