Evan and Elle

by Rhys Bowen

  “Bronwen—is this something to do with going to Madame Yvette’s late at night last week?”

  A spasm of hurt crossed her face, but then she tossed her head defiantly. “What you do with your spare time is no concern of mine.”

  “Bronwen”—his voice rose—“I was called out. She got a threatening note and she was upset.”

  “Called out at eleven, I understand, and didn’t get home until she kicked you out at one?”

  “Kicked me out? Who told you that?”

  “She did.”

  Evan could feel the heat rising to his uniform collar. “The nerve of it! Kicked me out? She asked me to stay because she was scared and upset.”

  “And so you, being the good boy scout as always, stayed to comfort her?”

  “Yes, I did . . . until I found out what she really wanted from me. Then I made a polite but hurried exit.”

  “Oh.” Bronwen stared hard at him as if she was trying to see inside his skull. “That’s not how it was related to me.”

  “And you believe a lot of old gossips?”

  “It was Madame herself. She told me that she showed you the difference between a woman and a girl.”

  Evan actually laughed. “Come on, Bron. Do you really believe that I’m the kind of bloke who winds up in bed with strange Frenchwomen?”

  “How do I know?” Her voice was edgy again. “I’ve no idea what makes men tick. I thought maybe it was too good an offer to refuse.”

  “Well, I refused it.”

  They stood in the light of her doorway, staring at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve no right to get upset about what you do or don’t do.”

  “You’ve no right to get upset with me without checking with me first,” he said.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so stupidly insecure. I thought she had something to offer you that I don’t have.”

  Evan smiled at her. “She does. A black lace bra.”

  “She showed you her bra?”

  “It wasn’t on her at the time.”

  “That’s even worse,” Bronwen said, but she was smiling now.

  “Bronwen,” Evan said quietly, “it’s cold out here. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Chapter 9

  The following Saturday night Evan and Bronwen finally went to dinner at Chez Yvette.

  “I’m not sure I want to do this,” Bronwen said as Evan parked the car.

  “Don’t be silly. We agreed, didn’t we? I want her to see us together.”

  “I want you to taste all my food first,” Bronwen said as they walked up the flagstone path to the front door. “She might have poisoned it.”

  “So you’d rather I died. That sounds like true love.” He opened the door for her. Bronwen grinned.

  The restaurant looked different, lit only with candles in glass globes. No longer was it an austere former chapel. The flickering candlelight created little pools of intimacy at each of the six tables. The vaulted ceiling above and the far corners were lost in darkness. Madame Yvette was serving at the one occupied table as they came in. She looked up and the delight registered on her face as she saw Evan. “Ah, Monsieur le Policeman. You come back! Magnifique.”

  “I’ve brought my girlfriend for dinner, Madame,” Evan said. “She’s been taking your cooking classes and raving about your food, so I’ve come to try it.” Evan’s hand was on Bronwen’s shoulder as he steered her across the parquet floor.

  Madame Yvette nodded graciously. If she was at all put out, she wasn’t showing it. “Please—take a seat. Here—my best table, in the corner. So romantic, non? I bring you a menu and the wine list.”

  They studied the wine list and Bronwen suggested a Merlot.

  “Any suggestions on food?” Evan muttered to Bronwen. “I don’t know one French dish from another.”

  “Why don’t we let her choose the menu?” Bronwen suggested. “That way we’ll get her favorite dishes.”

  Madame Yvette seemed delighted. “ ’Ow very kind. I make you zee superb meal. We start, I sink, wiz zee scallops in white wine and ginger, zen my famous selle d’agneau—zat is zee local lamb—very good and tender, and a salad of baby greens. And zen, for dessert, zee specialité de la minison.’” She left them with a mysterious smile.

  The first two courses were exquisite, the scallops delicate, melt-in-the-mouth, floating in a light creamy sauce, accompanied by crisp lattice wafers of potato. The lamb was rich brown on the outside, pink and succulent in the middle with just a hint of garlic and herbs.

  “If she has any animosity, she’s not showing it,” Bronwen whispered.

