Almost Gone (The Au Pair—Book One)

by Blake Pierce

  Detective Granger poured himself a refill of coffee from the jug in the kitchenette before making his way back to his compact office. Here, the air conditioning rattled on its warmest setting—everyone joked that Granger was born cold-blooded—and the blinds were open just enough to give him a view of the Marne River. He loved this sight, enjoyed being able to look down at nature, to see happy people going about their lives, even when, like today, it was gray and rainy.

  He placed the coffee on a side table where it wouldn’t be accidentally knocked over, and turned his attention back to the files and papers spread out in front of him, representing his newest case.

  The death of Margot Fabron.

  Granger picked up his pen and unplugged his cell phone from the charger. What a relief to have a signal; it had felt stifling to be unable to call or message while at the chateau. Certainly, it complicated this case, because cell phone location and triangulation, the timing of messages sent and received, often played an important part in confirming alibis.

  That facility would certainly have been helpful here. As it was, Pierre Dubois had told the police he kept his personal cell phone in his office in Champigny-sur-Marne, due to the lack of signal at home. He hadn’t known where Margot’s phone was, but had said she seldom used it for the same reason.

  Granger had asked Pierre to hand his own phone in, and had requested a call log from Margot’s phone as well as from the landline that appeared to be the chateau’s only means of communication with the outside world.

  In the meantime, he reread his interview notes.

  Monsieur Dubois claimed that he had left the chateau sometime after nine-thirty p.m. last night. He said that Margot Fabron had been drunk and quarrelsome, and he had not wanted to get involved in an argument. He had told Margot he would spend the night in the “chalet”—a small, luxury cottage located near the estate’s vineyards that was occasionally used to accommodate visiting journalists. Pierre had said he would be back in the morning and they could discuss things when she had calmed down and sobered up.

  In fact, Pierre had gone nowhere near the chalet, but had instead headed out to visit his mistress, a young divorced woman who lived in Valenton. It was there he had spent the night. Her home had security cameras, and when the police visited yesterday afternoon, she had confirmed the story and even provided camera footage with time stamps that showed Pierre’s car arriving at the gate at ten-fifteen p.m. and leaving the following morning, at six-thirty a.m.

  The autopsy would be taking place today, and Granger hoped the report, or at least the initial findings, would be available by late afternoon. He didn’t know how accurately the time of death could be confirmed. It might be a game-changer, or completely inconclusive.

  Pierre’s status as a well-known businessman was a complicating factor. Despite the fact he was an adulterer and a liar, the man had power, prestige, and influence in the area. That meant the police had to tread carefully. A wrongful arrest would be a catastrophe.

  Margot’s family, on the other hand, were not locals. Her parents were divorced; her mother lived in Normandy, and her father in Occitanie, in the south of France. They had been shocked to hear of their daughter’s death, but neither of them had been close to her since she left home, and Margot had been an only child.

  Interestingly, Granger got the impression that Margot’s family was not wealthy. Her mother told Granger that Margot had worked as a model in Paris until she was twenty-two, and in the course of her work, had met Pierre. She had given up modeling and managed one of his art galleries for a couple of years, before moving in with him after the death of Pierre’s wife last year.

  Granger was convinced that their relationship had probably started much earlier, probably around the time of Margot’s career change.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his door. Bisset walked in carrying a sheaf of notes which she placed on the desk. She looked around the office and then, in a meaningful way, at the air conditioning dial.

  “It is very hot in here,” she observed.

  Granger shrugged apologetically. “I do not enjoy the cold. Turn it down if you like.”

  “For a few minutes, I think I can survive.” Bisset pulled up a chair and sat opposite him.

  “Background checks for the au pair are confirmed,” she said. “Cassie Vale was hired by the agency as she stated, no previous convictions, no criminal record.”

  Granger shook his head.

  “She is a terrible witness. It is difficult to believe anything she says. Her story changes like the wind.” He moved his hand to illustrate.

