CHAPTER TWELVE

I must sleep at some point because I distinctly remember opening my eyes and seeing that the room is considerably brighter than it was when I entered. I check my phone and confirm that it is nearly eleven in the morning. I've slept for five hours.

The shock of yesterday has faded for me, so I'm able to think more clearly about what to do next. I am eager to get to the bottom of this mystery, but my first responsibility is to the children.

That doesn't mean I need to stop, though. I have a resource now who can help me from the outside. I turn the shower on, but before I enter it, I call Sean, hoping that the running water will diffuse my voice to anyone who might be eavesdropping.

Sean answers. "Well, Mary, surprise of the century. Frederick Jensen is sleeping with Veronica Baines. I don't have any X-rated photos, I'm afraid, but I have them entering a hotel room together, and one where she kisses him. You'll be interested to know that I can't find any evidence that Hugo van Doren and Catherine Jensen slept together. Looks like they're just good friends. I could speculate and say that Hugo wouldn't mind sleeping with her, but that only makes him a man. Hell, I'd sleep with Catherine Jensen so long as I didn't have to worry about consequences."

I purse my lips. "I take it from your crassness that you haven't heard the news."

A pause. "Uh oh."

"To say the least. Frederick Jensen was murdered last night."

A longer pause. "Shite. I apologize for my comment about sleeping with his wife."

"You don't owe me that apology, but I suppose it wouldn't help for you to apologize to Catherine. Thank you for confirming the affair, though. That gives at least one person here a motive."

"First things first. Are you all right? Are the children all right?"

"I suppose it depends on what you mean, all right?"

"In danger, Mary. Are you or the children in danger?"

"Oh. I don't believe so."

"Have the police been informed?"

"Yes. The place was crawling with them yesterday."

"Did they talk to you?"

"Yes, a detective did."

"Did you tell them your suspicions?"

I steel myself for an argument. "No, and I don't intend to. Not until I have more information."

"Good. You need to stay off of their radar. Have they made a ruling on the death?"

"They found a note, but I don't know if they've officially called it a suicide yet. The detective suggested it was, but I don't know if he's fully convinced. He interrogated me fairly… well, I thought fairly intensely, anyway."

"He could just be doing his due diligence, but either way, keep what you suspect to yourself. Let me keep digging for information on the business and Frederick's personal life. I'm sure you've come to this conclusion yourself, but it's almost certain that whoever killed him was present at the party last night. Do you think you can get me a guest list?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose I can—" A knock at my door interrupts me. "Sorry, Sean. I have to go."

"Be careful, Mary."

"I always am."

"That's a lie."

I don't argue with him further. I hang up and answer the door. I expect it to be Catherine, Sophie, or one of the children. Instead, it's a petite woman with severe features wearing an equally severe pantsuit and thick glasses ahead of brilliant green eyes.

"Mary Wilcox?"

I blink. "Who are you?"

She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out an ID. "Inspector Elisabeth Moreau, Interpol."

My shock must register on my face. "Interpol?"

"Yes," Moreau replies. "May I ask you some questions?"

"Me?"

"Yes."

She doesn't explain herself further. After a moment, I ask, "Regarding?"

She lifts an eyebrow, the only indication of surprise she shows. "The death of Frederick Jensen."

I stare at her a moment longer before it clicks. Sean has uncovered evidence of financial indiscretion. Interpol often investigates serious financial crimes in the European Union. Perhaps Moreau is taking advantage of Frederick's death to learn what she can of those crimes. Or perhaps she believes his extralegal escapades had a hand in his death.

In either case, I don't understand why she would speak to me. Any useful testimony I have she would have learned from the police.

So I ask, "Why me?"

"We're interviewing the family and household staff to learn what we can from those who knew him."

"Yes, but… I didn't know him, really. I've only been here for a week. Eight days today."

"All the same."

She holds my eyes until I sigh and say, "All right. May I have a moment to dress? I'm in my nightgown."

"Of course."

I close the door and collect my thoughts. I'm not sure why I've suddenly become the focus of this investigation. Surely, I can't be a suspect.

The unpleasant realization comes to me that I am the person who discovered the body. I consider Thomas Keller to be the last person to see Frederick alive, but I was the first person to see him dead. Of course, I would at least be considered.

Once more, I am grateful for Sean. I will likely be closely watched, and that will limit my ability to investigate this case on my own. That being said, it is even more urgent now that I learn what happened to Frederick. I can't imagine that anyone would try to frame me for his murder, but I can't rule out the possibility that I might be made a convenient scapegoat due to my proximity to the crime.

