Evan and Elle

by Rhys Bowen

  Sergeant Potter and his dog got as far as the front door opening and stopped. “Hello? It looks like the old rags-through-the-letter-box trick again,” he said with satisfaction.

  “How do you know that?” Evan was grudgingly impressed. Sergeant Potter gave him a patronizing smile. “When you’ve been doing it as long as I have, son—it’s one of the preferred methods. If the fire started somewhere else the front door would likely be scorched but not completely consumed.”

  The dog was sniffing excitedly at the ground.

  “See? Rex can smell traces of the flammable liquid used. He’s got a great nose—he can sniff a thimbleful of accelerant in a place the size of Buckingham Palace.”

  They made their way around the cottage, with Rex sniffing, Sergeant Potter bending to take samples and then handing the plastic bags back to Evan. “He did a thorough job, I’ll say that for him.” He glanced back at Evan. “So have you got statements from potential witnesses yet?”

  “No sir. I wasn’t asked to,” Evan said.

  “Initiative, man! Use your bloody initiative!” Potter barked. “You want to be promoted some day, don’t you? You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in this god-forsaken place.”

  Evan glanced wistfully at the mountain peaks above, clearly etched against a glass-blue autumn sky.

  The mountains were one of the perks of this godforsaken place. He wished he was up there now. “Go and question all the locals. Someone must have seen something. They’re always minding everybody’s business in a small place like this. And find out who’s been buying cans of petrol lately, too!”

  “It would be easy enough to get up here without being seen,” Evan said. “He wouldn’t necessarily have started from the village.”

  “But he’s carrying a bloody great can of petrol, man. How far can he lug that, eh? Unless he drove up here?”

  “He didn’t do that,” Evan said. Potter looked up sharply. “I was on the mountain myself only a short while before. I’d have seen a vehicle.”

  “Well, ask your questions anyway.” Potter snapped his fingers for the dog, and presumably also Evan, to follow him. “I’d do it myself but I haven’t got the hang of the bloody lingo yet. They’re making me take classes, if you’ve ever heard anything so ridiculous! Apparently it’s required these days.”

  Evan smiled to himself as he imagined some poor person trying to teach Peter Potter Welsh.

  “Ah well, I suppose you might need to communicate with the natives someday,” Evan said. “Sign language doesn’t always work, does it?”

  “Too much bloody nationalism if you ask me,” Potter said. “It only leads to trouble—like this stupid gesture.” He pointed at the cottage. “With any luck some group will come forward and claim responsibility and we’ll have our work done for us.” He started down the track again. “Come on, don’t just stand there,” he called to Evan.

  Evan was suddenly feeling more sympathy for the Welsh nationalists (as well as for Champ the wonder dog).

  Chapter 6

  Although he felt it would be a wasted effort, Evan dutifully did the rounds and got statements from the villagers. He also compiled a list of all the locals who were in the Red Dragon. Nobody had seen anything unusual before the fire. Nobody even remembered seeing a stranger in the village, nor a strange car. In addition, as Roberts-the-Pump pointed out, all the local farmers, plus at least half the young men owned motorbikes and were always buying cans of petrol. The other half had lawn mowers, weed whackers, or needed cans of paraffin for their oil stoves.

  Evan was just preparing a report with which even Sergeant Potter couldn’t find fault when the door of the police station burst open and yet another stranger came in.

  Evan opened his mouth to say “Can I help you?” but before he could get the words out the man demanded, “Are you the officer on duty here? Where’s the person in charge?”

  “Yes, and you’re looking at him,” Evan said, attempting a friendly smile. “I’m the officer stationed here. This is only a sub police station.”

  “See, I knew it would be bloody useless,” the man said to a woman who had entered the room behind him. Evan recognized her. He had seen her in the village street on a couple of occasions.

  “You’re the couple from the cottage, aren’t you?” Evan got to his feet. “I’m very sorry—”

  “Yes, but have you caught the bastards yet?”

  “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, sir. We’ve launched an investigation.”

