Petit fingered a few stacks of paper. “You mean he’s grouping them in a system of some sort? But the mess…”
“That’s a separate thing. I think you’re right, someone was angry and dumped the boxes. Might have been Chavanon, more likely it was whoever broke in. But look at what was here before. See how this stack of paper is fanned out? Even spilled you can tell how the pages were ordered. Notice how the ones on top look fresh and clean while a section farther down has yellowed and the edges are frayed and ripped. The next stack is the same way. If the stacks sat here for a long time, the top page would have aged, and even when toppled over, there would only be one old sheet. Here, there are chunks of old sheets mixed in. I don’t think a burglar did that.”
Agnes turned on a lamp in the corner, bathing the longest wall in bright light. The entire length was covered in butcher paper. Even the windows. She gestured. “I think these walls are where he started his work. The paper is uniformly aged.” She ran a hand across one section. Dust drifted away. “They haven’t been touched in weeks or months.
“He started here.” She tapped the paper. “Then moved on to other ways of working and left the pages on the wall. It doesn’t look like he used a computer. That might account for the sheer volume of paperwork.”
Petit rifled through a few stacks. “Look at the dates. Three years ago. Five years.”
Agnes started her own quick search through the piles. “Some are older. Perhaps left over from earlier projects; notes that he consulted.”
“Do you think he came up with some great invention?”
“Who knows. We certainly can’t tell from this. At least not without a careful study. It’s possible that he was in the process of cleaning up after reaching a dead end. Giving up. From what I can tell, Guy Chavanon had a history of false starts. Maybe he decided he was at the end of trying with this one.”
“That doesn’t explain why someone broke in.”
“Doesn’t it? If someone thought Chavanon had invented something valuable, they would want it.” Agnes remembered what Stephan Dupré had said: that Guy chased dreams. “People believe what they want to. If enough people say someone is a genius, then it’s so. It would be possible to not know his ideas—this idea—hadn’t amounted to anything.”
“You think that a burglar saw the inside of the workshop and left without taking anything? Maybe they realized their mistake?”
Agnes turned the lamp off. “Could be. It’s also possible someone took a key element of what he was working on.” She studied the room. “Stephan Dupré said that Chavanon was secretive and that he didn’t use the business safe.”
She moved to the long tables, inspecting the edges for any hidden drawers. Petit followed her lead and looked in the other room, opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen. Agnes finished checking the tables. Nothing. She moved to the desk. Again, nothing. She started on the various side tables left over from the days when the workshop was a house. Running her fingers under the lip of the top of the smallest one, she felt a slight give. She moved the papers off the top and tilted the table up, discovering a thin drawer. The local police hadn’t noticed it because there wasn’t a knob. Only a slight groove on the lower edge. She pulled it. Nothing. She took off a shoe and banged the bottom. The wood shifted and she pulled again. This time it jerked open.
Her excitement quickly faded. There was no notebook or flash drive or envelope labeled Secret Discovery, only scraps of paper. She sifted through them, finding a few receipts, a list of supplies, random notes about everyday matters. She was nearly at the bottom of the stack when she came across a business card with the Omega logo. Underneath it read Director of Research Gianfranco Giberti. A time was penciled in across the bottom. A meeting time? She turned the card over. No date, no place. It was reasonable that father, daughter, and boyfriend met, but why would the time be written on a business card? Wouldn’t Christine make the arrangements and, if necessary, remind her father? Agnes didn’t think that a woman needed a time penciled on a card to remember to meet her lover.
Agnes flicked the card against her hand. Was this a meeting between the two men that didn’t include Christine? The director of research for a major watch company and the owner of a small family-owned one. Was this the investor Dupré had learned about? Omega certainly had the resources to purchase an idea. Agnes took a photograph of the card, wondering what Christine Chavanon would do if her father sold his greatest idea to another brand without telling her.
* * *
At precisely the agreed-upon time, Marie Chavanon greeted them on the front steps of her home. She was dressed for work, with her hands in the pockets of her suit coat as if protecting them from the morning chill. Ushering Agnes and Petit into the living room, she didn’t offer any refreshment, and Agnes felt her colleague’s disappointment. Petit was likely depending on a string of espressos to compensate for a night short on sleep.
Marie seated herself on a long stiff leather sofa in the living room, gesturing for her guests to choose from the chairs. “These photographs were delivered early this morning,” she said without preamble, indicating a large envelope on the table in front of her.
Agnes removed her coat and laid it across the back of a chrome-and-leather chair before being seated. Petit chose its twin, keeping his coat on. She wondered if he’d judged the climate more accurately than she had. Madame Chavanon didn’t look to be in the mood for a long chat.
“Nothing in the photographs, nothing about the workshop, spoke to you?” Agnes asked.
“What do you mean, spoke to me? It was a mess. Nothing like Guy before…” Marie swallowed to control her emotions.
Agnes had to prompt her. “Before what?”
