A Well-Timed Murder

by Tracee de Hahn

  “We’re too busy here,” said Bernard, “and there’s nothing to shop for. Helene goes to Bern for clothes and other items.”

  Agnes remembered the village above Julien Vallotton’s home. Ville-sur-Lac was tiny, with little of interest to the family, yet the marquise made a point of occasionally taking coffee in the confiserie or visiting the tiny brocanterie. Some might view it as noblesse oblige, but Agnes knew it was a mark of support and respect important to maintaining the old traditions. The Fontenays didn’t have those ties here.

  Bernard Fontenay bolted to his feet and crossed to the door leading to the private upstairs apartment. Helene Fontenay slid his empty glass across the end table away from her. As she did, she moved into the light. Her expression was grim.

  “Madame Fontenay, you mentioned Koulsy.”

  “He’s at an age to want attention, that’s all I meant. That’s what I told you earlier. If we were aware of something specific, we would have said. You don’t want me to speculate, do you, Inspector?”

  Agnes wondered what Helene had started to say before her husband interrupted. It was late, too late to talk to the boy tonight. Agnes stood. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. There’ll be more questions.”

  “Do you think Monsieur Vallotton will support Bernard if trouble comes?” Helene asked abruptly.

  “He’s spoken highly of both of you to me. He certainly loves this school.”

  “But would he stand by him? Is he loyal?”

  “I think he can be trusted to stand by what he thinks is right.” Vallotton had stepped out of the office when Agnes returned from the shed. It had shifted the mood toward official police business, and she appreciated his discretion. Now she wondered if his departure hadn’t been misinterpreted.

  Helene glanced out the window to the dark lawn. “Meaning the law.”

  “I’d hope so.” Agnes paused. “Is there something you’re worried about? Something you didn’t say earlier?” She kept her eyes off the door that Bernard had passed through.

  The headmistress stood abruptly, her crutches banging the floor. “You think I’m worried about something Bernard has done? You’ve misinterpreted my remarks. I simply wondered why Monsieur Vallotton is here, now. He’s like the other directors. Comes only when it’s convenient. Stays the minimum amount of time. Too busy to care most days, and now, when there is trouble, he is here. Interested. Why?”

  “Officer Boschung called him.”

  “Not to bring him here, to inform him. Sometimes I think they work for the Vallottons and not for us.”

  “Boschung works for neither. He works for the canton.”

  Madame Fontenay arched an eyebrow. “Thank you for that civics lesson.”

  “Monsieur Vallotton is concerned about Guy Chavanon’s death. That’s why he’s here.”

  Helene stood in the doorway. “Look elsewhere then. Look among his friends and family. Isn’t that where trouble usually comes from?”

  “He was the father of a student here, and he died here.”

  “He was an annoying man who…”

  Agnes stopped buttoning her coat.

  Helene took a short, deep breath before continuing, “I’m tired this evening. I simply meant that he was a typical parent who always wanted to prove that he knew better. He was one of many hundreds that we meet in our role as caretakers of the children. He died and that is the end of the unfortunate story. There are many unexplained problems in the world. We cannot fix them all, no matter how we try.”

  “His death isn’t going to remain unexplained. We owe it to Monsieur Chavanon. As a director, Julien Vallotton understands that.”

  Helene nodded toward the window. “Speaking of whom. He’s waiting for you. Outside.” She leveled her gaze at Agnes. “You’d better run.”

  * * *

  Agnes stepped out the front door of the chalet. The rain had stopped and the clouds had dispersed, leaving the moon exposed. She had been tempted to actually run, but thought Madame Fontenay might not appreciate the ironic gesture; she had an agenda Agnes didn’t entirely understand.

  Julien Vallotton was standing on the raked gravel drive beside his Rolls-Royce, as comfortable as if he were in his own living room. He’d pulled his tie off and looked as if he were waiting outside an upscale nightclub.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He glanced up from his phone screen. “Waiting for you. You didn’t think I’d leave you here?”

