Birds of a Feather: 3: Fly the Nest (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 16) by Lise McClendon (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📗

Gini wiped her eyes and stared at Merle. “Oh, madame. Merci.”

“Pas de quoi, petite.” Merle returned to the table. “Did the caterer have their address?”

“He hung up before I could ask. I will try another route.”

Pascal turned back to his online search as Aubrey opened the swinging door. “The constables are here.”

Two policemen stood in the drawing room, near the fire, the Inspector and the younger constable. Richard and Cecily sat nearby, with Evans and Isabelle on the sofa. Aubrey hovered behind her parents. Pascal and Merle joined them mid-conversation.

The Detective Inspector was speaking. “So the oysters are of course not to blame.” He nodded at Pascal. “Sir. We were just discussing the preliminary results of the autopsy. Madam Tatou died of internal bleeding from what appears to be a knife wound.”

Merle looked at Pascal. This was unexpected. He asked, “Where?”

“There was blood on the ground near her as well. It had soaked into the ground then frozen. In the hedges.”

“I meant where on her body was she stabbed?”

The DI, Badan Powe, shifted on his feet and glanced at each of them. “In the thigh, ah, the groin. The femoral artery was severed. A clean cut.”

A silence then, as they contemplated such an injury. “Knife attacks are up in the country,” the constable stated.

“’Tis true, they are. But if a killer wants to do the deed he takes whatever he can use,” Powe stated. “Again, my condolences.”

“And was the weapon found?” Pascal asked.

“No, sir. But the examiner theorized it was a common kitchen knife with a short blade, a paring or steak knife. Small but sharp. And deadly in the right circumstances.”

Evans stood up. “So you think it could have been an accident? Someone who just wanted to scare the woman with a small kitchen knife? Or maybe she was opening an oyster and it slipped?”

“I dinna say that,” Powe said. “No knife was found with the body. We don’t know the motive yet.”

“Could it be in the pond?” Aubrey wondered.

“Pardon, monsieur. I have done some search, as you say, legwork, if you don’t mind,” Pascal said, raising his eyebrows. “I know it’s your bailliage.”

“Go on,” Powe said.

“It appears Gabriel Tremblay is not as wealthy as we supposed. We found news accounts calling him a ‘casino magnate’ in the south of France, worth millions. But that was perhaps an old story. He has run out on some responsibilities in London. He has been living there for at least one year, not in France as we supposed. Not apparently managing his business interests there, which may be nonexistent at this point.”

“You think he is broke? Skint?”

Pascal nodded. “Madame Tatou’s jewels are missing from their room. We assume he has also stolen Monsieur Richard Albion’s prized antique Jaguar that disappeared from the garage in the night. From what we can deduce, Tremblay returned here last night, gathered up his belongings and the jewels, and drove away to points unknown.”

The Inspector blinked a few times and addressed Richard. “Have you reported the car stolen, sir?”

Richard said he had, that morning. “The Jaguar is a classic. One of a kind. Quite expensive. My insurance has also been made aware.”

The DI glared at the constable who shrugged. “We will put out an all points warning if the lads haven’t done it yet. You think he will leave the area— go back to London or take a ferry? Go to an airport?”

“Anything is possible,” Pascal said. “He has no ties to the area now that his copine, Sabine, is dead. He didn’t endear himself here. But he has very little in the way of resources unless he sells the jewels or the car. Unlikely he can use credit cards.”

Richard moaned, still mourning.

“He could pawn the jewels in Cardiff easily,” the constable said. “No questions asked.”

“This flight makes him a suspect,” Powe stated. “A warrant for his arrest will be drawn up. Please refer all sightings or communications to me directly.”

Chapter Twelve

Isabelle mounted the stairs in a fog of melancholy. The police had gone to the carriage house to look at Sabine and Gabriel’s room then hike down to the pond again for another look. The way Sabine had died sounded quick but brutal. She would have bled to death within minutes with a deep cut into a major artery, unlike most knife wounds.

But her mind was elsewhere. Her oldest son was not only an alcoholic but also an abuser of women. He had laid hands on his own brother’s girlfriend, either out of lust or revenge. It didn’t matter which. She had to think it was an inferiority that Duncan must feel toward Conor. Strong, handsome, successful in his own right, famous as well, Conor must make Duncan feel small and wretched in comparison. Still, no point in using excuses where none would do.

She paused, hand raised at Duncan and Pauline’s bedroom door. She took a breath, released it, and knocked. Footsteps approached. Pauline opened the door an inch. “Bonjour, Isabelle.”

“How is he?”

“He is well, better. Sleeping.” She glanced over her shoulder at the mound under the quilts in the bed.

“I need to see for myself now, Pauline.”

The girl was hesitant. What was she afraid of? Isabelle put her foot in the gap so she couldn’t close the door. Their eyes locked for a moment, a power struggle that the younger woman lost.

Isabelle pushed the door aside as Pauline stepped back. At the bedside Isabelle touched Duncan’s shoulder. “Hé,” she whispered. “Duncan. Coucou. Roll over so I can see you.”

His response was to throw the blanket over his head and moan. She pulled it off him, down to his shoulders. He wore an old gray knit shirt but was still on his side, facing away. “Onto your back now.” She kept her voice gentle. “Please, Duncan.”

Pauline walked to the far side of the bed and tipped her head to look at him. “It’s your mum, Dunkie. She cares about you.”

With a sigh