by R J Fournier
She was put on hold, forced to listen to the same snippet of Mozart interrupted by a female voice saying, “Your call is important to us. We thank you for your patience. Someone will be right with you.” Despite her anxiety, Delyth couldn’t help wondering if standard, customer-service banalities were the right choice for a sheriff’s office.
Finally, the officer came back on. “I’m transferring you to Detective Griffin.”
After a few electronic clicks, Josh answered. “What’s up?” He sounded distracted but not adversarial.
“Okay. Just listen for a minute. I know that Cheyne traveled someplace the week that his sister was killed, and that he returned to his village then flew here three weeks later. I don’t know for sure where he was on the first trip, but I believe he was here. Which means he could be the killer. He has more motive than anyone else. Certainly more than Mike Vitkus.” She paused to see if he’d object.
Instead, he said, “Go on. Your minute’s not up.”
“Helen Terfel is in his house right now and I’m worried about her.”
“She’s what? What the hell is she doing there?”
Delyth told him about Helen’s promise to ask for Cécile’s ashes. “But what if he takes it the wrong way? I don’t know. If he did kill his sister—”
“God damn that meddling woman,” Josh blurted.
“She’s only trying—”
Josh roared over her. “Jenkins, get in here.” In a quieter tone, he said into the phone, “Now I’m going to have to act before I’m ready. Damn!” His voice sounded away from the phone again, “Get someone to the DuQuenne house. No sirens. We don’t want to spook him. It could be nothing. Just check if everything is okay.”
“What should they say?” a voice muffled by distance asked. “I mean, why are they there?
“I don’t give a shit. Just get someone there.”
EIGHTEEN
Etienne Cheyne was older than Helen expected from the description Delyth had given. She couldn’t understand why Delyth described him as looking like a flaneur. Perhaps when dressed up he might pass, but certainly not the way he looked standing in front of them wearing loose trousers held up by suspenders. A sleeveless shirt revealed wispy white hairs growing on the backs of his arms and a tuft blossoming from below the neckline. He had the splotchy red complexion of a steady drinker, but also the thick and strong build of a man who’d done hard, physical labor in his life.
“Asseyez-vous,” Cheyne said.
Helen understood that much at least. She sat on the sofa where the painting had been resting six days before. The painting wasn’t all that was missing. The drapes, carpet, books and half the furniture were gone, leaving an already joyless room even bleaker. Holes pockmarked the walls in a random pattern as if someone had used a sledgehammer to kill a pesky fly. Dust and shards of drywall lay where they fell, littering the borders of the floor. The overhead globe cast the same feeble blue light as the first time she’d entered the house, but then it had felt merely sad. Today it exuded a sinister chill. Helen wondered if the ghost of Cécile DuQuenne had stuck around to witness the demise of her home.
Marija sat in a chair opposite Helen. Cheyne remained standing, a smarmy smile plastered on his face.
While he and Marija talked, Helen tried settling the dogs at her feet but Mollie jumped up beside her. “Mollie, non. Malvais. Descend,” Helen said. But Mollie stayed where she was, turning to face Cheyne with her ears back, tail between her legs. The dog’s hostility was similar to her reaction to André the day they’d stumbled on him rummaging through the kitchen desk. Helen would have suspected a bad experience between Etienne and Mollie except he was in France when Mollie last lived in the house. There was no way they could have met before. Perhaps Mollie distrusted all men who entered the house, a reflection of Cécile’s fears.
Cheyne directed something in French at Helen.
“Je ne comprends pas French,” Helen said, trying to look apologetic.
Marija interpreted: “He said you are the woman who found Madame DuQuenne’s body.”
Helen was surprised he’d recognize her. As far as she knew, her picture hadn’t appeared in the papers. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. He responded with a scowl and something that sounded to Helen like, “Bah!” She hoped her polite condolences didn’t antagonize Cheyne, especially when she wanted a favor. Looking at him she asked Marija, “Did you explain why we’re here? That we hoped he’d sign a release for his sister’s ashes?” She pulled the letter from her pocket.
Cheyne took it from Helen. Thrusting it at Marija, he growled something that seemed to stun her.
“What is it?” Helen asked.
“He knows that I’m Mykolas’ mother.”
“He certainly is well informed. Tell him we just want to give his sister a proper burial. Then we can get out of his way.”
“He understands.”
Marija’s attention returned to Cheyne. They exchanged several volleys of rapid-fire French, leaving Helen on the sidelines, her head bouncing from one to the other as they spoke. Unable to understand the meaning, Helen caught the undercurrent of their words. Marija tried to be reasonable at first, but gradually grew angry then wary. Etienne, without raising his voice, conveyed a palpable menace.
Helen drew the dogs closer to her. “What’s he saying?” she asked, her voice betraying a rising concern. She could feel Coco tense up under her hand.
Keeping her eyes locked on Etienne, Marija said, “He wants to make a deal. He’ll sign if we tell him where the jewels are.”
“Which ones?”
“The real ones, of course,” Marija snapped.
“Why does he think we know?”
Before Marija had a chance to answer, Cheyne began again, his French slow at first but quickly gaining speed. Marija turned scarlet.
