A Well-Timed Murder

by Tracee de Hahn

  “Here’s what we are going to do. You’re going to tell Madame Fontenay what you’ve been doing and talk to her about going home. Or staying. Tell her that you need her help.”

  Tommy opened his mouth, then shut it. He did this a few times before speaking. “Do you think Koulsy’s going to be very mad?”

  Agnes took Tommy’s hand and led him toward the hedge. “I think Koulsy, of all people, will understand.”

  Thirty-eight

  Agnes took the highway south to Bienne. While driving, she spoke on the telephone with Petit, and he described the atmosphere at Baselworld.

  “I can feel the tension. The exhibitors wonder if they will be next.”

  She hoped he was exaggerating. The deaths of Antoine Mercier and Guy Chavanon were certainly connected, but she didn’t think they had a serial killer working his way through the watchmakers. She asked Petit to check on Gisele and Ivo at the Perrault et Chavanon booth.

  When she reached Bienne, she parked on the street near Omega headquarters. Gianfranco Giberti wasn’t there, something she had counted on.

  “I was surprised Monsieur Chavanon wanted to meet with Monsieur Giberti,” his assistant said after they’d exchanged greetings. The woman was clearly dazed by the news of Antoine Mercier’s death and happy to talk to someone official about it. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t mention it to Monsieur Giberti.”

  “You scheduled the appointment and didn’t tell him? Was that unusual?”

  “He doesn’t like to be bothered with day-to-day things. I email a PDF of the next day’s schedule the night before, and he follows it to the letter. I make all of his appointments.”

  “But you were surprised at Monsieur Chavanon’s request? You thought he might create trouble for your boss?” Agnes pictured Guy’s anger at the younger man’s treatment of his daughter. Broken hearts were a serious offense.

  “Oh, no, only it was sure to bring up bad memories. If Monsieur Giberti knew about it beforehand, he’d brood.”

  “Messieurs Chavanon and Giberti had a difficult past?”

  “Only because of how she left him.” Giberti’s assistant leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I wasn’t supposed to know. Monsieur Giberti never mentions his personal life, but I was in the office late one night—came back to get my gloves—and I heard him on the phone with Christine. She’d dropped him. No explanation. Nothing. He looked sick for a week, and I pretended I didn’t know anything about it. I knew that seeing her father would bring it all up again. It’s only been a few months.”

  “Three months,” Agnes murmured, recalling what Gianfranco had said. No wonder he remembered exactly how long. He’d been devastated. Everything he had said to her was turned on end now. Giberti wasn’t avoiding Christine, she was avoiding him.

  “Did Monsieur Chavanon give a reason for the appointment?”

  “No, and I didn’t push him to. He’s a well-known figure and if he wanted to meet with Monsieur Giberti, then I couldn’t refuse.”

  Agnes thanked her and drove the few blocks to Antoine Mercier’s office. She greeted the police officers who were questioning the staff, explaining that she wanted a minute with his assistant. One of them made a crack about the wrecked Ferrari at Baselworld, saying it would have been better to let the man get away than have a fine machine damaged. His remarks reminded her that only five days had passed since the Roach’s death; it felt like a month.

  Mercier’s assistant’s eyes were red from crying, but she was calm and professional. Agnes thanked her for her help on the telephone over the last days.

  “If I’d realized yesterday that something was wrong,” Sara said. “My calls were going to voice mail and he didn’t reply to any of my emails.” Her voice broke. “He was probably already dead.” Agnes patted Sara’s arm and guided her to a comfortable chair.

  “I’m interested in scheduling details,” Agnes said. “Monsieur Mercier visited the Institut de Jeunes Gens in Rossemaison recently.”

  Sara wiped her nose with a handkerchief and nodded. “Yes, he went there once or twice a year. He liked being visible in the community.”

  “That was a Friday two weeks ago,” Agnes said. “Monsieur Mercier was introduced to a boy named Chavanon that day. Upon learning it was Guy Chavanon’s son, Monsieur Mercier commented that he’d seen Leo’s father the day before. It was a comment made in passing, but I’d like to know more about that meeting.” This was the important detail that Petit had uncovered and that Mercier had omitted to tell them.

