A Well-Timed Murder

by Tracee de Hahn

  “Boschung feels like he’s the shepherd guiding the villagers through life. If the two of you had any sort of friendship, he would have a different attitude about the Institute. As it is, he’s angry because he feels cut off. He used to play here as a boy, and now as a man he’s no longer an insider. A few drinks together in town and he’d have a different attitude.”

  “I’ve never had a talent for village life,” Fontenay said.

  “Tonight, the smell of alcohol on your coat came back to me. I recognized what had been in the back of my mind all along. Fermentation. You weren’t drinking alcohol, you were making it.”

  “Julien, I didn’t mean to betray your trust,” said Fontenay.

  “It was my fault,” interrupted Navarro. “I’ve always wanted to experiment. Comes with being a chemist, I suppose, and we got to talking last winter. It was a cold, dark spell and there wasn’t much to do. The students were on break and we played around with the idea in the lab.”

  “It was my idea to continue,” said Fontenay. “I love the Institute, don’t mistake that, but I’ve always liked the idea of making something. Something real. A product. I thought of using this house. I knew the water was kept running.”

  “Why not tell people what you are doing?” Agnes asked.

  “We’d broken in here and don’t have a license. Once we started in secret, we couldn’t stop.”

  “That’s what you were worried about the night by the shed,” said Agnes. “Monsieur Navarro was returning to the chalet and we saw the lights.”

  “Didn’t seem like a good time to tell Boschung what we were doing,” said Fontenay.

  “He’s a stickler for rules, isn’t he?” said Agnes. “And that night he was looking for someone to blame. I smelled smoke nearby a few times. That was also you?”

  “We dress warmly but the chill sets in. Plus, part of the process needs heat. Working here belowground we didn’t have much of a problem because the temperature was stable, but a few things we had to do in the kitchen, and we’d light a fire. Only at night or on cloudy days when it wouldn’t be visible.”

  Fontenay moved to a cabinet and removed a series of bottles. Three of the four had labels. “The competition,” he said, motioning toward them. “Quality control.” He pulled out a set of small glasses. “I’d like you to know that we at least didn’t risk our jobs for poor quality. I’m not proud of what we did, but I am proud of what we produced.”

  He splashed liquid in the glasses, then opened a second bottle and repeated the motion. He ended with a splash from the unlabeled bottle. “Not a blind test, but I don’t think you’re here to falsely flatter. That is, if you want to try.”

  Vallotton took a sip from the first two glasses. Agnes stepped forward and put a glass to her lips.

  “Amazing,” said Vallotton after taking a drink from the last glass, the brandy that Fontenay and Navarro had produced.

  “I’m happy that whatever happens, we did one good thing.”

  Vallotton set the glass on the table with a small thunk. “It is disappointing. So much will have to change now because of this.”

  Agnes shot him a dark look, surprised by his attitude. Fontenay might be a scholar, but he retained his streak of childhood mischief. Vallotton had made other allowances for him, why not this?

  “I should have quit and had the courage to go into the business,” said Fontenay, “but we’d put all our capital in the Institute. Helene had already suffered so much, I had to give her this.”

  “I have the impression that Madame Fontenay doesn’t care for the work here,” said Agnes, hoping to delay whatever bad news Vallotton seemed intent on delivering. She had misread him, forgetting that he, too, could be a stickler for behavior. They had broken into his property, abused their positions at his school. She regretted bringing him here. This wasn’t the end she’d envisioned. She hadn’t misread Fontenay’s temperament; how had she misjudged Vallotton’s?

  “Until the accident,” Bernard said, “Helene wanted a dozen kids. It was always a matter of waiting until she finished the last ski season. It was to be her last. Her dramatic finale. World Cup in hand, she’d retire and we’d start a family. Instead, she had a dramatic finale of another sort.” He picked up one of the small cups and downed it in one go. “I’d planned to join the faculty and teach somewhere, England most likely, since that’s where her family is, and she’d want the help with our children. Once she couldn’t have children, she was devastated and I hit upon the idea of going all in. A change of scenery and a way to have a family that would be ours, even if they weren’t really ours.”

