by R J Fournier
“But…” André looked defeated.
“I could talk to Etienne,” Helen said.
Delyth gave her a stern look trying to tell her she was crazy to put herself in the middle of this family. There were too many unanswered questions, too much lying and evading the truth for them to be trusted. Not to mention a murder.
Helen ignored her. “Maybe if I told him I’d been a friend and wanted to help with her burial.”
“Would you?”
“He’ll just give you the same answer he gave André,” Delyth objected. “Go to hell.”
“Maybe.”
“Probably.”
“It can’t hurt to ask.”
FOURTEEN
Over dinner on the day she’d met with André and Delyth, Helen informed Frank of her plan to visit Etienne Cheyne.
“I agree with Delyth,” he told her. “It’s a dumb idea.”
“Why?”
“If you’re right that Mike didn’t do it—”
“If Mikey didn’t do it! Of course, Mikey didn’t do it.”
“Okay. Since Mike didn’t do it, the murderer is still out there. It could be Cheyne.”
“Not unless he had a shovel long enough to reach all the way from France. He didn’t arrive until after his sister was killed.”
“Even so, it’s likely that Etienne Cheyne is involved somehow. You’re putting yourself right in the middle of it.”
“I’m already in the middle.” She was finding that position as bracing as a cool breeze in a stuffy room, although she preferred Frank believing her motivation was entirely altruistic.
“No you’re not. You’re on the periphery at best.”
“Whatever.” She picked up their plates. “Why suspect Etienne of being involved?” she asked as she headed to the kitchen.
“He inherited her property. Don’t they always say ‘follow the money’?”
“But he didn’t know that she didn’t have a will,” she called from the kitchen, “or that he was her closest living relative.” Helen came back and sat down. While she was gone, Frank had poured them both more wine despite her resolve to stick to one glass. She picked hers up without thinking and took a sip. “She could’ve had children for all he knew.”
“All I’m saying is that you need to be careful. Murder is a serious business.”
“Duh!”
“Then why are you playing around as if it’s a game?”
Frank’s worry surprised her. “This isn’t about the murder,” she argued. “I’m trying to help a nice young man bury his aunt with respect.”
Her urge to help André wasn’t as rational as she wanted to make out; André reminded her of her son. Not that they looked alike or even acted alike, but André was sincere and enthusiastic like her son had been at that age. Helen had felt a surge of motherly concern. She was sure Frank couldn’t understood any more than Delyth had.
“So what’s your plan?” Frank asked. “Are you going to bang on the door and demand Cheyne hand her over?”
“According to André, Cheyne doesn’t have her. I mean, her ashes. He hasn’t bothered to pick them up from the crematorium.”
“So you think he’ll go out of his way now to do it because you asked him to?”
“All he has to do is sign a letter authorizing them to release the remains to André.”
“And why’s he going to do that if he had André arrested for asking the same thing?”
“I’ll tell him a group of her friends want to give her a proper burial.”
“She didn’t have friends.”
“I won’t tell him that.”
“Do you want me to go with you? You know, in case he reacts like he did with André.”
Helen smiled at him. “That’s sweet. But I’ll be okay. It will seem less confrontational if I go by myself.”
◆◆◆
She wasn’t alone when she set out the next day. Mollie was with her. She figured the fact that she’d taken in the dog when Cécile died would be proof that she’d been a friend. When she called the coroner’s office, the woman who answered explained that Cheyne needed to delegate André to pick up Cécile’s remains. “A short letter will do,” she’d said. Simple, except Cheyne was unlikely to go out of his way to write a letter, especially for André. So Helen composed an authorization in her best approximation of legalese, which she carried in her jacket pocket.
She put on what she thought was her most neighborly face and rang the doorbell.
“Un moment,” a female voice called.
The door opened.
“Sophie,” Helen exclaimed.
In worn jeans, a plain, gray pullover and a kerchief that covered her hair and hid her ear piercings, she didn’t look the exotic creature she’d seemed the first two times Helen had met her.
Several questions popped into Helen’s head starting with what are you doing here? But before she had a chance to say anything, Mollie started barking at a group of cyclists passing in the road. “Mollie, quiet.” She tugged on the leash enough to gain the dog’s attention. “Silence. Assieds.” Another gentle tug on the leash. “Assieds.” The dog sank down.
“You are learning French. Excellent.”
“Just the words that Mollie knows. I found a website with dog training commands in French. Luck for me, there aren’t many to learn.”
Sophie stood blocking the door in a manner neither threatening nor inviting. But, after a short but awkward silence, she asked, “Would you like to come in?” She backed up to let Helen pass.
Mollie at first refused to move but another tug on her leash and a gentle, “It’s all right. Viens,” coaxed her in.
Once inside Helen explained, “I was hoping to see Monsieur Cheyne. Is he here?”
“No. He is away for a few days. I am watching the house and helping sort through his sister’s things. He hopes to be able to sell soon.”
“Oh, it’s gone through probate already?”
“No. He is sent from one person to another, but nothing happens.”
