LAUSANNE—June 2016
Lausanne is like a dream. Walking up Rue Marterey toward the Lycée, Kersti experiences a visceral sense of nostalgia. Although most of the shops have changed, it could be 1995. Everything comes back to her at once—the snippets of singsong Swiss French, the Migros grocery store on the corner, the patisserie windows beckoning her inside with their artful fruits Charlotte and St. Honorés. Lausanne is a feeling for her, distinct and timeless, as much as it is a place.
“I need one of those,” she says, pointing to the window of a patisserie. Jay follows her inside and she orders two cheese tartlets. “One for each of the boys,” she explains. They’ve started referring to the babies as “the boys.”
Jay orders an apricot tart and they continue walking toward Avenue de Béthusy, which will take them to the Lycée.
They arrived last night by train. Flying would have been quicker and easier, but Kersti insisted on taking the Eurostar to Paris and then the TGV to Lausanne. She tried to convince Jay that traveling through Europe by train was part of the experience, the only way to do it. “Easy for the person exempt from schlepping luggage to say,” he countered.
This morning, after gorging on fresh baked croissants with Hero strawberry jam and Suchard hot chocolate—her favorite Swiss brands, which she’s never been able to find in Toronto—they decided to walk from their hotel to the school, stopping as necessary so Kersti could either rest, pee, eat, or show Jay the sights. Their first stop was Place St. François to see the church, and then on to Rue de Bourg for a Coca and a pizza at Chez Mario, where Kersti celebrated her sixteenth birthday. Even the graffiti on the walls was still there, and she was able to show Jay where she and Cressida and Lille had scribbled their names.
As they continue strolling hand in hand toward the Lycée, Kersti’s memories are becoming more intense. Not just concrete memories or linear recollections, but sensory memories. The grape soda smell of lupine flowers, the glacier blue of the lake from her window, the feel of cobblestone beneath her shoes.
“I’m feeling really sentimental,” she says.
“It’s probably your hormones.”
“Mm.”
It’s easier for her not to try to explain it. It was here in Lausanne, at the most impressionable age in a girl’s life, that she first felt everything meaningful, worthwhile, life altering. Enchantment. Desire. Acceptance. Belonging. Connection. Loss.
She became who she is here, in the absence of her family and their expectations; in relation to Cressida; when she lost her virginity to someone who didn’t love her back. And in that moment when she found out her best friend, equal parts soul mate and nemesis, had fallen from her balcony.
“You crying?” Jay asks, touching her wet cheek.
“Being here is just bringing up so much. . . .”
He pulls her close and they walk along, his arm around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder.
Deirdre is waiting for them in the Lycée garden when they arrive. It takes Kersti a moment to recognize the woman sitting next to her on the bench, and then she cries out, “Madame Hamidou!”
Hamidou looks toward Kersti, lifts her sunglasses, and says, “Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle Kuusk!”
She springs to her feet and holds out her arms. They hug tightly and Kersti is flooded with affection. “You’re still here!” she exclaims.
“What else can I do?” Hamidou says. “I’m an old lady. I’ve been living off campus at 14 Béthusy, but I miss Huber House. I’m going to move back here in September.”
Her short hair is completely white now. She’s more petite than Kersti remembers, and a little frailer, but otherwise the same. Her chocolate brown eyes are twinkling with pleasure as she looks Kersti up and down and hugs her again.
“And what’s in here?” Hamidou asks, touching Kersti’s pregnant belly.
“Twin boys,” Kersti announces.
“Congratulations,” she says, beaming.
“Twin boys?” Deirdre squeals, jumping to her feet and embracing Kersti. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I waited to tell you in person,” she says. “We just found out.”
Kersti remembers Jay, standing quietly behind her, and gently pulls him forward. “This is my husband, Jay.”
Hamidou pumps his hand and Deirdre throws her arms around him. Whether he likes it or not, they have a powerful bond now, a lifelong connection. It still feels surreal to Kersti. Jay’s sperm and Cressida’s eggs growing inside her body.
“I’m going for a walk,” Jay tells her. “I’ll meet you at the hotel later.” He waves good-bye to them and saunters off toward the garden.
“I was just showing Madame Hamidou some pictures of Sloane,” Deirdre says.
