Twenty-one
The sun was well over the horizon, although Agnes wouldn’t have guessed it from the temperature outside. Squinting against the sun, she focused on keeping her footing. The lane between the chateau and the mansion was coated with a layer of thick ice partially covered by a more recent crust of snow. It required steady nerves and luck to traverse. To keep her mind off falling, she silently debated gloved hands in-pockets or out-of-pockets. Out-of-pockets won as more conducive to catching herself during a tumble.
Much of the focus was an effort to ignore André Petit sliding along beside her. Now that he was a father, he was a squirting fountain of questions on parenting. If parenting hadn’t reminded her of George she wouldn’t have minded. Today that was a topic she had to avoid. Anything that reminded her of George or her children would take her down the dark path of questions and regret. Therefore she tuned Petit out. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice. Rhetorical questions, apparently.
They’d chosen to walk to Arsov’s on the lane rather than cross the lawn. A plan better in theory than in practice since it was quickly apparent that ice coating a hard surface was slicker than ice on grass. Only forty-eight hours after the storm began and she wanted to banish winter forever.
“Do you think Monsieur Carnet is safe on his own?”
Petit’s question jolted Agnes back to attention.
“Of course he is.” She toned down her annoyance midsentence, replaying breakfast in her mind. Afraid that Carnet would seek her out, she had latched onto Petit as a natural buffer. Unfortunately she had told him that they shouldn’t be alone because of the murderer. She should have told him he had to stick by her side so she could evaluate him before sending a recommendation to the cantonal police with his application. It was too late to change her story now.
“Carnet’s experienced and capable,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”
“I understand. I’ll stay close to protect you.”
Not what she had in mind, the image of the weak inspector. Perhaps not too late to change her story.
“What’s that?” Petit halted, slamming his arm out across her chest. She stumbled and nearly fell, holding on to him for support. Only when she was steady did she hear the noise. Pounding? A man shouting?
“The ice house,” they said together, veering off the drive toward the low building set halfway into the earth beneath them. Petit fell, sliding down the gentle slope to land in front of the fa?ade. Agnes careened inelegantly into the side of the structure where it emerged from the hill, grasping the corner in a final attempt to stay upright. When her feet were firmly placed under her, she could hear the noise clearly.
“Someone’s locked in,” she said.
“The evidence,” Petit said.
“The body,” she echoed, moving forward. Petit blocked her.
“This could be the murderer.”
“No, it’s Ralph Mulholland.” She didn’t add: who could be the murderer. Mulholland wasn’t an armed maniac. Or was he?
“Monsieur Mulholland,” she called out over his screams.
Petit rapped a fist on the locked door a couple times. The shouting stopped.
“Monsieur Mulholland?” Agnes repeated loudly.
“About fucking time.”
Definitely Mulholland. She wished she could leave him. Instead, she searched through her pockets for the key Doctor Blanchard had turned over to her. The lock opened easily and Mulholland fell out of the doorway, gasping like a fish on a hook. He was wrapped in a dozen old flour sacks topped by a large canvas tarp. He was shaking violently.
“Oh my god, I thought I was going to die in there,” he said.
Petit briskly rubbed the other man’s arms but Mulholland shoved him away. Agnes wondered if he’d been attacked. She pulled her flashlight from her coat pocket and stepped cautiously into the squat wood building, running the beam from corner to corner. No one there. However, the door leading to the actual ice storage room was open. She glanced inside. No one.
Once she was certain she was alone, she swung her light to the table. What she had observed peripherally now horrified her. The canvas covering Felicity Cowell’s body was missing—claimed by Mulholland. The Mylar blanket was askew, and a startling white leg was exposed. Agnes hurried back to the entrance to give Mulholland a piece of her mind, stopping only when she took another look at him. Accusations would have to wait. He was in distress.
She grabbed the spare Mylar blanket from the floor and handed it to Petit to wrap around the other man. Hesitating, she handed over her borrowed hat as well.
“Fucking cold, nobody around. Dark as pitch.” Mulholland turned his face to the sun as if there was warmth to be captured. “Trapped in there with … that.” He waved his hand toward the room.
If he could speak he wasn’t in immediate danger although he was clearly cold, tired, and angry. Agnes wanted answers now.