  “Three weeks ago you told me that you barely visit your family; that you’d been in Switzerland only a few times in the two years since your father died.” She shoved her hands in her coat pockets. “What are you doing here? In Switzerland.”

  “I’ll tell my aunt you enjoyed dinner.” He stowed his phone in his jacket pocket.

  Agnes took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Please do tell her. But this is a real question. Your friends tonight want you back in London. They’re surprised you’ve stayed away so long.”

  He opened the car door for her, then settled himself in the driver’s seat. “I like London. I like the English. They celebrate failure. Think of Dunkirk. Failure? No, they made it a triumph.” He turned onto the lane. “My family have been in Switzerland since before there was a confederation.”

  “Yet you live in London.”

  “A man can move. I do own a perfectly usable home here. More than one, in fact.”

  She didn’t speak. Waiting him out. Relaxing into the supple comfort of the seat. The dashboard glowed, the dials sent out signals she was too tired to read. She shifted to watch him.

  “Things changed three weeks ago and my future is different now. Or I hope it is.”

  She forced herself to not look away. He couldn’t mean anything to do with her.

  “And there are responsibilities that go with that. I think that you, of all people, would understand them.”

  Realization dawned. Mimi. Agnes felt like a fool. Of course Julien Vallotton wouldn’t leave a six-year-old orphan alone in a vast château with only his aging aunt and a handful of servants. He wouldn’t sidestep his obligations.

  “As you pointed out, I had been living in London. For too long, it seems. I need to reacquaint myself with … with everything.”

  Agnes shifted her weight and faced forward.

  Vallotton changed the subject. “Bernard will see things more clearly in the morning. He might even prove helpful. He’s a good headmaster. He’s young at his job.”

  “Do you always find an excuse for people? Bernard Fontenay’s job is to run the school and to retain control of himself, not collapse in a heap of anxiety and blame.”

  “He has his strengths, and what was discovered tonight isn’t part of a normal day’s work. Not everyone is prepared—emotionally prepared—for all eventualities.”

  She suppressed a smile. “I suppose a few shots of brandy were deserved after the day he had.”

  “The blood in the shed could generate bad publicity, or at least bad feelings in the village. Rumors start. Fear spreads, a bad feeling you can’t get rid of. Someone starts the stampede, then others withdraw because students are leaving, and next thing you have empty classrooms.” Vallotton turned on his left signal light to urge a slow-moving car out of the way. “I won’t let that happen.”

  She nearly protested, but one look at Vallotton told her it was useless. She wondered for a moment what it felt like to have that kind of certainty. How many generations did it take to feel absolute authority was a birthright? And absolute responsibility, she acknowledged, knowing that’s where his statement sprang from. He would take care of those connected with his family, and the Institute was closely connected.

  “There is a possible link to Koulsy, of course.” She paused to frame her thoughts. “Meaning his family is an obvious link between ill will and action. Although I’m not sure what the action was precisely.”

  “Perhaps no one was meant to see the shed yet and the message wasn’t complete.”

  “Possibly.” She felt herself
doze.

  “If we’re talking about rumors, then perhaps what we saw tonight is based on ill will toward the Institute in general,” said Vallotton.

  “Or meant to harm the Fontenays as the headmasters?”

  “Right now it could mean anything or nothing; someone or no one.” Vallotton gave a faint laugh. “You’ve an interesting job.”

  Seventeen

  The village clock struck two when Agnes opened the door to her in-laws’ chalet. Quietly, she hung her coat and hat in the front closet and slipped off her shoes. The house was never completely dark, and not until she was halfway across the living room did she realize Sybille was awake. The flicker from the fireplace glowed a warning. Footsteps rattled in the hall and Agnes braced for the welcome.

  “A long dinner?” said Sybille neutrally.

  It took Agnes a moment to understand what Sybille meant; dinner seemed days ago. She walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap, drinking it down. Sybille followed her. The oven was on and the smell of baking bread assailed Agnes. Suddenly she was hungry.

