Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Read online

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  For Henri

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my editor, Elizabeth Lacks, and the entire team at St. Martin’s/Minotaur for their help bringing this story to life. Also, many thanks to my agent, Paula Munier, for all of her hard work on my behalf.

  Many people have provided support and encouragement throughout this process: Hugh Bromma, Stacy Cannon, Judy Hoffman, Brooks Horsley, Lois Kelly, Bette Morgan, Patty Morse and Mary Rordam kept me motivated; Daniel Bardy, David Bieri, and Anja Haelg Bieri answered cultural questions (all interpretations and errors are my own); Kathi Good, Stacia Momburg, Mindy Quigley, and Julia Smyth-Pinney read drafts (over and over); everyone I met at the Algonkian Writers Conference in NYC, most particularly Christine Stewart (aka The Real Writer Editing Services), nudged me toward the final draft; Cassie Carter and Chip Visci provided unflagging support outside the world of writing; and my sisters Kathryn Balch and Amber Willis had great ideas at critical moments and know how to support even the biggest dreams. Finally, a special thank you to Vacherin, for inspiration and a shared love of travel.

  In an entirely separate category are my parents, Janet and Lynn Leigh, who define unconditional love and support. It was my mother who taught me how to read and my father who taught me how to write; they can dispute which task required more patience. Finally, deepest love and appreciation to my husband, Henri de Hahn, who always believed, and who introduced me to Switzerland, his country.

  What is history but a fable agreed upon?

  —NAPOLEON

  DAY ONE

  Château Vallotton, Switzerland

  Felicity Cowell fled, her bare feet slapping the cold stone of the corridor. She tried to soften the sound, but her heart said run and she followed her heart until the corridor turned, ending abruptly at a steep flight of stairs. She stopped short, teetering on the top step. This path led to a ground-level door and the lawn. Another miscalculation. She needed a different escape.

  It had started two weeks ago. “Welcome to our home,” the old biddy had said in her quiet voice that first day. Her polite and perfect English twisted by a French accent, the hospitality of the greeting so nuanced with insult that Felicity nearly left, for it was what she had expected. To call this place—this mass of stone and land and art—a home screamed privilege and arrogance.

  The idea had been enchanting: a few weeks’ work evaluating art in the spectacular Château Vallotton on the shore of Lac Léman. Even that was a lie. Instead of the promised perfection of Switzerland, the days had been gray and wet, the château chilly enough to satisfy a Scotsman. She had known from the first greeting that the trip was a mistake.

  Now she had proof. Everything she feared was coming true. She stood at the top of the narrow flight of stairs, trembling in a thin evening dress. She hurried down, her hands trailing the walls for balance. At the bottom, in the narrow back entry hall, she huddled out of sight, seeking solitude. She wrapped her arms around herself, silently cursing everyone she had ever known. The pressure in her chest was overwhelming, her lungs wouldn’t expand and oxygen couldn’t reach her brain. Questions. She couldn’t face their questions. Her anger returned, transformed into rage. She belonged here. This could be her home, her possessions, her life. She thought about them—all of them—and remembered what would happen if they knew the truth about her. She shuddered. It was the end of a dream.

  Voices neared, no longer echoes but distinct words, and she smacked the wall in frustration. Countless rooms in the château and she had backed herself into a corner with nowhere to go but outside. She pressed her stinging palm to her face and choked back tears, wadding the folds of the borrowed evening gown in her fists. How had it come to this? How had she lost control of her life? She straightened, refusing to be trapped. Whatever happened would be on her terms.

  She grabbed the handiest pair of boots and a coat, shoving arms and feet into their proper places before pulling the door open. She looked out at the frozen landscape in wonder. The afternoon rainstorm had transformed into a monster of ice. Wind whistled, racing off Lac Léman and slicing down the stone blocks of the château’s outer walls. She nearly slammed the door shut, but the consequences of staying were too great. Instead, she stepped outside. She knew a warm place where she could gather her thoughts unseen. The château’s Orangerie. Normally only a two-minute walk, she was certain she could make it. She had done hard things before, impossible things, and knew she could do this.

  The force of the storm pummeled her, pushing into the down jacket and whipping her long skirt into a frenzied tail. She leaned forward, shoulders hunched, and eyes nearly closed against the onslaught. The rubber-soled boots were too big, but they cut through the ice that crusted the normally lush green lawn and she angled away from the château, her jacket hood pulled so low she could only see a slice of ground. Halfway there, she stumbled and fell.

  She scrambled to her feet, frightened. She’d lost her bearings. Wind howled like the roar of a waterfall and the air was so dense with ice that she couldn’t see. She couldn’t tell which direction she was going. She concentrated on avoiding the lake, hoping to find her way back to the château. Damn the consequences.

  When she reached a small grove of trees she leaned against a trunk, her body in revolt, muscles shaking. She lurched forward, falling more than sitting on a bench. She was scared and relieved in equal measure. At least she knew where she was. Parts of her were numb—legs, hands, nose—but she was beyond caring. She bent over, hunched against the wind, disbelief filling her mind.

