Ambushed in the Alps Read online

  “Candy cane pinstripes?” Sidney’s face expressed undiluted horror.

  “Forget about the waistcoat.” I shot him a keep-on-track look, then turned my attention to the woman. “You said your visions began two weeks ago. Was there anything significant about the date? Was it Pierre’s birthday? Or the anniversary of his accident?”

  “No, nothing like that. The first vision came to me totally out of the blue.” Ghiselle chewed her bottom lip, a look of intense concentration on her face. “I was lying in the bath. It hit me like a lightning bolt. Suddenly, I stood by a roulette table, stark naked and dripping wet. No one present could see me, but I could see and hear them. Pierre took bets from the people at the table and spun the wheel. He looked an older, grayer version of the man I married. But it was definitely him. And he was frightened. Of something, someone—I don’t know. I could tell he needed my help.”

  “Did he interact with you at all during the vision?” Sidney asked.

  She shook her head. “He didn’t look in my direction. He didn’t need to. I make my living through my ability to read people. I knew Pierre was stressed, frightened, desperate.”

  I leaned back in my seat and regarded her hard. Was I seriously considering taking this job? Common sense warred with the first bubble of excitement I’d experienced in weeks. Ghiselle was wacky, but her story intrigued me. “To sum up, you want to hire Sidney and me to determine if your husband is still alive.”

  The look she shot me was pure irritation. “I know he’s alive. I want you to find him and bring him home.”

  “We can’t make any promises, Ghiselle,” Sidney said gently. “Even if we find Pierre, he might not want to come back to Nice. We can’t force him.”

  Her jaw adopted a stubborn jut. “He’ll come. He loves me. He’ll want to come home.”

  I refrained from pointing out that a man who’d faked his own death, leaving his wife to assume the worst, was unlikely to embrace the idea of a romantic reunion. “If Sidney and I take this job, we’ll need money to cover our travel expenses as well as our fee.”

  Ghiselle’s mouth curled into a smile of pure irony. She drew a business card from her purse and scribbled something on it in a generous cursive. Then she shoved the card across the table. One glance at the sum was enough to seal the deal for me. I wasn’t particularly mercenary, but I had bills to pay and no savings. Judging by Sidney’s intake of breath, he was of the same opinion.

  I checked Sidney’s phone to make sure it was still recording. “Can you tell us exactly when Pierre’s accident happened? And give us a list of friends and coworkers to contact? Also, personal details about Pierre—full name, date of birth, occupation, etc.”

  “A photograph would also be useful,” Sidney added. “Preferably one of him around the time of the accident.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, Ghiselle reeled off names, dates, and addresses. Pierre Matthieu Dubois had been a forty-seven-year-old civil servant at the time of his disappearance. The photo she sent to Sidney’s phone showed a forgettable face: dark hair, dark eyes, tanned complexion, average features. He looked like a million other guys in the south of France.

  The life history Ghiselle recounted was equally mundane. Pierre had been an only child, and both his parents were now dead. He’d been born near Cannes and had lived most of his life in Nice. After school, he’d joined the civil service and had enjoyed an undistinguished career in the births, deaths, and marriages department. Any promotions he’d received had been based on seniority, not merit. The only exciting nugget of information Ghiselle shared about her husband was his poker talent.

  By the time she’d finished, the Yarniacs meeting was over. The club members were dispersing. Sidney returned his phone to his pocket, and we rose from our seats. “Thanks for all the info,” he said. “We’ll be in touch by Tuesday. Sooner, if questions crop up.”

  Ghiselle’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. Whatever mess Pierre is in, I’ll help him out. All I want is for him to come home.”

  Despite my wariness toward the woman, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Nut job or not, her anguish felt real. I didn’t know if Sidney and I could alleviate that distress. In the unlikely event Pierre was still alive, would he want to come home? And if he was dead, how could we convince Ghiselle to accept his death as a fact?

  4

  The day after we agreed to take Ghiselle Dubois’s case was a rainy Thursday. Sidney was due to work at the costumier for a few hours in the morning, but I had the entire day free. I would search for info on the accident and meet Pierre’s former coworkers while Sidney used his coffee break to call some people on Ghiselle’s list.