  “I think she’s happy to show off her cooking expertise,” Evan said. “She certainly knows how to cook.”

  “And it’s lucky we came early,” Bronwen said. The door opened, sending in a cold breeze that ruffled napkins and flickered candle flames. A noisy party of four people, English by the sound of them, came in, and almost immediately a lone man followed, choosing the small table on the opposite wall.

  Madame Yvette bustled from table to table, beaming.

  “You liked your Welsh lamb zee way I cook it?” she asked as she came to remove their plates.

  “It was wonderful,” Evan said as Bronwen nodded agreement. “The best meal I’ve had in years.”

  “Ah, you wait for zee dessert!” Her eyes sparkled like those of a naughty child keeping a secret. “I will take zee orders from zese people, zen I return.”

  She disappeared, then came back with a bottle of wine for the lone man and a bottle of champagne for the noisy party of four. Then she wheeled a trolley up to Evan and Bronwen’s table.

  “I make for you my special crêpes suzette,” she said. There was a small spirit stove on the trolley. “I bring zee cointreau,” she said, and crossed the room to the bar. The man at the far table beckoned her. She bent to him, had a brief conversation, then came back to Evan’s table, stopped, stared into space and then said, with an embarrassed laugh, “Ah, zee cointreau. I forget my head next!” and crossed the room again.

  Evan watched her as she came back and fumbled with the bottle top.

  “Here, let me,” Evan said.

  “Sank you. I don’t know why I can’t . . .” Her voice was shaking.

  Evan glanced back at the man in the alcove, but he was calmly sipping a glass of red wine.

  She folded a crêpe and placed it in the pan. She tipped up the bottle and liqueur came splashing out onto the tablecloth and floor. “I am sorry,” she said. “So clumsy of me.”

  “Is something wrong?” Bronwen asked.

  “No. No, nozzink at all.” She shook her head. “Now we make zee flame . . .” She lit a match. Flames shot high from the pan, licking out so that Evan could feel the heat. Bronwen stared at him in alarm. Madame Yvette stepped back with a muttered “ooh-la-la!” Evan reached for his water glass but almost immediately the flame died down again.

  “Voilà!” Madame Yvette tipped the first crêpe onto a plate and put it in front of Bronwen. She completed the rest of the crêpes with no more conflagrations.

  “What was that about?” Bronwen whispered as Madame Yvette made a hurried retreat with the trolley. “She was upset about something, wasn’t she?”

  Evan nodded. “Maybe someone complained about her cooking. They’re supposed to be temperamental, these famous chefs.”

  They lingered over coffee, so wrapped up in their conversation that Evan was quite surprised when Bronwen whispered, “I suppose we should go. She might be waiting to close up.”

  Evan looked around and saw that they were the only patrons left. They paid the bill, exchanged pleasantries, and went.

  “Brilliant meal,” Bronwen said. “I can see now why she was nominated for the award.”

  “She certainly can cook,” Evan agreed.

  He felt relieved and content as he finally let himself in to Mrs. Williams’s house just before midnight. The evening had gone smoothly. Bronwen had forgiven him, Madame Yvette s
eemed to have accepted the fact that he had a girl-friend, and the food had been outstanding—even if his pay-check wouldn’t stretch to that kind of meal again for a while.

  He was halfway up the stairs, tiptoeing with his shoes in his hand so that he didn’t disturb Mrs. Williams, when the phone rang. Evan ran down again and caught it on the second ring.

  “Constable Evans? This is the dispatcher at HQ. We’ve just had a 999 call about another fire. The chief thought you should be there, since it’s not too far from the other arson fires we’re investigating. He’s calling in Sergeant Watkins, too, and Sergeant Potter.”

  “Right,” Evan said, slipping his foot back into a shoe as he spoke. “Where is it?”

  “Just down the hill from you, I gather. The old chapel that’s now a restaurant.”

  A few minutes later Evan was back outside Chez Yvette. Flames were shooting up at the rear of the building, silhouetting the arched roof and illuminating the tall arched windows. The fire brigade had obviously arrived just ahead of him and men were rushing to hook up hoses.

