“Yes, ma’am?”
“The evidence bullets that you collected from the two suspects’ guns. Back in ’79. Were either of them .38s?”
Beasley hesitated before answering, “Both of them. Different-model handguns. One Colt, one Smith and Wesson. But both were .38 Special. Thing is, so were maybe half the revolvers in Atlanta in 1979. Doesn’t prove a damn thing.”
? ? ?
MADAME AUBUCHON STOPPED by at lunchtime to collect her soup pot.
As before, she turned up with no warning. Thankfully I was dressed this time, had even put on earrings and makeup.
“Très belle,” she said, smiling as she took me in. “You’re looking like yourself again. The soup must be working.”
“?a doit être ?a.” That must be it. “C’est délicieux.” It was true. Her soup was delicious, so long as you resigned yourself to stinking of garlic for the rest of the day.
I led her into the kitchen. “Un café? Un thé?”
“Non, merci. Perhaps something stronger?”
Something stronger? It was half past noon. On a Monday. I walked to the liquor cupboard in my living room and returned with several bottles.
She pointed. “That one, s’il te pla?t.”
I poured Madame Aubuchon a glass of Armagnac and watched, bemused, as she knocked it back.
“Yes?” Her voice haughty.
“Rien. Rien du tout. Nothing. It’s just . . . we’ve worked together for a long time. Ten years, n’est-ce pas? But I’m, um, realizing I don’t actually know you very well.”
She smiled. Shook her head when I made to refill her glass. “Just the one. Pour la santé. For good health.” She produced an embroidered handkerchief from her purse and dabbed delicately at her lips. “I find it easiest to keep my personal life private. Not to discuss it at the office.”
“A wise policy.”
“For example, you may not know that Jean-Pierre is my second husband.”
“Oh?” I said, to be polite.
“He’s only fifty-one,” she said with a touch of pride. “Il n’est qu’un gar?on.” Just a boy.
“I’d love to meet him someday.”
“I think not,” she sniffed. “He’s enough trouble as it is. I don’t need him to see the likes of you, pour l’amour de Dieu. He would eat you up.”
I raised my eyebrows in amusement. “He sounds very . . . French.”
She shot me a sharp look. I thought she had taken offense. I was opening my mouth to apologize, when she spoke again. “Jean-Pierre is my second husband because my first one beat me. He nearly killed me. Several times.”
My expression changed to one of shock. “Hélène. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No one does. This finger still doesn’t straighten properly.” She held out a heavily veined but beautifully manicured hand. The pinkie drooped at an unnatural angle.
How had I never noticed?
“And my ribs, cracked three separate times. A punctured lung. Concussions.” She said this matter-of-factly, as through she were reciting a list of groceries she planned to pick up on the way home. “After I found the strength to kick him out, I locked myself in the apartment and did not come out for seven weeks.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Sept semaines,” she repeated.
“How awful.”
“Sometimes, to heal, we need time alone.” Madame Aubuchon dipped back into her purse and withdrew a heavy ring of keys. “Go to Paris, Caroline. Go hide. Get strong again.”
Forty-six
* * *
He won’t talk,” reported Beasley, when he called back midafternoon. “Verlin Snow. You were right. He won’t play ball.”
“How can you possibly have already reached him? He’s out on that island.”
“Local help. Nice police department up there. I gather the most excitement they generally get is ticketing folks for expired beach permits.”
“You sent Nantucket cops to question Verlin Snow?” I asked skeptically. “About Boone and Sadie Rawson’s murders?”
“About Ethan Sinclare’s alibi. Way you described Snow, all coughing and wheezing, it sounded like he might not be long for this world. Would have taken me too long to get authorization to go up. Nantucket cops are already right there on-site.”
“Sure, but they don’t know any of the background. They don’t know this case well enough to persuade—”
“I know, and that’s why I asked the questions. In an ideal world, we’d open up a grand jury investigation and require his testimony. But we don’t have jurisdiction over him up there in Massachusetts, and he doesn’t sound inclined to travel to Georgia anytime soon. So in the interest of time, we had two officers drive over to his house and set up a video link. He looked like he could hear me fine. He wrote down his -responses, and the whole interview was videotaped, so we’ve got a record. Not that that’ll be much use, because he denied everything you say he said.”
I made an exasperated sound. “I told you he would.”
“Verlin Snow swears that Sinclare was right by his side the entire afternoon of November sixth, 1979. Just like he’s always said.”
“That lying weasel.”
“He also said he never told you otherwise. Said you must be confused, and we should all go away and leave a dying man in peace.”
I snorted. “He’s dying, all right. He looked dreadful. Sounds like that’s the only true statement he gave you.”