Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Read online

  “More important than your sons?” Sybille’s voice cut through her reverie. “Working when a mother should be home. I know your parents had different customs—”

  It was an old refrain, one Agnes had long ago decided to ignore. In Sybille’s mind American and uncultured interloper were equivalent terms. Knowing a response wasn’t required, Agnes focused on the château and probed her memory. In addition to the original tower, there were three others, all joined by long arms to create the final square fortress. She peered out the side window of her car, squinting into the white blur of the night. Years ago she had read about the smaller towers and a wall along the top of the cliff where the village now stood. The whole arrangement was unusual: the family constructing a fortress to control lake trade and then adding protection high above. Why not build on the cliff in the first place? The wall remnants were long destroyed or incorporated into the village; Agnes couldn’t make out a trace of them.

  “I’m at Château Vallotton,” she blurted out, mentally excusing herself for the slight exaggeration. The silence over the phone spoke volumes. She added a few details about the reason she was away from her family on a stormy night and in the pause could sense Sybille’s mental tug-of-war. No one they knew had ever been invited to the château. And, although not a social call, it would be the nearest any of Sybille’s friends came to visiting the property. Agnes knew that she was tempted to be curious.

  While her mother-in-law chewed on this dilemma, Agnes made out a few lights glimmering through windows high in the nearest tower. She was familiar with the château from trips on Lac Léman and tried to reconcile what was in her mind with the narrow illuminated slits in front of her.

  “If the dead woman is outside then you’re unlikely to go in,” Sybille finally said, cruelty winning out over curiosity. “They’ll keep you standing in the freezing rain and send you home to do your reports.”

  Agnes didn’t argue.

  Sybille’s voice was raised. “None of my friends have daughters who work at night in a storm. The worst storm of my lifetime. Who knows what is going to happen, and you’re thinking of yourself and not of your family—”

  The line went dead. Startled, Agnes tapped the mobile phone screen. Call failed. At least she hadn’t hung up accidentally. She tried to connect a few times before slipping the useless device into her handbag. Just then, the blurred glow of the village went black. With the light went any sign of the buildings and all that was left was a white haze fading into darkness. If power was out because of the storm, tonight’s job just got harder, and would take longer. She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel in dismay. After a moment she smiled in satisfaction. She knew why the château was dramatically altered from this angle: the more familiar lakeside façades had newer, larger windows cut into them. She dredged up another morsel from her tiny store of knowledge about architecture: the windows facing the lake were in the Renaissance style, larger than the earlier narrow defensive arrow slits. She laughed under her breath. It made sense. Of course the Vallotton family had renovated over the centuries. Larger windows once they didn’t need a fortified residence, and, likely, modern plumbing and electricity.

  She pulled herself nearer the windshield and peered down the hill through the eerie white night, the nearer trees glistening in her headlights. What kind of people lived in a place like this? Her curiosity was aroused by Sybille’s reaction more than she would admit. The phone call reminded her of the first time she met George’s parents. They were intimidating with their politeness, their hesitant questions drawing attention to her own upbringing and reminding her how her parents had worn a veneer of Swiss-ness in public, while keeping to their own customs at home. George’s parents’ house had been her dream: the perfect wooden chalet with balconies running on the upper floors and flowers cut into the old-fashioned wood shutters. She frowned. If George’s family home was at one end of Swiss domestic perfection then Château Vallotton was at the other, and she hoped she would have a chance to go inside. That would be something to tell her boys. Given the family’s prominence, it was no wonder Bardy had been called.

  Bardy. His name was like a dose of cold water. The drive from Lausanne had already taken too long and now she had delayed unnecessarily. She nosed her car closer to the edge of the lane. It was impossible to see the pavement that cut down the steep hill. She glanced around one last time as if Bardy might be parked nearby, perhaps ready to suggest they manage the situation from the comfort of the gendarmerie. But the street was empty and she was expected below.

  Gripping the wheel, she touched the gas. Instantly she knew it was a mistake.

