Fic: Thirteen at Dinner (4/15)
Masterpost
Chapter II: Walter Winn
Chapter III: Isabelle Beaudreau
It was as they were leaving that Dean saw the battered copy of The Lord of the Rings sitting on a display shelf nearby.
“First edition, signed,” the woman said when she saw him looking. “Of course, they’re not all that rare, so I don’t expect it to go for that much. Still, we should be able to get something for it.”
“How much?” Dean asked, making Sam stop and stare at him.
The woman curled her lip. “More than you can afford on an FBI salary, Agent Newman.”
Dean scowled. “How much?”
“The reserve price is eighty thousand. But we’re hoping it’ll go for up to one hundred and fifty. The films have increased the interest in Tolkien first editions considerably. I don’t suppose the seller will agree to a pre-auction agreement for anything less than one hundred thousand.”
“One… One hundred thousand dollars?”
“I don’t think the FBI intends its employees to collect first editions.”
Before Dean could respond, he felt a tug on his sleeve.
“Thanks, Ms. Velour,” Sam said. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything. We’re flying in a couple of consultants, we’ll let you know when they get here.”
Dean followed Sam out. Sam was pissed at him, he hadn’t managed to get the book, and apparently he didn’t look like someone who could spend one hundred thousand dollars on a whim. All he needed was for Baby to get a flat, and it would be a perfectly horrible day.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sam said quietly when they were outside.
“Who said it was for you?” Dean muttered, stalking around him to get to the car. “You think everything I do is for you? That has to be the most self-centered thing you’ve ever said. I want to read The Lord of the Rings. I mean it’s only… what… like eight thousand pages about people walking everywhere?”
Sam laughed. “Come on, Dean. I saw a café on the way over. We’ll go through the diary and you can get me a latte.”
Dean started the car, determinedly not smiling. “I’m not getting you cinnamon in it.”
“Yeah, you will,” Sam said cheerfully. “And double vanilla.”
“Here you go.” Dean slid the takeaway cup to the table in front of Sam. “Latte, with cinnamon and vanilla.”
“Double vanilla?”
“Yeah, princess, double vanilla.” Dean hesitated. “And chocolate sprinkles.”
Sam grinned at him. “Awww, Dean, you like me.”
“Shut up. I hate you. Drink your coffee.” Dean sat down with his own, much more grown-up drink. “So, find anything yet?”
“Hasn’t said anything about his brother, no. But William Winn does have a lot to say about Isabelle Beaudreau.”
“About who now?”
“Isabelle Beaudreau. The woman Frances said she only knew as Isabelle.”
“The brother’s girlfriend?”
“That’s the one. She was French. Philip Ashby was apparently a bit of an adventurer. Winn doesn’t give too many details. He says Isabelle’s husband was killed in the Franco-Dutch war. Her family was suspected of conspiring against Louis the Fourteenth, so when Philip offered her the chance to go to the New World, she took it.”
“So she was the kind who may have known how to poison people?”
“Maybe, and there’s more. William Winn was certain Isabelle was a witch. He could never have her convicted, though. He tried twice.”
“He couldn’t get her convicted back when you could get convicted of witchcraft if you looked at someone wrong?”
“Each time, in the face of what Winn says was overwhelming evidence, the jury found her not guilty. After the second trial, Winn’s wife, children, and sole grandchild were killed tragically killed when the ground caved under them one day. By the time Winn could dig them out, they’d suffocated.”
“So… it could’ve been her?”
“Maybe, but what motive would she have to kill Ralph Ashby?”
“Maybe he found out she was a witch and he was going to prosecute. Or maybe she just didn’t like him. You heard how judgy Frances sounded about Isabelle. You think Ralph would’ve been any better? Maybe he spoke his mind and she didn’t like it. Does Winn say what she did that made him think she was a witch?”
“No, but it cuts off kind of… abruptly. He’s talking about Isabelle, and then it seems like there are a few pages missing. After that it’s the usual crazy talk about witches in general and how somebody who was jealous of him put a curse on his junk.”
“Can people do that?”
“Dean!”
“Yeah, yeah… So if Isabelle was a real witch, she might still be alive.”
“Yeah, but how will we find her? She must’ve changed her name. She could be anyone. She could be anywhere. Why would she stay here?”
“Are they any records of her? Anything at all?”
“Hold on.” While Sam checked, Dean spent the time finishing his burger. He was just licking the last of the grease off his fingers when Sam said, “OK, got it.”
“Shoot.”
