by Susan Finlay
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“What do you know about their neighbor, Ian Waitley? Mr. Waitley claims that Jared killed his, Ian’s, cats right around the same time as the graffiti incident.”
“Ian was always friendly, but things got weird after the divorce. Ian tried to continue the friendship with Elizabeth, but Jared wouldn’t have it. He told everyone that Ian was a pervert and a Peeping Tom. He warned Ian that if he caught the old man spying on his mother, he would be sorry.”
Dave and Kate looked at each other. “How do you know this?” Dave asked.
“Elizabeth told me. She was there when Jared and Ian had a huge row in the driveway right after the graffiti incident.”
“Did Jared catch him spying?” Dave asked.
“I have no idea and Elizabeth doesn’t believe it.”
Dave thought about the murder scene photographs. The blonde teenager lying on the floor with two knife wounds to the neck. “Do you know who did the cooking in your sister’s household?”
Pauline looked blankly at him.
“We’ve been told that Elizabeth rarely cooks, and that she told the police that she doesn’t know if she’s missing any knives.”
“Oh. Peter did most of the cooking while they were married.”
“Who cooked after the divorce?” Dave asked. “Did Maura cook for them?”
“Maybe for herself and sometimes for Jared. Right after the divorce, family, friends, and neighbors invited them for dinner quite a bit, or they would bring over dishes. Later though, I know Elizabeth went out a lot, leaving Jared to fend for himself.”
“Why did Elizabeth spend so much time away?”
“I guess she was trying to make a life for herself, you know, have a social life and start dating.”
“And she forgot about her son?”
“I suppose she figured he was old enough to take care of himself,” Pauline said, looking irritated for the first time in the conversation. It wasn’t clear if she was irritated at the comment or at her sister.
Dave said, “Elizabeth told us that in the weeks before his murder she and Peter rarely left him alone because of his emotional problems.”
“That was after the headmaster suspended him. Jared’s friends, what few he had, avoided him. He argued with everyone around him and, quite frankly, hardly anyone could stand to be around him at that point.”
“A friend of Elizabeth told us she drinks a lot. Does she have a drinking problem?”
She looked down at her hands folded in her lap, then back at Dave.
“No, of course not.”
“Does she ever go out to drink? Do you know where she goes?”
“There’s a pub only two blocks from Elizabeth’s street. It’s popular with locals.”
“Kate, do you have any more questions for Mrs. Wynn?” Kate shook her head. Dave thanked Pauline for taking time with them, gave her one of Kate’s cards, and asked her to call if she thought of anything else.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Maurelle went back to the cottage, but she couldn’t sleep because she was plagued with the feeling that Dave didn’t believe her. She could bear almost anything but that. And if he didn’t believe her, there seemed no point sticking around here. She probably should leave again and continue on her own. Fabienne was going to be fine. In fact with Maurelle gone, Fabienne’s stress level would probably improve. She and Jeannette could manage here on their own for a few days, and Simone and Coralie could come and pick them up.
Her heart sank even lower as she contemplated leaving yet again. You let yourself get your hopes up, she told herself. Now you care for all of them, especially Dave, and it tortures you to leave all of them behind. But what choice do you have? Tomorrow night, once you’re sure Fabienne is recovering all right, you have to say goodbye.
In the morning, someone knocked on the front door of the cottage. Expecting it was one of Fabienne and Jeannette’s friends, Maurelle didn’t hesitate to open it. But the sight of Dr. Maison holding his medical bag made her hesitate for a moment.
“Bonjour, Dr. Maison.”
“I hope I didn’t awaken you,” he said.
She realized suddenly that the breakfast dishes were sitting on the coffee table and she wished they’d cleaned up instead of being lazy. A quick glance over her shoulder found Jeannette, who apparently had heard the exchange, rushing around the living room. She was picking up newspapers and the offending dishes. Jeanette disappeared into the kitchen and Maurelle said, “Won’t you come in, please, Dr. Maison.”
“I would normally have called, but since you don’t have a phone here . . . .”
“That’s perfectly all right. I suppose you’re here to check up on Fabienne.”
He nodded.
Jeannette came back into the living room for a moment, said her good mornings to the doctor, and then left the house. Maurelle led Dr. Maison up the stairs into Fabienne’s room and waited in the hallway outside the door. She could hear muffled talking. A few minutes later the doctor stuck his head out the door and motioned for her to come inside.
“She’s doing remarkably well,” he said. “I am quite pleased with her recovery.” He glanced from Fabienne to Maurelle, and added, “Looks to me like she has a good nurse. She tells me that you’ve made her stay in bed for twenty-four hours. Good for you.”
Maurelle smiled. She remembered tending to her mother during her illness and though it had been difficult, she was glad that she’d done it. Her mother had been weak and fragile at the end, and yet she hadn’t complained. She had talked about the old days, her childhood and growing up, her relationship with Maurelle’s father, and her fear of raising a child alone. She’d patted Maurelle’s hand and hugged her, tears filling her eyes as she said that she was so happy that she had her loving daughter.
“I’d say you have your hands full.” He looked down at Fabienne and added, “I do believe you’re ready to resume light activities, but I caution you to not overdo it.”
