“Mr. Alvarez?” I asked when I reached the far end, encompassing it all with a sweep of my hand.
Donna Robin laughed despite Willy’s proximity. “Once again. He had horses for sleigh rides and hay wagon excursions, but you’d hardly know, it looks so nice.”
“And your husband wanted to convert this?”
She looked slightly embarrassed. “I know. It does seem a shame. But we couldn’t do anything with horses, what with the expense and all, and the space was being wasted otherwise… Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“The barn’s got a usage restriction on it,” I explained to Willy, “maintained by the old Spaniard’s estate—name was Federico Alvarez.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why? I thought he was dead.”
“He was pretty eccentric,” Mrs. Robin said quietly, walking quickly toward me. “What you want to see is back here.”
She went to a door on the far wall, worked its lock with a key she’d pulled from her pocket, and opened it with some effort.
What faced us resembled the old attic straight out of
Little Women
—a helter-skelter piling of ancient furniture, dress forms, trunks, moth-eaten stuffed animals, and a few turn-of-the-century kitchen and laundry appliances.
“Jesus Christ,” Willy said.
Donna Robin didn’t take offense. “I know. I’m sorry it’s such a mess. We were never told to do anything with it—just to make sure it stayed put. I did poke around a little when we first moved in. I thought maybe I could bend the rules and bring some of the nicer items into the house. But there really wasn’t anything to work with. It’s old, but it’s also all pretty ordinary.”
She stayed by the door as Willy and I ventured forward, picking our way gingerly through a few narrow, haphazard aisles.
“It seems so strange,” she added, “given the rest of the place is so immaculate. I always wondered why he put such value on this.”
I couldn’t argue with her. It was strange.
“But the records we discussed,” I began. “The registration books…?”
“Oh, they’re here,” she said quickly, adding vaguely, “although I’m not so sure where anymore. They might be in a trunk or suitcase or something. I remember opening a lid or a top and just seeing them there—leather books with ‘Register’ printed in gold on them.”
I could tell she was getting restless, lingering by the opening, her hand still on the latch.
“This is going to take some doing,” Willy said.
I couldn’t disagree. We would need time and more people to even make a dent.
“Okay, Mrs. Robin, I guess we’ll take it from here. We’ll try to be as fast and discreet as we can, but I’m going to have to bring in some help. I hope that’s okay. I’ll make sure there are no police cars.”
She hesitated a moment. “I don’t suppose I could ask what this is all about, in case the guests ask.”
Willy ended as he’d begun. “You got that right,” he said, and sent her on her way.
· · ·
I found the registers two hours later, not in a trunk or suitcase but in a wooden box labeled “Toys.” There were six of them, one for each year, starting in 1944.
“Eureka,” I said tiredly, holding one of them over my head for the others to see, cold and bored enough by now to barely feel elated.
I was not alone in that. Tom Shanklin and Sammie, who made up our reinforcements, were as covered with dust and cobwebs as Willy and I and made their way to my side like miners at the end of a shift.
I handed them each a book and kept the remaining three for myself. “Let’s see if we can muscle our way into Mrs. Robin’s good graces for some coffee and a warm spot to read this stuff.”
I led the way across to the bed-and-breakfast, making sure Willy brought up the rear, knocked on the kitchen door, and entered. Donna Robin was standing at the sink, running water into a plastic bucket. While the others huddled on the porch waiting, I made my pitch and was granted access to the large wooden table by the stove, complete with coffee all around.
For the next hour, we combed through the old leather books, page by page, often pausing to confer about the nearly illegible handwriting. We were further slowed down by the need to go beyond merely looking for Deschamps’s name and search for anything that might seem unusual.
Tom Shanklin, however, hit exactly what we were after. “Jean Deschamps,” he said quietly. “January sixteenth, 1947. One night only.” He shoved the book over to me. “There’s a note next to it—different handwriting. I can’t make it out.”
I looked at it, Sammie leaving her chair to bend over my shoulder. “It’s not English,” she commented.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Willy got up abruptly and crossed over to the oversized steel fridge, yanking open its door. Mrs. Robin had long since left us.
“Spanish,” I said. “At least I think it is. Close the door, Willy. Who knows what
‘efectos personales en maleta en guardarropa’
means?”
