The next half hour was pure hell. Katherine had a headache. She had to be polite to six unhappy Americans who wanted everything translated and who were worried about missed trains and meals. At least a dozen policemen crammed the space, first the municipal police, whose offices were around the corner, then the gendarmerie, who had been called as soon as the local cops realized this wasn’t a heart attack. They kept coming and going, running up- and downstairs, calling loudly to each other and demanding answers at every turn. By now, everyone was crowded in the small entrance hall except Mme Roussel, who was semireclining on a daybed in her little apartment, the door to the foyer open so she could see and hear everything and could keep a sharp eye on the open door to the museum.
Pippa was no help. She had apparently decided it was her job to photograph everything and everyone, to the irritation of a score of busy people. She pleaded with Katherine to explain her unusual status as a crime author to the captain in charge. Katherine had refused, telling Pippa it wasn’t the right time, and she knew she had sounded short. But, really.
The only truly useful person was Jeannette, who fetched the Avallon police quickly, and who was now out buying madeleines for the visitors with euros Katherine had pressed on her. The gendarmes let the teenager leave because she had come in after the body was discovered and had never been up the stairs. But the rest of the group had to stay, a uniformed gendarme said, until they could get statements from all of them. He was obviously unhappy to hear they were—all but Cat—determined to catch the evening train to Paris.
The sun had set, this being December, and the museum was chilly. Cat had insisted Madame wrap herself in a blanket and turn on the space heater that appeared to be the only source of warmth in her apartment, indeed the whole building. She was sipping a tisane that Cat had made for her and loaded with sugar, and there was some color returning to her wizened apple cheeks, but she still looked distraught.
Katherine pulled aside the head policeman, a captain in the gendarmerie, early on to tell him what Madame had whispered to her, that she recognized the dead woman as the wife of Avallon’s butcher, the very man Katherine had led her visitors in to see earlier in the day. The captain had spent some time after that with Madame, presumably to ask her how the woman got into the museum. Katherine wondered that also, especially since the proprietor was so obsessive about keeping the big wooden entrance door locked. But she couldn’t very well ask, not now at least.
“No one wants to help more than me,” Mrs. Harris said, coming up to Katherine. “But my husband and I have to get to the train. I don’t mind the extra expense of a taxi, even though transportation to the train was part of the cost.” She gave Katherine a look that suggested this was an act of grace that should be commented on, but Katherine’s head ached too much to do more than nod unhappily. “We cannot stay any longer. Please tell these policemen we must leave. When Mr. Harris attempted to do that, the young officer appeared not to understand a word he said.” This time, her raised eyebrows suggested that she, for one, didn’t believe that for a minute.
Overhearing her, which was unavoidable since they were in such close proximity, Ronnie with the tan chimed in. “That goes for us too. We have one night in Gay Paree and then it’s home to Houston. No time to lose.”
It might not be relevant to the occasion, but Katherine could have smacked Ronnie from Houston with the cookie Jeannette had thrust in her hand for the stupid “Paree” business. Jeannette was already soaking up every ounce of the drama, no doubt ready to entertain her school friends tomorrow, and Katherine bit her tongue. Calling forth the last bit of energy she had, she waylaid the captain, not the same man as the lieutenant who had investigated the unfortunate death in Reigny last year, alas, and begged him for a moment’s time.
“Sir, these people are worried about missing the train and their flights home. I can assure you they were in Mme Sophie Bellegarde’s charge from early this morning when they got off the train in Montbard until I brought them here, and that they were in a group Madame was leading on the tour of the musée when we came upon the unfortunate scene. They’re not from here and they’ve never been in Avallon before. Do you think you could release them and let me drive them to the train station? I could do that and come right back if you wish to talk with me again.”
