by Diana Orgain
“No,” I said to Mom. “I didn’t expect a full mea culpa, but I think he may be telling the truth. I don’t think he knew she was working on the story. But the press guy would, right?”
Mom and I decided it would be best to leave the car safely parked and walk the short distance to the consulate. Mom strolled around with Laurie in the lobby while I asked for Christophe.
The receptionist informed me he was off-site. I imagined he’d have to deal with a lot of inquiries right now as the news was breaking about Armand killing Nancy.
On impulse, I requested to speak with Jean-Luc. The receptionist frowned but nodded and walked me down a hallway to his office.
She rapped on the door, peeked in, and announced me. They had a quick exchange in French. I heard Jean-Luc groan. After a moment, the receptionist waved me inside and closed the door behind me.
It was a small office, similar to Christophe’s. A desk with a computer, from which Celtic music played, a round table in the corner, and tall filing cabinet against a wall, the only difference was that Jean-Luc was packing up this office as though he was moving. Several cartons were stacked near the door.
“I know that Armand stole Nancy’s computer.” I launched in without preamble. After all, what else was I going to say? Good to see you and your chest hair?
“That’s why he didn’t stop when he hit my car,” I continued. “He didn’t want to get caught with stolen goods.”
Jean-Luc smiled. “Do American men find nosy women attractive?”
“Do French women appreciate sarcasm?”
“Mrs. Connolly. The police investigation showed that Armand killed Miss Pickett. None of us here at the consulate are proud of that fact. We are deeply saddened by it.”
“Are you my Facebook friend?” I asked.
Jean-Luc frowned although something else flashed across his eyes. “Face, what?”
“Oh, of course, you’re not. Jean-Luc Gaudet is not on Facebook, but Kevin Gibson is.”
Jean-Luc set his jaw. “What are you babbling about? Who is Kevin Gibson?”
I smiled. “You know who Kevin Gibson is, he’s the leak. He’s the one who started this entire mess. He’s the scientist at Reparation Research who contacted Nancy about the consul placing corporate spies over there. He likes Celtic music.” I shrugged. “At least that’s what his Facebook profile says.”
“If Mr. Gibson is accusing the consul of something as grave—”
“It is grave, isn’t it? We certainly wouldn’t have wanted that to leak out before the Légion deux honneur!”
“De not deux!”
“Right. Deux is two, right? As in two sides, duplicitous.”
Jean-Luc gritted his teeth. “Accusations are easy. You have no proof of this and if Mr. Gibson does he can come forward.”
“Oh, Mr. Gibson can’t come forward, he’s dead.”
The blood drained from Jean-Luc’s face. “What?”
“Well, either that or he’s in the Bahamas. But I won’t know for sure until after New Year’s when he’s scheduled to return.” I gave an exaggerated shrug. “At least that’s what his Facebook status page says.”
“Is all this about the insurance situation? I’m deeply sorry Armand hit your car, you need to work with—”
Suddenly a missing piece of the puzzle clicked into place for me. “You were at Kyra’s the night Armand committed suicide, weren’t you?”
Jean-Luc’s lips twisted. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“While Kyra was sleeping, you climbed up the fire escape and got into Armand’s apartment. That’s why none of the neighbors saw anyone coming or going into Armand’s the night he was killed.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Having access to Armand’s apartment through the back of the house must have been important though. How else were you going to take one of his bedsheets?”
“Please leave.”
I reached out for the doorknob, my hand shaking uncontrollably. “I have Nancy’s hard drive.”
Jean-Luc’s eyes twitched. “What?”
“And a backup copy of Mr. Vann’s data. It’s a long story, but I do have the proof.”
He laughed. “If you had proof of anything, the police would be here.”
He was right. There was nothing on the hard drive or in Mr. Vann’s data, but if he was behind all this nasty business, then it was something he probably feared.
“Would they? You have diplomatic immunity. They’d just deport you or something, right?”
Jean-Luc snarled.
“What do you get out of it? Why put yourself in jeopardy for the consul? So what if his dirty secrets about corporate espionage leak out? He doesn’t get his award? His promotion . . .” I looked around at the state of the office. Jean-Luc was moving . . .
“Oh. Are you going to Washington with the ambassador? Kyra will be disappointed . . .
“I’m not going to Washington.” He smiled wide, the cat who ate the canary. “I’m the new consul for San Francisco.”
My breath caught. “Get your boss promoted and you get promoted, too. Nice. What about poor Armand? Why did you kill him? Because he knew too much?”
Jean-Luc pressed his lips together tightly, staring at me but saying nothing.
“What about Kevin Gibson?” I asked. “What am I going to find if I go over to his place?”
“Why don’t you go and find out?” he challenged.
“I think I will,” I said, turning on my heel.
As I left his office, I heard him mumble almost inaudibly, “Merde.”
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN •
To Do:
1. Jim says ridiculous. Maybe should find another class for her in New Year.
2. ✓
3. ✓ Prove it!