  “I bet you have.” The remark was dripping with sarcasm. “I bet you’re all doing your private little victory dance because you got us out of here. They warned me when I said I was buying a cottage in Wales. They won’t make you welcome there—that’s what they said. I told them I didn’t give a damn whether I was welcome or not. But I never thought it would come to this!”

  “Savages, that’s what they are,” the woman added. Venom distorted a perfectly made-up face. “Nothing more than hooligans and savages. Too bad they outlawed corporal punishment. A good caning with the birch—that’s what they deserve.”

  “We’ve had an arson expert on the scene, madam . . .”

  “And what are you doing about it, Constable? It doesn’t look as if we’re exactly high priority here.” The woman glared at him. “Why aren’t you out there looking for the criminals?”

  “As a matter of fact, madam, I . . . ” Evan began but the man thumped his fist on Evan’s desk and leaned forward to glare into Evan’s face. “I want action, Constable! Get off your backside and find them! That’s what I pay my taxes for.”

  He headed for the door. “We’ll be going to see your superiors to lodge an official complaint. Then maybe we’ll see some action!”

  They stormed out. Evan heard the Jaguar rev up and drive away. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He’d had just about all he could take for one day. He locked the station and walked up the village street. Children were running past with satchels bouncing up and down on their backs. One of the boys called out to him, “Hello, Constable Evans? Sut wyt ti? Have we got rugby practice tomorrow night?”

  Evan answered and watched them run past, carefree now that school was over for today. He just wished adult life could be that simple.

  The realization that school was out made him quicken his pace up the hill. The village school was the last building before the two chapels. As he approached he noticed that Rev. Powell-Jones was busy putting a new text on the billboard outside Chapel Beulah. It read, “Many are called but few are chosen.” Evan grinned and looked expectantly at the rival billboard across the street. Rev. Parry Davies had chosen for his weekly text, “Go out into the highways and byways and bring the people in, that my house may be filled.”

  Obviously Rev. Powell-Jones had found out about the van!

  The school house was divided into classroom and teacher’s living quarters. Smoke was coming from Bronwen’s chimney. The last hollyhocks were still in bloom outside its windows and it looked cozy and inviting. But before he was halfway across the playground, the door opened and Bronwen came out. She stopped short when she saw Evan.

  “Hello, were you on your way to see me? Is something wrong?”

  “Not anymore.” Evan stood there looking at her, enjoying the way the wind blew wisps of sun-streaked hair across her face and how her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “I’ve had a rotten day so far. I needed a sanity break, Bron.”

  Her face fell. “Well, actually I was on my way out. I was going to catch the four o’clock bus down to Caernarfon. I’m signing up for the French cooking class and my kitchen is woefully lacking implements.”

  “You’re doing the French cooking class, too?” Evan grinned. “So’s Mrs. Williams.”

  “And half the village by the sound of it,” Bronwen said. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to take lessons from someone who trained at the Cordon Bleu school in Paris—and so cheap, too.”

  “I wonder what made her come here, if sh
e’s as highly qualified as she says?”

  Bronwen shrugged. “I suppose you could definitely say that our restaurants need upgrading—there’s no French restaurant that I know of closer than Manchester. In fact there’s only the Gegin Fawr café between here and Llanberis—and their area of expertise doesn’t go much higher than beans on toast. I think Madame Yvette could do well here.”

  “Have you seen her yet?” Evan asked.

  Bronwen smiled. “No, but according to Terry Jenkins she’s ‘ever so sexy.’ We had a big discussion this morning about the French and their strange habits, like eating snails. Very creative geography lesson!”

  “Terry Jenkins? How did he manage to see her?”

  “He rode his bike down there on purpose to scout her out.” She shook her head with a despairing smile. “There’s not much that gets past young Terry.”

  “How is he apart from that? A bit of a handful?”

  “You could say that again. But I like him. He’s got spunk.”

  “His mother is about to give up on him. He’s running her ragged since his father left. I caught him trying to help the firemen with their hose at the fire.”