“Bureaucracies are the same the world over,” Helen sympathized, although her impression was that French bureaucracy was even slower.
“In France he would know whom he had to satisfy to get things done. Here, he is an alien. No one trusts his word because he cannot speak English.”
“You must be a big help to him.”
Sophie smiled but said nothing.
In the daylight the room seemed less somber than the last time Helen had been there. The books that had been scattered over the floor were now neatly stacked against a wall. And the painting of the crucifixion had been moved from the bedroom, and was resting in the middle of the sofa like an honored guest.
“I see you found the painting. I’m sure Monsieur Cheyne is very pleased to have it back.”
Sophie glanced at the painting. “Yes, despite the damage.”
“You mean the frame. Yes, those holes do distract. Your brother was right; the stones you saw, the ones in your photo, were fakes. I can’t imagine why anyone would deface the frame and pry them out.”
“Perhaps Vitkus did not know they were fake when he killed pauvre Madam DuQuenne.”
“That’s just the thing, you see. Mikey’s mother was the one who arranged for the glass stones.” Watching for Sophie’s reaction, she stressed each word when adding, “Mikey knew they were fakes.”
Helen was disappointed. Sophie merely shrugged her shoulders and said, “Then it is as the police say; Vitkus killed her over persimmons.”
“I don’t believe he did it.”
“What do you believe?”
Helen looked away. “I don’t know.” Remembering the reason for her visit, she asked, “Do you know when Monsieur Cheyne will return? I could come back then.”
“It is a pity but no. He did not tell me his plans. I could give him a message when he calls, if you would like.”
“Thanks but no. It’s a somewhat delicate matter. I should speak to him directly.”
&nb
sp; Sophie arched one eyebrow then gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “If it is to ask if he will take back the dog, I doubt it very much.”
“Oh no. Mollie is part of the family now. I’d hate to lose her. It’s something else.”
“As you wish, then. It was a pleasure seeing you, but I must get back to my work.” She ushered Helen to the door and quickly closed it behind her.
“What do you think of that, Mollie old girl?” she asked as they walked down the flagstone path. “Curious how Sophie keeps popping up. I get the feeling Sophie and Cheyne are closer than either of them let on. I wonder why.”
FIFTEEN
André had divulged a lot of information about Cécile DuQuenne, but Delyth didn’t know what to do with it. She was being honest when she’d told him an article about Etienne withholding his sister’s ashes would be counterproductive. And Cécile’s delusion about sending champagne to a bunch of nuns to somehow save her and her brother from hell only proved she was going senile, which had no bearing on her murder. Delyth encountered enough flack over her first story about the murder; she needed more than André’s word to get a second one past Ted’s injunction. She still hoped to uncover something that would shed new light on the case and justify the front-page, above-the-fold. She just hadn’t found it yet.
The day after her meeting with André, Delyth was at her kitchen table having just poured her second and final cup of coffee for the morning when Alice Tuttle called. After the usual polite exchange, Alice said, “I was talking with Etienne Cheyne.”
Delyth almost choked on her coffee. “What? When? Why?”
“That’s three questions. What kind of journalist are you?”
“Just tell me.” She put her cup down and wiped up the coffee spill.
“We had dinner.”
“He’s twice your age.”
“More, actually. By a lot. But he’s charming and I enjoy speaking French with a native.”
Delyth decided she didn’t want to know any more. “So why did you call me with that particular bit of creepy news?”
“He said something that…I don’t know…it’s probably nothing.”
“It bugged you enough to call me. Out with it.”
“He was complaining about California weather and said he’d gotten drenched in a rainstorm.” She paused as if waiting for it to sink in.
“So?” Delyth asked.
“So, it hasn’t rained in a month. In fact, the last time it rained a significant amount was the day Cécile DuQuenne was murdered.”
“How could you remember that?”
“I’m in the habit of tracking the weather because of the garden.”
“You have a garden?”
“Yes, I have a garden. Why do you sound surprised?”
“You don’t seem the type.”
“All foodies have a garden.”
Delyth didn’t believe that, but decided to drop the subject. “So the last time it rained was the day Cécile DuQuenne was killed. And that’s significant because…?”
“Think about it.”
“Oh! You think…?”
“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what he said.”
“Yeah. I’ll think on it.”
While suspicious, Etienne’s comment could’ve been mere dinner conversation, a good story to entertain a pretty woman. It wasn’t enough to build an article on; for that Delyth needed proof. But it did raise the possibility at least that he’d been in the country the day his sister was killed. The police should be told. By the police, she meant Josh. But that was delicate. She wasn’t sure if he’d accept her call or, if he did, whether he’d dismiss her as he had Helen Terfel. She could call in an anonymous tip, but she knew Josh well enough to know he’d treat it like a prank. She had to risk talking to him directly.
He answered after three rings.
Her stomach—she refused to think of it as her heart—gave an unexpected tremble. “Hey, Josh, it’s Delyth”
A deliberate beat then, “Yeah?” It was barely a question.
