Burgundy

by Janet Hubbard

  “Sometimes the people are right,” Juliette said.

  “It’s illusion,” Abdel said, patiently. “Someone thought they saw her on her red Vespa driving through Lyon. A nurse saw a dark-skinned man pull up in an ambulance. This is people’s imaginations gone haywire.”

  Anne looked serious. “What is your opinion, Abdel?”

  Abdel took a deep breath. “The last anyone knew, Lucy was in a coma. If she was kidnapped, she could be dead; if she escaped, she and everyone involved could be in big trouble.”

  Max sat half-listening. She was relieved when she heard a car drive in. Olivier had arrived. Isabelle glanced at the clock. “Oh, we must be going,” she said. “Juliette, are you coming with us?”

  “Okay, Maman.” She picked up her coat and within seconds they were gone.

  “Was it something I said? Or didn’t say?” Olivier asked, and Max smiled. “Be grateful. We have a comfortable place to meet and they are out for two hours.”

  Abdel looked up from his phone. “The news of Lucy’s disappearance has leaked. We’ll see it on television tonight.”

  “I hope George is not going to offer up a reward again,” Max said.

  “We made sure he won’t, and he’s not allowed to be interviewed.” Olivier turned to Abdel, “Shall we start?”

  Abdel explained that the police had gone through all of Yves’ records, and that the results revealed that he was a thorough researcher. Abdel said that he had copies of all the reports in his files, but he would try to sum it up for them now. Max whispered to Hank that she would explain everything in English when he was done, and he nodded.

  “We will start with the party Monsieur Laroche hosted on the night of his death, April seventh, because it brought together a disparate group of people, most of whom had connections in this area. From what we have pieced together, Lucy Kendrick met Yves Laroche during the harvest at Madame Anne Bré’s. I shall refer to people by their first names from now on. Yves had been coming to Anne’s harvest parties for over a decade, for the pleasure of it. He was single, turning forty, and the son of a successful private investigator who started a firm in Lyon with his wife as partner. They retired, and handed it all over to Yves. He was an extrovert, and made friends easily. His failing was that he talked too much, quite unusual for an investigator. Some considered it a pathology that he played people against each other. I have brought copies of the files of people that I thought would be of interest in this case. There is one on Anne Bré, and her husband, Gervais Bré.”

  “She hired him?” Olivier asked.

  “It appears so. But it was so long ago that she actually hired Yves’ father. She suspected her husband of philandering twenty years ago and, indeed, that was the case. He had an affair with an American woman who was in Burgundy for some reason or other, and when Anne learned this news, she confronted Gervais, who asked for her forgiveness. Her file remained dormant until this year, when she went to Yves to have him research a small plot of land that her husband had left to their daughter, Caroline, when he died. It turns out that it wasn’t legally his to give away, as the land had been in Anne’s family.”

  Olivier said, “No doubt, if Caroline had lived, Anne would not have contested the deed.”

  Abdel nodded and said, “There is an even darker side to Yves Laroche. He enjoyed smoking pot for years, and was a small-time dealer, but two years ago he got hooked on opioids after shoulder surgery. He started to become desperate. He had lost a large sum of money, and according to one witness, it was as though the many cases he handled had started to weigh too heavily on him. When he met Lucy Kendrick she became a messianic figure, a savior, which is completely irrational. He is said to have wanted to marry her.”

  “The drugs caused this obsession?” Olivier asked.

  “It has more to do with his character, perhaps enhanced by the drug use. Anyhow, the police were watching Yves at this point. I have those reports, too.” Abdel continued, “There is another file with the name Hugo Bourgeot attached to it. There is a receipt of a check for fifteen thousand euros. I don’t know what it’s for.”

  Olivier said quietly, “It seems that Yves was attempting to establish this gentleman’s patrimony in the case of Lucy Kendrick. Bourgeot was purchasing his file.”

  Max translated quickly for Hank, who asked, “Was proof established?”

  Abdel said, “Lucy Kendrick’s file, which we assume has that information in it, is missing.”

