“First, Olivier, I will not publicly speak about how I am abused by my husband. This is nothing new.” Her laugh was bitter, sardonic. “Can you imagine how the neighbors would take that news? They will say I’m making it up to compensate for my guilt over having an affair with Jean-Claude. Besides, here in France, to report abuse is to ask for more. Our laws are horrible protection. The police, in fact, would go talk to Alain, and they would be in sympathy.”
Olivier felt she was starting to unravel. Her voice had gone up and her hands were shaking.
“I can recommend a good attorney in the region.”
“Thanks for nothing, Olivier. Slough me off!”
Olivier thought that next she’d be accusing him of abuse. Abdel stuck his head in the door and looked surprised. Olivier willed him to enter with his eyes.
“Pardon,” Abdel said. “I didn’t know we had another interview quite so soon. I took my cousin for coffee.”
“Please join us,” Olivier said formally. Abdel practically tiptoed across the floor, and Olivier reminded himself to mention to him that he should walk boldly, no matter where he was.
Yvette’s voice was now so low it was barely audible. Olivier found himself leaning in to hear her. “You will be more interested in what I have to say about murder than you were with my own abuse. Alain told me he went to talk to Tim about the photos he was developing, on the evening he was murdered.”
Olivier felt his hair stand on end.
“Also,” she said, “my son told you that Alain was at Yves’ party. He didn’t tell you that Alain was there to confront Yves because he had paid him to stalk me, and he wanted the incriminating photographs. He had learned through a mutual friend that Jean-Claude was also trying to buy the photographs, to prevent me from being humiliated.”
Her rage was palpable, and won Olivier completely over to her side.
“Do you have proof of any of this….?” He still didn’t know how to address her and so let his voice trail off.
“Of what? The fact that he hit me? Come get a closer look at my face. And the fact that he went to see Tim because Tim had caught on camera Alain shooting Lucy? I have proof, alright.”
She reached beneath her chair and indicated a large envelope poking from a sizable green tote bag. “In the entrance to our house, we keep an old trunk that is full of family mementoes. I opened it yesterday, searching for a photo of Roland, and found some negatives and photographs that hadn’t been before, along with a .22 that I thought Alain had given away years ago. The photographs were from the night of Yves’ party, and from the day of the hunt.”
“Where are they now?”
“Here.” She reached under her chair and pulled out the envelope, stood up and handed it to Olivier.
“Where is Alain now?”
“Probably lying in wait for me.”
Olivier caught the shocked expression on Abdel’s face out of the corner of his eye. “We can find a safe place for you.”
“Oh, I’m staying at my sister’s,” Yvette said. “If Alain comes on the premises, I will shoot him in self-defense.”
“That would be an insane thing to do at this juncture,” Olivier heard himself saying, and then worried for a moment that she would accuse him of calling her insane. Olivier had handed the large envelope to Abdel, who pulled the photographs from the envelope and walked them to Olivier.
He skimmed through them, but there were none of Alain holding a gun. “Are there more prints?”
“Ask Alain.” She was standing now. “By the way, has Lucy been found?”
Olivier decided to lie. “No. We suspect she’s dead.”
“Quel dommage.”
The same words as her son, what a pity, Olivier thought, yet not a whiff of pity.
Olivier called the prosecutor to explain the situation and ask him what his advice would be. Monsieur Caron listened patiently and then said, “What else? Arrest Alain Milne. We can hold him for twenty-four hours with no explanation.” Olivier said “d’accord,” and the prosecutor added, “Or longer, if need be.”
He hung up, and his cell immediately rang. Max. “Bonjour,” he said.
“Are you okay?”
“Yvette Milne just brought in photos from Tim’s and a .22. She’s accusing Alain, but these photos don’t prove anything.” He explained where they had been found, but forgot about Yvette’s accusation of domestic abuse.
“Maybe it’s time she’s put on the suspect list. Anne got me to thinking about that. Hank said it looks as though she’s been moving into Jean-Claude’s house, but he’s told Anne he’s ending it at once. Hank wants to search Jean-Claude’s house.”
“Whatever for? I’d have to get a warrant.”
“I know. You just said that the photographs didn’t target the killer. If she got her hands on those, where are the others?”
“This is far-fetched, Max.”
She was quiet a moment. “Did Yvette look okay? No facial markings?”
Olivier hesitated. “She accused Alain of hitting her on the cheek.”
“I’m leaning toward believing Lucy, who said someone came in and tried to suffocate her with a pillow, but she smacked him with her fist. She’d thought it was a him, and I did too, but I’m not so sure now.”
“Are you thinking Yvette might have killed those men?”
“Maybe she and Jean-Claude together. If Alain gets locked up, they get to live happily ever after. This scenario is on Fox News every night in the States.”
“I have to stay here and get Alain locked up. I’ll speak to Caron here and send Abdel out with a warrant.”
“What about the Beaune prosecutor Dubois? Does he have to be called?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
She chuckled. “Thanks, Olivier.”
“Sois sage, Max.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He looked up to see Alain in the hall, wearing handcuffs.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Max found Hank down on his knees in the yard, fixing outdoor furniture. “I could get used to this country life,” he said, smiling up at her. “My father used to do this kind of stuff.”
