Where Secrets Reside

by Susan Finlay

  Goddard and his men followed the two, climbing up the steep staircase next to the chateau; but instead of heading to the large opening as Goddard had expected, they were led along a ridge to a miniscule hole in the wall.

  He turned around now looking at Alain Delacroix and Paul Lepage, who were standing near Goddard’s two assistants. “These footprints—they’re yours?

  Alain nodded.

  “All of them?”

  “I think so,” Alain said. “We weren’t really looking for footprints. We were looking for the parents.”

  “I was—but didn’t see any.”

  “You didn’t look before you tromped through here?”

  “We didn’t see any footprints,” Paul said.

  Goddard grimaced. That’s what he was afraid of. The storm had likely washed away any footprints and whatever other evidence there might have been. Given that, he stepped forward, confident he was unlikely to destroy vital clues. At the entrance he paused and rubbed his chin. If he’d been cave exploring, he certainly would have gone to one of those other larger openings.

  “This doesn’t look enticing to me. Why on earth would someone crawl into this hole when there are so many other better caves in the area?”

  “We preferred this cave and others like it when I was a kid,” Alain said. “We would play hide and seek games or pretend we were smugglers and pirates.”

  “Why this one?”

  “Well, it was cozier than some, which to us kids was the equivalent of a little clubhouse. We had many others that we played in but this one was a favorite.”

  Paul said, “Yes, and this was one our parents didn’t object to because there weren’t any big drop-offs around it. There are some dangerous places in the cave system, where only experienced spelunkers dare go.”

  “Sometimes, we would sneak around in the tunnels and knock on back doors of the troglos and then dash away,” Alain said. He grinned, then shrugged. “Probably not a wise thing to tell a gendarme. But we were kids, and you know kids, don’t you? They like to play pranks. Those were fun times.”

  “True,” Paul said. “What most non-residents don’t know is that most of the caves here are interconnected. In some places there are even walkways with dim lighting, mostly leftover from the mining days. I don’t know of anyone who grew up here that didn’t mess around in the caves. It’s practically a requirement.”

  “You’re telling me the victim could have gotten in here from some other entrance and walked through a tunnel to that cave?”

  Alain shrugged and looked over at Paul.

  Paul said, “It’s possible, I suppose, but the bat population has grown a lot, particularly in this area. Most people avoid it nowadays.”

  “Plus,” Alain said, “In the last fifteen to twenty years more of the caves have been converted into troglos.”

  “But you said that some of the troglos have back doors leading into the tunnels?”

  Alain and Paul exchanged looks. Paul said, “Yes. Even some of the traditional looking houses in town do. If you look closely, you’ll see that some back right into the rock wall of the hillside.”

  Goddard sighed and rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. This investigation was getting more complicated by the minute. “You’ll have to tell me more about the cave system after I have a look around inside. How far into the cave did you go? Did you both go in? Did you touch anything—the body, the walls?”

  “I went in first,” Alain said.

  “You went all the way inside?”

  Alain nodded. “I saw a body lying there in the tufa. I moved closer to see what was wrong, but as I got closer, I saw and smelled the blood. I panicked and ran out. Paul went in then to see if she was alive. She wasn’t. That’s the first dead person I’ve ever seen.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “We rushed back into town and called you for help.”

  “Did either of you touch anything?”

  Paul said, “I kneeled down and checked for a pulse. I suppose I may have touched the walls.”

  Alain nodded. “I probably touched the walls, too. It’s not easy checking out the caves with only a flashlight guiding you.”

  Goddard pursed his lips. He flipped his flashlight back on, stooped down again, then turned and said, “And neither of you recognized the woman. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Alain said. “She’s not local.”

  Goddard said nothing for a moment. “Wait here, please.” He sidled through the opening. Once inside, he waved the light up and down and saw that he could stand up straight, which he did immediately. The air was brisk.

  His light settled on the cave floor. The woman was lying in the powdery white limestone dust. A large puddle of brownish-red blood surrounded her head. A large industrial-type flashlight, long and made of metal, lay next to her body. Perhaps she’d brought it along with her—or perhaps the killer had, though it seemed strange that he or she would have left it behind. He edged closer to the body, careful not to disturb anything. Bending down, he saw that the flashlight was rusted and caked with dried blood. The murder weapon? Why leave it?

  The victim was wearing a summer dress, a thin sweater, and sandals. The type of attire his wife might wear to a luncheon. Not exactly cave-exploring attire, but he supposed she could have made it through in sandals. If she’d worn high-heels, he would rule out cave-exploration altogether. Presumably she hadn’t expected the storm, either. He leaned in and got a better view of the wound. The right side of her head was smashed, and her lifeless eyes stared out towards the entrance. On her throat were marks, perhaps only shadows; Goddard couldn’t be sure in this lighting. Straightening back up, he scanned her whole body. Some bruising, dress ripped. He lifted the dress. No obvious sign of sexual assault, but he would have to wait for the Medical Examiner’s report to be sure.

