“I wasn’t accusing. I simply said that it would make sense that a woman living alone would not let in a man at that time of the night, but that she would let in a woman. A woman she trusted. Her sister,” I said. “That’s all. I didn’t say it was you. I didn’t even say that I believed that’s what happened. I just said it would make sense.”
“I think you should go now,” Sister Lucy said.
I looked around the room, but aside from the photograph, everything was religious in nature. Paintings of Christ and the Virgin, the wood and ivory crucifix, a print of the Angel Gabriel. There was nothing else to learn here, unless Sister Lucy decided to spill her guts, which I didn’t expect anytime soon.
“Forgive me, Sister, if I’m wrong,” I said. “But if I’m right?”
“I suspect that you suffer from an overactive imagination. One that is given to great supposition,” she declared.
“Whatever you say, Dorothee. That is you, right? You would be Dorothee L. Jaillard. Let me guess, the ‘L’ stands for Lucy? Or Lucia?” I asked.
“Get out!” she said, quite angrily.
Anger is the quickest way to know when you’re right, or at least hitting a nerve. My husband gets more angry at me when I’m right than when I’m wrong.
“You know the records will be easy enough to check,” I said.
She said nothing to that. It was clear that I had her.
“Good day, Sister.”
Twenty-seven
Just outside of Fraulein Krista’s Speisehaus, Tobias Thorley stood in his blue and gold knicker outfit playing the accordion. I winked at him as I walked by, and he winked back.
It was gorgeous in New Kassel. Once the calendar turns to October, Missouri comes alive. Brilliant blue skies so full of oxygen that you nearly get woozy just breathing it, and splashes of red and gold along the countryside are Nature’s way of saying thank you. It says thank you for putting up with three feet of snow in March, seventy-degree weather in January, sixteen below on Easter Sunday, and one-hundred-ten-degree weather for the entire month of August. Missouri’s weather is just that unpredictable, and October seems to be the only month that can be predicted with any accuracy.
The aroma of apple turnovers wafted by my particularly delicate nose as I crossed the street. Halfway across, the aroma turned to bratwurst. The combination is indescribable.
Tourists milled the street with their mouths full, stomachs fuller, and eyes the size of saucers. Children with brightly colored balloons tied to their wrists looked ready to fall over from exhaustion as the parents kept dragging them from shop to shop.
“Look, there’s the lady who gave the tour yesterday,” I heard one child say as he pointed to me. I waved back from the sidewalk in front of the Gaheimer House.
I entered the house to find Sheriff Brooke waiting in the parlor. He was in uniform, with his hat in one hand.
“Glad you could make it,” I said. “Where’s Sylvia and Wilma?”
“Wilma’s turning bratwurst over at the Smells Good, and Sylvia is helping Helen out at the candy shop.”
“Good, don’t let me forget to lock up then,” I said.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get in the car. Did you bring your squad car or your yellow junker?” I asked.
“The squad car,” he said.
“I guess it will have to do,” I said. I left him standing in the parlor as I went to get Marie’s file from my office. “All right, let’s go.”
I wore my bright orange sweatshirt with the white ghosts and black cats on it. Black pants and my black Reeboks completed the outfit. We walked down the street about a block and passed by a private residence that already had Halloween decorations out. A large scarecrow was perched on the banister of the porch, at least eight pumpkins sat all around, and a real live black cat sat swaying its tail back and forth.
We got in his car and neither one of us said a word until we were on I-55.
“Okay, what’s up?” he asked.
“I know who killed Marie,” I said.
He said nothing. He waited for my explanation with the patience of Job.
“I went back to see Sister Lucy,” I said. “And I noticed a photograph of these three little girls and I remembered that Marie had two sisters. It seemed to fit. Sure enough, Sister Lucy is really Dorothee Lucia Jaillard.”
“But she doesn’t have an accent.”
“Well, they left France in like 1950; she was only four or five. Marie had no accent either. Anyway, remember how Yvonne had said that she was Marie’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when I said something about not recognizing the name Yvonne as being on Marie’s records, she said that she was her half sister.”
“Why do that if you’re her whole sister? Is that what you’re getting at? That Yvonne is Marie’s whole sister?”
“What I’m getting at is Yvonne was using a fake name. So to cover her tracks that she was using a fake name so that we wouldn’t get suspicious of her, she made up the story about being Marie’s half sister.”
“And? She killed her?” Sheriff Brooke asked. “We already know that she has the documents, that she tried to kill Camille. She denies that of course. Is that what you’re getting at?”
“No, no, no. See, that’s the tricky part. I have no bloody idea who Yvonne is. Camille is Marie’s other sister.”
“What?”
“That’s right. See?” I said as I pointed to the charts. “She’s listed as Jeanne C. Jaillard born in 1938. I called my cousin in Virginia and he called another cousin. It gets confusing. Suffice it to say, Camille Lombarde’s birth record states that she was born Jeanne Camille Jaillard in Besançon, France. She married somebody named Lombarde.”