“I wish I had known your dad. Your mom, too, for that matter.”
“My father was too unpredictable to allow you to get too comfortable around him. He retired at forty-five from the NYPD and didn’t know what to do with himself, so he drank. My mother died when I was eight. Cancer. We were never allowed to talk about her.”
“I guess people can survive without family. Or maybe I mean love.”
“Some do.” He glanced at her. “What’s up?”
She reported her conversation with Olivier. He was on his feet in seconds. “Well, let’s go then. He’s getting better at trusting, not asking so many questions.” He wiped his hands on his pants, and they began walking toward Jean-Claude’s.
“Maybe we should take the car,” Max said.
“Abdel can give us a ride home. We don’t want Jean-Claude to drive up and see your grandmother’s car there, then come in and find us snooping around.”
“Let’s wait for Abdel.”
“We know he’s already on his way with a search warrant. We can start.”
“We don’t have a clue what we’re looking for.”
“Yvette came up with enough evidence to put her husband in the bin. She might turn out to be as smart as her sister, the surgeon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nice woman, Catherine. I stopped by the hospital and we had a friendly chat. She at least laughs at my jokes.”
“Is she like Yvette?”
“Faint resemblance. Great surgeon, evidently. Accomplished kids. Good husband. Worries a lot about Yvette.”
“What about the bullet wound?”
“I think she’s lying ab
out the bullet entry to protect her sister. She didn’t want to give up the scans. She also was pissed that we were hiring another expert.”
“So who is everyone protecting?”
Hank was moving at a rapid clip and talking fast, too. “Roland is a good bet. Jean-Claude hasn’t been cleared, either, but he was too upset about Tim to make me suspect him. He was at Yves’ party, though, and it’s a damned good possibility he shot Lucy, drunk as he was.”
“I was worried he’d shoot me because I’m a woman. I think he only approves of women when they’re in his bed.”
“You can’t arrest him for being a misogynist. He succumbed to Yvette. Very different from being seduced by a woman. That means you want it. Succumbing is more like giving in, then you hate yourself for it.”
“I’m not sure about that. Yves told him Anne had bested him on the land deal. If he knew Anne was planning to adopt Lucy in order for her to get the parcel, he might have been mad enough to shoot her.”
“That would give him motive for shooting Lucy. I stick with my original analysis, though. The bullet was shot from behind Lucy. Jean-Claude was in the field, near me.”
“Now that we’ve proved him innocent per the Hank Maguire Sleuth Code, where does that leave Alain?”
“Wondering what hit him. He’s wound up tight, and it’s possible he methodically went after Yves and Tim. We know he was in the woods, supposedly taking a piss, when Lucy was shot. If he didn’t shoot her himself, I’ll bet he has a pretty good idea who did.”
They arrived at Jean-Claude’s house. Hank said, “You remember how to pick a lock?”
“With a hairpin, and I don’t happen to have one.”
Hank tried a window and it opened. “I’ll hoist you in.” Seeing her hesitate he said, “The more officers who enter and nose around, the less chance of actual discovery. I’ll boost you up. Twenty minutes and Abdel should be here. We won’t touch anything.”
Once inside, Max opened the front door for Hank. The entry room had knobs for hanging jackets, and Max noticed that the boots and shoes were lined up in an orderly fashion. The kitchen was in some disarray, with a sink full of dishes, and papers in disheveled stacks on the table. It was a modest house, but well maintained. She walked into the family room, and allowed her eyes to roam slowly around the room, landing on two shelves of framed photographs. Jean-Claude holding a baby. He and the woman she assumed to be Caroline smiling into the camera. Her in an elaborate wedding gown—the very gown Max would be wearing on her wedding day—holding a huge bouquet of flowers, her arms around her mother and father.
Hank entered the room, “I was thinking about Yvette. Taking a few photographs and a pistol to Olivier, and claiming the pistol is the murder weapon, is either a bold move or a desperate move. I’m sure the police are ransacking Yvette’s and Alain’s house as we speak.” He looked under the couch in the den, and then went upstairs. “Of course she will say there were no others. I also doubt that the gun she turned in is the murder weapon.”
“If we find them, it might mean she’s framing Jean-Claude.”
“I keep mentioning Roland, but nobody bats an eye.” He opened a final door and their dialogue stopped. Max entered a walk-in closet and after surveying the small space, she thought it contained the essence of Caroline. A small bureau against the wall. An array of beautiful perfume bottles arranged on top, mingled with framed photographs of Caroline and her husband. Clothes hung in rows in the closet to the right and a pale blue nightgown was draped over a hook. It was like a shrine.
“Look behind the dresses there.” He pulled open a drawer. His hands rifled through panties and bras, then he went back into the bedroom and opened the armoire.
“I hear voices,” she whispered.
“Stay calm.” He stalked off like a cat.