  “It didn’t work out like you hoped,” said Agnes.

  “Not at first, but recently I’ve had hopes. Of course, now I’ve ended all that. The board won’t want a headmaster distilling alcohol in the basement.”

  Agnes started to speak but Vallotton interrupted her. “I think they might object to one who drinks too much, but making it? That’s entrepreneurial. A selling point among the parents. You’re a man with experience outside the school.” Vallotton clapped Fontenay on the back.

  Navarro grinned. “Inspector, when you first showed up the other day, I nearly died of fright.”

  “I thought it was because of the poison garden,” said Agnes.

  “And I thought you knew what we were doing here.” Navarro’s dark eyes twinkled.

  “A chemistry professor who grows poisonous plants and makes good brandy. You shouldn’t have trouble getting your students’ attention,” she said.

  Navarro looked surprised. “When you put it that way, maybe not. Botany is not a subject most students care for, and even the parents aren’t interested. Chemistry isn’t glamorous. Monsieur Patel understood, he studied chemistry and said that he was lucky to have used the degree at all.”

  “I”—Fontenay glanced at Navarro—“we don’t have the means to really go into business. It was a small project only. These are test batches.”

  “You need a partner,” said Vallotton.

  “Oh, dear Lord, run!” said Agnes. “He’s a dilettante.”

  “I am not. I have experience. I own a vineyard in the United States, in Napa, and a domaine in France, near Champagne.”

  “Certainly bought for the architecture,” said Agnes.

  “Yes”—Vallotton eyed her archly—“but they are still vineyards and I’ve learned some about the production. I’m not merely a man with more money than he needs, looking for ways to occupy myself.”

  “Either way, we call that an investor,” said Fontenay.

  “I like the sound of that,” said Vallotton. “I can lease back use of the house here from the Amman family. He only wants the pasture and will be only too happy to get a reduction in his terms. We can convert the cellar and first floor into what you need, including heat and electricity. And you’ll be near enough to keep on at the school. Who knows, maybe Helene will take to the place if she’s more in charge, less under your shadow.”

  “You’d really keep me?” said Fontenay.

  “Oh, yes, as Inspector Lüthi knows, I don’t care much for meeting new people.”

  “The ones he knows already upset him too much,” she said, feeling a glow of delight at the outcome for Fontenay and Navarro.

  “There’s that, and I think we can do good things here. I think the village could use a new enterprise, and we’ll surely need to hire a few people eventually, for trucking and other practicalities.”

  Agnes felt her phone vibrate. She took a step away from the men and answered. It was Aubry.

  Vallotton lifted his glass. “To the company. What will you name it?”

  Agnes walked across the room, seeking better reception near the wall. Finally she heard Aubry clearly.

  “Bardy is handling it himself,” Aubry repeated. “Top priority, of course, but as low-key as he can manage. This is a disaster.”

  Agnes leaned heavily against a worktable.

  Antoine Mercier was dead.

  Thirty-five

>   Fortunately the body was discovered after Baselworld closed for the day.

  Agnes watched the officers photograph and document. She’d seen the corpse. Now she was standing where Mercier was killed. Exactly where they had met the day before, high above the showroom floor. Yesterday, the open webbing of the metal floor felt precarious; seeing his body here only reinforced her fears.

  “We’re done,” the last of the crime-scene team said, picking up his bag and indicating she could walk about freely.

  “This changes everything,” Agnes said to Aubry, repeating what she’d already said to Bardy. “Both Mercier and Chavanon were closely associated to the watch industry. The connection to their deaths must be here.”

  Aubry shrugged. “Thousands of people walk through the show every day. Anyone who knew Mercier would know he was here this week. Easy enough to join the crowds, kill him, and vanish. Trust me, I know. We’re still looking for the woman in the video.”

