Evan and Elle (25 page)

He grinned at his own cleverness.

“Even though I do really know, but I promised Miss Price I wouldn’t tell.”

“Miss Price?” Evan stopped the car and stared at him.

“Yeah. Miss Price said she wanted it kept quiet that the French lady was staying with her.”

Evan’s jaw dropped open. “Are you saying that the French lady is staying with Miss Price—right now?”

“I think she’s still there,” Terry said. “Hey, aren’t we going down to Caernarfon?”

“Later, Terry,” Evan said as he swung the car around with tires screeching. “We’ve got more important things to do first. Sergeant Potter will just have to wait.”

Bronwen was out in the playground with a large broom, sweeping up the leaves that had blown across the netball court. She was wearing her red cape and her hair was unbraided, blowing out behind her in the wind. She looked like a character from an old fairy tale. As he opened the school playground gate it squeaked. She looked up and her face broke into a smile.

“When did you get back? How was the South Coast?”

“The South Coast was only the beginning. I went to France yesterday,” Evan said.

“France?”

“There and back in a day, thanks to the wonders of modern transportation.”

“A good thing, too,” Bronwen commented as the last leaf was whisked into the pile. “No time to get too acquainted with Gay Paree and Frenchwomen.”

“The closest I got to the high life was a cup of disgusting coffee and a thin ham sandwich that cost me five pounds on the autoroute,” Evan said. “No, I lie. I did have a cup of coffee and a croissant, too.”

“Living the high life, eh?” Bronwen smiled. “Hold the sack for me, please, so that I can get these leaves in before they blow away.” Bronwen handed him the sack that lay beside the leaves. He took it, caught off guard and wondering how she could be acting so normally—wondering how to ask her and why she hadn’t told him before. “They’re wonderful as compost. They’ll help with next year’s vegetable garden and nothing tastes as good as home-grown food, as I’m sure Madame Yvette can tell you.”

“Ah yes, about Madame Yvette . . .” Evan began.

“So what happened?” she asked. “Did you find out anything about her in France?”

Evan nodded. “Oh, yes, we found out plenty—the major fact being that she’s not really Madame Yvette.”

“What do you mean? Who is she?”

“Her real name is Janine Laroque. She was a classmate of Yvette’s at the Cordon Bleu school.”

“So why is she claiming to be Madame Yvette? Is there a real Madame Yvette?”

“The real Yvette was badly burned in a restaurant fire in the South of England.”

“And died?”

He shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We’ve no idea what happened to her, whether this woman started that fire . . . but we suspect that the body we found in the restaurant is the real Yvette’s husband.”

“Evan, that’s terrible,” Bronwen put her hand to her mouth. “Are you saying that she—killed him?”

Evan shrugged. “It looks that way, doesn’t it? We tried to bring her in for questioning, but she’s disappeared—you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, because I heard the strangest rumor from young Terry . . .”

“Do you think she’s dangerous?” Bronwen still had the stunned look on her face. “Oh dear.” She bit her lip. “I think I might have done something rather silly.”

“What have you done, Bronwen?” He stepped closer to her.

She turned to stare at her front door. “I’ve got Madame Yvette in there,” she said in a low voice.

“Then Terry was right. What were you thinking of, Bronwen? You could be up for harboring a fugitive from justice.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I had no idea! I did what I thought was best. I was only trying to be kind, look you. How was I to know?”

“Why on earth did she come to your house?” Evan
fought to remain calm. He couldn’t dismiss the thought that Bronwen had been sheltering a possible killer and might have been in danger herself.

“I invited her,” Bronwen said simply. “Remember I told you I felt sorry for her having to stay at the pub and not knowing what was going to happen next? It’s a miserable place, that pub, and she had no clothes, no toiletries . . . I had the spare room, so I invited her to come and stay with me until she was free to leave. She was very grateful, Evan.”

“Bronwen Price—one of these days . . .” Evan put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve got enough to worry about without having to worry about you doing stupid things!”

“Stupid things indeed,” she said, tossing her mane of hair. “You should be thanking me that I’ve kept her on the spot, just where you want her. Now you don’t have to go chasing after her, do you? Although I must say I can’t believe that she’s as wicked as you say. She seems so nice and polite and grateful.”