Someone unlocked the front door and entered. Max heard footsteps on the stairs, and wanted to scream. She had always hated hiding games as a child. Her heartbeat thrumming in her ears threatened to drown out all other sound. Through a vertical crack in the door she watched Yvette enter the bedroom, and study herself in a mirror. She took out her phone and pushed a button, and the haunting sounds of Miles Davis’ saxophone began a slow, haunting melody. Yvette slowly began removing her clothes. Max began to panic. She thought back to other predicaments she’d been in: face-to-face with a killer in the cellars of Champagne, locked in a freight box in a warehouse in New York City, ready to be loaded onto a container ship to France, in a shootout in Bordeaux. Yet, she thought, this was the worst. She simply could not stand here and witness Yvette and Jean-Claude in a state of sexual fervor.
She peered out again and thought Yvette’s lingerie must have cost the equivalent of two weeks of her salary. Still, it didn’t cover what needed covering in Max’s appraisal. The sound of tires crunching on gravel increased Max’s anxiety. Please, please, let it be Abdel, she thought.
The front door opened, and she heard Luc run in. “Papa, may I watch cartoons?”
“Half an hour is all you get.” The television drowned out the jazz.
Max peered through the crack in the door and almost gasped. Yvette was in an inviting pose on the bed, propped up against pillows. Jean-Claude whistled distractedly as he came up the stairs. Max couldn’t see him as he entered the room, but the seductive smile on Yvette’s face told her he had arrived.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a low voice, almost a snarl.
“What do you think I’m doing here?”
“Get dressed and leave, Yvette. My son is here. I told you not to come back.”
“You bastard!” She kept her voice low. “You told me I could move in.”
“That was a month ago. When Tim was alive, and Yves was okay. And Lucy hadn’t been shot.”
She started pulling on her clothes. “Alain has been arrested.”
“Alain? For what?”
“The murder of Yves Laroche. And for this bruise on my cheek.”
“You told me you fell.”
“I lied.”
The silence that followed seemed interminable to Max.
“We’ve reached the tipping point, Jean-Claude. “We can start fresh.”
“You’re sounding crazy, Yvette. I need you to leave.” He stepped into the hallway and turned back. “They found Lucy and she’s okay.”
Her voice was barely audible. “I thought she had been reported dead.”
“With luck she can tell them who shot her.”
Luc called up the stairs to his father. “Coming!” Jean-Claude yelled back. He said, “I’ll take him out to the backyard. I don’t want him to see you leaving.”
“You’re going to regret this.”
Max heard Luc start bounding up the stairs, but Jean-Claude warded him off, and then she heard a door slam. Yvette soon followed, exiting the front door.
Hank entered the room, and said, “I couldn’t hear much.”
“I told you we should wait for Abdel. Jean-Claude rejected her and she was humiliated.”
‘“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’ Congreve.”
“Why do you know that?”
“I used it once in court when I was a witness. It worked. Let’s get out of here.”
Abdel was driving in and they went out to meet him. They told him briefly what had happened. Jean-Claude came around the corner and demanded to know why they were congregating in his yard. Abdel said, “Madame Yvette Milne said she was with you on the eve Tim Lowell was killed. I need you to verify that.”
Jean-Claude frowned. “No. As Max knows, I came to Tim’s right after he had been shot.”
“I know.”
“Were you with Madame Milne earlier in the evening?”
He hesitated before answering. “Yes. But surely you don’t think…”
“What
time did she leave your house?”
“I don’t know. Nine, I think.”
Just as we sat down to dinner, Max thought.
“Was there anything unusual about her behavior?”
“Are you thinking she shot Tim?”
“She is one of several suspects. We are seeking motive, and the main motive we have come up with is that Monsieur Lowell had some photographs that someone wanted.”
“The photographs from the party, and from the hunt. Tim told me about them.”
“Did he reveal who might have pushed Yves Laroche off his balcony, or who might have shot Lucy Kendrick?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Madame Milne about the photographs?”
His answer was a whisper, “Yes.”
Chapter Thirty
“Find Yvette Milne and make the arrest,” Olivier said resignedly to Abdel over the phone after he told him about his interview with Jean-Claude. “We still have no proof. Only motive.”
“And where will you be, Monsieur, in case I need you?”
“I’m going to try to get the truth out of Lucy Kendrick, then take her to say good-bye to her Uncle George. Anne will meet her in Beaune for a glass of champagne to celebrate her birthday, and I’ll join you.”
Olivier watched as Anne pulled up to the café across from the Hospices de Beaune and waited for Lucy to climb out. He returned Anne’s wave, but his attention was riveted on Lucy, who bore a surprising resemblance to Hugo. Had no one else seen it? She had the same facial structure, and there was a hint of arrogance in her posture. He was glad to see that she possessed a strong vitality. Her arm was tucked into a sling. He figured her to be a metre and a half in height. Her hair was tousled; she was makeup-free, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He stood as she approached. “Happy birthday.”
Her look was direct. “I hate having a birthday without Tim. The only reason I’m here is because I don’t want to face Uncle George alone. And Anne wanted nothing to do with it.”
“Very well. Shall we go?” He left money for his coffee, and started walking to the hotel, regretting that he had listened to Anne’s plea for him to take the girl to say good-bye to her uncle.
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