A Temporary Ghost (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Series 2) by Michaela Thompson Page B
Authors: Michaela Thompson
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hand.
Pedro had been Carey’s ally. I had never understood why Vivien kept him on after Carey was killed. The two of them didn’t like each other. Housekeepers couldn’t be that hard to find.
Blackmail is a tacky business, which wasn’t out of line with my concept of Pedro. Do you think they’ll blame her for this, too? Why not? If Pedro had been blackmailing Vivien, he was now out of her way. The obvious loomed: Pedro didn’t necessarily jump or fall. He might’ve been pushed.
It was a disturbing theory and worthless on the open market, since as far as I knew there was no evidence to support it.
Blanche stirred. I patted her shoulder. I wondered, why, when I’d told her about Pedro, Vivien had called her son’s name. Oh, Alex. Alex.
Blanche sat up and blotted her eyes. She said, “You aren’t going to leave us now, are you, Georgia Lee? You’ll stay, won’t you?”
A WALK TO THE VILLAGE
The rain had stopped by the time they took Pedro’s body away, and sun glistened on the wet leaves and grass. As the doors of the black hearse-cum-ambulance slammed shut, Constable Reynaud, who had come up from Beaulieu-la-Fontaine to oversee matters and interview us, sketched a farewell wave. His relief at escaping was almost comically obvious. A rotund man with an extravagant moustache, he would surely have been more at home playing boules than dealing with a dead body and a houseful of neurotic Americans.
I had helped translate at the interviews. Vivien had made an astonishing recovery, presenting a stainless image of the concerned employer. Ross seemed deeply disturbed, which I attributed more to Vivien’s behavior than to Pedro’s death. Blanche, still in her robe, was predictably monosyllabic.
The story boiled down to this: Nobody saw anything, and nobody heard anything. Our rooms were upstairs, Pedro’s on the ground floor, Marcelle’s on the other side of the house. If Pedro had gotten a notion to drink half a bottle of bourbon and stagger out during the night to have a cigar, his fall was unfortunate, but hardly extraordinary. Constable Reynaud’s attitude, which he didn’t bother to hide, was that this accident— he used the word “accident”— could be best dealt with by disposing of the matter as rapidly as possible. Monsieur Ruiz walked at the edge of the bluff to smoke his cigars? Monsieur Ruiz occasionally took a drink of bourbon? It was, therefore, highly likely, in the opinion of Constable Reynaud, that Monsieur Ruiz had stumbled in the dark, after an overindulgence. The formalities need not be drawn out too long. How would the body be disposed of, once they were complete?
The matter of Pedro seemed all but closed. I didn’t feel justified in opening the question of foul play without more to go on, and I was pretty sure Constable Reynaud wouldn’t thank me if I did. I caught him on his way out, though, for another question: “Can you tell me the rules about camping around here?” I asked.
He blew a puff of air through his moustache. “Camping?”
“Yes. I think someone— a motorcyclist— has been camping down that way” —I pointed in the general direction— “in a grove beyond the top of that hill.”
He considered. “There are campgrounds for those who wish to camp.”
“Yes. So—”
“However, if a person has permission from the owner of the land, I suppose there is no problem.”
I doubted the motorcyclist had permission from the owner of the land, whoever that might be, and I didn’t imagine Constable Reynaud thought he had. His answer was another way of avoiding unpleasantness. I gave him a surly “Thank you,” he gave me a polite nod, and he was on his way.
Marcelle was in the yard smoking like mad, her pretty, dimpled face the color of pastry dough. “Oh, Madame, what is going on?” she burst out when she saw me.
“I wish I knew.”
“I heard them quarreling that time, you know. Monsieur Pedro and Madame Howard.” She lowered her voice. “I told
Pedro had been Carey’s ally. I had never understood why Vivien kept him on after Carey was killed. The two of them didn’t like each other. Housekeepers couldn’t be that hard to find.
Blackmail is a tacky business, which wasn’t out of line with my concept of Pedro. Do you think they’ll blame her for this, too? Why not? If Pedro had been blackmailing Vivien, he was now out of her way. The obvious loomed: Pedro didn’t necessarily jump or fall. He might’ve been pushed.
It was a disturbing theory and worthless on the open market, since as far as I knew there was no evidence to support it.
Blanche stirred. I patted her shoulder. I wondered, why, when I’d told her about Pedro, Vivien had called her son’s name. Oh, Alex. Alex.
Blanche sat up and blotted her eyes. She said, “You aren’t going to leave us now, are you, Georgia Lee? You’ll stay, won’t you?”
A WALK TO THE VILLAGE
The rain had stopped by the time they took Pedro’s body away, and sun glistened on the wet leaves and grass. As the doors of the black hearse-cum-ambulance slammed shut, Constable Reynaud, who had come up from Beaulieu-la-Fontaine to oversee matters and interview us, sketched a farewell wave. His relief at escaping was almost comically obvious. A rotund man with an extravagant moustache, he would surely have been more at home playing boules than dealing with a dead body and a houseful of neurotic Americans.
I had helped translate at the interviews. Vivien had made an astonishing recovery, presenting a stainless image of the concerned employer. Ross seemed deeply disturbed, which I attributed more to Vivien’s behavior than to Pedro’s death. Blanche, still in her robe, was predictably monosyllabic.
The story boiled down to this: Nobody saw anything, and nobody heard anything. Our rooms were upstairs, Pedro’s on the ground floor, Marcelle’s on the other side of the house. If Pedro had gotten a notion to drink half a bottle of bourbon and stagger out during the night to have a cigar, his fall was unfortunate, but hardly extraordinary. Constable Reynaud’s attitude, which he didn’t bother to hide, was that this accident— he used the word “accident”— could be best dealt with by disposing of the matter as rapidly as possible. Monsieur Ruiz walked at the edge of the bluff to smoke his cigars? Monsieur Ruiz occasionally took a drink of bourbon? It was, therefore, highly likely, in the opinion of Constable Reynaud, that Monsieur Ruiz had stumbled in the dark, after an overindulgence. The formalities need not be drawn out too long. How would the body be disposed of, once they were complete?
The matter of Pedro seemed all but closed. I didn’t feel justified in opening the question of foul play without more to go on, and I was pretty sure Constable Reynaud wouldn’t thank me if I did. I caught him on his way out, though, for another question: “Can you tell me the rules about camping around here?” I asked.
He blew a puff of air through his moustache. “Camping?”
“Yes. I think someone— a motorcyclist— has been camping down that way” —I pointed in the general direction— “in a grove beyond the top of that hill.”
He considered. “There are campgrounds for those who wish to camp.”
“Yes. So—”
“However, if a person has permission from the owner of the land, I suppose there is no problem.”
I doubted the motorcyclist had permission from the owner of the land, whoever that might be, and I didn’t imagine Constable Reynaud thought he had. His answer was another way of avoiding unpleasantness. I gave him a surly “Thank you,” he gave me a polite nod, and he was on his way.
Marcelle was in the yard smoking like mad, her pretty, dimpled face the color of pastry dough. “Oh, Madame, what is going on?” she burst out when she saw me.
“I wish I knew.”
“I heard them quarreling that time, you know. Monsieur Pedro and Madame Howard.” She lowered her voice. “I told
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