Eight
SIMONE ARCHAMBAULT LIVED on a muddy lane bordered by sulphuric-smelling ditches and prickly weeds. Her cottage was a gray, clapboard shack about as appealing as a war bunker. The venetian blinds covering both windows were closed.
Casey walked along two planks laid across the marshy front lawn until she reached the door. She’d barely started knocking when the ominous barks of a large dog started inside. Simone poked out from behind the curtain. Casey heard, “Stop it, Georgie!”
The door opened and Casey found herself looking at a tiny woman with hunched shoulders and deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth.
“I’m Casey Holland.”
Simone studied her through bifocals. “Yes, you are.” She looked so malnourished that Casey was caught off guard when Simone grabbed her wrist and hauled her inside. “Not followed, were you?”
“No.” She’d been diligent about checking her surroundings. “Why do you ask?”
“I want privacy.”
The Doberman pinscher growled.
“It’s okay, Georgie.” Simone led him into a room and shut the door.
Casey followed her to a plywood table under a window at the back of the cottage. The fridge and stove looked forty years old. Above the sink, two plates, four cans of vegetable soup, and two cans of dog food sat on a shelf. Charcoal sketches of barren landscapes and soaring eagles were the only decoration on dingy, beige walls.
“Did you draw these?” Casey asked. “They’re really good.”
“My nephew.” She eased into a chair. “Sit down, please.”
Her French accent wasn’t strong, but Casey doubted she’d be hearing much of it. Simone didn’t strike her as the chatty type.
“Thank you for seeing me.” Casey watched Simone’s curt nod. “As I mentioned on the phone, after what happened Sunday night, I’m trying to learn more about my father’s past. Did you know about the murder?”
Simone watched her a long time. “No, and that person is not Marcus.”
“Evidence suggests otherwise.” As Casey described her trip to the morgue and the revelation about his West Vancouver home, Simone’s stoic expression didn’t change. “Your family in France told the police they didn’t know Dad.”
Her eyes widened. “The police talked to them?”
“Yes.” Why did Simone look so worried? “The detective’s name is Lalonde. I’m sure he’d like to talk to you.”
“Botulism killed Marcus. If you had seen him, you’d know.”
“I wish I had, but I didn’t know he was sick until some doctor called and said he’d died.”
“Marcus gave me your home number.” Simone looked down at her gnarled, arthritic hands. “I called your house three times, but no answer. I didn’t know where you worked. Marcus only said you were in security. Your profession troubled him.”
Something Casey had known.
“And then I became too ill to continue calling.”
“It’s lucky you recovered.”
“I had only a small taste of his potato salad.” She shrugged and looked at her tiny patch of yard through the window.
“As I also mentioned on the phone, I only learned about you yesterday.” Casey waited for a response, but none came. “How did you and Dad meet?”
“An acquaintance referred him. Said Marcus was an excellent importer.”
Casey sat back in the chair. “There must be some mistake. My dad was an architect. Are you sure we’re talking about the same Marcus Holland?”
Simone watched her. “I have a picture. Stay here.”
She left the room, returning a moment later with a snapshot of Simone and Dad at a birthday party. Dad was wearing his silk tie with the penguins on it, the one she’d bought him for Christmas six or seven years ago. One day, he got ink on the tie. Casey thought he’d thrown it out. After his funeral, while she was packing his clothes for Rhonda, she found the tie neatly folded and wrapped in tissue at the back of a drawer.
“When was this picture taken?” Casey asked.
“Five years ago, on my seventieth birthday.”
“How long had you known each other?”
“Ten years.”
“And he was an importer back then?”
“Yes.”
Casey wasn’t sure which irritated her more: that Dad’s other life had gone on for so long or that strangers knew more about him than she did.
“I had no idea,” she murmured. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Marcus didn’t want you to know that his architectural practice was failing. Architecture was wrong for him.”
“He was a good architect. Ran his own firm for years and he was always busy.”
“He was disillusioned and poor,” Simone replied. “Imports and exports brought in money to keep his architectural firm alive.”
“So, it was a side business.” Casey knew about the disillusioned and poor part, so why the big secret out a second income? Unless . . .
“Simone, what did Dad import for you?”
“Rare decks of tarot cards; all kinds. Celtic, Egyptian, I Ching.”
“Really?”
Simone blinked at her. “Through those cards, I helped people with problems. Clients still look for me, which is why I need privacy.”
What on god’s earth would Dad have had in common with a fortune teller? He’d never believed in that stuff. “Judging from this photo, I gather you two were also friends?”
“Yes.”
Casey handed the photo back to Simone. “Do you know if he imported anything else besides your cards?”
“Furniture, art.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know.” She gazed off into space. “He had an assistant at his architectural firm. Vincent, I think his name was. He might know.”
Vincent Wilkes knew about the importing business? She’d have to have another chat with him. Aware that Simone was watching her rather intensely, Casey tried not to squirm.
“Marcus often mentioned you,” Simone said. “He had hopes for a grandchild.”
Another thing she hadn’t known, and why was this old woman refusing to believe that Dad had faked his death?
“Simone, were you with Dad when he died?”
“No.”
Casey thought she saw a glimmer of fear. “Then can you be sure it really happened?”
“Marcus died in the hospital, no mistake.”
“The man you ate with might have been an impostor.”
“If he were alive, he would have come for his book.”
“What book?”
“A notebook. He said to give it to you if he died. It’s the other reason I needed you to come here.”