“Isabelle Beaudreau married Philip Ashby in 1690. No children on record. She died ten years later - no cause of death or place of burial listed.”
“You think it’ll help to get a look at the actual diary?”
“What difference will it make? If the pages are gone…”
“Transcription might have something wrong or missing, even from what’s there. You know how hard it is to read that loopy writing. It’s worse than Dad’s! Or maybe we’ll see a detail they missed.” Dean shook his head. “When was this written?”
“Over spring and summer 1695, according to the dates on the entries.” Sam checked the database again. “William Winn died in 1696, just a few months after he finished this. Cause of death not listed.”
“So Isabelle killed Ralph Ashby using some voodoo thing. Winn figured it out somehow. He wrote his little indictment, Isabelle found out and got pissed… killed him, ripped out the pages to keep herself safe, and then… faked her own death?”
“And then she got the hell out of Dodge. It’s possible.”
“We need to see the diary.”
“They wouldn’t let us open the display case this morning, Dean. They’re not going to let us open it now. It’s a delicate book.”
“Yeah, and that Velour woman’s going to think I came back to steal The Lord of the Rings or something. Probably won’t even let us in the door.” Dean grinned. “You in practice with your lock-picking set?”
“Tonight?”
“You bet.” Dean shook his head. “So… This Winn guy doesn’t mention his brother at all?”
“No. Not a word.”
“Hey… I suppose Frances was telling the truth, right? About them being brothers?”
“Why would she lie, Dean? She wants this case solved as much as we do.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that. Saying you want to move on is different from actually wanting to move on.”
“So, what, you think she’s been lying to us all along? None of those people were at dinner?”
“Oh, come on, Sammy! You’re supposed to be the college boy! She wouldn’t lie about that. After all, if that dinner was the reason for her trial then the guest list must be part of the evidence, and for all she knows it could be in the court record.”
“They didn’t have detailed court records back then - it’s possible, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Well, neither can she. You can look it up. But the point is, even if all those people were at dinner, that doesn’t mean she didn’t kill her husband. She doesn’t even have to be a witch. She could just have poisoned him.”
“Then why would she ask us to solve the case?”
“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe she’s got reasons. Maybe she had an accomplice who got off free and she wants to take them down with her.”
“You need to keep an open mind, Dean!”
“I have an open mind. I’m right here with you looking into Walter Winn and Isabelle Beaudreau, and if you want to look into all of them one by one, I’ll do that too. But you need to keep an open mind about Frances. She came to you with a sob story. Doesn’t mean she’s telling the truth. And even if she is telling the truth about Ralph Ashby, she’s still a vengeful spirit.”
“Dean -”
“No. How many times have we seen innocent victims go Norman Bates when they’ve been knocking around the afterlife for a few years? Frances Ashby died in 1676. Even if she was innocent then, she’s had more than three hundred years to turn into a serial-killing lunatic. You need to be careful.”
“Fine. I’ll be careful.”
“Good.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes in silence, while Sam looked for information on Walter Winn and Isabelle Beaudreau, and Dean enjoyed his fries.
The silence was broken by Dean’s phone.
He glanced at it.
“Avery.”
He answered the call, scooting his chair closer to Sam’s and tilting the phone so Sam could hear too. Sam scowled at him, but leaned in to listen.
Dean’s first impression was of a high-pitched voice shrieking at him, with occasional discernible words, most of them the kind that made him cringe. A sideways glance revealed that Sam’s cheeks were scarlet.
“Listen, Avery,” he said when she paused for breath, “I understand you’re mad -”
“Do you? Do you? You had absolutely no right to go to my father! He wants me to come home - he just won’t listen to a word I say!”
“So you’re home with your dad now?” Dean asked.
“What? No! Haven’t you paid any attention? I’m never going back to that place!”
“So you’re not back with your dad and you’re not planning to go back?”
“No!”
“So… You’re fine, and you’re yelling at me because you don’t agree with your father?”
“I’m yelling at you because I thought I could trust you! I told you he’s a jerk - I told you I don’t want him to know where I am because he won’t leave me alone.”
“Avery, he’s your father. Having an opinion isn’t a crime. Now tell me, honestly, are you afraid he’s going to hurt you or force you to go home with him?”
“Well.” Avery hesitated. “I… No. No, he wouldn’t. Dad’s a jerk, but he wouldn’t hurt me or make me go back. He’ll just… talk.”
“Then listen to what he says and then decide what you want to do. You’re supposed to be an adult. Being an adult means dealing with crap like people not agreeing with your life choices. And it also means you know better than to let your father think you’ve been kidnapped or murdered in a back alley. If you don’t know better, you should.”