4. Write letter to DPT protesting tickets.
5. Decide on New Year’s resolutions.
6. N.Y. Res. #1—no more formula. Breast is best!
I’d called Galigani as soon as I’d gotten home, but he more or less dissuaded me from going to McNearny with anything about Jean-Luc. The evening news was taking the Armand story and running it full force. There had been a press conference with Christophe and the consul. They were aggrieved by the news. A reporter had captured Armand’s parents’ heads ducked in a photograph.
I took a call from Chuck Vann. He thanked me for helping him and told me a check was in the mail. That was it. Case closed. I was free to go about my business, cash my check, and prep for Christmas dinner.
Instead, I tossed and turned all night wondering about Kevin Gibson.
The following morning, Jim ran to the grocery store to buy all the supplies for our Christmas Eve dinner. Mom was bringing Galigani to dinner as Hank was going back East to join one of his daughters.
I wrapped the presents and put them under the tree.
Still thoughts of Kevin Gibson haunted me.
When Jim returned, he agreed to watch Laurie while I closed this last loop.
I pulled up to the small blue house on Cherry Street in San Carlos and parked in the driveway. The home was detached with a graveled walkway that led behind the house. It was made of cider blocks and looked about as sturdy as one could hope for in earthquake country.
I got out of my car and stepped up to the front porch to ring the bell. I picked at my nails while I waited. No one answered, which made perfect sense if its occupant was truly vacationing in the Bahamas. I ignored the pit in my stomach and rang the bell again.
The front window shades were pulled and no holiday decorations were visible. In contrast, the neighbors on either side of the house had the full-tilt Christmas décor, complete with reindeer and a blow-up Santa on the front lawn.
I took the gravel walkway to the back of the house. A wooden fence surrounded the garden. There was a large grass area bordered by flower beds. At the back sat an empty doghouse and an enclosed potting shed.
From the neighbors backyard I heard a do
g bark.
I stared at the doghouse.
Did Kevin have a dog?
If so, who was taking care of it while he was on vacation? A neighbor? A dog sitter?
I fingered the lock on the potting shed. It was shiny and bright, a new lock in contrast to the rusted door.
I banged and pulled on the door to no avail, which was fine. What had I expected to find anyway?
Kevin Gibson was probably getting sunburned on a beautiful beach right now. Nothing to worry about except the potency of the sun and the Bahama mamas.
When was the last time I had a fruity cocktail with an umbrella sticking out from it?
Suddenly, I heard a crunching sound on the gravel walkway. A mid-sized chocolate Labrador tore down the path, its owner trailing it.
The dog sprang on its hind feet, ready to claim me as its own. The owner yanked on his leash, saving my blouse and jeans from the wonderful muddy mess the Lab would have bestowed upon me.
The Labrador began to sniff at me. I held out my hand to let him smell it, then patted his head. He moved on to sniff at the potting shed door.
The owner was a man in his mid-forties, fit with a square face and a crew cut.
“Are you Kevin Gibson?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. I’m Jason, Kevin’s neighbor. Are you looking for him?”
I nodded.
The dog let out a bark followed by a whimper and started to scratch at the dirt surrounding the potting shed.
“He’s on vacation. Is there anything I can help you with?”
I dug out a card from my pocket and handed it to him. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Jason studied my card. “After New Year’s.” He pulled the dog’s leash. “Come on, Buddy, don’t tear up the place.”
The dog growled and barked.
Jason yanked on the leash again and started to walk me out. The Lab followed us, still barking and resisting.
Why did the dog like the potting shed so much?
Why was there a new lock on the shed?
“Do you know what’s in the shed?” I asked Jason.
Jason looked confused. “What?”
Visions of a dead Kevin Gibson, crumpled in the potting shed, crowded my mind.
“Your dog liked the shed.”
Jason laughed and waved his free hand. “Ugh, Buddy sniffs and digs up everything. Probably just a raccoon scent or something.”
I indicated the doghouse. “Does Kevin own a dog?”
“No. Kevin’s way to busy for a dog. He’s never around. I think the doghouse was here when he bought the place.”
We stopped in the front yard. I thanked him and got into my car.
Only one way to know for sure what was in the potting shed.
Fortunately, there was a Home Depot only a few miles away. I drove straight there and purchased a bolt cutter and a new lock.
I decided against calling Jim for fear that he would talk me out of it and since the drive to San Carlos was about forty minutes from San Francisco I didn’t want to have the thought nagging at me enough to cause a return trip.
Instead, I thought about what I’d tell Jason if he and Buddy came back.
In the Home Depot parking lot, I emptied my diaper bag and placed the bolt cutter inside. I returned to Cherry Street.
I wished for the cover of night, but since it was only noon and I had to get back to Laurie I didn’t have that luxury.
The best strategy would be to do it quickly.
I parked a block away, so Jason or any other neighbor wouldn’t be alerted to my presence.
I walked as if I belonged there, with purpose and direction. I crunched down the gravel path to the potting shed, removed the cutter, and proceeded to attempt to snip the lock.
Only it was extremely difficult. The cutter scratched at the lock, but I wasn’t able to cut it. Why hadn’t I bought the bigger cutter? Because it was expensive as hell! As it was I’d paid over a hundred for this one. The bigger ones were priced around three hundred and thirty.
