Burgundy

by Janet Hubbard

  “He could have told Abdel who he caught on camera.”

  “He said one photo is grainy and another one from the hunt is blurred, and he wanted to be sure.”

  “I hope he hasn’t shared this information with anyone else.”

  Juliette called them to dinner, and they promptly entered the dining room. Olivier was happy to see sorrel soup, bread, and cheese—a simple country supper, shared with family. Isabelle had brought out a red wine from a local winery, nothing out of the ordinary, yet still satisfying.

  “I feel on solid ground now with Monsieur Caron, by the way,” he told Max. “I will call someone in the justice department to see what your pending status is with Interpol. Perhaps we can rush the application.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. “You weren’t upset that I went with Abdel?”

  “I was, but your father helped me to see it differently.”

  Max laughed, and glancing at her watch, said, “Don’t be jealous of Tim. You’ll find out why I like him so much. Even Abdel declared him a good guy.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It was after eleven when Max and Olivier strolled over to Tim’s for a Vieux Marc de Bourgogne and a look at the photographs. Olivier carried a flashlight. “I think Yves Laroche’s murder may have nothing to do with Lucy and everything to do with drugs.”

  Max agreed. “It was a party crowd, and men as disparate as Tim, Jean-Claude, and Yves were a part of it. Men who were attractive, unattached, well-to-do by most people’s standards. Tim had pulled out. He and Lucy were talking about traveling.”

  The porch light was on. Olivier knocked, and they waited.

  “He’s probably still in the darkroom. He didn’t text me back.” Max opened the door and called out his name.

  “He likes Schumann,” Olivier said.

  Max listened as piano notes rippled around the room. “I don’t like this,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “He may have gone into Beaune.”

  “The lights are on and he was expecting us.” The darkroom door was ajar and Max looked in. Tim lay on the floor, his head in a pool of blood. “Oh God, NO! Tim!” She knelt and took his pulse. Olivier had squeezed into the room. He pulled out his phone and called Abdel, who answered immediately. “The police will come from Beaune,” he relayed to Max. “Abdel is on his way from Lyon.”

  Max swore and looked around. “A .22 to the back of the head. He never knew.” She glanced around. “All the photographs and negatives are gone.” She looked at Olivier, “I despise whoever did this, and trust me, I will nail him.”

  A man’s voice hallooed from the front door. Max and Olivier looked at each other, then she followed him into the living room, both of them relaxing when they saw Jean-Claude, who looked from one to the other, a smile on his face. “I wasn’t alone in wanting a cognac, I see,” he said. “Is Tim still serving?”

  “He’s dead,” Olivier said dryly. “Assassinated.”

  “C’est pas possible!” Jean-Claude put his hands over his face, and sat down. “I spoke to him only a few hours ago.” He went to the cabinet, poured a snifter of cognac and sat down heavily, obviously shaken. Max knew that Olivier wanted to get to work, but he was also operating under his theory that five minutes of patience often produced positive results, and so he leaned wearily against the counter. Max donned some plastic gloves and saw that her hands were shaking. If only we had come back immediately, she thought. If only. If only. “If fucking only we had not left him,” she yelled, startling the two men into silence. “I wanted to stay, but I was expected for another family dinner! I should have stayed and helped him.” She began to sob. She looked at Jean-Claude, “You called him a friend. Did you know about the pictures he was developing? He must have told you.”

  “He was always taking photographs. Why are you asking this?”

  “Because he knew who killed Yves Laroche, and he knew who shot Lucy!”

  “I would tell you if I knew. I could be next.”

  “What do you mean?” Olivier asked.

  “Yves is dead. Now Tim. Alain and I are left, and we are barely speaking.”

  “Why?”

  Jean-Claude hesitated. “He and Yvette are quarreling, and Alain blames me.” He sighed. “Since Caroline died, my life has taken a terrible turn downhill. I began drinking too much, and when Yvette started showing up to help me, we started having sex.”

  Oh please, Max thought, picking up a Mont Blanc fountain pen from the counter, and trying not to think about the dead body of a recently healthy young man a few metres away. If she were Jean-Claude’s friend, she would have advised him to “man up” if he was having an affair, and for God’s sake, to own it.

  Olivier said, “Whether victim or aggressor, you cheated on your friend.”

  “Yes, and it was a mistake. I have tried to call it off for several months, but Yvette shows up and cleans my house, and does her best to make herself indispensable. Anyhow, Yves managed to take some photos of us having sex in a field.”

  “Where was the photo taken?”

  “In a meadow near here. I arrived early at Yves’ party with a date, and Yves told me that I could buy the photographs, but the price was exorbitant. He then told me that I ought to give up on the parcel of land I inherited from my wife, that the notaire was on Anne’s side. I felt like the world was crashing on my head, then Yves said, “I am close to having proof that Lucy is Gervais’ daughter, and if so, I think Anne will make sure she gets it.”