  Evan pushed his way to the nearest fireman through the small crowd that had gathered. “Where’s Madame Yvette?” Evan shouted above the roar and crackle of the inferno. “Do we know if the building was empty?”

  The fireman glanced up, recognized him and went on dragging out lengths of hose. “She got out all right. She had to—apparently she called from a neighbor’s house to give the alarm.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Haven’t seen her.” The young man sounded tense.

  “And there was no one else inside?”

  Captain Jones overheard as he ran past. Rivulets of sweat were running down his soot-smudged face. “Oh, Constable Evans—you got here pretty quick. There was no one in the restaurant. The front door was locked. I had to break it down and the place was empty. I couldn’t get into the kitchen, though. That was already completely involved. They said she didn’t have any kitchen staff working back there?”

  “No, she did everything herself.”

  “That’s good.” He turned back the men who were dragging the hose. “We’ll go straight in from the top, boys. The roof’s already gone at the back.”

  Evan stepped out of the way to let the firemen work. He scanned the crowd but couldn’t see Madame Yvette. “Do you know what happened to the French lady who owned the place?” he asked a couple of local youths. “Did she get taken to hospital?”

  “No, my mam took her down to the pub—the Vaynol Arms down the road. She was really upset.”

  “So she was okay? Not burned at all?”

  “Just crying a lot, as far as I know,” the boy said.

  “You’re sure she was all right?” a man in a cloth cap asked. “This is a terrible thing to happen. I can’t say we wanted her here, but I wouldn’t have wished this on my worst enemy.”

  “And you are?” Evan asked.

  “Owen Gruffudd. I own the Gegin Fawr. The café down the hill. We’re neighbors.”

  Evan looked at him with interest. Neighbors and rivals, he thought. But Mr. Gruffudd looked truly distressed. Evan would keep the name in mind for future reference, just in case.

  Before he could head down to the pub, two cars drew up almost simultaneously. Sergeant Watkins got out of one and Peter Potter out of the other. They looked at each other with obvious distaste.

  “No need for you to have been called out, Watkins,” Potter snapped in his flat southern voice. “I can handle this. You can bugger off.”

  “My D.C.I. told me to come, and if he says jump, I jump.” Watkins walked past him to Evan. “I see they got you out of your bed, too. What news?”

  Evan shook his head. “Not much. The restaurant was already shut when the fire started. The owner must have got out through the back door, gone to a neighbor’s house and called the fire brigade. I was on my way to get a statement from her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Watkins said. “We’ll let wonder boy get on with his job.” He glanced at Peter Potter, who was already prowling around the building. “With any luck a wall will fall on him.”

  The Vaynol Arms was a long, whitewashed stone building about a quarter of a mile down the road. Madame Yvette was sitting on a bench close to the fire with a glass of brandy in her hand. She wore a black raincoat over her satin robe, pulled up high around her neck as if she was cold. Her face was hollow and tear-stained but her hair was still elegantly piled on her head. She held out a hand imploringly to Evan. “Zay want to get rid of me and now zay succeed.” Her voice cracked. “Who would do such a wicked sing, Mr. Evans, eh?”

  “You have reason to think it was set deliberately, Madame?” Watkins asked.

  Yvette gave an expansive shrug. “Why should my restaurant burn down? Zay send me zee warning notes, non?”

  “Did you see anything suspicious at all tonight? Did anything unusual happen?” Watkins asked.

  Yvette shook her head. “Nossing. It was a good evening. Almost full, n’est-ce pas? Constable Evans can tell you. He was zere.”

  Watkins grinned. “Moving up in the world, eh, Evans? French restaurants now, is it?”

  “This was the first time, Sarge,” Evan said. “We were the last customers to leave, just before ten.”

  “So tell me when you discovered the fire, Madame.”

  Yvette shrugged again. “All was well when I close up for zee night and I finish cleaning zee kitchen. Zen I am watching zee television and I must have fallen asleep in my chair. I wake to smell zee smoke and see zee flames at zee bottom of my stairs. I put my coat over my ’ead and run down zee stairs to zee back door. I am lucky to get out alive!”

