CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Interpol agents remain in the house for the better part of the day. Moreau doesn't pull me aside anymore, and thankfully she has the decency to leave the children alone. We watch movies in the theater all day again, and from time to time, Sophie brings us snacks.

The children are joyless, of course. The movies give them somewhere to direct their eyes, but that's it. At some point, they will need to address their grief and find a healthy way to come to terms with it, but as long as their house is overrun with law enforcement, they won't be able to do so.

I admit I'm little help. I'm so shaken by the events of yesterday and today that I can only stare at the screen myself.

Finally, around dinnertime, Sophie informs me that Interpol has left. I rouse the children and take them to the dining room for dinner.

Their mother is there. Catherine sits at the head of the table, rubbing her temples, an irritated frown on her face. When she sees the children, she smiles, but she seems annoyed by their presence more than anything else.

The children notice this, and I feel their walls come up. Ethan is expressionless, while Olivia stares at her mother with naked contempt bordering on hate.

Catherine, of course, reacts poorly to this. Her smile fades, and she sighs and tosses her hands into the air. Sophie and I stand in uncomfortable silence, unsure how to help or if we should even try.

Finally, Catherine stands. "I'll take dinner in my bedroom, Sophie."

"Yes, ma'am," Sophie says quietly.

Dinner is a sober affair. Ethan eats mechanically while Olivia angrily stuffs forkfuls of her food into her mouth. I allow her to express her anger, but I really must speak to Catherine. The children can't be expected to bottle their emotions like this any longer. I can help somewhat, but they need their mother. They need to know that their surviving parent loves and cares about them.

So, after the children are put to bed, I risk going to the bedroom Catherine. I lift my hand to knock on the door, but I stop when I hear laughter. Male laughter. Hugo's laughter.

My fist tightens. It seems Sean is mistaken about Catherine's fidelity. Perhaps she waited until her husband was dead to leap into Hugo's arms, but it's clear she doesn't miss Frederick much.

The door opens, startling me. Catherine stares at me in shock for a moment, then quickly closes the door. Not in time to hide a glimpse of Hugo in his underwear, though. "Mary. What on Earth are you doing here so late?"

I collect myself and reply, "I was simply wondering if you had any information on funeral arrangements for Frederick. I need to know so I can schedule the children accordingly."

She blinks. "Oh. Oh yes. Um, I don't have anything yet, but I'll let you know."

I nod stiffly. "Thank you, ma'am. By the way, I haven't had the chance to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. You must be devastated."

I don't do much to hide the contempt in my voice. Catherine reddens, but I haven't said anything she can chastise me for, so she only says. "Thank you. Good night."

"Good night, ma'am."

Catherine apparently doesn't need whatever she left the room for very badly. As soon as I turn the corner, I hear the door open again, then close behind her.

She is clearly happy that Frederick is dead. So, it seems, is Hugo. Both of them have motive to want Frederick out of the way.

Could Catherine have killed the father of her children in cold blood? Of course, she could have. Cecilia did, and Cecilia loved her children. I don't think Catherine cares about them at all. I don't think she loves anyone but herself.

I decide to ignore Sean's advice and go to the police. Sean can do more investigating than I can, but he can only do so much from so far away. Dubois is here, and though he seems quick to dismiss the death as a suicide, he has every reason to base on the evidence he's been spoon-fed.

It's time to give him some real evidence before the wheels of justice turn too far from the truth.

***

I head to town under the pretense of opening an account with Swiss Bank to address issues I've had with my American bank. Catherine nods distractedly and gives me permission to go. Thankfully, she doesn't mention Franz or Pierre. Probably she assumes I'll have one of them drive me, but since she doesn't say, I have a perfectly reasonable excuse to take a car myself and drive to the police station in Genthod, the municipality where Detective Dubois's precinct is located.

When I walk into his office, he lifts his eyebrow. "I assume this is about Frederick Jensen."

"Yes. Have you determined his cause of death yet?"

He leans back in his chair and regards me with his half-lidded expression. He doesn't offer for me to sit, but I do so anyway and wait for him to reply. I've just about had it with being manipulated in conversation. If they want to play mind games, then I'll do the same.

