by West, CJ
“A few?”
“I’d rather not go there. Randy’s history, let’s leave it at that.”
“Would you rather tell me why a gendarme lieutenant is sitting in my study?” As he said this, Charles locked eyes with his son and moved squarely into his path, blocking his advance down the hall.
Charlie angled around. “It’s a mistake, that’s all. I didn’t do anything.”
Charles planted his hand firmly against his son’s chest. “This isn’t high school. You’re not going to waltz in there and talk your way out of it. If you’re smart, you won’t say anything until we can get Art Roberts here to help.”
“I don’t need Art. I told you, I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Don’t give me that. I saw the picture. This is murder, Charlie. This is your life we’re talking about here.”
The fingers gripping his chest and the cold emotionless stare touched off a fire inside Charlie. The dark eyes behind the glasses were clear. They held neither anger nor compassion for the trouble ahead. Valueless, they sparkled with cunning strategies to outwit the gendarme in the next room. In that instant, Charlie saw his father as a cross between a sleazy defense lawyer and the thieving robber baron Sebastian and Randy made him out to be.
Charlie pushed past him and burst into the study, but once inside, his steps became tentative. The musty air hung heavily with tobacco. Laroche waited at a marble-topped table, leafing through a folder thick with printed forms. He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, turning the pages merely to busy his hands.
Laroche rose.
Charlie shook his hand and sat, emboldened by his father’s presence at his side. Every time he looked at him, though, he was reminded of Sebastian’s version of Marston family history.
Laroche bathed in the silent terror of the moment, perfectly rigid in his pressed blue uniform. He scowled across the table at Charlie, who swallowed hard to moisten his fear-parched throat. Laroche began with the indignant tone of a man with powerful leverage. “Mr. Marston, it seems you were not forthcoming when we met. Since you’ve come back, I’m going to give you a chance to tell me what you know about Henri Deudon. Cooperate, and I may let you return home. Deceive me again and you’ll rot in prison until trial.” His voice was strangely unconvincing, as if he were forcing himself to sound stern.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Charlie insisted.
“Mr. Marston, a man is dead. A house burned to the ground in your presence. Do you deny it?”
Charlie’s world stopped. He’d imagined this moment a thousand times on the plane and still he couldn’t breathe. His arms trembled as he wondered how much Laroche knew. He wished Art Roberts could answer for him.
Laroche pushed an enlarged photo across the table.
The printer had blurred the image, but the outline of the garage was visible in the background. The camera had been focused on the rear ends of the two cars. The number plates were easily legible. The only reason to take a photo like this was to make trouble.
Charlie felt Laroche’s eyes locked on him. He’d spent most of the trip replaying the events from that night, but now that he saw the picture he realized how urgently he needed to know who snapped that photograph. Deirdre had been tied up most of the night. Henri was so angry he would have barreled in without thinking, and if he had left something behind, it would have surfaced before now. Charlie gulped. Randy was capable of almost anything.
“How’d you get this?” Charlie asked.
“That’s not important. You rented this car, did you not?”
Charlie ignored the question and focused on the picture. The fuzzy edges reminded him of the inkjet he used in college. This wasn’t a lab print. It was a printout of a digital photo. Suddenly, Charlie remembered Randy asking Laroche for a business card. The reason was clear now: Randy e-mailed the photo.
Charlie hadn’t seen a camera, but he was pretty drunk that night. He worried that Randy might have taken more-incriminating photos. He was alone long enough to capture the gasoline, the sawdust, and the money. He might even have a picture of Charlie doing CPR naked, but he’d keep that one to himself. Whatever photos Randy had taken, Laroche would have them in his file. If Charlie held back, it would look like he killed Henri. If he told too much, he was going to jail for torching the house. He faced the thick file, frozen by uncertainty.
“Mr. Marston, are you with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind telling me how a car you rented came to be parked next to Mr. Deudon’s?”
Charlie hesitated a long moment and the safest aspects of his story began to dribble out. He told Laroche about Brad Perry, the man he’d met on a tour to Switzerland, and how he’d found the farmhouse. How he’d cleaned up the ramshackle building and used it to escape the winery.
“So, you were there that night, before the fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was Henri Deudon doing there?”
“I don’t know. I’d never seen him before.”
“Do you have a cell phone, Mr. Marston?”
Charlie unclipped the phone from his belt and showed it to Laroche, who gestured for a closer look. Charles, sensing a scene right out of a bad detective movie, reached out and pulled the phone out of Laroche’s reach.
Charlie shrugged at his father and pushed the phone forward. “It’s ok. I’ve never met the guy, honest. The phone can only prove that.”
Laroche dialed a number and listened.
“Identifier ce nombre s'il vous plait,” he asked into the phone. He listened, said, “Merci,” and hung up without writing anything on the pad in front of him. He set the phone on his side of the desk and snickered at Charlie. “Mr. Marston, why did you call Henri Deudon the night he was killed?”
The word “killed” echoed in Charlie’s ears.
