Agnes thought the dormitory resembled a modern apartment building in her village. The narrow two-story structure was neatly stuccoed. Pleasant but nondescript, especially when compared to the majesty of the old chalet. On the other hand, the classroom buildings were interesting. Each was two stories high and built of beautifully smooth concrete punctuated by large windows.
Fontenay led the way to the kitchen garden. It was to one side of the chalet, protected from the wind by a high stone wall. The gate was open, and inside a gravel path crunched delightfully underfoot. Most of the plants were winter brown, a few were evergreens, and some were wrapped in burlap. Shrubs, Agnes supposed. She looked around appreciatively. A garden of this size took commitment and hard work.
Fontenay waved to catch the attention of the man standing at the far end. “Navarro has a good memory and can fill in details.”
When she caught sight of him, Agnes’s first thought was of the headmistress. What did Helene Fontenay think about this rumpled, dusty man? The knees of Navarro’s trousers were damp with earth, and his overcoat was not much cleaner. He wore a battered felt hat. His eyes twinkled pleasantly, though, and despite his short stature he had a presence.
She extended her hand in greeting. Navarro wiped his hand on his trousers before accepting. She felt a dusting of mud work from his palm to hers.
Fontenay made the introductions. “Navarro, the inspector is here to question us.” He paused. “About Chavanon. They sent someone from outside the village.”
Navarro looked hard at Fontenay. The headmaster shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, hunching his shoulders. “Not quite spring yet, Navarro. You may want to come inside to talk. I’ll leave you to it. Helene will have my snack ready, don’t want to ignore her.”
Navarro didn’t move to go indoors and Agnes didn’t insist. She was warmly dressed and they were protected from the worst of the wind.
“The death of Monsieur Chavanon,” Navarro said, rocking back on his heels. “Leo’s father, poor boy.” His warm Spanish accent softened his words.
“You were in the room when he died?”
“Who else have you talked to here?” Navarro reached into the depths of his pocket and retrieved a cigarette and lighter.
“Only the Fontenays.” Agnes watched him light up. She had broken the habit while in hospital, but hadn’t been around a smoker in the weeks since then.
“And now me?” Navarro clicked his lighter and the flame ignited. “Why? I didn’t have anything to do with it. Everyone says it was nuts. His symptoms were classic anaphylaxis. It has nothing to do with this garden.”
“Not many people would recognize anaphylaxis.” She inhaled slightly. Appreciatively. Tasting the smoke.
“Did someone in the village tell you that I grow poisonous plants? Was it Boschung? Is that why they called you in?”
“No, Monsieur Fontenay told me that you are from the Canary Islands and are an expert on exotic plants, and that you teach botany in addition to chemistry.” She glanced around the dormant vegetation. “Are the plants why you recognized anaphylaxis?”
Navarro took another puff of his cigarette, then dropped it to the ground, crushing it under his heel. “There are no peanuts in this garden.”
Agnes realized that, like her, he was an intermittent smoker. A calming habit, not a consistent one. He was willing to waste half a cigarette. She inhaled a last stray tendril of smoke and tried to remember what peanut plants looked like. A ground vine? Was it even possible to grow them in this cold a climate?
“Poisonous plants are an unusual hobby at a school around young boys,” she said.
“It’s research.”
“Of course.” A large classic tabby with white paws and chest leaped from a branch onto the wall, looking at them from its perch.
“These villainous plants hold within them the secrets that may save a life.” Navarro had a rich, well-modulated voice and Agnes thought he’d do well onstage. She also wondered if his imperfect French wasn’t part of his persona. Her initial impression of a musty scientist had evolved. He was sharp. Sharp enough to guard his words.
Agnes followed him as he moved to the next bed. Overhead the cat kept pace as if interested in their conversation.
“Although my research is related to the slow shutdown of the body that we find with the classic poisons like hemlock; that’s why I’ve read about anaphylaxis.” He shoved twigs toward her.
Agnes took the clippings. “You’re not worried about keeping the poisons here, at the school?”