At that, Fabienne almost leapt out of bed, grabbed her hand-knit sweater off a chair, and started to dash over to the door, then slowed down as she realized the doctor was watching and frowning. As she reached the door, she stopped momentarily and stuck out her tongue at Maurelle.
Maurelle shook her head and laughed and waved her on as Fabienne rushed like a child out the door and down the stairs, slamming the front door behind her as she took off, probably in search of Jeannette.
Dr. Maison coughed and said “Yes, I do believe you had your hands full.”
Turning around, Maurelle said, “Thank you for everything, Doctor. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“I’m happy I could help her. Just try to keep her under some control for a few days.”
When they reached the living room downstairs, Maurelle asked, “Would you like some tea before you return to the clinic?”
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. I must be getting back.”
She nodded, waiting as he continued toward the door, but then he stopped. He set down his medical bag on the side table and looked directly at her. “I did want to ask you something.”
She tried to keep her face blank and not let him see her rising panic. He must have read something in the newspaper in one of the large cities.
“We don’t get many visitors here,” he said, “and although I often go to Florac on business, I rarely meet new people, especially, uh, beautiful women.” He coughed nervously. “Uh, I wondered if I could take you out to dinner sometime. I would like to get to know you better.”
Flustered momentarily by the turn of events, Maurelle quickly recovered. “I’m flattered, but I—I’m married. I’m sorry.” She didn’t like lying to him, but Fabienne had already told people that Dave was her husband. She couldn’t date the town’s doctor even if she wanted to.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the doctor said, his face reddening. “I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have asked you. Please accept my apologies.”
As he picked up his bag to leave, Maurelle felt sorry for him. “Dr. Maison, we would love to have you come to dinner tonight though, say around seven. We owe you our gratitude. It’s the least we can do.”
“Thank you. I would be delighted.”
After Dr. Maison left, Dave’s face instantly sprang into her mind; his grin, blue eyes, and sandy hair. She realized how she missed him and how she actually loved that little white lie. Her husband. For a second, she could see them at the altar, but the vision quickly evaporated. It could never happen. Their late night phone call flooded back to the forefront of her memory. Dave didn’t believe. He wouldn’t be able to clear her name. Did it matter? Even if Dave managed to clear her name, he wouldn’t want her. The stigma of being accused of murder would never go away.
Maurelle busied herself with straightening the house, but her mind kept going to England and to Dave. What was happening with the investigation? Did he still believe in her, or was he sorry he’d gone to England? The uncertainty made it difficult to concentrate on anything else.
When she told Fabienne and Jeannette about the dinner plans, both women jumped in and said they would take care of the cooking and planning. All Maurelle needed to do was go buy the groceries.
That evening, the two older women practically smothered Dr. Maison with attention. They talked about life in the village, the locals, and the good old days. Fortunately, he seemed delighted by the attention. Maurelle tuned out much of the conversation, continuing to think about Dave.
When Fabienne brought out dessert, Maurelle managed to pull herself back to the conversation as she ate.
“Are you going to our annual summer festival at the riverside park tomorrow?” Dr. Maison asked.
Fabienne clapped her hands together. “Yes, I can’t wait. We couldn’t possibly have come here at a better time. Saint-Julien’s summer festivals are wonderful, from what I remember.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go, Fabienne,” Maurelle said. “It’s a long walk to the riverside park. I don’t know if you’re up to that yet.”
Fabienne looked pleadingly at Dr. Maison.
“I think she can handle it,” he said. “That is, provided she takes it slow and easy.”
After the doctor left, Maurelle sighed. She realized she now couldn’t leave until after the festival. It would break Fabienne’s heart if she spoilt the event for her. But how much of a risk would going to the festival be?
Dave and Kate, upon finishing at the school, found the pub around the corner from Willoughby Crescent and ordered a beer for Dave and red wine for Kate. They sat at the counter and watched the bartender, a short middle-aged man with a limp and a prominent bald spot, put away clean glasses. Dave said, “I would expect you get a lot of regulars from the neighborhood.”
“That we do.”
“Do you happen to know Elizabeth Raybourne?”
He didn’t look up, but kept working.
“What do you wanna know ‘bout Elizabeth?”
Dave turned around toward the speaker. A lanky man with white hair was standing behind him, holding an empty beer mug.
“Can I buy you a beer?” Dave asked.
“I could use another pint.” He proceeded to sit down on a stool next to Dave and pushed his empty tankard toward the bartender, who grudgingly filled it.
Dave reached out his hand and said, “Name’s Dave, and this is Kate. You would be?”
The man said his name was John but gave no last name.
“Do you see Elizabeth in here often?” Dave asked.
“She’s a regular. Why do you wanna know?”
“I heard about her son’s murder. It must have been devastating. I can’t imagine losing a child.”
“Yeah, she took it pretty hard. Some of us had to take turns walking her home after the murder.”
“Are there a lot of regulars? A big group that hang out together?”
He guzzled down the beer and held out his mug for a refill. The bartender looked at Dave, who nodded.