Willy slammed the fridge shut. “Doubt
anyone
would know with that accent. This is bullshit.”
He marched out through the swinging door leading to the front of the building, leaving us all staring after him. “Where’s he going?” Shanklin asked, still new to Willy’s volatility. Sammie smiled, her expression betraying more than friendship.
“To get a solution.” Like kids eavesdropping on their parents, we quietly moved to the door and held it partially open, hearing voices several rooms down.
“Mrs. Robin,” we heard Willy say with disarming friendliness.
Her voice, in contrast, sounded almost alarmed. “What?”
“We’re in kind of a jam back there, and I suddenly thought you might be the perfect person to help us out. Wonderful coffee, by the way—a lifesaver, today especially. Really appreciated it.”
She was obviously taken off guard. “Oh… You’re welcome,” she said warily. “Did you find what you were after?”
“Well, that’s the problem. We’re not sure. We’ve got something written in what we think is Spanish. I thought maybe in a high-class place like this you might have a guest who knows enough Spanish to translate it for us.”
“Spanish,” she repeated. “Of course. That would have been Mr. Alvarez, probably writing a note to himself. We found several scraps tucked away like that when we moved in, mostly in the kitchen.”
“That must’ve been fascinating,” Willy commented, almost convulsing Sammie with suppressed laughter.
“Well, they weren’t really,” Donna Robin admitted. “Mostly just one- or two-word reminders. Actually, all the guests are gone right now—skiing or shopping or whatever—but I might be able to help. I speak some Spanish.”
“Great,” we heard Willy say, as we retreated to the table and pretended to be hard at work.
Footsteps approached and then Willy ushered in Mrs. Robin like a favorite aunt. “I think I found our translator,” he announced.
She blushed and quickly added, “I’m not making any promises. It’s not like I’m fluent or anything.”
I stood up and made room for her before the open register. “Right there,” I said, tapping the phrase with my finger.
She took my place, removed a pair of reading glasses from her cardigan pocket, and sat silently for a moment, studying. “Let’s see,” she said to herself, “
‘maleta’
… that’s ‘suitcase.’ And
‘guardarropa’
I think is ‘wardrobe’ or ‘closet.’ I wonder what that means?”
None of us had any doubts. Half the contents of the barn’s back room was luggage of one sort or another, and most of it was full. All the boredom and tedium of the past several hours vaporized. As a single unit, we headed back outside, Willy first, having dropped his charm like a hot rock.
“Thanks, Donna,” I said, last in line. “You’re a godsend.”
· · ·
It didn’t take us long after that, although Federico Alvarez would not have been pleased with our methods. We went through trunks, suitcases, packs, and boxes like a herd of thieves, not quite throwing the contents of each piece over our shoulders, but close enough. Finally, fittingly, Willy said, “I think I got it,” and stood back from an open pigskin valise filled with neatly folded, slightly moldy, expensive clothing, on top of which was a leather toilet kit with the initials JMD stamped on it.
“Deschamps’s middle name was Marie, right?” Willy asked.
“Right,” I said, standing beside him, slightly amazed at our luck. Looking down at the same clothes that had so impressed Arvin Brown, packed by the man I’d met in the autopsy room, I was left revisiting the historical ambiguities that had haunted my dreams the night before—and wondering if they hadn’t been prescient after all.
“Better wrap it up,” I said. “We’re going to want to take our time with this.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, THE SMELL OF PIZZA
still in the air, Sam, Willy, Tom, and I sat around the conference table at the Stowe PD with Frank Auerbach and a woman named Carrie Salt, a French teacher from the local high school.
She had just joined us, Frank having called her at home, and was now taking us all in, her face a mixture of amusement and concern, each struggling for the upper hand.
“What’s this all about, Frank? You said I might be able to help you with your French?”
“I was pulling your chain a bit, Carrie,” he said lightly. “You know how well I speak French.”
She laughed shortly. “Yeah—not a word. So what’s the real reason?”
“We found a letter. A real old letter. I made a copy of it and was wondering if you could translate it. It’s that simple.” He slid a single sheet of paper across the table to her.
She resisted picking it up at first, still watching us. “Is this in relation to some crime?”