  Two

  The Citroën struck something, rolled a bit farther, then shuddered to a stop. “Inspector Lüthi, indeed,” Agnes said, appalled by her own poor judgment. She loosened her hands from the steering wheel and rested her forehead on the cold plastic, shaking with relief. Glancing up at the looming wall of the château, she turned off the car’s headlights, noting one had shattered on impact, and hoped no one had witnessed her calamitous descent. She decided not to dwell on the damage done to the driver’s-side door by the branches she’d careened into, or the dent in the hood created by whatever hard object she’d struck at the base of the hill. At least it had stopped her sliding into the château itself.

  Shaking off the shock of the crash, she stepped out of the car. Immediately she regretted her thin pantyhose and sensible pumps, wishing she had worn sturdy boots and heavy stockings. She had on her winter coat, but the severity of the storm was unexpected and she had left in a hurry that morning without scarf, hat, or gloves. To compensate, she fished a thin plastic rain cap from under the seat of her car. Ridiculous but necessary as the sleet fell in sharp streams.

  A flash of light erupted to her left and she knew that was where the others were gathered. She acclimated to the cold and got her bearings: château in front of her blocking wind off the lake, cliff and village to the rear, with the long, flat peninsula on either side. Wander too far in three directions and the lake was waiting, a treacherous death trap.

  Walking as quickly as she dared on the ice, she kept close to the outer wall of the château, hand clasped around the flashlight she kept in the car for emergencies.

  Reaching the far side of the east tower she felt the punch of the storm full-on. She gasped and braced herself. In the distance, a beam of light filtered through the branches of a small stand of trees. She ran her own flashlight beam across the frozen lawn, sliding forward carefully to avoid falling, leaning to counter the wind. Overhead, milky ice, thicker than a finger, encapsulated every tree limb. Her plastic rain hat whipped off and disappeared and she wanted to turn back, her earlier enthusiasm for the job no match for these conditions. The temperature was bitter and her fingers, ears, and nose hurt.

  She reached her destination and a man wearing a bright blue police coat with reflective striping stood in the glow from the electric lantern by his feet. He secured a second flashlight under his arm. It darted across Agnes’s face, startling her.

  “We’re all probably gonna die out here,” the policeman shouted over the wind. He pulled a long section of canvas taut and struck a hard blow on a metal stake. “Wanted to safeguard the area and the wind shifted.”

  The line tightened and the fabric pulled up and into position, creating a semi-protected corner; instinctively Agnes stepped near. They huddled together, shielded from the sleet.

  The officer introduced himself as from the gendarmerie at the top of the hill. André Petit, he said. Agnes angled her head up to look at him, thinking of course that was his name. He was at least a foot taller than her five feet four inches. Beneath his cap his eyes bulged out of their sockets, giving him a startled look. He edged closer to her, uncomfortably close.

  “I’ve never been this cold or seen so much ice,” he said. “What are we supposed to call it? Global warming? More like a new ice age. Looks like pictures of Siberia.”

  Petit stomped his feet to warm them and
Agnes eyed his heavy boots. He was dressed for the cold and yet was clearly uncomfortable. She doubted she would last fifteen minutes before being frostbitten.

  “We called your Chef de Brigade Bardy,” he said. “Standard instructions for anything at the château. Call Monsieur Bardy no matter what the trouble.” Petit gestured to the square of canvas covering a mound that reached to their knees. “Monsieur Vallotton found her out here. Thinks she fell and hit her head. She’s frozen to the ground. I sent him inside and covered her as best I could.” He stomped again. “You took your time getting here.”

  “Bardy will be here soon,” Agnes said.

  “They need me in the village. It’s going to be a long night getting everybody off the roads and indoors. I suspect power’s out up and down the lake and the cold will set in. Don’t know what will be worse, the old people living in the hills or the rich along the water. My boss is usually solid as a rock, but this is going to be bad and he’s set to retire next week. Scared of a last-minute blemish on his record. Figures more people may die. He’s counting on me.”

