The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (19 page)

Tamsin let out a little scream. “Oh no! Not a police station! I don't want to go to a police station! Captain Moreau—it's so late . . . Can't this wait until tomorrow? Can't you question me here? I don't want to go to a police station. I'm sure it's not very nice there!” Even in French, it was still all about the Widow Tamsin!

“
Yes
, it must be done tonight,” replied Moreau, firmly. “Mme. Townsend—this is your husband's murder that we are investigating! Do you not care that the culprit might flee?”

“You think it was one of us?” asked Beni, his voice booming, maybe more loudly than he had intended.

Moreau smiled with his teeth, not his eyes. “This is still something we are investigating. There are many avenues for us to follow. You are the people who were with M. Townsend at his time of death and so, of course, are of interest to my investigation. As the people who were with Mme. Schiafino last night, and the people who found her body, again, you are of interest. In fact, you are
very
interesting people.” He smirked. It wasn't a comforting expression.

“
I
didn't find her body,” bleated Tamsin. “I've never been in her stinky little apartment. I don't know why I can't have a good night's sleep in my own bed. I didn't kill Ally and I didn't kill Madelaine . . . and I certainly didn't steal my own necklace. So why can't I do this tomorrow? Besides,” she added quite slyly, “if you're interviewing us all, one at a time, it'll take hours . . . If you started with her,” she pointed that finger at me again, “and went all night with the others, you might be ready for me in the morning, then you could come here and we could have breakfast together.” It seemed that Tamsin had come up with the perfect plan—for Tamsin.

“Mme. Townsend, I must speak with you at the police station because we have special equipment there—cameras and recorders—in our interview rooms. It is not like the old days when a policemen and a suspect had a conversation, one to one, and then everyone accepted the policeman's version. No, no, it is not like that at all!”

“So we are all suspects?” asked Beni.

“Yes,” replied Moreau.

There it was, finally out in the open. We were all suspects in one confirmed murder, an unexpected death and two robberies . . . or even three, if you were to count Mme. Schiafino's portrait.

It was at that dramatic moment that my handbag started to perform . . . playing the annoying tune I'd foolishly set as my ring-tone, which drove me mad the second it started. I apologized profusely as I scrabbled around trying to locate my phone, but by the time I triumphantly plucked it from the black hole that was my handbag, it had stopped ringing. Typical! I knew that wasn't the moment to find out who had called. I stuffed the phone back into the abyss; I'd check to see if anyone had left a message the next chance I had. I hoped it was Bud returning my call, and I also hoped that I wasn't going to get caught in a game of voice mail tag. I really wanted to be able to talk this all through with Bud. I was beginning to feel as though I was overboard and drifting from the ship—and Bud was the last chance I had for anyone to throw me a lifeline. I can't swim, so this mental image had me panicking, big time.

Apart from Tamsin's protestations, we were all quiet. Too tired to argue, I guess. And full. Well, I was, anyway. I was glad I'd eaten heartily. Who knew how long the night would be?

“I will take M. Fontainbleu with me to the station,” said Moreau, standing. “He will be glad to be back at home and asleep, I am sure. I believe he knew Mme. Schiafino the best among you?” His quizzical expression drew nods from us all.

“That is a good idea, Captain,” said Beni. “I am sure we are all happy for you to speak with Gerard first. We will wait our turn.” I was pretty sure Tamsin wasn't happy that the aged gardener would be the first one to be heading for his bed, but then, frankly, I didn't care. I suspected that she'd be dealt with before me, in deference to her tragic loss, but I hoped that French gallantry would at least allow me to be interviewed before Chuck and Beni. Especially Chuck—it sounded like he'd just been relaxing all day—not dealing with a large lunch and a robbery.

“Captain Moreau, would it be alright with you if the rest of us spent a little time clearing up here?” I wanted to add,
Except Tamsin, of course, who probably won't lift a finger
, but I resisted.