“Oh, what do you know?” Avery demanded.
The line went dead.
“Don’t say it,” Dean said, before Sam could open his mouth. “I know you think I shouldn’t have told Mathieson, but I had to. I know what it feels like, Sammy, and I couldn’t leave him to worry. She said herself she’s not scared of him - you heard her. She’s just throwing a fit because she doesn’t want to talk to her father. Let them sort their crap out. We have a case to solve.”
“Fine.” Sam pulled away, focusing on his laptop again. “Alexander Ashby wasn’t the only person to allege that Walter Winn was less than honest. There was a string of complaints, embezzlement, reneging on agreements, but nothing ever stuck. He died of natural causes when he was eighty.”
“The creeps always seem to live forever,” Dean muttered. “What about Isabelle?”
“Can’t find any records of her in France, though there is mention of a Beaudreau family. Not aristocrats - they were tradesmen, well-to-do tradesmen who apparently had their fingers in a lot of stuff that went on behind the scenes at court. So that part of what William says might be true.”
“OK. So our best lead for both of them is the diary. Any idea what they looked like?”
“No known portraits of either of them. William Winn says Isabelle was beautiful, but no details. We could always ask Frances.”
“She’s a suspect. We need an independent source.” Dean shook his head. “Let’s check out the diary.”
Sam sighed. “I’m sure the transcription’s fine, Dean.”
“What if it’s not? We have to check.”
Sam, as carefully and delicately as he could, turned the pages of the diary.
It had taken him less than a minute to pick the lock on the front door while Dean disarmed the alarm panel. Inside had taken longer. Art heists weren’t normally their thing. They’d had to go slowly and carefully. Fortunately the book itself was only valuable because of its age, or security would’ve been far tighter. As it is, it had taken Sam half an hour or Ms. Velour’s computer to figure out how to access the security system, and another half an hour to turn off the alarm.
The effort was rewarded when he reached the missing section.
“What?” Dean asked, reading his face. “What is it? Is it not missing?”
“Oh, it’s missing, all right,” Sam breathed. “Dean, someone’s cut it out.” He ran a finger down the edges of paper where full pages had been. They were sharp against his skin. “Someone’s cut four pages out of the diary recently.”
Chapter IV: Colum O'Donnell
Chapter II: Walter Winn
Chapter III: Isabelle Beaudreau
It was as they were leaving that Dean saw the battered copy of The Lord of the Rings sitting on a display shelf nearby.
“First edition, signed,” the woman said when she saw him looking. “Of course, they’re not all that rare, so I don’t expect it to go for that much. Still, we should be able to get something for it.”
“How much?” Dean asked, making Sam stop and stare at him.
The woman curled her lip. “More than you can afford on an FBI salary, Agent Newman.”
Dean scowled. “How much?”
“The reserve price is eighty thousand. But we’re hoping it’ll go for up to one hundred and fifty. The films have increased the interest in Tolkien first editions considerably. I don’t suppose the seller will agree to a pre-auction agreement for anything less than one hundred thousand.”
“One… One hundred thousand dollars?”
“I don’t think the FBI intends its employees to collect first editions.”
Before Dean could respond, he felt a tug on his sleeve.
“Thanks, Ms. Velour,” Sam said. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything. We’re flying in a couple of consultants, we’ll let you know when they get here.”
Dean followed Sam out. Sam was pissed at him, he hadn’t managed to get the book, and apparently he didn’t look like someone who could spend one hundred thousand dollars on a whim. All he needed was for Baby to get a flat, and it would be a perfectly horrible day.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sam said quietly when they were outside.
“Who said it was for you?” Dean muttered, stalking around him to get to the car. “You think everything I do is for you? That has to be the most self-centered thing you’ve ever said. I want to read The Lord of the Rings. I mean it’s only… what… like eight thousand pages about people walking everywhere?”
Sam laughed. “Come on, Dean. I saw a café on the way over. We’ll go through the diary and you can get me a latte.”
Dean started the car, determinedly not smiling. “I’m not getting you cinnamon in it.”
“Yeah, you will,” Sam said cheerfully. “And double vanilla.”
“Here you go.” Dean slid the takeaway cup to the table in front of Sam. “Latte, with cinnamon and vanilla.”
“Double vanilla?”
“Yeah, princess, double vanilla.” Dean hesitated. “And chocolate sprinkles.”
Sam grinned at him. “Awww, Dean, you like me.”
“Shut up. I hate you. Drink your coffee.” Dean sat down with his own, much more grown-up drink. “So, find anything yet?”
