Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(47)

“You’ll meet my brother at dinner if you decide to join us. He’s walked that path you took by the lake, but I haven’t. Quite a distance, but nice enough in good weather; a feat after the storm.”

“I’m from a family of walkers,” Thomason replied. “We traipse around the moors near our home year-round; my mother is convinced a trek on rugged terrain is necessary before holiday dinners. From the hotel it was mostly flat. The ice was a challenge, but I was eager to see—” His eyes clouded and he struggled to maintain control of his emotions. “We hadn’t talked in a few days and I really wanted to see her.”

Vallotton rose and opened a cabinet then poured a beautiful golden brown liquid into two glasses. He inclined his head toward Agnes and she frowned a no, hoping Petit had the sense to decline. Her mind drifted to Marie-Chantal and the Vallotton brothers. How much jealousy lingered after she chose one over the other? Suspicions could easily turn into anger, then rage. On the other hand, they seemed to accept the strong undercurrents as part of life and relationships and she wondered: Had she missed the same between herself and George? Was there space in their lives for someone else?

After Thomason and Julien Vallotton had each taken a sip and commented favorably on the whiskey Vallotton continued, “You came down from the village? I’m curious to see how their recovery is proceeding. I can see some of the damage from our battlements.”

“I haven’t been to the village. I walked along the lake all the way from the hotel and then around the base of the cliff face.”

Petit stood in alarm. All remnants of color faded from Thomason’s face when the policeman explained that there was no path at the base of the cliff and Thomason must have walked on an ice shelf. Agnes shuddered and hoped that no one else had tried the same; the lake was deep and it would be a cold, watery grave. She caught Vallotton’s eye. This was a new problem: if Felicity Cowell’s killer left the property along the lake, he or she might already be dead. Petit would have to check the shoreline again. A fall through ice, a fall from a bridge. Both horrible ends.

“Dashed stupid, all week a disaster and then this end.” Thomason took another deep drink and steadied himself. “Maybe best if I had plunged through.”

Agnes knew that they would have to check Thomason’s story. They would also have to determine if the lake had frozen over early enough for someone to leave the property the day before. Petit and Blanchard could put their heads together over weather patterns and travel. For the moment, though, Thomason’s grief seemed real, but a killer could also feel or simulate emotion.

“This is painful, I know,” she said. “You knew her better than anyone and we need your assistance. Did she mention knowing anyone here? Had she been here before?”

“She hadn’t been to this part of Switzerland, and I told her to stay at the Beau-Rivage—that’s where the firm puts me up when I travel to the region—but she wanted to stay nearer her work. Couldn’t really blame her, what with the drive, and of course she would be just as comfortable onsite. For auctions of collections of this scale we often stay on the property, so it wasn’t out of the ordinary.”

Agnes felt sorry for the young man. He seemed to forget his fiancée’s death at the start of each sentence and remember it a second later. She wanted to tell him the feeling wouldn’t go away soon. Perhaps never. She lifted her hand to sniff George’s lotion. There it was again. A memory, stronger than anything a photograph or words could call to mind.

“I wonder if I could see her room, just to see where she was last,” Thomason said.

Focusing on Thomason required an effort. There was something important at the edge of her mind. “That’s another point we would like to ask you about. She decided to stay at a small hotel in the village. It’s not a bad place, but we were surprised by her decision. Any idea why she made this choice?”

For the first time Thomason seemed unsettled. He shrugged and swallowed a few times.

“Perhaps you have a sense of what she liked in a hotel,” Agnes said. “Maybe she thought the village inn was quaint or she liked her privacy.” Ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop talking. She wanted to comfort this young man and at the same time something didn’t seem right, she just couldn’t put her finger on the reason for her concern. He swallowed again and rubbed his palms on his pants’ legs.

“How did you two meet?” Agnes asked when he didn’t reply.

Thomason brightened. “At work. I’ve been with the firm for eight years, straight out of university, and we met the first week she joined, two years ago. I’m in philately. I do other things, but that’s my specialty, so we were fortunate to meet straight off.” He launched into a lengthy explanation of his work and the internal organization of the firm, how their offices were on different floors, and Agnes let him talk. Now she could identify her concern. There was authenticity in his answer, which meant that what he said previously wasn’t exactly the truth. She leaned forward and caught Vallotton’s glance. She needed a cigarette and he knew it. She met his raised eyebrow with a fixed smile and sat back on the sofa, fingers stilled under the edge of her skirt.

“When did you speak with her last?”

Thomason looked around the room. “Can I see her body? I want it to be buried at my family’s place. I think that’s what she’d want.”