  Max said, “Hugo would have wanted that file.”

  “Anybody who wanted to blackmail Hugo would want that file,” said Olivier.

  Max told them about Hank eavesdropping on George in the parking lot of the hospital, and quoted him as saying there was a potential new source of income. “If Lucy’s uncle knew of a wealthy French father, he would go after him, for sure. Threaten to blackmail him, or at the very least demand money for her health care.”

  Olivier said, “Because Lucy went into hiding, I am going to assume, as does George, that Yves told her of her uncle’s pending arrival.”

  Abdel went on to explain that, as corroborated by neighbors and other guests, he could safely say that attendees at the party included Lucy, Jean-Claude with a girlfriend, and Tim Lowell. Neighbors had seen a young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt leaning against a doorway smoking a cigarette.

  “Roland?” Max said.

  Abdel said, “He arrived with Lucy and Tim. A dark-skinned, curly-haired man was seen entering the building at nine o’clock. That was my cousin Ali, but he explained that one of the neighbors called him a hoodlum, and he decided to leave. He has an alibi. He looked at his notes. “An apartment camera shows that Lucy arrived at nine as well, with Roland and Tim in tow, Tim with his perpetual camera slung over his shoulder.”

  Max was relieved, for Abdel’s sake, that Ali was not a suspect.

  “At what time did Yves Laroche die?” Olivier asked.

  “Time of death is eleven. By the time the police arrived ten minutes later, the apartment door was wide open and neighbors had gathered around in the hallway, all of them speculating. The guests had disappeared.”

  “What do the Lyon police think?”

  “My cousin was interrogated. He deals in small amounts of marijuana, and it turns out the boy wearing the hooded sweatshirt, is in, fact Roland Milne, who also is a known dealer. I forgot to mention that Yves also had a file on him. Roland’s father, Alain, paid Yves last year to locate his son, who had taken off. He turned up in a suburb of Paris out of his mind on prescription painkillers, but they put him in rehab for a month, and he returned home and continued with his school activities, and no further problems were mentioned.”

  “Do you assume these boys were buying drugs from Yves?” Max asked.

  “Absolutely. Yves apparently had a healthy stash of cocaine and opioids hidden in his kitchen.”

  “Did the apartment video pick up people leaving the building during the party?” Olivier asked.

  “The police are still studying the video, which is quite blurred, in an attempt to verify everyone who entered or exited the building. Don’t forget, there are eighty tenants in the building as well. One does stand out, though: Lucy. She left the building just before eleven, with Tim in tow. Roland appeared a few minutes later, and someone grabbed him, but we can’t yet identify that person.”

  Olivier said, “I want to see the full-length video. The police are searching for Lucy, and will continue throughout the night. Abdel, Tim Lowell is very close by. Please head there. I’m going to meet with the prosecutor, and will return here for dinner, Max.”

  “So my role is to make dinner?” Max asked, her tone sarcastic.

  Olivier looked from her to Hank. “I’m sorry. You know why you can’t be perceived as helping with the investigation.” When neither of them replied, he hurried to the front door, and was gone.

  Hank turned to Ma
x. “Go with Abdel.”

  Max looked from Abdel to Hank. “No.”

  Hank looked at her for a long moment. “I’m going in the kitchen for a beer. Do what you need to do.”

  Abdel said, “What’s going on?”

  Max shrugged. “We can’t have the prosecutor issuing a complaint, as my application for Interpol could be put into jeopardy. And I don’t want Olivier mad at me.”

  “A visit to a B&B doesn’t sound very complicated.”

  She looked up at him, brightening. “Where I don’t want to be is in this house when my mother and grandmother return. I find them so irritating right now, and I’m not sure why.”

  Abdel gave his toothy grin. “They’re domesticating you?”

  “They’re always whispering, and when I come around, they talk about the wedding. It’s weird. The real problem is I don’t know where I belong. On second thought, I do.” She picked up her jacket, and followed Abdel outside.

  “This is a convoluted case,” Abdel said.