  “Sounds typical. But it could be worse. At least he’s acting out his anger.”

  “Maybe I should do that,” Evan said. “I’ve had to put up with the most obnoxious people today and just stand there being polite. I’d have felt much better if I’d been allowed to act out my anger a little . . .”

  “Better, but probably in jail.” She smiled up at him. “Look, if it’s important I won’t go into Caernarfon. It can wait.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Evan said. “I wouldn’t want to hinder your cooking lessons. Besides, I’m feeling better already. Come on, I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

  “Problems with the cottage that burned?” Bronwen asked as they crossed the playground and Evan opened the gate for her.

  Evan nodded. “I’ve had the owners here yelling at me because I haven’t found the perpetrator yet, and our new arson specialist is treating me as if I was the village idiot.” He shrugged. “It’s all part of being a public servant, I suppose. Nothing that a pint at the Dragon won’t cure.”

  “I might join you there later when I get back from Caernarfon. I might even show you my new egg whisk, if you’re good.” Her eyes held his.

  “I can’t wait.” Evan grinned. “Maybe we should try out this new French place for ourselves this weekend?”

  “That would be lovely.” Bronwen’s face lit up. “Then you can tell me what dishes you liked, and I’ll learn to cook them.”

  “That’s what I like to hear—a woman cooking to please her man.” He dodged, laughing, as she swung her shopping basket at him.

  The bus roared toward them, belching black smoke. Bronwen stepped forward and stuck out her hand to hail it. It came to a halt with a squeal of brakes. She leaped nimbly on board and the bus roared away again. As Evan watched it go Bronwen’s face appeared at a window. She waved and blew him a kiss. He waved back, then walked down the hill. Suddenly everything was right with the world again.

  The next day Sergeant Watkins called to say that tests had confirmed the residue to be from petrol. Also there were fingerprints on the note, which they were going to try and match to known extremists. He thought they’d have the case sewn up before long, which was good because the English owners had been raising bloody hell at headquarters.

  Evan sighed with relief. It seemed that it was now out of his province and he could go back to his usual duties. The first of these was a call from Mrs. Powell-Jones, the minister’s wife, complaining that a large gray van was parked on the street, creating a traffic hazard. Evan suspected it wouldn’t be the last he’d hear on the matter of the van.

  He’d just returned from smoothing out that situation when there was a light tap on his door and a woman came in.

  “Zis ees zee police station, oui?” she asked, her eyes darting around nervously.

  Evan got up. “That’s right. What can I do for you?”

  She spread her hands in a very continental gesture. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just a joke, but I don’t know . . .”

  She reached into a large black patent handbag and produced an envelope.

  Evan pulled out a chair. “Please. Take a seat. I’m Constable Evans.”

  “Yvette Bouchard,” she said, giving him a little half smile as she sat.

  Evan had guessed this might be the famous Madame Yvette. “You’ve opened the restaurant. How’s it going so far?”

  “We shall ’ave to see, won’t we?” She had a deep, throaty voice and she looked exactly the way Evan expected a French restaurant owner to look. She was probably in her late thirties, with a somewhat beaky nose and full, voluptuous lips. Her deepset, dark eyes were made even darker by the addition of liner around them, and her thick, dark hair was piled high on her head in an old-fashioned bun. She wore a black, high-necked blouse with a scarf wound around her neck and a wide black belt that nipped in a tiny waist and emphasized a generous bust. When she sat she crossed her legs and revealed black stockings.

  Terry Jenkins had been right in his first impression, Evan thought.

  “So how can I help you, Madame Yvette?” he asked.

  “Zis.” She handed him the envelope. “I received it zis morning.”

  Evan carefully removed the letter. It was printed with a thick red marker pen in capital letters:

  GO HOME. YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE.

  GET OUT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.

  Evan examined the envelope. “Interesting. No stamp on it.”

  “I found it on zee mat with zee rest of zee post,” she said. “I didn’t know what to sink. Eez zis a joke or no?”

