Isobel was speechless. All morning, she’d been turning over the possibility of Simone Dupuis being Cecile’s killer – after all, she had been in Bordeaux the same day – but it had turned out the woman had a perfectly rational explanation. Once again, her smart mouth and impulsive behaviour had caused trouble.
Maurice dipped his head toward the apricot buns, perfect in their decoration, the chocolate shards giving an edgy contrast to the pale fluffy sponge and white icing. He couldn’t deny the Englishwoman’s eye for detail in her baking skills.
‘Are these finished?’
Izzy nodded, ‘Yes, all done.’
‘Then so are we,’ the baker sighed, picking up the tray of cakes. ‘Good day.’
Upstairs in the apartment, Isobel changed out of her cotton summer dress and pulled on a pair of yellow shorts and a simple t-shirt. She had no idea what to do in this sudden turn of events, but she was desperate to get away from the boulangerie for the rest of the day for fear of upsetting yet more of the villagers. She had no friends, little money and was reluctant to turn to her family even if she was in dire straits, so the rational option for now was a long walk in the fresh air to conjure up a plan of action.
There was a narrow path that ran along the rear of the boulangerie building, easy enough to walk along, yet in parts overgrown with wildflowers and long grass. It was seldom used by the Saint Margaux residents, most of whom preferred to walk their dogs past the church and along the river banks, therefore Isobel’s fear of running into any other villagers was a minimal risk along that route.
Wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap to cover her signature bleached hair, the Izzy strode carefully along, avoiding dips and being mindful of wildlife that might be nesting in the hedgerow. It was a cloud-free and hot morning, the sun not yet having peaked at noon, and Isobel felt uncomfortably warm after just a few hundred metres. As the path veered off into a fork, she took the right turn, away from the village and continued on until she heard the rush of a waterfall a bit further along. Sticky with the exertion of her walk, Izzy looked around for some shade in which to sit and watch the steady trickle of the flowing river as it tumbled onto rocks below. However, her peace was shattered when a voice called from around the slight bend in the riverbank.
‘Mademoiselle Gilyard!’ Gaston called cheerily. ‘Are you not working today?’
‘Green.’ Izzy turned to face the artist and snapped, ‘I’m sure you’re aware, as everyone else seems to be, that my name is actually Isobel Green.’
Gaston nodded from behind a tall easel, his dark eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘Oui, I knew that. I just wondered if you knew that I knew.’
Izzy shot him a puzzled look and stood deliberating whether to find a spot somewhere else in which to sit.
‘Look, why don’t you sit down, have a rest? I’ve got some cold bottles of water here and you look in need of a drink,’ the man offered.
Isobel watched as Gaston put down his paintbrush and picked two plastic bottles out of an insulated bag. The sight of them caused saliva to build in her mouth.
‘Here, take one of these,’ he offered, coming alongside Isobel, ‘have a drink.’
She took a bottle and twisted off the top. ‘Thanks, I guess I am quite thirsty.’
Gaston eased himself down onto the grass, dangling his long arms over bare knees, and patted the warm spot beside him. ‘Sit down, I don’t bite.’
Izzy snorted. ‘You must be the only person around here that doesn’t, then.’
‘Why, what has happened?’ The question seemed genuine.
Isobel noted that the artist’s French accent was much heavier than that of the locals and she wondered if he’d always lived in Paris. However, given Gaston’s close relationship with Simone Dupuis, she had no intention of spilling the beans just yet. He’d find out soon enough.
‘Nothing. I’m just fed up, that’s all. I need some time to think.’
‘Fair enough.’ The man shrugged, swigging the water and trickling a little down his open shirt and onto his chest to help cool off. ‘But can I ask you something before I leave you with your thoughts?’
Izzy looked up, blinking as the sunlight blocked Gaston’s face from her line of vision. ‘Sure, why not?’
‘Why did you accuse me of having blood on my shirt?’
Isobel closed her eyes. It seemed that her trail of destruction was never-ending. ‘Because, at the time, I honestly thought it was.’
