Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(4)
“I’m at Chateau Vallotton,” she blurted out, mentally excusing herself for the slight exaggeration. The silence over the phone spoke volumes. She added a few details about the reason she was away from her family on a stormy night and in the pause could sense Sybille’s mental tug-of-war. No one they knew had ever been invited to the chateau. And, although not a social call, it would be the nearest any of Sybille’s friends came to visiting the property. Agnes knew that she was tempted to be curious.
While her mother-in-law chewed on this dilemma, Agnes made out a few lights glimmering through windows high in the nearest tower. She was familiar with the chateau from trips on Lac Léman and tried to reconcile what was in her mind with the narrow illuminated slits in front of her.
“If the dead woman is outside then you’re unlikely to go in,” Sybille finally said, cruelty winning out over curiosity. “They’ll keep you standing in the freezing rain and send you home to do your reports.”
Agnes didn’t argue.
Sybille’s voice was raised. “None of my friends have daughters who work at night in a storm. The worst storm of my lifetime. Who knows what is going to happen, and you’re thinking of yourself and not of your family—”
The line went dead. Startled, Agnes tapped the mobile phone screen. Call failed. At least she hadn’t hung up accidentally. She tried to connect a few times before slipping the useless device into her handbag. Just then, the blurred glow of the village went black. With the light went any sign of the buildings and all that was left was a white haze fading into darkness. If power was out because of the storm, tonight’s job just got harder, and would take longer. She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel in dismay. After a moment she smiled in satisfaction. She knew why the chateau was dramatically altered from this angle: the more familiar lakeside fa?ades had newer, larger windows cut into them. She dredged up another morsel from her tiny store of knowledge about architecture: the windows facing the lake were in the Renaissance style, larger than the earlier narrow defensive arrow slits. She laughed under her breath. It made sense. Of course the Vallotton family had renovated over the centuries. Larger windows once they didn’t need a fortified residence, and, likely, modern plumbing and electricity.
She pulled herself nearer the windshield and peered down the hill through the eerie white night, the nearer trees glistening in her headlights. What kind of people lived in a place like this? Her curiosity was aroused by Sybille’s reaction more than she would admit. The phone call reminded her of the first time she met George’s parents. They were intimidating with their politeness, their hesitant questions drawing attention to her own upbringing and reminding her how her parents had worn a veneer of Swiss-ness in public, while keeping to their own customs at home. George’s parents’ house had been her dream: the perfect wooden chalet with balconies running on the upper floors and flowers cut into the old-fashioned wood shutters. She frowned. If George’s family home was at one end of Swiss domestic perfection then Chateau Vallotton was at the other, and she hoped she would have a chance to go inside. That would be something to tell her boys. Given the family’s prominence, it was no wonder Bardy had been called.
Bardy. His name was like a dose of cold water. The drive from Lausanne had already taken too long and now she had delayed unnecessarily. She nosed her car closer to the edge of the lane. It was impossible to see the pavement that cut down the steep hill. She glanced around one last time as if Bardy might be parked nearby, perhaps ready to suggest they manage the situation from the comfort of the gendarmerie. But the street was empty and she was expected below.
Gripping the wheel, she touched the gas. Instantly she knew it was a mistake.
Two
The Citro?n struck something, rolled a bit farther, then shuddered to a stop. “Inspector Lüthi, indeed,” Agnes said, appalled by her own poor judgment. She loosened her hands from the steering wheel and rested her forehead on the cold plastic, shaking with relief. Glancing up at the looming wall of the chateau, she turned off the car’s headlights, noting one had shattered on impact, and hoped no one had witnessed her calamitous descent. She decided not to dwell on the damage done to the driver’s-side door by the branches she’d careened into, or the dent in the hood created by whatever hard object she’d struck at the base of the hill. At least it had stopped her sliding into the chateau itself.
Shaking off the shock of the crash, she stepped out of the car. Immediately she regretted her thin pantyhose and sensible pumps, wishing she had worn sturdy boots and heavy stockings. She had on her winter coat, but the severity of the storm was unexpected and she had left in a hurry that morning without scarf, hat, or gloves. To compensate, she fished a thin plastic rain cap from under the seat of her car. Ridiculous but necessary as the sleet fell in sharp streams.
A flash of light erupted to her left and she knew that was where the others were gathered. She acclimated to the cold and got her bearings: chateau in front of her blocking wind off the lake, cliff and village to the rear, with the long, flat peninsula on either side. Wander too far in three directions and the lake was waiting, a treacherous death trap.
Walking as quickly as she dared on the ice, she kept close to the outer wall of the chateau, hand clasped around the flashlight she kept in the car for emergencies.
Reaching the far side of the east tower she felt the punch of the storm full-on. She gasped and braced herself. In the distance, a beam of light filtered through the branches of a small stand of trees. She ran her own flashlight beam across the frozen lawn, sliding forward carefully to avoid falling, leaning to counter the wind. Overhead, milky ice, thicker than a finger, encapsulated every tree limb. Her plastic rain hat whipped off and disappeared and she wanted to turn back, her earlier enthusiasm for the job no match for these conditions. The temperature was bitter and her fingers, ears, and nose hurt.