  Bisset nodded in agreement.

  “Her description of the moon sounds accurate, though,” she said. “I checked the times. The bedrooms on that side of the house face southwest, so she would have seen the setting moon, and opened Ella’s bedroom window somewhere between nine-thirty and ten p.m.”

  Granger frowned. “I just pray we do not have to put her on the witness stand. Under questioning, I am sure she would surprise us all with new information. Most probably, she would even surprise herself.”

  “I agree,” Bisset said. “And the testimony of a five-year-old child is not going to hold up in any court. But if Margot’s death was suicide, as Pierre Dubois claims, that would clear her.”

  “If it was”—Granger emphasized the word “if’”—“Margot and Pierre were living together for a year, and probably lovers for much longer than that. She arrives, and suddenly there is a death.”

  “Yes, the timing is coincidental. I was also wondering…” Bisset stared thoughtfully down at her notes.

  “Go on?” Granger reached for his coffee.

  “She’s a pretty girl. The au pair, I mean. And Monsieur Dubois is, from his own account, an adulterer. The relationship with the fiancée was stormy. Then along comes somebody new. Could he and Cassie have colluded to murder Margot Fabron?”

  Granger nodded. “It’s a possibility. But she’d been there only three days. How much of a whirlwind romance can you have within three days?”

  Bisset smiled. “Celebrities have met, married, and divorced in a shorter time.”

  “True. So we don’t rule that out. But I strongly feel there’s more to the story, and it is not as simple as we think. Some facts are missing.”

  “We should know more after the coroner’s report,” Bisset said. “They’ve just emailed me and said it will be completed within the next few hours.”

  She looked out the window, admiring the view.

  “Look, the rain is stopping. I think I will take some time off now and go for a nice stroll by the river to cool down.”

  Granger, to his surprise, found himself laughing along with her.

  “You should be so lucky, to have the chance to do that today.”

  *

  As soon as the report was submitted, Granger and Bisset met again.

  This time, as it was going to be a longer meeting, Granger brought his files through to the conference room. Here, there was more space, which pleased him, and the air conditioning was set a few degrees cooler, which satisfied Bisset.

  Granger printed out two copies of the report, controlling the surge of excitement he always felt when hoping the body itself would reveal secrets that the living were hiding. He reminded himself sternly to have no expectations, to make no assumptions, but simply to interpret what the evidence said.

  He handed a copy to Bisset, and for some minutes they paged through, reading carefully.

  “There are some interesting details here,” Granger said eventually.

  The biggest and most shocking revelation, the one that jumped out at him, was the fact that Margot Fabron had fresh strangulation marks on her neck, no more than two days old. The bruising was significant, the coroner reported, and there was still some minor swelling in her throat. That was compelling evidence that her relationship with Pierre Dubois had been neither normal nor happy and that detail caused Granger a flare of excitement.

  In addition,
her blood alcohol level was just below 0.20. At the time of her death, she was seriously intoxicated and in addition, the report showed the presence of antidepressant drugs and sleeping tablets in her bloodstream.

  “The strangulation is a significant detail,” Bisset said. “But it’s a shame the time of death can’t be more accurately calculated.”

  Granger nodded. That was the biggest disappointment in the report. The coroner stated that from her body temperature, Mme. Fabron had died somewhere between ten p.m. and midnight. As Granger had expected, it was impossible to tell from the angle of the fall whether she had in fact jumped or been pushed. The overturned chair that the au pair had mentioned could point to evidence of a struggle, or simply mean that Fabron had used it to climb onto the parapet and knocked it over in the process.

  “So, what is our next step?” Bisset asked.

  “Serial womanizing, violent tendencies,” Granger said. “We need to investigate Pierre Dubois’s background in more detail. Find out about previous partners and affairs. This can’t be his first or only mistress. Where are the others? What can they tell us? Also, Dubois said his wife passed away a year ago in a car accident. Let’s get the details regarding that.”