“Hasn’t said anything about his brother, no. But William Winn does have a lot to say about Isabelle Beaudreau.”
“About who now?”
“Isabelle Beaudreau. The woman Frances said she only knew as Isabelle.”
“The brother’s girlfriend?”
“That’s the one. She was French. Philip Ashby was apparently a bit of an adventurer. Winn doesn’t give too many details. He says Isabelle’s husband was killed in the Franco-Dutch war. Her family was suspected of conspiring against Louis the Fourteenth, so when Philip offered her the chance to go to the New World, she took it.”
“So she was the kind who may have known how to poison people?”
“Maybe, and there’s more. William Winn was certain Isabelle was a witch. He could never have her convicted, though. He tried twice.”
“He couldn’t get her convicted back when you could get convicted of witchcraft if you looked at someone wrong?”
“Each time, in the face of what Winn says was overwhelming evidence, the jury found her not guilty. After the second trial, Winn’s wife, children, and sole grandchild were killed tragically killed when the ground caved under them one day. By the time Winn could dig them out, they’d suffocated.”
“So… it could’ve been her?”
“Maybe, but what motive would she have to kill Ralph Ashby?”
“Maybe he found out she was a witch and he was going to prosecute. Or maybe she just didn’t like him. You heard how judgy Frances sounded about Isabelle. You think Ralph would’ve been any better? Maybe he spoke his mind and she didn’t like it. Does Winn say what she did that made him think she was a witch?”
“No, but it cuts off kind of… abruptly. He’s talking about Isabelle, and then it seems like there are a few pages missing. After that it’s the usual crazy talk about witches in general and how somebody who was jealous of him put a curse on his junk.”
“Can people do that?”
“Dean!”
“Yeah, yeah… So if Isabelle was a real witch, she might still be alive.”
“Yeah, but how will we find her? She must’ve changed her name. She could be anyone. She could be anywhere. Why would she stay here?”
“Are they any records of her? Anything at all?”
“Hold on.” While Sam checked, Dean spent the time finishing his burger. He was just licking the last of the grease off his fingers when Sam said, “OK, got it.”
“Shoot.”
“Isabelle Beaudreau married Philip Ashby in 1690. No children on record. She died ten years later - no cause of death or place of burial listed.”
“You think it’ll help to get a look at the actual diary?”
“What difference will it make? If the pages are gone…”
“Transcription might have something wrong or missing, even from what’s there. You know how hard it is to read that loopy writing. It’s worse than Dad’s! Or maybe we’ll see a detail they missed.” Dean shook his head. “When was this written?”
“Over spring and summer 1695, according to the dates on the entries.” Sam checked the database again. “William Winn died in 1696, just a few months after he finished this. Cause of death not listed.”
“So Isabelle killed Ralph Ashby using some voodoo thing. Winn figured it out somehow. He wrote his little indictment, Isabelle found out and got pissed… killed him, ripped out the pages to keep herself safe, and then… faked her own death?”
“And then she got the hell out of Dodge. It’s possible.”
“We need to see the diary.”
“They wouldn’t let us open the display case this morning, Dean. They’re not going to let us open it now. It’s a delicate book.”
“Yeah, and that Velour woman’s going to think I came back to steal The Lord of the Rings or something. Probably won’t even let us in the door.” Dean grinned. “You in practice with your lock-picking set?”
“Tonight?”
“You bet.” Dean shook his head. “So… This Winn guy doesn’t mention his brother at all?”
“No. Not a word.”
“Hey… I suppose Frances was telling the truth, right? About them being brothers?”
“Why would she lie, Dean? She wants this case solved as much as we do.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that. Saying you want to move on is different from actually wanting to move on.”
“So, what, you think she’s been lying to us all along? None of those people were at dinner?”
“Oh, come on, Sammy! You’re supposed to be the college boy! She wouldn’t lie about that. After all, if that dinner was the reason for her trial then the guest list must be part of the evidence, and for all she knows it could be in the court record.”
“They didn’t have detailed court records back then - it’s possible, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Well, neither can she. You can look it up. But the point is, even if all those people were at dinner, that doesn’t mean she didn’t kill her husband. She doesn’t even have to be a witch. She could just have poisoned him.”
“Then why would she ask us to solve the case?”
“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe she’s got reasons. Maybe she had an accomplice who got off free and she wants to take them down with her.”
“You need to keep an open mind, Dean!”
