Nearby, Madame Jomini placed a bouquet of flowers on the reception desk, smiling at the card on the counter. Agnes moved away; the scent of lilies was overpowering.
“Narendra was right. Leo needs to be here, among his friends,” Agnes overheard Marie Chavanon say. “I’m no company for him right now. I have too many preoccupations. But I needed to see him again, and we brought things from home he forgot yesterday.” She started to cry quietly and the Fontenays soothed her.
Patel watched the stairs long after Leo disappeared from view. He carried himself stiffly, reminding Agnes of the men at her husband’s funeral and the reception afterward, and every time she saw them over the next weeks. It took a long time for people to know how to react after a sudden death. They wanted to help, then regretted being around the grief stricken. She approached Patel.
“You are the friend of Mademoiselle Christine?” he said before she could speak. “I recognize you from the café yesterday. She and Marie are much affected.” He tapped his temple. “The brain can only handle so much of the grievings. It was the most terrible of accidents.” He laid a hand on his chest. “I am hoping you are not encouraging her. What she said about Guy dying was rubbish.”
“You were here the day Monsieur Chavanon died,” said Agnes. “Would you share your impression of what happened?”
Patel’s facial expression didn’t change, but Agnes saw the shock beneath the surface; the slight tightening of the muscles under his skin. This was a decided difference from financial crimes. People who lost money were often angry. Belligerent even, with occasional white-hot rage or resigned disbelief. This was a different kind of emotion. More restrained yet more deeply felt.
“What do you remember?” she repeated.
Patel flushed and drew nearer until they were nose to nose. “Why all these questions? The police that day were satisfied and you can’t bring Guy back. Think of the trauma to Marie. To Leo. What is your purpose?”
Agnes stepped back, faintly alarmed by his quiet fury. “The coroner’s report leaves room for questions. I’d think a close friend would want answers.”
Patel took a few deep rapid breaths. He seemed to collect himself. “What I remember from that day is that my friend is gone. I nearly died from my shock. This, what you do”—he pressed his fingertips together, then released them quickly in an outward motion—“is ripping the heart out again. It is unhealthy for the family. He is gone and our friendship is gone forever. Every word you say reopens the wound.”
“I lost someone recently. I understand how hard it is.”
“It was his fault, no one else’s,” Patel added in a calmer tone. “His actions. His reactions, I should say. It is an unfillable gap in our lives.”
“The police have an obligation to ask questions.”
Bernard Fontenay interrupted, “Inspector, you haven’t met Madame Chavanon.”
Marie Chavanon wiped her tears away, her back straight with effort. Agnes remembered that brief condolences were preferable to falsely effusive ones. The combination of the words “investigation of his death” and “break-in at the workshop” drew an immediate reaction from Marie.
“You should have called me.”
Agnes explained that she had, repeatedly.
“I don’t look at my phone when I’m with my son. How inappropriate. He deserves my full attention.”
“We can talk here or—”
“I have to leave immediately. I can’t believe the police are searching my home and I’m not there.”
“They’re not searching, they’re documenting. And only in the workshop. Your stepdaughter gave permission.”
Marie Chavanon shot Agnes a dour look. “I must tell Leo that I’m leaving.”
Motioning for Patel to join her, she stalked off without a backward glance, Bernard Fontenay in her wake.
In the silence that followed, Agnes turned to the headmistress. “I’m surprised Antoine Mercier sent flowers to Leo at the school.” She gestured to the florist’s card on the counter.
“They’re not only for Leo,” said Helene. “They’re for all of us. Monsieur Mercier realizes how difficult it is for everyone here.”
“I’ve never heard of sending flowers to”—Agnes hesitated—“the place someone died.”
“Monsieur Mercier knows us well. He was here only last week.” Helene shook her head sadly. “It was the day before Monsieur Chavanon died.”
“Does he have a child here?”
“No, he came to talk to the students, we have people in from time to time. Antoine spoke to one of the upper-form classes.”
Agnes found it interesting that Mercier hadn’t mentioned his connection to the school. Wasn’t it natural to mention that you had only the day before been at the place a man died? Mercier had been anxious to appear sympathetic; now it seemed he had taken trouble to distance himself.
“When we spoke earlier, you didn’t mention the other problems you’re having,” Agnes said.
Helene drew her lips into a tight line and walked into the office. “We deal with our concerns internally. Attention grabbing is what this is.”
She made her way to a chair and Agnes sat opposite her. Waiting for Helene to continue, Agnes studied the part of the room visible over the headmistress’s shoulder. The wall was dense with paintings and photographs. Several were too small to make out any detail at this distance, but the larger ones were darkened with age and looked as if they had been hanging on the wall since the chalet was constructed.
Madame Fontenay’s crutch scraped the wood floor as she shifted. “He only came to me this morning. Did he tell you that?”
Agnes murmured inaudibly and pretended to consult her notebook. Tommy Scaglia was going to be in trouble later.
“His father is in government overseas and is under some pressure. Death threats,” Helene added.
Agnes sat up straighter. Immediately, she felt a twinge of guilt. A sad state of affairs to find death threats exciting. “Threats to the boy?”