  Always a mind reader when it came to food, Sybille pulled a loaf near, sliced it, then placed cheese and honey on a dish. “They didn’t feed you?”

  Agnes slathered the bread with honey and laid the Gruyère on top, biting in. “They fed me quite well, but that was hours ago. I was called to a crime scene.” She paused. “Maybe it is a crime scene. Not a violent crime, unless you count the dead chicken.”

  Sybille laughed and it was infectious. Suddenly the two women were weeping with laughter. Sybille reached into the refrigerator and pulled out an uncorked bottle of white wine, pouring two glasses.

  “It was too quiet tonight, and I started making bread, thinking to get ahead for the week.” She gestured toward the neat loaves on the counter, and the final two in the oven. “Thought I’d take a few to neighbors tomorrow.”

  “That’s nice.” Agnes sliced off another piece. She told Sybille about the meal at Château Vallotton, answering her questions. Sybille’s knowledge of food was exceptional, and she expected the daughter of a great chef to be able to detail a meal correctly.

  “Must be nice to eat like that every day.”

  “We do pretty well here,” Agnes said, meaning it.

  “They must set a prettier table.”

  Reminded of the candles and silver and crystal and servants, Agnes started to giggle again, unsure if it was fatigue, the wine, or some other emotional trigger. “The dining table seats forty.”

  Sybille laughed with her and poured them each another glass of wine.

  “He’s not what I thought he’d be,” said Sybille.

  That brought Agnes’s laughter to a cold stop. “Julien Vallotton is very nice, but the entire family, his aunt, everyone is—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Maybe not, maybe not with him, but one day it will be with someone. Don’t say anything. I’m a mother. George was my only son, my only child. With his death I’m not a mother anymore and won’t be again. There is no replacing him for me.” Sybille waved off any comfort. “I won’t insult you by pretending that a daughter-in-law is the same. You know I love the boys, but they’re yours. They’re only a little bit mine. Maybe that’s why I cling to them so much. I need that little bit more than you need it.”

  “I miss George, too, there’s nothing—”

  “I know there isn’t, not now. But one day there will be.”

  Agnes felt the pain of the words like a fist on her chest. Sybille couldn’t mean what she was saying. It was a lie told because it was expected. Agnes leaned against the kitchen counter. Like the lies she told. It was tempting to say, But George is the one who left me. Who left me twice, once by choice and once through death. But she didn’t.

  Eighteen

  Christine Chavanon paced from living room to kitchen. In the hours since she’d returned home with her arm stinging from the stitches, she’d checked the door locks twice to make sure they were secure. Her father’s satchel lay on the center of her dining table. Beside it, his notebook looked old and worn. It felt toxic.

  She turned her coffee machine on and recrossed the room to look out the front window again. The main house was dark; the lawn was a pool of inky black. She wouldn’t be able to tell if anyone was there. She closed the drapes, checking that they were a barrier to all unwelcome eyes. She turned the coffee machine off, changing her mind. She didn’t need caffeine; her thoughts were already too wildly discordant. What she had discovered was inconceivable.

  She went to a different window, this time turning the overhead light off before she looked out. She waited, allowing her eyes to adjust. There were too many clouds to see any detail. Marie had gone to bed hours ago, turning out all the lights. Christine fidgeted. She should talk to Marie, shouldn’t she?

  Turning the light back on, she stood beside the table and opened the notebook again. Her finger traced the writing, line by line. She turned a page and continued. She’d done this a half dozen times already, at first afraid the pain medication was making her believe the impossible. By the third time she was stone sober and focused, and she believed.

  She slipped the notebook back into the satchel and stowed it under the sofa cushion. The cushions were sold as casual chic, which meant they were unstructured and didn’t reveal what was stuffed beneath. This felt better. Safer. Tomorrow she could read it all again with a clear head.