“I have an open mind. I’m right here with you looking into Walter Winn and Isabelle Beaudreau, and if you want to look into all of them one by one, I’ll do that too. But you need to keep an open mind about Frances. She came to you with a sob story. Doesn’t mean she’s telling the truth. And even if she is telling the truth about Ralph Ashby, she’s still a vengeful spirit.”
“Dean -”
“No. How many times have we seen innocent victims go Norman Bates when they’ve been knocking around the afterlife for a few years? Frances Ashby died in 1676. Even if she was innocent then, she’s had more than three hundred years to turn into a serial-killing lunatic. You need to be careful.”
“Fine. I’ll be careful.”
“Good.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes in silence, while Sam looked for information on Walter Winn and Isabelle Beaudreau, and Dean enjoyed his fries.
The silence was broken by Dean’s phone.
He glanced at it.
“Avery.”
He answered the call, scooting his chair closer to Sam’s and tilting the phone so Sam could hear too. Sam scowled at him, but leaned in to listen.
Dean’s first impression was of a high-pitched voice shrieking at him, with occasional discernible words, most of them the kind that made him cringe. A sideways glance revealed that Sam’s cheeks were scarlet.
“Listen, Avery,” he said when she paused for breath, “I understand you’re mad -”
“Do you? Do you? You had absolutely no right to go to my father! He wants me to come home - he just won’t listen to a word I say!”
“So you’re home with your dad now?” Dean asked.
“What? No! Haven’t you paid any attention? I’m never going back to that place!”
“So you’re not back with your dad and you’re not planning to go back?”
“No!”
“So… You’re fine, and you’re yelling at me because you don’t agree with your father?”
“I’m yelling at you because I thought I could trust you! I told you he’s a jerk - I told you I don’t want him to know where I am because he won’t leave me alone.”
“Avery, he’s your father. Having an opinion isn’t a crime. Now tell me, honestly, are you afraid he’s going to hurt you or force you to go home with him?”
“Well.” Avery hesitated. “I… No. No, he wouldn’t. Dad’s a jerk, but he wouldn’t hurt me or make me go back. He’ll just… talk.”
“Then listen to what he says and then decide what you want to do. You’re supposed to be an adult. Being an adult means dealing with crap like people not agreeing with your life choices. And it also means you know better than to let your father think you’ve been kidnapped or murdered in a back alley. If you don’t know better, you should.”
“Oh, what do you know?” Avery demanded.
The line went dead.
“Don’t say it,” Dean said, before Sam could open his mouth. “I know you think I shouldn’t have told Mathieson, but I had to. I know what it feels like, Sammy, and I couldn’t leave him to worry. She said herself she’s not scared of him - you heard her. She’s just throwing a fit because she doesn’t want to talk to her father. Let them sort their crap out. We have a case to solve.”
“Fine.” Sam pulled away, focusing on his laptop again. “Alexander Ashby wasn’t the only person to allege that Walter Winn was less than honest. There was a string of complaints, embezzlement, reneging on agreements, but nothing ever stuck. He died of natural causes when he was eighty.”
“The creeps always seem to live forever,” Dean muttered. “What about Isabelle?”
“Can’t find any records of her in France, though there is mention of a Beaudreau family. Not aristocrats - they were tradesmen, well-to-do tradesmen who apparently had their fingers in a lot of stuff that went on behind the scenes at court. So that part of what William says might be true.”
“OK. So our best lead for both of them is the diary. Any idea what they looked like?”
“No known portraits of either of them. William Winn says Isabelle was beautiful, but no details. We could always ask Frances.”
“She’s a suspect. We need an independent source.” Dean shook his head. “Let’s check out the diary.”
Sam sighed. “I’m sure the transcription’s fine, Dean.”
“What if it’s not? We have to check.”
Sam, as carefully and delicately as he could, turned the pages of the diary.
It had taken him less than a minute to pick the lock on the front door while Dean disarmed the alarm panel. Inside had taken longer. Art heists weren’t normally their thing. They’d had to go slowly and carefully. Fortunately the book itself was only valuable because of its age, or security would’ve been far tighter. As it is, it had taken Sam half an hour or Ms. Velour’s computer to figure out how to access the security system, and another half an hour to turn off the alarm.
The effort was rewarded when he reached the missing section.
“What?” Dean asked, reading his face. “What is it? Is it not missing?”
“Oh, it’s missing, all right,” Sam breathed. “Dean, someone’s cut it out.” He ran a finger down the edges of paper where full pages had been. They were sharp against his skin. “Someone’s cut four pages out of the diary recently.”
Chapter IV: Colum O'Donnell