A Well-Timed Murder

by Tracee de Hahn

  “No, it depends on what he finds out. He wants to help.”

  Tommy Scaglia the Good Samaritan didn’t sit easily with Agnes. “Do people pay him for the information?”

  “Pay him? He’s got more pocket money than all the rest of us.”

  Thinking this over, Agnes walked to the window behind the Fontenays’ desk. There were three windows in the room with nice views onto the lawns, but this one was heavily curtained. She started to flick the drapes open.

  Leo coughed. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Madame Fontenay doesn’t like things touched. Not in here. And she never opens those curtains.”

  “Fair enough, I don’t like things in my office touched either.” She crossed to sit by Leo again. “All of Tommy’s money is from his allowance?”

  “Where else would he get it?”

  Agnes and Petit shared a look. Blackmail? Money to keep small secrets safe? Agnes didn’t believe Leo was misleading them. He simply might not know.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Agnes continued. “My boys lost their father a few months ago. It is a difficult time. Loss is hard.”

  Leo nodded again. She could tell that he didn’t fully comprehend the reality of his father’s death yet. The idea of permanence was abstract and difficult to absorb, and being here, in a place where he wouldn’t see his father daily, probably helped keep grief at bay.

  “Monsieur Patel delivered a gift for you. It’s good you have adults to rely on. You know that, don’t you? Your father’s friends will be there for you.”

  “Yeah, Monsieur Patel’s cool. He brings these packages of hot snacks when he comes to our house. Hot spicy, not hot hot. My mom hates them. Made me eat them outside. Said we couldn’t be sure they were safe for Dad even though he took some to a lab one time and they said no peanuts, but Mom said she wouldn’t trust that every time, since it came from India.”

  “If you think about something, something one of the boys tells you or you overhear, if that happens and you want to talk it over with someone you know, perhaps Monsieur Patel would listen? Or Monsieur Vallotton?”

  “Sure, but I don’t know anything.”

  “Just in case.” Agnes had the feeling that this was a long shot. A truly long shot.

  She thanked Leo and escorted him from the office. Just inside the door she noticed the tabby sitting quietly, licking its paws. Taylor, she remembered. Tommy had named the cat Taylor.

  Twenty-five

  Petit still had a long list of faculty and staff to interview, and Agnes sent him back to the task and asked Vallotton to join her. Madame Fontenay showed them into a large dark room that she called the boardroom. Agnes would have preferred to remain in the headmaster’s office. This room was stuffy. The wood-paneled walls were filled with portraits of long-dead academicians, and the velvet sofas and chairs were upholstered in dark red, reminding Agnes of dried blood. She suspected the décor had been chosen in a century long past. It didn’t look like anything the very modern Fontenays would care for.

  “Do you know Koulsy?” she asked Vallotton. She was seated on a sofa, sinking uncomfortably into the cushions. Vallotton crossed to study a portrait above the mantel.

  “Of course I do. He’s Leo’s roommate. And when he applied, there was a long debate about whether or not to admit him. There’s always the risk of bad publicity with a family like his. Guilt by association you might say. I cast the deciding vote. The child deserves a chance.”

  Agnes stuffed a needlepoint pillow behind her back in an attempt to sit upright. “Koulsy thinks he’s at risk of being kidnapped. That’s why I wanted to speak with him.”

  “Leaving Officer Petit to conduct the real interviews.” Vallotton gave her an incredulous glance. “You can’t believe Haroun. When I was at school, there was a fellow in my year who constantly made up stories of death-defying acts, threats, call it what you will. He sounded like James Bond every time we had a school holiday. Essentially trying to impress the rest of us.”

  “Were you? Impressed?”

  “Absolutely.” Vallotton flashed her a grin. “Gave him all my spare chocolate in case he only had a few more days of freedom. Really was a great extortion scheme now that I think about it.”