  Twenty-eight years and much to show for it: salary, respect, position. All legitimate, but not enough. Never enough.

  The cold sank into her bones and her ears burned. At least here no one could ask questions. Maybe it was for the best. First numbness, then nothing. Easier than living with grinding worry and indecision. She sagged: a test of surrender. The wind slipped by in sharp needles. She was incapable of moving. Of reacting. For the first time in weeks her mind was calm. No more lies. An end to everything.

  Unexpectedly something hit her like a hard slap on the back. She slipped from the bench and her hands flew out in front of her. She fell, striking the hard cold ground. The pain wasn’t in her cheekbone or even the wrist that twisted awkwardly under her torso; the pain was in her chest and down her arms. She was confused. Her cheek was pressed to the ice and it was too great an effort to push herself up; the cold ground contrasted with the strange warmth spreading inside her, like a coating.

  With great clarity she thought of what might have been. She had allowed the past to confuse her. She could no longer judge time and it didn’t matter. She shook uncontrollably and her vision clouded. She whispered: “I was wrong, I don’t want to die.”

  One

  “I thought you’d left.”

  The offices of the newly formed violent crimes division of the sûreté were unusually quiet for l
ate afternoon and the voice startled Agnes Lüthi. She looked at the perfectly coiffed redhead in front of her desk and shut her drawer like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Involuntarily both women glanced over the desk and shelves. The brushed aluminum and white surfaces gleamed. Not a photograph remained of the dozen that the staff had so carefully placed after moving Agnes’s belongings from her old office at financial crimes, and what had been a tribute to a loving family was now a sterile workspace. Files, reference books, and procedure manuals were all in place, but no trace of her husband or her three sons remained.

  Agnes met the other woman’s gaze and said nothing. She saw a flicker of uncertainty followed by sadness as her colleague’s eyes skimmed her disheveled hair and tweed suit.

  “Monsieur Carnet was sorry to lose you, but change is good.” The redhead paused. “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thank you,” Agnes mumbled, startled by the mention of Robert Carnet. The invitation to transfer from his division into violent crimes couldn’t have come at a better time. She tugged the hem of her jacket self-consciously, no longer optimistic about losing the ten pounds that seemed to come with her brand of grief.

  “We’re happy to have you with us,” the other woman said. “Chief Bardy should have been here today to get you sorted out. It’s all new, this group he has in mind. Even the offices are new.” She shrugged slightly and leaned forward. “He’s a bit distant and if you need … well, if you need more time off just let me know and I’ll handle him. We’ve talked about it”—she glanced around—“and we can cover for you. Anytime. Monsieur Carnet said you might need … he said your boys might need you.”

  Anger flashed through Agnes and it was difficult to speak. Pity and concern were bitter medicine; she wanted anonymity. “Carnet has no idea what my boys need. None whatsoever.” She ran a hand through her short hair, instantly regretting it. Wondering if she looked like a porcupine had landed on her head.

  “I really came to say welcome and to let you know they’re sending everyone home. All nonessentials.” The woman rolled her eyes with a smile. “Be thankful you’re still nonessential. A bit early in my view, but the news on Espace 2 has announced that this will be the storm of the century. The rain is turning to ice, and if you don’t leave now you may be stuck for the weekend.”

  She gave a cheery wave and turned, but not before Agnes saw the uncertainty on her face. No one knew how to treat her, what to do with her. She was certain there was an abundance of euphemisms for her situation. She had heard the whispered exchanges. “Grieving.” “Still in shock.” Each in some way an accurate expression. It was the other unsaid thoughts that angered her, although it was to be expected. Even her place in Bardy’s group was undefined. The invitation to join violent crimes as part of a special team he was assembling held promise. Unfortunately, she had been so desperate for change she hadn’t listened to the details. Different work, new colleagues, new environment, that’s all that had mattered. Now she considered her options. Iced-in all weekend away from home. A welcome reprieve.

  She opened the desk drawer again and looked at her husband’s smiling face. The photograph was only six months old. It was taken the day she won a first at the shooting match in Bienne. He had looked so happy. Not just his usual geniality but genuinely happy. Exuberant.

  She slammed the drawer. Nonessential. That’s what she was.

  She was reaching for her coat when the phone on her desk rang. The voice over the receiver was crisp. “Inspector Lüthi, the gendarmerie at Ville-sur-Lac telephoned the chief. A woman has died. He’s on his way and wants you to join him there.” The voice added other essential details then paused and continued in a different tone: a human element inserted into police business. “Of course, if you don’t want to … I mean, with the weather I could explain—”

  Agnes interrupted. “No, I’ll go. I’m leaving now.” Although the child of American parents, she’d lived in Switzerland her entire life and wasn’t going to let a winter storm stop her. Everything she had wanted, and now it was happening. She slipped her arms into her coat, relief flooding her. It wasn’t yet time to go home.

