Jean-Marc quickly made himself useful, preparing coffee for everyone. I stood in the kitchen doorway in a daze, watching him set out cups and milk and sugar. I could hear Sandrine wailing in another room, arguing with the police officer who was speaking to her. “M Barbier!” she called out to me. “Tell this officer that I never would have done such a thing! Tell her!”
Verlaque came to me and gently put his hand on my arm. “They are taking statements in the living room,” he said. “Come with me.”
I followed like a lost puppy. “But how is she?” I asked.
Verlaque turned around. “The ambulance attendant said that I should phone the hospital in an hour or so.”
I nodded and followed him into the big salon. Sandrine saw us and jumped up and ran toward me. It was as if we had known each other for years and not just days. I guess that’s what tragedy does. She wrapped her arms around me and then quickly pulled back, apologizing. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying. “She said that I did it!” Sandrine cried out before falling back onto the sofa, exhausted.
“Who says?” I asked, sitting down on a footstool near her. “The policewoman?”
The policewoman—officer, I should say—looked at me and slowly closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Sandrine is my employee,” I offered. “She wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“The victim said she was pushed,” the police officer quietly said, “just before she lost consciousness.”
“She fell down the stairs,” Verlaque added. I had no idea how he knew this, but he must have been very quickly debriefed while I was watching Jean-Marc prepare coffee.
“Poor little thing,” I whispered, burying my head in my hands. I could not bear the thought of Léa hurt.
“Poor little thing?” Sandrine whimpered, her nose running and her voice catching. “She’s an old cow! But still, I didn’t push her!”
I looked up, bewildered. Then Bruno Paulik came into the room, followed by Thomas, the pizza boy.
“Bruno!” I called out, jumping up. “Where’s Léa?”
“At home, asleep,” Paulik answered, looking around.
“Then who . . .” I began to ask, then stopped. I realized that the ambulance attendant must have meant that Paulik was in the house, with Sandrine. “Was it Michèle who fell down the stairs?”
“Yes,” Paulik answered. “Thomas was delivering pizza, and when no one answered the doorbell, he walked into the foyer, as the front door was wide open. That’s when he found Mme Baudouin, lying at the bottom of the stairs.”
“I feel queasy again,” Thomas whispered. He sat down, and Jean-Marc came in with the tray, setting it quietly down on the coffee table. Sandrine sat there, staring at the coffee, so the policewoman began pouring it out.
“Why didn’t you answer the doorbell?” Verlaque asked Sandrine.
“I was going to,” she answered. She was beginning to sound angry. “But I was upstairs, with my hands full of folded laundry. I yelled down for him to come in, but he didn’t hear me.”
“I’ve taken Thomas’s statement,” Paulik said. “And Officer Goulin has taken Mlle Matton’s. But, Thomas, I’d like you to repeat to Judge Verlaque what Mme Baudouin said to you when you found her.”
Thomas nodded and began: “She was bleeding, and her face was an awful color.” He stopped to swallow, and then continued. “But she managed to open her eyes and whisper, ‘She pushed me.’ Then . . . um . . . she passed out. Blood started coming out . . .” He closed his eyes, taking a breath. “I started yelling.”
“That’s when I heard you,” Paulik said. He turned to Verlaque and explained. “I was outside checking a leak in our garden’s automatic drip system. Hélène kept bugging me about it, and it was only in the evening that I remembered to check it. I ran to the bastide, and by the time I got here Mlle Matton was on the phone to the emergency services. Thomas told me what Mme Baudouin had told him, and I called the police station.”
“This is a serious accusation,” Verlaque said to Sandrine.
At that point a young male police officer walked into the house. “I’ve finished checking the grounds,” he said.
“Anything, Officer Schoelcher?” asked Paulik.
“No, nothing. No sign of a disturbance outside or upstairs.”
Sandrine began weeping and repeating over and over that she hadn’t pushed Michèle, and I believed her. But it looked bad, and as my new cigar friend suggested, Michèle was accusing Sandrine of attempted murder. Very serious indeed. At that point a loud thump sounded and each of us turned around. It was Thomas, who had fainted and fallen off his chair and onto the floor.
In less than an hour everyone was gone. One of the police officers parked Thomas’s moped in one of the outbuildings, called his boss explaining Thomas’s absence, and drove Thomas home. Sandrine was to stay with me at La Bastide Blanche. She was in no shape to drive, and that way I could keep an eye on her. In fact, I thought we could keep an eye on each other, as I suddenly felt very lonely. I offered to call her sister, Josy, but Sandrine refuted that idea with a wave of her