  Sara nodded slowly. “It wasn’t a meeting.” She glanced around the office. “I had the day off and saw them. They were standing on a sidewalk. They were angry.”

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t get close enough to hear. I didn’t want Monsieur Mercier to see me.”

  Agnes wondered if Sara had claimed a sick day when she wasn’t actually ill.

  “I stepped into a café and waited until they left. I don’t think they planned to see each other. They weren’t near any place Monsieur Mercier took his guests, and it wasn’t listed in his appointments. He’s very meticulous.”

  “Can you tell me exactly where you saw them?”

  Sara gave the name of the café she had ducked into. “They were just a few meters up the street.”

  “And you didn’t hear any of what they were saying?”

  “I may have heard something like ‘your ideas.’ Monsieur Mercier said something like that. But I can’t be certain.”

  “You are positive he was speaking with Monsieur Chavanon?”

  “Oh, yes, I know Monsieur Chavanon well. He goes to the candy store down the street about once a month and brings me a treat afterwards.”

  “Which means that he and Monsieur Mercier saw each other often?”

  “No, Monsieur Chavanon would leave a packet of candies. Sometimes I’d find it on my desk. He didn’t expect to see Monsieur Mercier and he never stayed to talk.”

  “You knew about Monsieur Chavanon’s allergy to peanuts?”

  “Of course. He explained it to me. That’s why he came to Bienne, to get his special candies. I guess he’d been going to the same store for years and years, and they make sure the candy isn’t cross-contaminated. They were sharp lemon with a sugar coating. He carried them with him everywhere. Must have been hard having to avoid everything else.” She put her hand in her drawer and pulled out a small white sack twisted shut at the top. “He always left some of these for me. He remembered what I like because they’re his daughter’s favorite. Butterscotch.”

  Agnes thanked her, offering a few final words of condolence. She walked down the street from the office, looking for the café near where Mercier and Chavanon met. Today, the cybercafé was filled with young people sipping coffee and typing on their laptops. She couldn’t imagine the man who took five minutes to order an espresso at Baselworld entering this café. And Sara was right, there wasn’t an obvious place for Mercier and Chavanon to meet nearby.

  With nothing more to be learned, Agnes walked to her car, calling first Marie Chavanon, then Christine Chavanon, on their mobile numbers. Neither answered. She turned onto the highway, placing the next call through the car speakers. Gisele answered at the Perrault et Chavanon booth at Baselworld. Agnes heard a murmur of voices in the background. They were busy. Tomorrow was the last day of the show.

  “Did Monsieur Chavanon carry a special candy with him?” Agnes flicked on her turn signal to merge into traffic.

  “How funny of you to think of that. Yes, little lemon things. I didn’t care for them, but Ivo did.”

  “Did he keep them in the paper packet from the store?”

  “No, he had a special box. It was small. About the size of a Ricola packet.”

  “Can I speak with Ivo?”

  “Is it important? We are really busy.”

  Agnes assured her it was important, and momentarily Ivo was on the line.

  “A quick question. Did Monsieur Chavanon have his candy with him when he ca
me to the factory the day he died?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “He offered me one.”

  “While he was angry, he offered you candy?”

  “It was a habitual motion, almost like a handshake. He always offered me one when I saw him. I’m the only one here who likes them. He had the box in his hand when he saw what I was working on and, after that … well, you know what happened.”

  “It was definitely the box containing his candy?”

  “Positive. I’d recognize it anywhere. It was a gift from Monsieur Patel. A very handsome thing from India. Good-quality silver with a ruby cabochon clasp. Very nice. He’d had it for years.”

  Agnes remembered Louise Kelly’s worries about catching a germ at the reception. She had seen something that put that in her mind. Someone taking cough drops. Candies that might look like cough drops. Where were those candies?

