A Well-Timed Murder

by Tracee de Hahn

  Too much was beneath the surface here, and someone needed to uncover the truth.

  She stopped and suppressed a smile. She was that person.

  Twenty-seven

  Stephan Dupré reached out to turn on the bedside light. Marie threw the covers over her face, pretending to shield herself from the glow.

  “No smoking,” she said.

  “You don’t mind it in my house.”

  The covers quivered but she didn’t respond.

  “The lights are out at Christine’s.”

  “It’s late, of course they are,” came Marie’s muffled voice.

  “He’s still there.”

  The covers flopped back, exposing Marie’s bare breasts. “How do you know?”

  “A sneak can always sort out another sneak.” Dupré leaned out of bed, reaching for his trousers, pulling cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket.

  “No,” she repeated.

  He put a cigarette to his lips and clicked the lighter a few inches away, sighing as if it were lit. “At least let me go through the motions.”

  She punched him playfully and adjusted the covers across her shoulders. “Is he really there?”

  “I think so. Gianfranco used to park beyond my house and walk over. The shrubs are a good screen in that direction, and it’s only a short part where he’d be visible to anyone watching from here. I saw his car when I walked over.”

  “It could be someone else’s. The same model but a different owner.”

  “It’s his plate. I saw it enough those few months they were together.”

  Marie sat up, her face pinched with concern. “I don’t understand why he’s here. She wouldn’t want to see him after how he treated her.” Marie fingered the blanket. “When he left her, she was more upset than now, after her father’s death. Sick with it. Why would she see him when she’s already so fragile?”

  “Maybe that’s why. Her guard’s down, he calls, wants just one night of—”

  “How can you say that? I don’t think he was such a terrible young man. Surely he has some feeling.”

  “He’s a young man, they’re all hormones.”

  Marie considered. “He’s not that young. Thirty-two I think. Old enough to act like a man, not a child.”

  “As good-looking as he is, he’ll never have to act like a man.”

  “Then he doesn’t need to be here with Christine. There are plenty of available women. Women who aren’t red eyed with grief.”

  Stephan lay his unlit cigarette on the nightstand. “You suspect something other than romance?”

  Marie picked at the cover. “She was always a secretive child. She and her father were a little club of two.”

  “She left him.”

  “You make it sound like divorce.”

  “It was in a way,” said Dupré. “It was the end of a business arrangement.”

  Marie sat up. “Did you know that when she left, Guy made her sign away all rights to the company?”

  Dupré’s head thumped against the headboard. “She agreed?”

  “Oh, yes, she was that angry.” Marie sighed.

  “You think my seeing Gianfranco has something to do with Guy?” Dupré turned to face her and found her hand. “What have you been thinking? Something you didn’t want to say this morning.”

  “It’s the break-in. That inspector was right, it has to be tied to Guy’s death. But why?”

  Twenty-eight

  It was early morning and both women looked tired. Marie Chavanon wore a flowing silk dressing gown, but the elegance didn’t diminish the lines of fatigue on her face. Christine was dressed in jeans and a sweater. She sat across from her stepmother cradling a cup of coffee, watchful.

  “Scribbles. A dream. That’s all it is.” Marie thrust the notebook away, sliding it across the polished dining-room table. “I’ve never seen this notebook before.”

  Christine caught it and moved her chair nearer her stepmother. “It’s his.” She opened the cover and pointed to a diagram before turning a few more pages. “You know this is his handwriting and I know Father’s work. Look at the annotations. Look at the dates. This is what he was working on when he died.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Christine didn’t respond immediately. “I found it in his car.”

  “Why were you looking in his car?”

  Christine lifted her chin defiantly. “It was before we went in the workshop. I came in the house. I wanted to see his things.” She paused. “I called out.”

  Softly, thought Marie, if at all.

  “I thought you were napping in your dressing room and I didn’t want to disturb you. I went into Father’s closet. I wanted to see his clothes, get the scent of him. That cologne I hated.”

  “You gave it to him,” Marie said not unkindly.

  “When I was ten. He didn’t need to keep buying it.”

  Both women wrinkled their noses.

  “I looked for his satchel,” Christine said.

  “That was a much better gift.”

  “It was.” Christine grinned. “I can still picture the market in Santorini. That was my first school trip. I thought it was a perfect size, small, just right for him to carry a notebook.”

  “You were ahead of the times; it was probably designed for a woman, but he loved it. He’s had the strap replaced twice from wear.” Marie traced a finger on the table.

  Christine turned a few more pages of the notebook. “When the satchel wasn’t in the bedroom, I looked in the trunk of his car. I realized that he would have left it there during the reception.” She looked out the window toward the driveway. The lawn leading away from the house was empty, and the morning was only beginning to lighten. A few outdoor lights illuminated the factory. In the distance, her own house was a spot of shadow. The workshop was a dark hole sheltered by shrubbery.

  “Did they find anything?” she asked, gesturing to the workshop.

