A Well-Timed Murder Page 2

  “Please call me Christine. I can’t thank you enough. I knew Monsieur Vallotton would know who to call.” The young woman pulled an envelope from her purse, her hand shaking, and handed it to Agnes. “I found this under my doormat this morning.”

  The envelope was scuffed with dirt. Agnes withdrew a pristine sheet of paper, careful to touch only one edge. Two sentences were written in a distinctive man’s script. Be careful. We are being watched. She glanced from Christine to Vallotton, noting his surprise. He’d told her that Guy Chavanon had died in circumstances that the police labeled accidental. A label Vallotton and the man’s daughter didn’t agree with. He certainly hadn’t mentioned any threats. Agnes felt her adrenaline spike again.

  “I haven’t been home for two weeks,” Christine’s words tumbled out. Her voice quavered. “I was staying with a friend near the office because I was working so late getting ready for Baselworld, and after my father died”—tears streamed down her cheeks—“I couldn’t face being there. Being so alone. I went back last night. I needed different clothes for today and I found the note this morning. My father must have put it under the mat before he died. It’s his handwriting.”

  Her tears turned to sobs and Vallotton handed her a monogrammed handkerchief. Agnes studied the note for a moment, then returned it to the envelope and placed everything in one of the plastic evidence bags she kept handy. Slow and steady, she reminded herself. It was possible the local police had similar notes and had already discounted their importance. A worried victim didn’t turn a death into a homicide, but thankfully, it also couldn’t be ignored.

  The waitress set the espresso and croissant on the counter. Agnes opened a packet of sugar and added it to the cup. Vallotton was speaking into Christine’s ear, calming her. Agnes watched one of Aubry’s men question a couple seated at the opposite end of the café. She wondered how many people had witnessed the Roach’s final run. Behind the couple, she noticed a strikingly handsome man studying Christine. He was glowering, a term she’d never thought could apply to a real person, and it occurred to her that he objected to Christine’s outburst. The atmosphere of the show was elegance and ease, and her tears were unwelcome.

  “Why would your father leave a note when he could telephone or text?” Agnes asked Christine in an effort to stop the torrent of tears.

  “He didn’t like the telephone. He would always leave me notes. If I’d been home—” Christine started to cry again, and Agnes asked another question to keep her focused.

  “I’m missing most of the details. Could you start from the beginning? When your father died?”

  Christine sniffed. “It was a week ago tomorrow. They said he choked to death.”

  “Guy had a serious allergy to peanuts,” Vallotton said, “and technically his death was anaphylactic shock. His airways closed, but not because of a physical obstruction like a piece of food caught in his windpipe.”

  Agnes glanced sharply at him. Choking? An allergic reaction? That did sound like accidental death.

  Shifting away from her preconceptions and thinking of the multitude of ways peanuts could be slipped to someone without his knowledge, she asked Christine, “Were you there when it happened?”

  “No, my father was at a reception at my half brother’s boarding school, the Moutier Institut de Jeunes Gens, near Rossemaison. Do you know it? They called an ambulance. And the police.” Christine twisted a paper napkin between her hands. The woman’s soft voice was difficult to hear over the din of the crowd. A few meters away a television reporter was interviewing an Asian man who, judging by the size of his entourage, was famous. Agnes leaned forward to hear, and on the other side of Christine, Vallotton did the same.

  “But they didn’t investigate. Not really. Even though they didn’t know how he came into contact with the peanuts, they said it was an accident. I know they are wrong. With my father’s sensitivity, you still don’t die from particles floating through the air. You have contact with the allergen. Real contact. And now this note. He was in danger and I didn’t know it.” Her words ended in a plaintive wail.

  Agnes broke off a piece of almond croissant and took a bite, sampling the delicate filling and giving Christine a moment to compose herself.