I opened the bolt cutter again and readjusted my position to get some leverage on the tool. I squeezed the shears together and felt the lock snap in two.
Yes!
The hinges squeezed as I pushed open the door. Inside, it was cold and smelled of musty earth. I could make out a shelf of small ceramic pots and some bulky burlap sacks. No dead body stench assaulted me as I’d feared.
I entered and poked the burlap sack with my bolt cutter. The sack gave. I peeked inside.
Just dirt.
No Kevin Gibson, dead and decaying in the potting shed. Only me unable to leave any stone unturned.
And yet . . .
What if Kevin was dead in some room of the house? Should I try to break into the house?
I heard crunching on the gravel path.
Shoot! Caught red-handed.
I took a breath and pasted my best smile on my face to greet Jason and stepped out of the potting shed.
My heart stopped.
Jean-Luc was crossing the garden toward me, his face dark with anger.
I gripped the bolt cutter. “What do you want?”
Not waiting for an answer, I hurled the tool at his head. It smashed him in the temple and blood spurted out. I took advantage of his shock, running straight into him and knocking him to the ground.
I stumbled over him; only three yards separated me and the gravel path leading to freedom.
I took one desperate step forward but a hand gripped my ankle. I fought the unbalance, kicking at him with my free foot and screaming at the top of my lungs.
With one brutal yank, he pulled me to the ground. He was on his feet and dragging me across the lawn. I gripped at the grass, only succeeding in taking it with me.
“Let me go!” I screamed, flailing about.
I tried to wring out of his grip, flipping over on to my back. It didn’t faze him.
“Shut up,” he said. The wound on his temple was gushing now and the intensity of his eyes had dimmed a bit. He was in pain.
He made a retching sound, his body convulsing with a dry heave.
I kicked at him with my free leg, but despite his pain his grip was locked around my ankle.
He swung open the potting shed, dragging me inside.
Damn that dog and his stupid nose. If he hadn’t made a fuss, I would have gone straight home instead of to buy a bolt cutter.
Home!
Laurie! Jim!
I kicked at Jean-Luc with my free leg. He released me and twisted toward the shelf. Before I could get to my feet he grabbed a mid-size pot and heaved it at me.
My arms reflectively covered my eyes and face and I screamed. “Did you kill Kevin, too?”
The pot hit my forearms, then crashed to the ground. He threw another pot at me, this one hitting me on the forehead. Black spots appeared before my eyes.
I ducked my head and pulled my shoulder up, trying to turn my back on him and protect myself.
He flung another pot at me, hitting me directly on my shoulder blade.
The room was spinning now; I grabbed at the floor.
As if from a distance, I heard him groan and mumble something like, “Merde.”
Then a retching sound. This time the stench made it clear he’d vomited.
Merde, indeed.
I struggled to get to my feet, but couldn’t get off my hands and knees. I crawled toward the door. Only I couldn’t make out where it was. There had been light just a moment ago coming from the . . .
Where was the door?
The room was spinning out of control and I was frightfully dizzy. Suddenly I felt as if someone had just pushed me off the merry-go-round. One final spin and darkness.
I awoke in the dark. My tongue felt thick and dry. The room smelled horrid, vomit mixed with something sweet and metallic. My head throbbed and I couldn’t quite lift it. Where was I?
I felt around the ground, which was cool . . .
Dirt.
The pott
ing shed.
Oh God! I’d passed out in the potting shed. Where was Jean-Luc?
In a panic, I struggled to my hands and knees, deciding not to try for my feet. I was unsteady and didn’t want to risk another fall. I felt around the ground. My hand bumped into a pot, then brushed something wet and sticky.
It was too dark to identify it. I wiped my hand in the dirt. It was either vomit or . . .
Yes, the sickening metallic smell was blood.
I found the wall and traced along the interior with my hand until I found the telltale grooves and hinges of the door. I pushed on the door; it opened a crack and then held. A new lock had been placed on the shed.
A sob escaped me. I cried out at the top of my lungs.
Could anyone hear me? Jason? Buddy?
What if no one came? I had to get out of here. My breasts were burning and sore, knotty lumps forming with the backed up milk.
Laurie!
My baby! My darling! I had to get to Laurie and Jim.
Would Jim know where I was?
I vaguely remembered not calling him from the Home Depot! Oh God, why hadn’t I called him? Had I told him where I was going? I couldn’t remember, the pain in my head was making everything foggy.
I had to find a way out.
I banged on the door again.
Please, please, let me find a way out.
No light came from the small crack in the door. It was night out. What time was it? How long had I been out? Did I have my phone with me? I fumbled around the shed trying to locate my diaper bag/purse.
Then I recalled I’d emptied the bag in my car and only put the bolt cutter in it. I’d left the bag at the foot of the shed before I’d entered it the first time.
What had Jean-Luc been doing here?
Had he followed me or was he coming to move the body. . .
Where was Kevin Gibson? Was he really in the Bahamas?