  “No. They showed me photographs and wanted to know if something was stolen. I can’t tell. I don’t know.” Carefully Marie fingered the leather cover of the notebook. “You think this was the reason someone broke into the workshop? To steal what Guy had written here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the inspector you’d taken it?”

  “You’re accusing me? You think I took something? I thought it was Father’s stuff. The ordinary stuff he carried around. It was only after Inspector Lüthi left, and I went home, and my arm stopped hurting that I looked inside and saw the notebook. I wasn’t hiding it from you. You know about his notebook. Why hadn’t you looked for it? You aren’t interested. You never really cared.”

  Marie jumped to her feet. “Don’t say I never cared. All I’ve ever done since marrying your father is care. I learned the business from the ground up, kept it going when he stopped paying attention to how the bills were paid. Do you think this was my choice?”

  Christine gasped, wide-eyed, and Marie heaved a sigh and sat down, pressing her palms to the table. “I thought I married a man. Instead, I married his work. I’d have been better off signing on as the manager and having my free time to myself.”

  Christine’s look changed from alarm to horror.

  “I didn’t mean that.” Marie raked a hand across her eyes. “I’m scared and angry and sad, and so many other things. You have to know that I’ve done my best. I don’t feel about the company like you do. Or like your father did. But I’ve tried. I’ve done what I could to keep it intact.” She stretched out her hand to reach Christine’s. “I did love your father very much.”

  The younger woman allowed their hands to touch, but only for a moment. She swallowed and blinked back tears.

  “Besides, I don’t recognize this notebook. I wouldn’t have known to look for it.” Marie pushed back from the dining-room table and looked around. “Guy loved this house.”

  Christine accepted the truce as an apology. “Remember how he hated when anyone thought the architect was French and not
Swiss?” She managed a smile. “When I was little, I loved visiting my grandparents here. It felt special. Futuristic. I guess it was.”

  Marie walked to the window and looked out.

  “You never liked it, did you? Will you sell?”

  “Help me open the drapes.” Marie walked into the long gallery.

  Christine walked the perimeter of the dining room, pulling cords until the early-morning light was uniform.

  Marie returned. “No, I never liked the house. But I won’t sell unless I have to. This house is about more than one person. It’s part of the family. It should be yours or Leo’s. We’ll see what works best for the two of you.”

  Marie sat again at the dining-room table and pulled the notebook near, flipping through the pages slowly this time, peering through her reading glasses. “You didn’t answer me. You think this means something. Something real. Of value?” She looked at Christine. “Your father was a visionary—”

  “But he stayed trapped in the vision?” Christine completed the thought. “This is different, this is … more. It is…” She searched for a word.

  “Revolutionary.” “Transformative.” The two women spoke at the same time. They looked at each other. Startled.

  “I had all day yesterday to study it,” said Christine. “The principle behind his idea is related to his thesis at university. I studied enough engineering to see that. And here”—she pointed to notations at the bottom of each page—“this is what he’s always done to key his notes to electronic files.”

  “How could he have electronic files? He didn’t have a computer.”

  “He could use one, he just didn’t like to. He’d rather Gisele draw up his sketches.” Christine reached for the carafe and poured another cup of coffee. “I’ll check her computer. He could have used it when no one was there. You said that he’d been up early and late and acting erratically.”

  “She would have noticed.”

  Christine lowered her head into her hands. She took a few deep breaths. “Father was careful.”

  “He was paranoid.”

  “Which now looks like good sense. He always liked puzzles and complicated things. It would have been natural for him to guard his most precious secret with a system that kept the project in two places. You could have one-half and use it to develop the other, but it would take time. Months or years, even if you had the skills. If someone stole the other half, I don’t think they can produce any product right away.”

  “Meaning if there is an electronic file and someone stole it, they’re in the same situation we are?”

  “Yes.” Christine pulled the notebook near and thumbed through it. “He had this with him the day he died. He didn’t expect to die. It was in his safekeeping. We don’t know where he was going after the reception or who he planned to meet.”

  “If anyone. Maybe he stored notes in the company safe?”

  “I’ll look again, but did he ever keep anything there?” Christine returned the notebook carefully to her handbag. “I will look everywhere I can think of.”

  “Why didn’t he tell us?”

  “You know how angry I was when I left. I wanted to work for a company where craft was everything. I think he thought I wouldn’t approve.”

  “You believe it’s possible? Achieving his dream?”

  “Yes. Based on what I see here, I think that Father had created something that will overshadow the quartz revolution. I think this will put watches—Swiss watches—back on the world stage for a long time.”

  “And put Perrault et Chavanon on sound financial footing.”

  “That is an understatement.”

  Marie folded her arms over her chest. “If only he’d said something.”

  “I think he tried to. At least with me. I ignored him, and I’ve always been willing to listen to the crazy ideas. If I didn’t listen, he knew you wouldn’t. Sorry.” Christine touched Marie on the arm.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “Do you think anyone else listened to him?”