  “When have we ever had a simple case? It’s time to ask, did Lucy push Yves?”

  “My instinct is to say no.” He grew thoughtful. “We must be careful not to focus entirely on Monsieur Laroche’s friends. There were others at the party, many of them low-lifes, small-time dealers, people like that. He stopped. “Any reason you know of, before I walk in, why Tim might want Yves Laroche or Lucy, or both, dead?”

  “You mean some motive other than the seven deadly sins? Nope.”

  Abdel laughed and knocked on the door. Max felt happy to be with him.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Olivier had felt a calm descend over him as Abdel recounted as many details as he knew from the party. The police were looking for Lucy, and though he had entertained the notion of joining the search for her, reason had prevailed, as he knew that he wouldn’t be much of an asset. Her fate was out of his hands. His phone rang, and he saw that the prosecutor, Emmanuel Caron, was calling. Olivier had just entered the city of Beaune, and was looking around for a quiet bar to sit in, but now he pulled over to listen. “You must come to headquarters immediately,” Caron said. “A young man has shown up and confessed to the murder of Yves Laroche and to shooting the American girl.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Roland Milne was a mess. Obviously drunk and reeking of pot, he sat with his head in his hands as though trying to make sure it didn’t fly off. He was mostly incoherent, Olivier soon realized, but what could be understood went like this: “I saw Yves Laroche’s body on the pavement. The thing is, I wanted to push him off the balcony because he hurt my friend Lucy’s feelings. I saw on the news that she has disappeared again. We are in a video game, she and I, and she is always running and I am always pursuing.” He laughed obscenely. Then, “I should be with her. I’m the only one who can take care of her. Did I shoot her? Maybe. Maybe not. Everybody was shooting. I tripped over a root and my gun went off. She was running ahead of me, like a gazelle. Then BAM! She turned to me with frightened eyes. I had slipped. Did I shoot her? His eyes brightened. “I did it all!”

  “Put him in a cell,” Olivier said. Monsieur Caron nodded, and two officers helped Roland to stand up and led him away.

  “This is the son of Alain Milne, a reputable wine producer in the south?” the prosecutor asked, and Olivier nodded.

  “An old friend from high school,” Olivier said, not caring at all that his despondency showed.

  “I feel for him with this kid. Drugs are a bigger problem than even just a few years ago. Kids are drinking too much, and smoking rates are up among the young. They should have come down harder on this boy.” He looked up at Olivier, “You think he killed Monsieur Laroche, or shot the girl?”

  “He is certainly capable, though I can’t imagine a motive. But people high on drugs sometimes don’t have a motive. He is obviously operating under some delusion that he is Lucy’s savior. This could be mental illness.”

  The door swept open and Alain entered with Yvette behind him, dressed inappropriately in a too-short skirt and low-cut blouse. Alain was barely recognizable. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, it appeared, and his face was rigid with apprehension. “Where is he?” he demanded.

  “Calm down, Alain,” Olivier said. “He’s drunk, and they took him into the back to let him sober up.”

  Emmanuel said, “He has confessed to the murder of Monsieur Yves Laroche and to the shooting of the young American, Lucy Kendrick.”

  “NON!” Yvette shrieked. “He is incapable of such a thing, Monsieur Caron. The girl Lucy is the devil incarnate. She seduced him and threw him away. She’s a slut!”

  Alain spoke, sounding like the voice of reason. “Our son is on a medication, which he has probably neglected to take. I would like him to be put on bail and we will keep him at our house until tomorrow morning.”

  The prosecutor hesitated, but then said no. “The girl has gone missing from the hospital,” he said.

  “At least you can’t blame Roland for that,” said Yvette.

  “I’m going to insist on putting him in rehab, even if he is declared innocent,” Olivier said. “That is my prerogative.”

  Alain said, “Yvette and I have been having problems, and even split up for a few months. This has affected Roland, of course, but I think we can pull together again as a family, and he will be okay.”

  “It won’t hurt for him to spend the night in jail. A confession, no matter the circumstances under which it is delivered, is not to be dismissed.”