“No, Koulsy thinks he’s at risk of kidnapping. That is who you are talking about?”
Not Tommy after all, Agnes realized, but this was what he meant by threats. She nodded as if agreeing.
Madame Fontenay continued, “It’s absurd, of course, but there you have it. Once they get an idea in their minds, they won’t … let … go.” She twisted the edge of her sweater sleeve into a knot.
“Koulsy also has an allergy to peanuts?” Agnes said, concerned by the coincidence.
“Yes, but that had nothing to do with … we take great care to protect—” Helene Fontenay stopped as if realizing that great care hadn’t saved Guy Chavanon. “This kidnapping idea is fanciful. I don’t know why he said something to the police without consulting us. I don’t think anything that supports their fantasies is helpful, although my husband will likely disagree. Just as he disagreed with me about allowing you to interfere. He doesn’t understand how important mental discipline is. It is mental discipline that stands behind the success of everything: academic success and physical success. It is our motto: Mens sana in corpore sano. You needn’t be involved. Koulsy is a boy looking for attention, and Monsieur Chavanon died as the result of an accident.”
“They shared the same allergy.” When Madame Fontenay didn’t respond, Agnes added, “Can you positively rule out the threat of kidnapping?”
The headmistress shifted uncomfortably. “His family connection makes it impossible to completely ignore. On the other hand, he is of the age to suddenly crave attention. I’ve checked with his teachers and he’s doing well in the classroom. Sometimes the boys create tales when they are behind in their schoolwork. A diversion of sorts. Tommy Scaglia was a master of this until he settled in.”
That, Agnes could well believe. She’d heard her share of tales of woe when really it was homework that had been left undone. “What’s the boy’s full name?” she asked, pen on paper of her notebook.
“Koulsy Haroun.”
Agnes didn’t need
to ask how to spell it. The elder Haroun had recently been in the international news and she recognized his name. It was a miracle he hadn’t been assassinated. In fact, he and his cronies should be assassinated for the damage they’d brought to their country, part of a widespread pattern of violence across Africa. She tapped her pen against her notebook to focus her attention. Was it possible Koulsy Haroun had been the target when Guy Chavanon died? Revenge? A warning to the father?
She heard Marie Chavanon’s voice in the corridor. “Tell the inspector that Monsieur Patel will drive me home. Madame Lüthi can follow or not, it’s as she likes.”
Agnes sighed. Life almost never let one do as one liked.
Thirteen
Marie Chavanon’s anger burrowed into Agnes’s back with the bite of a sharp stick. Their relationship had disintegrated.
“You don’t need to stay and watch,” Agnes said from the steps of the porch. Marie stood on the threshold of her husband’s workshop, darting glances inside, following every move made by the police officers documenting the interior. “They’re professionals; they know what to do.”
She’d not had a real conversation with Marie despite managing to arrive at the Chavanon property ahead of her. The woman had run from the car, leaving a grim Patel in the driver’s seat, and headed straight for the workshop, where the police were still working, apparently intent on doing the thorough job they’d promised. Now Marie stood silently in the open doorway, her slight frame rigid. Anger rolled off her.
“It’s ruined. They’ve ruined it. Picking through everything.”
“Someone was here before us,” said Agnes. “You saw the broken window and the door wasn’t closed.” She heard a spray of gravel. Patel leaving.
“How do you know someone did this?” Marie demanded. “Perhaps Guy left it this way?”
“The note he left indicates—”
Marie turned on Agnes, fury in every crease of her face. “You believe everything you read, Inspector? I don’t understand why you can’t lock it up and leave everything alone. I wanted time before I went through Guy’s things. There is nothing here to steal. Nothing of real value. Only memories.”
Agnes didn’t repeat the possible connection between the break-in and Guy Chavanon’s death. Marie Chavanon didn’t need words. She needed time and distance. Something she wouldn’t get right now.
“They’ll lock the workshop tonight after they finish,” Agnes said. “We’ve already replaced the windowpane to keep rain and animals out. Tomorrow they’ll bring photographs for you to look through. You may notice something you didn’t today.”
“I don’t need to see them. I won’t look at them.”
“We want to be sure that nothing is missing. Or you may notice something out of the ordinary. Both Christine and Monsieur Dupré mentioned that your husband was on the verge of an important invention, for want of a better term. What can you tell me about that?”
“Invention? Guy? You can see for yourself. He couldn’t focus on one idea long enough to invent anything.” Marie glanced inside the cottage. “Paper and more paper. All ideas. All nothing.” She spoke so forcefully one of the officers glanced up.
“Monsieur Dupré and Christine didn’t remember the workshop being so … full. Monsieur Dupré remembers it as more organized. Would you agree?”
“What should I say, Inspector? Guy was chasing dreams that would never be realized, descending into a spiral of delusion.” After a final glance inside she shoved past Agnes and ran across the lawn. She reached the steps leading to a side patio of the house and steadied herself on the thick iron railing.
Agnes caught up with her. Clouds covered the sky and an early dusk was falling. Lights were on in the house. Time was passing too quickly.
