by MK Alexander
“Nothing stands out?”
“Well, late last autumn, they were off to their villa for the winter months… by way of Philadelphia, as Mrs Dumont had obtained a direct flight at a considerable discount.”
“And?”
“They were not much more than a few miles into the journey when the brakes on their car failed. Poor Mr Dumont rounded a corner, lost control of the vehicle and crashed into a signpost. Thankfully, neither of them were seriously hurt.”
“Someone cut the brakes?”
“Apparently not. I spoke with the mechanic who told me rodents had eaten through the pipes while the car was stored in the driveway. An occurrence more common than you’d expect, he said. Perhaps they have a taste for such things?”
“What things?”
“Brake fluid.”
“You’re not so sure?”
“I’m not entirely convinced.”
“Who had the opportunity?”
“The youngest brother. He was on hand to load their suitcases and see them off.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes… ”
“And?”
“It’s difficult to say anything for certain.”
“I guess it all comes down to motive then. And that sort of leads us back to the will, doesn’t it?”
“As you say, Patrick… but I’ve yet to hear back from my legal experts.”
“Legal experts?”
“They are looking over the will and other documents with some care. French law can be rather complicated.”
“You mean inheriting the house in the South of France?”
“I do,” Fynn said and continued, “Only one of the brothers could afford all the necessary trappings of a home on the Riviera… The property taxes, repairs, association fees, upkeep, and alike.”
“So he’s your prime suspect?”
“As it stands now, yes, but, I have not made a firm decision.”
“Why not?”
“As you say, motive is extremely important in this case, though I must ask: a motive to do what? I first assumed that whoever the assailant, his or her goal was to kill both the Dumonts, not just one of them… I believed this to be the crux of the matter. And yet now, I begin to reassess this assumption.”
“Why is that?”
“Some of the accidents might have only injured one of the Dumonts, not both. Slipping on the icy walkway, the sabotage in the bathroom, as examples.”
“So, what is the killer’s intent?”
“I must give this some further thought.”
***
Safely at Cedar Bluffs, Fynn and I searched for the exact address. The house was somewhere in this old neighborhood, a suburban place with most of the residences set on half acre lots. The roads were well maintained with curbs and sidewalks. We were close to Eleanor’s house as well and actually drove by, but the place was shuttered and closed. A flock of grackles had descended onto her lawn, pecking the ground and hopping about, all skittish.
A few blocks further on, we pulled up to the Dumont property. It was easy to spot. The whole yard was criss-crossed with yellow caution tape. It was not a crime scene, just a barrier put up by the Sand City Building Department. The property had been condemned until it could be rebuilt. Fynn mentioned that the Dumonts were staying in Fairhaven until then.
I managed to park in the driveway and we immediately went to the side of the house to find the fallen tree. It was a huge old thing, once a hundred feet high, now completely torn from the ground, a huge ball of roots and earth. The rest of it had crashed on the second story roof. We examined the whole area at some length. Most of the backyard was covered with ferns and there were several other tall oaks as well. There was a rock wall, a tasteful flower garden and several ornamental hedges. The tree had been situated in a bed of ivy and on a slight incline, some twenty yards from the side of the house. Curiously, the ivy had suffered a die-off on the far side of the tree. The vines were brown and shriveled.
“How do you aim a tree to fall where you want?” I asked.
“Any of these old trees could have been used as a weapon,” Fynn replied. “But this one in particular seems the perfect choice. Its angle, its position and proximity to the house… Yes, it fell, but not in the manner one might expect. Certainly it was not cut by a saw, nor does there appear to be any insect damage or disease. The tree is completely uprooted if you’ll notice.”
“There’s no way somebody could’ve scheduled the tree to fall at a specific time… a specific day or week or even month.”
“I agree.”
“You agree?”
“I do. It was only possible to estimate when the tree would fall. What is more important is the Dumont’s routine, to which they adhere to with astounding regularity.
“Was there an attic?” I asked.
“You mean to say where the tree fell?”
I nodded and looked up at the damage. A vast blue tarpaulin covered the roof and giant embedded branches.
“That’s a very good question, Patrick. The answer is no, no attic to speak of.”
Fynn knelt to the ground and scraped up a bit of dirt into a glass vial.
“What are you doing?”
“Something caused this tree to fall. I thought I might get a sample of the soil. Perhaps there is some contaminate?”
“Like termites?”
“Perhaps, or acid…”
“I’ve seen this happen before,” I said. “Last year there was a big storm and a lot of trees went down exactly like this.”
“What caused it?”
“The ground here can get super-saturated, water-logged, it soaks it up like a sponge, and well, I guess the tree just uproots.”
“I would speculate such an event would take vast amounts of water.”
“I’d agree with that.”
Fynn walked to the side of the house. A garden hose was coiled in the corner. “Do you suppose this hose would reach our tree?”
“It sure looks long enough.”
“As you say.”