He scoffed. “Houseplants can be poisonous; we trust people not to eat them. Household cleaning products have been fed by mothers to their babies to kill them.”
“Are the students allowed in the garden?”
“You think they’re smart enough to create a peanut substitute from what they’d find here?” Navarro glanced around as if appraising the possibilities. “If they did, then they deserve their diploma now.” He withdrew a knife and dug among the roots.
Agnes knelt beside him to hear better. Balancing the clippings on one knee, she turned up the collar of her coat.
“Atropa belladonna.” He handed dead leaves to her. “Better known as nightshade.”
She stood, uncomfortable. “That one I have heard of.”
He laughed. “See? Got your interest. If the boys think they are studying something dangerous, their ears perk up.”
“Nerve-racking for parents.”
“I’ve learned to judge my audience. At the reception I was telling Monsieur Patel about the distillation of—” Abruptly, Navarro stopped digging. “You’re here about that day and not about my garden. Did they find out how Monsieur Chavanon came into contact with the peanuts?”
“No. That’s why I’m here. The headmaster tells me you are an acute observer.”
Navarro moved to another plant, then snipped more twigs and handed them to her. She dropped them into the wicker basket, thinking of Sybille. She would appreciate this place. The sun peeked through the clouds and Agnes turned her face to it, enjoying the warmth. On the top of the wall, the cat did the same, then a boy walked past and the cat jumped down.
“I’m afraid there’s not much about a parent reception that interests me. Therefore I did not observe carefully and can draw no conclusions.”
“This isn’t a science experiment, monsieur. I can sort fact from impression.”
Navarro stood and grasped the handle of the basket, gesturing for Agnes to follow him. “I was distracted. I registered Monsieur Chavanon subconsciously, but I didn’t greet him. We don’t talk shop at the receptions. It’s all pleasant and hello and everything is wonderful.”
Agnes wondered if he was quoting Monsieur and Madame Fontenay. It was likely they gave specific instructions about interacting with their guests, who were, after all, footing the hefty tuition and fees. “Nothing stands out?”
Navarro led her from the garden toward the chalet. “It was the usual suspects. Normally I have a glass of wine with my colleagues, then ease into talking to the parents. I’m not much at small talk.”
“Earlier, you said that you recognized anaphylaxis?”
Navarro coughed apologetically into his hand. “When it was over. Not right then. It was—” He stopped and set the basket of clippings down. “This is what I remember. I could see Chavanon through the crowd in front of me. At first I thought he was choking. You see, choking is more common and he was gasping for air.” Navarro raised his hand to his neck, touching beneath his chin. “He had his hands on his throat, staggering. I remember that he grazed a chair, then he drew back, like someone had attached strings to his shoulders and ankles and were pulling them together.” Navarro picked the basket up again. He shook his shoulders. A gesture partway between a shiver and an attempt to loosen the muscles.
“I thought he was having a seizure. It was an impossible movement, unnatural. He knocked over a table, then fell onto the buffet. The sound was terrible. The crash and the food and plates
scattering. Until then, I felt like we were all frozen. The noise woke us up.”
They had reached the rear entrance to the chalet. Nearby, a handrail marked the top edge of the retaining wall. Below, the basement level opened onto the ground. The landscaping was artfully done, and the main lawn divided to gently slope down to the sliding glass doors below. The students were on break and a group kicked a soccer ball among them. It reached the slope and accelerated downward. Across the lawn, sunlight glinted off the classroom windows.
“Who was near Monsieur Chavanon when he fell ill?” Agnes asked.
“I don’t know. It was too crowded and people were moving around all the time. When I first glanced up, he was standing alone.”
“Completely alone?” Agnes leaned over the handrail. She could see down into the dining room where the reception had taken place.
“Seemed to be. Alone in a crowd, if you know what I mean. He was looking out the windows toward the lawn. There was a group outside playing soccer, like today. Maybe they caught his eye. I halfway remember some cheering.” Navarro paused. “I wasn’t staring at him. It’s possible someone was speaking with him and backed away when they realized he was in distress. That would be natural, I think. I don’t know what happened after that.”