  Bisset nodded.

  “One other item for the list,” she said. “Pierre mentioned he’d fetched Margot from the hairdresser earlier that day. I’d like to find out who that person is and speak to him or her. Women talk to their hairdressers and often disclose personal details—if there was anything going on in Margot’s life, any personal conflicts or situations she felt uneasy about, the hairdresser might be able to tell us more. Especially since that visit was shortly before she died.”

  “Good idea. Will you contact the hairdresser, then?”

  Granger closed the folder, frustrated that the evidence was not conclusive, but hopeful that they had new avenues to explore.

  He himself had come from poor parents who had battled to afford a better life for their children. He knew what it was like to have to struggle to make something of yourself, and what an enormous handicap poverty could be. He had seen the advantage family wealth conferred, and how far ahead of the pack it placed you.

  Because of this, Granger had an innate dislike for Pierre. He sensed arrogance in him, and a belief that he was above the law. Pierre knew he held all the aces, and would use them as he pleased to ensure the minimal personal or reputational damage.

  Even so, Granger knew he had to separate emotion from logic. If any foul play had occurred, the nervous au pair, with her vacillating story and flimsy alibi, was far more likely to have been involved. After all, Pierre wasn’t the only man ever to have indulged in an affair, and his otherwise good reputation in the area would have been earned over many years.

  Perhaps Bisset was right, and the two had conspired together. Or else, jealousy could have played a role. Margot was not much older than Cassie. After seeing what the other woman had, following a bitter fight between them, it could have pushed Cassie to commit a hot-blooded crime.

  Granger sighed. He’d have to put his own personal prejudice against Pierre aside, follow protocol, interview witnesses, and let the evidence speak for itself.

  Even if Pierre held all the aces, Granger suspected that the unreliable au pair would probably end up being the joker in the pack.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Cassie shifted uncomfortably on the cold, hard church pew. Ella sat statue-still on her left, while Marc fidgeted nonstop on her right. Despite the cold, rainy weather, there must have been close to a hundred people gathered in the historic chapel for Margot’s funeral service.

  The interior was cold and drafty, and the gas heaters placed throughout did little to dispel the chill. Looking at the chapel’s ancient stone walls which seemed imbued with the smell of incense, and the exquisitely crafted stained-glass windows, Cassie guessed it was centuries old, and must have seen thousands of similar events in the past.

  She had never imagined that less than a week after arriving in France, she would be attending the funeral of one of the family she worked for, and still less, that the death would have taken place under such suspicious circumstances.

  Pierre, clad in an impeccably cut black suit, his hair perfectly styled, was sitting in the front row, flanked by Margot’s parents. His head was bowed. From time to time, he took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes.

  He was playing the part of the bereaved fiancé to perfection, and though it was a stellar performance, Cassie simply didn’t buy it. Why did nobody else suspect him? The unanimous opinion seemed to be that Margot’s death was a suicide. Even the priest, in his sermon, referred to “the tragic act” Margot had committed, and how “our all-forgiving God” would welcome and absolve her regardless.

  What if somebody else was to blame, Cassie thought, staring at the priest fiercely, as if her gaze could force him to admit there might be another reason for Margot’s death.

  As the service drew to a close, the priest invited the congregation to accompany him to the nearby graveyard, where Margot’s ashes would be laid to rest.

  Trying to keep hold of an outsized umbrella and two children—one of whom wanted to run laps round the graveyard’s neat gravel paths, and the other who was lagging behind and complaining about the rain, Cassie didn’t have a chance to notice very much until they had reached the graveside.

  Scanning the crowds, she saw Marnie and a few other staff from the chateau, and she noticed with surprise that Bisset was also attending, wearing a black dress and smart gray coat. Although she stood still with her head lowered, Cassie noticed the detective’s eyes were alert and her gaze was constantly on the move. It reassured her to know that she wasn’t the only one who had suspicions about Margot’s death. The police, too, were hopefully there to observe.

