Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(6)
Cold and miserable, Agnes knew that if her mother called at this moment—this exact moment—she would leave. All the hard work of getting a place on the police force, of establishing herself, of thinking maybe, just maybe, she had a role and that her thoughts added value; today, in this miserable weather, having to face this man’s pity, she would toss it all in a second.
A blast of wind swept off the lake and she struggled to keep her footing. Ice cracked and shattered in the unsettling darkness and a long dagger landed on the ground nearby.
The larger of the two men accompanying Carnet dropped to his knees and pulled the canvas away from the dead woman. It was absurd that they were out here, any of them. Despite living in Switzerland her entire life Agnes hadn’t been inside any of the grand estates that dotted the shore from Vevey down to Geneva, but she knew they were filled with diplomats, industrialists, movie stars, and rock icons. If a society woman had wandered out in the storm and keeled over they should have called an ambulance and removed her to the morgue. Probably too much to drink, or drugs. Tumbled and fell, hit her head, and died in the cold. Agnes slapped her hands together to warm them, and wished that she hadn’t left her fur hat at home. Then she wished she was at home with the hat. Thinking about her boys and what fun they must be having, knowing tomorrow there would be an unexpected school holiday. She was thankful she had spoken with Sybille. At least the boys knew she was safe and not trapped on the highway somewhere.
Carnet put his head close to Petit’s and spoke briefly before moving to stand next to Agnes. Squinting into the wind she watched Petit thump his waist then turn around with his eyes on the ground, like a dog circling to find a place to bed down.
“Came from the local gendarmerie.” Carnet’s voice was deep and cut through the wind. “They’ve been trying to raise Petit on his radio. Looks like he lost it somewhere.” Petit wandered into the darkness, his flashlight beam sweeping back and forth, illuminating shards of ice. Carnet shrugged and blew into his cupped gloves, reflecting heat back onto his face. He shifted slightly to block the wind from striking Agnes full-on and she was grateful. Her teeth were no longer chattering, although that was possibly because she was too numb to feel the cold anymore.
“Bardy called me when he realized he couldn’t make it—he knows I drive this way to go home—but I ran my car into a ditch a kilometer above the village. Had to walk the rest of the way or I would have been here sooner.” He tugged at his sleeve. “Good thing this old coat was in the trunk or I would have frozen.”
Despite the circumstances Agnes stifled a smile. Carnet had always been particular about his clothing and she imagined he had spent a long second weighing usefulness versus appearance. Shielded by his bulk she felt some feeling return to her face. Her skin stung.
“I went for a hot drink before coming down,” Carnet continued, “and found Doctor Blanchard in the hotel bar. Thought you would need a medical man unless the coroner already made it. Didn’t quite know what to expect here. ‘Body outside’ was all Bardy told me before the phones failed. They didn’t know more at the gendarmerie. Well, they did tell me that Petit was all they could spare and that they didn’t know how I’d make it down without breaking a leg. I’m surprised Doctor Blanchard was willing to try.”
Agnes glanced at the man kneeling by the corpse. He wore oiled coveralls partially covered by a heavy Loden coat. With his wind-burned ruddy complexion he looked more like a farmer than her idea of a doctor. He was kneeling on a fur pelt.
“Blanchard raises rabbits,” said Carnet, “and was at the butcher when the storm hit. The roads are closed and he was planning to stay the night. The other man is Estanguet. Frédéric Estanguet.” Estanguet hung back from their circle, and Agnes gave him a nod, setting his age at sixty-five or so. She noted that the men were all dressed warmly and had the sense not to drive down from the village. Wind burned her legs and she wondered why she hadn’t dressed warmly like any sensible Swiss person. Perhaps her mother-in-law was right. Maybe she didn’t belong here. She quickly blew on her fingers then shoved them back under her armpits.
“Estanguet was having un verre at the bar,” Carnet continued, “and overheard us wondering how to get down the hill. He knows the place. He found crampons and hooked us up to a rope. Still hard going, but at least we didn’t hit a tree.” Agnes grimaced and Carnet smiled at her. “Now, I suppose I can say I’ve been mountaineering.”
He continued talking and she focused on his every word and expression, wishing she could read his mind. He had agreed willingly, eagerly even, when she requested a transfer from financial crimes. Now she wasn’t sure: maybe he hadn’t agreed out of kindness or relief. What if she was a failure in her new job, would Bardy insist she return to her old one? She had done good work for Carnet and maybe this was his way of maneuvering her return. Three months ago she would have laughed at the idea, but after her husband’s death nothing seemed certain. How could she trust her instincts about others when she was so wrong about the man closest to her?
She turned her attention back to the men. The doctor had removed several items from the heavy bag Estanguet carried, including a spare pair of work gloves, which he handed to her. They were fur-lined and she felt the relief immediately. She pressed the soft leather against her face, blocking the wind.
“She’s not really frozen, the body I mean,” Blanchard shouted to them. “It’s the ice around her. The wind was strong here, hundred kilometers an hour they said on the radio, and that froze her clothes despite her body heat. I’d say she’s been out here at least three hours, more likely five or six and probably no more than eight, although it’s hard to say right now. Body temperature’s unreliable because of the wind and cold. Both are unstable.”