“First, let me plead the case of other suspects. I don’t know what Silent Shawn knows-he won’t tell even me-but Donat LeGrand says he personally engineered the hiring of April Wu. Shawn was just a mail drop.”
“And Ms. Wu was planted in my office to find out if we knew anything about Flo’s provenance.”
“Ah, still the old silver fox. Nothing lost upstairs but a little off the top.” Munching contentedly on almonds. “Yes, indeed, that clever young beauty was hired to find out whether you’d uncovered a shameful thirty-three-year-old secret. And now you know it. It took some effort to persuade my clients that Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp would be the last person in the world, the last person, to inflict pain on such an upstanding, charitable couple. Training programs for the destitute in the Third World, that’s where his major contributions go, seventy million at last count. The cheese is a delightful Cambozola. Give it a go.”
Arthur dutifully nibbled. “The story going the rounds is he was also charitable to the less deserving.”
Gib grinned. “Right. Whynet-Moir. Two million dollars in July of 2006 upon his promise to marry Florenza. With an expectation of two million more after the vows. Cash. All under a pretense of anonymity, the funds sent to a Bahamian bank. More almonds?”
“No thanks.”
“Reform her, that was the idea. Marry her off to the handsome, cultured, top-ranked lawyer high on the short list for a judgeship. Under whose steady, nurturing hand, Flo would finally blossom from twenty years of painful adolescence into womanhood and take on her intended role as a priestess of high society.”
“July 2006, you said?”
“Two months before Raffy got the nod from the justice minister.” He drew a sheet from a briefcase. “Donat’s sworn affidavit. It will attest that he had no knowledge the money was to be used to buy a judgeship.” Before offering it to Arthur, he said, “In trade for this, all we ask is that you not break confidence over Florenza’s maternal origins. Deal?”
“Deal.”
26
“Here he comes,” someone said. Then a hush as Chief Inspector Chance stepped into the circle. The room had been cleared of all but sheriffs, lawyers, and court staff. The death grimace on Kroop’s face, the risus sardonicus, the pungent smell of curry provided all the proof he needed. Strychnine. Who here had motive…?
Wentworth jumped as the door opened. A sheriff peered into this cramped, dark interview room. “You wanted to see Mr. Vogel?” Who was standing there in a tractor cap, chewing on a toothpick, looking sour, as if expecting the worst. Stealing up behind him, Philomene Rossignol, not looking too anxious to resume her interview. Wide-eyed, elflike, barely past her teens, she’d been so nervous with him she looked like she might pee her pants, which is maybe why she rushed away to the washroom.
He asked her to wait, sat the old rancher down, told him he had news, good news.
Vogel didn’t show any reaction as Wentworth, blushing at his own exaggerations, explained how he’d entered into protracted negotiations after learning Clearihue had been felled. Played hardball, refused to settle for partial victory. With a modest shrug, he explained that Clearihue’s counsel had finally thrown in the towel. He was a bit disgusted with himself, but he’d watched how top guns like John Brovak enhanced their fees. “I’m going to try to get something extra for the insult too.”
Nothing from Vogel. For a long time. Finally came the dawn. “He got his nut clobbered, Clearihue?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“All them years going to church are paying off. You mean I won? You saved my ranch?”
“The whole megalith.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. Mr. Chance, soon as I set eyes on you, I knew you was a fighter. You’re the champ. Now I guess I got to pay a fancy bill, and that’s fair. But when you get something for that there insult, you buy yourself a ticket to Hundred Mile House and come on up and spend the weekend at Vogel Ranch. We’ll put on a celebration like you never believed, Joy and Penny and Lucy and me and you.”
Wentworth tried not to stammer. “Paperwork, there’ll be paperwork. I’ll call you when it’s done.”
He ushered Vogel to the door, not finding it easy to suppress visions of grateful cherry-cheeked granddaughters snuggling him around a fire. Life looked better, he sensed a turning point, improving prospects. Look at the way Haley has been coming on to him, earthy, jasmine-smelling Haley who liked to brush her breasts against him.
Philomene entered the room tentatively, a frightened fawn. She must have had anxiety bred into her in Haiti, fear and distrust of authority, of lawyers-Wentworth didn’t know how to make her relax. Her English was maybe okay for household chores, but so far the session had been hard work.
What he’d learned so far was she’d arrived for work shortly after seven on Sunday, October 14, after spending the night with her boyfriend. She identified herself to the constables on duty but was unsure why they were there, thought at first there might have been a break-in. Or a rowdy party, because in her suite, she found men’s toiletries strewn about, the bed in disarray, her stuffed animals tossed on the floor beside a mystery backpack. Without really thinking, she wiped everything down, gathered used linen, towels, washcloths, and later threw them in the wash.
She’d found nothing of Florenza’s, no handbag, brush, comb, lipstick, underthings. Still, Wentworth assumed that the lovemaking had progressed from steam room to bed, given all the disorder. No bottles full or empty. No copies, signed or otherwise, of Liquor Balls or Karmageddon. She trashed some cigarette butts that were in a soap dish, a couple on the floor.
It wasn’t until she started in on the main house that she realized Donat LeGrand and his medical-legal advisers had set up camp there, but no one stopped her, and she just carried on cleaning until Chekoff showed up.
“Okay, Philomene, try to relax and let’s finish this.” Wentworth tried to warm her up with a smile, but that didn’t seem to work. “I want to ask you about a man named Carlos Espinoza.”
Had she met him, heard of him? No, monsieur. A helpless look. He asked her to recall January 9, a Wednesday, six weeks ago-when Brian had paid a visit to Chateau LeGrand.
“That day, I do not work. All that week.”
Why? Because Florenza had given her that week off. Which seemed too coincidental.
He learned that Donat, not Florenza, had asked Philomene to stay on after Whynet-Moir’s death. She didn’t have a whole lot of work: Flo became a recluse, cut all ties-no more dinner parties, no social occasions at all, no visitors unless you count father, mother, Silent Shawn, and the occasional pizza delivery person.
“Did she have any visitors?”
“I think she has like to be alone with her computer or TV or books, magazines. She swim, maybe, sometimes, and drink a lot.”
Wentworth dug the opal ring from his briefcase.
“Recognize this?”
“It belong Madam LeGrand, her favourite ring.”
On his way to fetch Rashid from the witness room, he checked around for the boss. No sign of him. Down below, in the great hall, he could see Cud coming in after finishing a cigarette, his girlfriend, the wannabe poet, hanging on his arm.
He found a clutch of court staff gossiping by the locked courtroom door. Prognoses for the chief varied. He’s up and raring to go, said one deputy. Still leaning over a toilet bowl, said another. He’d irately sent a doctor packing, the clerk confided.
The witness room was much grander than the cramped interview room, and ten times as comfy as Wentworth’s flat. Soft chairs, waxed tables, reading lamps, magazines, tiled bathroom. But its population was totally depleted, except for Rashid. Astrid Leich had been excused until tomorrow.