“Original?” he said. “The woman murdered her husband. It’s completely obvious. Where’s the mystery?”

“It’s a mystery if I don’t act like I murdered my husband.”

“Fucking the investigating detective isn’t acting like you murdered your husband?”

His wife put down her teacup. “If you don’t want to help me rehearse, I can find someone who will.”

Barnstable looked out the window. It had been raining all morning, but now there were breaks in the clouds, some shafts of clear autumn light.

“If you don’t mind,” he said. “I’d like to take the boat out.” He had a fourteen-foot daysailer in the marina at Eaux-Vives. It was probably the smallest boat there, but it was fun to handle, and he liked being on the lake—it was pretty and calm and quiet—and, bonus points, his wife almost never wanted to go with him.

“In this weather? Isn’t the Bise happening?” The Bise was the cold wind from the northeast. He’d mentioned it to her a few times and now she just liked to use the word. But she was right. The Bise was blowing. But, hey, wind and sailboat—wasn’t that a good combination?

Boom

BOOM

His body didn’t wash up until Sunday afternoon. The cantonal police had been leading the search since late Saturday night, when Barnstable’s wife called to say he hadn’t come home, but the body washed up on the French side of the lake, in a cove near Yvoire, so the postmortem exam was conducted by the médecin légiste in Annecy. She found a large contusion on Barnstable’s left temple, but, as statements taken from his widow and the supervisor at the Eaux-Vives marina, relayed by Swiss authorities, established that he had been sailing alone, she concluded that he had most likely been caught unaware by the boom, perhaps while jibing. The marina supervisor also made the point that the deceased had not been an expert sailor. In fact, far from it. Plus, the Bise had come up strong not long after he set sail, far stronger than the forecast had anticipated.

Majid

MAJID