  She fidgeted with the cushions again; trying to find a comfortable and dignified position. So far it was a choice between her feet touching the floor or her skirt not hitching up. Vallotton stepped near a particularly dark and somber portrait and peered at it. Agnes detected a resemblance between the two men around the eyes. Perhaps this was the founding ancestor? Vallotton turned as if comparing his profile to the man in the painting.

  “You can’t think this threat to Koulsy is real,” he said.

  “He has a peanut allergy. Which makes him a definite link to Chavanon’s death. And Koulsy’s fears may be legitimate. I’m trying to get to the truth of what happened.”

  “I thought you’d be the first to say that there is no truth in anything, only perception.”

  “We stay away from philosophy in the police, or at least we did in Financial Crimes.” She pulled out her notebook and glanced through it. “You’re right though, truth is not an absolute. Anyway, I’m afraid there might be something to the things happening around him. The arrow in the wall by his bedroom—”

  “Which is also Leo’s bedroom.”

  “Yes. And the amateur display of blood in the shed.”

  “Amateur? Don’t let Boschung hear you say that.”

  “He’s driven by perception. He has a firm sense of what is right and wrong, and what he sees fits into those slots. Perhaps unchangeably. Man dead from an allergy was a natural death. Vandalized shed in his perfect village must be violent outsiders. We’ll see what comes of it.”

  “Your gut reactions are better than his?”

  “Don’t mock my instincts. They’ve served me well.”

  “They’ve never failed you?” He looked up sharply and she felt him regret his words. Idly spoken, they touched upon a truth. He knew that her instincts had failed her, one fatal time. He didn’t know the entire story, but even part was enough.

  She shook her head and smiled at him. Surprised by her own equanimity. “It’s possible that you’re bored and falling back on old school habits. Stirring up police interest for an afternoon’s entertainment.”

  “Asking the students to invent threats?” Vallotton had a paperweight in his hand, a bronze cube. It had enough heft to make a good weapon. He placed it carefully on the table.

  Footsteps sounded outside the door, followed by a hushed verbal exchange. Agnes stood, frustrated with the sagging cushions.

  Koulsy entered alone, although Madame Fontenay made eye contact with Vallotton before shutting the door, and the clatter of metal on wood indicated the headmistress remained nearby in case the boy needed her. Without wasting any time, Agnes introduced herself. Vallotton extended a hand in greeting.

  Koulsy was a handsome boy of nearly fourteen and he didn’t appear nervous. His features were subtly shifting to manhood, and he had no baby fat or softness. His skin was dark ebony, and light shone where it struck his high cheekbones. He was tall with broad shoulders, and he had an aura, a combination of stillness and energy that felt like an adult’s awareness. Agnes thought he was one of the most handsome youths she’d seen.

  “Would you like something to eat?” She gestured to a small tray. “We have a nice selection of chocolate biscuits.”

  The boy looked as startled as if she’d offered him a cigarette, and she moved the tray to the side and asked him to be seated. She selected a chair opposite him and Vallotton chose one to their side, slightly back from them, as if to clarify his role as an observer.

  Koulsy spoke without waiting. “They are trying to take me.”

  Agnes was startled by his forthrightness. “The they who are trying to take you. Do you know who they are?”

  Koulsy lifted his shoulders fractionally. “It is difficult to know who is angr
y at any one time. My father has many enemies, and they will see his son as a means to an end.”

  Agnes hit upon what troubled her. His words sounded formulaic, as if he’d heard them somewhere and was repeating what others had said. Out of the corner of her eye Agnes saw Vallotton shake his head in disbelief. She ignored him.

  Koulsy laced his fingers together and closed his eyes, as if thinking. “They issue threats. The usual things.” Again, the slight shrug.

  Vallotton shifted in his chair and Koulsy turned to him. Agnes didn’t know how Vallotton did it; transitioning from invisible to the dominant force in a room without even speaking. “Were there warnings first?” Vallotton asked.

  Koulsy shook his head slowly. “You have experience of this, Monsieur?”