Fynn and I walked back to the front entrance. He pointed out the walkway and steps that had reportedly iced over and caused Mrs Dumont’s disastrous fall. It was fairly well covered by burs, perfect little spiky brown spheres.
“Did these just randomly drop on the path?” I asked. “Or maybe someone scattered them on purpose.”
“Liquidambar styraciflua,” Fynn said.
“What?”
“From a sweet gum tree, the burs we see scattered here. Quite slippery, I would guess.”
“So not icy steps?”
“Very good, Patrick. Mrs Dumont may have slipped on these and not on ice at all.”
Down by the street was a woman gathering lids to various trash cans that had been tossed all over the lawn. I could tell from her face that she had suffered some immeasurable tragedy. “Can I help you gentlemen with something?” the woman called out from the curb.
“Oh yes, good morning. We are from the insurance company,” Fynn said. “And you are?”
“Bonnie Philips, the Dumont’s neighbor.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mrs Philips,” Fynn greeted her with a handshake and a smile. “We are assessing the damage again. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” she replied, but cast a wary glance over me. “Honestly, I feel really guilty about all this, well, my husband and I.”
“Why is that?”
“It was our tree.”
“Your tree?”
“The one that fell… it’s right on the border of our property.”
“How terrible,” Fynn said.
“I’m just glad they’re okay… really, it’s a miracle no one was hurt.”
“As you say… I take it you got along well with Jacques and Peggy?”
“Best neighbors you could ever ask for.”
“How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know, just nice, really nice folks, quiet mostly, but always ready with a smile,
a hello… If you ever needed anything they’d be there to help. And always inviting us over for drinks or dinner… Fabulous cook, Peggy…” Mrs Philips chuckled to herself. “And so reliable. You’d always know if it was trash night or recycling night; all you had to do was check the curb… Always relied on Jacques knowing that, or Peggy. They never got it wrong to my memory.”
“And now?”
“Ha, I never know what to bring to the curb anymore.” She looked over the array of plastic trash cans.
“How long have you known the Dumonts?”
“We’ve been neighbors for at least twenty years.”
“So you know them well?”
“Of course. I know the whole family, the kids, the wives and the grandkids… The prodigal son, the dutiful one, the one who never visits… Some live not so far from here: Garysville, I think.”
“What do you make of them?”
She laughed a bit nervously. “That hardly seems like a question for an insurance investigator, Mr Jardel.”
I smiled, embarrassed. “So you know me?”
“Of course I do… You used to be a reporter for the Chronicle. I can’t say you’re very welcome around here.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant.
“The truth is, Mrs Philips, something untoward may have happened to Jacques and Peggy, and I thought it my duty to investigate further,” Fynn said with some seriousness.
“So, you’re a friend of theirs too?”
“Most certainly.”
“Well, if you put it that way— What do you mean untoward?” she suddenly asked.
“I’m sorry to say, this falling tree is only one incident among many.”
“Funny you say that… come to think of it, they’ve had a string of bad luck. I never really thought about it till now.”
“It may be someone is out to cause them harm.”
“Who would ever want to hurt Peggy and Jacques?”
“This is the question I am pursuing,” Fynn replied. “Have you noticed anything unusual?”
“Like what?”
“Strangers lurking about, perhaps?”
“No, nothing like that.” Mrs Phillips paused. “I do keep an eye on their house when they’re away of course… nothing bad ever happened. Jacques is very scrupulous about locking up, setting the alarms and all.”
“Anything else?” Fynn persisted.
“Well, the only odd thing I can think of is when they got that huge water bill… Jacques came to ask Charlie about it— my husband works for the water company. Not that he could do anything really, but he did go over and found their basement had flooded.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know, a month ago maybe?”
“And your husband is as fond of the Dumonts as you are?”
“Charlie? Well, he keeps to himself mostly… can’t say he’s a big friend to the Dumonts.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Peggy?”
“Last time I talked to Peggy? Oh, how funny is that? Just last week, I think. A couple of days before all this happened. Ha, someone stole their trash can. Of all the cans on the street, why take theirs?”
“Was it full?”
“Now, there’s a good question, and the answer is yes. Why would anyone take a trash can that was full?”
“Household trash?”
“No, it was recycling night, papers, magazines, some old books, I think she said.”
“Thank you Mrs Philips, you’ve been very helpful,” Fynn bowed slightly. “May I call on you again if need be?”
“Of course, anything to help…”
Fynn returned to the backyard, though I wasn’t sure why. I followed him to the other side of the property, far from the fallen tree where there was a tall wooden fence. “What now?” I asked.
“I am thinking about the wildhert,” he said. “And how it ended up in the darkened living room.”
I pointed to the sliding glass doors that opened out onto a patio.
“Yes… but a deer coming along here would be stopped at this fence, I should think.”
“I don’t know— ever see a deer jump? It could clear this no problem.”
“Of course you are correct, Patrick.”
“I wonder if they’re good travelers?”