“Guy died as a result of his allergies,” Marie spat, not turning to look at Agnes. “He wasn’t well, but that has nothing to do with his death. Your inquiry into what he had become in his last months—this past year—will make us the topic of speculation. My son, his son, deserves more than that. Please think of Leo. Memories are all he has left.”
Without a backward glance, Marie entered the house, leaving Agnes alone on the lawn.
* * *
Marie Chavanon poured herself a glass of wine and drank it down swiftly. Only then did she take her coat off. Stephan Dupré closed the shades on the front windows, knowing they were illuminated by the interior light and visible across the neighborhood.
“Inspector Lüthi wasn’t a stranger,” he said. “Christine called her.”
Marie started, as if she hadn’t seen him. She lifted the bottle to pour herself another glass. Instead she poured one for Dupré.
Stephan took the glass like the peace offering it was. “I happened upon them. I walked over looking for you. I thought you might have changed your mind and left the show in the more than capable hands of Gisele. I wanted to talk about what you said yesterday.”
“You should forget what I said, forget everything I’ve said since…”
“Since you told me you love me? Do I erase everything these last months?”
She crossed the dining room, turning the lights off as she left. A long salon ran the length of the back of the house. The old-fashioned room, pleasing to sit in during the day, was lined with doors opening to the veranda. Marie clicked a lock open and stepped outside. A few minutes ago she had been cold, now the house was claustrophobic. She gripped the metal railing of the veranda, thankful it faced away from the other houses in the neighborhood. It was enough that Christine was across the lawn, watching the main house, fuming. Righteous anger, Marie thought, at how her father’s inadequacies were revealed. His pathetic papers pawed over and photographed, exposing him as the failure Marie had known he was. He was the one who’d destroyed the family honor, not her. And not Christine. He couldn’t live up to the past.
“I didn’t go to Baselworld,” she said. “I had to see Leo.”
Dupré touched her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have snapped. But this is what we wanted. You wanted to be free of Guy.”
Marie moaned softly.
“Don’t let guilt stand in the way of our happiness. Yours, mine, and Leo’s.”
“What of Christine’s happiness?”
“You’ve said it before. She has her own guilt. She knew Guy was troubled and was too busy to care until he was dead and it was too late. It’s only been a week. She’ll settle down—”
“Settle down? You think that’s what we need to do? The women need to settle? He’s dead, Stephan. He’s not coming back.” Marie had wanted to leave the workshop abandoned until the contents decayed to dust.
“I didn’t mean it to sound that way.”
“What way then?”
“I understand that he’s dead. Guy was my first playmate, my oldest friend, and I’ll miss him.” Dupré raised a hand. “Wait. You know that I liked him.”
“You have a nice way of showing it.”
“That’s not fair. What happened between you and me was unexpected.”
“Happened. Past tense.”
“I meant the start. We’re not past tense. And Guy had turned in upon himself. He was always intense, and these last years, mainly this last year, he was circling around himself, cutting us out. You know that’s true.”
“He left a note saying he was afraid.”
Dupré gripped the back of a wrought iron chair, his knuckles white with strain. “Maybe he was crazy and none of it was true.”
“He was a genius.”
“Likely.” Dupré sighed. “I always thought so. Crazy ideas, a million ideas.”
“You told Inspector Lüthi he was on the verge of a great invention. Why would you say that, Stephan? Why create this trouble for me?”
“It was before we saw the workshop. It was casual conversation.”
“Don’t lie. You thought he created something and I didn’t tell you. That I was on the verge of a great fortune.”
Marie flipped a switch. The outside lights blinked on,
and soft light cascaded up the white façade of the house, illuminating the terrace. “He had good ideas.” She spoke softly.
“Yes, he did.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
They were both silent.
“Was it?” Dupré asked.
She reached for his hand. “I owe him respect, at least. I won’t talk about the end. His death.”
“You’re going to have to. Someone broke in. Christine was already upset, stirring up this notion of Guy being killed, and now the inspector thinks she has proof. After this evening, she is probably convinced Guy was murdered, and the inside of his studio is God knows what. Although I can’t imagine anything was stolen. It was all papers. It was nonsense.” Dupré hesitated. “At least I think it was.”
In the distance the porch light of the far cottage clicked off, plunging that section of lawn into shadow. Every light in the workshop still blazed, like silent alarms.
Marie released Stephan’s hand and crossed her arms in front of her chest. The cold catching up to her. “I don’t think Leo should go inside. Not like it is. I wanted him to go in. I’d told him that we would sit in the workshop and light a candle for his father. But we can’t now. He’ll know it’s not right. It will trouble him. Neither of us have been in there for…” She paused as if counting backward. “Since last summer.”
“I should leave.” Dupré started toward the edge of the terrace. When he stepped onto the grass, he stopped. “She’s not going to leave it alone. Christine, I mean. Guy was always so careful. This afternoon, Christine called him paranoid and I can’t disagree. Especially now. He was certainly obsessive. These last years he was careful, not like when we were kids. I couldn’t believe that he’d died that way.”
“It was an accident.”
Dupré didn’t respond.
“Are you accusing me of something?” she said.
A Well-Timed Murder Page 10