“We’re not sure,” I answered, mostly to break the wall of silence the rest of us had unconsciously created. “We found it in an old abandoned suitcase, and we have no idea what it says.”
That wasn’t actually true. We had a pretty good idea it had been written by Marcel Deschamps.
It obviously wasn’t as full an explanation as she wanted, but it was enough. She picked up the letter and read it.
A minute later, visibly relieved, she put it back down and smiled. “No smoking gun here, I’m afraid. Couldn’t be friendlier. It’s basically a son writing his father to join him for a little time off.”
“Could you give us a word-for-word?” Auerbach requested.
She took up the letter again. “Sure. ‘Dear Dad. I don’t have much time, but I wanted to tell you what a wonderful time we’re having down here. Stowe is up and coming—good food and a few nice inns—and the skiing is excellent. A nice change of pace. It would do you good to join us, if only for a couple of days. I’ll be here the rest of the week. Come.’ That last word is followed by an exclamation point. The signature is ‘Marcel.’ That’s all there is to it.”
“He definitely says, ‘we’ and ‘us’?” Tom Shanklin asked.
“Yup.”
“Is there anything in the syntax or word usage that strikes you as unusual?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I can tell it was written a long time ago. Some of the phrasing would be considered quaint today, and you can tell from the way the letters are slightly jumpy that whoever typed it used a manual typewriter. But that’s about it.”
Frank stood up, encouraging Carrie to do the same. “You’ve been a big help. We really appreciate it. I’ll walk you out.”
We waited until they’d left. “Don’t know about the Canucks, but in this country, that would be enough for a warrant,” Willy said. “You got the dead guy in town, you got him eating a meal that’s still in his stomach, you got his luggage abandoned in a hotel room, and you got a letter from a son who directly benefited from his death inviting him down for a little reunion.”
“You also have the same son’s lawyer showing up in town three days before the old man’s body pops up,” Sammie added.
Auerbach reappeared in the doorway. “Joe. You’ve got a call. Someone named Lacombe.” He pointed to a phone on a side table. “You can take it there if you want—in my office if you want privacy.”
I leaned over in my chair and grabbed the nearby phone. “Gilles? It’s Joe.”
“Hello, Joe. How are you doing back in the U.S.A.?”
“Interesting stuff. Can I put you on the speaker? Spare me repeating everything to the others.”
“By all means. Of course.”
I hit the button next to the dial pad and replaced the handset. “Okay. What’s on your mind?”
“Ah. We have found something I thought you should know about. It is a letter confirming a reservation for Jean Deschamps at a place called the Snow Dancer Hotel. It is signed by someone called Federico Alvarez, who calls himself the proprietor. What is really interesting is that the date for this reservation—”
“Is January sixteenth, 1947,” I interrupted, unable to stop myself.
There was stunned silence at the other end, followed by “How do you know this?”
“We came at it another way, at least I think we did,” I answered. “We got an educated guess from a local old-timer about where a fancy guy like Deschamps might spend the night. It was the Snow Dancer. We not only found the place, but the old register and Deschamps’s abandoned suitcase, complete with a letter from Marcel inviting his father down for the weekend. It’s looking more likely that Jean was killed down here.”
“This is extraordinary,” Lacombe blurted. “After all this time?”
“Willy was wondering if it was enough for a search warrant.”
I could almost hear Lacombe’s brain turning that over. “It might be. We would have to discuss the specifics. I would like to know that Marcel was either in Stowe then or at least not in Sherbrooke, but that is not likely information to get. I will talk to our
procureur.
”
“I’ll bring you everything we collected from down here for a show-and-tell. Gilles, we also found out that Gaston Picard was in Stowe a few days before Deschamps appeared on the mountain. He got a parking ticket. You might want to lean on him and find out what he was doing here.”
Lacombe’s voice betrayed his interest. “I will do that.”
“By the way,” I asked him, “how did you get hold of that confirmation letter?”
“It was from all the newspaper stories about Deschamps. From being a bad thing we feared, it became a good one. An old woman who worked for Jean Deschamps called us after the news. She never believed what they were telling about a religious retreat, so when she stopped working for the family—after Marcel came in—she stole the letter because she thought it might be a hot item, but she didn’t do anything with it because she was frightened, and then she forgot. The publicity made her remember and call us.”