“What?” Fynn asked.
“Deer… jumping… libra lapsus…”
Fynn gave me such an expression and burst out laughing. “Doubtless, but are they aware that they travel? This is the better question.”
We took a few moments to examine the area carefully. There was a tasteful stockade fence about five or six feet high. There was also a lingering odor, something like rotten eggs or sour milk, and mint. I noticed a long stretch of thin wire on the Dumont’s side of the property, running exactly parallel to the top of the fence. I followed it to its source and found it attached to another wire buried in the ground. It seemed very likely this was all designed to carry electricity. Fynn concurred with my theory. We followed the wire until it came up to the Dumont’s basement window and stopped where it had been cut. “An electric fence?” I asked.
“If it was electrified and impassable to the buck, then the sliding doors to the living room might be an enticement… especially for a panicked animal. It would be a viable means of egress.”
“Inside?”
“Yes, inside a darkened house. If you recall, on that night the fuse box had failed, and the Dumonts had been presented with a rather curious gift just before this incident: a dwarf persimmon tree, sliced apples in a bed of acorns, and a variety of flower arrangements.”
“Right, that is pretty strange.”
“I believe it was their anniversary.”
“Whose property is on this side?” I asked
“Mr Mears lives there.”
“Mears? That name is familiar to me…” I said. “Did you talk to Jamal or to Franny yet?” I asked.
Fynn seemed surprised by my question. “Ah, then you know Franny as well?”
“I do. We met in Colorado. She loves to eat pizza and she has a memory like a steel trap.”
“I was not aware that she likes pizza,” Fynn said. “We’ve spoken of course, though she has not reported back as of yet.”
“I seem to recall that Jamal had some harsh words for this Mr Mears.”
“How can you know this?”
“I’m not sure… it sticks in my memory though.”
We entered the house through the sliding glass doors. Apparently, Fynn had the keys, lent to him by one of the grandsons. There was no electricity and no alarm. I wondered if it was safe inside.
“The Dumonts were allowed to return in order to retrieve their valuables, some family jewels, financial papers and alike…. I’m sure the house is quite stable.”
It was a cozy den full of sofas, a dining table, a large television, and numerous knick-knacks artfully placed about.
“Here is the fireplace,” Fynn said and went over to check. “The flue seems to operate perfectly. There’s a good draught as well.” He pointed to a table close to the door. “That is where the infamous gift basket was placed for the stag… And there by the wall is where I found the deadly candles.”
“The deadly candles?” I asked, and then remembered what Fynn had said about rescuing the Dumonts from this particular threat. “How did you save them?”
“I came over to speak with them about a week before the fateful tree incident, at the grandson’s request. I grew alarmed when they did not answer and came to the backyard to check.” Fynn glanced at the sliding door. “I looked in to see the Dumonts apparently asleep in their armchairs, though I could not rouse them. When I opened the door— and thankfully it was unlocked— I could detect the faint almond smell of prussic acid.”
“Cyanide?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t call Durbin, I’m guessing.”
“As I’ve said more than once, my particular skills cannot always solve a crime, but they are well suited to pre
vent one.”
“So you jumped back.”
“I felt a great sympathy for the Dumonts. I simply returned to that particular morning and intercepted the package left on their doorstep.”
“Were you able to trace it?”
“No, but I can say it did not come from the candle factory in town.”
“What happened next?”
“We had a very pleasant evening together. Lovely people, the Dumonts.”
Fynn moved into the kitchen. We checked the fridge, now completely empty and warm.
“The electricity had not failed,” Fynn reminded me. “This I was able to verify with the utility company.”
I wandered into the living room for a look around. Among various family photos, I found one that looked to be from Sand City long ago: Two pretty young women standing in front of a white house with a matching picket fence. They may have been sisters, though there was hardly a family resemblance. I showed Fynn the picture, wondering who they might be.
“A good question to ask Mrs Dumont when we speak with her.”
I also took a closer look at the bookcases and started to peruse the volumes. There were a lot of cookbooks, an old set of encyclopedias from the fifties, and various hard bound classics. “Look at this, Fynn.”
He strolled over. There was a definite gap in the shelf. One rather large book seemed to be missing. It triggered a dim memory in me, something about a manuscript.
“I wonder what was there?” the inspector said. “Something valuable perhaps?”
“Maybe it’s worth a chat with Mrs Lovely at the library. She knows about rare books.”
“Are you still on speaking terms with her?”
“Of course.” I was startled by his question.
Fynn and I walked next door and knocked for the neighbor, Mr Mears. A short, fat, balding man answered. He had a slick of red hair and a decidedly odd shaped head. Mears seemed friendly enough, smiled often and laughed when appropriate. He also had at least two chins, and when he spoke, his voice erupted like a cranky whine.
“Insurance investigators, eh?” He looked us over. “Well, it’s clearly an act of god. I hope they’re covered for that.”
“An act of god, you say?” Fynn asked.