He was standing and shouting before he realized he’d leapt from his chair. “I never called him! Never! I don’t know how he found us.” Charlie slammed his hand to the table and he felt his father grab his shirt and pull him back to his chair. He was pleading from his chair now, “Why would I know some cow farmer from nowhere?”
“You said us, Mr. Marston. Who was with you?”
“Randy, the man you met after the fire, and Deirdre Deudon.”
Laroche perked up in his chair. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Did you call Mrs. Deudon that night?”
“No. I never met either of them before…”
“You are trying my patience, Mr. Marston.” Laroche clenched his teeth and slid a printed page to Charlie. The writing was French, but he recognized his telephone number circled in red ink. “This is the Deudon’s phone record. It shows that you called their house on the night Henri was killed. Explain that to me, Mr. Marston.”
The blood drained from Charlie’s face as he stared at the numbers. He flashed a look at his father, who sat dumbfounded beside him. No doubt he was annoyed at Charlie for ignoring his advice.
Charlie remembered standing inside the smashed garage looking for his phone to call Sebastian. Randy had it. Randy made the call to the Deudon’s house. Charlie checked the time on the phone bill: ten fifty-six. By that time, Randy had picked up Deirdre and was driving her to the farm. He called Henri from the car because he wanted him there at the farmhouse. Randy had planned to kill Henri all along and Charlie helped him cover it up by torching the house.
“I didn’t make that call!”
Charlie imagined the Bill Caulfield scenario starting all over again with him. Was this the end, so soon? What else had Randy planted? What other photos would he send?
Laroche stood up. “Mr. Marston, I’m going to arrest you. I suggest you get a very good attorney.”
Charles stood up opposite him ready for battle.
Of course, Laroche didn’t believe Charlie about the phone call, but Charlie still sensed he was bluffing about the arrest. No matter; he was too scared to hold back. He had to prove his innocence before things got out of hand and Deirdre
was the only way.
“Wait, wait.”
“The time for cooperation is well past, Mr. Marston.”
“I need your help. Someone’s in danger.”
Laroche impatiently leaned over the table, reluctant to sit. “Who?”
“Deirdre Deudon.”
“What about Mrs. Deudon?”
“She knows who killed her husband.”
Charles gasped. “Randy! I told you he was nothing but trouble. If…”
Laroche gestured Charles into silence. “Go on, Mr. Marston.”
“Deirdre saw everything and so did I.”
“Your long-haired friend killed Mr. Deudon?”
“Yes.”
“Why should I believe it was him and not you?”
“Deirdre will tell you.”
“I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Deudon. She said Henri was out alone.”
“Randy threatened to kill her if she talked. He’ll kill her now, before she can tell you the truth.”
“I’ll make arrangements to visit her.”
“She’s at my house in Massachusetts.”
Charles slapped the table. “The woman who came looking for you?”
“She’s in Westport,” Charlie mumbled.
Laroche did a double-take and ran his fingers through the strips of hair on each side of his head. He turned away, pacing and spinning, unsure which direction to face. He finally came to rest in the chair across from Charlie.
Charlie raised his hands. “I know it looks bad, but she found me. She was lonely after her husband died. She had nowhere to go. I swear.”
“She came here looking for him. My wife gave her directions to the winery and offered her a job,” Charles said.
“Please.” Laroche waved Charles into silence again. “This doesn’t help your case, Mr. Marston. You’re living with the man’s widow. It couldn’t look worse.”
“Randy planned Henri’s murder. I had nothing to do with it. I never met Deirdre or Henri before that night. I didn’t know what he was going to do, I swear. Randy found her ad on the Internet. He met her at a bar and drove her to the farmhouse. I never saw either of them until they came up the stairs.” The words tumbled out of Charlie and he wasn’t sure how the desperate babbling made him look.
Stone-faced, Laroche gave no indication what he believed. “If Randy was interested in the girl, why’d he bring her to meet you?”
Charlie glanced at his father, wondering if he’d be horrified or proud of what he was about to say.
Laroche waited.
“She wanted both of us.”
“At once?” Laroche asked incredulously.
Charles eyed his son with a mixture of pride and confusion.
Charlie nodded.
Laroche stared vacantly as if mentally poking for holes in Charlie’s version of events. “So when did Henri walk in?”
“About ten minutes behind Randy and Deirdre.”
“And you were…” Laroche suggested.
“Engaged,” Charlie finished.
Laroche nodded to himself, probably imagining what was going through Henri’s mind when he walked in on his wife and two men. “So, Henri went ‘psycho’ as you Americans say.”
“He tackled Randy. I pulled Henri off or he would have killed him.”
“Exactly when did Mr. Deudon stop struggling?”
“Right after Randy smacked him in the head with a wine bottle.”
“I assume you’re going to tell me Randy burned the house down, too.”
“I tried CPR first, but I couldn’t resuscitate him. Deirdre watched the whole thing.” Charlie’s breath caught in his throat. “I need to call her. Randy’s there and he knows what’s happening. He’s going to kill her. It’s the only way he could hope to get away with this.”
Laroche was too absorbed in his thoughts to object.
Charles retrieved a speaker phone he used for teleconferences and dialed Charlie’s house. The three men listened to the phone ring seven times. Deirdre didn’t answer.