  “What a shame,” Monsieur Caron said as he watched them outside the door in conversation with their son, who had been brought to them. Yvette reached out to embrace her son, and he jerked away. “I worry that we are going to fall into a drug crisis with our youth the way the United States has. The number of overdoses there is appalling.”

  “I feel seismic tremors happening here,” Olivier said. “Not underground, but in our people. Am I imagining a new layer of general anxiety?”

  Monsieur Caron sighed. “Non. Sometimes I think it’s my age. I retire in four years, and I can’t wait.”

  They bid each other good-bye, and Olivier felt relieved by the thought that this was a man he could work with. Maybe he could speak with him over the next couple of days about incorporating Max into the investigation. He could feel her frustration, and besides, he needed her. He decided to give up the notion of a quiet hour of contemplation in a bar, and instead to return to Max’s grandmother’s house. He would try to get a few hours of sleep, and awake fresh, hopefully to the news that Lucy had been found…alive. It was nine when he pulled into Isabelle’s driveway, and he felt comfortable enough to knock and enter.

  The housemaid, Jeannette, greeted him, said the family was relaxing in front of the fire, and took his coat.

  Entering the room, he noticed that Max wasn’t there.

  Jeannette brought him a glass of wine, and Isabelle said that dinner would be served in half an hour. “Max should be returning soon.”

  “Oh, where is she?” Olivier asked.

  Hank said, “I sent her off with Abdel.”

  Olivier felt his body stiffen. He watched Isabelle scurry to the kitchen. “She’s not currently allowed on the case. She and I have discussed this and I thought she understood.”

  “Her going with Abdel doesn’t mean she’s on the case,” Hank said. “She might pick up something on the interview that Abdel wouldn’t. This is why in the U.S. we work in pairs.”

  “Abdel and I manage pretty well as partners.”

  “I can see that, but better to have her think she’s contributing.”

  Olivier sipped his scotch and closed his eyes, allowing the flavor to mingle on his tongue before swallowing. “I think you are more keen on working the case, as it were, than Max is. I wonder if you were smart to retire when you did?”

  “I didn’t have much of a
choice. I was thinking earlier about the P.I. who died. He had a good business, and I can’t help but wonder if it was the secrets of others that drove him to drugs, and if taking drugs led him to destroy his business.”

  “I agree that these questions, often unanswerable, are what keep us interested. Monsieur Laroche, lost in love or obsession, or whatever you want to call it…that can cause collapse.”

  “Collapse is a good word for it.”

  The door flung open and Max entered alone, her cheeks flushed. “Where is Abdel?” Olivier asked.

  “He had a long drive ahead, to meet up with his cousin, and decided to carry on. Tim is, naturally, deeply worried about Lucy, and is working double-time to clear her name.”

  “He didn’t happen to tell you where she is, did he?” Hank asked. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t stash her somewhere until he could prove her innocence.”

  “That crossed my mind, too.”

  “What was his friendship like with Yves?” Olivier asked.

  “He knew him slightly, but their paths didn’t cross after Tim started seeing Lucy. Yves was a bit of a high-roller, it turns out. He went from cocaine to opioids, and grew nastier by the week.” Max smiled. “Tim claims to have negatives in his possession that will provide proof of who pushed Yves and who shot Lucy. I invited him for dinner tonight, but he declined as he wants to finish. He said for us to come by after dinner and he should be done.”

  Olivier said, “Text him and tell him we’ll be there.” Max nodded. “He hasn’t been absolved of guilt, either,” Olivier added. “He’s protective of Lucy, as any man in love would be, and if he thought Yves meant to hurt her, he might have shoved him.”

  “He sounds like the best witness you have,” Hank said.

  “I found him immensely earnest and entertaining,” Max said.

  Olivier felt a tinge of jealousy, for he had already seen that Tim was a pleasing extrovert. Max scooched in beside him on the sofa and whispered, “If these photographs from the party and from the hunt are what he claims they are, we won’t have all this hanging over us at our wedding.”