“And you think she’ll give them up if we hold her feet to the fire?”
“The thought did occur to me.”
“You may not be wrong,” Des conceded. “But it’s Rico’s investigation, and we move the ball downfield his way. That’s how it has to be. And now I’d better get back.” She started to get out, then stopped, staring at him intently. “Will you promise me you won’t pull anything suicidal the minute my back is turned?”
“Why would you think I’d do that?”
“How about because you always do?”
“You make it sound like I have a death wish.”
“No, never. I think you’re a good-hearted man who sometimes does truly hose-headed things.”
“That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”
“Mitch, promise me you won’t do anything crazy. Otherwise, I swear I’ll handcuff you to that steering wheel right this instant.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Promise me.”
“Okay, okay. I promise.”
CHAPTER 22
Des spotted him out in front of the white farmhouse on Frederick Lane where the Jewett sisters lived. Marge and Mary absolutely doted on their Jack Russells, Huey and Dewey. Des often saw the sisters walking the feisty little dogs on Dorset Street, all four of them wearing the matching kelly green turtleneck sweaters that the sisters had knitted.
Dr. Andre had just finishing calling on them. When Des pulled up, the tall Frenchman was depositing used syringes in a medical waste bin in the back of his red truck, his appointment book and medical bag set before him on the tailgate.
“How goes it, Andre?” she called to him as she climbed out of her cruiser. “Are Huey and Dewey well?”
“Just needed their booster shots,” he responded in his Tennessee-tinted French drawl. “And the sisters needed a talking to, eh? They spoil those two beasts rotten. Sauteed sirloin tips for breakfast, can you imagine?” A hint of a smile crossed his lean face, which was about as much warmth as Andre the Drip ever displayed. “And what may I do for you?”
“Just passing by,” Des replied. Actually, she’d called his answering service to find out where he was. “Andre, there’s something I need to ask you.”
Andre immediately held up a warning hand. “I know precisely where you are going, and the answer is no.” He glanced down at his opened appointment book, then began restocking his medical bag from the supply drawers. “Believe me, Des, I always ask if anyone wants to adopt a cute kitten. Particularly when I visit families with young children. But I have no takers. Which reminds me, I’ve heard that there is some activity by the Dumpster out behind the Rustic Inn.”
“Ferals?”
“Full grown, I’m afraid.”
“Damn…” For rescuers, adult feral strays were almost always a source of heartbreak. They were the hardest to catch and most likely to be diseased. “We’ll check it out right away, Andre, but that wasn’t what I wanted to ask you about.”
“What is it then?” A slight edge of impatience crept into his voice. “Not that I mean to rush you, but I have many stops to make this morning.”
“You do make your share of rounds, don’t you? You must travel these roads a lot.”
“I do, yes.”
“Early in the morning?”
“Quite often.”
“Did you develop any kind of relationship with Pete Mosher?”
“Who, The Can Man?” Andre puffed out his cheeks. “I would wave to him. And he would sometimes acknowledge my existence by nodding to me. He accepted that I was making rounds of my own, and therefore was no threat to him. But I did not try to speak to him. There was no point.”
“I imagine Glynis saw him pretty often, too. Training early in the morning the way she does.”
“She did. We both did. When it’s warmer out I often run with her. But my knees act up in the cold, and the footing is terrible. She twisted her ankle on a patch of ice just yesterday.”
“I noticed. Looked pretty painful.”
“Not too bad, no. The hard part is convincing Glynis to rest it for two or three days. When my wife sets her sights on a goal, forget it.” Andre looked down his nose at Des. “Why do you ask me about Pete?”
“It’s a funny thing, actually,” she replied, feeling a slight uptick in her pulse. “I know so much about Glynis’s family history. How she took over her dad’s law practice. How he took it over from his dad before him. But I don’t know a thing about yours, beyond the obvious fact that you were born and raised in France. I don’t suppose you had any further connection with him, did you?”
Andre closed the supply drawers and set his medical bag in the front seat. “We’re still talking about Pete?”
“We are.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. What kind of further connection?”
“By blood, Andre.”
“By blood? How in God’s name have you gotten such a crazy idea?”
Honestly, that’s how. Because if Dr. Andre Forniaux’s arrival in Dorset had not been a chance occurrence, if it was all part of a calculated plan, then everything added up.
“Pete did sow his wild oats in France in the Sixties,” she said to him. “Which would make you about the right age.”
“The right age for what? I truly don’t…” Andre halted, turning six different kinds of chilly now. “My God, you think Pete was my father, don’t you? You think that I’m the bastard son’s bastard son, come to claim my rightful share of the treasure. This is beyond preposterous, Des. It’s truly insulting!”
And yet it made so much sense. After all, Andre was married to a woman who enjoyed detailed inside knowledge of John J. Meier’s will and the wills of his two children, Poochie and Pete. Who better to secretly help him contest those wills than the family’s own lawyer?
“I mean no offense, Andre. From time to time, this job compels me to ask even my friends some very unpleasant questions.”
“It does indeed,” he shot back, his jaw clenching. “And here I thought my job was unpleasant. Telling a lonely widow that I have to put down her beloved poodle, that’s something awful. But this… Des, you are grossly underpaid.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
“Still, we do what we have to, you and I,” Andre conceded grudgingly. “And we get up every morning and we do it again, eh? So I will not sputter at you like an angry headwaiter. I will honor your professionalism by granting you a civil reply.”
“I appreciate that, Andre.”
“I never met Pete Mosher before I moved here,” he said, his voice calm and quiet. “I have no dark secrets in my past. Merely a conventional middle-class upbringing in a suburb of Paris. My father was a civil servant. When I was sixteen I came to America as a foreign exchange student. I lived in Scarsdale, New York, with John and Diane Alterman and their three children. The Alter-mans ran a veterinary clinic. From them I learned to love animals and America. I went home to finish my schooling and be a ski bum for a while. Then I met Glynis and followed her back here. After veterinary school, I never returned home. Dorset is home.”
“Are your parents still living?”
“They’ve retired to Collioure, a small fishing village on the Mediterranean coast near the Spanish border. You’d enjoy Collioure, Des. The likes of Picasso painted there in their youth. There is a restaurant called Les
