Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(28)
“That’s rich. She was what—stalking me—and I couldn’t put an end to it without using a knife? You do know she’d only been here a few days? Hardly long enough for an annoyance to develop to the point of murder.”
“Two weeks. You’ve been here only a month longer. And I don’t think time alone moves people to kill.”
“Good god, I think I may need an attorney.” He tapped the table with his fingertips. “Forget I said that. Go on.” He crossed his arms. “She just looked like—well, she looked like someone I would know and she wasn’t. I don’t know what her game was and you’re right, she told me to get lost.”
“You mean she looked familiar?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know Felicity Cowell before she was introduced to me here.”
“You arrived six weeks ago. Your first trip to Europe?”
“Yes.”
“Unusual, isn’t it, that a graduate student would be given such a prestigious fellowship if they hadn’t traveled before?”
“I’ve traveled alright. Asia, South America, lots of places, and this would let me continue that research in Europe. Made sense to my advisors.”
Agnes didn’t think it mattered why he was here. “You know that she was killed in an evening dress?” It was impossible to keep details secret in such close quarters. “Do you have any idea why she would have been dressed so extravagantly in the middle of the day?”
He shrugged. “She liked pretty things. Don’t most women?”
Agnes wondered if he had hit upon a truth. Could Felicity Cowell simply have been playing dress-up in the world’s best closet? Not very professional but a secret passion fulfilled? The secret passion of a woman who loved antique things? Not unrealistic. She frowned. That didn’t explain why Felicity left the room wearing a historic dress worth a fortune, or why she wandered out into a killing cold with a borrowed coat and boots.
“Is that all?” Graves asked and Agnes nodded. He left the library like he was being released from prison.
A glance at her mobile phone confirmed what she already knew: still no signal and the battery was slowly dying. She turned it off and wished the chateau had a generator; she would have traded the faulty two-way radio for a power source now that the indoor temperature had fallen close to that of outdoors. The fires at either end of the library were lit, but did little to warm more than a few feet beyond their hearths. Agnes wiggled her toes thankfully in the borrowed boots; she’d be frozen without them.
Moving near a fireplace she poured herself a cup of excellent coffee from a silver pot before walking the length of the library. Sixty paces. It would be impossible for anyone to say if the room was empty. The window niches were too deep and the upstairs walkway was completely obscured by shadow even in daylight. Perhaps Marie-José was wrong and Nick Graves was there most of the time, only stepping out for a few brief seconds as he claimed? Agnes studied the bookcases, swiftly calculating the number of volumes. Twenty thousand? Thirty? Each shelf was faced by finely worked metal covered with glass. She lifted a handle and had a soft leather volume in her hand when the door at the far end of the room opened. Frédéric Estanguet entered.
Earlier in the morning she had seen their Good Samaritan from a distance. Up close Estanguet’s face was tinged gray with fatigue. Evidently they had both slept poorly. Handing him a cup of coffee she thanked him again for helping Carnet and Blanchard down the hill. It would probably be the last time he offered to do the police a favor.
“I wish we had a way to get you home,” she said, knowing it was impossible.
“I can’t leave, not yet.”
Her face registered surprise and he shook his head. “I don’t know what I’ll find there. The damage will be the same everywhere. Roofs crushed by trees, water pipes frozen.” He shrugged, “And like here, I would have no electricity.”
Agnes pictured a small, dark, cold apartment. The chateau was cold but there were other amenities. She glanced at her hot coffee and the plate of pastries.
“And I live in Estavayer-le-Lac. It would be impossible to travel so far.”
“You don’t live in Ville-sur-Lac?”
Estanguet refilled his coffee cup. His color was improving. “I was in the village for a drink on my way home. It was wrong,” he continued. “She had her whole life in front of her. Dead where she didn’t belong. It’s all wrong. She shouldn’t have been out in the storm.”
Agnes was in agreement: Felicity Cowell deserved a chance at a long, productive future. She let Estanguet talk about the unfairness of life, her mind drifting to her own parents. She almost smiled. Her father would shrink from any mention of a violent death, while her mother would use it as an excuse to visit each of her friends. The story would guarantee she was the center of attention for a month. Agnes started to take a pastry from the tray then remembered the two she’d had earlier in the kitchen and checked the fit of her waistband. As a substitute she sipped her coffee, appreciating the warmth.
Finally Estanguet stopped talking, sat back in his chair, and sighed. Agnes reached over to pat his hand, hoping that he would one day forget the sight of the frozen body, although she knew she wouldn’t.
“You said that you don’t know the family but you do know the chateau. That’s curious.”