Sheriff Brooke said nothing.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking,” he said. “So, you’re suggesting that Camille killed Marie.”
“Yes. Remember how the car in her garage still had gas in it? We assumed it died.”
“Camille staged the whole thing so that you’d think that the documents were stolen. She turned off the engine herself,” he said.
“Yup.”
“How did you ever think that Camille was the other sister?” he asked.
“I didn’t at first. It was only when you told me that there was no record of an Yvonne Mezalaine that I knew something was up. I thought she’d have legally changed her name or something from Jeanne C. Jaillard. Then I saw a crucifix in Sister Lucy’s room. It was cherry wood with ivory. Camille had one that was identical. Then the inconsistencies in Camille’s story took on new meaning.”
Sheriff Brooke put on his blinker and turned. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Yvonne was caught with the documents. She and Camille must be working together.”
“There’s a possibility that you can never make a case out of this. If you can’t prove that she or Yvonne were at Marie’s house, you have no case. And you’ll probably never get a premeditation conviction. Their lawyers would say that it was an accident, and there is nothing you can do to prove otherwise,” I said.
When we finally pulled on to Camille street, my heart was pumping and face splotchy. I was wired.
“I think that you should let me go in and speak with her alone,” I said.
“No.”
“She’s not going to say anything while you’re in there,” I said. “She won’t say a word without a lawyer. But I think she would talk to me. Then you can use me as a witness.”
“That’s entrapment.”
“How can it be? There’s no recording device. If you just show up on your own accord after five minutes, it will be just like she and I were carrying on a private conversation. As long as I don’t record anything and you’re not eavesdropping, how can it be entrapment?”
He parked the car with that stonewall look that he gets.
“Fine. Don’t use me as a witness.
I’ll never tell you anything that she says, but I’ve got to know.”
He still said nothing.
“Dammit, Colin! She used me. I thought she was my friend. Now I have to know what happened. For my own personal sanity,” I pleaded.
“All right,” he said. “You’ve got five minutes. That’s all you’re getting. No more, no less. I’m calling in the St. Louis police.”
“Okay,” I said and got out of his car. I walked the half a block down the street, walked up her steps, and rang the doorbell.
She did not look surprised to see me. Sister Lucy had probably called and told her that I was coming.
“Torie,” she said. “Come in.”
“I can’t stay long,” I said to her. “I’ve just come to tell you that I know everything. I know the complete truth to the whole damn scheme.”
“You only think you know.”
Great, she didn’t deny it. She was going to play fair.
“I know that you are Jeanne Camille Jaillard, I know that you are Marie’s sister.”
“I don’t deny these things.”
“You killed her. And you had Yvonne run me off the road, didn’t you?”
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen my sister in a long time.”
I spoke too soon. She wasn’t going to play fair.
“I’m sure that’s what you’re going to say,” I said, “because the authorities will be hard-pressed to prove otherwise. And since nobody saw you at Marie’s house, there’s nothing anybody can do.”
“Look, Torie. I didn’t kill my sister,” she said. She reached for an oak box with intricate carvings. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it with the lighter on the table. Funny, I never noticed that she smoked. “You can’t imagine what I’ve been going through. Marie was a bitch, to put it bluntly. Oh, she was nice on the outside, never stepped on the cracks in the sidewalks, never killed spiders in her house. She was charitable, friendly, flirtatious. But she was greedy. She wanted the treasure all to herself. It was Father’s.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, unsure of where this was going.
“My father was the heir! It was his treasure. He sent it to this country, by way of a contact. The contact was unaware of who Father was. He was only doing what the Order told him to do: to set up a safe place for the treasure to be hidden, because there was dissension in the ranks, and World War I had shaken up everybody in Europe. Suddenly Europe wasn’t a safe place. It was a good thing that Father sent the money out of the country, because during World War II, Hitler would have most assuredly found it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The man wired the location of the treasure in code to Father to pass on to the Grand Master. But the American contact disappeared. We came to this country to get the treasure, but for some reason Father could not find it. He hid the documents and he died in 1951. We told the Grand Master that we could not find Father’s paperwork, but we had it all along. It was ours. But in this completely hypocritical world, my sisters and I were to be excluded from his inheritance.”
“Why?”
“We were not men. My father had no sons. So, Marie and Lucy and myself decided that the treasure should be ours anyway and we would split it. Only Marie got way too greedy. She began following up leads and clues without telling us. She married the Grand Master of the Knights, hoping to get more information. She became obsessed with this treasure.”
“What about your car? Why did it have gas in it?”
“It stalled. It really stalled,” she said. “I didn’t stage that. I don’t know who did that to me. Oh, Torie, I can imagine how betrayed you must feel.”
“You have no idea.”
Her eyes filled with tears, one sneaking out the corner. “I couldn’t believe my luck when you came to me with those documents. I knew that Marie had been living in New Kassel, but she never mentioned you. Lucy mentioned you once or twice, but not with any importance. When you showed up on my doorstep with those documents … well, I thought God was telling me to take my inheritance.”