“There are plenty of serial killers who seemed nice and normal to those around them,” Evan said. “But you’re right—I do have to be grateful to you. When she hears what we’ve discovered, maybe she’ll finally tell us the truth.”

The woman he had known as Madame Yvette was sitting beside the aga stove in Bronwen’s kitchen, wrapped in one of Bronwen’s fringed shawls, and looking remarkably like a witch, her hook nose more pronounced and her eyes hollower than he remembered.

She looked up when she saw him and smiled warily. “Ah—it is Monsieur Evans. You went down to Sussex, I ’ear. But you did not see zee remains of my poor restaurant, I sink—zey tell me zere ees now a new building where it used to be and zere ees nossing to show zat I was zere anymore.”

He looked at her. She was still relaxed, confident that they had found nothing that could incriminate her.

“We didn’t just go to Sussex,” he said, watching her face. “We went to France as well.”

There was another flash of wariness, then she shrugged. “A wasted journey, I should sink. Nobody ees alive now in France who remember me.”

“On the contrary,” Evan said. “It was most informative.”

The wariness returned to her face.

“We learned, for example,” Evan went on, “that the body in your restaurant was that of Jean Bouchard—your husband who died five years ago, Madame Yvette. It seems he returned from the grave to die again. And you know the strangest thing? He came into the restaurant and you didn’t recognize him. I don’t think a person changes that much in five years, do they?”

Madame Yvette drew the shawl around her. “I don’t know what you talk about,” she said. “I had nevair seen zat man before in my life.”

“What man?” Evan asked.

“The man who came into zee restaurant while you were ’aving dinner,” she said, then flushed when she realized he had tricked her. “You saw ’im come in. He was a stranger, monsieur. I swear zis on my honor.”

“Of course you do,” Evan said, “and I know you’re telling the truth—why would you recognize Yvette Bouchard’s husband when you aren’t Yvette Bouchard?”

He heard a sharp intake of breath and the dark eyes flashed at him defiantly. “Can you prove zis, monsieur?”

“Of course,” Evan said. “We went to your cooking school. I’ve got your photo with your name written across the back in your own handwriting—the same handwriting in which you signed your police report—and Yvette’s photo,
too. So you were classmates, were you? Did you come over to console her when her husband was lost at sea? The next thing we know, her restaurant burns to the ground and poor Madame Yvette is dragged out, badly burned. Was that really an accident? I can’t work out what would make you do it, unless it was spite and jealousy. Were you jealous of your friend, Madame? Did you begrudge her the good life she had in England?”

A look of scorn crossed her face. “Zee good life you say? Eet was a life of drudgery, monsieur. She struggle to keep zat place going. Wizout me she would have ’ad to close long ago. I kept her going—”

“And then burned her to the ground? Why?”

“As you say, why? Why should I want to burn down ’er restaurant? Let me tell you, monsieur. When zat restaurant burned, my own ’opes of freedom were destroyed.”

“So you’re saying that you didn’t burn down the place? You were certainly quick enough to take advantage of the situation, weren’t you? Madame Yvette was badly burned in the fire. Did you decide to take her place, knowing she’s still lying in some hospital, burned and disfigured?”

Yvette got to her feet. “You policemen, you sink you are so clevair. You sink you know everysing. But you ’ave zee whole sing wrong,” she said. “It was I who was badly burned. I who was disfigured—I who lay in zee ’ospital suffering for months—” With a dramatic gesture she grasped at her hair and whisked it from her head. The right half of her scalp was bald, covered with angry red and purple scars that ran down the back of her neck.

“Not very attractive,
eh?
Why do you sink I always wear
zee high necks and long sleeves, monsieur? I wish to hide my burned body from the world.”

“And yet you tried to seduce me,” Evan said, conscious of Bronwen standing behind him. “Weren’t you going to take your clothes off if I’d taken up your offer?”

The Frenchwoman laughed. “Zat was just a game—to prove to myself zat I was still a woman and I still ’ad zee—how you say—sex appeal. I didn’t really sink you would take me up on it. But if you ’ad, I would have turned out zee light—and I sink you would have been too busy to notice!”

