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  She felt Lucy’s eyes on her. They were a deep blue and, to her surprise, hostile. Anne introduced them. “I know all about you,” Lucy said, and without even glancing at Hank, went inside.

  Sarah brought out a bottle of her own wine and opened it, pouring it into short, stubby café glasses. Hank, ignoring the glass meant for him, said to Lucy, “You know you have to come back with us.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  Max spoke, “You don’t have a choice. You’ll have plenty of protection.”

  “Like Tim had?”

  It felt like a gut kick.

  Hank stepped in. “You’ve put two old women through a lot. I’m worried about Isabelle. She’s had a stroke, you know.”

  Lucy grew pensive. “Someone tried to kill me at the hospital. Probably the same person who killed Tim. I wish he’d succeeded with me, then maybe he’d be free.”

  “What happened?” Hank asked.

  “I heard the door open and closed my eyes. I heard light footsteps come to the bed. I felt danger. The nurses made noise when they entered. The next moment a pillow was pushed over my face, and the person pressed hard on both ends of it. He was trying to suffocate me. I used my good arm to thwack whoever it was on the side of his face. I’d been exercising, and I know I hurt him.”

  “He didn’t cry out?”

  “No. He left the pillow on my face and ran quickly out the door. I got up as fast as I could and went to the door and looked out but didn’t see anyone.”

  “Good work,” Hank said. “We need you if we’re going to find Tim’s killer.”

  That did it. “I’ll get my things,” said Lucy.

  “Max will go with you. No more escapes.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid.” Lucy stomped off.

  “You need Max,” he said to her retreating back.

  “I hate teenagers,” Max said, following her.

  “So do I.”

  Max stopped at the doorway of the bedroom. “I’ll wait out here.” Lucy shut the door in her face, and Max heard her throwing stuff around. After fifteen minutes, Max said through the door, “What’s wrong?”

  The door opened, and Lucy said, “I can’t get my backpack zipped.”

  Max entered. A simple room with twin beds. Max went to the bed and zipped the backpack and handed it to Lucy. “My laptop’s over there. It needs to be charged.”

  “I got it.”

  “I get to be in your wedding, right?”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “You told your mother and she told your grandmother, who told me when she thought I was in a coma. Anne talked to me a lot. I feel so sad about her losing her Caroline. She wants to adopt me. She told me her husband, Gervais, had an affair with my mother, and I was the result. I’m dubious because Yves laughed when I told him. He said he had the real facts and he was selling them to my Uncle George. Who, I hear, is being a total pain.”

  “He’s a pain, alright. But I don’t think he’ll be bothering you too much longer. Anyone being investigated cannot be a guardian. Period.” She hesitated. “About the wedding. Olivier may change his mind when he hears what’s gone on here.” Max couldn’t believe she was confiding in the girl.

  Lucy said, “Am I your doppelgänger?”

  Max laughed. “No one would think you are my twin, but you are a lot like me when I was your age. Angry. Scared. Sad. I lost my brother when I was your age.”

  “But now you have Olivier. I think he has too much soul to be doing police work.”

  “But he feels that this is how he can best serve,” Max said. “He believes in justice.”

  “I don’t expect to get any justice,” Lucy said matter-of-factly. “They need a scapegoat. The only reason I’m going in with no fight is that I just don’t care anymore.”

  “But we care.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Olivier left Max’s grandmother’s house with a mere two hours of sleep under his belt, but he felt full of vitality. He left quietly, without disturbing anyone, and was driving through the village of Auxey-Duresses when he saw Jean-Claude waving to flag him down. He stopped the car, but not without hesitation. “What is it, Jean-Claude?”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Just. I’m on my way to headquarters in Lyon.”

  Jean-Claude lit a cigarette. “Alain was walking across the field behind my house this morning. He said he had come to check on his nearby vineyard, and mentioned that he had seen on the news that Tim had been shot and killed. I told him I was busy but he lingered, and finally he said to me, ‘Do you worry about being next?’”

  Olivier waited. “And?”

  “I don’t want him on my property.”

  “You should post the land, then, I suppose.”

  “I don’t mind about others. Just him.”

  “It’s not a legal matter, Jean-Claude. Just tell him.”

  “I also wanted to speak about the Muslim cop.”

  “Monsieur Zeroual.”

  “He led me on with his questions. Especially about the argument I’d had with Yves at his party. I want to see his report.”

  “You don’t remember what you told Monsieur Zeroual?”

  “Not exactly. He showed me a copy of a lurid photograph that Yves had taken of Yvette and me, from his file. He practically accused me of killing Yves because of it.”

  Olivier almost chuckled at the exaggeration. He had concluded that everybody Yves had gathered information on, or for, now wanted Olivier to set things right. Now he understood Jean-Claude’s obvious distress. Not only was he worried about what his old friend might do to him if he had indeed seen the evidence of his infidelity, but he also realized that he was a suspect in the murder of Yves Laroche. Olivier liked it that he was nervous. Jean-Claude took a long drag off his cigarette and threw it to the ground. “Yves threatened to show the photograph to the boy, Roland.”

