by Betsy Draine
Toby looked perplexed. “Even if that’s what happened, why would Vincent keep quiet about it when he got back to the inn? Why would he take the blame if some kid shot him?”
“Ah. That’s the beauty of pure speculation. If you ask me, the authors have to twist their argument like a pretzel to fit the facts. What they come up with is that Vincent didn’t have the nerve to commit suicide even though he longed for death, so he decided not to blame the boy who shot him. Instead, he covered it up. Now, how convincing does that sound to you?”
“Not very,” Toby admitted. “But it sure makes a good story.”
“A good story? I don’t deny it. But we’re supposed to be biographers, not novelists. A novelist can make up anything he wants. But damn it—a biographer is supposed to tell the truth!” Bennett banged his fist on the table. His plate shook.
Shelley jumped. “Don’t do that, Ben. I hate it when you do that.”
“Sorry,” he said, but the apology was directed to us, and Shelley noticed. “Meanwhile they have a best seller,” he grumbled.
I said, “And now a woman appears claiming to have information that will shed new light on the question, and she’s found dead. What was Isabelle La Font going to tell us? Do you have any idea?”
“Unfortunately, no. She wouldn’t let anything slip during the dinner. I tried to press her. And now of course . . .” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
“So you’ll go ahead with publishing your biography?” I asked.
“There’s no reason now for me to delay it. Naifeh and Smith made such a splash with theirs, I’ll be lucky if I can get any reviewers to pay attention to mine. At least I’ll set the record straight. And I’ll have the last word, at least for now.”
“And you’re convinced he committed suicide,” Toby stated.
“Yes. All the signs point to it.”
“Ben,” I said, “what if Isabelle had come up with information supporting the other theory?”
“That it was murder? Then I’d be screwed.”
“On the other hand, she might have offered an entirely different version of events.”
Ben looked at me warily. “I suppose so.”
I hadn’t noticed Montoni coming up to our table. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but this is serious. The police just phoned.” He looked at me. “They want to talk to you tomorrow morning. To all of us, actually.” His glance took in the table, then the room. “To everyone at the conference, I expect, but the lieutenant especially mentioned you, Nora. Why you, I don’t know, but there’s been a development.”
An ominous word, that. I looked up at him.
“They think that Isabelle La Font was murdered,” he explained.
Bennett went pale.
“How?” Toby asked.
“They say it was a fatal dose of digitalis.”
The Secrétan brothers left Auvers around the middle of July. The family owned a villa in Normandy and spent part of the summer there each year. I never saw either one of them again.
With René gone, our group had no leader and soon fell apart. Without Gaston, Vincent had no companion left but me. Even before Gaston’s departure, Vincent and I had become friendlier. He didn’t mind me watching him paint, and I liked listening to him talk, though his thoughts were often gloomy or difficult for me to comprehend. One afternoon while we were lounging by the river and he was sketching a copse of trees on the opposite shore, he turned and asked me about my plans. Well, at that age, I had no plans. “What are your hopes?” he said. “What do you dream of doing in life?” I couldn’t think what to say. I stammered.
“That will never do,” he said. “Look here, you must find work for which you are suited. That’s the important thing, Maurice.” I must have looked hurt, because he softened his voice and said, “It’s all right. There’s still time. At least you are young, at least you are healthy.” He continued sketching for a while. Then suddenly he threw down his brush and cried: “What might I have accomplished if I hadn’t been ill!” He kicked over his paint box. After that he refused to say anything more. I was frightened, but I stayed. We sat together quietly, side by side, staring at the water until it was the dinner hour and I went home.
5
DIGITALIS. FOXGLOVE POISONING. By morning everyone knew it. We were expected at ten for questioning. As a result, the conference was put on hold. Lieutenant Auclair and her colleagues from Grasse would conduct the interviews, but to make the logistics easier, we were taken to the Gendarmerie of Vence, which was much closer to our hotel than Grasse. The shuttles dropped us off at 9:55.
The small waiting room was ringed by armless chairs, twelve as it turned out, one less than needed. Angie volunteered to stand, which gave her an opportunity to lean against Sergeant Navré’s counter. His bearing was military, as befits a gendarme, but he couldn’t help responding to her proximity. He stood up a bit straighter and smoothed his hair.
I was the first to be interviewed. Lieutenant Auclair opened the door to the back offices, called my name, and led me down a long corridor, to the last room. It was a cramped, windowless square with institutional furniture: a metal desk and swivel chair, metal files, a bookcase with stacks of paper on the shelves, a folding chair for the person being interviewed, an overhead fluorescent light—obviously an underling’s office, borrowed for the purpose. But the lieutenant, today dressed in a crisp navy-blue suit, carried her authority with her, and I felt cowed as I took my seat. The back of my chair was jammed against one of the bookcases, and there was hardly space on the floor for my purse.
“Thank you for coming,” she began. “May we speak French?”
“Yes,” I said, “if you don’t speak too fast.”
