And there was Bruno, standing back, his chest concave from laughter. His ugly face contorted in glee. Pascal felt a familiar hatred pulsing up from his chest.
Bruno.
What had happened? Had she tripped and fallen into the fountain? Why wasn’t he helping her out? Had someone— Bruno?— pushed her? Had she simply lost her balance reaching for a sailboat? She looked ridiculous, humiliated. And he stood by, joining the general mirth.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Elise was in Paris, and that Pascal would find her and save her.
34
Aberdeen • Wednesday
Francie Bennett sat in the waiting room at the police station where Jinty Arbuckle was being held, waiting to see her. This would be their third conversation and the only one without her lawyer, Glynn Barra. Glynn didn’t act keen on Francie befriending her client. There appeared to be some competition for the young woman’s affection in Glynn’s mind. Or maybe she just didn’t like Francie.
She adjusted the neckline of her blouse, buttoning up one more level. France realized she could be irritating. Intimidating at times, when it suited her as it often did. And meddling in affairs where no one wanted her interference. But that was the way things got done, she thought stubbornly. If you didn’t push, the status quo would just float along and pretty soon Jinty Arbuckle would be locked up for the rest of her life.
Although Glynn did explain that the charge would probably not be first degree murder or whatever the legal term was here, but more likely the American equivalent of manslaughter. Jinty didn’t claim to try to hurt Miss Petrie, just admitted to giving her a shove. A fatal shove as it turned out, but still unplanned. So perhaps fifteen years of her life. Whatever the sentence it was unwarranted and unjust and way too long.
Francie hadn’t admitted to Glynn that she was well and good plastered by the time of the events that evening. She hadn’t gone looking for the stupid sheep. She had drunk who-knows-how-much wine at lunch and dinner, then in the evening wandered around outside with a wine bottle by the neck, guzzling more. Later she drank more, cognac by the fire. She couldn’t even remember seeing Jinty come into the drawing room, when she supposedly voiced concern about Vanora’s whereabouts.
It was troubling. The devil-may-care drinking seemed perfect at the beginning of the week. Whisky tour + solo-at-the-wedding: blotto here we come. It seemed like the practical choice. And then the storm hit and the power went out. Who wouldn’t turn to a nice red for solace?
She decided she needed to stop drinking. Or decrease anyway. A glass of wine at dinner, that was all. So far she’d been good for exactly three days and she felt much better. And kind of righteous. That would wear off but the other good feelings would remain— blissful calm, clear thinking, and a positive outlook. Well, a girl could hope.
She had Jinty Arbuckle and her impossible confession to thank for turning around her decline into alcoholism. But now, Francie thought as she opened her binder on her knees, she had to get the girl to retract her confession.
The Medical Examiner’s report had just come back. The autopsy on Vanora Petrie hadn’t shown anything unusual. Death by drowning, muddy water in her lungs. A horizontal, elongated bruise across her forehead where she had either clocked herself and had help getting clocked. It was kind of hard to imagine going down that hard in a mud puddle. But there were some rocks hidden in the water. One large rock, flat on top and eighteen inches wide, was right under the surface of the puddle, the police determined.
Still, connecting Jinty to the death was a stretch in Francie’s opinion. They hadn’t actually linked the push that Jinty claimed she exacted on the housekeeper to the woman’s fall into the water. Jinty said she saw Vanora go down but Francie didn’t believe it. There was not much to believe in the young woman’s tale.
Francie had been poking around in Jinty’s background. She had one last interview to do, with Mrs. Logan. She wasn’t looking forward to that. Callum’s mother was such a dragon lady. Francie wasn’t afraid of her. She just knew the woman would be difficult. It appeared to be her middle name. And Francie wasn’t sure she could stop herself from saying something nasty about the way Fiona had treated Annie.
The matron called her name. Francie gathered her things and was led to an interrogation room where Jinty sat, prim and proper in her street clothes. She looked a little worse for wear, her hair greasy and lank, dark shadows under her eyes. But she hadn’t yet been formally charged. Was it a sign? They weren’t making her wear ugly prison garb, and they allowed Francie, her pseudo counsel, to interview her alone.