Gaston pointed down at his navy shorts. ‘Like this red mark here, which is paint, and this one over here, when I had been working on an oil of the poppy field. Do you see? Naturally, it would stand out even more on a white shirt. What can I say? I’m clumsy with my oils.’
His long thick fingers darted over the fabric, pointing out every speck of dried, blood-red pigment.
‘I can see that now,’ Isobel admitted, dropping her head. ‘I was desperate.’
‘I don’t suppose it was easy being in that police cell,’ the artist continued, shooting his companion a sideways glance. ‘I can understand how you would want to blame someone else for the crimes. But I assure you, I am not a killer.’
‘And I am? Is that what you mean? Because of my past. You seem to forget that I am actually innocent,’ Izzy retorted sharply, before taking another sip of water. ‘No matter what everyone thinks, I did not murder Cecile Vidal.’
‘So you say, but I also witnessed the murder weapon being pulled from your car. That’s pretty damning, isn’t it?’
Isobel breathed deeply, trying to maintain her composure. ‘Gaston, somebody must have put it there, because I certainly didn’t.’
A deep silence fell between the pair as they contemplated how to continue.
‘It is unbelievable,’ Simone Dupuis was telling Dominque Fabre during one of the gift shop owner’s many coffee breaks. ‘Now that woman is accusing me of murdering Cecile. I think she has gone completely crazy! She should be locked up. Who knows who she’ll point the blame at next?’
Dominique watched as her friend fussed with a bouquet of yellow roses and freesias, in awe of Simone’s attention to detail.
‘Now Simone, don’t let it stress you. The police will have Isobel Green under arrest again soon, you wait and see. We all know she’s capable of murder, now, don’t we? She’s already served one prison sentence. It’s a nasty business, it really is, but I’m sure that those two lovely detectives will find enough evidence to put her away for a long time.’
Madam Dupuis cut a length of pink ribbon and considered Dominque’s words before replying, ‘You’re so right. And to think I tried to help her, too!’
‘What does Maurice think of all this?’
Simone breathed out gently. ‘He’s finally seen sense and told Isobel she has to go as soon as she’s got her passport back. He’s still mad at me for telling you about Mademoiselle Green’s past though, Dominique, and I’m not very happy with you for gossiping to others. I told you in the strictest confidence.’
The larger woman coughed, took a sip of coffee and replied, ‘Simone, we have a duty to our fellow neighbours to divulge something so serious as having a murderer living amongst us. Mmm, don’t you think?’
The florist agreed, gripping Dominique’s hand in hers, ‘Do you know, you’re absolutely right. Isobel Green murdered her boyfriend and she was seen at the station on the day of Cecile’s murder. The discovery of that knife in her car only secures her guilt further. The police were errant in releasing her. She has to be brought to justice, the sooner, the better.’
‘But what can we do, Simone?’
‘A petition,’ the florist said, smiling broadly. ‘We start a petition for the re-arrest of Isobel Green. If we get enough signatures, Inspector Mallery cannot ignore it.’
As noon arrived, Isobel and Gaston lay back on the riverbank enjoying the heat on their faces, sunspots dancing behind closed lids as they soaked up the warmth while allowing the silence to become less strained between them.
‘Where
will you go?’ Gaston ventured, turning to lie on his side, facing Izzy.
‘How do you know I intend to leave?’ she murmured, keeping her eyes shut but aware of the artist’s fresh breath close to her face.
‘Because I would,’ the man admitted, plucking a daisy from the grass. ‘With all the bad blood, I couldn’t stay where I wasn’t wanted.’
Izzy allowed the words to float in the air for a while, rearranging them in her mind before choosing the best way to respond.
‘I don’t know. Maybe Spain, or Holland. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Not back to England?’
There was a slight tensing of the woman’s shoulders and she opened her eyes, blinking against the bright blue sky. ‘No, there’s nothing there for me.’
‘No family? Parents, brothers or sisters?’
‘Nobody. I don’t think I’ll ever go back.’
