Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(43)

“Was she what you expected?”

Vallotton walked around the workroom. There were a dozen or so paintings leaning up against the walls and he surveyed them casually before turning to face Agnes. She felt it again, the subtle power he had over the space around him despite his reserve. By either his glance or his presence he defined the room as his, all of the possessions as his, and she nearly apologized for the question.

“I expected someone professional who would guide us to a successful conclusion. The rough catalogue you see here appears satisfactory. We had two phone conversations and she was articulate and knowledgeable. I did not expect her to end up dead on my lawn, so in that way she has defied expectations.”

“What if I told you that she might not be as she appeared? What if I suspect she didn’t have a university degree or a well-connected family or anything really?”

A flash of surprise crossed Vallotton’s face and in that instant she was convinced he didn’t know anything about Felicity Cowell’s hidden life. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “You must more than suspect this or you wouldn’t mention it.”

She relayed what Nick Graves had told her.

“And you believe him? Of course you do,” Vallotton said slowly. “Why would he invent this? He knows you will be able to check the details in a few hours or days at the most. It’s surprising, but not impossible. Evelyn told me he first hired Mademoiselle Cowell—”

He cocked an eye at Agnes who replied, “Same last name apparently, and I will still think of her as Felicity Cowell.”

“Fair enough,” Vallotton said. “Evelyn hired her as a summer intern, and he told me that she’d worked out so well he’d kept her on. Probably didn’t inquire too carefully for the summer—likely didn’t pay her—and once she was there he didn’t think to go back and get references.” He took a long slow breath. “Even her name isn’t her real one? It never occurred to us.”

He fingered the top of a painting, an abstract, Agnes noted. The artist’s name was scrawled near the bottom of the canvas. Picasso. Of course.

“Graves said that it was three years ago when he was in London with her?” Vallotton asked.

“Three years ago exactly.”

“When I glanced at her photograph online there was also a résumé. I remember that she graduated from the art program at the Sorbonne three years ago. Makes it more likely her credentials are fake. She couldn’t have been in both places at the same time.”

“She would have been fired if Graves told someone,” Agnes said. “She would have been unhireable in the art world.”

“You don’t know the art world very well,” Vallotton said. “But I get your point.”

“She created this path out of a much harder life and now, in an instant, it’s all over. She would lose her job, who knows what else, and—”

“What, stabs herself in despair?”

“No, but she and Graves could have had an altercation. Maybe she knew something about him that he’s not telling us. We have a point of provocation. It escalates. Imagine you’ve worked hard—transformed your life—and now all will be lost. She would have been fired from this job, regardless of how the art world operates.”

“Fired? Not by me. You won’t believe me when I say that I don’t care about her past. I have some sympathy for Mademoiselle Cowell. Yes, Evelyn would have dismissed her for this falsifying of her curriculum vitae, lying about her studies, claiming certificates and courses at prestigious institutions she had never visited, but I understand. I know what it’s like to want to create a new past. I’ve lied about myself. Leaving off Le Rosay and Georgetown, saying ‘attended some college.’ Letting the bosses think I was ashamed about the name. I can appreciate that she might not have gotten her position if she had told the truth. Did she have the right to show her worth? I think so.”

“When have you lied about your résumé?”

“You really want to ask, when have I worked. For nearly a year at a ski resort in California. Squaw Valley. I ran the lifts, taught a few classes, and enjoyed myself thoroughly as far away from people I knew as possible.”

“I would think that your clothes, your voice, would give you away.”

“Like Mademoiselle Cowell’s?”

“Your aunt thought she was hiding something.”

Vallotton paused in his study of the art. “My aunt has unsurpassed instincts. It could be that she pays more attention to people, despite her appearance of negligence, or possibly she has a sixth sense.”

“You understand this makes our job harder.”

“Our?”

She frowned at Vallotton. “Mine, Carnet’s, and Petit’s. We start an investigation with known contacts—friends and family—and hope to tease out the problems that lead to murder and now our victim appears to have a double life.”

“Not necessarily a double one. More of a ruptured one? A double life implies she has a husband and twelve kids somewhere back in Newcastle who call her Courtney and like her stripping act. I doubt that. I think she found a way to move beyond her past. I’d like to think that’s admirable.”

“Still, she lied.”

Agnes could imagine the horror and confusion on the girl’s parents’ faces when they were told: their daughter was dead so far from home and at a place so different than where they were from. She wondered if they already thought she was dead. If Nick Graves was telling the truth then Courtney Cowell had started her life far from where her life ended as Felicity.