  Ten minutes later she had second thoughts about her decision. Her Citroën C1 handled well, but tonight it felt like a flimsy cocoon of heat as she moved through the storm. She turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial until she found Espace 2. It only took a few minutes to comprehend that she should have paid attention to the earlier warnings. The announcer’s voice intoned disaster: roads closing, accidents on the highway, and the promise of more to come as the storm gained power with every minute. Farther west, in Geneva, Cointrin was closed and all flights were grounded. The temperature was dropping and the wind accelerating. A dangerous mix.

  Agnes switched the radio off, eliminating the distraction. She wished Bardy had chosen to locate their new offices in the city center and not on the outskirts. Nervous, she gripped the steering wheel firmly and concentrated. The Citroën’s headlights cut across the wind, barely illuminating a few meters of roadway, and she constructed the view from memory: the long gentle slope separating the highway from the lake, the famous view of Lac Léman and in the distance the French Alps. Normally, train tracks were visible between the road and the lake, however, tonight all she could see were a thousand shards of white falling from the sky.

  Slowly, she looped through central Lausanne, the city a glow of lights. It was Wednesday and passing Place St. François she could practically taste the roasted chestnuts and mulled wine of the city market, a favorite childhood memory, a ritual unchanged in her nearly forty years. She turned the car onto the Avenue du Théâtre, then angled right to descend the Avenue Villamont to the Avenue de la Gare, before turning left onto the Avenue d’Ouchy. The road was steep and slick and she slowed her pace and leaned forward, white-knuckled. Reaching level ground at Ouchy, she skirted the luxurious Beau-Rivage Palace hotel on the left, the yellow awnings quickly fading from sight. Here, near the lake, the full force of the storm was in evidence. A clear line of white marked the advancing edge of ice where the wind blew moisture off the lake’s surface, adding to what was descending from the clouds and freezing instantly. Immediately, she knew that she was in a race to reach the château before the road was impassable.

  Her hand strayed to her mobile phone. It was still possible to call the station and say she couldn’t make it, but the thought of going home prevented her. That, and a need to prove herself to Bardy. If he sidelined her, she would lose the cornerstone of her sanity. Her sons might need her, but she needed this.

  The road veered inland at the Tour Haldimand and slipped behind lakeside homes. Here there was less ice and she hoped the road would provide more traction. Minutes passed in silent terror of losing control of the car. Near the village of Cully the storm allowed only a few glimpses of the vine-covered hills and terraced walls. Where the road aimed for the lake before turning to follow the curve of the shore, she strained to see her destination. Château Vallotton was across the water off the point. Tonight it wasn’t visible. Or perhaps it was—that slightly brighter glow of lights through the whiteout. It was impossible to tell.

  After passing a small port filled with ice-coated sailing yachts, worry turned to near panic. The few other cars were stopped at awkward angles and she didn’t have any illusions that her own driving skills were superior. There were no more towns on the lake road until Ville-sur-Lac and road crews would not have gone beyond this point. She shifted into a lower gear. She touched the brake, then the gas pedal, undecided about continuing. This stretch of road was isolated. She turned on the radio again and frowned at the news. The storm’s impact was unprecedented: a state of emergency across three cantons.

  Ahead, the road narrowed. On each side were high stone walls and she knew she should not have started this trip. There was no way to turn back now, no place to stop. She owed her boys safety and security. If she died they would be orphans.

  Twenty minutes later, the lane crested on
the cliff and the wall on the lakeside fell away. Wind struck the car and it slid sideways, pushed inland. At that moment, just when she thought she wouldn’t make it, the car slipped into the shelter of the village.

  Agnes relaxed and took a deep breath, blinking moisture from her eyes. She unclenched her hands from the steering wheel, feeling her stress dissipate. She remembered passing through Ville-sur-Lac years before. The buildings of the tiny village were ancient stone and they shouldered together against the road, leaving only a narrow strip of pavement for cars to maneuver. Tonight, hers was the only vehicle battling the elements and she kept to the center of the street. The green pharmacy sign flashed through the white blur and she could imagine each business as clearly as if it was broad daylight: butcher, confiserie, hotel. Somewhere was the gendarmerie where the small local police force was likely worried about storm damage. She glided to an uneasy stop where the lane to the château sloped down precipitously. Farther up the main street she could make out the rear of a large tourist bus. Shadowy forms filed off and scurried into a building. The village hotel, she presumed, absently thinking it unlikely they had enough rooms to accommodate an unexpected busload of guests. At that moment her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and remembered why she was anxious to take this assignment.

  A few minutes later she interrupted. “It’s an honor, working with Étienne Bardy.” She’d said these same words to her mother-in-law a hundred times since she had decided to return to work. “This may be an important case.” The white lie slipped out easily.

  Through the darkness she could make out the roofline of the château on the shallow peninsula below the cliff and, to give her mother-in-law time to complain, she plucked facts about the historic property from memory. Every schoolchild knew the basics: the oldest part was a hulking round tower nearly a thousand years old. Perched on the edge of the lake, it was a well-known icon gracing generations of artists’ sketches and postcards.