  Evan cleared his throat. “You say you fell asleep watching the telly. Is there any chance you were smoking and a cigarette could have dropped out of your hand?”

  “Then ’ow could the flames be downstairs and not upstairs wiz me?” she demanded. “And anyway, I am trying to quit. I tell you, someone wants me to go.”

  “But you had no warning?” Evan asked. “No threatening phone call tonight? No note?”

  “Nossing!” Tears started rolling down her cheeks again. “Whoever did zis is a monster. He ruins my life. He takes all I have worked and slaved for.”

  Watkins put a hand on her shoulder. “You get a good night’s sleep. I’d imagine they’ve got rooms here, haven’t they, Evans?”

  “Oh yes, Sarge. I don’t suppose they’re fully booked at this time of year. I’ll go and find out.”

  “There you are, then,” Watkins said, patting Madame Yvette on the shoulder. “Constable Evans is going to arrange for you to stay here tonight. We won’t disturb you anymore. We’ll come back in the morning.” He motioned for Evan to follow him.

  The fire had died down to a dull glow as they walked back together. Their footsteps echoed in the clear night air.

  “If it was as she suspects,” Evan began, “then they’ve gone one step further.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’ve always been careful to target empty buildings before.”

  “Either that, or we’re not dealing with the same perpetrators,” Watkins suggested. “This might be some kind of private vendetta. What do you know about this Madame Yvette?”

  “Almost nothing,” Evan said. “She just arrived here about a month ago. I know she was married and her husband died, and they once had a restaurant in the South of England. And I know she went to the Cordon Bleu school in Paris. That’s about it.”

  “Where have you two been?” Potter demanded as they approached the smoldering remains.

  “Interviewing the owner of the building,” Watkins said. “Needed help, did you?”

  “There’s not much I can do until I can get inside and take samples,” Potter said. “But from what I can see, I’m inclined to suspect we’re not dealing with the same serial arsonist. It wasn’t the same method, for one thing. This fire started at the back of the building. The front door was almost untouched.”

  “Th
e kitchen was at the back,” Evan pointed out.

  “Which makes me wonder if it wasn’t just a simple accident,” Potter said. “Maybe she went to bed and left the gas on. Maybe tea towels were drying over the fire and one of them fell down. It happens all the time.”

  “Only this was a very modern kitchen,” Evan said. “I didn’t see any kind of open fire.”

  “So—there are plenty of other ways. She could have left a pan of fat cooking. She could have been smoking a cigarette. Anyway, we’ll know for sure in daylight. In the meantime, Constable, I want you to get a list of everyone who was in the crowd tonight. Compare it to the two previous crowds. If anyone was in all three, I want them fingerprinted. Got it?”

  “Yes, Sarge,” Evan said.

  “Oh, and Constable. I want you to remain on duty here until I can get a bloke sent up from HQ to stand guard tonight. We don’t want to find trespassers have been mucking it up.”

  “Right you are, Sarge.”

  “Bloody little Hitler,” Watkins muttered as Potter went back to his car. “Who does he think he is?”

  Evan grinned. “God?” he suggested.

  Watkins clapped him on the shoulder. “See you in the morning then, boyo. I’ll get on the phone and make sure you’re not stuck up here too long.”

  “Thanks.” Evan smiled grimly. “I suppose I better get started on those statements, then.” He pulled out his notebook and approached the nearest members of the crowd. The fire was now more or less out but a thick, cloying smoke hung in the air. People were already moving away to their homes. Evan yelled for everyone to stay put. He started with Mr. Gruffudd from the Gegin Fawr. The man still looked quite shaken. He’d been drinking in the bar at the Vaynol when someone had come in to say the restaurant was on fire. Several men from the village had been there with him all evening—Evan got their names.

  As he worked his way around the crowd he almost bumped into a bicycle.

  “Terry?” Evan grabbed at the handlebars. The young boy looked alarmed, then managed a grin. “Hello, Mr. Evans. I got here too late this time. Pity they already put it out. Was it a big blaze like the others?”