No small talk, she told herself. Get to the point. “I have reason to suspect that Etienne Cheyne was here before his sister was killed. In fact, he was here that very day.”
A longer beat on his end then, “Go on.”
She related what Alice had told her.
“Thank you for the information,” Josh said with the same enthusiasm as if she’d just told him Etienne was French.
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“What? Before you printed another article accusing me of shoddy detective work?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant. I’m talking about what you did. It put me on the spot. The sheriff’s statement after the fact sounded like catch up.”
It was catch up, Delyth thought. Josh hadn’t done anything about the niece and nephew before the article, then suddenly he knew who they were and where they were on the day of the murder. How did that happen?
Josh went on, “The sheriff was pissed. So was I.”
“Sorry. If there’s anything I can do—”
“You can keep your nose out of my cases.”
“It’s my job.”
“Then check with me first. I wouldn’t lie to you about anything.”
You’ll just stonewall me, Delyth thought, but she said, “Okay.”
He responded, “Thank you,” dragging out each word.
“So, will you let me know?”
“Know what?”
“About Etienne Cheyne.”
“The department will release a statement if anything comes of it.”
“But I gave you the tip. Shouldn’t that earn me some extra consideration?”
“I, of course, appreciate any concerned citizen who provides information pertinent to a case.”
Her chest, or someplace close to where she’d felt a tremble when she first heard his voice, caved in a little. “That’s not what I was asking.”
“That was my answer.”
“Fine. Thanks.” She hung up.
Delyth was angry afresh. Josh was being a jerk. She ran through her initial arguments why he was at fault. She had every right to run that story. Keeping the police on their toes was part of her job, which she resolved to do despite him. She’d find out the truth about Etienne Cheyne on her own.
Except she didn’t have access to the same resources as Josh. The State Department wasn’t going to respond to her request, not quickly anyway; the French police wouldn’t run a background check for a reporter from some small city in the U.S. She had to find a source of her own. There had to be a reporter covering Cheyne’s hometown who could help her out.
She called Alice.
“I have a friend in Paris,” Alice responded. “He might know someone who’d be willing to poke around. I’ll call and let you know.”
She called back the next day. “It wasn’t easy but I finally persuaded a friend of my friend who works for the newspaper in Rouen that there’s a story for him in all this. When he gets a chance, he’ll drive to Cheyne’s village to interview neighbors. While we were talking he did a quick scan of the archives online, and you’ll never guess: Cheyne spent ten years in prison.” She stopped as if that was bombshell enough.
“For what?” Delyth prodded.
“Don’t know. The online archive didn’t go back that far. He said he’d check microfiche when he got a chance and get back to me. But don’t you think it’s creepy that I had dinner with him?”
That wasn’t the only thing that was creepy about the two of them going out together, Delyth thought, but she didn’t want to antagonize her only source. “Let me know what he finds,” was all she said.
She googled Etienne Cheyne, wondering why she hadn’t done it before. A ten-year sentence suggested a serious crime; she expected something to come up, but nothing did. It might have helped if she knew what he’d done and when. All she could do was wait for the reporter in Rouen to search the old-fashioned way.
“He was arrested for robbing a museum,” Alice said without bothering to identify herself. “He and his accomplices got caught with the haul stashed in Etienne’s barn because they couldn’t find a fence to take them.”
“What museum? What paintings?”
“From the Musée National de Port-Royal des Champs. It had been a convent.”
“I know. It was suppressed for Jansenism.”
“How do you know that?”
“Don’t ask. So what were the paintings?”
“Five in all. From the sixteenth and seventeenth century. The most famous one, the one by Philippe de Champaigne, was missing when they raided the barn. It hasn’t turned up since.”
“Don’t tell me,” Delyth said. “It was of the crucifixion.”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
“I didn’t know but”—her voice quavered with excitement—“but I know where it is.” She was as astonished by the fact as Alice. “It’s in Cécile DuQuenne’s bedroom. At least it was.”
“Shouldn’t you call the police?”
“Not yet.” Delyth gained control of her voice. “Not until I can figure how it pertains to the murder.” And show Josh she was better at his own game than he was. “When did your French guy say he’d get back to you?”
“Don’t know. When he finds something out.”
Delyth had seen Helen’s photo of the painting but hadn’t given much thought to its provenance beyond a fleeting question of how Cécile DuQuenne had gotten it. Even then, she doubted that the family’s ownership reached back to the seventeenth century. She wished she’d done some research about it at the time, although it would have been difficult if not impossible to find out anything with only a poor quality photo to go on. There were a lot of crucifixions painted in France. But now she had the painter’s name.
A search of “Champaigne” didn’t bring up anywhere near the number of hits of a Rubens or van Dyke, but it didn’t take Delyth long to find him and to find the painting that’d been stolen in the early seventies. The heist had been a botched affair from beginning to end. The burglars, including Etienne Cheyne, were captured within two months. The police found the stolen art except the one painting titled Le Christ Sur La Croix. The prisoners all denied knowing what had happened to it, even when offered a reduced sentence for its safe return.