Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(63)
Although there was no real evidence, Harry Thomason remained at the forefront of her list of suspects, with Nick Graves less and less likely as a murderer. Insensitive lout, perhaps, but murderer, no. Thomason’s relationship to the victim combined with the theft made him a possible candidate, but there wasn’t more to go on than suspicion. Had he and Felicity schemed to rob the Vallottons and then fought and he killed her? Or had he planned the murder all along to rid himself of an accomplice? Perhaps he had discovered she was a thief and struck in anger and surprise. There were various scenarios, and the only one she could rule out was accidental death. The knife didn’t slip into Felicity Cowell. It was driven very purposefully into her back. Brutally, even. She wished for the hundredth time that they had the knife. Was it an object of value that triggered an argument? Or was it brought intentionally to kill her?
She walked all the way to the lake’s edge before turning to study the chateau. The impact of the storm was enormous. The entire fa?ade near the lake was sheeted with ice: glass, stone, and wood all sealed by nature. She smiled. To her boys these days would be a wonderful memory of afternoons outside in the winter weather. Her oldest would expect stories from her time away, convinced that being a police inspector was thrilling. None of them, sitting in their grandparents’ house warmed by blazing fireplaces, would know about the stranded cars and cold homes. For this, she was grateful.
She shoved her hands in her pockets and turned to look out over the frozen gray lake. Broken and ice-encased trees edged the shore; otherwise it was impossible to tell precisely where the water ended. Dangerous. She studied the shoreline intently, as if it held the solution to all of her questions, trying to drown out memories with concentration. Home still meant George. Memories were Pandora’s box.
She couldn’t stop herself. George was too present in everything she did and thought and said. She needed to re-contextualize her memories. He wasn’t solid, plodding George, but someone different—no longer devoted son, husband, and father. Instead, a different man, one she didn’t know.
Unfortunately, forever, remembering George meant thinking of Carnet. He was a different kind of memory—flat—for the range of their shared experiences was thinner, despite seeing each other for hours every day at work. At the same time, the memory was crisp, and she steeled herself and then let the images slip across her mind’s eye. She needed to look at him differently, an image without preconception. Stripping away her feelings, she conceded that although not handsome, he was charismatic. She swallowed bile. Desirable even.
Wind whipped across her face and stinging tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She closed them. Melancholy was an emotion she had grown familiar with; it was a comfort. The cold burned her cheeks and she pictured George, only this time he wasn’t alone, he was standing next to Carnet at the shooting match, laughing and gesticulating widely as he explained something, a broad smile on his animated face. She tried to wallow in her darkening emotions, but a nudge of a smile tilted the corner of her mouth. How had she not seen it? She was a police inspector, for god’s sake. Were her eyes clouded because it was another man? Or because it was too close to her? Pressing a gloved hand to her heart, she took a deep breath. Every day had been a struggle, every day she had examined herself and her failings and never had she blamed that terrible day on George. She took another deep breath, feeling that she was on a precipice. She looked out over the water. There was no blame; life would move on. At the edge of her mind there was another voice: Sybille’s. Morning had redoubled her conviction that his parents could not know. Let someone else lead the way for equality and acceptance; her boys had been through enough to not suffer renewed pity from the villagers. She frowned, realizing it was unfair to George to hide his true self from his sons. She was wondering about telling them when they were older and able to understand and be accepting of the powerful struggle he had faced, when a shouted “good morning” made her turn.
Julien Vallotton appeared from behind a tangle of limbs, dressed for outdoor work and carrying a bundle of orange strips. Taking a deep breath to clear her mind, Agnes met him halfway across the lawn, but not before wondering again exactly where the shore began. Harry Thomason’s story about walking around the point of the cliff was more believable now that she had seen the edge for herself. She sighed. She needed someone to be guilty. A day and a half had passed and they were no closer to a solution than when she arrived. For a moment she was glad Bardy was trapped at home without a telephone. He couldn’t know of her failure.
“Marking trees,” Vallotton said, when he was near enough to be heard. “More will have to come down than fell, too many limbs have been stripped away. Carnet came by earlier offering to help.” He looked at Agnes closely. “He seemed distressed. Have you discovered something?”
“He’s probably tired. Monsieur Arsov has had a stroke—or something like a stroke.” Transient ischemic attack didn’t roll off the tongue easily. “Nurse Brighton insists he will recover, and that he doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”
Vallotton looked toward the mansion, then studied his own residence. “Stubborn. Like my father. In his last months he knew it was the end and had his bed moved to the tower there.”
Agnes followed his eye to the original tower nearest the lake. The top floor was marked by a series of tall narrow slits with slightly shorter openings running horizontally through them, creating stunted crosses. Openings for bows and arrows now in-filled with glass.