“He became fixated, Inspector. Distant. Guy had always used the workshop as a retreat. It was a place to think and explore, he would say. But he stopped talking about his work some time ago.” Marie smiled up at them and Agnes saw tears. The woman’s eyes were carefully made up to conceal dark circles. “He used to talk about his ideas. Most of them were over my head, but Leo and I liked to listen. Guy was excited about everything. That’s one of the things that drew me to him at first. His enthusiasm. Boundless enthusiasm. Every project had potential in his eyes.”
“What kind of things did he work on?” asked Petit. “My father was a bit of an inventor himself. Small stuff to help around the house. Mainly improvements on what we had.”
Marie Chavanon warmed to his question. “That sounds like Guy, except his inventions were always about watches. A more elegant stem, a unique case. He worked on the metals themselves, and the finer points of the mechanism. His background was engineering and he never stopped learning.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “When he was younger, he made elaborate mechanical cases with pulleys and clocks and sundials. They were like miniature fun houses.”
“I’ve seen things like that in the watch museum here in La Chaux-de-Fonds,” said Petit. “School trip,” he murmured in an aside to Agnes. She was reminded that he’d not been out of school that long himself.
“Yes, the cases are part of a long tradition of side hobbies, I suppose you could say, among watchmakers.” Marie fingered a leather seam in the sofa. “These last months were different. He wouldn’t speak of the project, except to say that he was working. He stopped paying attention to anything else. I was thankful Leo was away at school, otherwise he would have noticed something was wrong. Guy wasn’t sleeping, he would pace or go down to the workshop at all hours.”
“Are some of the pieces he created part of the collection?” said Agnes. “I’d hoped to see it yesterday when Christine gave me a tour of the factory.”
Marie bunched a fist in her lap. “The collection. They always made too much of it, and it was gathering dust. None of Guy’s creations are there; it was all old watches, a few desk clocks.”
“That’s disappointing. It sounded interesting.” Agnes paused, but Marie Chavanon didn’t add anything. “Have you remembered anything that
might help us with the note your husband left?”
“You saw his workshop. Isn’t that evidence of his state of mind? Doesn’t anyone understand what I’ve been through these last months? These conversations only add to the trauma of losing him. Why can’t everyone leave us in peace?” Marie Chavanon pressed her fingertips to her pursed lips. “Christine put you up to this, didn’t she? These questions. I don’t know how she got the idea of Guy’s being murdered in her head. She’s always been overly emotional. The fuss she made over that note, and yesterday, with her arm. Typical.”
“Madame Chavanon, someone broke into your husband’s workshop. There is more to what happened than an accident. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
Petit disguised a snicker as a cough. Agnes kept her focus on Marie. “The last time it rained here was the day before your husband’s funeral. The area around the broken window was dry, meaning the workshop was burglarized after the rain. Have you been near the building since then, or have you seen anyone near it?”
Marie placed her hands flat on either side of her as if balancing. “Christine. Ask Christine. She left him. She wanted more. More of what I do not know, but she left him. He never got over it. Did she tell you that? That she hurt him and didn’t care, and now that he’s gone, she’s trying to make amends. Stirring up trouble, asking questions. Wanting to be part of everything now when it’s too late. You need to tell her that. She made her choice and left us. She has to live with herself.”
“You saw her enter the workshop?”
Marie gazed into the distance. “No, I didn’t see anyone go inside. Christine and Stephan are the only two people I’ve seen cross the lawn at all.” Marie shrugged slightly, an elegant gesture. “Others were here for the funeral, they wandered everywhere. It was a sunny day and they were on the veranda, maybe on the lawn. I don’t know, I didn’t pay close attention. It was too overwhelming.”
“And you don’t remember anything unusual about your husband in the days leading up to his death?”
“It was more of the same. He was more excited. Less able to sleep. I’d hoped seeing Narendra would help.”
“Did you say something to Monsieur Patel? Ask him to speak with your husband?”
Marie recoiled. “Oh, no, I would never.” She stopped. “There is a pattern to our days, and seeing someone you know well, but don’t see often, can shift your thinking. The last few years Narendra and Guy would have time for dinner before Baselworld began. I had hoped Narendra would notice Guy’s odd behavior and say something that might help.”
“His change in behavior must have been obvious for a friend to notice it over dinner.”
“They were close.” Marie passed a hand over her forehead and smiled weakly. “There wasn’t enough time for that, was there?”
“Did you ever think that your husband’s behavior was the result of something going well with his work?”
“No.” Marie half laughed. “You saw what he was when you walked into his workshop. He’d grown more disconnected, more abstracted in his thinking. I was worried.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “About his mental health.”
Agnes let the words hang in the air. They felt like bait without a hook.
“Your daughter shared that the financial situation hasn’t been easy in recent years.”
“She talks about family honor and tradition but isn’t willing to sacrifice for it.” Marie fisted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, I’m not myself today. It’s the usual ups and downs of business. Christine isn’t old enough to understand.”
Petit shifted in his chair and his long legs struck the coffee table. Marie Chavanon glared.
“Was she angry with her father?” Agnes asked.