  This got Olivier’s attention, as he was beginning to realize just how sadistic Yves could have been. It seemed likely that once he’d realized he could never have Lucy for himself, he had turned on everybody around him in jealous frustration.

  “This has been horrible for Yvette. Horrible for me, too. I think Alain’s question was a veiled threat.”

  “When fearful, everything feels like a threat, n’est-ce pas? I’m sorry, Jean-Claude, but now I’m running late. Are you lodging an official complaint against my assistant?”

  “Non. But I want that photograph destroyed.”

  “I worry about there being multiple copies, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Everybody’s taking Tim’s death hard, including me. If someone suspicious comes near my house, I’ll shoot.”

  Olivier thought how each person’s life who was in the circle of friends belonging to Tim had changed overnight. It was only a few short weeks ago that Tim’s house had been the gathering place for an assembly of men, and a couple of women, too, who were each floundering in their own way, or perhaps teetering was the word. Yves’ reason was being taken over by drugs and an unhealthy obsession with the unattainable Lucy; Alain was growing suspicious of his wife and close friend; Jean-Claude had entered into a dead-end affair that, even at the time, he knew spelled trouble, and was in a land dispute with his mother-in-law; Roland, surely aware of his parents’ stormy relationship, was on his way to a major addiction problem as a means of escape. Tim was the only one who had seemed to be on stable ground, but who knew for sure? As for Yvette, his hunch was Jean-Claude was an obsession, never healthy; and Lucy had connected to everyone, and yet was a firefly, darting in and out.

  Abdel was waiting in the courtroom. Olivier mentioned the conversation with Jean-Claude. Abdel said, “I didn’t get the impression that he was mortified in the least. Maybe a little afraid of Monsieur Milne.”

  “Alain might turn out
to be more like me. You recall that my first wife cheated on me,” Olivier said in a rare moment of candid personal reflection. “But I never had the urge to kill the horse trainer she had been with; in fact, I can’t even recall his name.” Ignoring Abdel’s skeptical gaze, he continued in a rational voice, “I was hurt, of course, but her indiscretion helped me to realize that we had married mainly because it was expected of us. In the end, I was relieved.”

  “That sounds a little passive, Monsieur. I’m afraid I might be the revenge type myself.”

  The comment made Olivier pause. “I find the word passive to be distasteful, but compared to killing someone in a fit of jealousy, I suppose that better describes me.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be an in-between reaction.”

  Olivier said, “I predict Jean-Claude will reject Yvette, if he hasn’t already, and she will be miserable. We should be considering the temperaments of the two men. Both Jean-Claude and Alain paid Yves Laroche to do sleuthing work for them, and both could have had a motive for stealing those negatives from Tim Lowell.”

  “You’re saying that either one of them could have fired at Lucy, and either of them could have pushed Yves off the balcony. I agree. But so could have Roland.”

  “We’re interviewing him next, but mainly because I want to assign him to rehab. By the way, Jean-Claude thinks it possible that Yves showed Roland the compromising photograph of his mother with Jean-Claude.”

  “That’s sick. I hope it didn’t happen, but if it did, Roland will never admit to seeing it. What young man would?”

  A voice behind them caused them both to startle. “Where do you want me to sit?”

  It was Roland.

  “Take that seat,” Abdel said, pointing to a chair across the room. “We’ll join you in a few minutes.” Olivier turned his attention to Roland, who was dressed in a suit, his hair slicked down, then back to Abdel, who said, “Where’s Max?”

  “Running late, I guess.”

  “Nothing on the girl?”

  He shook his head. “Lots of breaking news on television, with the uncle ranting. He reminds me of one of those reality TV people who crave attention of any sort, whether positive or negative. Added to that, reporters have learned of her romance with Tim Lowell, and now with him dead and her missing, it’s a media feeding frenzy.”

  “I fear she’s dead, Abdel.”

  Abdel, avoiding eye contact at this grim statement, glanced at his iPad and said, “I have a lot of notes from the hospital staff. All were cooperative except the woman surgeon who operated on Lucy. She said she had given strict orders that there was to be only one person in the room at a time, and sometimes when she went to check on her patient the room was full. I tried to ask about the entry and exit wounds and she nearly bit my head off. I had the hunch she couldn’t recall and didn’t want to let on.”

  “Collect the scans that were taken of her arm the day she was brought in.”

  “Monsieur Maguire is firm that the bullet came from the interior of the woods, not from the field.”

  “The prosecutor will be far more interested in the surgeon’s analysis than a retired American detective’s, if you get my gist.”

  Olivier had all but forgotten that Roland was in the room until Alain entered and rushed over to shake hands. Yvette followed, her face looking bloated and distorted by heavy makeup.

  “What happened to you?” Olivier asked Alain, noticing the bandage on his face. “A little skin cancer,” Alain said. “Let’s hope they got it all this time.”

  Prosecutor Caron entered and shook hands first with Olivier and Abdel. He next approached Alain and shook his hand, then took a seat, and the three family members also sat.

  “I want to understand, Roland,” Olivier asked gently, “why you felt compelled to confess to pushing Yves Laroche off the balcony, and to shooting your friend, Lucy Kendrick. Granted, we understand you were under the influence of alcohol and drugs, but I must ask you now if you were telling the truth.”