  He exited the cave and called to Officer Jacques Roland. “We need to file a report with the procureur. Please go back to the van and make a call to Durand. Tell him to get started on it. We’ll need better lighting and cameras in here, too, before forensics can do anything.”

  “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

  After Roland left, Goddard turned to Alain and Paul. “Tell me what you know about the history of the caves in Reynier.”

  Alain said, “Ah, well, Reynier has had quite an interesting past. The village started out with squabbling cavemen who hollowed out sanctuaries in these cliffs. Over centuries, the hillside was further excavated and it was discovered that the hill has kilometers of underground galleries and rooms. They actually formed a city within the city. It proved quite useful. Inhabitants often withdrew to the underground chambers during the wars. They grew mushrooms, held meetings, and most likely engaged in a few illegal activities, one would guess.”

  Goddard whistled. “Yes, I see.”

  “Yes, but the locals don’t like to advertise.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, for one thing, can you imagine what it would do to our village? Look at Saumur, Monsoreau, and Rochemenier—they’ve become popular tourist attractions. May be good for their economy but not so good for privacy of their residents, I would think. Besides that, could you imagine busloads of tourists trampling the village? It could be disastrous. Our roads cross over some of the fragile underground chambers. That’s okay for cars and motorcycles but not for large vehicles. Who wants to risk a bus crashing into their home or storage chamber from above? Nobody that I know.”

  “Do people use any of these caves for romantic trysts?”

  Alain smiled. “Oh, yes. I could tell you stories.”

  Goddard’s brain was working overtime trying to process different victim scenarios. The most obvious: a love tryst ending in a quarrel. But what about a drug deal or blackmail attempt gone wrong, or a stalker who had followed her, or a family member, friend, or internet stalker who had lured her to this site with the intent to kill? All were within the realm of possibility here. And how might she have gott
en here? Had she climbed the staircases from the lower level and hiked across the ridge, then slipped through that small opening? If she’d climbed up here, was it with someone or to meet someone? Maybe she’d gone in through another entrance—a house or troglo, perhaps? Did this mean she already knew the place, yet she was not a local? Perhaps a former resident? Then he remembered last night’s storm. Maybe she was just getting in out of the storm and someone was in here already. But then what about the child, presuming they were together?

  “I will likely need to ask both of you more questions later on, but for now you are free to go. However, I must caution you. Do not leave town without letting us know.”

  Paul frowned. “We only found the woman. Why do say that?”

  “Standard procedure,” Goddard said. He watched the two men disappear through the trees, leaving him with his other assistant, Noel Petit.

  “Is there anything I should be doing, sir?”

  “Yes. I want you to put tape around this cave and stand guard here while I have a look around the area.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Goddard walked further along the ridge, stopping now and then to survey the area, but he found no clues as to what had happened here. Five minutes into his search he paused and looked down the hill. Tucked in between the tiers, in a place where the hill jutted out forming an outcropping, was a grassy area and a small pond. From his vantage point, he could see all the way down the hill to the river. What a lovely scene, if not for the murder. In the six months he’d lived in Belvidere, he’d never taken the time to check out this area. He’d meant to, and his wife had suggested it on many occasions, but the sleepy village had seemed boring to him. Now, he realized he’d misjudged it.

  He tromped down to the pond and stood there contemplating the case. What had brought this woman here? Had she been traveling through Reynier, spotted the large caves and decided to look around? And that brought up another question—how had she gotten here? By train to Belvidere? If so, did she walk the rest of the way, or did someone pick her up? She may have hitchhiked. Some people did that, ignoring the signs warning that it was illegal. That seemed unlikely with a child, but people do strange things. Maybe she came by car. If so, where was it parked? The parking lot near the edge of town had been empty, he’d noted as he and his men approached Reynier. The child was the strangest part of it all.

  Who was the victim? Knowing that might fill in some of the blanks. As soon as his team arrived and took the crime scene photos, they could search the body and look for ID, a handbag, identifying marks. He couldn’t check any further now and no doubt forensics would complain even about what he had done.

  He began walking back toward town the same way he’d come. When he arrived back at the cave, he saw Officer Gerard Petit sitting on a boulder, waiting.

  Petit called out to him. “Beauchamp was here, sir. He said the little girl is safe in Café Charbonneau.”

  “Has he seen the spot where she was found?”

  “Yes, sir. It was one tier lower than where we are now, as I understand it. Near one of the troglos.”

