The woman in her dream was hitting her with a gnarled stick, so hard that it made a thumping sound. Pippa struggled to stop her and came awake feeling sluggish and disoriented. The banging didn’t stop and, clued in by the presence of all six cats in her bedroom eyeing her with alarm, she realized it was the door. Throwing on her old robe, she stumbled down the stairs, calling out that she was coming. It wasn’t like Katherine to be insistent. Maybe something was up.
But when the door swung open, it was Philippe, in uniform, who looked back at her without expression but with a flicker of warmth in those beautiful eyes. Behind him on the path stood his partner, lips in a tight line. She pulled her robe closer around her and did a fast inventory. Bed hair, unbrushed teeth, old pajamas, bare feet.
“May we come in?”
She stood aside as the two of them walked in, picking their way around the suspicious cats, who were not about to let anyone forget it was time to eat.
“Yes?” she said, standing in the middle of the room, wishing she could run upstairs and get dressed after erasing her image from their brains. “Did you bring my car?”
Philippe cleared his throat. “No, it is the car and what was in it that we need to discuss with you.” His partner’s silence carried waves of suspicion.
“Look, I just woke up. Can I get you tea and then get dressed? And I have to feed the cats or they won’t leave us alone.” That latter was obviously true. Two of the felines had taken positions near the woman’s feet and were rubbing up against her navy blue pants. She was trying to kick them away discreetly.
Philippe exchanged glances with his partner and shrugged. “Quickly, please. We must interview you.”
Pippa ran up the stairs, threw cold water on her face, and pulled on leggings and a big sweater, one that her father said brought out the greenish gold in her eyes. A swipe with the hairbrush did no good, but another swipe with the lip gloss helped a bit. Shoes—where were the ballet slippers?
Back downstairs, she put the electric kettle on, dished out cat food as quickly as she could without slopping it on the counter, and grabbed three mugs. Irish Breakfast for strength, tea bags in mugs, pour water, and back to the living room, where Philippe and the woman, whose name she didn’t know, were sitting on the edges of her mismatched chairs. Until that moment, sinking into the remaining chair, Pippa hadn’t had time to ask herself what they needed to interview her about, or why they still needed her car. Now, she began to worry. Sipping the hot liquid, she waited.
Philippe cleared his throat. “We need to go over the time between your finding the body at the museum and when your car was vandalized, in detail.” His partner stirred, and pulled out her notebook.
“Why?” Pippa said. “I don’t understand.”
He didn’t answer but said in his accented English, “You went to the museum with your friend on that day. But had you been there in the days before that, perhaps even that Tuesday?”
“No, why would I? Aren’t they closed Mondays and Tuesdays except for special events? Anyway, I’d already seen that exhibit with Katherine, at least a month before. Really smashing, you know. I don’t know how she does it, exhibit after exhibit. I only went along on the day Mme Sabine was found because I needed a ride. My car was in the shop in Avallon.”
“What shop?” Philippe said and the woman gendarme raised her pencil. “How long was it there?”
Pippa told him the name and said it was only in for twenty-four hours, something to do with the clutch. “I never understand these things. But they’ll tell you if you check.”
Philippe had not touched his tea. He now said, “You were not part of the Catholic women’s group that toured the museum?”
“No,” she said. “I’m Church of England through and through. When I can be, of course. Not possible here.”
“And what of the days after the museum? Where were you?”
Pippa shut her eyes, trying to recall. Ticking off the days on her fingers, she walked through the past ten days as well as she could. Philippe and his partner had seen her in L’Isle-sur-Serein and in Avallon. There wasn’t much else to tell.
“And your friend, she is your only alibi for those days?”
“Alibi?” A sudden chill gripped her. What was this about? “The policeman in Avallon seemed to think I needed an alibi too. But there’s no reason I would possibly have for killing that woman. What can you be thinking?” Her eyes fell on a gaggle of furry animals milling around the door. “I have to let them out,” she said, pointing.
The woman cop shuddered slightly and nodded. Pippa made sure all six were out before shutting the door slowly, all the while wondering what she should do. In England, she’d say she wanted a solicitor if they were going to suspect her. Was this about that note in her car? Would it be best to explain what she and Katherine thought it meant, even if it made them look more foolish than ever to the coppers?
“Look,” she said, “let’s walk this through again. I’ve said before that I hardly knew the woman. Maybe my curiosity got the better of me because I’m always looking for ideas and scenes for my murder mysteries, the stories I make up. You understand that, right? That’s the only reason I came to L’Isle-sur-Serein when you were there. It’s why I went back to the museum after the body was found. Looking for inspiration.”
“Inspiration?” the woman said, twisting her mouth into an expression of severe disbelief. She understood at least some English.
“It sounds silly, but think. I live in a town full of people who don’t speak English. How am I supposed to make up stories if I can’t get ideas?”
“You live in France,” she thought she heard the woman say under her breath.
Philippe stirred. “Your car was in your possession all the time except when you parked it on the street the day it was vandalized?”
