Where Secrets Reside

by Susan Finlay

  “Yes, he is. I was admiring those paintings earlier. I had no idea they were painted by your grandson. You must be proud.”

  “I am.”

  “Did this man, this Richard Anderson, try to sell you anything or get anything from you?”

  “No. Not that I can remember.”

  “I don’t know what he’s after, but this is a dangerous man, Madame Devlin. You have a lot of valuables here, and he is a known thief. I suggest you keep your doors and windows locked. Please call me immediately if you notice anything peculiar or if you hear from him again.”

  “Oh, dear lord. Do you think he’s trying to steal Paul’s paintings? Do you think he’s involved in the killing spree?”

  “I don’t know why he is here at this time. And since this is an ongoing active investigation, I am not at liberty to comment further. But I caution you to be careful as he seems to have some interest in you and perhaps Paul.”

  “I’m glad you warned me about that man. Thank you so much for coming here.”

  “Unfortunately, madam, there is something else I need to ask you about. The last time we spoke, you told me you’d grown up on a farm.”

  “That’s right.”

  He scratched the backside of his head and then cleared his throat, making Maurelle curious what was going on.

  When he spoke again, he seemed to be measuring his words carefully. “Looking around your house, Madame Devlin. I cannot help but notice it’s is similar to a small chateau in its elegance. You know what I mean, don’t you? It’s filled with high quality furnishings, antiques, and decorations.”

  Jeannette was beaming at him and nodding.

  “Well, it made me wonder how a farm girl did so well for herself.”

  “Oh, that’s mostly my Charles’s doing. His papa was a businessman and he learned from him. We owned the general store and it was quite successful. But Charles was also an investor. He invested in stocks and antiques and gold. He taught me how to do the same.”

  “Charles is deceased?”

  “Yes. He’s been gone for years. Why are you asking these questions?”

  “Do you know if your husband was ever involved—how shall I say this—in anything illegal? Perhaps buying stolen goods, for instance, or smuggling?”

  Taken aback, Jeannette indignantly said, “Absolutely not! Charles was a very upright man. He was strict and wouldn’t tolerate anything that wasn’t right and proper.”

  “You met him in Pigalle, isn’t that right?”

  “I think we are finished, Captain Goddard. Good day.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LILLIAN LEFÉVRE PACED the floor of her hotel room. The large bed with a purple duvet and lavender canopy had looked inviting when she’d checked in, but she’d tossed and turned and hadn’t slept well. Not that the bed was uncomfortable or the room stuffy. But she, unlike her husband, was used to sleeping in her own bed. She shouldn’t have left, as though she had done something wrong; she should have thrown him out of the house.

  Then to add insult to injury, she’d called her sister, Genevieve, and told her all about her troubles. Dear Genevieve, all sweet and caring, had said she would drop everything and come to Reynier to help her through this. Ha! Genevieve had spent two hours this morning listening to her woes, playing the consoler. Then she had run straight over to the work shop that Jonas used at their house and thrown herself at him. Little tramp!

  Lillian probably wouldn’t have found out if she hadn’t gone home to get her bathrobe that she’d left hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door. She’d walked into the bedroom which led to the en-suite bathroom and was shocked to see Genevieve lying in Jonas’s arms. Lillian had stormed out of the house without her robe.

  On her way back to the hotel, she’d run into Bruno Houdan, who shook his head and told her that if she was looking for her sister, he’d seen her go into the workshop where Jonas designed and built his clocks. She’d snapped at him, saying that she already knew that.

  Wait ‘til I get my hands on her, Lillian thought. It’s bad enough to have a cheating husband but a cheating sister? That’s more than anyone should have to take.