  “Christine,” a man behind them said. He was of medium height with fine regular features and skin the color of light coffee beans. “I am not thinking you would be at work today. It is good to see you taking up life again.” His French was good despite his strong Indian accent. Agnes had always liked the modern Indian style of dress, and the man’s silk jacket was a marvel of tailoring with horizontal stripes in alternating shades of brown and gold accented by carved buttons down the front. A flat filigreed rectangle near his collar was inlaid with diamonds accented by a single dangling pearl. He clutched a sheaf of invoices, and she decided he was a jewelry dealer, probably with a showroom nearby.

  “Monsieur Patel,” Christine said tightly. “I’d like you to meet Inspector Lüthi, and you must remember Monsieur Vallotton from the funeral yesterday. They’re here to speak with me about my father’s death. His murder.”

  Narendra Patel stiffened slightly, then offered his hand to each in turn. Agnes thought that mention of murder was likely on a list somewhere of things not to drop into casual conversation, and she admired the man’s decision to ignore it. Her mother-in-law would have pulled up a stool and asked for all the details.

  “How are Leo and your mother?” Patel asked Christine.

  “My stepmother? She’s at home. Prostrate with grief. Leo is in shock. We all are.”

  Agnes heard her own voice in the girl’s response. She’d been similarly angry with George’s mother after his suicide. Sybille had collapsed while Agnes soldiered on, wishing she had the luxury of days spent in bed, heavily medicated in a darkened room. Mother versus wife. Stepmother versus daughter. Mourning was competitive.

  “I am not surprised.” Patel gestured with a flutter of his hand. “At the funeral yesterday, Madame had the appearance of collapse.” He adjusted the top of his collarless Nehru jacket, fingering his pin. He glanced at Agnes as if registering her title for the first time. “There is a police investigation ongoing? That would be news of great distress.”

  Agnes suppressed a sigh of disappointment. Curiosity always won out over politeness. Even when someone’s life was in free fall, people wanted more information; especially when they knew the details wouldn’t be pleasant. This was her cue. “We’re making inquiries related to the verdict of accidental death.”

  Christine leaned forward. “And I found—”

  Agnes cut her off, not wanting to share information about the note until she had more details. “You were a friend of Monsieur Chavanon’s?”

  “We were the very oldest friends.”

  “Tell Inspector Lüthi what happened that day,” said Christine.

  Vallotton stood to allow Patel to take his stool.

  “I am very sorry for you, Christine,” Patel said, refusing the seat. “As I most carefully explained yesterday, you cannot bring your father … my good friend back. I was there and I know what I saw. What I told the police for their reporting. It was a tragedy, a great shocking. There are many difficult moments in life, and through wisdom we learn to accept them.” He pressed a hand to his chest and nodded to each of them. “You will forgive my intrusion.”

  Christine glared as he walked away. “When he hears about the note, he will have to believe me. Someone killed my father.”

  “I’d rather you not tell anyone about the note right now,” said Agnes.

  “Okay, but Monsieur Patel will regret not believing me when he finds out. He said my father’s death was all in line with fate.” Christine sneered. “A bunch of nonsense about Lord Krishna and Father’s soul going straight to heaven. He was apparently in such a happy frame of mind that death occurred at the very best moment. He’s ensured a contented afterlife.” Her eyes filled with tears and she pressed the handkerchief to them.

  “I know my
father wasn’t perfect, but people are whispering that he was careless. Absentminded. Well, he was absentminded sometimes, but ten years from now they’ll be saying he wasn’t careless and it was suicide. Gossip feeds on a vacuum. They need to know that he was killed.” Her shoulders convulsed with sobs and she mumbled excuses. She was gone before they could stop her.

  Agnes hesitated, then decided a few minutes alone was what the young woman needed. Vallotton slid onto the stool next to her. He motioned for another round of coffees, and Agnes gave him a wry look.

  “You called me before you knew about the note,” she said. “What made you think Chavanon’s reaction wasn’t an accident?”

  “At the reception after the burial, one of Guy’s neighbors, a Monsieur Dupré, asked me if the police were investigating.”

