Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(3)
Slowly, she looped through central Lausanne, the city a glow of lights. It was Wednesday and passing Place St. Fran?ois she could practically taste the roasted chestnuts and mulled wine of the city market, a favorite childhood memory, a ritual unchanged in her nearly forty years. She turned the car onto the Avenue du Théatre, then angled right to descend the Avenue Villamont to the Avenue de la Gare, before turning left onto the Avenue d’Ouchy. The road was steep and slick and she slowed her pace and leaned forward, white-knuckled. Reaching level ground at Ouchy, she skirted the luxurious Beau-Rivage Palace hotel on the left, the yellow awnings quickly fading from sight. Here, near the lake, the full force of the storm was in evidence. A clear line of white marked the advancing edge of ice where the wind blew moisture off the lake’s surface, adding to what was descending from the clouds and freezing instantly. Immediately, she knew that she was in a race to reach the chateau before the road was impassable.
Her hand strayed to her mobile phone. It was still possible to call the station and say she couldn’t make it, but the thought of going home prevented her. That, and a need to prove herself to Bardy. If he sidelined her, she would lose the cornerstone of her sanity. Her sons might need her, but she needed this.
The road veered inland at the Tour Haldimand and slipped behind lakeside homes. Here there was less ice and she hoped the road would provide more traction. Minutes passed in silent terror of losing control of the car. Near the village of Cully the storm allowed only a few glimpses of the vine-covered hills and terraced walls. Where the road aimed for the lake before turning to follow the curve of the shore, she strained to see her destination. Chateau Vallotton was across the water off the point. Tonight it wasn’t visible. Or perhaps it was—that slightly brighter glow of lights through the whiteout. It was impossible to tell.
After passing a small port filled with ice-coated sailing yachts, worry turned to near panic. The few other cars were stopped at awkward angles and she didn’t have any illusions that her own driving skills were superior. There were no more towns on the lake road until Ville-sur-Lac and road crews would not have gone beyond this point. She shifted into a lower gear. She touched the brake, then the gas pedal, undecided about continuing. This stretch of road was isolated. She turned on the radio again and frowned at the news. The storm’s impact was unprecedented: a state of emergency across three cantons.
Ahead, the road narrowed. On each side were high stone walls and she knew she should not have started this trip. There was no way to turn back now, no place to stop. She owed her boys safety and security. If she died they would be orphans.
Twenty minutes later, the lane crested on the cliff and the wall on the lakeside fell away. Wind struck the car and it slid sideways, pushed inland. At that moment, just when she thought she wouldn’t make it, the car slipped into the shelter of the village.
Agnes relaxed and took a deep breath, blinking moisture from her eyes. She unclenched her hands from the steering wheel, feeling her stress dissipate. She remembered passing through Ville-sur-Lac years before. The buildings of the tiny village were ancient stone and they shouldered together against the road, leaving only a narrow strip of pavement for cars to maneuver. Tonight, hers was the only vehicle battling the elements and she kept to the center of the street. The green pharmacy sign flashed through the white blur and she could imagine each business as clearly as if it was broad daylight: butcher, confiserie, hotel. Somewhere was the gendarmerie where the small local police force was likely worried about storm damage. She glided to an uneasy stop where the lane to the chateau sloped down precipitously. Farther up the main street she could make out the rear of a large tourist bus. Shadowy forms filed off and scurried into a building. The village hotel, she presumed, absently thinking it unlikely they had enough rooms to accommodate an unexpected busload of guests. At that moment her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and remembered why she was anxious to take this assignment.
A few minutes later she interrupted. “It’s an honor, working with étienne Bardy.” She’d said these same words to her mother-in-law a hundred times since she had decided to return to work. “This may be an important case.” The white lie slipped out easily.
Through the darkness she could make out the roofline of the chateau on the shallow peninsula below the cliff and, to give her mother-in-law time to complain, she plucked facts about the historic property from memory. Every schoolchild knew the basics: the oldest part was a hulking round tower nearly a thousand years old. Perched on the edge of the lake, it was a well-known icon gracing generations of artists’ sketches and postcards.
“More important than your sons?” Sybille’s voice cut through her reverie. “Working when a mother should be home. I know your parents had different customs—”
It was an old refrain, one Agnes had long ago decided to ignore. In Sybille’s mind American and uncultured interloper were equivalent terms. Knowing a response wasn’t required, Agnes focused on the chateau and probed her memory. In addition to the original tower, there were three others, all joined by long arms to create the final square fortress. She peered out the side window of her car, squinting into the white blur of the night. Years ago she had read about the smaller towers and a wall along the top of the cliff where the village now stood. The whole arrangement was unusual: the family constructing a fortress to control lake trade and then adding protection high above. Why not build on the cliff in the first place? The wall remnants were long destroyed or incorporated into the village; Agnes couldn’t make out a trace of them.