“She look exactly like Cress-ee-da,” Hamidou says, her eyes glistening with tears. “It’s like looking at an esprit.” The lines in her face sink deeper into themselves and she suddenly looks ancient, mournful.
“Sloane will be here Saturday for the ceremony.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Hamidou says, brightening, forcing a smile. She still has that gap between her front teeth.
A young girl of about fourteen or fifteen approaches them. She’s lovely, with long dark hair and licorice black eyes. “Bonjour, Madame Hamidou,” she says.
“Bonjour, Amandine.” Hamidou introduces the girl to Kersti and Deirdre. “Amandine is one of our top students,” she says. “She’s getting the maths award on Saturday. She’s the first sophomore ever to receive it.”
“Congratulations,” Kersti says, envying the girl’s youth, her brightness, all the promise that lies ahead like rolling Swiss hills.
“Right now Amandine and I have a science class to get to,” Hamidou says. “A plus tard.”
When they’re alone, Deirdre links her arm in Kersti’s. “I found out something interesting,” she says.
“What time are we speaking to Monsieur Bueche?”
“Now,” she says. “But listen to me. I did a little snooping.”
Kersti lets Deirdre lead her up the path toward Bueche’s office. “I had my lawyer look into Cressida’s police investigation,” she says. “It turns out the lead detective was Gavin Lashwood.”
“Lashwood?” Kersti repeats. “That doesn’t make any sense. Aren’t the Lashwoods American?”
“Gavin Lashwood graduated from the Lycée in 1959,” she explains. “The same year as Bueche.”
“They were good friends,” Kersti says, remembering something Amoryn Lashwood said at the Charity Ball years ago. “Bueche and Amoryn Lashwood’s uncle were friends at the Lycée—”
“Bueche went on to université here and then started teaching at the Lycée. Gavin Lashwood married a Swiss girl and stayed in Lausanne. He became a gendarme for the Vaud police.”
“So he was the detective who investigated Cressida’s accident? Have you spoken to him?”
“He died,” Deirdre says. “Lung cancer two years ago.”
“He must have covered something up for Bueche,” Kersti says. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”
Deirdre stops suddenly and faces Kersti. Her expression changes without any warning. “I should have done something years ago,” she says, her voice trembling. “I should have demanded an investigation right after it happened.”
“Deirdre, you were in shock—”
“I didn’t even go to Lausanne,” she says. “I didn’t ask any questions. Not even about the note or how quickly they wrapped up the investigation—”
“You were dealing with Cressida back home.”
“I didn’t want to know,” she admits. “That’s the truth, Kersti. I was too scared to know the truth. And now it’s probably too late.”
“Whatever Bueche and Harzenmoser covered up, we can find out.”
Deirdre nods, sniffling. She puts on her Chanel sunglasses, the large lenses covering most of her face. “I failed her,” she says, as they continue on to Bueche’s office.
“Everyone did.”
M. Bueche is one of those ageless men who could be in their fifties or sixties. If Kersti didn’t know, she never would have guessed seventy-four. He still has all his hair, dyed a dark chestnut brown and smoothed back with gel, and good white teeth that may or not be real. He always dressed well, favoring ascots and pocket squares with his blazers. A man for whom the word debonair was invented.
“Madame Strauss,” he says solemnly, shaking Deirdre’s hand. “Kersti, welcome back. And congratulations on being one of our One Hundred Women.”
His English is perfect. There’s no trace of a French or German accent. Kersti realizes she has no idea where he’s from. She always thought of him as being generically European.
“How’s Cressida?” he asks Deirdre, sitting down at his desk.
“She’s basically a vegetable,” Deirdre responds tersely. “So I’m not sure how to answer your question.”
“I’m sorry,” he says contritely. “It must be hard for you.”
The French windows behind Bueche are wide open and Kersti has a perfect view of the back garden and vast green lawn that leads to the tennis courts. Lausanne in June is a thing of beauty, something Kersti had almost forgotten.
There’s an antique cuckoo clock on the wall, alongside framed photographs of Bueche with faculty from eras past, including several with Mme. Harzenmoser. Kersti recognizes one of him with M. Mahler, holding up a trophy.
“What happened to Monsieur Mahler?” Kersti asks, staring at the picture.