Sheriff Brooke knocked on the door, quite aggressively, sending Camille and I into nervous jumps.
“I have an alibi, Torie. The night Marie was killed, I was at a party,” she said. “Four doors down at the Winchesters’. I was there until two in the morning, and then Sam Greenly walked me home and stayed the night.”
I didn’t know what to do. The fibers of my carefully constructed hypothesis just unraveled.
Sheriff Brooke knocked again.
“I have to get that,” I said. “It’s Sheriff Brooke.” I went to the door and let him in. He looked around, expectantly.
“I think I was mistaken,” I said to the sheriff.
* * *
“You think you were mistaken?” Sheriff Brooke screamed.
“I was so sure,” I said to the dash in his car. “And I was right about her being Marie’s sister.”
“That’s not exactly a crime, ya know,” he said.
“One thing is for sure, it would certainly clear up one puzzling aspect,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“If Camille did not kill Marie, it would explain why Marie’s grave was ransacked. If Camille had done it, there would be no reason to ransack her grave, because she already had the documents,” I said.
“So it had to be somebody who was looking for the documents,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“Like who?” he asked.
“Well, that would leave Lanny Lockheart, Andrew Wheaton, Yvonne Mezalaine, Ransford Dooley, and possibly Sister Lucy.”
“The nun?” he asked. “The nun didn’t do it.”
“Why are you so sure? Nuns sin, too, ya know.”
“It gives me the willies just thinking about it. The nun,” he said.
“Well, it probably wasn’t her,” I said. “She would probably have known about the documents from Camille.”
“We’re back to square one,” he said.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “I have a plan.”
Twenty-eight
“Eleanore,” I said and smiled.
“What do you want, Torie? I am a busy woman,” she answered from behind the counter.
“First of all, I’d like to thank you for the retraction you printed in your column,” I said. She didn’t verbally acknowledge what I said, but she nodded her head. “Secondly, Rudy told me that you wanted to see me.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot. I’ve been meaning to tell you and the sheriff this and keep forgetting,” she said. Patrons were milling about on the bottom floor of the Murdoch Inn, and Eleanore seemed suddenly careful. She looked from side to side before she finally told me what she wanted to say.
“What is it?”
“The night that Marie was killed, I remember that Mr. Lock-heart came back to the inn very late.”
“How late?”
“After midnight. I had totally forgotten about it. I assumed that he was just out, you know, somewhere,” she said and waved her hand into the air. “I didn’t even realize that this was the same night that Marie died until about two days ago and I remembered. Anyway, he seemed a little nervous, but not terribly so.”
“Did he have anything with him? Was he carrying anything?”
“No.”
“I have an idea. I ran it by the sheriff. He liked it,” I said. “Now with this new information that you’ve given me, I think it’s imperative that we try it. I’m just afraid that there is no way to prove who killed Marie unless we force the killer to tip his own hand. Would you like to help me?”
“What does it entail?” she asked.
Which means “yes” for Eleanore.
“When Mr. Lockheart and Mr. Wheaton come down for dinner or to check out, whatever it is their plans are, I want you to tell them, in a casual way of course—”
“Of course,” she said. Her eyes were dancing around in her head in complete euphoria. She was going to get to help!
“—that I found irrevocable proof of who killed Marie Dijon and that I hid it on my aunt’s farm in the cornfield. Make out like I’m going to use this as leverage to get the treasure. Or that I’m going to try and get the treasure for myself after I turn in the proof of who the killer is. Something along those lines. You can think up something.”
“Treasure?” she asked.
“Just say it,” I said. “Then as casually as you can, mention that I am working tonight at the Gaheimer House. It must appear natural, Eleanore, or they won’t bite. It also wouldn’t hurt to go by and see Joe at the bakery and tell him the same story when Mr. Dooley is within hearing range.”
“You’re going to try and catch her killer? You’re going to trap them?” she asked anxiously. I had to keep myself from saying, “Down, girl, down.”
“The sheriff and I are going to try. It may not work and then we’ll have to try something else, but we’ve got to try this.”
“You can count on me,” Eleanore said. Her rings made a rapping sound on the counter when she pounded her fist on it. “I will not fail you.”
“Good,” I said. “Get talking.”
Twenty-nine
Eleanore was good for something. Spreading gossip.
Sheriff Brooke and I had recruited my Aunt Emily’s help in this escapade. She and my uncle left the farm for a couple of days, after giving us permission to use her cornfield. I waited in her upstairs bedroom, overlooking the field. Waiting.
It was an old trick, but we were hoping it would work. After everything else that I had learned or figured out where this case was concerned, we banked on the killer not being able to take a chance that I hadn’t found undeniable proof of who it was.
We spread it around that I would be working all evening and the sheriff even made it look good by staying in New Kassel until I called and told him that somebody was in the cornfield. He had left Deputy Miller with me. He was in the basement watching out the windows. I was in the house with the lights off, so nobody would suspect that I was upstairs guarding the cornfield.
Guardian of the Cornfield. Sounded like something out of a Stephen King novel. I liked it.
A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) Page 16