Detective?”
Bobby scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, I suppose it could be.”
I stared at the glass and a memory clicked into place.
“At least somebody here’s got culture,” Jackman said. “That’s the one I meant.”
“Yeah, you probably saw it on the back of your cereal box, Jacko,” Mathis said.
“Okay, guys, let’s get busy,” Bobby said. “Lucie, why don’t we talk outside and let them get on with it?”
He held the barn door for me. The heat was even more oppressive, or maybe I was starting to get dehydrated. Bobby grabbed my arm.
“You okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out. Have a seat. I know it was rough seeing him like that.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, but I let him help me sit down on the step. “Are you just going to leave him there?”
He sat next to me. “It’s a crime scene, Lucie. He’s gone. We can’t cut him down until we process everything around him. It might destroy evidence if we do.”
“Right.”
He didn’t flinch at the reproach in my voice.
“I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is. It’s an inhuman business sometimes. I don’t make the rules and you know that.”
“It’s such a ghastly way to die. It must have been slow and painful.”
“If it’s any consolation,” he said, “the victim loses consciousness in about twelve to fifteen seconds, so it’s pretty fast. Of course, you get some jerking around when the body spasms, so it seems like it’s going on longer than it is. Then it’s over for good.”
“I don’t understand why he did it.”
Bobby gave me a long, hard look. “Suicides are pretty tough to fake,” he said, “but not impossible. And they usually leave a note. This guy didn’t, as far as we know. Biggie said you came over here today because you were mad as hell at the vic.”
“Not mad enough to kill him.”
He shrugged. “I understand. I don’t need to read you your rights, Lucie, and you’re not under arrest. But I need you to account for your whereabouts between now and midnight last night.”
“Oh, come on. You’re kidding, right? Even if I wanted to, I’m hardly strong enough to kill Paul Noble, then hang him from that beam. He probably weighed at least two hundred pounds when he was alive. I weigh a little more than half that. It’s just not possible.”
“Lucie,” Bobby said, “I’m not kidding. I’ve seen plenty of people do things that they swear aren’t possible, believe me. Where’ve you been since midnight last night and can anybody verify it?”
“Home alone,” I said, “and no, nobody can verify it.”
Chapter 3
Bobby didn’t give me a lot of grief about my whereabouts and nobody being able to vouch for me, probably in part because he knew about my nonexistent social life, but mostly because we both knew I didn’t kill Paul. After that he said I was free to go, though he might have more questions for me down the road.
“How much longer will you be here?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “It’s two now. Probably another three to five hours. As long as it takes to process the crime scene.”
He got up from the step and held out a hand to me. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car. I’ve got one more thing to say to you.”
I let him pull me to my feet. “What is it?”
He handed me my cane. “When you get home, pour yourself a good stiff drink, and before you go to bed watch something on television that’ll make you laugh. Works for me.”
He put an arm around my shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. It was so out of character, that little unexpected tenderness, that I couldn’t find the words to answer him. All this time I’d figured Bobby was so tough he deflected the horrors of his job the way bullets bounced off Superman’s chest. Now I found out he needed to numb himself with Scotch and reruns of
“You okay?” he asked after a moment. “Yeah, fine.” My voice sounded almost normal. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll probably have that drink later on, but right now my grandfather’s arriving on the afternoon flight from Paris. I’m just barely going to make it to Dulles in time.”
“You’ll get there,” he said. “No speeding, hotshot. I’m not fixing any ticket, okay?”
“I never speed.”
“Sure you don’t. How come I didn’t know Luc was coming for a visit? Last time he was here he promised on his next trip he’d bring a couple of Cuban cigars and we’d smoke ’em together. Kit should have told me he was going to be in town. Didn’t the two of you spend five hours a couple of nights ago yakking on the phone about what shade of white her dress should be?”
I started to laugh, glad to change the subject to something silly, and he grinned. My wedding gift to the two of them was hosting their ceremony and reception at the vineyard. Kit and I had been planning nonstop for the past few months.
“There’s a big difference between bone and blush, even if it’s lost on you, buddy,” I said, and his smile broadened. “And it was only three hours. I didn’t know Pépé was coming until the day before yesterday. You know how he is.”
“I hope he’s going to be at your July fourteenth shindig. Be nice to see him again and have man talk instead of listening to you and my fiancée discuss whether your nail polish needs to match your shoes,” he said.
“Oh, go ahead and elope. See if I care.” I opened the door of my red-and-white-striped Mini Cooper convertible and gave him a mock-glare of annoyance. “He’s coming to the party on Saturday, but then he’s leaving first thing Sunday morning. Flying on to San Francisco to give a talk to some business group on a retreat outside Sonoma.”
“California, huh? No wonder you can’t keep up with him flying all over the place. At least I’ll catch him on Saturday night.” He shut the car door.
“Me, too. And thanks, Bobby.”
“For what?”
The moment of good-natured teasing vanished as swiftly as a wispy cloud in the sharp blue sky above. The haunted look that aged him so much more than his thirty-three years flashed across his face.
“You know what,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. You better get going.”
He squared his shoulders and headed back to the barn. I drove away in the white-hot sunshine of a beautiful afternoon while he returned to the cold, dark studio with its tormented paintings. Later today he would cut Paul Noble’s body from the noose where it hovered over the room like the angel of death.
My grandfather, Luc Delaunay, had called at sunset the Tuesday of my phone conversation with Paul. I’d been out on the back veranda sitting in the glider and finishing a bottle of white as I watched the fireball sun slip behind the low-slung Blue Ridge Mountains to the west. That evening the sky had been the creamy orange and robin’s egg blue of a faded watercolor, and the ragged silhouette of the tree line at the edge of my land looked like dark lace against the light sky.
When the telephone rang inside the house I reached for my cane, but the machine kicked in before I could make it across the foyer. I knew it was Pépé the moment he cleared his throat like a rumbly bullfrog, as though preparing to deliver a speech to a filled auditorium.