So, I hold his gaze and say nothing. Finally, he looks down at his desk and shuffles some papers. "I thought I made that clear the night we interviewed. He committed suicide." He opens one of his desk drawers and carefully places the papers inside. Then he folds his hands on his desk and leans forward, "Are you telling me I am wrong?"

"Yes. He was murdered."

He shows no sign of shock. Whether that is professional calm or because he suspects as well that Frederick was murdered, I can't tell. "You're sure of this?" he asks.

"I am."

"What makes you so sure?"

"It's just not believable. He didn't strike me as a suicidal person."

"Suicidal people usually don't seem suicidal."

"Yes, but there's more than that. The behavior of people around him seems odd."

"Such as?"

"His wife, for example. Catherine doesn't seem upset by his death at all. In fact, she seems happy. She has already taken a new lover, Hugo van Doren, and she is irritated that her children are grieving Frederick. Just this morning, I went to speak with her, and she was surprised when I asked about funeral arrangements."

I wait, expecting him to exhibit some sort of shock or anger or appreciation. I am disappointed. He has an excellent poker face. "That is serious information," he replies, "but it doesn't necessarily mean she killed him."

"No, but it's worth looking into, don't you think?"

He leans back and folds his arms, cocking his head to one side. "I spoke with Inspector Moreau of Interpol yesterday," he says. "She seems certain his death was a suicide. She believes that Mr. Jensen was involved in some… shall we say, questionable business practices and that those practices placed a target on his back."

"And that's not evidence for murder?"

"If the death came in a different way, yes. But he left a note in his own handwriting and held the gun that took his life."

"You've confirmed this?"

"Of course. His fingerprints were on the handle and trigger of the weapon, and there was a gunpowder burn that could only have been placed there if the barrel of the weapon was placed against his temple."

My brow furrows. "But… He might not necessarily have been the one to fire. Were no one else's prints found?"

"None that I'm aware of," Dubois says. "But…" he stops and rubs his chin. "But it's possible that the gun was placed in his hand. We found several prints that were smudged and unrecognizable. And Catherine's behavior has been suspicious."

"Yes!" I exclaim, excited to finally have someone listening. "And not just hers. Hugo van Doren wasted no time to jump into Catherine's bed. And I'm pretty sure that Frederick's paramour Veronica Baines is now sleeping with Thomas Keller, the estate manager."

Dubois holds up a hand. "We should be careful not to jump to conclusions. It is very common for wealthy people to engage in sexual affairs. No doubt there are many more scandals that you are not even aware of. It is not necessarily a motive for murder."

"I know," I reply. "I'm only saying it's too soon to rule out the possibility."

Dubois rubs his chin again. "Yes. Yes, you're right." He leans back and folds his arms again. "How did you obtain this information?"

I scoff. "It's not as though any of them have been hiding it."

"Yet we didn't notice."

I choose to be polite. "Well, you're not there every day the way I am."

"That's true." He leans forward and uncrosses his arms, folding his hands on the table instead. "I must ask a favor of you, Mary. I need you to keep your eyes and ears open. If you learn anything else that you think might be relevant to the case, I would like you to come to me with that information as soon as possible. Do you have a cell phone?"

"I do."

"Then I will give you my number." He reaches into his desk and pulls out a business card. "Feel free to call or text at any time. And if you don't mind, perhaps we leave Inspector Moreau out of the loop. She is trying to solve his financial crimes. I am concerned with the murder."

He is absolutely concerned with taking credit over Moreau, but I don't mind helping him if he helps me. "Of course."

He nods. "Be careful, Mary. I'm not asking you to actively snoop or investigate yourself. I'm only asking you to keep your eyes and ears open. These are dangerous people. I don't want you to put yourself at risk."

"I understand. I'll be careful." I hope very much I'm not lying to him when I say that.

He holds my gaze a moment longer, then says. "What reason did you give Catherine for coming here?"

"To open an account with Swiss Bank."

"Open one," he instructs me. "And have your pay directed to that account. Set that up today and get receipts. You need to prove that you're not lying."

I nod. "I will. Thank you."

I leave the office elated. Finally, we're getting somewhere. Perhaps even more importantly, I'm not doing this alone. I have support from the police instead of dismissal or fear.

I don't know yet who murdered Frederick Jensen, but whoever did, their days are numbered. Those children shall see justice for their father.