  “You think he’s the killer and is worried that we might be? Ah, that we should be so lucky.” Agnes opened a sugar packet and doused her new espresso, toying with the small amaretto cookie on the saucer, deciding against eating it. Perhaps it was seeing the Roach die that had killed her appetite today. Everything tasted too sweet.

  “Of course not. It was more like Dupré was anticipating it,” Vallotton said. “He told me that Guy had been acting frightened.”

  “Did he report this to the police?”

  Vallotton shook his head.

  Agnes stirred her espresso. “Is that it? No specifics?”

  “None, although I believe that the note Christine found proves the point. My conversation with Dupré started when I mentioned that I am Leo’s godfather. We were cut short when someone walked up.”

  “Leo is Christine’s half brother?”

  “Yes. He’s quite a few years younger than her. Dupré commented that it is a good thing Leo is away at school this year. That Guy had been acting erratically, avoiding his friends.”

  “That sounds like me these last weeks.”

  Vallotton glanced to her leg, and she wished she hadn’t brought it up.

  “Dupré also said that Guy was on the verge of a great invention. That’s when we were interrupted.”

  Agnes penned Dupré’s name in her small notebook. “Great invention,” she repeated slowly. “Wonder what the odds are on that?”

  “Guy was a smart man—” Vallotton broke off as Christine returned. She had freshened her makeup and looked in control of herself.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted, and being here today, surrounded by everything Father loved, is harder than I expected. Finding the note—” She gulped again, tears welling.

  “You suspected your father’s death wasn’t natural before you found the note,” said Agnes. “There must have been a reason. Something he said, or someone who was angry with him?”

  Christine didn’t reply and Agnes tried another approach. “He was a watchmaker, correct?”

  “Yes, my family own Perrault et Chavanon Frères.” Christine straightened on her stool, making a concerted effort to control her emotions. “No matter what people say, he was such a thoughtful, gentle man. He loved watchmaking and the creation of beautiful masterpieces. It was his whole life.”

  “That sounds like some people wouldn’t agree that he was thoughtful,” said Agnes.

  “He was often distracted. It could seem impolite, and he could be vague. He was entirely focused on his work.” Christine teared up again.

  Vallotton handed her a fresh handkerchief.

  “If I’m to help, I need more detail,” Agnes prompted. “Something bothering him, a hint of trouble. You worked together. You would have overheard things.”

  There was an awkward silence. “I left over two years ago,” Christine finally said. “It was a hard decision, but I needed to find my own way. I’ve been with Omega since then.”

  Agnes heard the hesitation in Christine’s voice. Certainly not embarrassment over her new job. Omega was a worldwide leader in timepieces.

  Nearby, a babble of foreign voices rose and fell as a large group assembled in front of a showroom. In the café, a man delivering pastries knocked over a tower of china cups and they shattered. Waitresses scrambled to sweep the floor.

  Oblivious to everything around her, Christine reached to a nearby stack and selected a thin card emblazoned with advertising. She started to fold it, each turn precise. A small origami crane emerged. “Father was a genius.” She glanced at Vallotton. “I don’t care what Marie says, we know he was a genius. A visionary. There was always a new idea. He would take two notions and put them together in a way no one else could imagine. His memory was encyclopedic.”

  A great invention, the neighbor had told Vallotton. Agnes had met a few creative geniuses in her life and didn’t find them the easiest people to be around. Sometimes she placed her father in that category. Certainly, his fellow chefs lauded him a genius. Her mother said he was impossible. He was lucky that she was willing to love the impossible.

  “Marie is your stepmother? Your father’s wife? Does she share your concerns about his death?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been … busy with other things. She’s not a bad person, but she doesn’t understand the business. She doesn’t feel about it like we do. To her it’s just a business and not something more, not something special. Father dreamt of transforming the industry.” Christine gave a little laugh.

  “Had he made a great discovery? Is that why you were worried?” Agnes asked.

  Christine set the origami bird on the café bar, balancing it carefully. “Being a genius doesn’t mean you pop out an invention every year. It has to be the right idea and the right moment. His belief in the possibilities was what I admired.”