Maurice Fabron was allowing himself a much-needed sit down after the busy morning trade. It hadn’t escaped his notice that, without Isobel working in the back kitchen, the customers had reduced to a trickle as there was nobody in the boulangerie to speculate about any longer. A steaming mug of black coffee and an untouched ham baguette sat on the table in front of him.
There was the familiar rev of an engine as the Citroën delivery van came into view, causing Maurice’s heart to fill with joy for the first time that day.
‘Bonjour, Papa,’ Telo called as he stepped in through the open front door. ‘Où est Mademoiselle Gilyard?’
The boulangerie owner hadn’t yet explained to his son about Isobel’s name being Green and that she hid a dark past. It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, yet he would have to broach the subject soon, before Telo caught wind of the villager’s gossip. Perhaps tonight would be a good time, he mused; just the two of them, with plenty of opportunity for questions and explanations.
Maurice explained that Isobel was no longer employed there, but might need to stay for a few more weeks until she had her passport returned. Telo’s expression changed noticeably from a deep frown to a faint smile as his father spoke. It seemed that although he didn’t relish the idea of Izzy staying in Saint Margaux, he definitely saw light at the end of the tunnel with an imminent departure.
‘Très bien,’ he replied simply, as the baker got up to give his son a hug.
Maurice motioned to the chilled chocolate milkshake sitting on the counter, a thick whirl of fresh cream and squishy marshmallows sitting on top,
As Telo Fabron sipped at the delicious drink, he listened carefully as his father explained how there were going to be changes at the boulangerie. He intended to hire a new delivery person and would train Telo in basic bread-making skills in order to keep the Fabron family tradition alive. It was something he should have done a long time ago, in Maurice’s honest opinion. The young man smiled eagerly, happy to go along with his father’s new plans, anything, so long as they didn’t include Isobel.
Just as Dominique Fabre took the last sip of her coffee, a familiar red BMW pulled up alongside her gift shop.
‘Well, well, look who’s here?’ Simone declared, motioning towards the vehicle. ‘I wonder what Inspector Mallery wants this time.’
‘I’d better go and see,’ Dominique replied cheerily, her ample behind swaying as she sashayed out of the flower shop. ‘Au revoir, Simone.’
Madame Dupuis watched as the detective looked at the Closed sign on the shop door and then saw the tall man gaze around the square inquisitively. Seconds later, Jack Hobbs appeared from the passenger’s side of the car, a phone held to his ear. He was talking animatedly and running a hand through his thick ginger hair. Simone looked at the two as they hovered around, waiting for Dominique to make her way across to them and wondered which of the men, if either, were single.
She frowned as Dominique slipped a key into the door of her premises, smiling up at the Inspector with pearly white teeth and a red-lipsticked smile.
Simone loved her friend dearly but perhaps it was time to have a few words about the art of flirtation, or, at the very least, a little education in how to act coy, she pondered. It wouldn’t do at all to have the shapely brunette throwing herself at Max Mallery in such an obvious display of lust. He was an incredibly handsome man, she had to concede, and poor Dominique Fabre was sure to get her fragile heart broken, as she had done over and over at school when the boys had preferred Simone’s slender silhouette. Or, even worse, the florist told herself, the dashing Inspector might fall for Dominique’s charms and that would never do!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – MORE CLUES
Inspector Max Mallery stepped inside the fragrant gift shop, his eyes automatically wandering down towards Dominique Fabre’s ample behind which gently moved up and down as she walked. He noted that the interior of the building was predominantly furnished with pastel-coloured accessories, with the goods neatly presented on antique dressers and shelving.
Max cast his obsessive-compulsive eye over the room for dust but there was none. The aroma of scented candles permeated every inch of the floor-space and it overwhelmed his senses somewhat, filling his nostrils with the heady perfumes of vanilla, lavender and citrus. He wondered if there was such a thing as a coffee-fragranced candle to curb his constant caffeine craving.