“Mahler? He retired years ago. He’s eighty-five and in fine form. He visits occasionally. Comes to cheer on the teams.”
“And Madame Harzenmoser?”
“She’s in a home nearby,” he says. “She may be at the ceremony tomorrow, if she’s well enough.”
Kersti notices a photograph on Bueche’s desk of him with his wife, children, and grandchildren at Ouchy. Something else Kersti never knew about him. He has a family. When you’re a teenager, you really don’t think about the grown-ups around you as having a life. You don’t think about who they are as people. How old they are. Do they have kids. What do they do outside school. These things never crossed Kersti’s mind about any of the teachers at the Lycée, perhaps other than the Fitherns.
“That’s why we wanted to speak with you,” Deirdre says. “Kersti and I have been revisiting Cressida’s fall.”
“Revisiting it?”
“Asking ourselves questions we should have asked when it happened.”
When Bueche doesn’t say anything, she continues. “We’re both convinced it wasn’t an accident.”
Bueche leans back in his chair, his gaze unflinching. He has dark brown eyes—intelligent, incisive—and Kersti considers he must have been quite handsome back in the nineties.
“Madame Strauss,” he says, in his deep velvet voice. “It was almost twenty years ago.”
“Yes,” Deirdre acknowledges. “But we have new information.”
“New information about what?”
“About the circumstances surrounding her fall.”
Kersti watches him carefully. If he’s the least bit uncomfortable, she can’t tell. His demeanor is calm. Relaxed, even.
“Did you know Cressida was having an affair with her history teacher?” Deirdre asks him. “Charles Fithern?”
“I remember hearing something about it after the fact. After both of the Fitherns resigned.”
“Did anyone ever question the fact that Mrs. Fithern was the teacher on duty at Huber House the night my daughter fell?”
“Madame Strauss,” he says. “We didn’t know anything about the affair then. Of course we spoke to Mrs. Fithern that morning. We asked her what she’d seen, what she’d heard, if anything unusual had happened the night before—”
“And what did she tell you?”
“From what I remember, there was nothing unusual.”
“Did she tell you Cressida’s boyfriend, Magnus Foley, was at Huber House that night?” Kersti asks him. “That he went there to see Mrs. Fithern? And that he told her about the affair?”
The expression on M. Bueche’s suntanned face turns grim.
“Did any students ever mention seeing Magnus that night?” Kersti asks.
“Not that I recall.”
“Did anyone—either you or the police—ever question the students?” Deirdre interjects, her voice rising.
“I’m sure we did,” Bueche responds, a fleck of defensiveness coming into his tone. “It’s hard to remember after all this time, but I’m sure the police spoke to the students.”
“The police never spoke to me,” Kersti says. “Or Lille. Lille is the one who saw Magnus leaving Huber that night.”
“I guess the police were satisfied that Cressida’s fall was accidental,” he reasons. “Cressida was very intoxicated. I remember she had a very high blood alcohol level—”
“And when you found the suicide note?” Deirdre produces the note from inside her purse and shoves it at him.
“I found no such note,” he says in defense. “Your husband found it.”
“And what happened then?”
“Monsieur Strauss asked me why the note hadn’t been found sooner.”
“Why hadn’t it?”
“It was hidden in one of Cressida’s books. Your husband found it when he was packing her things. It wasn’t deliberate on the school’s part to keep it a secret.”
“How could the police not have found it, Monsieur Bueche? Didn’t they search her room?” Kersti asks him. “Why didn’t they bother to look for evidence? Why didn’t they ever interview us?”
“I can’t speak to what the police did or didn’t do—”
“Can’t you?” Deirdre says fiercely. “Wasn’t the detective your best friend?”
“Our friendship would never have interfered with a case,” Bueche says hotly. “I take offense to that. As I’m sure Gavin would have.”
“Cressida was pregnant,” Kersti says. “The baby was Mr. Fithern’s, which is a motive in itself. Mrs. Fithern also had opportunity—”
“Cressida was pregnant?”
“Why wasn’t a proper investigation conducted?” Deirdre wants to know. “Your friend Gavin didn’t turn up any information, it seems. Not the affair, not the note, not the pregnancy. He must not have been a very good detective.”