  “Maybe not,” Evan said. “There is some antiforeign feeling around, I’m afraid. We had a cottage burn down earlier this week. So we must take this seriously.”

  “But who would not want good food to be brought to zair town?” Yvette demanded. “Before me zere ees nothing. No restaurant at all. Zat ees why I come ’ere. No competition.”

  Evan nodded. “I’m all for it, but don’t worry. It’s only a few loonies on the fringe who feel like this. The local women are all excited about taking your cooking courses.”

  Yvette beamed. Her whole face became animated when she smiled, making her look a lot younger—not much older than himself, Evan decided. “I know all about zee good P.R., as you say. I wish to make friends with zee local people. I will show zem that good French cooking ees not all exotic things—no escasgots. When zay get a chance to taste lamb and fish zee way I prepare zem, zay will never want to go back. And zay will all bring zair ’usbands to eat at my restaurant.”

  “Good idea,” Evan agreed. “I’ve made plans to come there myself on Saturday.”

  She eyed him appraisingly. “You will bring your wife?”

  “No, I’m not married.”

  Before he could clarify this and mention the word girlfriend, Madame Yvette’s eyes lit up. “Ah, zen zee local ladies zay all fight over you still, eh?”

  “Not really, they . . .” Evan couldn’t complete the sentence. He felt himself blushing and cursed his fair Celtic skin.

  “Don’t be bashful. You are a ’andsome man. You should be proud zat women admire you.”

  Evan cleared his throat. “Yes, well. About this letter, Madame Yvette. I think I should show it to the criminal investigation division. They’ll want to compare it to other notes that have been found. And in the meantime keep your eyes open and call me if there’s anything suspicious . . .”

  The dark eyes opened wider. “What sort of sing?”

  “A stranger hanging around. Any more threats. Anyone who’s rude to you. A hostile neighbor, for example.”

  “Mon dieu! You don’t really think I’m in danger, do you?” She put her hand to her breast in a dramatic gesture.

  “No, I don’t, but you shouldn’t take any chances until the detectives have checked out the note. As I say, I’m not far away
. Give me a call if you’re worried.”

  “Sank you. You are tres gentil, as we say,” she said. “You speak French, maybe?”

  “I took it in school, but I’ve not had much call to use it since. I can probably still conjugate a few verbs.”

  “Ah . . .” She gave him a long, slow smile. “You never know when you might need to conjugate . . . verbs. I ’ave to go now. I look forward wiz pleasure to serving you at Chez Yvette. Au revoir, Monsieur Evans.”

  Evan escorted her to the door. Phew, he thought. A woman like that is going to make some waves around here.

  On Saturday evening Evan escorted Bronwen to his old bone-shaker.

  “I’m not sure that I should introduce you to Madame Yvette,” Bronwen said. “She’s very—French.”

  “I know. I already met her.”

  “You did? when?”

  “She came into the station. Someone had sent her a threatening letter telling her to go home.”

  Bronwen frowned. “Like the one at the cottage?”

  “Similar.”

  “How awful. I hope that sort of thing isn’t going to spread.”

  “I think it’s a few extremists, maybe just one bloke, but probably not. There are fingerprints on both the notes. Unfortunately not the same prints, and not the same method either. One was words cut from a newspaper, the other was printed in capital letters.”

  “So it looks as if a group is involved?”

  “Possibly. People who write threatening notes usually like to stick to the same method. Which suggests it wasn’t the same person.”

  “Unless he couldn’t find all the words he needed in the newspaper this time,” Bronwen suggested.

  Evan opened the car door for her and she climbed in. “So what did you think of Madame Yvette?” she asked.

  Evan got in beside her. “I agree with Terry. Very sexy. In fact, I think I should sign up for those classes myself, just so I can watch her bending over a hot stove. Ow!” he added as Bronwen hit him.

  “We had our first lesson today,” she said. “It was fascinating. I’m going to try out the recipe she taught us and if it’s anything like the original, I’ll cook it for you. Actually it mightn’t be a bad idea if you did take cooking classes. You’ve got to learn to live alone someday.”