  Thirty-nine

  Agnes stood and brushed her knees. She looked around the Institute’s dining room. She’d checked under every piece of furniture and every cabinet. No silver box.

  “You’re certain I can’t help you?” said Madame Jomini, who had followed Agnes down the stairs and into the room, perplexed.

  “I’m looking for a small box. The size of a Ricola packet. Silver. It had candy in it.”

  “You don’t think someone stole it?”

  “No, but it might have slid under the buffet and wasn’t noticed right away.”

  “I’ll ask the maids.”

  “Find Tommy Scaglia. Tell him he’s not in any trouble, but I have a question for him.”

  She revisited what she’d overheard two days day before. Tommy Scaglia had asked Narendra Patel if he was praying. She had assumed that Patel was standing in the room where his friend had died, closing his eyes to reflect. Or pray. But what if he was kneeling and looking for something? Tommy might have thought Patel was kneeling in prayer.

  “Inspector,” a voice said behind her. “If you’re looking for Scaglia, he was out back with that friend of Leo’s family.” Agnes didn’t recognize the student in the doorway. “I saw them when I came from class.”

  Agnes rushed toward the sliding doors and ran up the slope to the main lawn. Patel was here?

  Dozens of students and teachers were walking back and forth. No sign of Scaglia or Patel. Her phone rang.

  “Boschung, thanks for calling me back.” She scanned the groups of passing students. “I’m at the Institute.”

  “I got your message. Why do you care who was parked on the side of the road the day of the reception?”

  “Just answer the questions.”

  “Patel, Monsieur Chavanon’s friend, was on the side of the road. He moved along nice enough, no trouble.”

  “The foreigner,” said Agnes softly. That’s what Boschung had said the first time, and it hadn’t struck her as important because nearly all of the parents were foreign. Only some looked more foreign than others. She turned 360 degrees to scan the campus. Patel told her that he arrived immediately after Guy Chavanon, pulling into the drive after him. But he hadn’t. Not exactly. He had arrived before Chavanon and waited on the side of the road. Why?

  “What about the symptoms?” she prompted Boschung, reminding him of her second question.

  “Monsieur Patel was ill after Chavanon died.”

  “His symptoms,” she repeated.

  “I called the medical-response team and got it precisely. They thought he was suffering a heart attack. He was pale and sweaty and had a significantly increased heart rate. Apparently it subsided, and they decided it was a panic attack brought about by witnessing his friend’s death. Same symptoms as a heart attack.”

  “Same symptoms a healthy person would get if he stuck himself with an EpiPen. The adrenaline would simulate a heart attack.” What if Patel hadn’t met Chavanon at the reception but waited for him, making certain his friend pulled into the drive before following?

  The tabby ran across the lawn toward the side of the chalet. Agnes turned in time to see a shadow pass along the side of the chalet toward the parking lot. She squinted. Tommy.

  “Get over here,” she said to Boschung, hanging up.

  In the distance, she heard a car-door slam, then the roar of an engine.

  Forty

  Dust and gravel spun from beneath the rented Mercedes’s fender. Tommy Scaglia was in the passenger seat of the car, his face pressed to the window. Agnes jumped in her car and started the engine, swinging onto the lane a minute after Patel drove off. He was driving fast, too fast for safety, and she pressed her foot to the accelerator, confident her Peugeot could keep up with his heavier sedan. She pictured the web of roads. He’d avoided the route to the highway, which didn’t bode well if she lost sight of him.

  She used voice commands to telephone Boschung.

  “I’m caught in traffic,” he said.

  She explained what had happened and gave her location. “We need roadblocks.”

  “I’m on it, but there are four roundabouts ahead of you; with turnoffs, that’s twenty or more roads. I don’t have that many men. Stay with him.”

  Agnes didn’t need reminding of the difficulties. Patel roared around a car, cutting it off as he swept through the intersection. Agnes hit her brakes to avoid an accident and fell behind. She honked and maneuvered around the traffic. The other cars honked back.

  Her phone rang and she answered through the car’s speakers.