  Agnes doubted Petit could make it up the hill but she didn’t waste her breath speaking. She moved her hands over her ears, then her nose, then back under her armpits to restore feeling in her fingertips. It wasn’t enough. She tried to remember the first signs of frostbite, certain she was well on her way.

  Petit leaned near, favoring a leg. “What’s it like working for him? Monsieur Bardy? I’ve heard the rumors. He’s brilliant but he is a little crazy, isn’t he? I’m planning to apply for the cantonal police.” He spoke directly into her ear and Agnes wanted to swat him away like a flea. She couldn’t feel her legs anymore and her shoulders were shaking. She covered her ears with her hands, causing Petit to shift and look into her face, as if she could lip-read.

  “How’d you get in with them? With Bardy.”

  “Mathematics.” Her teeth started to chatter. “I was in financial crimes. I’m good with numbers.” Where was her boss? Realizing that any movement was better than freezing to death in place, she knelt. The ice burned her knees and she rocked onto her heels before pulling back the canvas. Cracking the thin layer of ice that had formed on it she hoped she looked experienced. One glance was enough to tell her that death didn’t need to be bloody to make the heart race.

  The woman lay prone in front of a stone bench. The sleet had left its mark, coating her torso so that it blended with the surrounding ground, making the details hard to see. Her face was pressed against the earth and only half of her features were visible. Snow and ice had blown up against her, sealing both her flesh and her opened eye. Startled, Agnes dropped the canvas back in place knowing it would refreeze to the ground in a matter of seconds. She tried to make out the château in the distance, but there were no visible lights and suddenly she felt very alone and inexperienced.

  She stood, knowing that they had to go inside, but before she could make a suggestion there was a shout from the darkness. Bobbing lights cut through the storm and the outlines of three men came into view. She didn’t recognize the first two, however, through the icy haze the third looked familiar despite being encased in a heavy snow jacket. She frowned. “Not Robert, today anyone but Robert Carnet,” she murmured through chapped lips. It had never occurred to her that he would be here. Why would financial crimes send someone? Like a child she turned away as if refusing to look at her former boss, not seeing him, would make him go away; the man whom she most associated with those horrible minutes after her husband died.

  When the men reached the protective wedge of canvas she forced herself to look. Definitely Carnet, his irregular chiseled features at odds with the ridiculous puff of an old-fashioned down coat. A cold pit formed in her stomach. Maybe her parents were right: she should quit, leave Switzerland, and move to Florida. She could hear her mother: “Come live with us, it’s warm! It’s friendly! We’ll take care of the boys!” Her mother always speaking in declarative sentences with no thought of the implications.

  Her parents had given up everything to move to Switzerland as a young couple, leaving their families and friends to create a new life among strangers, eventually building up a business and prospering. All for the children! Yet the moment the children were grown the parents had returned to America.

  Cold and miserable, Agnes knew that if her mother called at this moment—this exact moment—she would leave. All the hard work of getting a place on the police force, of establishing herself, of thinking maybe, just maybe, she had a role and that her thoughts added value; today, in this miserable weather, having to face this man’s pity, she would toss it all in a second.

  A blast of wind swept off the lake and she struggled to keep her footing. Ice cracked and shattered in the unsettling darkness and a long dagger landed on the ground nearby.

  The larger of the two men accompanying Carnet dropped to his knees and pulled the canvas away from the dead woman. It was absurd that they were out here, any of them. Despite living in Switzerland her entire life Agnes hadn’t been inside any of the grand estates that dotted the shore from Vevey down to Geneva, but she knew they were filled with diplomats, industrialists, movie stars, and rock icons. If a society woman had wandered out in the storm and keeled over they should have called an ambulance and removed her to the morgue. Probably too much to drink, or drugs. Tumbled and fell, hit her head, and died in the cold. Agnes slapped her hands together to warm them, and wished that she hadn’t left her fur hat at home. Then she wished she was at home with the hat. Thinking about her boys and what fun they must be having, knowing tomorrow there would be an unexpected school holiday. She was thankful she had spoken with Sybille. At least the boys knew she was safe and not trapped on the highway somewhere.

