The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

Chapter Six

Dinnertime found me at the door of my neighbor and landlord, Henri Martin. He had been a high school French teacher in Raven Hill for over thirty years, and was still teaching when Vince and Felicity were students. Though well into his eighties, his mind was still sharp, so he was my best and most discreet source of information.

“Bonjour!” I said when Henri answered my knock. Within minutes we exchanged greetings, I secured an invitation to dinner, and set off to walk Henri’s French bulldog, Pierre. He had been “barking at shadows all day” according to Henri, and I was glad to give him some exercise in exchange for a good meal and conversation. People always stopped to greet Pierre, and I might have the opportunity to dig up a little more information.

Pierre hung a left out of the gate. He often wanted to investigate the woods at the end of the street in the hope of finding something smelly to roll in, but instead he turned to the path along the side of the house. Nose to the ground, he headed for the stairs to my apartment.

“Sorry, buddy, no sleepover tonight.” I tugged gently on the leash, but the dog was insistent, planting his feet and sniffing at the stairs. I gave another tug and he turned his attention to the walk, led me to the gate, and then to the woods. He stopped, his little bat ears up and forward as he scented the air. The area before me was old growth, never farmed or developed. I sometimes thought I spotted a path through it, depending on the light or the season, but in this evening’s twilight it looked dark and impenetrable. I was glad when Pierre turned and headed down the street, nose once again to the ground. I thought of the jogger who had lingered in the small turnaround at the end of the road, and wondered if Pierre had been barking at more than shadows that afternoon.

Our winding little road ended at Main Street. This is where Pierre and I usually turned around, but thus far we had encountered no one and I wasn’t ready to give up on my intelligence gathering mission. We crossed to a small park. I lingered in the shadow of a monument and observed the action in Raven Hill’s central business district. Pete’s Pizza was doing a brisk business. The Java Joint wouldn’t pick up until later, but just past it the Market on Main had a full parking lot. Nothing like food and gossip to bring out a crowd.

I turned my attention back to Pete’s. The screen door slammed as someone came out, and a car pulled away from the curb. The outside lights illuminated the entry and the few parking spots beside the building, all full. Two people stood between the parked cars, their heads together. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but something about their posture screamed tension. After a moment the taller of the two stepped back, looked skyward, and blew out an audible breath. The sharp profile was unmistakable: Vince. So, the bereaved widower was out picking up pizza. Well, the kids needed to be fed, but Pete’s delivered, and Vince seemed more annoyed than upset. I heard the beep of a car door lock and another low murmur of conversation, ending with a forcefully delivered “Careful!”

Vince got in his car as his companion hurried to the sidewalk. I stood still, waiting until whoever it was hit the pool of light at the corner of the building.

Felicity Prentiss. She looked across the street before turning to go into the pizza parlor. Once the door to Pete’s slammed behind her, I turned Pierre toward home. I glanced at the lighted windows of the stately old home long converted to offices. “Prentiss and Prentiss, Attorneys-at-Law,” the sign in front read. Whatever Felicity was discussing with Vince, she didn’t want her husband to know about it. Was the meeting planned or accidental? And if the two were in cahoots, wouldn’t they be keeping a lower profile?

A fabulous aroma greeted me at Henri’s. Pierre bolted for his supper dish as my host handed me a glass of wine.

“Sit and relax for a moment. All of this stress and worry—you are looking too thin.”

I adored this man.

“We will have a nice meal, and of course a little sweet, and you will tell me everything.” Henri turned to the stove. He was a marvelous cook, and there was always dessert. His family had a little shop—baked goods, sweets, and sundries—before the war had changed everything. He could have carried on the family business, but by the time he finished school and the reconstruction was underway, a pretty American nurse caught his eye and then his heart.

As we ate, I told Henri the whole story, from finding the body to my yearbook discovery. I left out Joanna’s note, but was honest about my fear of being a suspect.

“I’m new here, and I found the body. With my husband having been killed, I’m afraid it looks bad, and I’m worried about my job.”

“Villages run on rumor, and Madame Hunzeker is sensitive to reputation. I do not see how they could fire you, but things could get uncomfortable. Even if most did not believe ill of you, some would always wonder. You are right to worry.”

“I know, but if the police had several suspects …” I trailed off.

Henri nodded, and thought for a moment.

“Is it not usually the husband in cases such as this?” he asked. “They will investigate Vincent, I am sure. But who else?”

“Felicity Prentiss? They go way back, and Jilly said they still seem awfully friendly.”

“An affair, perhaps? They had an attachment once, it is true. For over a year they were inseparable. It ended after he went away to school, as these things do.”

“Was she heartbroken?”

“She kept it very private, but she was hurt, I think. She did not have much confidence with boys. Felicity