  It was Julien Vallotton. “Did I just see you leave the Institute? I’m here to talk to Bernard about a plan going forward. I think it’s best to get everything settled.”

  She swerved around a truck, only to have to slam on her brakes to avoid hitting the next vehicle.

  “Scaglia’s been kidnapped—” she nearly shouted, honking at a passing car and wondering where the police were. “Patel has him.” The call dropped.

  The Mercedes accelerated around a line of cars and she raced to catch up. Ahead was yet another roundabout. More routes that could change the entire trajectory of Boschung’s interception. All around was countryside; they were far from town and his base of men.

  From the corner of her eye she saw a car on a parallel path. A red Ferrari Pininfarina Sergio. For an instant, she had a vision of the Roach bleeding on the road at Baselworld, then she remembered that Julien Vallotton had an identical car. He had followed her and turned onto a farm lane. A field separated them.

  He accelerated. It was like a rocket taking off. His trajectory altered. He was on a path to intercept Patel.

  She was trapped behind a truck and couldn’t see ahead. There was a crash. A squeal of tires. The traffic stopped. She hit the gas and pulled into the oncoming lane where traffic should be. There weren’t any cars; they were blocked by the wreck.

  Her heart pounded. When she neared the collision, she gasped. Patel had slammed his car into the Ferrari without stopping. She tried to keep her eyes on the road and look for Vallotton at the same time, but the crowd gathered around the Ferrari blocked her view. Her foot shifted to the brake, but she corrected it, bypassing the accident. She had to find Tommy.

  Beyond the final roundabout, the road was a narrow ribbon through the countryside. It was some minutes before she sighted the dark Mercedes in the distance. She knew radar boxes were clocking them and would send a speeding ticket to her home, but no policemen were in sight.

  The Mercedes ate up the kilometers, lengthening the distance between the two cars. Near the crest of a small rise, Patel roared up behind a trio of slow-moving delivery trucks. He didn’t hesitate, swinging out into the opposite lane to pass. Agnes held her breath, unable to see if there was oncoming traffic. Horns blared as Patel topped the hill and disappeared from sight.

  She nearly swung out to follow him, but an oncoming car sped past. She took a deep breath and stayed in her lane. It was seconds, but felt like minutes, before she reached the top of the hill and could see her way clear to pass the trucks. She pres
sed her foot to the floor, feeling the Peugeot hit every minor bump on the country road. The pavement curved, heading higher into the hills, and she wondered where Patel was going. There were fewer and fewer turnoffs now.

  The road bent in a gentle S, and at the end of the second loop she saw Patel’s car, closer than she’d expected. She started to hit the gas, thinking she could finally close the gap, but what she saw on the side on the road made her slam on her brakes.

  Tommy Scaglia was lying in a dry ditch.

  She swerved to pull over, jumping from her car as it rolled to a stop.

  He was clutching his elbow. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood.

  “I didn’t give it to him.” He held out a clenched fist. Carefully, Agnes peeled his fingers back from a small box. It was heavy silver with a ruby cabochon clasp. Guy Chavanon’s. Candies slid around inside it and her heart lifted. They were surely laced with peanut or Patel wouldn’t have been so determined to find the box.

  This was the evidence she needed. “You did good.”

  The angle of the boy’s arm looked painful. “He threw me out of the car. I wouldn’t help him. I wouldn’t give it to him. I found it under the buffet in the dining room last week, and I swear I didn’t know who it belonged to. I forgot about it until I saw him looking. He told me to eat them or he’d hurt me.”

  “Tommy, you’ve done an amazing thing.” She took her coat off and laid it over him. He was shaking.

  The delivery trucks lumbered to a stop. One of the driver’s ran up. “Did he run out in front of you?”

  “Call the police,” she said.

  The second driver was already setting out road flares. Agnes reached for Tommy’s hand. They were close to the French border, and she wondered if Patel hoped to make it across. He might blend in with the larger population and evade capture. With his uncle’s money behind him, the options were limitless.