Madam Fabre slipped behind the counter and coughed politely to draw the man’s attention, assuming an air of importance in her role as shopkeeper. Intent on the task at hand, Max leaned forward to where rows of boiled sweets were lined up in their containers like multi-coloured soldiers standing to attention. Dozens of pink-striped sweets filled a huge glass jar. This was what he needed to question the delightfully scary Madam Fabre about.
Outside, Jack Hobbs was attempting to extricate himself from an emotional phone call with his wife. Angélique was a highly-strung woman at the best of times, but today she was more so than usual as it was her mother’s birthday. She had called to remind Jack to finish work early in order to look after their son, while she created a special dinner for them all that evening.
‘I promise, I’ll be home by five,’ Jack was saying in a low voice, as he paced up and down beside his boss’s car. ‘I don’t think I can make it any earlier.’
‘That’s no good!’ Angélique returned, her voice becoming high-pitched and irate. ‘My parents will expect to eat at seven and I have so much to prepare. Honestly, Jack, I am asking you to do just one thing.’
‘Why not ask them to come over earlier, then your mum can look after Tom while you cook?’ her husband reasoned, desperate to find a solution, yet determined not to let his domestic problems compromise the murder investigation. It was bad enough having this altercation while standing in the middle of the village in Saint Margaux. There was a loud sigh and then the line went dead, leaving a buzz in Jack’s ear.
Hobbs stared at the mobile in his hand, debating whether to call back, but concluded that letting Angélique calm down for a while was the best bet. There would be more tears and tantrums later, Jack could virtually guarantee it, but he’d face the music when he got home, not now. Slipping the device into his trouser pocket, the young police officer followed Mallery into the shop.
‘Madam Fabre, this is my colleague, Detective Hobbs. As I explained, his French is not quite perfect yet, so if you wouldn’t mind, can we speak in English?’
Jack blushed as the Inspector made courteous introductions, the red hue of his freckled face causing his ginger hair to become a more prominent feature.
The busty woman fluttered her long dark lashes and smiled widely. ‘Bonjour, hello, I’m happy to practice my English. How can I help?’
Jack took the outstretched hand, noting that the woman’s soft, pudgy fingers were warm and clammy, offering a polite greeting as he did so.
‘Now, the reason we are here, Madame Fabre,’ Max explained, ‘is due to these pink candies here. The strawberry ones.’
He lifted the jar and set it on the wooden counter in front of the shopkeeper.
Dominique l
ooked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand, Inspector.’
‘Would it be possible for you to make a list of everyone who has purchased these in the last, say, two weeks?’
The woman puffed out her cheeks and pondered the question for a few seconds. ‘Well, maybe, but these are my most popular brand, Inspector. I sell at least six or seven bags a day. Why do you need...’
‘It’s very important, Madame. Do you think you could try?’
Dominique nodded and pulled a notepad towards her, licking the tip of a pencil before beginning to write slowly and carefully.
While the task was in process, Mallery excused himself and stepped outside to smoke, leaving Jack to peruse the array of trinkets and gifts adorning the shelves. The pungent mix of aromas was beginning to give the Inspector a headache and he desperately needed to clear his head before going back inside. Besides, it would give him chance to check his mobile for text messages from Paris. Sadly, there were none.
A good five or six minutes later, Madam Fabre’s list was complete, and she proudly handed it over to Detective Hobbs.
‘This is it as far as I can remember,’ she explained, pointing to the names. ‘But there were also a lot of tourists who may have purchased them, including a young couple the other day, a blonde woman with a straw hat and a dark man.’
Jack nodded. He recognised the description of his colleagues, Gabriella and Thierry and marvelled at how they’d both failed to notice the significance of the pink sweets when the purchase had been made. However, he had to concede that if the detectives hadn’t bought the bag of confectionery, he probably wouldn’t be standing in the shop with Madam Fabre at that very moment.
A tinkling of the little bell over the door and Mallery appeared, a faint whiff of tobacco emanating from him as he peered over Jack’s shoulder.
Isobel Page 20