  “I was in shock at what my mother-in-law was up to. Then Yves said, ‘Maybe Lucy will let you get in her pants if you haven’t already, and I suspect you have.’ I told him that was a ridiculous assumption, and he said that my mother-in-law was complaining about Lucy working in my vineyard. I told him I wasn’t a pervert like him.”

  “Any idea why he had turned so vindictive?”

  “Lucy. The kid is okay, but she has caused a lot of problems. Yves turned on me because she worked with me, and he was enraged when he learned Lucy had chosen Tim. I believe he was insanely jealous. That night at the party he was crazed. I had to get out of there…”

  “Or what?”

  “I threatened him. I told him I would like to kill him. This after he said he’d give Yvette a bargain price on the photos of us. Ten thousand.”

  Max was all attention now. “You called her.”

  “Of course. She unraveled, especially when I said Yves threatened to put them on the Internet. She demanded that I put up half the money and I said no. She said she was going to confess to Alain if I didn’t.”

  “What did you do then?” Olivier asked.

  “I went home, got drunk, and passed out.”

  Or went back to Yves’ at the end of the party and pushed him off the balcony, Max thought. Exactly what I would have wanted to do.

  “It’s normal for you to drop in at this hour?” Olivier asked.

  “I stop by often when Tim’s lights are on. He had no enemies that I knew of. He was always boosting me, telling me not to worry, things always turned out alright. That was his philosophy.”

  “Someone wanted the negatives from the party and from the hunt.”

  Jean-Claude shrugged. “He was determined to prove Lucy innocent of Yves’ death. He must have caught something because he told me to be prepared to be shocked. The same with the hunt, he said.”

  “But he gave you no indication?”

  “None.”

  Flashing lights in the driveway diverted their attention, and Olivier went to the door. A gendarme entered and, recognizing Jean-Claude, shook hands. “You can go,” Olivier said to Jean-Claude, leading the gendarme to the darkroom. “We will talk tomorrow.”

  Max thumbed through photographs that were piled up, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. She couldn’t imagine Lucy’s heartbreak, learning the news of Tim’
s death. Wherever she was. If she was anywhere. The photos were of Tim on a beach with friends, and skiing and mountain biking. She assumed the attractive couple with the towhead in an earlier photograph were his parents holding him, and the grand house in the background his home in England. She stopped when she came to a photo of Lucy wearing mud boots that were too big, looking up at Tim and smiling. He had his arm around her and gazed directly into the camera. They were an unusually attractive couple. She recognized that it was taken at the picnic table in his backyard. It must have been a warm day in September, for she was wearing a tank top and shorts, and he was also in shorts.

  The girl on the red Vespa, Max thought. Arriving with a patched-together story. The little orphan. Anne to the rescue, creating a new story for Lucy. ‘Why not let my dead husband be the missing father?’ It would give Anne a new lease on life, and she would be able to defeat Jean-Claude at the same time. Max wondered if Anne knew that Hugo had gone to Olivier privately to talk about his concerns. She doubted it.

  An ambulance arrived. The police began the process of securing the premises, putting red-and-white tape around the scene. A doctor arrived to determine the hour of death. A forensics team wearing white began various tasks. It was the same routine everywhere. Max thought she’d be inured to this by now, but it was always a shock.

  Olivier went to find Max. “I feel horrible about Tim Lowell,” Olivier said. “Deeply sad. And sorry. You are right. We should have come back immediately.”

  ***

  A tap on the door and Hank entered. “I had a hunch something was going on,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep, and then I saw the ambulance go by.”

  Max went to him and he put his arm around her. “It’s Tim. We found him dead. Shot.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Everything is under control here, Dad. I have to get a few hours of sleep.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll walk back with you.”

  They stepped out into the night. Max switched on a small flashlight. “I wish I had felt this one coming,” Hank said. “Knowing that he was developing controversial photographs maybe should have rung an alarm bell.”

  Somehow it was comforting to have Hank express what she and Olivier were feeling.

  “I’ve been in this position at least a hundred times. I sometimes think the person is going to die, no matter what I do. It’s their time. One of the most lame-ass expressions of all time. If somebody said that to me about someone I loved I’d hit them, and hard. Tim knew he was sitting on a land mine.”

  “Jean-Claude arrived right after us. He is a member of the ‘club of misfits’, which is how I’m labeling them.” She told him about Jean-Claude’s confession of his affair with Yvette, and his confrontation with Yves.

  “Yvette,” he said, shaking his head. “Now there’s a piece of work. In the shadow of her surgeon sister. Depressed husband. Messed-up son. Obsessive affair.”

  Max told him about the compromising photographs Yves had of Yvette and Jean-Claude.

  “That could be her undoing. She would be shunned by her community if those photos were leaked. And we don’t know what Alain would do. He doesn’t know what he’d do.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Shoot the son of a bitch who messed with my wife, and maybe her, too. How many cases do we have on file like that?”

  The rays of the moon filtered through the trees bordering their path.

  “I’ve been accepted by Interpol. The call came through.”

  “Good job, Max. Really. I think Olivier and Abdel would be a little lost without you at this point.”

  “And I’d be lost without you.” She put her arm through his. “I’ve never been on a case you weren’t a part of.”

