it. I didn't have much time.
The first thing I did was grab an agenda from Grenier's desk and stuff it in my leather jacket. Next, I hit the callers button on his phone and scrolled to the day before his death. I wrote down the names of the people who'd called Grenier that day, the following day, and the day after he died. I would have liked to get the names of all the callers, but my time was limited. Next I moved on to his speed-dial and copied down the ten names there. I'd just gotten into his directory when I heard a soft knock at the door. I froze. Was it locked or not? There was another soft tap, the door opened, and a small, round man slipped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.
"They are looking all over for you," he remarked in a beautifully articulated French accent. Then he stepped forward, took a furtive glance over his shoulder, and said, "Andreas Mellier, at your service. I was thinking that maybe you might like an escape route."
Actually, I'd planned to let myself out Grenier's back door, but Mellier was offering me an intriguing alternative.
He glanced at his watch. "And it is lunchtime. Perhaps you would care to — " There was a shuffle outside and the door swung open. Mellier did a quick pirouette, which brought him face to face with McNabb, or face to shoulder, to be more accurate. "Ah! It is Monsieur McNabb," he said with a grin. Then he motioned to me. "You see? I have found your fugitive and she has agreed to have lunch with me at the Ranch House Restaurant. I am a very lucky man." He put out his arm. "Shall we?"
I linked my arm through his, gave McNabb a dazzling smile, and waltzed out the door on Mellier's arm.
chapter five
The waitress showed the bottle of pinot noir to Mellier, and he nodded. She poured a bit in his glass. He smelled it, swirled it, sniffed, and finally took a sip before giving her a nod of approval. I put my hand over my own glass. I was already feeling the effects of jet lag compounded with a lost night of sleep. The last thing I needed was to pour alcohol on top of that.
Mellier gave a tsk tsk and poured himself a big glass. "You will go up to the observatory after this?" he asked. I nodded. "Then you have the steak. You will need the hemoglobin. Shelley." The waitress was already halfway across the open floor headed for the kitchen, but she turned at the sound of Mellier's voice. He was obviously a regular. He raised two fingers, and she gave a nod. Good thing I wasn't a vegetarian. He turned back to me. "Why were you in Yves's office? I would like to know this, please."
We'd come in separate cars down the main street of Waimea to a restaurant more reminiscent of Little Joe and the Ponderosa than tropical Hawaii. The exterior of the Ranch House Restaurant was log surrounded by a wide, covered porch. The inside was sombre: rough planks; heavy, dark wood furniture; and a decor of wagon wheels, oil lamps, saddles, and bullwhips. The only thing that didn't fit was the damp chill, and I'd been relieved when the waitress led Mellier to a table in front of a huge field-stone fireplace, complete with blazing fire. I'd pulled my chair right up to the hearth and was now trying to absorb the dry heat through my leather jacket.
This was my first chance to really observe Mellier, and I'd quickly realized that he was no buffoon despite first impressions. Given the adroit way he'd just avoided the question I'd asked him, I suspected his bumptious style was a ruse to hide the razor sharp mind behind the glasses. I needed to keep my wits about me.
"My question first," I responded.
He lifted his glass and took a sip, keeping his eyes level on mine. He was assessing me, much as I was him. Finally he put it down. "Why did I help you? This is what you want to know? It is very simple. I helped you because you piss everybody off and I like that. It means we perhaps have compatible interests."
"And what interests are those?"
"But you did not answer my question. Why were you in Yves's office?"
It was too early in the investigation to trust anyone, especially Andreas Mellier. Mellier was, in fact, the French astronomer that Grenier had worked with the night of his death, and this made Mellier a prime candidate for pilfering the diaries. I needed to play him carefully, giving out just enough information to get something useful back in return, at least until I could figure out what he was up to. I started with what he probably already knew, or what he would know by the end of the afternoon when the gossip train had finished its run through the telescope headquarters.
"I'm an investigator. I've been sent by the Canadian government to tie up some loose ends around Dr. Grenier's death."
"An investigator? Really? Why should I believe you?"
I pulled out my ID card and passed it over to him. He examined it, then handed it back. "In Paris I can go down a back alley, I pay someone fifty euros, and they make me a card like this in less than one hour. It doesn't mean much."
"Do you know anything about Dr. Grenier's diaries?"
Mellier raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps."
"So you know they're missing."
"I've heard this, yes."
"I've been sent to bring them back. If you don't believe me, call the Minister of Industry and Science. The number's on the Internet."
His expression changed. "That makes me really angry. That makes me really, really angry." He hit the table with his fist. "Don't you people care about what happened to Yves?" Several diners glanced uneasily in our direction. "A good man is dead for no reason, and you goddamned Canadians, Edwin, St. James, that idiot McNabb, all you care about is to cover up what happened. What is the matter with you people?" He threw his napkin on the table. "I was hoping that maybe you are different. That you come from Canada ready to ask some real questions rather than hide the truth." He gave a Gallic shrug. "You pissed off the others so much I think that maybe you are not working with them, but obviously I am wrong." He started to get up. "You will have to eat alone, I am afraid."
I put out my hand to restrain him. "Are you saying that Eales and St. James are trying to hide the circumstances around Grenier's death?"
"I'm saying they're lying, yes. Everyone is lying. Perhaps even the police."
I remembered Benson's willingness to help a neigh-bour, an almost inexplicable behaviour in a cop. "Did you voice your concerns to the police?"
"They don't want to hear. They think I'm some crazy Frenchman who sees aliens and the CIA under my bed, but I can tell you something. I work with Yves for many years. He did not jump that night. I know this for sure."
"Suicide is notoriously unpredictable. It's possible you wouldn't have known."
"Then why is Shelton lying? What is he afraid of?"
"Shelton Aimes? The telescope operator?" And the last person to see Grenier alive.
"Sure. You want to see for yourself? He works at the telescope tonight. I take you there and we have a little talk with Shelton." He poked the air in my direction. "You're the investigator. You see if he's telling the truth."
I sat back in my chair and took a moment to weigh the pros and cons. The waitress arrived with two plates, although they were barely visible beneath the huge slabs of meat on each one. When she was gone I leaned toward Mellier and said quietly, "It's a police investigation. I can't just waltz in."
At that his dark eyes twinkled. "Ah! You mean like you did in Yves's office."
