Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(25)

“And tell Petit that his wife went to the hospital last night to have her baby,” the officer said. “He’ll want to know—”

Silence.

“Know what?” Agnes clicked the microphone button but nothing happened. No static, nothing. Batteries? she wondered, wishing she had interrupted the man earlier.

Petit approached, stopping within inches of her.

Agnes looked from the dead radio to him. “Your wife is having her baby.” She hoped this was good news.

His face fell. “Early.”

“How many weeks is she?”

He rolled his eyes up, concentrating, and took a step nearer. “Thirty-eight.”

Agnes touched his arm. “That’s not too early. She’s probably ready to deliver.”

“Early and alone?” His face screwed up in anger, his eyes bulging. “The dead woman might not be an emergency but this is. They have to get me out of here.”

Agnes didn’t need to ask if this was his first child; she recognized the particular kind of anxiety. “There is no they. We’re part of emergency services and Bardy would never approve our calling in an evacuation helicopter for you to meet your wife at the hospital. I know it seems unfair, this is an important day for you both, but there are larger matters. They need those helicopters to save people who are in actual danger of losing their lives.”

Petit took a deep gasping breath. “Just because no one cared about death enough to help us, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t care about life. My wife needs me. I promised her I would be there.”

Agnes knew enough to not argue. He deserved the chance to be angry. “She’s not alone. She made it to the hospital.”

Petit scowled, then stomped off, turning toward the steep hill. Agnes hoped he’d work off his anger trying to walk up the slope. Without mountain climbing gear there was no chance he’d make it farther than a half dozen meters.

After he disappeared around the bend in the drive she ducked her head beneath the low beam of the door to the ice house. Doctor Blanchard was standing over a canvas-covered table. She could tell by the outline that it held the body.

“Felt wrong to leave her out here unattended, poor girl,” Blanchard said. “The door was locked,” he added as an afterthought. “No windows and the only way in.”

The room was empty except for two rough tables, a chair, and a heap of old flour sacks piled in a corner. There were no windows and the doctor had set oil lanterns around for light. They cut through the dark better than a flashlight beam. A low door leading to the underground ice storage was set in the opposite wall. Despite its lack of use the room was clean and thankfully free of cobwebs. Agnes stepped nearer the table.

“Last night I did everything I could without cutting,” the doctor said. “I was looking for other injuries. I usually get flu, cold, skiing breaks. Farm accidents. People in my village die of old age. I wondered what I should look for and even tried to call a friend, but couldn’t get a call out, so I did the best a country doctor can do and made complete notes for the coroner. Came back this morning with a few more lamps, wondering if there were other cuts, or something that indicated she might have struggled. Maybe she was tied up and escaped?”

Agnes didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm by asking if he watched as many American television series as she did.

“She appears to have been a healthy young woman,” the doctor continued. “No signs of drug use—again this is what I could see with the naked eye, no toxicology.” Agnes nodded encouragingly. “A bit thin, but too many of them are at her age. Late twenties I guessed, but you knew that.”

She shifted the canvas away from the body. Beneath it, Blanchard had used Mylar thermal blankets as a makeshift body bag. She glanced nearby and noted that the white evening gown Felicity Cowell had died in was neatly folded next to a clear plastic sack.

“Hardly ideal, but I didn’t want to lose any evidence that hasn’t already been destroyed,” Blanchard said. “Petit took photographs of the clothes on her first.”

“Do you have another of these?” She indicated the Mylar blanket. Blanchard pulled one from his satchel and spread it on the ground. Agnes laid the coronation gown out on it, carefully spreading the delicate fabric of the skirt and arms. Beside it she laid the heavy coat and boots. Underwear occupied a final tiny heap.

“Quite something,” Blanchard said, nodding to the dress.

Agnes had to agree. The white silk was delicately pleated from a high waistline. Stones—diamonds, she corrected herself—were embroidered into a floral pattern across the bodice and down the skirt.

“What is that?” she said, pointing to a flaw in the fabric.

“What you didn’t see last night.” Blanchard motioned for her to join him beside the body. He pulled the foil covering down to expose the chest area. It didn’t take a medical degree to see the small incision below her breast.

Agnes glanced from the dress on the floor to the woman in front of her. “She was stabbed twice? In the back and chest?”

“No,” Blanchard said. “This is the exit from the injury to her back.” He pulled surgical gloves from his satchel and handed a pair to Agnes, then grasped the corpse by the shoulder and motioned for her to assist him. Together they rolled Felicity Cowell onto her side to expose her back. Suddenly Agnes wished she hadn’t walked into this room.