  “Maybe I was wrong and Chavanon ingested the peanuts earlier and the reaction was delayed. He might have vomited up the evidence and it was cleared away.” She edged carefully to the spot where dried blood colored the metal floor grate. “Mercier was stabbed here?”

  Aubry had been on the scene when the body was discovered. “The blood was on him and under him. Nowhere else. He hadn’t been moved.”

  Agnes walked around the stain to peer over the railing, feeling her stomach sink. Blood had dripped through the grate to the roof of the pavilion below. Eventually it had drained to the edge and down the side of the building into a potted plant. Housekeeping noticed it after the show closed for the evening.

  “The lady who found it was hysterical,” said Aubry. “Probably still is. She saw ‘sticky red stuff’—that’s what she called it—then looked up and there he was, silhouetted by the lights. If she didn’t have sharp eyes, we might not have found him until tomorrow when his staff sounded the alarm.”

  “They weren’t worried today?”

  “Too busy to be worried, and he lived alone. He didn’t have anything on his schedule that was absolutely fixed, more like ‘I’ll stop by and try to get a photograph with you.’ Everyone thought he’d gotten busy with something or someone else. Bardy is building a timeline.”

  “I thought Mercier was avoiding me,” said Agnes. She shook her head. “He lied about Chavanon. I should have tracked him down and insisted we speak immediately.”

  “Would he have been honest with you even then?”

  “I’ll never know.”

  A powerful flash erupted beneath them. Men were standing on the roof of the pavilion, documenting the blood pattern. Agnes spotted Bardy; he looked up and gave a small salute. She liked watching the team at work, seeing the division—her division—in this light.

  “Mercier met with Chavanon two days before he died and didn’t tell me about it,” she said.

  “But he must not have been the man’s killer, since he’s dead now.”

  Agnes studied the dried blood. “A knife, you said?”

  “Knife or sharp object. He was stabbed.”

  “And he died right here, looking down over the show.” The showroom sprawled out in front of them, sections of it too far away to see in any detail. “Is there surveillance video of the entrance to the stair leading up here?”

  “Not precisely. There is an angle that captures people moving through the area, which means any one of them could have gone up the stairs, but the door isn’t visible, and the next set of cameras doesn’t pick them up immediately after. Thousands of people walked by. Including, of course, Mercier. But he was alone at the time. That much they have reviewed.”

  “Someone could have arrived before him and waited.” She moved nearer the rail and pointed. “Why is he here? I thought they’d cleared the exhibitors out?”

  Aubry glanced down. “He’s Mercier’s nephew.”

  Agnes headed for the stairs. Now she would insist on speaking with Gianfranco Giberti.

  * * *

  Giberti was dry-eyed, but the undercurrent of emotion was evident in the set of his shoulders and grim line of his lips. Agnes thought he looked like a glamorous advertisement for grief.

  “I wish your uncle had told me the truth,” she said, offering her hand but skipping pleasantries.

  “What truth?”

  “He last spoke with Guy Chavanon a few days before the man’s death, not a few months ago.”

  Giberti frowned. “Antoine met with Christine’s father? Why?”

  “I hoped you could tell me.”

  “I don’t think they were friends, or even friendly. That doesn’t sound right. I didn’t mean to imply animosity, only that theirs was a purely professional relationship.”

  Agnes took Giberti’s elbow and guided him away from the officials examining the planter where the blood was discovered.

  “Monsieur Chavanon wouldn’t have talked to your uncle about any innovations he was exploring?”

  “Definitely not.” Giberti looked round the exhibition hall as if seeking answers. “My uncle is not who Monsieur Chavanon would have confided in.”

  “Because they had a difficult history?”

  “No.” Giberti looked uncomfortable. “My uncle was an amazing person, dedicated, really the one who made me want to pursue watchmaking as a career.”

  “But?” Agnes prompted.

  Giberti turned so his back was to the policemen documenting the crime scene. “Monsieur Chavanon was too … eccentric, is a good word. Antoine liked things to move in a set pattern. He liked change to occur in a manageable way, a controlled way.” Giberti shrugged. “Very Swiss, I suppose.”