  “Sure you have. The Champagne case.”

  “You were the remote detective on the job.”

  “I hope you never told Olivier that.”

  “I think he figured it out. You’re hard on him.”

  “He needs to grow a thicker skin. I’ll bet you he’s in Tim’s house right now, blaming himself.”

  “That’s just what he’s doing.”

  “I got better about that as I got older. Sometimes there’s just nothing you can do.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll do Interpol and raise kids all at once.”

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “No. But I want to be one day.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You’ll manage, like all those women out there working and running a family, including a lot of detectives.”

  They entered the house and went to the kitchen. “I know it’s late, but do you want a cup of tea?”

  “You have the tea. I’ll have a beer.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the three of us,” Hank said. She knew he was trying to distract her. “You and your Ma do have roots here. My roots are where you and your Ma are, Max.”

  “Are you saying you might want to spend more time here?”

  “I think you and Olivier may be needing a little help…for the next few years, anyhow.”

  “He reminded me again that you have to stay in the background.”

  “That’s my favorite place to be. But he won’t find Lucy without me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he doesn’t know people well enough yet. He might never know people the way I do. I have Irish intuition.”

  Max eyed him suspiciously. “You know something I don’t?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Olivier watched Max and her father leave, then turned to the local prosecutor who stood surveying the crime scene.

  “We meet at last,” the prosecutor said. “My name is Charles Dubois. I’m based in Beaune. Do you have any suspects?”

  “No suspects yet.” He explained about the missing photographs. “Let’s wait until forensics is done. My assistant will come up with a full report.”

  Dubois frowned. “Why your assistant? I have my own.”

  Olivier was in no mood for this. The man before him was typical of the many legal functionaries he had known over the years who were well-bred, well-educated, and smug as hell. Dubois, he figured, was about his own age. Trim, hair cut just so, round glasses, pride oozed from him.

  Just then Abdel approached and introduced himself while proffering his hand, but Dubois turned quickly to a forensics officer rushing by and delivered an order, which Olivier saw as a slight. Abdel slowly brought his hand down. “No sign of a murder weapon?” the prosecutor asked, turning back to him.

  “Nothing so far.”

  Dubois said, “I know the girl who escaped our hospital and this guy were together. Any chance she could have offed him? She could be on a rampage. Her uncle…”

  Olivier interrupted, unable to listen another minute to this kind of rhetoric. “We can update you on our findings.”

  Dubois persisted. “The uncle, George Wyeth, is gaining public sympathy. If she turns up dead, I think we’ll all be fired. Between her getting shot in a hunting accident, then disappearing from the Beaune hospital, and now this poor guy…”

  “This investigation isn’t about you, and if you expect any cooperation from me, you need to stop promoting newsbytes from television.”

  Olivier watched the blood creep up in Dubois’ face. “I’ll send my assistant over in a few minutes.” He whirled away from them, calling to an officer.

  Olivier and Abdel went to the kitchen, and were soon joined by Dubois, who had evidently changed his mind. “I want to know about the shooting,” he said.

  Olivier deferred to Abdel, who began talking in a calming voice. “The girl was shot with a .30 caliber rifle, but the issue is, at least five of the hunters carried a .30 caliber. A bullet was retrieved from a tree trunk, it was bagged, and is now being teste
d by ballistics experts. The surgeon said the bullet entered from the field, going through the the girl’s arm while upraised. However, a gun expert is convinced that the bullet was shot from the interior of the forest. The police will be questioning Alain Milne, Jean-Claude Villemaire, and Hank Maguire…”

  Olivier said, “Monsieur Maguire was there as my guest, Monsieur Dubois.”

  “You must be questioned as well, Monsieur Chaumont.”

  “Which is a waste of time. Obviously, I didn’t shoot the girl.”

  “The police report states that it was an accidental shooting. You are the one who wants to turn it into an attempted murder case, Monsieur. You must not be the exception.”

  Olivier could imagine the newspaper headline: “Magistrate Held for Questioning in Shooting of American Girl.”

  Dubois had a self-satisfied look. “The American female detective was not carrying a gun, but she was there on the scene, the first to notice that a human had been shot, correct?”

  Olivier knew where this was going. “She was there as an observer.”

  “Against the wishes of several club members, I understand.”

  Who the hell had he been talking to? Olivier wondered.

  The prosecutor glanced down at his notes. “It has occurred to my assistant and me that Detective Hank Maguire, now retired, might have been hired by the uncle of the girl, George Wyeth, to locate her. It’s all supposition, of course…”

  Olivier stood in stony silence, with Abdel standing beside him, glancing from one to the other.

  “Tonight’s victim, Monsieur Timothy Lowell, was at the hunt, was he not?”

  Olivier nodded, as a wave of doubt crawled over him. It had been so chaotic with everyone shooting, that it was hard to place people during those few moments. He couldn’t recall seeing Tim during the fusillade, but remembered him emerging from the woods behind Alain Milne, a look of panic on his face. What had he seen in the woods? “He was taking photographs.”