“What is it now?” Helen asked.
Cheyne edged between them and the door. The overhead light casting ghoulish shadows across his face, he appeared larger than the weatherworn peasant who’d let them in.
“What’s going on?” Helen demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Marija said. “He says you and Mykolas were the only ones who were here the night his sister died. One of you must have found them.”
“How the hell does he know that?” Helen gasped as things fell into place. The only way he’d know was if he’d seen them, which would mean he was here as well. Which meant he was the killer. A rush of adrenaline kept her from analyzing the flaw in her logic. All she could do was act. “My God!” she cried. “Marija, we’ve got to get out of here.“ She stood up.
“Non,” Etienne shouted. “You non go.” He said more in something resembling English, but his accent was so thick Helen couldn’t understand him. His posture made his meaning clear. He rushed toward Helen and scooped Mollie off the sofa. Although Helen was still holding the dogs’ leashes, she hadn’t expected his sudden move, and Mollie’s leash slipped from her grasp.
Coco barked wildly.
Mollie twisted in his grip, trying to bite his arm, but Cheyne was too fast. In one swift movement he threw the dog to the floor. She yelped then lay still.
Cheyne raised a leg as if to tromp on the dog’s inert body. He held it mid-air, throwing angry words at Marija.
“He says he’ll kill the dog if we don’t tell him where the jewels are,” Marija said.
Without thinking, Helen threw herself over Mollie.
Marija pleaded in French then English, “Don’t. I’ll tell you.”
Cheyne’s booted foot came down.
A brown blur flashed in the corner of Helen’s eye.
Helen heard a thump as she braced for the blow.
The blow didn’t come.
Looking up she saw Cheyne flat on his back on the floor, groaning, with Coco standing over him, growling.
Helen pulled herself off Mollie.
The dog didn’t move.
Helen laid a hand on the dog’s side. “She’s breathing,” Helen tol
d Marija. “And her eyes are open. That’s a good sign. Right?”
Mollie raised her head slightly.
“Do you think I should try to get her to stand?” Helen asked. She kept her hand on the dog’s side to comfort her.
“We should call a vet and ask what to do,” Marija advised.
Cheyne had been calling out the whole time, but now started shouting.
“He says you broke his back,” Marija said.
Helen thought he was putting on an act but when he made no effort to get up, she became concerned. “We should call the police. He’s pretty old. He could be seriously hurt.”
“It’d serve him right.” Marija’s tone dismissed his claim outright. “But, yes, we should call the police. They can take him to prison where he belongs. He threatened to kill us.”
Helen hadn’t been aware of any threat except to poor Mollie, but he may have said it in French; a lot had been said that Helen hadn’t understood. Since she’d already concluded he was a killer, it didn’t surprise her. “Do you see a phone?” she asked.
“Use your cell.”
“It won’t work here.”
“I could call from my place,” Marija said, “but I don’t want to leave you alone with him. He could be faking.”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t want to be alone with him either. We could tie him up.”
“With what? We have no rope.”
Helen was sure they could find some in the house, but didn’t want to take the time to search for it. “The lamp cord,” she said and pulled herself off the floor.
Together they managed to unplug a floor lamp but, as soon as they tried to turn him onto his side to tie his hands behind his back, Cheyne let out a convincing bellow.
Banging at the front door made them both jump.
“This is Sheriff Tomalson. Is everything all right in there?”
“Dennis, thank God,” Helen called back. “Come in. Come in. Hurry.”
“Mrs. Terfel?” They heard him trying the knob. “It’s locked.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Once they’d explained events, a process that put Helen’s patience to the test, Tomalson said he’d go to his car and call an ambulance. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked Helen.
“I’m fine but I want to get Mollie to a vet as soon as I can.” She’d sat again on the floor, barely touching the top of the dog’s head, afraid of jarring her in case something was broken.
“Sure. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
When he returned he said, “Ambulance is on the way. I called Sue Butler and talked her into doing a house call. She’ll be here in ten minutes to check out the dog. She said don’t move it and to keep it warm in case it’s in shock.”
Helen took off her jacket and tucked it loosely over the dog.
Cheyne hadn’t moved since he fell. The sheriff, standing over him said, “Etienne Cheyne, you are under arrest for cruelty to an animal, pursuant to Section 597, subdivision c of the California Penal Code. You will be conveyed to the nearest hospital under—”
“Quoi? What?” Cheyne said. He looked to Marija for help.
Her translation was short. Helen assumed she’d kept it to the minimum: “You’re under arrest.”
Cheyne half moaned, half spoke in response.
“He thinks you’re arresting him for murdering his sister. Should I tell him—”
“No,” Tomalson interposed. “Ask him if he has anything he wants to say. It will go easier on him if he tells us what happened.”
Outside a siren came close, stopped. People were talking, nearing the house.
Marija translated the sheriff’s question.
Cheyne looked up, his expression changing as she spoke.
Helen heard him starting with “Non.” She had to wait for Marija to translate the rest.
“He says he wants to see a lawyer. He’ll say nothing more until he does.”