  Goddard pursed his lips. How did the child, assuming she was the victim’s daughter, end up so far away from this woman? And had the child been outside in the storm all night? Might she have fallen from this level down to the next one? No one had indicated that the child was injured. Might the child have gone missing and the woman gone into the cave to search for her?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JEANNETTE DEVLIN LISTENED impatiently to the buzzing on her telephone. No answer. Presumably, Fabienne was out. Really, she should be there, we always talk in the mornings. Although they were best friends and had known one another forever, sometimes Fabienne could be irritating, as her husband Claude Laurent had been. Jeannette had already tried calling her own daughter, Coralie, and her grandchildren, Simone and Paul. Where was everyone? She puckered her lips, sighed, and slammed down the receiver. That meant she would have to walk over to the café, which wasn’t going to be easy since she’d awoken with her seventy-eight-year-old legs swollen and throbbing. Edema, that’s what Marchand called it. The doctor had told her it was common for her age. Told her, too, that she should wear compression stockings. Alors. She wouldn’t be caught dead in those. Doctors were good at giving ailments names but not so with providing any useful cures.

  She stuffed her feet into her low-heeled pumps, slipped on a light sweater, and wrapped a pink and white scarf over her newly dyed and permed hair, tying it under her chin. That should do it. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. The wind was stronger than she’d expected; it whipped at her scarf and blew it off. Well, then. Should have tied it in a knot. She chased after it past the house next door and stumbled on a cobble as she bent down to retrieve it, twisting her ankle.

  Jeannette winced at the pain, then looked around for assistance. No one was in the street. Nothing she could do but try to stand up on her own. As she put her full weight on her sore foot, she groaned, but it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Vowing she wouldn’t be beaten by this, she started walking again. She hobbled past two more neighbors’ houses and hesitated as she looked ahead. To get to the café she would have to continue another block and pass the back of the chateau. She still didn’t see anyone around who could help if her ankle gave out. No. Better to return home. Eventually, someone would call her or come by to visit.

  Indoors once more she plopped onto her settee, lifted her legs and let them rest on the antique footstool—it was even called a gout stool. She wouldn’t dare let anyone see her do something so un-ladylike, but nobody could see her, so she could do as she damned well pleased.

  Relaxing, her gaze fixed on pictures hanging on the opposite wall—an arrangement of family photos. She leaned back against the cushion, closed her eyes, and thought about her family. Her daughters, Coralie and Brigitte, two years apart in age, used to run through this house giggling and chasing each other, dodging and bumping into furniture, and causing their father to yell at them to settle down before they broke something. Invariably, he was too late. Fortunately, that was before Jeannette began collecting antiques, so after scolding the girls and sending them off to their rooms, Charles would smile at Jeannette and shake his head as he tried to keep from laughing out loud. That was her Charles—always trying to be stern on the outside, when truly he was a mirthful softy when it came to the children. Of course, he didn’t hide it very well. The girls caught on quickly, which meant Jeannette had to be the disciplinarian and she had never been all that good at it.

  The girls. What would he think of the girls nowadays if he was still alive?

  Charles had adored his girls, both his daughters and his granddaughter, but when his grandson, Paul, came along, that’s when Charles was truly smitten. He’d wanted a son more than anything in the world. A grandson was the next best thing. All of them—Charles, Jeannette (for she too had desperately and fearfully wanted a boy), and his mother, Brigitte, had coddled Paul. How could they not? What a little charmer he was, from the cradle on. Likely they should have been tougher on the boy. But all in all, despite his faults, he was doing well, wasn’t he? He’d caught the attention of a Paris art dealer and promoter who’d seen Paul’s paintings on display at a gallery near the art school Paul had attended in Paris a couple years back. Now the dealer was offering Paul help getting his art work into a prestigious New York gallery.

  Simone, too, was doing all right. Yes, she’d quit her modeling career in Paris. Said she’d tired of the whole scene, and she’d moved here. But now she was doing well running the café she’d bought from Fabienne. Still, Jeannette worried about her. Some of Simone’s light seemed to have gone out recently. Too bad she couldn’t get the girl to confide her worries. Alain. He was most likely the cause of Simone’s problems. Jeannette still wondered why he’d abruptly moved back to Reynier. Ah, well, maybe she was worrying over nothing. Charles would tell her that if he was still alive.

  She laid down on the settee, pulled a throw b
lanket over her body, and closed her eyes for a short nap.

  “SORRY TO INTERRUPT, Captain, but we’ve received a call from the Medical Examiner’s office. He expects to have a postmortem report to us by the end of the week.”

  Goddard looked up at Durand. “Did you tell him we need a rush on it?”

  “Says he’s backlogged, sir.”

  “Merde! Well, I guess that will have to do. What about the woman’s ID? No one’s found a missing wallet or handbag in the cave?”

  “No, sir. We had a team exploring deeper in that cave. Only thing they found was a scarf. Don’t know how long it was in there or if it belonged to the woman, but we sent it to forensics anyway.” Durand’s demeanor darkened. “That Lepage fellow was right—lots of bats in there.”

  “Humph. You find anything of use on the woman?”

  “Uh, we found a mobile in the pocket of her sweater.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention that earlier?” Goddard shook his head. Sometimes he wanted to wring Durand’s neck. The man had the view that if a job was worth doing it was worth avoiding. “Did anyone check the phone for ID—like an answering message? Something like, ‘you’ve reached so and so’.”