Jinty blinked up at her silently, her dark eyes troubled. Francie arranged herself on the chair and her notes on the table before stretching out a hand. “Good afternoon, Jinty. Are they treating you well?”
The young caretaker gave her hand a quick shake then put both hands in her lap as she shrugged.
“How’s the food? Is it rank?”
Jinty squinted at her, annoyance across her eyebrows. “Why are you here? Where is Glynn?”
“She’ll be in to see you later,” Francie said, smiling. “She said we could talk. Is that all right?”
“Are you my counsel then?”
“No. Glynn is your counsel but I’m helping her. You know I’m a lawyer in the US?”
“Like your sisters.” Jinty looked skeptical.
“Right. So I’ve heard your story about what happened that night, when Vanora went missing. And I’ve talked to the others, to my sisters, to Mrs. MacKeegan, to Killian and Gunni.” She paused for a reaction but there was none. “No one saw you outside that night, Jinty. Not after the search for the sheep.”
“Well, I was, wasn’t I? I went back and forth between the house and quarters.”
Francie nodded. “‘Quarters’? Is that what you call your rooms? It sounds sort of like the Army. Did you have any problems with Mrs. Logan, Jinty?”
“No, mum.”
Francie hated that practice of calling everyone ‘mum.’ It made her feel ancient. “You can call me Francie. I’m trying to be your friend, Jinty.” The young woman slouched but said no more. “How about with Killian? Any issues?”
“No.”
“You like him, isn’t that right? Does he like you?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“He’s not easy to talk to. He almost walked out on me. Kinda cute though, isn’t he?” The young woman’s face was unresponsive, stony and resigned. Francie continued, “What about Gunni? He’s a piece of work.”
Jinty straightened then, blinking before regaining her composure. “No problems.”
“Is that so? Were you keeping tabs on Gunni? Reporting on his behavior to Mrs. Logan?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you are in charge of the staff. That’s right, isn’t it?”
No answer.
“So if Gunni did something, or Vanora, or even Killian did something that was dangerous or wrong, you would report it to Mrs. Logan.”
“But no one did anything wrong.” Her voice rose a little. “Except me.”
Francie opened her binder and leafed through several pages. “Gunni is related to you, isn’t he? What is he, your second cousin?”
Jinty swallowed hard and finally nodded.
“Did you take this job to make someone in the family happy? To report back to them about Brian? That’s Gunni’s real name, right? Brian Gunn.”
Jinty folded her arms across her chest.
Francie pushed on: “Is it your grandfather you report to? Or your mother?”
She said nothing.
“Or do you go directly to Gunni’s father, your mother’s cousin? That would make sense. He’s in Australia, right? But with email and all, that’s not a problem.”
Jinty put her arms on the table and laid her head on them. Her shoulders looked small, her spirit broken. It was the biggest reaction Jinty had to anything for three days. Francie sensed a crack in her facade.
“What about Mrs. Logan? Does she kn
ow you’re covering for Gunni? Does your mother know you’re doing this for the family, laying down your future? Does Gunni’s father know you’re going to prison for his son? Maybe we should write him in Australia? I have his address. Brisbane, correct? Should I drop him a note?”
After another long silent pause, Francie went on. “Gunni’s been in a few scrapes, I see. Fighting, mobbing, drinking. Glasgow’s a rough town. He went to school there for a while, before his father took off for Australia. Gunni ran with a crowd who liked to mix it up. He’s doing much better up here in the Highlands. But there was one incident last year. Where is it? I have it here somewhere.”
Francie made a point of shuffling papers, trying to get the girl to look up. She didn’t.
“Here we go. ‘Breach of the peace, malicious mischief, indecent exposure, running sheep through the village without a permit, uttering threats.’ Kind of went on a little rampage, didn’t he? Maybe some Scottish ale involved? Was that when his grandfather contacted Mrs. Logan again?”