  Christine considered. “Like Stephan Dupré?”

  “Yes, like Stephan.”

  Twenty-nine

  “I’m officially well enough to be back at work.” Agnes dropped her handbag on the kitchen counter.

  “Did you pay off the doctor?” her youngest son said, only to be smacked on the head by his older sibling.

  “Hardly, although for a moment I thought I might have to. You’ve all finished eating?”

  The boys were picking up their coats and heading for the door. “Can’t be late to school, mère.”

  She said goodbye to a closed door. “Did you have a chance to eat?” she asked André Petit, noting his empty plate.

  “Enough for three men. Sybille was insistent. I told her I’d wait here—keep an eye on the boys—so she could go ahead to the butcher. Something about a cut of meat he’s ordered for her. Might be that she wanted me to get a dose of what it’ll be like when my boy is older. I’ve never heard such complaining.”

  “Anything serious?”

  He laughed. “No, complaining to complain.”

  “If you’re on a first-name basis with my mother-in-law, you must have made a good impression.”

  Agnes took a forkful of risotto from the serving bowl. “She really is a good cook. So what did you find at the Institute yesterday?”

  “It’s worse than the scene of a traffic accident. I’ve talked to most of the teachers and staff, and they don’t remember anything about the day Chavanon died. Or anything that matters. I’ve a few more to go before I’ll call it quits. Maybe Boschung knew the man was killed but realized he couldn’t figure it out and so called it a natural death.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  Petit followed Agnes’s lead and moved his plate to the counter beside the sink. “You’re right. But they’re all vague, and what they’re not vague about conflicts with every other person’s account. I don’t know why they have these receptions if no one pays attention to what goes on.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the purpose of a school reception. They’re meant to be forgettable, a pleasant memory.”

  “It’s a strange world, a boarding school. Superstitious lot.”

  “Why do you say that?” Agnes studied a chocolate cake under a glass dome. She gestured toward it.

  “No thanks, I don’t have a sweet teeth.” He sat down on a stool. “I asked about the lights like you told me to. Got the stiff eye. A couple of them said they’d reported it to Monsieur Fontenay and got told off for not concentrating on their studies. I stopped asking since it’s nothing to do with Chavanon dying and it was making them go quiet.”

  “You said you had something important to tell me?”

  “Yes, the best is for last. I have two names I think you’ll be interested in calling. They are parents at the reception.” He passed a sheet of paper to her. She glanced at the notes and nodded.

  “That’s not all,” Petit said a little proudly.

  When he finished his report, Agnes thumped him on the shoulder. “I knew Mercier was hiding something. You earned your lunch today. Well done.”

  “You’ll follow up on this?”

  “Oh, yes, right away.”

  * * *

  Despite Petit’s revelation, Agnes was still thinking about the lights at the school when she walked into the security room at Baselworld.

  “Found her,” said Aubry.

  “I got your message yesterday.” Agnes shook hands with the officer who manned the monitor. He handed her a printed image taken from the video. “Was I right?”

  “Incroyable,” he said. “She is beautiful.”

  “We used the software and found her on the Tokyo tapes as well,” said Aubry. “We’ve got everyone on it. She won’t elude us.”

  “She’s probably on another continent by now,” said Agnes.

  “How would she know we’re looking for her?”

  Agnes glanced around. “Has Monsieur Mercier come by? I was s
upposed to meet him, and his assistant didn’t know where he was. She thought he was here looking for me.”

  “No, but if he does show up, we’ll call.”

  “Don’t bother being nice to him; he’s probably avoiding me on purpose.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later Agnes checked an image in her stored photographs, then tapped a number on her phone screen. Gianfranco Giberti answered on the second ring. His voice over the phone was smooth as velvet.

  “I don’t have a great amount of time,” he said in response to her request.

  “Monsieur Giberti, I’m standing outside the Omega pavilion and see you. You don’t look busy to me. Ten minutes is all I need.”

  When he joined her, she sensed the change in his manner. He was on edge. The Baselworld crowd flowed around them, but Giberti wasn’t interested. He was entirely focused on Agnes.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” she said. “I’m due to meet with Antoine Mercier. Do you know him?”

  “We all know him. And I saw you holding the Daily News where we were photographed together.”

  “Of course. Shows how making a pleasantry can sound inane. Have you had a chance to think again about anything you know or have heard about Monsieur Chavanon? I’m certain there is gossip at the show.”

  “The police rely on gossip?”

  “We rely on whatever it takes. Gossip isn’t necessarily untrue, it’s simply without purpose other than to pass on details of some happening.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “Is Mademoiselle Chavanon at work today?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m surprised you know offhand. I thought that you had no contact now that you aren’t a couple.”

  “I could hardly not notice her in the pavilion. It is large, but not that large.”

  Agnes shifted as if to shield her words from anyone passing by. “We know that there was truth to the rumor that Monsieur Chavanon had invented something important.”