  Roland tapped his fingers on the table, and Abdel asked him to stop. He fidgeted in his seat and finally stood up, and Abdel told him he had to remain seated. At first glance Roland appeared to be a strapping, sanguine young man, with broad shoulders and expressive hands. But there was something indolent about him, Olivier thought. He had his father’s pale, icy blue eyes, lacking in amiable expression. His lips curved up on the left side, in a sneer.

  Olivier allowed himself a moment to ponder what had gone wrong with this boy, and why. Surely at Luc’s age Roland had been an animated boy, curious about the world. Roland replied coolly, “You’re right. I was high and so I don’t remember why I confessed.”

  “We are going to help remedy that. You will be ordered to go to rehab until you are deemed sober, but first we must prove you innocent of any wrongdoing. We will start with Yves Laroche, and how you happened to be in his apartment on the night of his death.”

  “I met him through Lucy Kendrick, at Madame Bré’s vineyard, when we were working together in the fields.”

  “And Madame Bré was okay with that?”

  “She never liked me, but she knew Lucy did, and so she said I could be there.”

  “Was Lucy your girlfriend?”

  Roland glanced sidelong at his mother. “No. She was with Tim.”

  “Are you aware that Tim Lowell is dead?”

  “I saw it on television.” His face had a flat affect, no expression. His mouth was slightly agape, a mouth-breather. “Quel dommage,” he finally said. What a pity, said with no pity.

  “Tell me about the night of Yves Laroche’s party.”

  Roland leaned forward, hands clasped, evoking Alain. “It’s all a blur. Lucy took me into Yves’ office because she wanted to find a folder. I looked up my mother’s, and found photos Yves had taken of her with her lover, Jean-Claude.”

  Alain, furious and unable to control himself, stood up and shouted, “Roland!”

  Roland turned to glare at his father and said, “It’s all your fault. You were the one who paid Yves to stalk them and take that picture.”

  Abdel stood and walked over to Alain, and Olivier noticed him directing Alain gently to “sit, please.” Olivier didn’t have to look at her to know the loud sniffling was coming from Yvette.

  “Did you stay at the party?” Olivier asked.

  “Yes.”

  Monsieur Emmanuel Caron looked transfixed. Roland was sitting up straight now, but refusing to look in the direction of his parents. “And you left with Lucy and Tim?”

  “I was out of it, but yes. I was with them. The other thing I remember was my father attacking me as I left the apartment. He stepped out of the shadows and grabbed my arm, demanding to know if I got my drugs from Monsieur Laroche. I yelled at him and left.”

  For the first time, Olivier looked at Alain as if hidden beneath his persona was the potential for a murderer.

  “Did you see Yves fall off the balcony?”

  “No.”

  “You and Lucy went into hiding. Normally people don’t run and hide unless they have done something wrong.”

  “I was hiding from my father. Tim had work to do. He was taking Lucy into Paris the next day. Lucy stayed with me because she knew I had nowhere to go.”

  “And the next day she left to go with Tim. You stayed there?”

  “I didn’t want to go home. Lucy came back that night and told me that the police thought somebody had pushed Yves. She heard it on the news.”

  “Did she accuse you?”

  “Me? No. She was worried that they were blaming her.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I told her I bet my father had gone up and pushed him. The apartment door was open when I left.”

  “Tim and Lucy didn’t tell you that he had photographs of Yves falling, and of Lucy getting shot?”

 
This time he was shocked. “No.”

  “You and Lucy stayed in the cabin again that night? No Tim?”

  “He came over and brought food, then said he was going to shoot photos of a hunt at Jean-Claude’s early the next morning. I said I was supposed to meet my father there, and he said I should show up and face the music. And Lucy said things had gotten out of control and she would go to Anne’s.”

  “Why didn’t that happen?”

  “I opened the door of the cabin in the morning when I woke up, and somebody fired at the door. I thought it was meant to scare me. But Lucy was freaking out and said we had to run.”

  “Were you pursued?”

  He shrugged. “Yes. I slipped and then I saw Lucy go down.”

  “Do you think whoever was chasing the two of you shot her?”

  “Maybe I did by accident.”

  “Where did you get the rifle?”

  “I took it from Jean-Claude’s shed a few days ago. My dad and I kept two rifles there.”

  “Did you see anyone after Lucy was shot?”

  “I saw Tim with his camera up in the air.”

  “You had no clue who was chasing you?”

  “I thought it was a boar.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Max telephoned Olivier as soon as she had cell service, and was relieved when he didn’t pick up. Better to bring Lucy in herself rather than try to explain circumstances over the phone. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw that Lucy’s head was tilted over, and her eyes closed.

  “How did you know my grandmother and Anne had kidnapped…excuse me, rescued…Lucy?” Max asked Hank, who was at the wheel.

  “Don’t leave out your mother.” He paused while making a left turn. “Observation. They’re all terrible actors. They would have been inconsolable if they had thought the girl was dead. Instead, they were alluding to the great escape constantly. They were quite proud of themselves.”