  ARRIVING BACK AT his office, Goddard nodded at Officer Michaud and inquired about having any phone messages. Michaud handed him one from Vargas. It said:

  The report from the London police was inconclusive. Though the two women had lived some distance apart, with Thibault having a bedsitter in Fulham in the south west and Maura Barrington in the north of the city, they could well have met in the University students’ bar or the cafés nearby. It would be natural for them to chat and to have friends in common. So far there was no information about them sharing lectures, but certainly both would have attended classes in the same buildings. But there were thousands of students and what, ten million people in London? Scotland Yard was still digging, and maybe something would emerge. They, of course, were particularly interested because of the Jared Raybourne case.

  It was as Goddard had suspected. He flipped on the light switch in his office and went straight to his computer. He’d seen an expensive antique clock on Jeannette’s fireplace mantel, and it had been nagging at the back of his brain ever since. He was certain he’d seen it before on a police bulletin.

  Several clicks later, the report came up on his screen. He was staring at a picture of Jeannette’s clock—or one that looked remarkably similar. It had been stolen from a Paris art museum. He leaned back in his chair. How had Jeannette gotten the clock? Could it have come from Bill Myers?

  He pulled out his notes and looked for Jeannette’s phone number. He didn’t have it. He looked up Dave Martin’s phone number and was about to call him, when Durand stuck his head through the open doorway.

  “Excuse me, sir. There’s been another murder in Reynier.”

  Goddard looked up and sighed. There seemed no other reasonable response. “I’m on my way.”

  Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the small car park in front of Chateau de Reynier. He normally parked here when he was in the village, but this time it was for a different reason.

  Two Gendarmerie vehicles were already there, and someone had strung up crime-scene tape around the chateau’s garden on the left side of the building.

  “Where’s the body?” Goddard asked the gendarme on the scene.

  “In the maze. It looks like she was stabbed on the cobbled path and then dragged through the dirt into the maze,” Sarti said as he led Goddard through the garden to the stabbing site. “If you look closely, there are droplets of blood around this area.”

  Goddard saw the blood and drag marks in the dirt.

  “Do we have a murder weapon?” he asked.

  “Petit found a knife on the ground in the car park. I’ve already bagged it.”

  “Any blood or discernable fingerprints on it?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. We’ll send it to be checked, of course, but it looks like it’s been wiped clean.”

  “Wiped, and then left behind?”

  “We think the killer must have dropped it, running away from the scene.”

  “What about the victim? Do we have an identity?”

  “The groundskeeper identified her as Genevieve Boyer. She’s the sister of Lillian Lefèvre. According to René Lamont, one of the hotel’s guests, he heard arguing coming from outside as he was passing through the lobby. When he heard a scream, he ran outside and saw someone in dark clothing running away. The scream is probably what spooked the killer into dropping the knife. Lamont only caught a glimpse and couldn’t be sure if it was a man or a woman, but he thought the voices he’d heard were both female.”

  “Any other witnesses?”

  “The groundskeeper heard arguing, too, but he’s hard of hearing. He said the voices were muffled, and he couldn’t tell what they were saying or whether they were male or female.”

  Goddard raised an eyebrow. “Show me the body.”

  A few moments later he carefully knelt down beside the body. She
had shoulder-length dark hair, straight and silky, and brown eyes. Her skirt and blouse were dirty and one of her heels was broken, but there weren’t any obvious signs of sexual assault. Blood was still oozing out from the wound, indicating the recentness of the crime.

  “Who actually found the body?”

  “Monsieur Lamont and the groundskeeper said they arrived at about the same time, sir, each coming from different directions. Lamont said he came out of the building through those double doors. The groundskeeper told me he came from around back of the chateau.” He pointed in the direction. “As far as we can determine, the killer must have run toward the front of the chateau, then cut across the car park. Petit and Vargas are searching the area now.”

  “Was the victim a guest?”

  “That’s correct. According to the owner, Camille Wickliff, Mademoiselle Boyer checked into the chateau this morning. She told Madame Wickliff she had come from Vendome to comfort her sister, who had recently moved out of her house and into the chateau.”

  “Lillian Lefèvre moved out of her house? Does that mean she has left her husband?”

  “We’re looking into that, sir.”