He looked at her, at the ceiling, and again at her. Mrs. Harris’s voice rose in complaint from a few feet away and Ronnie chimed in. Mr. Harris edged up to Katherine and began, “Listen, Mrs. Goff, you need to tell this guy—”
“Oui, Madame,” barked Captain Borde. “Vous les prenez.” And as Harris made to continue, the policeman turned abruptly, spoke to one of his underlings, and vanished up the staircase.
The younger cop asked Katherine to have everyone write down addresses and contact information and give the information to Katherine before they got on the train. So grateful she could have wept, she told him she absolutely guaranteed it and would be back in a short while.
“You’re good to go,” she called out. “The man in charge said I can take you now.” With rushed words of relief, the Americans hurried out of the house and through the courtyard gate. Katherine, right behind them, was startled to find a small group of people clustered there in the dark, coats pulled closely around their necks, curiosity bathing their faces.
A couple of teenage boys were using the van’s fender to try and climb the courtyard wall. “Vamoose,” she said, unlocking the van’s doors and wondering if the word was French. The boys jumped away. They may not have known the word, but they understood the tone of her voice. They looked to be Jeannette’s age and Katherine wondered if her young neighbor had already begun to tell her version of the crime story. Fleetingly, she wondered if fifteen-year-old Jeannette and Pippa might be natural allies in creating tall tales from real-life beginnings. Pippa would have to learn some French first, unless Jeannette wanted to practice more English.
* * *
There were four or five official-looking vehicles parked half on and half off the street at the musée when she got back, having safely dispatched everyone except Cat, who had stayed with Madame. Wrapped up to her nose in a puffy quilted jacket, Jeannette was hunched on a hard-back chair inside the front door watching the action and chewing on a fingernail. A policewoman was crouched down next to the daybed in Madame’s little living room and Madame, who appeared to have recovered, was talking to her rapidly, with many arm gestures, and bright pink cheeks.
“I found a little brandy after she drank the tea, and it seems to have helped tremendously,” Cat said in Katherine’s ear, the hint of a smile in her voice. “Her pulse is normal and I think she’ll be fine now. A few minutes ago, a woman showed up who said she was a daughter. She’s gone out to buy some food.”
The teenager looked up from her observation post and said something about being hungry, and having to get home to feed her brothers.
“Jeannette, chérie, I’ll check with the captain and see if we’re all free to go now. It looks as though they have plenty to do, judging by all the vans in the street.” A few minutes later, Katherine had permission and, having given someone the details on where to find her, the women filed to the door of the curator’s room to say their goodbyes. Mme Roussel asked Jeannette if she could come tomorrow to dust and clean up and the girl shrugged her agreement. Katherine felt a little tug of wistfulness for the ebullient girl-child of six months ago who had skipped and pranced her way into Katherine’s life with a child’s openness. Adolescence had tapped her with its wand and Jeannette had learned that speaking more than was necessary to adults was not cool. Still, she was a good girl, and Katherine could still draw a laugh and a confidence from her when they were alone.
Pippa, deposited at the auto repair shop, waved Katherine off with a nod to say her car was ready. The van was warm once the heater and fan got going, and Cat seemed to want to chat in the coziness of the dark car. “Was the dead woman someone you recognized?” she said, looking over at Katherine.
“I’m afraid her condition was so shocking I didn’t notice at first, but Madame told me and I guess it isn’t a secret. She was Bertholde Sabine, the wife of the sausage maker we visited this afternoon.”
“No,” Cat said. “I’m shocked. He was so distracted when I tried to talk about his pâtés. He said his wife was the one who made them, but that she was in Beaune today. Do you think the police have told him by now?”
“Mais oui,” came Jeannette’s voice from the backseat. “I was going to the patisserie for you, Katherine, and I saw two flics looking in his window.” Katherine translated for Cat, who explained her French was pretty good. “The shop lights were off, so they went to the next door and knocked. I think the Sabines live upstairs and the police were going to his apartment to find him.” Jeannette leaned forward to share this detail, and Katherine saw the animation in her face. Nothing like a scandal to entertain people.