Evan cleared his throat. “So you’re trying to tell me that you were the one in the restaurant fire, not Yvette Bouchard? Where the hell was she, then?”

“She died, monsieur,” the Frenchwoman said simply. “She died in a fire so hot that nozzing remained. And zay didn’t search for zee leetle pieces of bone zat might have been ’ers, because zay thought only one person was in zee building and zay rescue one person—me. You see, nobody but Yvette knew zat I was zere.”

“Why?” Bronwen asked.

“Let’s just say I got out of France in a ’urry.”

“You were running from the law?” Evan asked.

The Frenchwoman laughed bitterly. “From zee law? From zee law zat would not protect me, monsieur.”

Bronwen pulled a chair close to the stove and patted the cushion for Evan to sit. “I think we’d better hear the whole story,” she said. “I’m still awfully confused.”

Evan sat and Bronwen pulled a kitchen stool beside him.

“Very well, I tell you zee story.” The Frenchwoman toyed with the wig in her hands. “And zen you can see zat
I am not a criminal.” She stared at the stove, turning away from them. “You are correct—my name is Janine Laroque. Yvette and I were classmates at zee Cordon Bleu. We become friends immediately. We came from zee same situations. We both had nobody in zee world: she was from an orphanage and zen she had worked as an au pair in England for many years. I was raised by an old aunt who died when I was sixteen. We both wanted to be zee world’s greatest chefs . . .” She smiled at the memory and looked up with the smile still on her face. “I was better zan she was. She was—
pas mal
. I was good. I could have been a great chef, I sink, but I was stupid. I did what young girls do. I fell in love.” The smile faded.

“When we finish at zee Cordon Bleu, I get a job in a famous restaurant in Paris. She goes back to work in England. She loved England. She spoke English very well—she ’ad zee gift of languages. I ’ad zee gift of cooking. I tell her she should be zee teacher or zee interpreter, but she want to be zee chef also.

“Yvette also fall in love wiz a young man she meet on zee Channel boats. She makes a good choice. I do not. I meet my husband when he came into zee restaurant. He was very ’andsome—bronze skin, dark curly hair—like a young god, monsieur. And he was rich. He spend lots of money on me. He sweep me off my feet, as you say. But what do I know of men? When I marry ’eem, I find he is zee bad man—jealous and violent. If I speak wiz a man in the market he goes crazy! I know I must get away, but where? I ’ave nobody.” She turned to look at Bronwen, her eyes imploring her to understand. “Zen my friend Yvette write to me.
She has saved up enough money to buy a little restaurant in England. And zen tragedy comes to ’er as well. Her husband falls from his boat and drown. She writes and says she ees all alone and she wish I could be wiz her.

“Zen a miracle happen. Zee police come and arrest my ’usband. Zat night I take zee boat to England. Yvette welcome me and say I can stay wiz her and we will tell no one zat I am zere. So I stay. I do zee cooking and she serve zee customers.”

“Did Yvette know that her husband hadn’t really drowned?” Evan asked.

Janine shook her head. “She nevair tell me. Sometimes I suspect zat Jean ees not really dead, but she does not want to tell me, so I do not ask again. Now I see zat zay plan zis whole sing . . . I get a letter, monsieur. It tell me zat Jean is now dead five years and I can now receive zee insurance money—one hundred sousand pounds, monsieur.
Pas mal
.”

“And would you have cashed that check?” Evan asked.

Yvette shrugged. “Who can say? I sink Jean is dead,
n’estce pas?
But now I see what zay have planned. Zay get zee life insurance money and zay live ’appily ever after.” She sighed. “Zere is no ’appy ever after, monsieur. One night zee restaurant catch on fire. I do not know ’ow, but Yvette smoked cigarettes. She was sometimes so tired zat she fall asleep with zee cigarette in ’er hand. Maybe zat is ’ow it started. All I know is zat I wake wiz my room full of smoke. Zere was no window in my little room, no way out except zee door to zee kitchen. Zee kitchen is full of flame. I try to run through those flames but I don’t get as far as zee door.”