Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(59)

“The ice house,” they said together, veering off the drive toward the low building set halfway into the earth beneath them. Petit fell, sliding down the gentle slope to land in front of the fa?ade. Agnes careened inelegantly into the side of the structure where it emerged from the hill, grasping the corner in a final attempt to stay upright. When her feet were firmly placed under her, she could hear the noise clearly.

“Someone’s locked in,” she said.

“The evidence,” Petit said.

“The body,” she echoed, moving forward. Petit blocked her.

“This could be the murderer.”

“No, it’s Ralph Mulholland.” She didn’t add: who could be the murderer. Mulholland wasn’t an armed maniac. Or was he?

“Monsieur Mulholland,” she called out over his screams.

Petit rapped a fist on the locked door a couple times. The shouting stopped.

“Monsieur Mulholland?” Agnes repeated loudly.

“About fucking time.”

Definitely Mulholland. She wished she could leave him. Instead, she searched through her pockets for the key Doctor Blanchard had turned over to her. The lock opened easily and Mulholland fell out of the doorway, gasping like a fish on a hook. He was wrapped in a dozen old flour sacks topped by a large canvas tarp. He was shaking violently.

“Oh my god, I thought I was going to die in there,” he said.

Petit briskly rubbed the other man’s arms but Mulholland shoved him away. Agnes wondered if he’d been attacked. She pulled her flashlight from her coat pocket and stepped cautiously into the squat wood building, running the beam from corner to corner. No one there. However, the door leading to the actual ice storage room was open. She glanced inside. No one.

Once she was certain she was alone, she swung her light to the table. What she had observed peripherally now horrified her. The canvas covering Felicity Cowell’s body was missing—claimed by Mulholland. The Mylar blanket was askew, and a startling white leg was exposed. Agnes hurried back to the entrance to give Mulholland a piece of her mind, stopping only when she took another look at him. Accusations would have to wait. He was in distress.

She grabbed the spare Mylar blanket from the floor and handed it to Petit to wrap around the other man. Hesitating, she handed over her borrowed hat as well.

“Fucking cold, nobody around. Dark as pitch.” Mulholland turned his face to the sun as if there was warmth to be captured. “Trapped in there with … that.” He waved his hand toward the room.

If he could speak he wasn’t in immediate danger although he was clearly cold, tired, and angry. Agnes wanted answers now.

“You’ve disturbed our evidence, the body—”

“You think I was there on purpose? Oh my god, I think I’ve got frostbite. I can’t feel my fingers. My nose.”

His hands were scraped and shredded from pounding on the doorway. Beneath the flour sacks and Mylar blanket he was wearing a suit and tie. Dressed for dinner? His voice was hoarse, his eyes were hollow, and he looked exhausted.

“How did you get locked in there?” she asked.

Mulholland tightened the Mylar blanket around his chest, eyes closed and mouth open, taking long deep breaths. “Kitchen pantry. Door shut behind me and I knew no one would hear me shout. I had to keep going. Finally there was a slope up and I came out into this room. Pitch-dark. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. This was the end. Knew I’d walked a long way but I’d lost track of direction and I could have been anywhere. Under the chateau, in the chateau. At Arsov’s. Then I felt her. It was cold. I kept screaming but no one came. I knew you’d check on her eventually and had to stay if I wanted to be found.”

“What door shut behind you?”

“Under the kitchen. The pantry.”

“Inspector Lüthi!” Marie-Chantal Vallotton walked briskly across the lawn, dressed as if for a Vogue photo shoot: thigh-high outdoor boots, blond knee-length coat of curly lamb with matching hat. Enormous sunglasses. Agnes glanced down to her own rumpled clothes, wondering if she should remind everyone she’d been wearing the same skirt, blouse, and jacket for three days.

“Have you seen Mimi?” Marie-Chantal asked.

“Not this morning,” Agnes said, eyeing the cuts on Mulholland’s hands. They would need to be treated.

“She’s missing.”

Agnes turned toward Marie-Chantal. She felt sick. She’d told Petit they were in danger without really believing it.

“Hiding, at Arsov’s most likely.” Marie-Chantal looked at Mulholland. “Ralph, what are you wearing? You look ill. Is that why we didn’t see you after dinner?”

“You’ve been here since last night?” Agnes asked.

He nodded, shivering, teeth chattering.

“André, get him inside,” she said, motioning toward Petit. “He needs medical attention.”

Petit gave her a deliberate look, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. “Maybe we should stick together. You could come back with me.”

She tried to hide her exasperation. “Go. Madame Vallotton will walk with me to Monsieur Arsov’s. And ask Doctor Blanchard to come out here and make sure everything is … in order. Return the key to him.”

Petit glanced up and down Marie-Chantal and apparently decided she wasn’t a murderess. He took Mulholland’s arm and steered him to the chateau.