Pippa stopped to think. “It was in the garage that day before. I have to park it if I have an errand nearby. I drove to Auxerre for a propane canister last week. Why?”
“You took nothing from the museum on any visit?” Philippe said, ignoring her question.
“No, I’m sure not.” She didn’t mention Katherine having taken the slip of paper. That wasn’t what he asked her, fortunately.
“Then why, Madame, did the gendarmes find the missing wig from the mannequin in your trunk?”
* * *
The gendarmes left thirty minutes later with no answers. Pippa’s pulse was still elevated although she had stopped shaking by then. She had assured them several times that she had no idea, that the vandals must have planted it, which meant they were the criminals involved in Mme Sabine’s death.
The wig had been under the carpet in the boot, jammed up against the jack, and had only been found when the car was being searched minutely for traces of the vandals themselves. The museum curator had identified it as the one the mannequin had been wearing in the exhibit. There were no fingerprints on the inside or outside of the boot, or indeed anywhere on the car.
Pippa had pointed out it was cold that day and everyone was wearing gloves and scarves. Philippe explained that the wig did hold a few threads of fabric that might—or might not—belong to whomever stuck it in the wheel well. He asked for the gloves she had worn and Pippa was relieved to tell him her gloves were leather, not fabric. He had asked her to give him any fabric gloves or scarves she had, however, and she had reluctantly handed over at least a half dozen items, any one of which might implicate her falsely.
“What if you find a thread from when I had to pull the jack out six months ago so the farmer in Reigny could change my flat tire?” She was near tears.
“We’ll deal with that when we come to it.” But he looked at her and must have seen her panic because his voice softened and he came closer to where she was standing near the doorway to the kitchen. “Look,” he said in a kinder voice, “this may not mean anything. You may be right that someone is targeting you and hoping to distract us. But, never fear, we will discern the truth of the case before we are done.” He even smiled a bit and tilted his head as if to say she should trust him. But she couldn’t have her car yet.
“You must have more believable suspects than me? Isn’t there someone more likely? I read that the butcher had an alibi, but are you sure about it?”
Neither of the gendarmes wanted to discuss the case with her, but Philippe took pity on her and said, “If it were that simple, I assure you he would have been arrested by now. As I said, we will find the culprit and we are investigating every small piece of information we have.”
Pippa slumped into a chair as the door closed on them. When Philippe’s partner had opened the door to leave, two of the cats had streaked in and one now began to sharpen its claws on the arms of the chair.
What she wanted more than anything was to be in her father’s house in London, with the TV blaring in the background, and the smell of a shepherd’s pie baking in the old AGA. She thought about calling him, but the thought of explaining everything over the phone stopped her. Her Chunnel trip was in four days and surely the police would have caught the real killers by then. For now, talking to Katherine would help. Michael might even be a good substitute for her father since he was determined Katherine—and, she hoped, by extension, herself—should be as far away as possible from this investigation.
Katherine’s phone rang and rang. They must be out walking, or up at the mairie on some business. She could never remember all the forms she was supposed to fill out until the day they were due, or worse, the day after that. Reigny’s mayor was impatient, she could tell, when she dropped by to ask for his help deciphering the official letters she received. Maybe she’d best dress in something more suited to a funeral than the rags she was wearing (any hope she had of attracting Philippe’s positive attention was surely crushed after he saw her looking like an old hermit) and walk up to Katherine’s to meet her.
As she pulled the hood of her anorak up, lamenting the loss of her wooly scarves, she gave herself a stern rebuke for the thoughtless way she had blundered into this whole mess. Maybe if she read more murder mysteries, she wouldn’t be tempted to get into the real world to pick up ideas. Maybe she should move back to London. Katherine had once asked her if she wouldn’t find more to think about among the daily crimes committed in a big city, and she promised herself to think seriously about that as soon as this crisis was over.
While she walked, she ticked off the possible suspects. The butcher had a firm alibi, the newspaper reported early on. He had been playing cards all Tuesday evening. There had been no other crimes suggesting a maniac on the loose. The theory of a lover was taking on more credibility, although definitely not because the nosy, invalid wife of the chocolate maker fantasized about sex from her second-floor window. Someone had seen the victim on the street in Beaune, holding hands with a man. The cross might suggest some connection to the church group, except they were women and dragging the victim around the salon would surely have caught Madame’s attention, even though she was several floors below. So, perhaps a man who knew the women, maybe met Mme Sabine through the church? Whoever it was must have carried the dead woman into the salon or killed her right there on the chaise, and Pippa realized that had to have happened on Tuesday evening because Philippe had asked her where she was on Tuesday. Pippa shivered. Crikey, the dead woman must have been lying in the cold room until Thursday. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Katherine had wondered about the pig’s head, most easily procured by a butcher. Who were the other butchers in the neighboring towns? That might be the best place to start. She paused, her hand on Katherine’s gate. What was she saying? Already she was thinking about continuing her investigation.