“Why?”
“I don’t know. But Mom liked her, and it sort of relieved us of some responsibility, I’m ashamed to say.”
“She was at the top of your mother’s contact list.”
“Was she?”
“You didn’t know?”
By now Benedict had lowered the window of the Volvo and was pleading with Armand to get in.
Hugo shook his head. “Does it matter?”
“Would I ask if it didn’t?” Armand gestured toward the card in Hugo’s gloved hand. “Your mother’s will, Monsieur Baumgartner. Give me a call when you decide to tell the whole story. Don’t wait too long.”
He walked to the car and waved at the line of cars behind Benedict. More than one driver raised a finger in return.
“Thank God,” said Benedict, exhaling and pulling into traffic. “Who was that? Looked like you were speaking with something from Lord of the Rings.”
“Hugo Baumgartner.”
“Oh right. I didn’t recognize him.”
Armand buckled up, and as they headed over the Champlain Bridge, he found himself humming under his breath.
“‘Edelweiss, Edelweiss…’”
CHAPTER 31
Bernard Shaeffer sat in the spartan interview room at Sûreté headquarters. Looking around. Crossing and recrossing his legs. Trying to get comfortable on a metal chair that would never allow it.
Chief Inspector Beauvoir looked through the two-way mirror.
“Did he say anything on the ride over?”
“Non, patron,” said Cloutier. “Only asked if this was anything to do with the death of Anthony Baumgartner.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing. Here’s his iPhone.”
She handed Beauvoir the device. It was now the first thing they did with suspects. Relieve them of their devices, so they couldn’t contact anyone or delete anything.
Monsieur Shaeffer was not what Beauvoir expected. He’d been prepared for a young buck. Someone sharp. Attractive.
Not this average-looking, nervous young guy wearing a good but not exceptional suit.
Though, Beauvoir dropped his eyes and noticed Shaeffer’s shoes. Pointy and on point. Completely of the moment.
Fashionable and expensive.
Jean-Guy knew. He too tried to be fashionable but could not afford this level of expense.
While suggestive, it was far from definitive. Some people bought expensive cars. Some spent their money on vacations. And some single young men spent their money on clothes.
It did not mean Shaeffer was living beyond his means. Or was a thief.
“Right,” said Beauvoir. “Come with me.”
Cloutier followed him into the interview room, where Beauvoir introduced himself.
“My name’s Jean-Guy Beauvoir. I’m the acting head of homicide. You’ve met Agent Cloutier.”
This was said for both Shaeffer and the recording.
They took seats, Beauvoir across from the young man.
“Thank you for coming in. We just have a few questions for you.”
“About Tony?”
“Mostly, yes.” Beauvoir’s tone was friendly. “Tell us about your relationship with him.”
“We worked in the same office. Taylor and Ogilvy. This was a few years ago. I was an assistant, and Monsieur Baumgartner was a senior vice president.”
Shaeffer was watching Beauvoir closely and seemed to come to a decision.
“We had an affair. And then I was fired.”
“Why?”
He’d made it sound as though it was because of the affair.
“You might as well tell us, Bernard.” Beauvoir smiled encouragingly. “You must know we’ve already visited Taylor and Ogilvy.”
“I was accused of stealing from clients’ accounts. But I didn’t do it.”
“Then why would they fire you?”
“They had to blame someone, didn’t they?”
“If you weren’t doing it, who was?”
Shaeffer hesitated.
“Come on, Bernard. The truth. It’s all right. Just tell us.”
“Monsieur Baumgartner.”
“Anthony Baumgartner?”
“Yes.”
“But if he was stealing, why would he go to Madame Ogilvy and tell her about it?”
“He thought they were going to find out, so he went and blamed me.”
“His lover.”
Shaeffer nodded.
“What did you do?”
“What could I do?”
“I don’t know. Tell the truth?”
Shaeffer laughed. “Right. Me against a senior vice president. Let’s guess who they’d believe.”
“So you just left?” asked Beauvoir, and when Shaeffer nodded, Jean-Guy stared at him for a long moment. “Then why did you put Anthony Baumgartner down as a reference at the Caisse Pop?”
Shaeffer reddened. Clearly they knew far more than he realized.
“Tony told me if I kept quiet, he’d find me a job at the Caisse and vouch for me.”
“So you accepted?”
“What choice did I have? If I refused, I’d be thrown out on my ass anyway. I was pretty well screwed.”
An agent walked into the interview room and whispered in Beauvoir’s ear, then left.
“So,” said Beauvoir, “you’re saying Anthony Baumgartner was stealing and you were completely innocent?”
Shaeffer straightened up. “Well, okay, I knew what he was doing. But I wasn’t involved.”
“He told you?”
“He’d had too much to drink. He was relaxed, and he talked too much. He knew I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I cared for him. A lot.”
“And?” said Beauvoir.
There was silence again as Shaeffer fidgeted. “And he said if I told anyone, he’d say it was me, not him.”
“Which he did anyway.”
“Yes.”
Beauvoir studied the unremarkable young man.
“Were you ever in his home?”
“Once. He wanted help putting up a picture his mother had given him. I think it might’ve been of her. She looked kinda crazy. Anyway, we hung it above the fireplace in his study and then had a few drinks. He asked for help setting up his new laptop, so we had a few more drinks, then fiddled with the computer for a while and got sorta giddy—”
“Did you get the laptop working?” said Beauvoir.
“Yes.”
“And did he put in a security code?”
“Yes. I remember because it took him a while to come up with one. He said he was running out of ideas for new codes.”
“And do you remember the code?”
The question was asked casually, but the room crackled with the tension between the Sûreté officers.
“No idea. He didn’t tell me.”
“Did he hint? Say anything?” prodded Beauvoir.
Shaeffer thought. “If he did, I can’t remember.”
“Did you sneak a peek? Look over his shoulder when he entered it?”
“Of course not.”
“‘Of course’? Come on, Bernard. We all do it. Just out of curiosity. Did you watch while he put it in?”
“No.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Huh?”
“In the study, while Monsieur Baumgartner put in his password, what did you do?”
“I stared at the picture. I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would have that thing in their home.”
Beauvoir considered. It could be true. That painting of Ruth was as riveting as it was revolting. As Clara herself said, it was hard to look away.
But this was a sharp young man, and given a choice between finding out the password to a laptop and looking at the picture of a mad old woman, Beauvoir was pretty sure he knew which one Bernard Shaeffer would choose.
“What happened next?” Beauvoir asked.
“We got drunk and had sex.”
“For the first time?”
“Yes. We’d been sorta feeling each other out, but I wasn’t sure he was gay. But he kept sending these signals, and then—”
“What was he like?” asked Beauvoir.
“As a lover?”
“As a man.”
Shaeffer considered the question. “Kind. Smart. Decent. I thought.”
“Until he blamed you for stealing and got you fired.”
“Yes.”
“When he got you the job at the bank, did he ask for any favors?”