  “Where is Madame Lefèvre?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Goddard nodded but didn’t comment. Great, he thought. Now one could assume Lillian killed those first two women out of jealousy. But why kill her own sister?

  “Sir, if I may, what if Jonas killed the women because they were threatening to tell his wife and then, when she left him, he went into a rage and came here to kill her? The sisters look quite similar.”

  Back in his office an hour and a half later, after quick interviews with René Lamont, the groundskeeper, other hotel guests, and several locals near the chateau at the time of the murder, Goddard slumped down into his desk chair and closed his tired eyes. René Lamont had appeared nervous but forthcoming in all his answers. A family staying in the chateau had told Goddard that they had actually seen both women, at first thinking them the same person, but they’d later realized they were not. Lillian was ten years older than Genevieve and had more wrinkles. The most troubling interview was the one with Bruno Houdan, who had told him Lillian had gone back to her house earlier in the day and had stormed out a couple minutes later.

  That statement, of course, had sent Goddard to the Lefèvre’s house. He’d questioned Jonas. The man had confessed that he had a romantic interlude, as he called it, with Genevieve. His wife had walked in on them. He’d acted genuinely shocked and worried to learn of Genevieve’s murder.

  So, taking everything together, Goddard had to wonder if Officer Sarti had gotten it backwards. What if Lillian had killed all of those women in retaliation for their involvement with her husband? That still didn’t answer the question of who killed Bertrand Martel, and it didn’t explain Bill Myers’s being in Reynier and visiting Jeannette Devlin.

  He picked up his phone and called Edward Martin and asked him to meet him at the Gendarmerie. “Bring your son. I want to show him something.”

  WHEN EDWARD AND Dave arrived half an hour later, Goddard filled them in on the details of the latest murder. He pulled out the bag that held the knife and handed it to Dave.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Dave turned the bag over a couple times, looking at the contents. “Can’t say I do.”

  Goddard sighed. “We need to know who owns this knife. Was it stolen, or does it actually belong to the killer?”

  “May I see it?” Edward asked. He took the clear plastic bag from Dave, slipped on his glasses, and examined the knife. “Can you give us a photo of this and let us show it around the village? Surely someone will recognize it. It’s not exactly a run-of-the-mill knife. Looks old. See these markings on the handle, very ornate and the way the blade is worn in spots.”

  “I noticed that, too,” Goddard said.

  “Let me see that again,” Dave said. “You just jogged a memory. Back when I was a kid, some of the old men in town carried around knives like this. They used them for cutting back small tree branches and even for etching names in the stones. The owner carved specific markings and patterns on the handle to uniquely identify it. My grandfather tried to teach me how to whittle wood with a knife. It was similar but plainer. This one is particularly ornate.”

  “So, almost anyone who’s lived in Reynier long-term might have one like this lying around,” Edward said.

  “Similar perhaps, but not like this. The carvings make it very owner specific. Someone is bound to recognize it.”

  “Would a man carry around an ornate knife like this and use it in a murder?” Goddard asked out loud, realizing it was a rhetorical question.

  “DID YOU HEAR about Lillian’s sister, Genevieve?” Sophie Dubois asked. She was standing outside the general store, picking at the tomatoes in a crate. Maurelle was sitting on a bench resting after a wave of nausea had swept over her while she was looking for onions to use in their dinner she was planning to cook tonight.

  “I did,” Lorraine Colbert said. “Someone stabbed her, same as poor Luc. Why would someone kill her? I didn’t even know she was back in Reynier until Dave came by with that photo of the knife.”

  Maurelle bit her lip. Another murder? What was going on? Had someone escaped from prison and was going on a killing spree? But if that were the case, why would he pick this place? And wouldn’t a serial killer keep moving to avoid capture? That’s what she’d seen in TV shows, and that’s what usually happened in the mystery novels Dave wrote. Was she just bad luck, with murder following her around? The anxiety of hearing about yet another murder initiated another wave of nausea.

