by Agnès Ruiz
Did Grégoire have financial problems? This reminded her of Jonathan. Her boyfriend was a good person, most of the time. Except that he loved money. I mean too much. Was it because he lacked it? Grégoire’s family was well-off and even the death of his father prematurely had not altered their lifestyle. She tried to remember what this deceased father did too soon, but without success.
“Are you looking for something special?” Grégoire asked, just behind her.
Annabelle turned softly.
“I... I did not hear you come back. No, I’m not looking for anything, of course. You know how curious I am by nature,” she justified herself clumsily.
She sat down on the couch and took her cup of coffee to give herself a look. Grégoire did not join her at once. He watched her from afar, as he sometimes did. He always found her so beautiful.
“I do not like when you look at me like that,” Annabelle complained, without false modesty.
“You never liked it. Does Jonathan have the right?”
“The right of what? He’s my boyfriend,” Annabelle insisted with or without knowing the harm she inflicted on him.
“Since when?”
“Do not make yourself jealous, you want, it doesn’t work,” Annabelle eluded.
She even added a frank laugh, as if to relax the atmosphere.
Although not feeling in the mood to laugh. Then she was hot now. Was it because he surprised her nosing shamelessly or was it simply due to the sip of coffee she’d absorbed too hot? She should have taken a cup of chilled tea. It was out of season.
“What did your father do for a living?”
Grégoire frowned.
“How long have you been interested?”
“I do not know. I will start my professional life. Maybe it’s... Or I need to talk about what binds us today.”
Grégoire became angry.
“How does that, what binds us today? That your parents and my father were murdered?” Is that the only thing that binds us to each other?
“Do not take it otherwise, please. You know what I mean.”
“Well no!”
“Come near me, please...”
Saying that, she held out a friendly arm, with a pitiful smile on her lips and pleading eyes.
“I’m here,” Grégoire agreed.
“With you, I can speak freely. Say things as they are. And you’re the only one who can understand how I feel.”
Grégoire was about to give in and get closer when the entrance bell rang. Annabelle had not noticed the unmarked car that had just parked nearby. It was five minutes to two.
“They are the ones,” Grégoire said.
“They have come too early,” Annabelle complained, panic-stricken without knowing why.
She rose and followed Grégoire.
“I wish they were as responsive when my father died,” Grégoire muttered.
The door opened to Detective Rachel Toury and Investigator Millet.
Grégoire hesitated and decided to stay at home. After all, it was not his place.
He had already been there at the time the bodies were discovered. He had spoken at length to the detective, had seen the bodies being carried away, the ambulance, first, in the hope of saving Mr Rambouillet and then the coroner who had put Mme Rambouillet in a funeral bag.
Strangely, he remembered it was the same color with which his father had been covered at the time. Ten years. He was only ten years old. And today he was a man. Yet the story repeated itself. Although, this time around, for his best friend. Would it never end? He stood a moment longer to look out of the window before picking up the coffee cups.
Chapter 10
“Are you ready to enter, Mademoiselle Rambouillet?” the detective asked, attentive to Annabelle’s reactions.
“I suppose so,” she answered, still holding her breath.
Annabelle saw herself earlier, when she had entered the attic and had found herself in her room with Grégoire.
She was only upstairs and yet she felt unable to stay any longer. Would she have the same reaction before this detective and Investigator Millet? She closed her right fist to give herself courage and entered at last framed by Rachel Toury and Jean-François Millet.
The smell first struck her and made her uncomfortable. Never before had it felt like that at home. It was aggressive and her nostrils pinched. When she was on the threshold of the living-room, she staggered. There was blood everywhere. Well, that’s what it looked like. She stepped back and bumped into Investigator Millet.
“I do not think I can enter this room,” Annabelle said.
Detective Toury found her outside. She vomited for a long time. She gave her words of support, of understanding. The next moment she came back with a towel and a glass of water.
“You feel better?”
Annabelle was livid, with her hair in mop and sticky. The smell of the vomit had still not left her. They were both aware of it.
“I... you think I have the right to shower?” Annabelle muttered.
“You’re at home, mademoiselle,” Rachel said.
“But the traces, the footprints, finally, the clues what...”
“Do not worry. The bathroom has already been thoroughly combed. And it’s only a secondary room. As you saw earlier, the crime scene is the living-room...”
There was no need for words. Annabelle nodded, uncomfortable.
The detective decided to go with her instead of sending an agent. The two women did not speak, but remained absorbed in each other’s thoughts.
Rachel let Annabelle enter the bathroom. The young woman regained some serenity. She knew it was only temporary. Like a small fort to the hurricane that raged on her life. The mirror above the sink returned her image and she became frightened. She could no longer recognize herself. Her hair was falling down, filthy, still wet from the rain, then from the splashes of vomit... What?
