Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(38)

She only remembered parts of what they wanted to hear. She was tempted to make up answers, but that seemed like a way to get more questions, so she kept it simple and true. She had fallen over the dead lady when she was walking to Monsieur Arsov’s. Reluctantly, she admitted that she had not walked directly from the Vallottons’ to Arsov’s—like she was supposed to do if she walked alone. One of the many, many rules: don’t go by the edge of the lake alone, don’t go on the battlements alone, don’t walk up to the village alone. Rules made to be broken.

Now that the lady with the boots had finished with her, Mimi peered around the door from the hall. She eyed the grown-ups and waited until Monsieur Arsov spoke. People paid attention when he talked, and she used that time to move across the room on tiptoes, clutching her stuffed elephant Elie to her chest, knowing that if she made it to the sofa they would never see her. She was supposed to be “traumatized,” whatever that was, and recuperating with hot chocolate in the kitchen. However, she wanted to hear what the adults said.

They were talking about the dead lady again. Mimi rolled her eyes. Surely they had talked about this enough. She had recognized the dead lady in the ice from the time days and days ago when they ate dinner together. Well, the dead lady ate dinner with the grown-ups. Mimi had been sent to the kitchen to have her dinner under the supervision of Marie-José, and then up to her room to sleep. She had nearly thrown a tantrum, but decided it would be better to go along meekly, and then creep back down and watch. After all, she didn’t actually want to sit with them. Boring. She just wanted to watch and listen.

The dead lady was pretty, of course not as pretty as her own mother: The most beautiful woman who lived. Her mother had said pretty is as pretty does. The dead lady would have never said anything so ridiculous. She had seemed delighted with the attention, smiling this way and that. Holding herself apart from the other women and talking to the men who couldn’t keep their eyes off her.

Mimi remembered the beautiful dresses and the handsome men and the way the candlelight reflected against the tall mirrors. It had been a magical evening. Now she listened to the policewoman say how sad it was and everyone agreed. Mimi looked carefully over the back of the sofa. They didn’t look sad. No one was crying, not like when her mother died and old Monsieur Vallotton had wiped his eyes and told her that she would always be taken care of. That day even Madame Puguet had cried.

The grown-ups talked on and on until she wished she had gone to the kitchen and had that hot chocolate. For the first time she wished the nurse would interrupt and tell everyone that Monsieur Arsov needed his rest. She did that enough when Mimi visited. Why not now? They sat around somberly but not sad, talking about what she had seen as if they had been there. She settled down into the soft sofa and waited and remembered that special night when the candles had burned so beautifully, recollecting the beautiful dresses one by one.





Twelve

Petit cornered Agnes in the main hall of the chateau. He was desperate to leave.

“If you have three boys,” he said, “you ought to know that my wife needs me.”

“You know the protocol. If there was anything I could do, I would. Rescue services won’t make you a priority over everyone who needs assistance.”

“Why isn’t this an emergency?”

“Because in the eyes of those who make the rules your wife doesn’t need you. You aren’t a trained medical professional. I’ve been in her situation. Once she arrived at the hospital she was focused one hundred percent on the delivery. I don’t mean this cruelly, but in the midst of labor she won’t miss you. She’ll have a dozen people helping her. My deliveries are a blur.” This wasn’t entirely true, in fact his wife was probably cursing him and his job, but Agnes knew from experience that once the baby arrived all she would remember was the joy.

“It’s a tale to tell your little boy or girl: the storm of the century the day he arrived. Now, if you could take this to the doctor?” She handed him the package the cook had given her. It was small and wrapped in brown paper. Petit turned on his heel and left and she was thankful he didn’t ask what was inside the package. A pregnancy test would have seemed like salt in a wound.

With her hand on the library door handle she paused to collect her thoughts. Inside the library, Nick Graves was seated at a long table surrounded by books and papers. She drew a chair up near him. He ignored her.

“When we spoke earlier you said Felicity Cowell looked like someone you would know. What did you mean by that?”

Graves didn’t speak so she took the plunge.

“Most Americans lump England with the Continent. They make it all part of Europe. But you don’t. You’re well traveled. You know the difference. You haven’t been to Europe; you didn’t lie to me when I asked, but you have been to England. She looked like someone you ‘would know.’ An interesting phrase. A specific phrase. You knew her.”

Graves shoved back from the table and walked to a window. Agnes followed him into the niche. The window was coated with ice and the niche was deeply shadowed. For a brief moment she was afraid. They were very much alone and he was a powerful young man. Powerful enough to stab a healthy young woman.

“Did you run in the same circles in London? Was that why you said she looked like someone you knew? Did she follow you here?”

He laughed. Really laughed. “Yeah, I knew her. Knew all about her. Uppity bitch, coming here like she owned the place. Pretended she didn’t recognize me. It’s been what? Three years? But she knew who I was and I knew for damn sure she was the same person. Felicity Cowell she might call herself but when I met her she was Courtney Cowell. Stripping in a nightclub.”