“Christine is young, still a child in many ways. She wasn’t angry, disappointed perhaps.”
“What about the company’s new investor?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Agnes heard anger, but not surprise. “Monsieur Dupré mentioned it.”
Marie picked up the envelope from the coffee table, toying with the clasp. “He must have misunderstood or been misled. Or perhaps you misunderstood. There wasn’t an investor.” She handed the envelope to Agnes. “Please take these, I don’t want them around.”
“There was nothing in the photographs that suggested why someone broke in? Nothing missing or disturbed?” Agnes asked.
“Who could tell what was disturbed?”
Petit shifted uncomfortably. “Your husband didn’t use a computer?”
“No, he didn’t like them. If something had to be done on a computer, he asked one of us to do it. Gisele has a monitor at her desk for the design programs. I have a laptop for the business accounts.”
“He didn’t own a device at all?” said Agnes.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Ask Christine, she’ll confirm that he never did.”
“Things might have changed in the time since she left the company.”
Marie stood. “I have to leave for work now.”
Agnes gathered her coat. Petit took a final look around the room.
“There have been record crowds at Baselworld,” said Agnes. “You must be pleased.”
“That’s why I must go. They’re overwhelmed. So many people.” Marie exhaled the last word and her fatigue seemed to deepen.
“One last thing,” said Agnes. “Would you have time for me to show Officer Petit the factory? We would be very quick.”
Marie hesitated, then pulled a piece of paper from a nearby notepad and wrote a number down. “Use this code. It’s the one used by the cleaning service.”
They waited until Marie drove off, waving to her from the sidewalk. Then Agnes led Petit to the rear door of the factory.
“Did you think she’d let us in here alone?” Petit asked.
“No. I thought she’d insist we come back later. And I believe she’s hiding something about the collection. Christine expected to find it in the glass case and all of the pieces have been removed with no explanation.” Agnes pulled the door shut behind them and heard the latch close. She gestured ahead. “That’s the factory floor if you want to take a look.”
Petit loped across the lobby and stuck his head into the large room. “Wow, like a place out of time.”
Agnes led the way upstairs. The broken glass was still on the office floor. Petit studied it, then nosed around while Agnes located the latch mechanism that secured the wall panels. She found what she was looking for in the third concealed cabinet.
“Notebooks?” said Petit, peering over her shoulder.
“When Christine Chavanon showed me the family archive, she said that the owners have always kept a notebook of their designs and ideas. Anyone as proud of his heritage as Guy Chavanon would have maintained the tradition.”
Nearly identical leather notebooks filled the entire cabinet from floor to near the ceiling. Agnes ran her finger down the rows. The red leather spines were stamped with the company logo and a set of initials. She opened a few. “These were his. See the GLC initials? The last one stops nearly a year ago, which means the current one is missing. I didn’t see anything like this in his workshop, did you?”
Petit shook his head, “But it could have been buried under something. Or maybe he stopped using a notebook when he was working on a big project.”
“I don’t think so. Every year is accounted for until this one, and according to his friends and the family, he was always working on the next great idea. This wouldn’t have started any different, regardless of outcome.” She closed the cabinet. “It’s possible that the current one is sitting on his nightstand. I’ll ask.”
“Or it’s where his most important ideas were and it’s been stolen?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Twenty
Gianfranco Giberti walked up the steps to the restaurant at a brisk clip. Agnes could easily pi
cture him heading toward an assignation with a glamorous dark-haired beauty. Perhaps a visiting model from Japan. He was a man who always looked as if he were heading to or from a tryst. The deliberately rough shave, the well-tailored robin’s-egg-blue suit worn a little too casually, the Ferragamo shoes, and the slightly loosened knot of his tie. His hair was dark and worn long to his collar, swept back from his face in a wave and held in a low ponytail. She hesitated for a moment, then followed him.
She was shocked to find that he was eating alone at a table for two. The other place setting had been cleared, and Agnes slid into the vacant chair. He half rose, his expression quizzical. When she introduced herself, his manner turned somber.
“Of course, I had met Monsieur Chavanon and was very sorry to learn about his death.” Giberti motioned for a waiter to bring another menu. Agnes declined, requesting a small bottle of San Pellegrino.
“Had met sounds a bit formal for the father of your former girlfriend. Surely you knew him better than that?”
“Christine and I went out a few times. I date a lot of women. It’s impossible to be serious with anyone given my work schedule.”
A waiter brought a plate of steak tartare for Giberti and asked Agnes if she had changed her mind about ordering. She waved the waiter off, although the meal looked appetizing. Giberti mixed the chopped onion, capers, and raw egg into the minced meat, then took a bite.
“Despite this casual relationship, you were watching Christine closely the day before yesterday.”
Giberti’s fork stopped in midair. “That’s where I recognize you from. She was crying, of course I noticed.”
Agnes sipped sparkling water, eyeing the crowds passing back and forth across the Baselworld plaza. The enormous open circle in the center of the canopy looked like a giant metal web pulled open to the sky.
A Well-Timed Murder Page 14