Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,14
basket at him.
The bus roared toward them, belching black smoke. Bronwen stepped forward and stuck out her hand to hail it. It came to a halt with a squeal of brakes. She leaped nimbly on board and the bus roared away again. As Evan watched it go Bronwen’s face appeared at a window. She waved and blew him a kiss. He waved back, then walked down the hill. Suddenly everything was right with the world again.
The next day Sergeant Watkins called to say that tests had confirmed the residue to be from petrol. Also there were fingerprints on the note, which they were going to try and match to known extremists. He thought they’d have the case sewn up before long, which was good because the English owners had been raising bloody hell at headquarters.
Evan sighed with relief. It seemed that it was now out of his province and he could go back to his usual duties. The first of these was a call from Mrs. Powell-Jones, the minister’s wife, complaining that a large gray van was parked on the street, creating a traffic hazard. Evan suspected it wouldn’t be the last he’d hear on the matter of the van.
He’d just returned from smoothing out that situation when there was a light tap on his door and a woman came in.
“Zis ees zee police station, oui?” she asked, her eyes darting around nervously.
Evan got up. “That’s right. What can I do for you?”
She spread her hands in a very continental gesture. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just a joke, but I don’t know . . .”
She reached into a large black patent handbag and produced an envelope.
Evan pulled out a chair. “Please. Take a seat. I’m Constable Evans.”
“Yvette Bouchard,” she said, giving him a little half smile as she sat.
Evan had guessed this might be the famous Madame Yvette. “You’ve opened the restaurant. How’s it going so far?”
“We shall ’ave to see, won’t we?” She had a deep, throaty voice and she looked exactly the way Evan expected a French restaurant owner to look. She was probably in her late thirties, with a somewhat beaky nose and full, voluptuous lips. Her deepset, dark eyes were made even darker by the addition of liner around them, and her thick, dark hair was piled high on her head in an old-fashioned bun. She wore a black, high-necked blouse with a scarf wound around her neck and a wide black belt that nipped in a tiny waist and emphasized a generous bust. When she sat she crossed her legs and revealed black stockings.
Terry Jenkins had been right in his first impression, Evan thought.
“So how can I help you, Madame Yvette?” he asked.
“Zis.” She handed him the envelope. “I received it zis morning.”
Evan carefully removed the letter. It was printed with a thick red marker pen in capital letters:
GO HOME. YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE.
GET OUT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.
Evan examined the envelope. “Interesting. No stamp on it.”
“I found it on zee mat with zee rest of zee post,” she said. “I didn’t know what to sink. Eez zis a joke or no?”
“Maybe not,” Evan said. “There is some antiforeign feeling around, I’m afraid. We had a cottage burn down earlier this week. So we must take this seriously.”
“But who would not want good food to be brought to zair town?” Yvette demanded. “Before me zere ees nothing. No restaurant at all. Zat ees why I come ’ere. No competition.”
Evan nodded. “I’m all for it, but don’t worry. It’s only a few loonies on the fringe who feel like this. The local women are all excited about taking your cooking courses.”
Yvette beamed. Her whole face became animated when she smiled, making her look a lot younger—not much older than himself, Evan decided. “I know all about zee good P.R., as you say. I wish to make friends with zee local people. I will show zem that good French cooking ees not all exotic things—no escasgots. When zay get a chance to taste lamb and fish zee way I prepare zem, zay will never want to go back. And zay will all bring zair ’usbands to eat at my restaurant.”
“Good idea,” Evan agreed. “I’ve made plans to come there myself on Saturday.”
She eyed him appraisingly. “You will bring your wife?”
“No, I’m not married.”
Before he could clarify this and mention the word girlfriend, Madame Yvette’s eyes lit up. “Ah, zen zee local ladies zay all fight over you still, eh?”
“Not really, they . . .” Evan couldn’t