Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(18)

“Bardy said as much when he called me. It was the first thing he did when he heard from the gendarmerie. Called Cointrin’s ground security and checked the time Vallotton’s flight arrived. They noted when his car left the tarmac.”

“How’d he know it was a crime?”

“Habit of experience. Imagine the worst. Anyway, he said it was impossible for Julien Vallotton to be involved with the woman’s death. Those were literally Bardy’s last words to me before the phone cut out. The ice that covered her came in the first wave of the storm before Vallotton arrived.”

Agnes ran her eyes down the list of notes she had taken earlier. “Arsov has a large staff; all accounted for.” She fidgeted with her waistband. “We have nothing.”

“Tomorrow we start again. No one is leaving. And in daylight people are more cooperative.”

“A killer is out there.” Agnes glanced at Carnet. “Granted, probably not wandering the countryside killing randomly, and the property is not just private, it is hard to reach. Is it possible to go along the shore past the neighbor’s and not have to climb up the hill? Maybe it was someone from the outside, someone on drugs, or simply crazy.” She glanced at Carnet and saw that he found that scenario as unlikely as she did. “If not, at least we can rule it out.”

“Agnes—”

“We need to know more about the victim, then we can see the connection to this place or the others, or if one even exists. Why would someone want to kill her? And why kill her here?”

“Jealousy, hate, greed, fear,” said Carnet. “We have our choice of reasons.”

“The Vallottons don’t seem like killers.”

“Few people do. Probably any one of us can kill if the reason is strong enough. Crimes of passion. Revenge.”

“What she was wearing bothers me. My impression is that Felicity Cowell dressed carefully. Too carefully, the marquise seemed to think. Probably wanted to present herself well. She was a young professional.” Agnes flipped through the pages of her notebook. “You remember that laundering scheme two years ago? How the auction types were all dressed to the nines, reeking money to impress their clients? I think Felicity Cowell was the same. The marquise likely doesn’t have a concept of needing to impress since she had that mastered at birth. But dressing well usually doesn’t mean overdressing. It means being absolutely appropriate. Felicity Cowell was wearing an evening gown in the middle of the afternoon, with a man’s boots and coat. Forget that she was outside in that garb, why was she wearing it in the first place in the middle of a workday? She would have looked absurd. If the coat is supposed to have been taken from the armoire in the small hall by the door, well, I checked and there are other coats there. More-appropriate coats. Women’s coats. A fur even. Why did she pick that one?”

Carnet sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. They sat in silence. Agnes ran her pen down her notes, wondering where to begin in the morning.

“Agnes, we need to talk about George.” Her head snapped up, eyes wide in astonishment. “I know he’s on your mind and having me here, having us work together, doesn’t make it easier. You wanted a clean break and to return to work with different colleagues, a different office, and I thought it was a good idea. Anything to help you forget.”

“What is there to talk about? He’s dead.” She felt tears rise easily to the surface. She didn’t want to talk about her husband. He was already too present in her mind tonight and her family life had always been separate from work. That was all that allowed her to continue in the aftermath of tragedy.

“He was a good man, and he loved his sons. Remember that. And he was so proud of you.”

“Don’t say things to make me feel better. I won’t have it.”

“He was proud of you.”

“You didn’t even know George.” Her voice quavered. She remembered Carnet arriving at the scene seconds after her: taking charge, making sure she was away before she learned more of the horrific details of the drop from the bridge onto the road; before hysteria could settle in.

“You’ve forgotten that I met George at Bienne just before the match. I came to see you shoot and you took a first.”

She had forgotten, but now remembered seeing the two men talking. She’d been thrilled to show off in front of her boss; certain her husband was proud. Vigorously she rubbed a tear off her cheek.

There were footsteps down the hall. Agnes stood and turned her flashlight toward the noise. A match flared and a candle illuminated. In the arc of light they saw a young woman cup her hand around the flame. Agnes looked at Carnet who mouthed, “One of the maids, Marie-José.” The woman approached and asked if Agnes was the inspector in charge. With a brief glance at Carnet, Agnes said yes, she was.

“May I speak with you privately? No disrespect to monsieur.”

“Was there something else?” Agnes asked Carnet. He shook his head no and she said good night before leading Marie-José into her room.

In the corridor the young woman had appeared self-assured, but once inside the bedroom she was nervous and Agnes gave her a moment to collect herself. Thin and pretty in a quiet way, Marie-José had brown hair and eyes and good teeth. She rounded out her appearance with jeans and a heavy sweater. Pouring her guest a glass of water from a carafe, Agnes wondered if the girl wore a uniform when on duty. Marie-José took a few sips before setting the glass on the small table near the bed. She opened her mouth a few times as if to speak, but didn’t make a sound.