“What did she mean by that?”
Roland shrugged. “Just that she could live a more authentic life with me, I guess. She was always saying stuff like that. The point is that my daughter did not run away from home. I don’t care who she was sleeping with or what influence they might have had over her. She wouldn’t have left. Not then. Not when she believed she was coming to live with me.”
“Were you seriously thinking about having her to stay with you?”
“Sort of. I thought it might be convenient to have her keep house for me. These days I hire the cleaning service, but fifteen years ago I couldn’t afford that.” He looked up and met Eulalie’s eyes. “Find out who killed my daughter, Ms. Park. She didn’t leave of her own accord. I was the number-one person in her life. She would never have walked away from me.”
“Who do you think might have wanted to hurt her? You say she was dating boys. Was there anyone in particular? Any friends she mentioned often? Anyone she might have had a disagreement with?”
“I suppose there must have been, but it’s so long ago now that I can’t remember. I probably didn’t pay all that much attention. It’s not a father’s job to know the names of his kid’s friends or boyfriends. You’d have to ask her mother.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
Chirac sat forward. “I think some psycho got hold of her and killed her. Who was the one who was killing girls all over the island fifteen or sixteen years ago? He was arrested just recently. Come on, you must know who I mean. He was an Olympic athlete.”
“Laurent Task. He and his son were arrested a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, exactly. What about him? Why aren’t you guys looking at him?”
“The police haven’t ruled him out, but Rochelle’s disappearance doesn’t fit the pattern. It’s the time capsule that throws everything off. He never did anything like that with his other victims. We also didn’t find any trace of another body in Robson’s Field, which is where he buried his two victims. I know that’s not conclusive, and I can assure you that the police are interviewing Task about your daughter. Laurent Task is not a career criminal. He had never seen the inside of a jail cell before a few weeks ago. It’s quite likely that he would agree to anything that made his life more comfortable.”
“I saw on the news that he kept photographs of what he did to those girls. Were there… were there photographs of Rochelle?”
“No. Definitely not.”
Chirac got to his feet. “That’s all I can manage today. I wasn’t expecting to find this upsetting, but I have. I’d like you to leave now.”
“Sure. I understand.”
He stood in the doorway and watched as Eulalie put on her helmet and fired up her scooter. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he continued to watch as she rode to the end of the cul-de-sac.
This time as she followed the coast road down to beach level, Eulalie was unable to resist the lure of the waves.
She parked her Vespa at Cinq beach and took out the bag she kept under the seat containing her swimming towel and a bathing suit. She changed in one of the colorful beach huts that lined the boardwalk. The sun was sinking behind the cliffs and the beach was emptying of tourists. The day was still pleasantly warm, but not as scorchingly hot as it would have been between eleven and five.
She left her possessions on the sand and covered them with her towel. Then she walked towards the water and let it lap against her ankles.
The deeper she walked into the sea, the more it felt like a baptism. All the ugliness of the day was being washed away by the water. Her recent interview with Roland Chirac was the ugliest thing of all.
He was the first client she had really detested. Yes, she wanted to find out what happened to his daughter, and yes, it was possible to feel sympathy for him for the dreadful loss he had suffered all those years ago. But nothing excused the casual cruelty he had inflicted on his daughters since the day they were born. Rochelle – his favorite – seemed to have suffered more than her sister. She had been more at the mercy of his emotional manipulation - his withholding of affection, and the mind games he played with his family.
Just when Rochelle was at her most vulnerable, his selfishness had caused the family to implode in the most destructive way possible.
Eulalie’s heart bled when she thought of the teenage Rochelle trying to win her father’s love and attention. She had wanted to laugh in his face when he had said that the divorce had not affected Rochelle, and then gone on to describe exactly how her young life had fallen apart after it. The worst part was that she’d apparently had no one to fill the emotional void left by her father. Her mother had bonded with her sister, leaving Rochelle out in the cold.
It just went to show that an ordinary middle-class child who had never been physically harmed in her life could still be emotionally abused. Between her mother’s indifference and her father’s thoughtless cruelty, Rochelle had grown up vulnerable. Somehow, Eulalie was convinced that what happened to her at the age of eighteen was related to her early years of being emotionally manipulated. It had to be.
The sea water was up to her waist now and she plunged into it, swimming towards the coral reef that calmed the waves and held the ocean at bay.
When she got near to the reef, she turned and swam alongside it with the beach on her left and the corals on her right. She could swim for miles like this, but she didn’t have much time. The sun was setting, and the shadows were lengthening. Soon the sun would disappear behind the cliffs and night would fall with its usual suddenness. Before that happened, the lifeguards would call everyone out of the water.
Night swimming was not encouraged on Cinq Beach, although it wasn’t expressly forbidden either. The sea was dangerous at night, especially for tourists.
Eulalie swam north for ten minutes before turning and swimming back. By the time she was back on the beach, plucking her towel up off the sand, and rubbing herself dry, she felt clean and refreshed. The grubby feeling that her interview with Roland Chirac had given her was gone.