“Naturally.” She leaned back in her swivel chair and said, “Well, madame. I’d like to know the reason for the message you left on my answering machine.” She rested her elbows on the arms of the chair and clasped her hands. “What made you think digitalis caused Madame La Font’s death?” It wasn’t an accusation but a neutral question; still, I realized I was on delicate ground.
“It’s true, then?”
“Yes, it’s true. We’ve checked with her doctor. She had no history of heart trouble, and she wasn’t taking the drug by prescription. So it must have been administered without her knowledge.”
She waited for an answer to her question: what was behind my phone call? It was just a hunch but I didn’t know that word in French, so I settled for: “It was simply a guess.”
“Indeed? What led you to make such a . . . guess?” She looked at me with the eyes of a fox. I wasn’t a suspect, was I? Surely she realized that a guilty person wouldn’t have made that phone call and left her name and number. Nevertheless, I was anxious. She could tell. “Take your time,” she said.
What was behind my hunch? I wasn’t entirely sure. I began by describing Bruce Curry’s talk, his frantic announcement that the foxglove he had brought from England was missing, and his warning that the drug derived from it was dangerous. I remembered Isabelle becoming ill during dinner and wondered if there could be a connection. Curry’s demeanor was strange, before, during, and after the talk. I described his outbreak of temper at lunch and his wife’s concern about his recent state of mind.
“It seemed more than coincidence,” I said. “An unexplained death. Curry telling us that Dr. Gachet poisoned Van Gogh with digitalis. The missing foxglove. But really it’s all supposition. I have no right to accuse him.”
Lieutenant Auclair came forward in her chair. “Did Professor Curry have any reason to harm Madame La Font?”
“Not that I know of.”
“But you believe he may have poisoned her as a result of a mental disturbance?”
I didn’t respond for a moment. “I regret that I suggested that. I have no evidence to support it.”
“But that’s what you were thinking at the time of your call.”
“Something like that, or that someone might have taken the foxglove from his room
without his knowledge.”
“For use with criminal intent.”
“Possibly, yes.”
“Who else knew about the connection between foxglove and digitalis?”
“We all did. Everyone at the conference. It was the subject of Professor Curry’s talk. I suppose most of us knew what foxglove was, even before the talk, because it appears in Van Gogh’s portrait of Dr. Gachet.” I described the well-known painting.
With her eyes on her hand, she slowly tapped her manicured nails on the desk. One, two, three. One, two, three. Then she raised her head. “Who else might have had a reason to harm Madame La Font?”
“No one, as far as I know.”
The lieutenant consulted a notepad on her desk. “Madame La Font was seen in a discussion at the bar with someone before dinner on the night she was killed—her brother, Yves. Her half brother, it turns out. Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“No, only what Professor Montoni told us. He thought they were discussing her paper.”
“Tell me what you know about it.”
“Nothing, really.”
“I’ve been told that Madame La Font planned to reveal facts about the death of Vincent van Gogh and that these facts had something to do with her grandfather.”
“So I understand.”
“And her brother was not pleased at the prospect?”
“Apparently not.”
“Besides the brother, who else might want to suppress such information?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, Lieutenant, but without knowing what Madame La Font was going to reveal, there’s no way of telling.”
She leaned forward and folded her hands on the desk. “What about the biographer?” She glanced at her pad. “Professor Bennett? People said he questioned her all during dinner.”
“That’s true, he did. What Madame La Font planned to say had implications for his work. But her talk might have helped his argument as easily as harmed it. He didn’t know what she was going to say.”
“How do you know whether he did or not?”
“I don’t,” I had to admit. “But his curiosity about her paper seemed genuine. I don’t think he knew the contents.”
She held two fingers on her lips and then said, “Sometimes fear of the unknown can be a powerful motive.”
True enough. Some scholars are so passionate about their work that they will go to any length to protect it—but to commit murder? That seemed unlikely to me. Besides, I’d already put my foot in it with conjectures about Curry. I didn’t want to point the finger at another colleague. “You’ll have to ask Professor Bennett about that,” I said.
“I assure you we will.”
“And the brother, Yves?”
“We’re questioning him. Is there anyone else we should be looking at?”
“A thief, maybe. What if the motive was robbery? Her handbag was missing when we found her.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t attacked outdoors. There was no sign of external trauma. Her head was submerged in the fountain but there was no water in her lungs, so she didn’t die of drowning. No. The poison was in the victim’s system well before she left the restaurant. Foxglove leaves are deadly whether dried or fresh. They can be ground into a powder. The digitalis was probably introduced into her food in powdered form, perhaps in a drink.”
“The dessert wine?”
“Most likely. A sweet wine such as Baumes-de-Venise would mask the taste. Unfortunately the glasses were washed before we had a chance to examine them.”
“We all drank it, though.”
“We recovered the bottle. It wasn’t tampered with. Someone could have put the powder in her glass, enough to be deadly. Madame La Font became ill, left the restaurant to get some air, and collapsed outside.” Lieutenant Auclair picked up a pad and pencil from the desk and handed them to me. “I’d like to confirm the seating arrangement at her table. Can you draw me a diagram?”