NINETEEN
The wheels of justice had turned; Mike’s innocence was vindicated. The wheels of the legal bureaucracy, however, turned more slowly.
While still in the hospital, Cheyne was charged with the murder of his sister, Cécile DuQuenne. Two days later he appeared in court for his arraignment, despite being loaded up on muscle relaxers, and pleaded not guilty through an interpreter. The preliminary hearing was delayed while the French consulate was notified, and a consular officer had a chance to meet with Cheyne. Even without a judge’s official determination that the evidence against Cheyne was sufficient to warrant a trial, the murder charge against Mike was dropped.
But in finally telling what had happened, Mike admitted to moving the body and trying to hide the murder weapon. It took two more days for a bargain to be reached. Mike would plead guilty to misdemeanor obstruction, and in return his sentence would be reduced to time served and one-year probation. Unfortunately, the deal was struck late on a Friday. Mike had to wait through the weekend for his day in court.
Delyth went to the plea hearing. She’d been to allocutions before, and knew much of the time was taken up with the judge making sure the defendant understood that he was relinquishing his rights, including the right to a jury trial, and that he was doing it voluntarily. When pleading to a misdemeanor the defendant wasn’t usually asked to go into details of the crime but, because Mike’s actions impacted the case against Cheyne, the judge wanted the full story on the record.
Delyth hadn’t gotten a good look at Mike when she tried to interview him the day after the murder, yet her impression had been of a larger, more threatening man than the one who walked into the courtroom accompanied by a sheriff. He wore a sports jacket, cut to the fashion of ten years before, and starched khaki pants, the crease as sharp as a knife-edge. He smiled at Sam who was sitting in the front row, then turned and sat beside his public defender and the lawyer Marija had hired.
The judge entered, black robed and steel-gray hair cut short. She had a reputation for no nonsense in her courtroom. There was an exchange at the bench between the judge and the prosecutor. Then Mike and his two lawyers stood. Delyth watched Mike as he answered the pro forma questions the judge asked. His voice was calm, his face composed with neither the resignation nor the barely controlled anxiety she’d observed in other defendants in the same situation. Instead, Mike seemed as serene as time.
At last the judge called on Mike to read his prepared statement. For the most part he admitted to nothing new, nothing that Delyth didn’t already know or surmise. He’d discovered Cécile DuQuenne on the path by the back door of her house, a pool of blood by the head. He felt for a pulse but she was already dead. He dragged her body to the shed but was interrupted by Helen Terfel. He hid behind the shed until she left, then ran away, taking with him the shovel that he’d found beside the body. He wiped the handle clean, then buried the shovel under his truck.
When he was done, the judge looked from him to the copy of his allocution in front of her to the prosecutor then back to Mike. “Mr. Vitkus,” she said, “obstructing a murder investigation is a serious matter. The prosecution and your attorneys have reached an agreement allowing you to confess to misdemeanor obstruction. You are aware that if charged with felony obstruction you could face up to five years in prison. Before I agree to the lesser charge and lenient sentence, I need to know why you moved the body and tampered with evidence.”
Mike shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I thought my mother might have done it.”
Delyth could feel the other observers in the courtroom draw to attention, forgetting their own concerns that had brought them there.
The prosecutor grimaced then raised his hand and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Delyth could commiserate with him; Mike had just presented Cheyne’s defense with an alternative suspect.
“Why did you suspect your mother of such a horrific crime?” the judge asked.
“My mother came home that afternoon close to crying. My mother never cries; she had to b
e really upset. She told me she’d had an argument with Mrs. DuQuenne. I thought at first it was over me. The DuQuenne woman caught me eating persimmons that had already fallen from one of her trees. Windfalls. They were going to rot on the ground. But she went crazy, yelling in French and coming at me with a stick. I figured she had Alzheimer’s or something, an old woman attacking a grown man. So I got out of there. But when my mother came home… Anyway, I went to tell her to leave my mother out of it; it was between her and me. When I found the body I thought the old woman must’ve threatened my mother and she may have, I don’t know, accidently…you know…”
“So you thought your mother acted in self-defense?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What else could it be?”
The judge stared at Mike as if weighing what to make of his testimony.
Delyth didn’t know what to make of it herself. Marija Vitkus struck her as a formidable woman not easily threatened. It seemed odd, if not incredible, that Mike’s first thought would be that she’d kill over pilfered persimmons, no matter how irrational Cécile DuQuenne had become. The argument must have been about something else. But what? Did Mike know? If he did, he seemed willing to perjure himself rather than tell.
“Why move the body?” the judge asked.
“To hide it for a while.”
“It still would have been discovered. What did you expect to gain by hiding it?”
“Time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for my mother to escape if she chose.”
“Did you warn her?” the judge asked. “Did you tell her to run?”
“No. I figured it was up to her to decide what she should do.”
So he was willing to hide a body and to spend two months in jail with the threat of a murder conviction hanging over his head, but he wasn’t willing to ask his mother if she’d done it. At least her relationship with her mother, Delyth thought, wasn’t that complicated or that dysfunctional.
“And the shovel? If you suspected your mother, you had to expect the police to search her property. Why bury it where it would incriminate her?”