“Madame Strauss—”
“Why was the case closed so quickly?”
“I understand how unpleasant this must be for you—”
“Unpleasant?” Deirdre repeats, her lips curling into a sneer. “I lost my daughter, Monsieur Bueche. She would have been better off dead! It was a lot more than ‘unpleasant.’”
“It was a tragedy,” he agrees, placating her. “A terrible tragedy. Madame Harzenmoser and I brought in the police at once and gave them everything they needed to conduct their investigation. We opened up the school to them. Whatever they needed. But if Detective Lashwood ruled it an accident, it wasn’t our place to disagree or challenge him.”
“He ruled it an accident by nine o’clock in the morning?” Kersti says. “How is that even possible?”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“Yes,” Deirdre responds, straightening her back. “Of persuading your friend to say it was an accident and shut the whole investigation down as quickly as possible.”
“There was plenty of evidence to warrant a proper investigation,” Kersti adds. “But that would have been terrible publicity for the Lycée. It would have damaged your reputation.”
“Of course it would have,” says Bueche. “But I wouldn’t have stood in the way of an investigation. I don’t have that kind of pull with the police.”
“We know how important the Lycée’s reputation is.”
“The students matter far more—”
“Monsieur Bueche,” Deirdre implores softly. “You didn’t want talk of suicide or extramarital affairs with students or the whiff of a possible crime to go public, so you asked your school chum to cover it up. At least tell us the truth. It’s not a crime.
“I’m accountable, too,” Deirdre continues. “I stood by and allowed it to be covered up. I let you and Madame Harzenmoser do nothing because I was protecting Cressida’s reputation—”
“Mrs. Strauss,” Bueche says, still cool and composed. “The truth is the gendarmes did search Cressida’s room that morning. What they found was a half-empty bottle of vodka. She’d been smoking outside on her balcony. Besides that she’d had that car accident a couple of years before—”
“How did the police know about her car accident?”
“I think it was Madame Hamidou who told them when she was questioned.”
“Why? It had nothing to do with anything. Why would she tell them about that?”
“She was trying to be helpful, I suppose,” he says. “It showed Cressida had a history of reckless behavior and heavy drinking. The police made their ruling based on the facts they had at the time. Did they probe enough?” He shrugs, cocks his head to the side. “Perhaps not. But I assumed they did the best they could with what they found. The suicide note came later. We didn’t see any point in reopening an investigation because of the note. Who would it have served? Certainly not you or your family, Madame Strauss. Not our students.” He pauses for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts and carefully choose his next words. “I assure you that nothing I ever did was with the intent to conceal anything or protect anyone.”
He stands up and comes around to the other side of the desk. “Why bring it all back up now?” he asks Deirdre, his voice softening. “Is there a point? What can be done, really?”
“If someone pushed my daughter, I want to know. At the very least, I want it acknowledged.”
“It’s not going to be easy after all this time,” he says. “But I’ll support whatever you decide. If it’s what you need, I’ll help any way I can. Is there something you want me to do?”
“I’ll let you know,” Deirdre says, standing up. “I just want to say that you did Cressida a huge disservice by impeding a proper investigation. As did I.”
“Nothing was done intentionally.”
“Thank you for your time, Monsieur Bueche.”
Deirdre tucks her purse under her arm and hurries out of the office. Kersti notices the forgotten suicide note on Bueche’s desk and grabs it.
On her way out, she remembers something and stops. “Monsieur Bueche?” she says, turning back to him. “Why did you expel those two girls in 1974?”
“I beg your pardon?” he says, confused.
“Amoryn Lashwood’s friends were expelled in ’74. I know it was for vandalism, but it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Do you know what they wrote?”
“No. But it was just a couple of words on the statue—”
“The matter was very grave.”
“Students have committed far worse offenses and not been expelled,” Kersti points out. “Cressida included.”
“Those girls were also doing drugs and causing trouble. Madame Hamidou felt very strongly they had to be expelled and the Helvetia Society meetings banned.”
“Madame Hamidou did?”
“Oh yes, she was quite passionate about it,” he recalls. “She thought it was best for the school and I had to agree. It doesn’t happen often that we agree, I assure you. But she convinced me it was the right thing to do for the Lycée.”