She changed back into her work clothes and set off in the direction of the Queen’s Town police department. She needed to touch base with Chief Macgregor to hear what progress his team had made.
She was pleased to see his 1960 E-Type Jaguar still parked in front of the police station. That meant he hadn’t left for the day. He had bought the Jaguar for a song in terrible condition and had been painstakingly rebuilding it ever since. This was the first time Eulalie had seen it in a while as there had been a problem with the starter.
“Hey, Manny,” Eulalie greeted the desk sergeant as she walked into the station.
“Evening, Eulalie. Have you been swimming?”
“Sure have. I felt the need to rinse off after my last witness interview.”
“I hear you. After a full shift here, I have to go and take a shower. Not always because I’m dirty, but because I feel dirty after some of the things I’ve seen and heard.”
“Are you just coming on shift?”
“No, just finishing. I’m going home in a few minutes. Hey, I hear Odysseus is in town.”
“Odysseus Pryor? You know him?”
“Sure. We were kids together. It makes me sad to think of all the heartache he has caused his sister.”
“So, I should believe her when she says she would like to get him off-island as soon as possible?”
“You should because it’s the honest truth. They get on much better when he’s living somewhere else. She can’t relax for a minute knowing that he’s somewhere in Queen’s Town. He’s always liable to start something. She’d love to see the back of him.”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might be staying while he’s in town?”
“I don’t, but you already know someone who does.”
“And who would that be?”
“Your friend, Jimmy the Knife. He and Odysseus go way back. Whatever Odysseus is involved in, you can bet Jimmy is ankle-deep in it too.”<
br />
“That’s a good tip. Thanks, Manny.”
“Don’t mention it. Are you looking for the chief?”
“I am. I want to hear what progress they’ve made on the time capsule case.”
“Detective Wright is taking point on that one. He’s been like a bear with a sore head all day. He spent the morning interviewing the victim’s father and came back fit to be tied. Says he’s never hated a witness so much.”
“I can relate,” said Eulalie. “This must be the first time Detective Wright and I have seen eye to eye on anything.”
“The thing that really burns his butt is that he doesn’t think the guy is guilty. He’d love to be able to pin the daughter’s disappearance on him, but he doesn’t believe it himself.”
“That’s something else we have in common. This mustn’t become a habit. What else have you heard?”
“Not much, doll-face. Just that the evidence reports have been coming in all day, copied to Detective Wright and the chief.”
“Let’s see if he’s willing to share those with me.”
She was on her way to Chief Macgregor’s office when Manny called her back.
“I’m about to call down to Roots and Shoots to order the chief his favorite dinner. You want me to order something for you too?”
“That would be great, thanks. Just make sure it’s not rabbit food. I need my carbs and protein, Manny. I’m a growing girl.”
He smiled at her. “Trust me.”
Eulalie knocked on the door and got a curt invitation to enter. As she walked in, Chief Macgregor looked up impatiently. Then his face changed.
“It’s you.” He stood up and came towards her. “I couldn’t take another person today, but it’s you.”
He closed the door and gathered her into his arms. She allowed herself to relax into his embrace, her cheek pressed tightly against his chest. She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing. His arms banded around her and he rested his chin on her head.
The last lingering feeling of unpleasantness from her interview melted away as he stroked her hair.
“It doesn’t make sense that you should heal me the way you do,” he said. “I don’t understand it, but I need it.”
She leaned against him. “Me too.”
Chapter 10
They broke apart when Chief Macgregor’s phone buzzed against his hip.
“You’ve got mail.” Eulalie sat opposite him at his desk. She felt steadier now.
“It’s the crime scene lab.” He looked at his phone. “They’re knocking off for the night and letting me know they’ve sent through the fingerprint report on the note that was found in the time capsule.”
“Excellent.” Eulalie rubbed her hands together. “I want updates – everything you can give me.”
He opened his email and skim-read the attachment.
“Okay, this is interesting.”
“What is it?”
“There were four sets of fingerprints on the note. Your grandmother’s, the current headmaster Emil Foucault, and the school secretary Ada Middlemiss.”
“The three people who handled the note on Hatching Day before it occurred to them that they were contaminating a piece of evidence.”
“Exactly.”
“And who does the fourth set belong to?”
“It belongs to Rochelle Chirac.”
“Really?” Eulalie closed her eyes for a moment to think. “She had already turned eighteen when she died?”
“Yes. Her birthday was in May and the time capsule project happened at the beginning of July.”
“So, her fingerprints were in the system before she died?”
“Luckily for us, yes.”
On Prince William Island, citizens were required to have their fingerprints taken when they registered to vote, applied for a gun license or a driver’s license, or acquired their ID cards at the age of eighteen.
“Is there any chance she wrote that note herself?” Eulalie asked. “She had already gone missing by then.”
“It seems farfetched. Unless she had been planning her own disappearance and wanted to point the finger at someone.”
“Or her suicide?”