  Satisfied, she walked to the bedroom and turned back the covers, reaching for a nightgown. On a chair across the room sat the Steiff bear her father had given her twenty years ago. The bear was worn from childhood adoration, his arms threadbare and one eye replaced with a button, but the sight of him brought back all those years, all that she owed her father. She should have paid more attention.

  What she needed to do—to say—couldn’t wait. She would wake Marie up.

  Retrieving the satchel and notebook from underneath the sofa cushion, she slipped the strap over her shoulder, then covered up with a jacket. She turned off the lights and peered out between the living-room curtains.

  It was too late for cars on their road. No one was about. She told herself that whoever had broken into the workshop wouldn’t return, especially only hours after the police left.

  Something in the landscape changed. She focused in the distance and not on the workshop. A man was crossing the lawn.

  She held her breath and pulled her mobile phone from her coat pocket.

  Then she recognized him. Stephan Dupré.

  Carefully she closed the curtains and went to bed, taking the satchel with her.

  Ninteen

  “Colic. That’s what the doctor told us,” Petit said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, then hurriedly removing them. Agnes suspected the coat was new and he was afraid of damaging it. She wondered if dressing in civilian clothes after years in uniform was liberating or uncomfortable.

  “You could have called me and taken the day off if the baby’s sick,” she said. “You worked late last night and weren’t supposed to come off leave until tomorrow.”

  His already-bulging eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “I won’t let Bardy or you down.”

  “Is the baby better?” They reached the porch to Guy Chavanon’s workshop, and she pulled a set of keys from her handbag.

  “He’s much better, especially now that we have a name for the reason he cries all night.”

  Agnes laughed, surprised by Petit’s observation. “How did you leave things with Boschung last night?”

  “He likes to pick his solution and stay with it. But we hit it off and he’s okay with not blasting the news across the canton. We formed a real bond because of my time with the local police.”

  Agnes shot Petit a look, searching for any element of sarcasm.

  “He’ll start an investigation,” Petit continued. “They’ll question some of the locals and talk to the kids who usually make trouble.
See if one of them vandalized the shed. That’s what we’d have done in Ville-sur-Lac when I was with the gendarmerie.” He spoke as if it had been years and not a few weeks since he left them.

  “Is Boschung still convinced he’s looking for a mass murderer?”

  Petit grinned. “Right now, he’ll agree with anything we say. If we’re wrong, we take the blame. Either way he wins. Safer.”

  Agnes turned the key in the door lock. Petit’s height made the front porch seem more a dollhouse than a real house. “Is Madame Chavanon meeting us here?” he asked.

  “No, we’ll see her in the main house, but I wanted to have another look around first.” Agnes ushered Petit in, shutting the door behind them.

  “You weren’t exaggerating when you said the place was tossed.” Petit crossed the living room to look in the kitchen, nearly banging his head on the old-fashioned brass chandelier. “He wasn’t the neatest person to begin with, was he?”

  Agnes studied the room, comparing it to the photographs she’d taken with her phone the day before. “The local police left everything as close as possible to how they found it. What do you notice?”

  He eyed the scene as if preparing for an exam. “Apart from the mess? Hard to tell if anything’s missing. No spot where a computer should be. No empty space at all. I can’t even tell where Chavanon sat to work, much less what he was working on. If that window hadn’t been broken out, and the door left open, I might think he’d tipped these boxes over himself. Maybe he was angry?”

  “Notice the chair.” It was old and heavy with broad wood arms. Agnes touched it and the castors rolled easily. Cushions were arranged on the seat and against the back. “The wheels have rolled back and forth, damaging the floor over time. The cushions are worn.”

  “But where’d he work? There’s stacks of paper everywhere. My wife says I’m messy, she should see this.”

  Agnes sat in the chair and pulled it up to the edge of the table. “I think he was cleaning up.”

  “He’d need a couple of trash bins for that.”

  She surveyed the room. “Not cleaning out, but up. Organizing. At university, I used to take my notes and exams and put them together at the end of each term. I don’t know why, they’re stored in a box in the attic now, but I kept everything. Even the notes I knew I would never need again.”