  Although Nice was busy all year round, the summer crowd was long gone. I zipped through the traffic in the little Peugeot I’d borrowed from Luc and found a parking space close to my first destination. Despite today’s downpour, the temperature was a pleasant fifteen degrees Celsius—several degrees higher than I was accustomed to at this time of year. I was still adjusting to a warmer climate, and my T-shirt and skirt outed me as a non-native. I opened my umbrella and made my way from my parking space to the library.

  Besides housing Nice’s largest public library, the Bibliothèque Louis Nucéra was a popular tourist attraction. Its administrative offices were located inside La Tête Carrée, a massive sculpture of a cube covering a man’s head. Yes, it had to be seen to be believed. This monstrosity had been designed by Sacha Sosno, whose massive sculptures could be seen all over the Côte d’Azur. I considered the square head an eyesore, but it never failed to send Sidney into raptures.

  The library buildings open to the public were far more prosaic than the head. They were also massive, occupying a ten-thousand-square-meter extension of the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art. Being a digital book kind of girl, this was my first time inside the library’s ultra-modern interior. Frankly, I wouldn’t be here if I’d had the money to pay for home access to newspaper digital archives.

  I’d spent hours scouring the internet for information on Pierre Dubois last night. The result? A whole lot of nothing. I’d unearthed a few mentions of the accident on news sites, but nothing detailed. Pierre had had no social media presence, and no one on social media had commented on his death.

  It was frustrating. And weird. I could buy the quiet Pierre avoiding a web presence, but surely his accident should’ve garnered more attention online, at least from his friends?

  I headed to the front desk. An ultra-efficient receptionist furnished me with a spanking-new library card and directions to the public computers. It didn’t take me long to discover articles on Pierre Dubois’s boating accident—there weren’t many to find. Like the mentions I’d found online, the reports were brief and devoid of sensation. Apparently, the death of a mediocre civil servant elicited little interest.

  The details of the accident took me all of a few sentences to scribble into my digital notes app. Five years ago, on a morning in early June, Pierre Dubois had gone out in the secondhand speedboat he’d picked up at an auction a few weeks prior to the accident. He’d been alone and had told his wife to expect him home in time for their evening meal.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, a fishing boat spotted Pierre’s speedboat capsized a few nautical miles from the Île Saint-Honorat, the second largest of the Lérins Islands. The captain immediately radioed for assistance and searched the water around the speedboat for any survivors. Search and Rescue arrived soon after, but found no trace of Pierre Dubois.

  According to two witnesses, Pierre had enjoyed an early lunch on Île Sainte-Marguerite, the Lérins Island made famous by a fortress that had once held the Man in the Iron Mask. No one had seen Pierre leave the island, and no witnesses reported seeing him on another island or at sea. The man had no criminal record, no history of depression or addictions, and no known extramarital romance.

  I left the library no better informed than I’d gone in. The only exciting tidbits about Pierre Dubois were his poker prowess and his speedboat, and those I’d learned from his wife. Even Ghiselle’s job as a psychic didn’t add flavor to the man’s bland biography. She hadn’t started her seaside psychic gig until after being widowed.

  My second stop was a café near the library. I’d arranged to meet two of Pierre’s former coworkers for coffee. Zaineb Gharbi and Claudine Berset were both women in their fifties. They’d worked with Pierre for twenty-two and twenty-seven years, respectively. Despite seeing him day in and day out for all that time, their only impression of Pierre was that he’d been punctual and quiet.

  For the first teeth-grinding twenty minutes, I drank indifferent coffee and admired photos of the women’s grandbabies and grandpuppies. I tried to steer the conversation back to Pierre every time they digressed. It was an exercise in frustration.

  When Claudine, the older of the two, produced another photo of an infant resembling a peach-clad beach ball, I didn’t even pretend to be interested. “What can you tell me about Pierre’s wife?” My clipped delivery hovered on the border between direct and rude, but it had the desired effect.