  Realizing that Bisset was staring directly at her, Cassie dropped her gaze hurriedly.

  “We therefore commit her body to the ground,” the priest said loudly, bringing Cassie’s attention back to the service. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  As the finality of the words rang out, Cassie heard sobs and cries from all around her. Pierre embraced Margot’s mother, his head bowed and his shoulders shaking. Margot’s father buried his face in his hands. Ella, after an astonished look at everybody else crying, burst into loud sobs herself, and even Marc, sensing the solemnity of the moment, stood quietly.

  Looking across the gravesite, through the drizzling rain, Cassie saw there was only one person entirely unaffected by the emotion of the moment, and as she watched, her suspicions flared up again, this time in a different direction.

  Antoinette, her head high, her eyes dry, and her dark blue beret arranged at a perky angle, was watching the urn being lowered with a small, secretive smile.

  *

  Cassie drove back to the chateau in a convoy of cars. She hadn’t realized so many people would be attending the wake. It seemed as if every person who had been at the funeral was heading back for food and drinks.

  “Can we go and play in the orchard?” Marc asked, as she parked the Peugeot.

  “No, not yet,” Cassie said firmly. Marc’s smart black shoes were already covered in mud from the trip through the graveyard—despite her best efforts, he’d detoured off the main pathway. She could only imagine what mischief he would get up to in just a few unsupervised minutes, showing off for the guests.

  Of course, as soon as she unlocked the car, he darted out, and Cassie was forced to hunt him down in the muddy, leaf-strewn orchard. By the time she’d caught up with him, grabbed him, and gone back to collect Ella, her boots were also mud-spattered and she’d snagged her black suede jacket on a branch and torn a hole in it.

  Cassie hesitated at the front door, taking in the crowd of mourners inside. A dark-clad violinist was playing in the hallway, and the formal lounge and dining room had been opened up. A fire burned in the fireplace, and the long dining room table had been loaded with food of every k
ind. Crystal glasses were set out on the sideboard, along with a selection of wines, sherries, beers, and brandies. Cassie tightened her hold on Marc’s arm, knowing she couldn’t leave him alone for a moment with so many breakable items in plain sight.

  As more and more people arrived, Cassie found her stress levels rising. Antoinette, still icily composed, was seated on an ottoman sipping a small glass of sherry which Cassie prayed she was allowed, because she hadn’t poured it for her.

  Ella and Marc demanded two plates of food each, which kept them busy for a while, but when the lure of the food table wore off, they started becoming bored and unmanageable. Cassie found it impossible to keep hold of Marc, comfort Ella, and politely interact with the other guests. In addition, she was starving, and hadn’t had the chance to get any food for herself. She felt trapped in her role, and was suddenly desperate to get out of this claustrophobic space.

  “Are you the au pair?”

  Yet another black-clad mourner greeted her, just after she had settled Ella down on the ottoman next to Antoinette.

  “Yes.” Cassie forced a polite smile.

  “Isn’t it a tragedy? Did you know Margot was so depressed?”

  Cassie guessed this woman, like many of the others, must be connected to Pierre. She wore a pearl choker and diamond earrings, with a fur stole draped over her shoulders. In contrast, Cassie had noticed Margot’s parents were more plainly dressed and her mother didn’t seem to be wearing any jewelry at all.

  “I’d only been there three days when it happened,” Cassie said, trying to maintain eye contact while hanging on for grim death as Marc, who had refused to sit down with the others, used the opportunity to make a serious break for freedom.

  “Ah, you arrived so recently?”

  “Yes. I’m still settling in and finding my feet. It was a terrible shock. And of course, it’s been stressful for the children.”

  Cassie’s smile had become a rictus. Sensing her distraction, with a twist of his arm, Marc pulled free and vanished into the throng.