  Carnet put his head close to Petit’s and spoke briefly before moving to stand next to Agnes. Squinting into the wind she watched Petit thump his waist then turn around with his eyes on the ground, like a dog circling to find a place to bed down.

  “Came from the local gendarmerie.” Carnet’s voice was deep and cut through the wind. “They’ve been trying to raise Petit on his radio. Looks like he lost it somewhere.” Petit wandered into the darkness, his flashlight beam sweeping back and forth, illuminating shards of ice. Carnet shrugged and blew into his cupped gloves, reflecting heat back onto his face. He shifted slightly to block the wind from striking Agnes full-on and she was grateful. Her teeth were no longer chattering, although that was possibly because she was too numb to feel the cold anymore.

  “Bardy called me when he realized he couldn’t make it—he knows I drive this way to go home—but I ran my car into a ditch a kilometer above the village. Had to walk the rest of the way or I would have been here sooner.” He tugged at his sleeve. “Good thing this old coat was in the trunk or I would have frozen.”

  Despite the circumstances Agnes stifled a smile. Carnet had always been particular about his clothing and she imagined he had spent a long second weighing usefulness versus appearance. Shielded by his bulk she felt some feeling return to her face. Her skin stung.

  “I went for a hot drink before coming down,” Carnet continued, “and found Doctor Blanchard in the hotel bar. Thought you would need a medical man unless the coroner already made it. Didn’t quite know what to expect here. ‘Body outside’ was all Bardy told me before the phones failed. They didn’t know more at the gendarmerie. Well, they did tell me that Petit was all they could spare and that they didn’t know how I’d make it down without breaking a leg. I’m surprised Doctor Blanchard was willing to try.”

  Agnes glanced at the man kneeling by the corpse. He wore oiled coveralls partially covered by a heavy Loden coat. With his wind-burned ruddy complexion he looked more like a farmer than her idea of a doctor. He was kneeling on a fur pelt.

  “Blanchard raises rabbits,” said Carnet, “and was at the butcher when the storm hit. The roads are closed and he was planning to stay the night. The other man is Estanguet. Frédéric Estanguet.” Estanguet hung back from their circle, a
nd Agnes gave him a nod, setting his age at sixty-five or so. She noted that the men were all dressed warmly and had the sense not to drive down from the village. Wind burned her legs and she wondered why she hadn’t dressed warmly like any sensible Swiss person. Perhaps her mother-in-law was right. Maybe she didn’t belong here. She quickly blew on her fingers then shoved them back under her armpits.

  “Estanguet was having un verre at the bar,” Carnet continued, “and overheard us wondering how to get down the hill. He knows the place. He found crampons and hooked us up to a rope. Still hard going, but at least we didn’t hit a tree.” Agnes grimaced and Carnet smiled at her. “Now, I suppose I can say I’ve been mountaineering.”

  He continued talking and she focused on his every word and expression, wishing she could read his mind. He had agreed willingly, eagerly even, when she requested a transfer from financial crimes. Now she wasn’t sure: maybe he hadn’t agreed out of kindness or relief. What if she was a failure in her new job, would Bardy insist she return to her old one? She had done good work for Carnet and maybe this was his way of maneuvering her return. Three months ago she would have laughed at the idea, but after her husband’s death nothing seemed certain. How could she trust her instincts about others when she was so wrong about the man closest to her?

  She turned her attention back to the men. The doctor had removed several items from the heavy bag Estanguet carried, including a spare pair of work gloves, which he handed to her. They were fur-lined and she felt the relief immediately. She pressed the soft leather against her face, blocking the wind.

  “She’s not really frozen, the body I mean,” Blanchard shouted to them. “It’s the ice around her. The wind was strong here, hundred kilometers an hour they said on the radio, and that froze her clothes despite her body heat. I’d say she’s been out here at least three hours, more likely five or six and probably no more than eight, although it’s hard to say right now. Body temperature’s unreliable because of the wind and cold. Both are unstable.”