Death of a Second Wife (A Dotsy Lamb Travel Mystery) (21 page)

“And killed Gisele because . . .?”

“Because, for whatever reason, Gisele was out wandering the meadow, probably thinking about that fight with Milo. Chet spots her, knows she saw everything, has to kill her, too.”

Seifert stared at the whiteboard and, after a long pause, nodded.

Kronenberg slapped his marker on the table. “We have enough for an arrest. Let’s do it.”

Twenty-
Three

Marco called me back. “I have a little idea about the Ag and the Au on the notepad. You told me Stephanie also wrote Jo burg or Jo bury on the paper and we thought that might mean Johannesburg. With Johannesburg and the words gold and silver, I searched those three terms in our police data bank and came up with something very interesting.” He paused too long for a mere breath. He was prolonging the suspense.

“Tell me!”

“Gold is being smuggled out of South Africa in large amounts. Here’s what they are doing. When workers in the gold mines manage to smuggle out a small amount of gold, they save it until they have enough to melt it down into gold bars. Then they dip the gold bar in melted silver so it looks like a silver bar. Now it can be exported and imported into another country, like Switzerland, with only a small fraction of the customs fees and no questions asked about where the gold came from.”

“Wow. It makes sense.”

“And also, there is no record of gold missing from the mines, because it has been sneaked out a little at a time.”

“Any connection to Russia or Ukraine?”

“The Russian mafia is behind this. They have numbered Swiss bank accounts. Ukraine? Well, there is not much difference, is there? The same gangsters are there as well. Did you go to the air strip as I suggested?”

“Yes, and I have a name. Anton Spektor. He owns the glider and the launch plane. Mean anything to you?”

“No, but I will check.” He asked me how to spell the name. “Have you seen the red Italian shoes again?”

I laughed. “No, but we have plenty of other stuff going on.” I told him about Juergen’s father, about how Chet stood to inherit millions, and about Francois Bolduc, Brian’s absent alibi. I repeated the gossip Odile had passed along to Lettie
and me—about Milo and about the videotapes.

“I am coming there. I will take a few days off.”

“Don’t do that, Marco. If I need you, I’ll call.”

“You need me. If the Russian mafia is involved, I do not want you there alone.”

“I’m not alone, and I have no reason to think the Russian mafia is connected to the murders. The murders, I’m sure, were a local thing.”

“You don’t know that.”

He argued with me for a few more minutes, then promised he’d wait a while before heading to Switzerland if I promised to call him every day.

* * *
* *

The village grapevine crackled with the news. I was standing at the refrigerator, pouring myself a glass of orange juice when the phone on the wall rang and Odile answered it. The ensuing conversation was in German, but I could tell by her voice and by the volume of the caller’s voice punching through the back of the receiver that something big was up. I caught a few words: Herr Lamb,
polizei
,
haus
. Odile glanced at me and turned her back, frowning.

I dawdled, slowly left the kitchen sipping my orange juice, and then returned when I heard the click of a replaced receiver. I acted as if I had forgotten something. “What was that about, Odile? It sounded like someone was in trouble.”

“Ja.
Someone is in trouble for sure. Herr Lamb.”

“Herr Lamb? Do you mean Chet or Brian or Patrick?”

“Chet. Chester. Your ex-husband. They are coming to arrest him. The police are on their way right now.”

I heard a thunk in the stairwell behind me. A thunk, a series of scrambling noises, and the crackle of an opening door. I dashed out the kitchen door and saw Chet high-tailing it up the slope toward the bunker. Into my head flashed the worst possible, but likely, scenario. Chet holes up in the bunker, armed to the teeth with weapons and ammo from World War II. Kronenberg and his posse arrive, also armed to the teeth. They demand he come out. He’s in there with . . .

I worked out more details as I ran after him.

Chet’s in there surrounded by granite, God knows how many feet thick. He’s in there with enough stored food to last weeks and enough wine to fortify his nerves to the point of stupid. My mind’s eye saw military helicopters careening over the ridges. I saw international news people with cameras. I saw what was left of my family, torn to shreds.

But Chet didn’t run into the bunker. He ran past it, up and over the ridge to the north. Hoping I’d downed enough orange juice to keep my blood sugar up for a long chase, I followed, but Chet was faster than I was. He steadily put more ground between us as he skittered down the next slope, over glacier-smoothed boulders, and up another ridge.

I barely made it to the top of the next ridge, puffing, my leg muscles burning, threatening to seize up. I had to stop.
Damn him.
Fleeing from the police would make things a hundred times worse. Eventually they would catch him. Kronenberg had his passport.

I caught a glimpse of Chet’s plaid shirt. He was heading for the river valley below and to the north of the meadow from which the parasailers launched themselves. Below and north of the high plateau where Anton Spektor’s glider and plane probably still sat idle. If only I could get up there. If only that mechanic would be there. I might be able to talk him into flying me over the valley. I could promise him payment as soon as I got back to my credit cards. But the plane couldn’t land in the valley. Bad idea. Even if I found Chet, I couldn’t stop him.
Glider probably wouldn’t work either, I thought. But I didn’t know for sure. Plus, what were the odds I’d find the mechanic and talk him into such a harebrained-sounding plan? Even without the language barrier, I didn’t think I could pull it off.

My gaze swerved from the plateau down to the meadow. There, I saw three or four parasails laid out on the grass and perhaps a half-dozen people standing around. I didn’t stop to think because I knew my fear of heights would talk me out of it. I stumbled down the hill, fell over an exposed root, clambered to my feet, and stumbled the last few yards to the level of the meadow. I approached the strangers, shouting as I ran, “Does anyone speak English?”

One girl grabbed the silken canopy to which she was tethered and backed up, wide-eyed with fear.
Who is this crazy woman?