“You must remember something.”
“I’ve tried to forget.” He sighed when she waited for him to continue. “A woman screamed that someone was choking, and Chavanon’s friend ran into the room, saw him, and called for a doctor. He ran out to get the EpiPen. It must have been in Chavanon’s coat pocket, and Patel knew where it was. I ran for the school nurse. Later someone told me that Patel stuck the EpiPen in Chavanon’s leg, but the medicine didn’t help. The paramedics said that the serious cases might need two or three doses.”
This coincided with what the coroner and Boschung described. The antidote failing. Chaos. People eating and drinking. It had to be in the minutes before this that Chavanon ate something deadly. Boschung had assured her it wasn’t in his wineglass and he didn’t have a plate of food. Was it possible that Aerni was wrong and Chavanon had eaten something before arriving and vomited it up? She knew the coroner would say no based on the stomach contents and the intensity of the reaction. After hearing Navarro’s description, this sounded right. The symptoms came on suddenly and violently. Immediately. The question was, immediately after what?
Navarro opened the door to the chalet and motioned for Agnes to enter.
“Our nurse, Madame Butty, arrived a few minutes before the paramedics. They pronounced Chavanon dead. It was remarkably sudden. Monsieur Patel was so distraught the paramedics thought he was having a heart attack. Leo was hysterical. A few of the women were crying.”
Standing in the calm atmosphere of the wide back hall of the chalet, Agnes could imagine the shocking events of that deadly day. She heard Madame Jomini answer the school telephone. Farther away she heard the clack of Helene Fontenay’s crutches. They had returned to normal. Or had they?
After thanking Navarro, Agnes headed downstairs to see the dining room where Guy Chavanon had died. Where he had been poisoned.
The original storage basement had been carefully renovated to accommodate the changing needs of the school. The dining room was light and airy, and one entire wall was filled with sliding glass doors that opened onto the lower level of the lawn. The window curtains were a bold red-and-white stripe with a border of perfectly square white-on-red crosses. Tiny embroidered Swiss flags. Cheers drifted in from the soccer game. In the next room, balls cracked on a pool table.
The dining room was large enough to seat the student body alongside the faculty at long tables for eight. The tables and chairs matched the light blond wood of the floors and walls. The furniture was configured for meals, but it was easy to visualize the tables removed for a reception: parents wandering onto the lawn and others arriving from the interior hallway. Organized chaos.
Behind Agnes, a man cleared his throat and she turned. He wore a white chef’s jacket and toque over black-and-white-checked pants.
“Chef Jean,” he announced in a raspy deep voice. He was of average height, with broad shoulders and thick arms that suggested years of pounding, chopping, stirring, and kneading.
Agnes offered her hand and introduced herself.
“I heard you were here from the police and it worries me, this discussion of the death of Monsieur Chavanon. Last week they did not trust my word. I can assure you that I take the preparation of the food and the storage of ingredients most seriously. We have two students with allergies, and peanut products are never served here.”
No one else had mentioned students or guests with the same allergy. Agnes motioned for the chef to join her at a dining table.
“To blame me, my food, is ridiculous when there is dust all around us.” The chef gestured across the room. “If light falls at the correct angle, we see that the air is full of particles, floating by in clean air. When the aroma from a kitchen travels, that is particles in the air. If you can smell it, then it is present physically. Monsieur Chavanon had such a severe reaction that it might have taken only the tiniest particle. A particle traveling with him or with one of the other guests. Perhaps he picked up something on his jacket and brought it to the Institute. I do not know. I do know that it did not come from my kitchen.”
“Were the students with allergies at the reception?”
The chef calmed himself and reflected. “Both Koulsy and Rudolph were here. They are at an age to never miss a meal, and we serve quite good food at the receptions.”
“Even with Monsieur Chavanon’s sensitivity, the allergens were either ingested or placed directly on a mucous membrane. The eyes, nose, mouth.” Agnes paused to let the chef digest this information. Death was not caused by a tiny invisible particle brought in on Chavanon’s jacket. “Were you in the room?”