Francie turned to a page. “Because that wasn’t the first time they’d spoken. Gunni’s grandfather is an old friend of Mrs. Logan. They went to school together, years ago. Isn’t that a coincidence? Or not. Seems like everybody went to school with everybody in Scotland.”
More silence.
“Because Grandpa got Gunni his job, didn’t he? Just like he got you your job, by calling in a favor to Mrs. Logan. And part of your writ is to keep Gunni in line. Keep an eye on him. Discourage him from drinking too much and creating scenes in the village. To keep him safe and sober up in the hills. Protect the family name and reputation.”
Jinty sat back then, her face reddened but still fierce. Her arms across her chest were stiff with something— fear or fury. Her mouth twisted as she said in a low voice, “So we’re related. So what?”
Francie closed her binder with ceremony. “Do you think he pushed Vanora that night? Did you see it?”
She blinked furiously and for a minute Francie thought she would keep up the charade. The clock ticked on the wall. Finally Jinty shook her head: no.
“Did he tell you he pushed her?”
She shook her again.
“Did anyone say they saw Gunni push Vanora that night?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know if Gunni pushed her that night but you have reason to believe he might have done it, is that right?”
Jinty shrugged and looked at the side wall.
“No one saw what happened, Jinty. Not you, not my sisters, not Mrs. MacKeegan or the old guy. Nobody. Not even Gunni.”
She examined Francie’s face then, as if searching for answers.
Francie leaned toward her. “For all we know the woman toppled over and hit her head on that rock. Her blood alcohol was pretty high.” She leafed again through to the autopsy report. “Point one. Legally drunk. And maybe too intoxicated to navigate an enormous puddle at night while balancing a plate.”
“No one knows what happened to her, Jinty. Not you. Because you never saw Vanora Petrie that night. You cared about her, didn’t you? You were worried about her. You came back to the main house to see if anyone had seen her. My sisters went to the kitchen with you and you saw that the plate was missing. But she never made it to Mr. Craigg’s that night. She only made it as far as that puddle.”
“Where was Gunni?” Jinty whispered.
“Out wrestling sheep,” Francie said. “Pascal said he left him in the some pasture about eleven-thirty. When he came by the gate, Vanora was gone. Was she at the gate when you went by?”
“No. But I looked for her after midnight.”
“And did you find her?” Jinty shook her head. Francie sighed inwardly. Jinty was fully engaged in her own retraction now. “Did you see anyone outside?”
“No.”
“You came and went through the front door, correct? Did you look at the puddle as you went by?”
Jinty blinked, hunching now. “The moon had gone down and it was verra dark. The power was out, remember.”
“So she might have been in the water then?”
Tears ran down Jinty’s face now. Francie reached out for her but she shrank back, crying hard. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“I— I called her a blootert, a drunk. She was stealin’ sips from a bottle in her apron alla time like we couldn’t see her doin’ it, or dinnae care. After dinner we were in the kitchen and she was raggin’ on about the dark and doin’ the washin’. I had jist had it with her. She turned on me then and told me to mind me own business and that all o’ you were down in the cellar, grabbing bottles like they was free and drinkin’ all the family wine.” She sobbed and brushed her eyes.
“She was right about that. We all had too much to drink that night. Except you, Jinty.” Francie let her cry for a minute then said, “Why did you think Gunni was involved? Because of the brawling?”
“Vanora hated him. She was always callin’ him a sheep-shagger, an idjit. Right to his face! She was a bossy one. She would tell him what to do and he dinnae like it.” Jinty peered up at Francie with bloodshot eyes. “I saw him push her once when she was clingin’ on him. He disnae like to be touched.”
“Pascal mentioned that,” Francie said. “Gunni is an interesting individual. He is pretty anti-social. And your cousin. But not, as far as the evidence goes, a murderer.”
You could almost see the relief come off Jinty in waves. Fresh tears fell on her cheeks as she shook her head, a half smile twisting her lips. “No. No, he’s not.”
“And neither are you, Jinty Arbuckle.”