“Did you find out anything today that would make you think she was planning self-harm?”
“Just that she was a vulnerable teenager. Her parents were manipulative and emotionally unavailable. Her family fell apart in the nastiest way when she was ten. She got into sex, drugs, and alcohol at a young age. But according to her father she was happy just before she died. He was thinking about letting her come and live with him.”
“Is that what she wanted?”
“According to him, yes. It was what she had always wanted. She was excited about it. He’s convinced she wouldn’t have walked away from that.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Manny walked in carrying a brown bag with the Roots and Shoots logo.
“Dinner,” he said. “I got you your usual, Chief. Eulalie, I got you a red-skinned potato stuffed with turkey and carrot stew.”
“Sounds good, Manny, thanks. Not rabbity at all.”
“You’re welcome, doll-face. Chief, I’m taking off now. The night staff are clocking in.”
“Thanks, Manny. Have a good night. I hope you ordered something for yourself as well?”
“Not tonight, Chief. My yoga group is having dinner at Angel’s Place.”
With a brief salute, he walked out of the office.
“Well, that’s progress,” said Eulalie. “Not only has he joined the yoga group, but he’s openly admitting to it too.”
Chief Macgregor opened the bag and doled out their food. They ate in companionable silence, totally focused on the complex flavors. Eulalie had to admit that Chief Macgregor’s favorite restaurant cooked a mean turkey stew, even if most of their food was rabbity.
They turned their attention back to the case only when Chief Macgregor got up to program two cups of café au lait on his office coffee machine.
“If Rochelle didn’t write that note, how did her fingerprints get on it?” he asked.
“I have an idea about that.” Eulalie picked up her phone and scrolled to the photograph she had taken of the note. “Look here. It’s written on a piece of lined paper torn from a pad. We all had those pads in high school. I used to go through five or six a year. See where it has holes punched on the side for putting in a file? What if someone tore this off a pad of paper belonging to Rochelle?”
“That’s possible. It suggests someone who was close to her in the school setting.”
“What other evidence did you get back today?”
He opened his email. “I’ll print copies for you. The time capsule had four sets of fingerprints on it – Emil Foucault, Angel de la Cour, Ada Middlemiss, and Lorelei Belfast.”
“So, the three people who handled it on Hatching Day, plus Mrs. Belfast who placed the order from the factory fifteen years ago. Our perpetrator was careful and organized.”
“What do you think of Foucault?” Chief Macgregor said.
“I don’t have strong feelings about him either way. He was a middle-school teacher fifteen years ago, so presumably wouldn’t have had much contact with Rochelle. I’ve heard that she was close to only one teacher, and that was Cole Richmond who took her for biology.”
“It might be worth checking out the headmaster anyway.”
“Agreed. What other physical evidence reports did you get?”
“We found the original order form for the time capsules. It has Mrs. Belfast’s signature on it. Sixteen time capsules were ordered, but only fifteen were used. The remaining capsule was going to be displayed in the headmaster’s office as a reminder of the project. It went missing almost immediately. Mrs. Belfast reported that it had disappeared from her office on the day that the capsules were buried.”
“More evidence that this was done at the time, and not recently. What else?”
“Detective Wright sent me
his written report after his interview with Rochelle’s father. He seems to have taken a violent dislike to the man, but there’s no evidence against him. He even has an alibi of sorts.”
“What’s that?”
“He was living in an apartment on downtown Lafayette in those days. He had a roommate to help him with the rent. The roommate swears he came home from work every night and never left the apartment until the next morning. The only time he changed his routine was when he saw his kids. Detective Wright also found a work colleague who swears he was on time for work every day, spent the whole day in the office, and didn’t vary his routine at all over the time that his daughter went missing. Of course, that means nothing. After fifteen years, everyone’s memory is shaky. A good prosecuting attorney would make mincemeat of that.”
“True. But it’s interesting nonetheless.”
Chief Macgregor collected the documents from his printer and handed them to Eulalie.
“Do you want to look over these? I have some paperwork to do and then we can leave together, if you like.”
“I do like.” She reached across the desk and squeezed his hand. “You carry on with your work. I have plenty to do here.”
As Chief Macgregor focused on his computer screen, Eulalie took a pen and notepad from her messenger bag and began to read through the documents he had printed out for her, making notes as she went. She found it easy to concentrate with him in the room.
It had just gone eight when he looked up from his work and said he was finished.
He followed her home, the flame-red Jaguar trailing behind the cherry-red Vespa all the way down Lafayette Drive and onto Bonaparte Avenue.
You are fixated on watching Mikayla roll the spliff.
Your eyes are glued to the movements of her fingers as she tries to tap the weed into place and roll the rizla paper around it. Her fingers are thick and clumsy. She can’t get them to work. The paper keeps unrolling, and she has to start all over again. Worst of all – she keeps spilling some of it on the floor. Tiny flakes of weed are drifting down from the paper and landing at your feet.
The Complete H-Series of The Eulalie Park Mysteries Page 125