  “Family is a blessing and a burden. They test our loyalty, don’t they? Especially our fathers.”

  “You understand,” said Koulsy.

  “I think I do, actually.”

  “Was it like this for you, with your father, finding the things that make you grow fearful, but that you cannot speak of?”

  “No, my loyalty was tested in other ways, by other people. But that doesn’t matter. A test is a test,” said Vallotton.

  The boy moved closer to Vallotton, so that their knees were nearly touching. Agnes looked at the two, boy and man. Both sons of powerful men. Men who made their mark on their respective countries, albeit in opposite ways.

  “What happened is no longer a test,” said Koulsy.

  “How long ago did the threats start?” Agnes asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Why didn’t you report it right away?” she asked. The boy didn’t respond and she was reminded of Guy Chavanon’s not reporting his fear of being followed. She knew that no one in Switzerland liked to cause trouble, but the level of reticence was starting to annoy her.

  “You’ve always lived with threats, haven’t you? They”—Vallotton nodded toward Agnes—“they don’t understand what it’s like.”

  “Who would believe me that a twist of paper or a burned stick is a threat? No one here understands the superstitions that exist where I am from.”

  “Are you afraid of the superstitions or of the reality?” asked Vallotton.

  “Is there a difference?” said Koulsy.

  Vallotton reflected for a moment. “No, I suppose there isn’t. Not really.”

  “Yet you decided to tell Madame Fontenay about your concerns. What changed?” Agnes asked.

  “I found this.” Koulsy extended his hand and Agnes took the scrap of thick paper, careful not to touch more than the edge. It appeared to be torn from a sack. The message was scrawled in pencil, and she could barely read the crudely formed words. Was it the scribble of someone ill-used to writing, someone barely literate? Perhaps it was the age-old technique of writing wrong handed to disguise the identity of the author.

  “I now think that when Leo’s father died, they meant for it to be me. Two days later I was nearly killed when an arrow lodged beside my open window. With this note, I understand. This note is my father’s name in our dialect. The rest you can read. It says that he will have to pay to see his son again.”

  Agnes studied the words, finally discerning the meaning. She turned the paper over. On the back was a palm print made with a deep reddish-black pigment. The color evoked blood. Was it blood? Possibly from the shed?

  “May we keep this?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  Agnes believed that most children feared the threat of a stranger taking them. Being snatched away. But kidnapping of the sort Koulsy feared was different. It was not random or happenstance. It was planned and plotted. Emotionally, there was a fundamental difference. She couldn’t tell if this strange boy fully understood what he was implying. She felt a jolt of concern. Was the shed a ritual he would understand? Perhaps one performed before a kidnapping, or worse?

  “Where did you find the note?” Agnes asked.

  “On the front of my locker.”

  “The locker in your room?”

  “No, at the pool house. It was stuck under the vent on the front of my locker, the little slices bend in and there’s room—”

  “Yes, I know what a vent is. We’ll walk over and see it together, but before we do that, is there a reason you think these threats are being made? At this time, I mean. The death of Leo’s father was certainly stressful for everyone at the school, and perhaps that has something to do with it?”

  Koulsy sat up straighter. “The Institute has nothing to do with my family. These are threats from the outside. People who do not understand the good work of my father. He is the only one who can keep our country together, and that is the cause of much jealousy.”

  This did sound like rhetoric, and Agnes wondered where it came from. She exchanged a glance with Vallotton.

  “Have you spoken with your father recently or seen him?” she asked.

  “My father travels among the people of our country tirelessly. It would not do for me to bother him. That is why I am at school here.”

  Evil travels across borders, Agnes thought. She kept her pen on her notebook for a moment after the boy stopped speaking. Then she looked at him. His gaze was completely open and honest. So full of trust that she was taken aback. “When was the last time you were home?”

  “The Christmas break.”

  “You’re well settled here, though?” Vallotton said. “I remember when you first arrived, about two years ago. I presented the writing prize your first term.”

