Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,72
fire and I told him they’d found a body.”
“While I was away, you say?”
Terry nodded. “He a creepy-looking guy, Mr. Evans. Real scary-looking and he had a scar and everything—just like a gangster.”
Evan glanced at the boy. Was this a diversionary tactic to take the heat off the boy himself? Evan wondered.
“He asked about the French lady, too,” Terry went on. “I said I didn’t know where she was, in case he was the killer, even though he gave me a pound.”
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