  “Which Monsieur Chavanon wasn’t?”

  “Oh, he was Swiss all right, but there was a streak of creativity in him that was like an explosion. He was silent until it released, then he’d settle back into himself for a while.”

  “It sounds like you knew Monsieur Chavanon better than you admitted the other day.”

  Giberti had the grace to look ashamed. “Of course I knew him well. I should have said so, but I didn’t want it to become too personal. I knew Christine wouldn’t want that, having me part of your investigation, the police asking me what I thought about her and her father. I truly don’t know anything important. I’m sorry.”

  “Why did Monsieur Chavanon have your business card?”

  “I’ve told you that I have no idea.”

  “Be careful, Monsieur Giberti, two men have died. Now isn’t the time to keep small secrets.”

  An officer approached, “Monsieur Giberti, the chief has a few questions for you.”

  As he was led away, Giberti turned to Agnes. “We hadn’t met.”

  She watched them for a few moments then silently added, Yet. Maybe they hadn’t met yet.

  Thirty-six

  Marie Chavanon rapped her knuckles on the door of the cottage. She planned on the tap of a stepmother’s authority, but it sounded more like a panicked neighbor. Christine opened the door, her expression startled.

  “We have to go to the police,” Marie said without a greeting.

  “What time is it?” Christine stepped onto the porch, looking around to check the position of the sun.

  “Not that early.” Marie hesitated, unsure of her reception. “I waited as long as I could. I had to see you. May I come in?”

  Christine waved her across the threshold and closed the door.

  Marie was conscious that she’d not been in the cottage more than twice since her stepdaughter had moved in … how many years ago? She recognized the décor from Leo’s descriptions. He liked visiting here, which was fortunate, because he didn’t realize they thought of it as babysitting. Leo thought he was visiting his cool, older half sister. He was honored that she would have dinner with him and play games all evening. Marie sometimes wondered if he’d even noticed his parents were gone. When he was home from school, he still looked forward to those nights.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” said Christine, lead
ing the way to the kitchen. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before, and Marie noticed a small blanket on the sofa. Beside it was a stack of paper and Guy’s notebook. Christine detoured to pick up the leatherbound pages. “I need coffee,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  “Antoine Mercier was killed yesterday at Baselworld.”

  Christine stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. There was a long second, then she clicked the light switch on and walked to the counter. Marie pulled a chair back from the kitchen table and watched Christine pull out cups and pour water into the coffee machine.

  “It wasn’t an accident. He was stabbed. Inspector Lüthi telephoned me late last night. She thinks his death is connected to your father’s.”

  Frowning, Christine held out the bowl of Nespresso coffee pods.

  “An orange or red one for me, nothing too strong. I don’t think my stomach can handle it.”

  “Who do they suspect?” Christine hit the appropriate buttons and let the coffee flow into the clear designer cups. She handed Marie her coffee with milk and drank her own espresso in a swallow, inserting a new pod and hitting the button to make a second one.

  “We have to tell the inspector what you found,” Marie said.

  “There’s too much at risk.”

  “A man died. What if it’s because of what Guy invented?”

  “I can’t imagine the connection.” Christine picked up her second espresso and downed it, shaking her shoulders as if registering the heat and flavor.

  “But this is information—”

  “I’m the one who went to the police in the first place. I want to find my father’s killer more than anyone, but right now it’s possible for someone to claim his work. We need to find the rest of his notes.”

  Christine took Marie’s hands in her own. Marie felt the warmth and realized how cold hers were. She’d always admired Christine’s closeness to her father. Not even the divorce of her parents or his remarriage was an obstacle to their connection. Until that day … that awful day when she left the company, casting Guy adrift. Ending the dynasty. Marie had tried to make him feel that he still had Leo, and that the boy would grow up in the same tradition, but her words had fallen on deaf ears. For he knew that if Christine could leave Perrault et Chavanon, then Leo could as well. Everything seemed to lead from that day.