35
Paris • Wednesday
Pascal smoked a cigarette outside the Police Nationale headquarters in the center of Paris, waiting for Yves to emerge. He checked his watch. His colleague was twenty minutes late, nothing really. Yet Pascal was anxious. He wanted to get on with this, find Bruno and Elise, get the goods on the little man, and make sure Elise was all right.
He hadn’t told Merle about this plan, in case it all went badly. He didn’t know Elise that well, but from her behavior this week at the wedding events she seemed to enjoy playing the wild one, tweaking her nose at her more conventional sisters. Pascal didn’t see Merle that way, as conventional. American, yes, and definitely not French. But he supposed the youngest sister had a certain license. She could play the rebel and they would pat her on the head. He just hoped her wildness hadn’t got her in over that pretty little head.
He brought up the website photograph on his phone and the humiliation she must have felt stabbed him again. He hoped Elise hadn’t read the comments on the blog which were numerous and in six or seven different languages. The photo had been posted to Facebook and Twitter, strangely enough, as if the people in it had no rights to privacy. The French took privacy very seriously but that wasn’t the case everywhere. The top comment, in French, read: “Watch where you’re going, idiot! You’re not in Kansas anymore.” The next, in German: “American whore! Looking for gold in pigeon shit hole.” They got increasingly vile.
He clicked off his phone and stamped out his cigarette. Where was Yves? He glanced around at tourists taking photographs with their phones like the one of Elise, and mothers with children in strollers, students in tight jeans, old men tottering along.
He suddenly wondered how he could have left Merle behind in that awful little cottage with no one but crazy Irene for company. Irene, who had a good heart, frequently smelled of the barnyard. When Merle could be here, basking in the golden sunshine of Paris, wearing something sexy and short, showing off her legs, enjoying spring in the City of Light. Why had he not brought her? He wanted to spend every free moment with her, he knew that now even though it was impossible.
He realized he’d left Merle at his place for an unconscious reason: to keep her there, to himself, as long as possible. If she was in Paris she’d be distracted by— whatever. Museums, bridges, meals, other men. He wanted her to himself. This was not a pleasant realization. He couldn’t keep her ho
stage. She needed to make her own decisions. She would soon go home. She promised to come to the Dordogne again in the summer, just a month or two away, but what would he be doing then? He had an idea it would be a busy summer, as it always was in the South.
Then she would go home. Her home, far away. He could already feel the empty ache of her absence. It was slightly ridiculous, he admitted to himself. And yet.
Yves Souci emerged at last from the blocky yellow stone edifice. He paused, checking his watch, and looked around for Pascal. He raised a hand in greeting and headed to where Pascal stood by a lamp post.
They walked to a nearby café and found a table on the sidewalk, under an umbrella. Yves was always concerned about sunburn. He was very fair, a Norman from the north coast. Pascal had spent the night on Yves’s sofa, in his cramped apartment in the 14th. They ordered salads and a small pitcher of rosé. As Pascal sipped his wine he thought of Merle again, alone, drinking rosé with the goats.
He leaned forward, knowing he was making too much of this situation but unable to dial back his impatience. “What have you found?” he asked Yves. “His address?”
Yves’s eyebrows jumped. “Last known, that’s all. He doesn’t own a flat.”
“No? I assumed.” Pascal looked at the scrap of paper Yves pushed across the table. Pascal turned on his mobile and entered the address, squinting at the map. “I hate this tiny thing. I will get a new one next month, I hope.”
“Remember when we all wanted tiny phones?” Yves shook his head. They were the same age, and had trained in the acadèmie together. It seemed like, and was, decades ago. “Do you ever see— ” He waved his hand, trying to remember.
“Clarisse?” His ex-wife. “No.”
“Pity. I try to stay friendly with the exes,” Yves smirked. “You never know.”
“I do know,” Pascal said, feeling sour as usual at the topic. “Are you with someone now?” Not that Yves was ‘un playboy’ except in his mind. His fair skin had wrinkled badly and his blonde hair was shot with white. Still, advancing age never stopped a Frenchman.
The Things We Said Today Page 20