Moreau looked around and nodded. “Yes, I will take M. Fontainbleu, and there are two more cars. Ladies in one, gentlemen in the other. Ladies first, of course,” and he smiled that shark-like smile again and nodded to Tamsin and me. She looked at me as though I were something on the bottom of her shoe. Nice!

IT TOOK BENI, CHUCK, AND
me a little while to clear the detritus from Tamsin's balcony. I grappled with my conscience as we tipped unfinished food into plastic bags and then sent them hurtling down the garbage chute in the kitchen. I could almost hear my mother saying, “Waste not, want not, Caitlin.” She always used my full name when she was trying to impress something upon me . . . or tell me off about something. Now no one calls me Caitlin except my doctor and my dentist.

The truth of it was, only the cheese was worth keeping for the next day. When we had begun clearing, Tamsin announced that she had to go and change her clothes for an ensemble more suited to attending an interview at a police station—
shocker, right?
—so the two men and I were left alone to do the best we could. Beni and I managed to drink coffee and smoke as we cleared. Chuck did most of the carrying to and fro, but all the conversation was what you might call “small talk” because none of us were discussing dead bodies or priceless jewelry . . . for a change.

I managed to duck out to the bathroom. I sometimes take advantage of the fact that men seem to think that all women have bladders the size of a walnut. I checked my phone and could see that whoever had called me earlier on had an ‘unknown number', and was, therefore, not Bud. There was nothing I could do about that—it might just have been someone mis-dialling, after all. I called Bud's cell—voice mail; then his office—voice mail; then the Anderson apartment—again, voice mail. I finally tried Jan's cell phone. I know that calling the wife of someone you want to talk to is not really the “done” thing, but—needs must! I even got voice mail there, too.

It gave me a funny feeling, as though something was wrong. It's weird, isn't it? We're so used to being able to reach people exactly when we want them these days that
not
being able to get hold of them makes you feel as though they've fallen off the face of the planet. I didn't leave a message at any of Bud's possible locations on the first try and decided to do something I'm not really good at. I laboriously typed a text message that simply read “Call me?” then sent it to Bud's cell phone. That would be where it would be most likely to reach him quickly. Where was he? The grow-op bust in Chilliwack couldn't have taken that long, surely? Usually, they take about an hour, tops, to get in, get the people out, and then it's all down to clearing the property and getting rid of the drugs. Then it's all back to the station and get the paperwork done . . . Bud would have been finished hours earlier.

It occurred to me that maybe something had gone wrong, and I didn't like that thought. Not one little bit. I remembered the big grow-op they'd found in the Okanagan region. The guys who'd set up the operation had trained bears, by feeding them dog food, to protect the site. Now, although this might be unlikely in Chilliwack, there was always the chance complex security measures had to be overcome. Bud would have gone out in his Kevlar, he always did, but what if the operation had gone sideways? If someone had been hurt? Or killed? What if Bud . . . no, I couldn't go there. I was beginning to feel panic in the pit of my stomach, so I looked at myself in the mirror and gave myself a talking to. I was in enough trouble as it was, and I couldn't go worrying about what was probably nothing at all back home in Vancouver. I had to use my energy to make sure I didn't continue as chief suspect in a double homicide and triple theft.

That got me focused. I emerged feeling mentally realigned, physically relieved and refreshed, and ready to face Moreau.

What I wasn't quite prepared for was Tamsin's interpretation of how it was best for a new widow to present herself for a police interview. Apparently, it involved a long black velvet dress, alarmingly high-heeled black leather boots, a black wrap edged with fur, a large black Kelly bag, and a pair of “Jackie O” sunglasses. It was eleven o'clock at night, for goodness sake!

“I'm ready now; we should leave,” was all she said. Well, at least it wasn't “I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” which it might just as well have been.

Luckily, I was ready too. Tamsin gave her keys to Chuck so he could lock up when he and Beni left. She and I took the elevator to the ground floor, which was still abuzz with people coming and going from Madelaine's apartment, and we made our way to the front door. Pierre Bertrand, the young policeman who'd translated for me at the police station that morning—my God, was it only twelve hours since I'd been there the last time—was waiting in the residents' parking area of the Palais, smoking and looking a bit bored. He brightened at the sight of us descending the steps.