“Please! I have to go down there! Quickly!”

“I speak English,” a young man in baggy cargo shorts said.

How to explain?
My husband is . . .
No. That would sound like I was chasing a wayward spouse.
My ex-husband is . . .
That sounded worse. Sudden inspiration. “Were any of you here a few days ago when my son Patrick wanted to try this?”

Luck!

The kid who spoke English pointed to another young man and said, “That guy. Patrick. You took him up.”

“Ah, yes.” The second kid spoke English, too, but with an accent. “Patrick. He loved it. He wants to take lessons.” He looked around as if expecting to see Patrick behind me.

We were wasting time.

“I am Patrick’s mother, and I want to try it too. Can one of you take me?”

Incredulous looks all around. I could practically hear them thinking,
This old woman?
Are you kidding me?

“I know it sounds stupid, but for reasons of my own, I really need to do this. Please. I’ll pay you anything you ask.”

It seemed to take forever, but the same kid who took Patrick up stepped forward and began giving me instructions. And more instructions. I tried my best to listen, but the ringing in my ears blocked out his voice. I heard “run” and then I heard, “run like hell.” I hoped that was the main thing I had to remember. I could do that.

I must be crazy! This is not going to work. Should I warn him we’re looking for a man somewhere in the valley? Better not. I’ll spring that on him after we’re aloft. Oh, God. Aloft.
I clamped my jaws together to still my chattering teeth.

Someone handed me a helmet and a pair of protective glasses. My jumping partner strapped me into a harness and clipped a big pack to his own back. He hitched up an incredible number of lines, draped some over his shoulders and grabbed some with his hands. A few feet behind him lay a broad expanse of red and white cloth, billowing in the breeze even as it lay on the ground.

Turning me toward the precipice over which we were shortly to plunge, my partner clicked some things behind me, linking us together. Point of no return.

“When I say go,
go
!”

I ran like hell, but it was tough, trying to run without tangling my legs up with his. Then, no more than a foot from the edge, I tripped. Expecting to fall to my death, amazingly, I didn’t fall at all. I rose. We were off!

Once in the air, too late to change my mind, I started enjoying it. The valley far below looked like a toy town with patchwork fields and dark green woodlands. Orange-roofed houses and thin grey roads. Sunlight glinting off ripples on the river winding through the U-shaped valley. Wind in my hair. My own feet dangling beneath me.

Find Chet! You’re not doing this for fun
. Looking down, I despaired of ever spotting him from this height. Even the cars looked tiny from here, and Chet was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans—hardly the outfit I’d have chosen for easy recognition. A blaze-orange jump suit would have been nice.

Since I hadn’t told my partner why I wanted to do this, I figured I’d better play it casual. I turned and looked at him, smiled, and said, “Can you make us turn?”

He obliged. With a shift of his body and hands, he started us turning to the left. Swinging out, it was easier to see what was below me on the left side. I figured once Chet got to the valley floor, he’d probably follow the river, so I pointed to the right. “Let’s go that way. Follow the river.”

After a couple of minutes following the river and seeing nothing of note, I realized we were traveling upstream, toward the Matterhorn and toward LaMotte. Chet would be running
away from
LaMotte. I held out my left hand. “Can we go back that way?” In a wide arc, we swerved around and a fresh wind lifted us up, rather alarmingly. The rooftops below started shrinking.
Oh dear.
I pointed down. Lower.

Over my shoulder, I heard, “I can’t turn this thing just any way! We have to ride the wind!”

“Sorry! This is such fun!”

Below us, a road paralleled the river’s path. Traffic on the grey ribbon of asphalt was sparse. Patches of woodland and grassy fields spread out on either side. We dipped lower.

I saw him. Or at least I saw a man in a reddish shirt and bluish trousers scurrying along the road. He paused, turned, and stuck out his thumb to an oncoming vehicle. It had to be Chet.

I turned again, this time with a look of distress on my face, and put my hand over my mouth.

My pilot took the hint. He pointed. “Down?”

“Yes. Please.”

We circled around and banked into the wind above what may have been a soccer field. Dropping lower, he shouted across my shoulder, “Don’t drag your feet. Let me do the work.”

I must have dragged my feet because the next moment we were tumbling together, completely covered by miles and miles of red nylon. Figuring I’d caused this kid enough trouble, I decided to assume a fetal position and let him figure out how to extract us. As soon as I saw daylight and felt the cleats behind me click open, I looked for Chet. And there he was, still standi
ng by the road, about a quarter-mile away, looking at us and at our deflated sail, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“I’m ever so grateful,” I said to my young companion, “I want to give you something but I have no money with me. Can you tell me . . .”

“No, no!” He cut me off, waving his hands in front of him. I think his only wish at that point was to get away from me.

“I’m awfully sorry,” I said, then decided anything I did to prolong this would only make it worse. I hobbled away
, keeping my eye on Chet as I approached the road, thinking,
Don’t you dare run!
He didn’t.

Leading him by the elbow, until we were a safe distance from the road, I said, “You won’t get away, Chet. You have to see this through.”

“I can’t go to jail, Dotsy.”

“Let’s figure out what to do next.” For the next half hour, we talked about Chet’s total situation: The evidence the police had against him and why they thought they had enough to arrest him. What this could do to our children and grandchildren. What we might do to prove to the police they had the wrong man. Chet had a disgustingly negative attitude. Throughout our discussion I kept accentuating the positive, trying to convince him his situation wasn’t hopeless, and reminding him that he was a millionaire now, but he’d never see a penny of his inheritance if he ran away.

My legs were bleeding. Chet searched his pockets for something to clean me up but found nothing. The kid packed up his parasail and left, heading toward a cluster of houses near the road.