  Agnes heard the unspoken words—no, he hadn’t invented anything. A dabbler? A man who didn’t live up to expectations with a wife who wasn’t supportive? “You enjoyed working alongside your father, yet you left the company?”

  “I needed a wider range of experience.” Christine’s eyes flicked down, and Agnes doubted the vague answer contained the truth.

  “Will Perrault et Chavanon remain in the family?”

  “Marie would never sell.”

  “Sometimes businesses are broken up, either to generate capital or to make good on bequests.”

  “That won’t happen. The company has always been more important than any one of us. No matter what, Marie can’t sell. It’s all that’s left of our name.”

  “How involved is Madame Chavanon?” Agnes asked.

  “She’s in charge of the business end of things.”

  “Even though she”—Agnes glanced at her notes—“doesn’t ‘understand the business’?”

  “It’s the soul of what we do that she doesn’t understand. Watches are who we are as a family. The science, the beauty. For over a hundred fifty years we’ve stood for craftsmanship. To Marie, it’s work. Father would have died for it.” Christine stumbled over her words. “I didn’t mean…”

  Vallotton slid a glass of water close and she took a sip.

  Agnes rephrased her earlier question. “Had you noticed a change in your father recently? Was he afraid or secretive? I’m trying to pinpoint when his concern started. Something made him leave that note.”

  Christine fiddled with the paper crane, modifying its beak. “He had seemed more excited in the last months. I don’t know how to describe it. Exhilarated?”

  “Any explanation why?”

  “I’ve been away a lot. For a while I was dating a man. Gianfranco Giberti. He was as beautiful as his name.” Christine’s smile was sweet, transforming her face. “Even my father, who liked him, said he was too beautiful.” She patted her eyes carefully. “You asked about a great discovery. When Father talked about his inventions, I suspected he was trying to get me to come back and work for him. You know, make it seem exciting, better than Omega. He didn’t understand that I’m not a child anymore. I need more than dreams.”

  “Yet you suspected homicide before you had evidence?”

  “I couldn’t believe he let himself be exposed to enough peanu
t to kill him.” Christine gripped Agnes’s arm. “You do believe me?”

  “It’s not a question of belief. My job is to follow facts. The evidence. The note is important.” Agnes tapped her pen on her notebook to stop herself from adding that she knew how it felt to believe that there was more to be learned. When her husband died, she had listened to all of the facts and known there was more. She’d been right.

  “I’ll talk to your stepmother,” she said.

  “Is Marie here today with the Perrault et Chavanon booth?” Vallotton asked.

  “No, Gisele and Ivo are taking care of it.” Christine turned toward Agnes. “If you want to talk to someone who worked with my father, they do assembly and some marketing. But they won’t know anything about the kind of special project you’re interested in. He wouldn’t have shared anything about a new design with them, not until he was ready to launch it.”

  “What about other employees?”

  Christine added that, with the exception of a cleaning service, Gisele and Ivo were the company’s only employees.

  Agnes hid her surprise. “You’re not at the company anymore. In your absence, if your father was excited about something, he might have talked to them.”

  “He was cautious. Everyone we know, everyone in town, is connected to the industry. He would never confide an idea to someone who might hint to a cousin or a neighbor who could then take it to their own company. He wouldn’t even hint to me—his own daughter.”

  “But he did hint to you,” said Vallotton.

  “He only said that he was working on something revolutionary.…” Christine’s voice trailed off.

  “He used that word? Revolutionary?” Agnes asked.

  “Does it matter?” Christine screwed up her face, as if reflecting, and Agnes could imagine the schoolgirl asked to come to the board and work a math problem. Focused, ready to try, but not as prepared as she should have been. “Yes, that’s the word he used. But you had to know my father. That could be anything.” She studied her nails, then sighed. “He was always on the verge of some great invention. He was the kind of man who talked about a smartphone before anyone else understood cellular technology. Everything interested him. Materials, technology, history, design, engineering.”