“Odd that M. Sabine thought she was away.” Katherine was thinking out loud. “It’s a pretty long trip. Unless she drove, he would have taken her to the train. Makes me wonder how long she had been in that room.” Involuntarily, Katherine shuddered at the remembered sight. Fortunately, Jeannette had not been allowed upstairs or the child would have had nightmares. Or, Katherine thought, glancing at the girl, who was now sitting forward, all ears, maybe she would have had a gruesome story with which to impress the other teens in school tomorrow.
Cat said, “I keep coming back to the impossibility of sneaking a body past that sweet old guardian of the door. But if that wasn’t possible, was the butcher’s wife alive when she entered, and how did her killer escape?”
Jeannette jumped into the conversation again, speaking in English. “But, yes, she was there for the special lunch.”
“What lunch, ma chérie?” said Katherine, while Cat looked over her shoulder at the girl.
“Madame told me about it because she said I would have to take out the extra bag to the poubelle today.”
“The trash bin,” Katherine added for Cat’s benefit.
Jeannette seemed to realize the tale might lose some color if Katherine had to translate and switched to English. “The ladies who take care of the church, you understand, making it nice for Mass and the special lectures, they come—came—to the museum for a special tour to see the rosaries and the jewelry with pictures of Mary.”
“I had no idea there was such a collection,” Katherine said.
“It is on the highest floor, at the end of the hallway, in an old vitrine, uh, a case with the glass?”
“The highest floor? That’s where the woman was found,” Cat said to Katherine.
“Oui, exactement,” Jeannette said, forgetting her English and wiggling even closer to the front seats.
Katherine thought the girl was becoming entirely too thrilled by the idea of murder and was glad when she reached Jean’s untidy courtyard on the main street in Reigny-sur-Canne, filled, as always, with used tires, farm implements, and curious dogs only partly visible in the light from a bare bulb over the front door. “Okay, Jeannette, here you are. If your father needs any explanation as to why you’re late, let me know. Thank you for being such a help today.”
The girl reached over the seats for the traditional double kiss on the cheeks before jumping out with her school backpack and opening the gate. The dogs began to bark, one of her brothers opened the house door and began shouting something to her, and Jeannette was already calling out that she had a scary experience to tell them all about before Katherine pulled away with a shake of her head and a chuckle. “That girl somehow makes her life work, although I’m never sure how she does it,” she said to Cat as she steered up to the big driveway, the gravel circle, and the tourist’s parked car near the entrance to Château de Bellegarde. “Thank you for helping with Madame. I hope the rest of your stay in France is much calmer and happier than today.”
Cat opened the door, smiled at Katherine, but hesitated a moment before saying, “I’m still a bit puzzled. M. Sabine was not himself before any of us knew his wife had been strangled. Oh, she was strangled,” she said as Katherine looked at her in surprise. “The poor woman showed all the signs of having been choked to death somehow, while she was in that position, or close to it. I’m a nurse, remember? The police are sure to have seen it immediately. I wonder if the Sabines had had an argument, or something, before. And I wonder how long she was in Beaune.”
Cat shrugged. “Maybe I’ve seen too many TV shows, but it would be interesting to know if the police are interviewing the husband.” She leaned back into the car. “Thank you, Katherine. It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to see your studio, or hear about that fascinating husband of yours. I’m half-tempted to come back after my meetings in Paris. Au revoir, then.” She closed the door and a moment later had started her car, turned on the headlights, and wound her way down the driveway.
The château was dark except for the back wing where Katherine suspected Adele and Sophie were eating dinner. She decided to drive the van back to her house and return it tomorrow. Her headache had abated somewhat, but her mind was a tangle of random thoughts, not the least of which were related to what Cat had said. Over a large glass of red wine, or maybe two glasses since she surely deserved them today, and the leftover lapin moutarde, stewed rabbit with mustard sauce that was frozen from when she had cooked it for Michael, she would try to make sense of all the suspicions floating around in her head.