“I think so.” I thought for a moment and then sketched a rectangular table with circles representing the figures sitting at it. “Professor Montoni was at one end of the table, here, and Jane Curry at the other. Isabelle La Font was to Montoni’s right.” I pointed. “Curry sat next to her, and Ben Bennett sat across from her. Ben’s wife, Shelley, sat next to her husband, facing Curry. But it was a narrow table, and any one of them could have reached Isabelle’s glass. Perhaps not Jane, at least not easily— she was at the far end.”
Lieutenant Auclair studied my sketch. “I’m impressed. You have an excellent memory, Madame Barnes.”
“But if the drug was put into Isabelle’s wine,” I added, “it also could have happened when she went up to the bar to talk to her brother during dessert. As I remember, she was carrying her glass.”
Auclair made a note of that. “Who else was she in contact with during the meal?”
I reflected a moment. “Daniel Didier. She went over to his table to greet him. Apparently they knew each other.”
“Was she carrying her glass?”
“I don’t remember. But now that I think of it, once she came back to her table, several people passed behind her. They had to. Her chair was next to the stairs leading up to the toilettes.”
“Can you recall anyone else who went up there?”
“Didier, for one. I remember particularly because I thought it odd that he didn’t smile or look at her as he passed by. There were others too, but I can’t remember who.” I wasn’t keeping score on bathroom trips.
“I see. Do you recall if anyone besides Yves La Font left the restaurant after Madame La Font went outside, that is, before her body was discovered?”
“I’m fairly certain no one did.”
“And your husband was the first to reach her?”
“Yes. We all rushed out. Maggie—that is, Professor McBride—was the first one out the door. It was her dog that sounded the alarm. Then my husband ran out, and he was the one who reached the fountain first.”
“How soon afterward did you arrive?”
“A few seconds later.”
“And you noticed right away that her shoulder bag was missing.”
“That’s right.”
“In that case, no one who was at the restaurant that night could have taken her bag. Is that so?”
“Except the brother.”
“Yes, but besides him? I mean the members of your conference.”
“I guess not. We all remained inside until the body was discovered. But what about a tourist? A passerby who took advantage of a sick woman and stole her bag?”
“Wandering tourists don’t usually steal purses on impulse. And we don’t have thieves prowling the streets of Saint-Paul-de-Vence, certainly not at this time of year. No, I think the murder and the theft are connected. Why? Because we know the poison was introduced in the restaurant, yet the purse was stolen outside. Yves La Font could have introduced the poison as well as stolen the purse. There remains one other possibility. Perhaps more than one person was involved—one outside the restaurant and one inside, that is, a person from your conference.”
That made sense.
“And therefore, I’d like your help.”
“My help?”
“Your sister mentioned to Sergeant Navré that you’ve had experience working with the police in the United States. Is that correct?”
“Well, yes,” I answered, wondering where this was leading. “I’ve worked with the sheriff ’s office at home a few times, advising on matters relating to art crime.” I’d been a consultant in cases of art theft and fraud, and recently I helped in the investigation of the murder of Toby’s business partner, a crime that involved the theft of an icon. Still, I was uncomfortable. Those jobs had been more research than detective work. I didn’t want Angie bragging that I was Sherlock Holmes.
“You see, Madame Barnes, you’ve been helpful already. Of course, we would have discovered the digitalis in the body, but you saved us some time. You’re observant. All I’m asking is that you w
atch carefully during the remainder of your conference. You’ll be attending the sessions. You’re staying at the hotel with the others. Watch what the people around you do and say. If you notice anything unusual, let me know. I’d like to keep lines of communication open between us. That’s all. It’s nothing formal, but it would be useful to have someone like you on the scene. Will you do that?”
This was just what I didn’t need, to be dragged into another murder case. I’d been looking forward to a little downtime. And how would my colleagues take it if they thought I was keeping an eye on them? Then again, how could I refuse? I was the one who had picked up the phone and called the lieutenant. “If you wish,” I said. “I’ll help if I can.” Moi and my big mouth.
“Bon.” She stood up to shake hands.
On my way out of her office, I saw a grim-looking Yves La Font walking toward me. A gendarme was escorting him down the corridor. As we passed, the gendarme nodded but La Font ignored me. He kept his Gallic nose held high and gazed into the distance—which was only a matter of meters.
Some of the conferees and two worried-looking teenagers were packed into the waiting room. Angie was still standing at the reception desk with Sergeant Navré, chatting away. He was smiling mischievously. He touched his hand to his cap in mock salute as I walked up. “Bonjour, Madame Barnes. Ça va? ” (“How goes it?”) It was going swimmingly between the two of them by the looks of it. I returned the greeting and drew Angie aside.
“Angie, please don’t tell tales about me to your new friend. He’s passed them on to the lieutenant and now she’s asked me to help them with their inquiries.”
“What tales?”
“About me working with the sheriff ’s office at home. I’m here to do my work at the conference, and I was hoping to have a bit of vacation too.”
“But you’re really good at finding out stuff, and this is so exciting, isn’t it? Roe-bare’s been telling me all about how the police system works in France. It’s really complicated.”
“Never mind the system. Just don’t talk about me without checking with me first, okay?”
