Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(20)
“Hope you aren’t contemplating jumping.”
The man’s voice startled her. Annoyance followed swiftly.
Julien Vallotton emerged from a narrow, low door. “I was going to leave these by your bedroom door, but one of the maids said you were already up here. She was impressed that you were at work so early; I think her way of criticizing the rest of us.” Vallotton held out a wool hat and a pair of fleece-lined winter boots. “She also said that she offered you boots last night and you refused.” He glanced at her thin damp shoes. “Understandable that you were uncertain about accepting help from the suspects—maybe the lining is poisoned—but I thought you might change your mind. Selfish really, I’m trying to keep out of prison for murder and don’t want to find you frozen in a lonely corner. A second victim.”
“Are you bird-watching?” Agnes nodded to the binoculars hanging from a leather strap around his neck. “I’d think all the birds outside today are frozen.”
He grinned. “I’m glad Bardy sent you.”
Agnes took the boots and after a moment’s hesitation eased her cold feet into them, jumping back in surprise. “They’re hot.”
“They shouldn’t be. Mine were only warm.” Vallotton reached for one and she stopped him, embarrassed. Of course they warmed their boots before putting them on. Who would put on cold boots when there were servants to prevent such things? Her toes were so chilled the heat felt like boiling water. She waved him off and tried not to sigh with pleasure as the temperature evened out. She added the thick hat, mashing her hair flat.
“I think you aren’t going to prison,” she said, remembering what Carnet had told her about the timing of Julien Vallotton’s arrival.
“Comforting. But someone is. Or should.” Vallotton raised his binoculars. “I wanted to see the damage. Of course, I could be checking to see that I hid all the evidence of my criminal behavior yesterday.” He lowered the lenses to look at the ground beneath them. “Yes, snowmobile tracks from the airport eradicated completely.”
Over his shoulder she saw a shadow in the distance. A man. Ralph Mulholland turned quickly and headed around the corner to the far tower. She studied his disappearing back, wondering if it was her overactive imagination that made him appear to scuttle. Perhaps he was simply cold and in a hurry to return inside.
Vallotton held his binoculars out. She shook her head, more interested in the activity directly below. Carnet and Petit had emerged from the chateau onto the lawn, Petit peeling off toward the drive in search of his missing radio, while Carnet started a grid search, setting out small wooden stakes near where they found the body.
Squinting to see in the glare of sun on ice, Agnes located the canvas walls used to shelter Felicity Cowell the night before. They had blown into a tangled heap against the trees before being encased in several inches of ice. Carnet’s efforts to find a weapon were likely in vain.
He called up to her, holding one hand to his ear with a questioning look. She shook her head: no cell service. For a few minutes she watched him slip and stumble as he went about his work. Just seeing the others had changed the morning. Normal human activity continued. She had had to remind herself of that every day for three months, and she wondered if it would ever end, this need to be prompted to engage with the world. Behind her, Vallotton cursed under his breath and she turned to see him slide against the wall. He was walking the length of the east wing and she followed, thankful for her new boots and hat.
Near the south turret they had a clear view of the entire lake. Remembering the predictions on the radio the evening before, she understood that this astonishing sight was what the meteorologists had expected. The wind had blown spray off the water and it had frozen along the shore in dramatic horizontal patterns, ice clinging to every surface: trees, handrails, benches. The fa?ade of the chateau was coated in three inches of ice dappled by the force of the wind. Near the water’s edge, the summer pavilion was encased in ice so thick it looked like a solid form.
She lit another cigarette, this one to enjoy. Across the lake, the French Alps gleamed white. Agnes could practically hear tourists cooing excitedly with their noses pressed to the windows of cozy hotel breakfast rooms, trusting to their hosts to find a way to heat and light the chambers while they took vacation photographs to post later on social media. From this vantage point the aftermath of the storm looked both awe-inspiring and chaotic. In every direction, fallen trees covered the normally ordered landscape and the road leading up to the village was a tangle of overlapping branches that created a barrier five meters high. She was fortunate Estanguet had helped the others down when he did. A few more hours and it would have been impassible. Now the ice would have to thaw before anyone could manage the steep slope, and even then a sharp ax would be needed to hack a way through. In the other direction, beyond the ice-encrusted shoreline, the activity on Lac Léman was altered with the ferries stopped, leaving the cold water empty. It would take days, if not weeks, to restore even basic services.
She leaned against the ice-covered stone of the parapet and closed her eyes. Mentally she reviewed the names of the chateau’s inhabitants, wondering who was a killer. It was a shocking idea despite seeing the body: someone among them a killer. Suddenly she was exhausted in a way that not even a cigarette helped dispel.
“If I’m not going to prison, who is?” Vallotton was standing beside her, cool blue gaze studying her thoughtfully. He looked prepared to steady her with his hand.