“Non. Normally I would circulate, but my fool of an assistant dropped a tray of canapés and we were in a rush to replace them.”
Agnes glanced around, noting air ducts near the ceiling. Someone would have remarked on peanut dust piped into the air, and the two students would have also fallen ill.
The chef noticed her attention. “Those are exhaust for the kitchen and dining room. We push the air outside to keep the smell of food out of the rest of the building. It is a modern system, put in when they renovated the kitchen a year ago. The chalet is still heated with radiators.”
Upon arriving, Agnes had noticed that a few upstairs windows were open despite the chill. It was the same at her house. To cool a particular room one opened a window; it was the only way to quickly balance the heat during the winter. She wondered where else Monsieur Chavanon had traveled in the building. Had he come into contact with forbidden food in a student’s room?
“You’ve been very helpful, Chef. I may have more questions later.”
He asked a passing student to escort her up the stairs to the headmaster’s office. She recognized the boy. He had walked by the garden earlier. It was her first close look at the school uniforms, and they were as old-fashioned as they had appeared in the lobby photographs. Costumes more than uniforms, the white-collared shirts were fastened at the neck with a piece of black fabric somewhere between a string tie and a scarf. The trousers were wool, pleated at the front, and were better suited to a Dickensian play than they were to actual play. The jackets were fitted with two small pockets at the front and a narrow collar. The ensemble was certainly more formal than anything her own sons would have tolerated.
“Tommy. Tommy Scaglia.” The boy extended his hand. He looked about thirteen and had short dark hair and bright black eyes. His American accent cut through the French vowels like a chain saw. “Good to see you here. ’Bout time.”
“Why do you say that?” Agnes asked.
He led her toward an enclosed stair. “Heard Madame Fontenay say the police were here. Good thing. My dad will be relieved. There’s funny stuff going on.” Tommy slowed to match her pace.
&n
bsp; “Do you mean Monsieur Chavanon’s death?”
“No, they shoved us out of there pretty quick. He was looking better, and suddenly people were screaming and he went all pale and sweaty, clutching his throat. I heard that he bent over backwards until his head almost touched his heels, but I missed it.” Tommy scrunched his eyes as if remembering. “I thought Leo would throw up. We had to go to our rooms and they wouldn’t let us out until the ambulance took him away. Then we had dinner in the lounge upstairs. Afraid we’d be traumatized if we went back in the dining room too soon, I guess. Don’t know what Leo thought. I didn’t see him afterwards and his dad’s friend drove him home.”
They reached the landing and turned onto the main floor. Tommy stopped. “That’s not what worries me. There’s a lot of strange stuff happening here. Threats, weird lights at night. I think someone should take it seriously.”
“Do the Fontenays know about this?” Agnes glanced down the hall. Monsieur Fontenay was walking in their direction.
“Oh yeah, they know. But they don’t care. It’s getting scary and I think my parents may take me home.”
Twelve
Tommy Scaglia ducked down the stairs as the headmaster approached.
“Have you spoken with everyone you needed to, Inspector?” Bernard Fontenay said, leading Agnes toward his office.
“I’ve made a start. One of the students—”
Just ahead a door flung open, and Helene Fontenay emerged. A young boy and older woman were framed behind her. The headmaster darted past Agnes and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulders before briefly hugging her.
“Madame Chavanon, bienvenue, mes hommages,” Fontenay said. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you yesterday. I would have been here to greet you if I’d known.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Leo has settled in well.”
Leo Chavanon was slight, and his pale blue eyes and white-blond hair made him appear fragile. He swayed toward his mother to give her a hug, then stiffened as if remembering he was at school and should act grown-up. Marie Chavanon knelt and pulled him to her, whispering something in his ear. Behind her, Narendra Patel emerged from the office carrying a small suitcase. He took the boy’s hand and led him toward the stairs to the dormitory floors. Patel looked tired, but Madame Chavanon was clearly exhausted.
A Well-Timed Murder Page 9