“Take a shower, right away!” she threw at the pale reflection of herself.
Rachel heard her talk all by herself; or on the phone. She listened. Nothing. Water began to flow. She waited a little then furrowed the floor by reflex. Finally, she pointed out that she was coming down.
Downstairs, Investigator Millet inquired about Annabelle Rambouillet’s condition.
“You think she’s going to hold on? She may faint.”
“Jeff, you know the shock can be terrible. And then we have two bodies. Little consolation, she did not discover them on the spot. So much better.”
“I wonder why her boyfriend is not around.”
“That’s true, it’s pretty surprising. She was with her neighbor. No trace of...”
“Jonathan. Jonathan Barbet,” Jeff reminded him.
“How is it to you? You talked a little with her at the station,” Rachel asked.
The detective remembered her state of excitement while waiting for her to receive Annabelle Rambouillet.
“Frankly, I cannot see them together, those two.”
The detective smiled.
“I think you’re not the best person to talk about this.”
Jeff agreed that she was right. Investigator Millet often found himself in complicated sentimental stories that ended too quickly.
“So apart from that,” Rachel redirected, “can you give me your impressions of Jonathan Barbet?”
“Not much. He has just completed studies in town planning. They met on campus. He does not have the same lifestyle as Annabelle anyway.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He told me he had a loan and he was working at the same time. Then, his shoes are worn-out and his shirt ends too. I’m surprised you have not noticed that.”
This time it was Jeff’s turn to tickle his colleague. It was a good war. Rachel, however, did not embark on his merry-go-round and contented herself with a friendly glance at Jeff.
“Well, it will take a routine investigation. Not to mention the neighbor, Grégoire Caron.
She told him about the murder of her n
eighbor twenty years earlier. Then about the file she had in the office and what she wanted to check.
“They look very close, Annabelle and this Grégoire,” Jeff agreed.
“They were childhood friends, neighbors and about the same age; it is in the nature of things...”
Rachel moved closer to the art paintings hanging on the walls. They had already seen them at the time the bodies were discovered. There she saw them again in the light of day. Were they replicas or originals? What was the exact fortune of this couple?
“People seem calm and friendly when they question neighbors,” Jeff commented.
“The same thing is said of killers after the fact,” Rachel recalled.
Were all the facts, pale reflections of their true personality?
Annabelle returned. Rachel hoped to learn more about her parents. After all, she had to know them more intimately than the neighbors could.
“I made tea for you. I found it in the kitchen,” Rachel informed her.
“Thank you. It will be okay...”
Rachel did not insist. Annabelle looked better already, she observed. She had changed clothes, and there were obviously still some in the rooms, for she had no bag with her, apart from her purse.
“You could check if something is gone?”
“I saw nothing abnormal up there. I went to my parents’ room. I do not know if I had the right.”
Chapter 11
Annabelle avoided saying that she had plunged her face into her mother’s pillow. She wanted to smell her perfume more strongly. As if she was still there...
The next moment she had looked into her mother’s jewelry box. She knew where her mother kept it. It was an unusual box as it was a fake book kept in the library.
She had always found it amusing. It was a very fine book. She was very young the first time she had surprised her mother in the process of getting ready. She had to dine alone with her father. Her dress was as “beautiful as a princess, little Annabelle thought.
The book was wide open on the bed and it was there that she discovered it was hollowed out.
It was a quality case and had unavoidably attracted the girl of then.
Now that Annabelle was an adult, she found this jewelry box even more beautiful. She appreciated the four inlaid angles. Her mother had had fun by telling her the names of these precious stones. There was the ruby, at the top right, a dazzling red, then the sapphire, at the top left. The blue was the same as her mother’s eyes. Finally, it was always Annabelle’s impression. In the corner of the bottom of the box, she found the emerald. She had once tried to remove the green stone with her school scissors, those with rounded ends.
Even today, one could easily note the traces that she had left on the box before being surprised by her mother.
She had been punished for one week with a promise not to do it again, under penalty of never seeing this box again. Annabelle found it very unfair that her mother owned this beautiful box and not her. She had sulked and stormed. Her mother had proved inflexible.
All this had seemed so far to her as she held the book in her hand...
The last angle was reserved for the white diamond. Her mother allowed her to take this in her hand. She had even shown her the little push-piece that was embedded in the book cover to get the stone out. Annabelle held it in her little palm and played with the reflections of light, always in the presence of her mother. That was the only condition for her to hold it.
The inside part of the jewelry box was lined with deep purple velvet. Her mother’s necklace was still there. They were surely shoddy diamonds, yet, they were so real, she said to herself each time she saw it. Her mother wore that only while at home. Without hesitating, Annabelle had quickly slipped it into her purse, temporarily abandoning the false book which was too big.
