A Well-Timed Murder

by Tracee de Hahn

  Giberti paled beneath his tan. “Do you have the invention? Did the police find it amongst his things in the workshop?”

  Agnes shrugged noncommittally, hating to fuel the fire with nonsense but needing to shake answers from these closemouthed people.

  “Are the family in danger?” Giberti added. “You would tell them if they were?”

  “What makes you think they’re in danger?”

  “Monsieur Chavanon is dead, and you think someone stole something from him.” Giberti’s phone rang, and instinctively he pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. Christine Chavanon’s photograph and name flashed across the glass.

  “Answer it,” said Agnes, noting the alarm on Giberti’s face. “What if there is a problem?”

  “Christine,” he said into the phone. “I’m surprised by the call, but hope I can help you.”

  Agnes couldn’t hear the woman’s voice, but she didn’t speak long, for Giberti quickly replied, “I am being interviewed by Inspector Lüthi.” He held out the phone to Agnes. “She’s upset and dialed my number by mistake. Meant to get her supervisor. She’d like to speak with you.”

  “Why are you talking to Gianfranco?” Christine demanded once Agnes was on the phone.

  “I happened to see him.”

  “I’m at Leo’s school. Why don’t you come here and we can talk more. I understand now what happened to my father.”

  Thirty

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you visit the workshop yet,” Agnes said to Christine, surprised by the request. They were in Leo Chavanon’s dorm room. The young woman was seated on her half brother’s bed, holding the gift Narendra Patel had left for him. The silver frame was new and highly polished and contained a photograph of Guy and Narendra. In it, the two men were much younger and smiling broadly for the camera. Agnes pulled a chair from the desk and sat facing Christine.

  “I thought you weren’t comfortable in your father’s workshop because of intellectual property. Surely those concerns still exist—his work is his company’s work.”

  Christine placed the photograph on the nightstand. She closed her eyes, and Agnes wondered if Christine was trying not to cry. A bell rang in the distance, and a minute later voices floated up from the lawn. Agnes glanced outside and saw boys walking between the classroom buildings; a soccer ball materialized and an impromptu game was afoot. Bernard Fontenay crossed from the chalet to the science classroom; Navarro met him halfway. She recognized a few of the other boys. Koulsy Haroun was standing in a clump of kids who looked like school athletes. Tommy Scaglia was sitting on a bench, flipping through the pages of a textbook so quickly Agnes thought he was cramming for an exam. The tabby slinked across the lawn and sat next to him.

  “I wanted to talk to you today, in person,” said Christine, “because I don’t think Father’s work amounted to anything.”

  To conceal her surprise, Agnes picked up one of the small boxes she’d seen the day before and turned it, admiring the craftsmanship. “What changed?”

  “What we saw in the workshop was unnerving.” Christine spoke firmly. “It wasn’t the place I remembered, and I thought maybe if I was wrong about that, then I was wrong about Father’s accomplishments.” She sat up straighter, on the edge of the bed. “It was wishful thinking. Trying to make something, to invent a legacy. But it’s not right for Leo. We need to accept the past and not pretend.” Christine reached her hand out for the box. “He doesn’t keep anything in these.”

  Agnes handed it to her.

  “They pull apart.” Christine demonstrated. The box worked like a puzzle. “Father made them for us when we were growing up. I always kept treasures in them. Earrings, a bit of ribbon.” She put the box down. “Do you remember the notebooks in Marie’s office? The ones I showed you behind the panels? You asked if my father kept one.”

  “Yes.” Agnes didn’t mention that she’d returned to look for it.

  “I have Father’s here with me. It was at the house and I thought you’d want it, since it is what he was working on when he died. After the break-in I wondered where it was.” Christine held out an embossed notebook matching the ones in the factory office. It was stamped with Guy Chavanon’s initials. Agnes flipped through the pages. The first date was seven months ago, the last two weeks before Chavanon’s death. There were sketches of watch designs, notes about product updates, jottings about order quantities.