When I am finished changing, I am not surprised to find Inspector Moreau standing in the exact same spot I leave her. "After you, Inspector."

She leads me to the front of the house. Other Interpol agents are talking to other household members. I see two sitting across from Catherine in the living room, and through the open door to the dining room, I see another talking to Sophie.

Moreau turns into the small foyer where I first met the Jensen family. A folding table and two chairs are set up inside the room. She takes one of the chairs and gestures for me to sit in the other one.

"Thank you for speaking to me," she says perfunctorily. "Do you mind if I record this session?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You do not."

"Then why ask?" I mutter as I take my seat.

"To be polite." She turns the recorder on and says, "State your name for the record."

"Mary Wilcox."

"And what is your relationship with the deceased?"

"I am governess to his children."

"How long have you worked with the Jensens?"

"Eight days as of today."

"And have you noticed any discrepancies in your pay?"

I blink. "My pay?"

"Yes. I assume you are paid weekly?"

Heat climbs my cheeks. To be honest, I can't remember how often I'm paid. I don't work these governess jobs because I need money, so I usually give my account for direct deposits and then forget about the pay.

"Miss Wilcox?"

"I'm… not sure."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why aren't you sure if your pay is correct? It seems like something you should know."

The heat in my cheeks intensifies. "It's not really something I think about. I don't really need the money."

She nods. "Yes, that's true. Your father left you three million dollars when he died, and due to successful investments, that sum is closer to eight million dollars. Is that correct?"

"I'm not sure what my personal finances have to do with anything," I say curtly.

"Neither am I. I just find it interesting that an independently wealthy woman would seek employment as a servant in wealthy people's homes."

"Do you also find it interesting that an independently wealthy woman would continue working as a public school teacher for fifteen years after her father's death? Or that she would live in an apartment when she could afford a well-appointed home?"

"Yes, but not so interesting as the sudden decision to leave that job and seek employment almost exclusively for wealthy families with suspicious histories."

I don't answer right away. I feel as if I'm being led on, but I'm not sure where. "I've answered your question about my relationship with Frederick Jensen. What other questions do you have?"

She leans back and takes off her glasses. "Your first place of employment was with the Ashford family in New York, correct?"

"I don't see why—"

"Humor me."

I pause and try to decipher her piercing emerald eyes. I can feel the ice under my feet cracking, but I still can't find out where the danger is coming from. "Yes."

"And during your stay with them, you eventually learned that Cecilia Ashford was responsible for the murder of her husband?"

"That's correct."

She nods in satisfaction as though I've just confirmed a suspicion. "Next, you worked for the Carlton in the Cotswolds in England, correct?"

"Yes, and the Tylers in Cheshire after that, and the Greenwoods in Savannah."

"And you solved the mystery of Minerva Montclair's murder in the Cotswolds and Lila Benson's murder in Savannah."

"All true, but what does that have to do with the Jensens?"

"That's what I'm curious about. There was no murder here prior to your arrival. So why did you agree to work for them?"

I stare at her incredulously. "Do you seriously believe I choose families based on whether there's a murder for me to solve?"

She lifts her fingers off of the table and then sets them down again. "You must admit the pattern is intriguing."

"What pattern? My longest place of employment was for the Tyler family. I was there for five months, and no one died there."

"That's true," she allows. "But still, it's odd."

"How?" I challenge. "How is it odd?"

"Let's move on," she demurs. "Do you believe that Frederick Jensen's suicide is related to his illicit business activities?"

"I don't—" I stop myself. I nearly say that I don't believe that Frederick was murdered. Instead, I say, "I don't know. I wasn't privy to his business activities."

Inspector Moreau meets my eyes and says nothing. I hold her gaze and return the favor. I am not easily intimidated in conversation, and whatever Moreau thinks she's going to learn from staring at me, she is sorely mistaken.

Finally, she sighs. "Very well. That is all for now, Miss Wilcox."

I stand and turn to leave, and she calls after me, "You will be remaining with the Jensens, yes?"

I turn to her. "Yes."

She nods. "Very well. Thank you, Miss Wilcox. We may speak again."

I sincerely hope not. "Have a good day, Inspector."

I leave the interview confused. What could they possibly feel I have to do with this? The connections Moreau is trying to draw between my wealth, my previous employment and Frederick's death are just absurd. What is she trying to suggest, that I have made it a quest of mind to bring down those wealthier than myself?

I will need to move more quickly. The dogs are watching me, and if their attention remains on me for too long, the wolf will escape. I can't allow that to happen. One way or another, the real murderer of Frederick Jensen will face justice.