In the living-room, Detective Toury was astonished at the pinkish cheeks Annabelle was developing. No doubt mixed emotions in the girl; between the shower, the announcement of her parents’ death and the census of the objects of the house.
Rachel asked her about the artwork on the walls.
Annabelle laughed and assured her that these were hideous old paintings.
“You should still have them appraised,” Rachel said, much less sure than the girl.
Rachel’s father was a gifted artist and had taught her some techniques. The girl thanked her, but obviously, she doubted the real value of the paintings.
“And in that chest, do you know what might arouse lust?”
“I told you, my father was in business. I do not know more. He spoke very little about it. And I never understood too much of what he was doing. When he started, it seemed so barbarous that I did not listen anymore...”
Rachel smiled at Annabelle. The young woman seemed sincere in what she said. The detective should probably use another method to find out what Lucien Rambouillet really did for a living.
“Your parents were unassuming, quiet people, from what the neighbors say.”
“Yes, let me leave it at that,” Annabelle confirmed.
In her voice it did not sound like a compliment.
“Did they travel?”
“Very little. I think my mother did not like it. Yet sometimes they talked about their youth, before I was born, I think. They went to many cities around the world.”
“And everything stopped suddenly?”
Annabelle shrugged her shoulders again.
“Where is your boyfriend? At your neighbor’s too?” Jeff asked suddenly.
Annabelle watched him as if she remembered his presence instantly.
“He’s in the hotel. It was better for him. He drove all the way from Toronto to Montreal. He will probably rest a little.”
“Grégoire also drove up here,” Jeff insisted.
“Grégoire, it’s different. He...”
She left her sentence in suspense as if she were about to say something, but had changed her mind.
“You can tell us everything, you know. We are here to help.”
The detective offered her support. Annabelle did not seem ready to take it. The whole thing was to understand why.
“Do you have at least some leads? Who could have done that to my parents? It’s atrocious to know nothing... and to imagine the worst scenarios.”
Annabelle’s voice was hard.
“We deed not find any offenses. Your parents may have known those who did that...”
“Nonsense! My parents knew no criminal capable of such horror. They did not know any criminals at all, for that matter!” Annabelle quickly recalled.
She was furious about this hypothesis. Yet she had to go to the obvious. No break-in. So they opened the door... At least...
With alarm, she thought of the access to the attic. Did anyone else know of this passage apart from Grégoire and her? She refused to evoke this trail and let the detective speak. Rachel talked about recent events that made Annabelle uncomfortable.
“You know it rained pretty hard,” Rachel began, watching the young woman’s reaction.
“Indeed.”
Chapter 12
Annabelle stood motionless, ready to shrug her shoulders. Was she on her guard? If so, why?
“There were traces of mud on the floor,” the detective continued.
“You... think the murderer might have passed there?”
“Please, Mademoiselle Rambouillet, not that with us!”
This time, Rachel had lost her benevolence and looked directly at Annabelle.
“When we found you just now, your shoes were still muddy. Look for yourself!”
This time, the detective showed the traces that left the entrance and went upstairs.
“I... yes, it’s true,” Annabelle finally admitted. “But, I... That’s not what you think.”
“I do not think anything, Annabelle. I’m just asking questions. To understand.”
Rachel had decided to use her first name and perhaps create a stronger link, help her tell the truth. She did not know
if it would work. She had to at least try.
“The seals were intact,” Jeff added.
“What can you tell us, Annabelle? We cannot go forward if you do not tell us everything.”
Was this detective bluffing? The young woman asked. Did she know everything? For example, that she had indeed entered here through the attic without them knowing? Perhaps other things the police officer preferred not to point out? Annabelle thought that talking about this passage might put her in a state of embarrassment.
“Yes, I came, she said. But I did not touch anything, finally, nothing down. I did not even go down. I... I could not. It was too hard, you know.”
“Why did you not just tell us?”
“It was not important.”
“You went into a house where two crimes were committed,” Rachel said harshly.
“I’m at home,” Annabelle said angrily in turn.
“Up to a certain point. For now, legally, this is still your parents’ home. I do not know if there was a will and if you’re the only beneficiary.”
“There’s no doubt about that, come on. It does not matter whether I am now or in a year. I did nothing wrong.”
“I ask you again, then, why did you hide this fact from us, that you entered here secretly?”
“It was not premeditated.”
“Where did you go?”
Annabelle faced a stark choice. She took them upstairs and opened the back door, the one overlooking the attic.
“There’s a wardrobe, with the bottom opening.”
“And what about your neighbor?” Rachel wondered.
“The two houses were one in the past,” Annabelle confirmed.
“Good. No need to disturb your friend Grégoire now. But I think he will still have to be questioned again. The murderer could have used this access.”
“No, it’s impossible. Grégoire would never have done that.”
“You know him so well?”
“We have been friends since childhood!”