She shrugged. “Me either. But you don’t suspect them, do you? Two college girls?”
“Just accounting for everyone.”
Merle mulled over the list of people. “Gabriel spent hours on his own.”
Pascal wiggled his eyebrows. “And had a huge row with her just before she disappeared, according to Isabelle.”
“Do you think it was him?”
“Means and opportunity.” He shrugged. “Motive?” He blew his breath out in a whoosh. “He seemed to care for her although God knows why.”
“Ah, love. The ultimate mystery.”
As the sky turned purple and twilight arrived, the body of Sabine Tatou was carried up the hill and placed, covered respectfully, into the back of the ambulance. They drove away in a non-emergency way, creeping down the driveway and disappearing into the woods. The family watched soberly from the drawing room windows.
A minute or two passed silently then Duncan cracked, “Well, that’s that. Sayonara, Sabine.”
Isabelle’s head snapped toward him. “Have some respect, Duncan.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Just saying, she’s probably sad to have missed the high drama of her own demise.”
“What are you saying,” Conor said, glaring at him. “That she killed herself for a bit of theater?”
Duncan threw back the last drops in his glass. “Bloody hell. Theater, sure but she was way too wrapped up in herself to end it all.”
“Oh, Duncan, shut up,” Isabelle said sharply. “You’re drunk.”
Duncan clutched his throat dramatically. “Mama! You slay me with your harsh words.”
“Why don’t you go lie down? Find your girlfriend. Get out of my sight,” she said, past the point of niceties.
Everyone stared at the older son, his red nose and bloodshot eyes, his mess of uncombed hair and wrinkled dress shirt. The trousers from yesterday with stains from dinner, his plaid tie loose and spotted. They all waited for his next comeback to his mother.
But he didn’t have one. He slopped some more liquor in his glass and lurched out of the room. In the silence they could hear him stumbling awkwardly up the stairs. Then Evans and his brother Richard entered the room from their sequester in the library.
“What’s the news?” Evans asked. “Any clues from the hedgerow?”
Elise glanced at Conor. Merle wondered if this was the moment Conor told his parents about Duncan, now when it was obvious he needed an intervention about his drinking. But the silence stretched, Evans tipped his head quizzically and finally Isabelle answered him: “Nothing yet.”
The maid came back with more hot tea. Isabelle asked her to bring some canapés as well. It was the cocktail hour again but strong tea would do today. Gini returned with the silver server lined with leftover hors d’oeuvres, melon/prosciutto wraps, cold shrimp, and bits of cheese. She lay the tray down on the cocktail table and left in a hurry.
The party sipped tea and munched on the appetizers for a few minutes. Then three policemen walked by the front windows, up the steps, and knocked. Conor went to the door and ushered them into the drawing room.
“Sir.” Chief Constable Rogers nodded at Evans. “M’lady.” And at Isabelle. “This is Detective Inspector Powe, come to us from Cardiff.”
The DI, in a rumpled gray suit, took off his hat and offered his hand to Evans and Richard, then looked around at the assembled group.
“I’m sure to meet each of you in good time. Inspector Badan Powe, here. I grew up nearby. Always wondered about this big old house.” His smile faded. He was young to be a DI, maybe forty, with sandy hair cut short, and gray, inquisitive eyes. “Sorry to hear about your New Years tragedy.” He nodded especially at Isabelle then. “Your cousin, madam?”
“Second cousin. Our grandfathers were brothers.”
“Ah, right. I can never keep that all straight, the once-removed and second, third, whatever.” He laughed at himself, then sobered again. “Condolences. Have we all had some tea?”
“Fancy a cuppa, Inspector?” Cecily said, standing. “And the constables as well?”
So the ritual of tea after the death continued, Merle noted, making everyone feel at least warmer and a bit more British. Elise picked up the tray of hors d’oeuvres and each policeman declined in turn although the young constable looked pained at refusing.
“What’s the word then,” Evans demanded brusquely. “What happened to the old gal?”
Isabelle winced, as did Cecily. The Inspector looked him in the eye. “The old gal has died, in the elements, sir. It’s a sad affair.”
“Yes, yes. Sorry.” Evans glanced at his wife. “No disrespect intended.”
Isabelle straightened, sighing. “Did you find anything that pointed to the cause of death, sir? I am a physician, you may speak freely.”
Powe glanced around the room. “Were you having a bit of a gathering here last night? A party for New Years?”
Cecily answered for them. “We had planned one, yes. A French dinner, a réveillon, perhaps you’ve heard of it. A long, drawn-out affair. Sabine herself planned the whole thing, many courses, soup to nuts. But when she went missing we put it off.”
Powe nodded thoughtfully. “And the food she planned? What happened to it?”
Merle glanced at Pascal, frowning. What did the food have to do with anything? He gave a little shrug.
Cecily looked at Isabelle. “We put it all away.”
Isabelle shook her head. “No, we ate some of it, like the soup and the cheese, but most was put in the fridge. Is that what you mean?”
“What kind of soup?”
Isabelle blinked. “Tomato and cream of lettuce.”
“Lettuce soup?” he asked, incredulous.
“It is a French delicacy,” she replied primly.
“No clam or bouillabaisse?”
“No.”
The Inspector looked behind him at the younger constable who extracted an object in a small plastic bag from his jacket pocket. The DI held it aloft. From where she stood Merle saw it was an irregular gray blob, maybe a rock.
Powe asked: “And did you have oysters last night?”
Chapter Two
A stunned silence stretched out for a long minute. Everyone in the drawing room stared at the bag in the Inspector’s hand, now obviously containing a large oyster shell. He hoisted it higher so all could see.
Pascal was first to clear his