  “I heard that Genevieve arrived this morning,” Sophie said, “and within two hours, she’d taken up with Jonas. I wouldn’t blame Lillian if she killed her. Not one bit.”

  “You mean she was taking her sister’s place in the bedroom, with Jonas?”

  Sophie quickly covered her daughter’s ears with her hands.

  “I heard it from Isabelle. She heard it from Bruno, who was over at the café shortly after it happened. He said he saw Lillian leave the house angry and a few minutes later saw Genevieve run out of the house, her clothes in disarray.”

  “Was she running after Lillian?”

  “No. She ran to her car. Bruno said she sat in her car, crying for a while. He didn’t stick around to see what happened.”

  Maurice Raine, who was sitting beside Maurelle, shouted out, “I saw Lillian go into the butcher shop sometime around the time of the murder. She’d been fumbling at the door with her keys for several minutes.” He shook his head. “It was the damnedest thing. I wondered for a moment if she was drunk, but everyone knows Lillian doesn’t drink. Well, anyway, she was in there a few minutes, then left and locked up. Walked up the road and climbed into that big truck of hers. Drove off, toward Belvidere. I don’t see how she coulda been up at the chateau when her sister was killed.”

  “Why was the butcher shop closed?” Sophie asked.

  “Thierry was out of town. He had a wedding to go to. Lillian was supposed to open the shop, but I guess she wasn’t up to it. She posted a sign on the door yesterday saying she was taking a few days off due to a family situation.”

  “I’d say she had a family situation,” Lorraine said, looking smug and conspiratorial at the same time.

  Sophie said, “You mentioned Dave had a photo of the weapon. What did it look like?”

  “I have a copy of the picture right here. See for yourself. Dave and Edward were handing out fliers with pictures of it and said that if anyone knew anything about the knife, they should contact the gendarmes.”

  Sophie grabbed the flyer. “Humph. Well, I’ve never seen it.”

  Maurelle stood up and felt a bit woozy. “Could I see?”

  Sophie handed her the flyer.

  One look and Maurelle’s mouth flew open. She’d seen that knife before.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “HAS ANYONE NOTICED that the last two murders occurr
ed at or near the chateau?” Dave said, looking at his father and then at Goddard. “It might be a coincidence, but Luc’s, or Bertrand’s, body was found directly behind the chateau and then Genevieve’s right on the chateau grounds.”

  Goddard scratched the stubble on his chin and asked, “What are you suggesting? That one of the chateau’s guests is the murderer?”

  Dave shrugged. “It’s something no one’s mentioned yet, at least not that I’m aware of.”

  “Where is Bill Myers staying? Do we know?” Edward asked.

  Goddard said, “He was registered in Hotel Belvidere. He checked out of there yesterday, soon after you spotted him.”

  Edward said, “What about that Lamont fellow you told us about? He’s staying in Reynier. You told us he introduced Jeannette to Bill but under a different name.”

  “That’s right,” Goddard said. “I called Jeannette a little while ago and she suggested that Bill may have been pulling a scam on Monsieur Lamont. Says she got the impression they didn’t really know each other very well and Monsieur Lamont told her a third party whom Monsieur Lamont knows had introduced them.”

  “My point is that this Lamont fellow is from Paris and he is staying in the chateau,” Edward said.

  “Yes,” Goddard said. “And it seems Paul, Jonas, and Lamont knew the first victim. When I interviewed Paul, he told me that he had worked at a small art gallery in Paris, and Gabrielle would come in occasionally to see her father, who was the curator. According to Paul, both he and Gabrielle were acquaintances only. He indicated that she knew Lamont through her father. Paul also said that Gabrielle had met Jonas Lefèvre at the gallery one day, when Jonas had travelled to Paris on business and stopped in at the gallery to visit with Paul. Paul believes that Jonas turned his charm on Gabrielle and that is how they became lovers. We ran DNA tests on Paul and Jonas and a few other men, including Lamont.”

  “When will you get the results?” Edward asked.

  Goddard said, “I put a rush on it, but it still takes time.”