As a matter of fact, not many knew Mrs. Leblanc anymore. Her daughter Aurore lived on the other side of the continent. They rarely saw each other—usually when the mother had gathered enough money for a plane ticket.
The elderly lady's friends had scattered over the years: Milton resided in a rest home in the suburbs, Roselen had followed her husband to his native country, and Mathilde had met her death a long time ago. Mrs. Leblanc's neighbors were out all day and came home too late to run into her, as she liked to put on her pajamas early to watch the television programs.
Actually, the retailers were the only ones who met her on a regular basis. Mrs. Leblanc did her shopping every day, the old way; she brought her red-checked shopping cart. She came back within the hour, with half a bread, vegetables, a piece of meat. Sometimes, she purchased pistachio ice cream, her favorite dessert. On Thursdays, she treated herself to a movie.
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| Sometimes, she purchased pistachio ice cream, her favorite dessert. |
When Mrs. Leblanc missed her daily appointments, the merchants believed she had caught the flu. Her absence extended, and they concluded that she was visiting her daughter. After three weeks, they grew concerned. One alerted the neighborhood police officer. He found Berangere Leblanc on her bed; the television was still on, unlike her, switched off for more than a month.
Aurore Leblanc journeyed to handle the formalities. With a minimum of emotion, she collected her mother's photo albums as well as a blue earthenware teapot. In the telephone directory, she found a company to empty the place. They came for free and even guaranteed a modest payment. What a bargain!
When the two bulky men arrived, Aurore wondered whether they would remove her as well. They looked at her with indifference, one adding a grunt. At the end, she received an envelope. Aurore thanked them, impressed by the impenetrable faces. The envelope contained the equivalent of one month's rent. She locked the place, threw the keys in the mailbox, and hailed a cab to the airport.
Vitaly and Porter got back to the warehouse. The following morning, they would hand Mrs. Leblanc's furniture over to the Salvation Army. These kinds of humble actions guaranteed a well-needed respectability for their company. Indeed, nobody was better or faster at covering up a crime scene. Well known in questionable circles, they also took destruction contracts, burning bloodstained armchairs in their gigantic incinerator, or sofas riddled with bullets.
But Manor, Vitaly's cat, had vomited its meal that morning. Hoarse meows escaped from its irritated throat at its owner's departure. Distracted, the colossus placed the sticker with Berangere Leblanc's information on a fridge that belonged to one of his good customers from organized crime.
The Salvation Army had other things to do and several days went by before they started cleaning the appliance. At a glance, they took the dark heap in the vegetable compartment for a spoiled red cabbage.
Thus Mrs. Leblanc gained a posthumous notoriety. Watching the news announcement, the retailers remembered the checked shopping cart. On second thought, it seemed too heavy to be right. The neighbors mentioned the lady's proverbial silence. Evidently, she fulfilled her tasks with professional discretion. As for Aurore, she testified about her mother's lack of interest toward her—even more appalling, since, without any doubt, Berangere made considerable amounts of money. Aurore deplored her minuscule inheritance and found comfort in the preparation of herbal tea in the blue earthenware teapot. Alas, they all ended up developing a harsh flavor, that of the legends that would henceforth be propagated on the merciless killer with the red caddy.
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