“Well, let’s see. There’s me, Tony, James, Chris, Joe, and occasionally Elizabeth. Oh, and Sally. Ian sometimes.” He made a humorous face.
“Ian Waitley?”
“Yup.”
“How often does the group come here?”
“Most nights for the blokes. Ask Johnny here. He can verify that, can’t you Johnny?’
The bartender nodded and grinned.
“Tony and I come during the day sometimes, too. The night’s when this place gets fun though. Games of darts, everybody laughing and clowning around. We would stay all night if Johnny and Judi didn’t throw us out.”
“Were you all here on the night of the murder?”
“Yeah, most of us.”
“What about the women and Ian?”
He scratched his head. “Seems Sally was here, but Elizabeth had to work. Ian didn’t come either. Like I said, they only come occasionally.”
“Did Elizabeth’s son Jared ever come here?”
“Maybe once or twice with his mum.”
“Was he ever here while Ian was here?”
“You know, now that you mention it, I do remember one day, maybe a week or two before the murder, they were both here. I remember ‘cause they got into an argument outside. Don’t know what it was about. Jared left after that and Ian came back in all irritated. Took him a while to settle down.”
A short time later, on the drive to Kate’s house, Kate said “Ian says he saw Robin, definitely. Yet she was in Cambridge.”
“So he must have seen someone else, mistaking it for Robin.”
“Yes. But a woman, young, slim.”
Dave said, “Maybe he didn’t really see anyone at all, just wanted to be in the limelight.”
“Let’s see—Robin has a sound alibi, as do Peter and Elizabeth. In fact, everyone does except for Maura. As for motive, what parent would kill their sixteen year old son for such reasons? Even if he had an affair with Robin, and there is only weak innuendo for that, Peter would hardly stab him to death like that. Carsters might have been jealous if he was more infatuated with Maura than he suggests, so there is a weak motive—but still, to murder over it? And there’s no other evidence pointing to Carsters. He might even have an alibi. Dave, sometimes if it is yellow and quacks, you just have to accept that it is a duck.”
Dave gazed out the window at the cars and buses, but his mind was elsewhere. Something was bothering him. Where was the murder weapon? And something else he couldn’t quite put a finger on was niggling at the back of his mind.
He turned to Kate. “We need to talk to Elizabeth again. A phone call would probably suffice.”
She glanced at him, her brow creased.
“You want to tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Not yet. Bear with me here, I’m trying to work something out.”
The rest of the drive went by in silence.
Back at Kate’s house, Kate looked up Elizabeth Raybourne’s phone number and gave it to Dave. He dialed and put it on speaker. When she answered, he identified himself.
“Ms. Raybourne, the murder weapon was described in the post-mortem as a kitchen knife. It hasn’t been recovered. We’ve been told that you aren’t missing any knives. Are you sure about that?”
“I really wouldn’t know. I don’t cook much.”
“Your husband did all the cooking?”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t take the utensils when he moved out?”
“Only some of them. Robin already had a kitchen full of them. That’s also another reason I can’t tell if one of the knives is missing.”
“But you had dinner guests at your home after the divorce, didn’t you?”
“I did. Why do you ask?”
Dave scratched his head and looked at Kate before resuming. “Who cooked those dinners?”
“A neighbor, Ian Waitley, came over a few times. He used to be a chef back in Irelan
d. He’s retired now, but he’s still quite the gourmet. He used to cook for us occasionally when Peter still lived here, too. He was always, you know, wanting to help. Lonely, I suppose.”
After he hung up, Dave sat very still. What was it Ian had said about his cats’ murder? Various fragments of conversation drifting through his mind began to fall into place. Maura saying something about running . . . tins of spray paint . . . and something about flowers—no, it was something about gardening.
He stood and began pacing. “Can you get a background check on someone?”
They set to work, sending off emails to various contacts of Kate’s. Before long, the replies began trickling in, some by email, some by fax.
Kate picked up one of the printouts, read it, and handed it to Dave. It said that on one occasion Ian had been fined in London for affray—but he had been attacked by another man.
Dave looked up. “What’s affray?”
“A disturbance or fight.”
He continued reading. Ian Waitley had a criminal record back in Ireland—several arrests for affrays and for armed robbery. He’d moved to England sixteen years ago after several cautions, mainly for indecent exposure and voyeurism. “So that’s why he’s ‘retired’ at such a young age.”
Another reply came in. Kate read it and then abruptly left the room without saying anything. Dave, curious about the contents of the reply, drummed his fingers on the desk and waited, wondering what was going on.
A few minutes later, she returned. “Listen to this. Ian’s wife, Wilhelmina, divorced him after he was arrested the first time. She took their two daughters, Abby and Josephine, and moved to Australia.”
“Okay, I’m confused. Weren’t those the names of his cats?”
“Yes, they were. I just got off the phone with Peter Raybourne. He confirmed that Ian had three cats with those names. The mother cat died of old age, but the younger cats were still alive when Peter lived across the street from Ian.”
The next morning, while having breakfast with Kate, Dave called Greg’s friend, Nigel James.
Nigel asked, “Where are you?”
“In a pub across the street from the Hallworth Hotel. Late breakfast.
“What did you want to discuss?” Nigel asked.