  Still clutching the photo, Claudine pulled her yellow cardigan across her generous bosom and peered at me through her frizzy gray fringe. “Ghiselle is the Seaside Psychic.”

  “She wasn’t the Seaside Psychic back then,” I reminded her. “I believe she was working as a nurse.”

  “That’s right.” Zaineb, the younger and bubblier of the two, leaned across the table, narrowly avoiding spilling her cappuccino. “That’s how they met. Ghiselle looked after Pierre’s grandfather before he went into a care home. She was his private nurse.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Private nurses don’t come cheap. Was Pierre’s grandfather wealthy?”

  They regarded me with amusement.
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  “Absolutely loaded.” Zaineb’s soft Tunisian-accented French added a melodious lilt to her words. “Ever heard of Bonnier-Dubois?”

  “The pharmaceutical company?” The stirrings of excitement lent my voice a musical tone. “Was Pierre’s family part of it?”

  Zaineb dumped a third sugar cube into her cappuccino and stirred vigorously. “Arthur Dubois, Pierre’s grandfather, is one of the co-founders. He led their research and development department for decades.”

  “Pierre’s parents also worked at the company,” Claudine supplied. “They were pharmaceutical engineers.”

  I digested this new information, my mind in overdrive. Regardless of Pierre’s lack of a social media presence, the death of a local magnate’s grandson should’ve been big news, both on social media and mainstream outlets. Why was information about his accident so hard to find?

  I sipped my coffee and returned my attention to my companions. “You two claim to know very little about Pierre himself, yet you sure know a lot about his family.”

  “Well, yeah.” Zaineb pointed at a rack of magazines the café supplied for their customers to peruse over coffee. “Pierre’s grandfather is famous. And René and Caroline Dubois, his parents, were often photographed at high society events.”

  “We probably knew more about their private lives than Pierre’s,” Claudine mused. “Funny, that. But then, Pierre blended into the background.”

  “How did the grandson of a multimillionaire—”

  “Billionaire,” Zaineb corrected. “Arthur Dubois always makes France’s Top Fifty Wealthiest People list.”

  “Mega-wealthy, in that case. Why didn’t Pierre follow his parents into the family business? No interest? Or no aptitude?”

  A flicker of a smirk played over Claudine’s broad face, but she killed it fast when she caught Zaineb’s warning look. “Pierre wasn’t academic. He was an average student at best. Average doesn’t cut it if you want to work at Bonnier-Dubois.”

  “Not even if you’re the boss’s grandson?” I pressed. “Couldn’t Arthur have found Pierre a desk job?”

  Claudine shrugged. “If he’d wanted to, sure. But Arthur Dubois had a reputation for excellence. He only wanted the best at his company. Pierre wasn’t the best at anything.”

  Ouch. I felt a pang of sympathy for Pierre. I was all too familiar with failing to live up to familial expectations—or down to, depending on your perspective. I’d been estranged from my career criminal father since I’d given evidence against my ex-boyfriend—his gangster boss’s son. Dad had taken his boss’s side, a betrayal that still stung. My relationship with my mother had always been strained. She had an uncanny knack for making me feel less-than, and I had an unerring aptitude for making her lose her legendary cool.

  I skimmed the notes I’d taken so far. “I assume Arthur didn’t provide Pierre with a private income. Ghiselle’s home is in a pretty average part of town.”

  “Oh, no.” Claudine’s tone turned blade-sharp. “Arthur is a self-made man and a miser to boot. I doubt he gave Pierre a cent.”

  “What about Pierre’s parents? Ghiselle mentioned they were dead. Didn’t Pierre inherit money from them?”

  “That’s the irony of the situation.” Zaineb’s smile was the barest twist. “Arthur has always been a miser. His son was the opposite. He and his wife left all their money to charity.”

  Double ouch. “Wasn’t that rough on Pierre? Didn’t he resent being cut off from his inheritance?”

  Claudine shrugged. “If he did, he didn’t show it. But then, Pierre showed little emotion.”

