“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—”