When the machine picked up Charlie leaned over the microphone. “Get out of there. Randy’s looking for you. Get out the second you get this message. Hide until I get back.”
Laroche seemed unfazed by Charlie’s panic. “Mr. Marston, this is a much different story than the one you told me last time we met.” He tapped his fingers on the table while he considered what to do. “I’m going to give you a chance,” he said finally. “I’ll check out your story about the bar and see if anyone remembers seeing Deirdre Deudon and Randy together. I can’t verify which one of you called the Deudons’ home, but your story is plausible at least.”
Charlie took his first relaxed breath since walking into the room.
Laroche continued. “You will stay here. Do not leave the house. No calls, no e-mail, no contact with anyone unless Deirdre Deudon calls you. If she does, call me immediately. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Laroche collected his things and left Charlie to wonder what Randy had in store for him next.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sebastian lowered the clipboard and checked his watch for the third time. Ten-thirty and Deirdre still hadn’t shown up. With Charlie in France, and Deirdre who-knows-where, Sebastian was left to cover the vineyard, the warehouse, and the gift shop when Lily took her inevitable forty-five-minute lunch break. Sebastian tossed the clipboard on the desk in disgust and stalked over to the gift shop hoping to find Deirdre chatting with Lily. His anger built as the shells crunched underfoot. It was Saturday and Deirdre was delaying his rendezvous with a cold beer in a crowded bar down by the water.
Lily startled when the door whipped open then huddled behind the cash register looking pale and frightened as if the gift shop were under attack. The tasting area was empty; no sign of Deirdre anywhere.
“Mr. Marston overnighted me a package from France yesterday. Have you seen the FedEx guy yet?” Sebastian asked.
“No,” Lily squeaked.
“Did Deirdre call in?”
Lily perked up at the question, visibly shaking now. “No,” she stammered.
She looked ashamed as if she were somehow responsible for Deirdre’s tardiness. Sebastian blamed Charlie. Sleeping with the boss’ son nullified his authority over her and she knew it. She was a diligent worker and she’d never been this late, but this was her first week. He moved around the counter and saw Lily wringing her hands.
“Is something wrong with Deirdre?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you so nervous? What’s wrong?”
Lily looked down into her clasped hands.
“It’s obvious something’s bothering you. What is it?”
“I’m leaving the winery,” she said without looking up.
“This is sudden. What happened?”
“Nothing that can be helped. You’ve all been kind, but I have to leave.”
Sebastian sat on a stool behind the counter, lowering himself to Lily’s height and imagining what Charlie would say when he heard the news.
“Is there something we can change? Your hours maybe?”
“No. It’s personal. Things have changed and I have to leave right away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope everything is ok,” he said, half expecting her to pack her things and leave that instant.
“It will be. I’ll finish the day.” Her blurted statement hung in the air.
Objecting was pointless. Lily was leaving and Sebastian would be alone on Monday to tend both counters, the vineyard, and the winery. He’d worked eight years to move up to winemaker and now he was being forced back to where he started—gift shop duty. There was a certain amount of freedom being the only person working the winery and Sebastian planned to take full advantage until Charlie returned.
The FedEx van rolled down the driveway and Sebastian ducked outside to meet it. He signed for the large blue and white box and went back to his cubicle to open it privately as Charles had requested. The briefcase inside was wrapp
ed in so much packing tape it would be impossible to open without a knife. Sebastian grinned when he read the first line of the note urging him not to open the case. The note went on to describe the old tractor parked in the bushes at the end of the stone wall. It had been rusting there since before Sebastian started at the winery. He was to leave the briefcase on the seat and then go back to the barn and watch it.
Did Charles seriously believe he’d sit and watch the briefcase all day? Life and death, the note said. What a funny little rich man.
Sebastian took the case and walked across the grass to where the stone wall disappeared into a thicket that sprung up on both sides. He stood a moment, calculating the easiest path through the snarling branches and briars that blocked his path. He took a deep breath and pushed his way in a few yards and up over the mound of rocks that tumbled off the wall from hundreds of animal crossings. The tractor lay several yards ahead with holes rusted through the sheet metal and saplings pushing their way up on all sides.
Sebastian left the case on the seat and trampled down a few bushes to clear a line of sight from the loft window two hundred yards away. He hiked back to the barn and slammed the door loud enough for Lily to hear. After a quick detour for a bottle of sparkling, he hiked to the loft. Nineteen ninety-four, a great year for Marston Vineyards. Sebastian popped the cork and watched the tractor through the grimy glass.
Hours later, just before dark, Sebastian woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing on his belt. The empty bottle lay sideways on the floor between his feet. No work had been accomplished whatsoever. Peering through the window, he could just make out the tractor, but the briefcase was impossible to see.
He cleared his throat and answered, masking his grogginess as best he could.
“Sebastian, what happened?”
“I haven’t seen anything.”
“No one came for the case?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think so? Have you been watching or not?”
“I haven’t seen anything, but it’s getting dark.”
“Well, get down there!”
Sebastian couldn’t believe his presumptiveness. “What?”
