“True.” I related what I saw outside Pete’s.
“In and of itself, it does not amount to much, but I have seen them once or twice lately, just as you said. More than a casual conversation. And from what Jill said, she has as well. So, maybe they wish to relive their youth? Or some other reason?”
Revenge. The desire for an “I’ll make you sorry you dumped me” moment. Petty, but she wouldn’t be the first.
“I guess it could be anything,” I said. “They’re not being very discreet, though, if they are up to something.”
“Hiding in plain sight? But the tension you described, I have seen it, too. Lover’s quarrel?”
“Or the stress of sneaking around, trying to act casual? It’s possible Joanna, or even Matthew, had something going on that inspired Vince and Felicity to turn to each other.”
“Joanna I did not know at all well. Matthew Prentiss …” He paused for a moment, pursing his lips, “… Matthew Prentiss has always been very careful, very concerned with doing the right thing. It was important to his family, I think. He was what you would call a real Boy Scout. It is important to him that people think well of him. I understand he has ambitions, political ambitions.”
This was news.
“I hear things, you know, when Pierre and I are out and about.”
The “Grumpy Old Men,” Joanna had dubbed them. I thought they were more like the “Very Old Ladies” in a Gregor Demarkian mystery. The “Very Old Gentlemen” of Raven Hill didn’t miss much. Singly or in small groups, they were always out taking the air, walking their dogs or lounging on the bench in the little park I had just visited. Cold weather drove them into the coffee shop or the library. I’d put money on the accuracy of Henri’s information.
“He’s been on the library board for a couple of years, hasn’t he? That usually provides some positive press. He hasn’t taken a stand on the idea of a new library building, so he’s safe there, as long as he moves on before Anita forces the issue.” I thought for a moment. “Mayor of Raven Hill or state legislature?”
“I have heard his name mentioned for both, and I understand he is receptive.”
“Whichever it is, he would want to avoid a scandal. So would Felicity.”
“And Joanna was your friend, your friend from your youth, and if she was killed, you would like justice for her.”
“Yes.” Henri’s words conjured a memory, Joanna and I sharing a pizza and some cheap wine in our dorm, laughing and talking, all the world and all our lives before us.
“Yes,” I said again, tamping down the wave of sadness the memory brought, and focusing on the cold fury that had fueled me since finding the note. “I want to know who killed her.”
“Of course you do. But if it was not an accident …”
I gave him a look. It was no accident.
“If it was not an accident, you must be extremely careful. You are looking for a killer, perhaps a cold-blooded murderer. Such a creature is dangerous. Uncovering secrets is exciting, oui, but this is not a game. Cunning and subtlety are your weapons. Do you understand me, Greer?”
Henri’s voice had grown harsh as he spoke, his accent more pronounced. The wiry little man seemed to vibrate with urgency. It was as if he had personal experience with hunting killers. He had been very young during the war, he once told me, too young to fight. “But I did my small part,” he had said, “delivering messages, keeping my eyes open. A scrawny young boy on a bicycle sees and hears much, but is often overlooked.” And his older brother had been in the Resistance.
“Greer!”
“I’ll be careful, of course I will. I promise.”
“Bon, good girl. I will give you what help I can. And now, dessert.”
Henri’s features relaxed, and he was once again the soft-spoken octogenarian I knew. As he rose to get the lemon tart, I wondered what it was exactly that Henri had done during the war.
I returned to my apartment replete with lemon tart, and with even more questions. The place was dark and cold. I should have left some lights on, I thought, turning on a couple of lamps and flicking on the gas fireplace. I felt a draft, a gust of cold, damp air, the kind I’d felt when I opened that door and found Joanna. The thought stopped me in my tracks. That draft had come from an open window, and I was sure everything was closed when I left this morning.
Pierre, barking at shadows, sniffing a path to my stairs.
I listened. There were no unusual sounds, no sense of another presence in my home. I rubbed my arms where I had goosebumps not entirely attributable to the cold. I was being paranoid. Must be. But there was the cold air again, coming from my left. The bathroom? Relief washed over me. I must have left the window open after I showered. I marched to the bathroom door and flicked on the light.
The window was closed.
But I could still feel the cold, and the dark length of my bathrobe swayed on its hook. “The Grim Reaper Robe” Danny had dubbed the long black hooded cashmere garment. I shivered. The linen closet door the hook was attached to was ajar, but the closet was too small for anyone to hide in. The wind sighed through the trees outside, the robe swung gently, and cold air touched my skin.
It had