  “Oui, monsieur, I remember. And I have been content. My first school was in England. A very nice place.” He stopped. “But this is even nicer. This is a good change for me.”

  “Did you have any trouble of this sort while you were at your previous school?” Vallotton asked.

  “Non, monsieur. But I am older now and it is more acceptable to lay the problems at my feet. When I was young, it would not have been so.”

  He was thirteen, Agnes remembered. Possibly the symbolic age of manhood in his native country. The practice of early adulthood was certainly discounted by modernizing leaders. However, from what she knew of the elder Haroun, his idea of modernizing was to keep to the old ways, especially if that meant leaving him in charge. Haroun controlled roaming armies, food supplies, roads. Everything that mattered.

  “England and Switzerland are both far from home,” she said.

  “My father keeps me informed so that I may return after completing my education and help him.”

  “You plan to return?” The words were out quickly; she hoped he didn’t hear her surprise. To return to a war-torn country would be difficult after becoming an adult in the land of calm perfection.

  “My mother would like me to stay in Switzerland. However, a man must follow his father.”

  “You have many years to go before deciding,” said Agnes, thinking that there were many years yet for his mother’s wiser counsel to take hold.

  “Oh, yes, my father expects me to go to Harvard in America. Business school is his dream for me.”

  Since Harvard likely didn’t offer courses in arms trafficking or rape and pillage, Agnes thought that business school was as close as he would come to finding something to help with the elder Haroun’s work.

  Vallotton sat back in his chair, relaxed again yet alert. “You really think these threats are from someone outside the school who wants to attack your father through you?”

  “Monsieur, why would someone here do this to me? Threaten me for entertainment?”

  “I don’t want to downplay your concerns,” said Agnes, “but it’s possible that they are pranks. I have sons and I know the kinds of things boys will do. Not always good things.”

  “A prank would be a chocolate bar in my bed at night or putting my hand in warm water so I have an accident. That is what occurs here. This comes from outside.” Koulsy hesitated. “Do you know what it is to have someone die because of you? Because of who you are? I know this emotion. N
ow, others, my friends here, might be in danger because of me, and that is why I went to Madame Fontenay. After Monsieur Chavanon died, with what followed this week I must acknowledge the connection.”

  “Koulsy, you aren’t responsible for Monsieur Chavanon’s death,” said Agnes.

  “From a poison that should have killed me. Poisoners can be devious. In my father’s village they know how to make a thousand different poisons. All from plants. And so many ways to administer them. Secret ways. Ways that you will never discover.”

  Vallotton stood and walked to the window. Agnes wondered if he could see the poison garden from where he stood. This conversation would certainly make Jorge Navarro nervous.

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and she called for the person to enter. The door flung open and Tommy Scaglia stepped in. He caught sight of Koulsy and grinned at him before turning to the adults.

  “Chef Jean wonders if you’ll stay for dinner. He could serve you in the lounge off the dining room downstairs. You wouldn’t have to eat with the rest of us.”

  Agnes rose. “No need for that trouble, Tommy. We’re finished here. Koulsy, if you’ll get your coat, we’ll go to the pool house now.”

  Koulsy rose and with a few long strides crossed the room. At the door, he gave a backward glance to Tommy, then left.

  When Koulsy was out of sight, Tommy sighed elaborately. “I’m the one who made him talk to Madame Fontenay. My dad told me to look out for him. He’s not quite tuned in to reality like the rest of us.”

  “You mean he’s not bright?” Vallotton said.

  Agnes thought that Koulsy had an unusual speech pattern, but if you listened, most people had distinctive habits; his were simply more than usually interesting.

  “Smartest kid in my year, probably in the whole school. Speaks like five languages, can quote Shakespeare. Course that’s because he was in England for a couple years. No, the problem is that his dad tells him all the things he sees on the news are made up. Did you see the movie Lord of War? I saw it last Christmas on cable and Nick Cage was amazing. Have you met Cage?”