  “There’s nothing in there. Nothing exceptional.” Christine shrugged. “I was wrong. I was wrong about everything. Who knows how he was exposed to the peanuts, it was always a risk. I’d become so accustomed to nothing happening that I’d forgotten. Once the funeral was over, I knew that he was truly gone and I panicked. There were things I regretted, and I wanted him back. Since that was impossible, the next best thing was to fight his death. To believe that it wasn’t an accident. I was wrong. I need to accept the truth.”

  Agnes flipped through the notebook again. If it hadn’t matched the series in the factory office and contained Chavanon’s handwriting, she wouldn’t believe it was his. Where were the notes to match the intellect she’d seen in the formulas in his workshop?

  “You can return it to Marie when you’re finished. I told her I’d give it to you. I needed to show you and apologize in person.”

  “I’ve lost loved ones and know how difficult it is to come to terms with sudden death. Regrets are normal. We all have regrets.” Agnes stood and looked around the bedroom. “Have you seen Leo today?”

  “No, I timed it badly and he’s in class. I don’t want to bother him. It was stupid to come here, but when we spoke, I thought I might as well wait and talk to you.” Christine stood. “Did Gianfranco tell you that I meant to call my supervisor?” She grimaced. “He must have been surprised. I was calling to say that I’m coming in to work today. Late, obviously, but they need me, and I’m ready to get back to normal life.”

  * * *

  Agnes walked Christine to her car before returning to the Institute and the small room the receptionist had opened for her use. She thumbed through Guy Chavanon’s notebook again. These were not the scribblings of a genius. They weren’t even the scribblings of an inventor.

  After assembling several explanations in her head, she stowed the notebook in her handbag, then pulled out her phone along with the names Petit had given her.

  It took a few seconds for the call to connect. She took a seat in a comfortable chintz chair. Sunlight struck the carpet in a sharp blade through the open curtains. The yellow-and-blue wallpaper glowed good cheer.

  Louise Kelly answered on the fifth ring and didn’t express any objection to speaking with the police. Madame Kelly was the British lady Narendra Patel was speaking with when Guy Chavanon entered the reception. Agnes hoped she remembered something Patel had missed. That wasn’t the only reason for the phone call, but it served as the excuse. Louise Kelly should be an acute observer.

  “You understand that I am not, myself, the parent of a student,” Madame Kelly said. “I was there to visit my nephew. My brother’s child. My favorite nephew, although that shouldn’t be noted.”

  Along with her phone number, Petit had provided an old black-and-white head shot of the woman on the other end of the line. Not elderly, but no longer young. Her nephew was possibly the child of a much younger brother. The voice on the phone conjured the image of someone white headed wearing a pastel sweater set. Or was that the wrong generation? Maybe a tweed jacket. Agnes was afraid her image of the Brits was based on television dramas.

  “Michael, my nephew, had brought me a plate from the buffet,” Madame Kelly said. “Then he went to his room to deposit a small gift I’d brought him. To store it away. I don’t know any of the other parents, and since it will likely be my only visit, there wasn’t a reason to meet them. I like to watch people, so I waited quite contently, enjoying my food. The quality of the selection was surprising.”

  “Did you speak with Monsieur Chavanon?”

  “No, and of cou
rse I didn’t know who he was until afterwards. Quite shocking, not at all what you expect at a … well, what you expect anywhere. I felt quite sorry for his son. They should have got him away sooner. Of course, I didn’t know it was his son, or I would have done something myself. Can’t blame the others, likely the same story. I don’t think I’ve ever been dumbstruck before, but that’s what I was. Dumbstruck. Just stood there for what felt like a quarter hour, although I realized later it was only minutes. Very long minutes, while the poor man struggled.”

  “What do you remember before that moment?”

  “I was speaking with a nice man, an Indian. My father and mother were in India in the early days of their marriage, and the country has a special place in our memories. I have a photograph of them riding the most amazing elephant. Monsieur Patel and I were discussing the food at the reception. As I said, quite good. I can see where some of the tuition fees go, not like in England when I was at school. There, they still think cold water and boiled chops are character building.”