“Ah, Professor Morgan, you are ready, good. I am to take you to Captain Moreau,” he called as we approached him.

“Yes, young man,” replied Tamsin, “we're ready. You can drive us now.” As we moved away from the lights of the building and toward the parked cars, I half expected her to fall flat on her face in those sunglasses and stiletto heels. She couldn't have been able to see where she was going at all!

Bertrand smiled, and even bowed a little as he opened the rear door of the police car for Tamsin. He rolled his eyes as I got in. I winked back and smiled. He was sweet, and it was nice to see a familiar and friendly face among all the others that were scurrying about looking worried and pinched.

The drive to the police station was uneventful, with Tamsin's face turned away from me the whole time. She didn't speak at all. I wondered what thoughts might be rattling around in that head of hers. I reminded myself that she might be a cunning killer, pulling the wool over all our eyes.
Then
I reminded myself that I didn't have time to be wondering what
she
was thinking, and that I'd better start working out what
I
was going to say to Moreau when I saw him.

Bertrand's driving was all that Beni's wasn't—in other words, smooth and calm and involving no swear words at all, in any language. As we wound down the now familiar road from Cimiez through Carabacel to the area behind the Promenade des Anglais, I tried to not worry about Bud and to focus on my more immediate problems. It wasn't easy, because I was beginning to realize just how much alcohol I'd consumed that day and the effect it was having on me—a headache beginning behind my eyes. Tamsin's overwhelming and sickly perfume wasn't helping.

“Could you crack a window open, please?” I asked Bertrand, and he obliged, with some relief it seemed. Tamsin glared at me as though I'd just asked him to spray us with hydrochloric acid.

“Don't do that,” she snapped at Bertrand, as though he were simply a chauffeur, “it'll mess up my hair!”

The policeman closed the window and shrugged, catching my rolling eyes in his rear view mirror, no doubt. Thankfully, I didn't have to sit there gagging for much longer, as we soon drew up to what appeared to be the rear entrance of the police station. This part of the building was more modern than the elaborate front entrance that I'd used earlier, and the interior matched the exterior: no fancy moldings and high ceilings here. Here it was all business and just a bit grubby and knocked around its edges.

Bertrand showed us to a waiting area, then disappeared. He returned before I had a chance to decide which of the dog-eared French magazines I would pretend to read. He announced that Captain Moreau would like to see Mme. Townsend. Tamsin shot me a look of superior satisfaction as she tottered away with Bertrand, and I felt like poking my tongue out at her receding figure. At least I was free of that dreadful perfume, though it hung in the air after she left, like a little waft of poisoned gas. I was waggling my arm about, trying to disperse it more quickly, when Bertrand reappeared and asked if he could sit next to me. Of course I said yes. I wondered why he wanted to sit—it didn't seem like a normal thing for a junior police officer to do.

“Captain Moreau has asked me to remind you that you are able to bring a lawyer with you to this meeting. We know you are a visitor, so I have the names of some people you might like to call. They are all lawyers of the correct experience, and they all speak English.”

I'd forgotten about that.

“Tamsin didn't have a lawyer with her,” I observed.

“Yes, Mme. Townsend has a lawyer. He was here before you arrived. Apparently, she called him before she left the Palais and told him to meet her here.”

So the Widow Tamsin hadn't just been dolling herself up—she'd been arranging legal representation as well. Maybe she had a bit more sense than I'd given her credit for.

“Do
you
think I need a lawyer?” I was beginning to get a bit alarmed. “Is it normal for this sort of circumstance?”

Bertrand thought for a moment before he replied, “It is your right, at this time, to have a legal representative who can explain the law to you and can advise you what to say and what not to say. This is a serious case: two people are dead. Do you know anything about French law?”

I wondered how different it could be from British or Canadian law, both of which I had a working knowledge of, especially when it came to murder. I had to admit to myself that I really didn't know. So, what to do?