  “From what the papers said at the time of their deaths,” Zaineb added, “Pierre knew the terms of his parents’ will in advance and was okay with it. Besides, he was aware he’d inherit his grandfather’s fortune one day.”

  “You speak of Arthur in the present tense. I assume he’s still alive?”

  She shrugged. “He must be. If he’d died, it would’ve been all over the news. Right, Claudine?”

  Her friend nodded in agreement. “Definitely. Arthur Dubois is well known in these parts.”

  And yet his grandson’s fatal boating accident had barely warranted a few lines in the local newspapers. I tapped my stylus pen against my tablet screen. Something didn’t add up here. Even if Pierre had been as boring as they claimed, his famous name should’ve attracted media attention, especially if he was the heir to a fortune—a fortune his widow had failed to mention. “Let’s go back to Ghiselle. What do you two know about her relationship with Pierre?”

  Claudine’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Very little. Pierre met Ghiselle while she was nursing his grandfather. They fell in love and were married within a month.”

  “It was the most exciting thing Pierre ever did.” Zaineb didn’t try to hide the catty note in her voice. “However, I suspect Ghiselle was the driving force in that marriage. She knew Pierre was Arthur’s only heir, and she wasted no time becoming Mrs. Dubois.”

  Ghiselle hadn’t struck me as the mercenary type, but who knew? She earned her crust duping fools with fantasies of the future. A woman like that had to be skilled in the art of deception. I wasn’t easily taken in, but maybe she’d played me last night. Had made me believe she was neurotic, vulnerable, gullible.

  Her act hadn’t been perfect. She’d shown a few cracks—the flashes of irritation when I’d expressed my doubts about her story and sharpness when I’d asked probing questions. Did Ghiselle’s annoyance stem from years of being disbelieved? Or was there a deeper reason for her instant wariness? And scrolling back to the subject of finances, the fee she’d dangled in front of Sidney and me had been higher than I’d expected her to afford, but not outrageously so.

  I pulled my thoughts back to the present. “Now that Pierre’s dead, who inherits Arthur’s money?”

  “No idea,” Zaineb said. “The state, I guess. Pierre was Arthur’s only heir, and Pierre and Ghiselle never had kids.”

  Claudine regarded me with calculating eyes. “You said Ghiselle hired you to take another look at Pierre’s death. Does she think it wasn’t an accident?”

  I chose the following words with care. “There’s a rumor Pierre might still be alive.”

  The women were agog at this news.

  “Ghiselle thinks Pierre faked his own death?” Zaineb snorted. “No way. He didn’t have the brains.”

  “Or the imagination,” Claudine added. “Pierre was a simple guy. If anyone faked a situation, it would be Ghiselle. I can’t deal with her pseudo-psychic nonsense. Defrauding innocent people out of their money and plying them with false hope? It’s shameful.”

  “People consult Ghiselle of their own free will,” I said, forcing myself to be reasonable even though I shared Claudine’s opinion. “I don’t believe in psychics, but clearly, many people do.”

  Neither woman looked convinced. Claudine snuck a peek at her watch and drained her coffee cup. “I need to collect my granddaughter.”

  I was on borrowed time. I had to bring this conversation to a constructive end. “Can either of you imagine a situation that might prompt Pierre Dubois to fake his own death?”

  Zaineb shook her head. “No way. Pierre wasn’t the type. He could’ve filed for divorce if he’d wanted to escape Ghiselle.”

  “Isn’t it possible everyone underestimated him?” I watched their reactions closely. “Maybe he wasn’t the boring, unadventurous man you thought he was.”

  Their denials were prompt and decisive.

  “Pierre’s personality was a lot like the color beige,” Zaineb said with a wan smile. “Unexciting. Inoffensive. Not the sort of man to lead a double life.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Their description of Pierre reminded me of my former stepfather, Jerry Gallo. I’d written Jerry off as a sweet, well-meaning bore. And then I’d discovered he headed an international P.I. agency. What was that old saying my Irish grandmother had used? Still waters ran deep? I thought of Pierre Dubois, the depths of the Mediterranean Sea, and shivered.