  “Was this about the time Monsieur Chavanon fell ill?”

  “A few minutes earlier. I was alone when that happened. Monsieur Patel left to take a phone call and I was looking around for Michael, thinking he should have returned. I was wondering if he’d dodged out with his friends, although he is a nice boy and I think he enjoys seeing me. I was perhaps too preoccupied to really pay attention to what was happening until it was quite out of control. I remember that I was also thinking that I hoped to get away without catching someone’s cold or flu. Recently, I’ve had a little health flutter, and I was reminded of the winter germs. But one can’t stay home all the time, and my brother and his wife are in Antarctica on a scientific mission. I promised to check on Michael in person.” Madame Kelly paused. “I’m not sure how this is helpful?”

  “Did you meet Koulsy Haroun? He’s a student in your nephew’s year.”

  There was a slight hesitation. “Why the interest in him?”

  “He had the same allergy as Monsieur Chavanon. But you probably knew that.”

  The line fell silent, and for a moment Agnes thought the call had dropped. When Louise Kelly spoke again, it was in a firmer tone. “I understand now why you called. I met Koulsy when he was a toddler. He won’t remember me. We were in Africa. It was a long time ago and I had forgotten there was a man from your government at that meeting. An unsuccessful meeting. You’ve done your homework.”

  “We can’t overlook the coincidence of his allergy.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I was at the school because of my nephew. I’m long since retired from the foreign service.”

  Voices called down the corridor, boys returning from lunch off campus. Madame Jomini shushed them.

  “Inspector, do you think Koulsy was the intended victim?” Madame Kelly asked.

  “Everything is a possibility.”

  After final pleasantries Agnes hung up, reasonably certain that Louise Kelly was—at least in the context of the Institute—as she presented herself. A visiting aunt. It was only coincidence that she was also a retired member of the British Intelligence Service.

  Agnes called the other name on Petit’s list of coincidences. Gustav Schwartz had a pleasant voice, and a relaxed manner that indicated everything revolved around his schedule. Agnes introduced herself and restated what she had told his secretary earlier. There was activity in the background and she sensed a hand being placed over the phone.

  “Sorry about that,” Schwartz said. “They’re putting The Endeavor in the water and it looked like things weren’t going well.”

  Agnes could hear multiple voices in the background. It sounded as if the man was at a party, which she supposed he was if they were launching his yacht.

  “You had a question about that day at the Institute,” Schwartz said in her ear. “That’s what I love about the Swiss. Keep great records. Dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.” His voice raised again. “Tell them I’ll be right there. And not that bottle. That’s for us to drink later. The other one is for Mariam to use on the hull.” His voice shifted again and lowered. “Sorry, Inspector, you were asking about Chavanon. What I remember is straightforward enough. My wife and I were there. It was fortunate that I needed to be in Zürich on business. We came early and saw our boy’s bedroom. Dinky thing, and he has to share, but I suppose that’s part of the experience I’m paying for. Character building or something. Mariam’s the one who thinks it’s a good idea. Anyway, we went down to the party. Fontenay serves a decent wine—some local label—and I was having a glass near the window. I’ll tell you now that I was preoccupied. I was in the middle of important negotiations, and there we were at an afternoon school party.”

  Agnes mumbled appropriate understanding and urged him to continue.

  “My wife and son were outside. Monsieur Chavanon was nearby and we started talking. Then that math instructor came over and I headed out. Wicht thinks my son needs to be able to do calculations like an astronaut without a computer. He doesn’t understand that we’ve got people who do that. Alfred can supervise someone doing the math for him. Anyway, I pretended I needed the toilet and left. That’s it.”

  “Did anything stand out as unusual?”

  “Except for Chavanon dying? It was the usual boring rigmarole. Don’t know why they have these receptions. It’s not like I need to meet more people.”

  Agnes was reminded of something Julien Vallotton had said to her when they first met. New people meant new problems, or something like that. In her line of work, it couldn’t be avoided, but she was beginning to see his point. “What about Monsieur Chavanon? How did he look?”

  “Damn cold was how he looked,” said Schwartz. “Which was the reason I didn’t follow Mariam outside. Course my wife was wearing mink from her ears to her heels, and my boy’s full of vigor. They didn’t mind the weather.”

  “You saw Monsieur Chavanon enter the reception from the lawn?”

  “Yes, I watched him walk in. He was all red faced. His cheeks were ruddy.”

  “Other than being cold, he appeared well and in good spirits?”

  “How should I know? He wasn’t clutching his neck like later. Sorry. That wasn’t kind. I didn’t know him; it would be hard to detect a difference without a baseline of knowledge. He seemed normal enough to me. As normal as anyone else at these parent events. Have you met the others? What about Monsieur Han? There’s a man I wouldn’t like to meet in a dark corridor.”

  Monsieur Han was the grandparent of a student. He lived on the Côte d’Azur and had arrived in a helicopter. Madame Jomini had noted that Han wasn’t yet down to the reception when they closed off the room. Tommy Scaglia’s account indicated that the two men hadn’t seen each other outside either.

  “Do you remember what you and Monsieur Chavanon spoke about? Did he say anything about what he’d done earlier in the day?” She shifted the phone to her other ear and flipped a page in her notebook.

  “Inconsequential things. I might not remember him at all if he hadn’t died fifteen minutes later, or if I hadn’t told this story to the police that afternoon. Chavanon and I introduced ourselves and pretended to remember one another from an earlier event. He said something that made me think he comes all the time, and I said I was only there because of business in Zürich. He acted interested and I added a bit more. Usually it’s the Americans who ask about business and I hate to bore people, but he inquired.”

  Agnes could imagine the conversation. Polite interest, polite questions to fill the silence and keep the other person talking, when really every parent was there with only one objective: to see their own son.

  “Seemed like a nice man. Said he was a watchmaker, but you know that.”

  There were shouts in the background and Agnes hoped the yacht hadn’t sunk. Schwartz didn’t speak for a minute, his attention diverted.

  “Anyway,” he finally said, “I’m not a collector, although I do own a few nice timepieces. Chavanon and I talked
business a few minutes. It was a whole scale of enterprise that I’m unfamiliar with. I’ve been in multinational negotiations since I was in short pants, and we talked about that for a minute. I’m afraid I might have complained about the Swiss. He was going on about regulations governing the Swiss Made label as if they were more important than any multinational deal I could make. Full of national pride and put me in my place.” Schwartz laughed and Agnes imagined he rarely had anyone disagree with him.

  “I should have remembered where I was. Love doing business with the Swiss, but you’re an insular group and I was a bit off the whole country at the moment. You don’t have any raw materials, yet still manage to make me feel you have the upper hand. Next day we got our negotiations back on track and it all worked out.”

  Schwartz’s voice dropped out for a few seconds and Agnes wondered if he’d turned into the wind. “My wife loves the place. People, climate, food. She would live there if I’d let her, but I’m not spending time anywhere with that much snow and cold. My father moved his business from Berlin to Argentina before I was born, and I’m not going back.”

  “What kind of business are you in?”

  “The kind that governments need, but won’t admit to. You Swiss smooth the gears. You’re like a comfortable meeting room where we can gather.”

  “Monsieur Chavanon’s work must have sounded quite tame by comparison to yours.”

  “We may have a more obvious global objective, but the watch industry? Cutthroat, don’t fool yourself. All those tiny moving parts.” Schwartz laughed.

  Before Agnes could reply there was a loud crash outside and a scream reverberated. She hung up quickly, already running for the back door.

  Thirty-one

  Agnes arrived first. The shattered remains of a long flower box lay a few meters beyond the rear door of the chalet. Nearby, Tommy Scaglia struggled to his feet, dazed and pale. She ran to help him, then saw a foot sticking out from the debris of wood and earth. Whoever was trapped was moaning and trying to shift loose.