Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Max didn’t respond. Instead, he walked purposefully back to the gleaming red sports car, the dots that he’d previously joined in his mind beginning to unravel themselves in quick succession. Simone Dupuis had also been at Fabron’s house. What on earth was going on?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – BAD VIBES AND ALCOHOL

  On Thursday morning, just over a week after the murder of vineyard owner and Saint Margaux resident Cecile Vidal, the mood in the village was sombre and tense. People were afraid to go out after dark for fear of meeting the fiend in a dark alleyway, or, worse still, bumping into Isobel Green whom they still regarded as the main suspect.

  Maurice Fabron was tired. He was once again coming to terms with completing the boulangerie bakes by himself, no mean feat for a man who was used to having a woman’s touch around the place. He’d been impressed with the creations that Izzy had served up, patisserie with creative flair and afternoon fondant fancies with delicate fillings, and although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, the baker wished that he’d been a bit more astute in keeping her on. The knowledge that Isobel had gained her skills on a course whilst in prison was a bitter pill to swallow, yet she’d brought a ray of sunshine into the shop and a much-needed increase in trade.

  Monsieur Fabron had spent the previous night tossing and turning, wondering whether he should offer Isobel her position back, at least until she moved on, or if it was time to create a new advertisement, this time for someone local to help out with the business. The middle-aged man knew that he wouldn’t have found himself in this position if his beloved Valerie were still alive. She would have been there, chatting with customers, carefully preparing luxurious coffees and wrapping up their purchases in neat boxes with delicate ribbon. It wasn’t just the loneliness of his wife’s death that had affected Maurice, either. He missed sharing a meal with someone, clinking glasses over dinner and even biting his tongue when he knew he’d stepped over the line during an argument.

  The boulangerie owner had seen all of Valerie’s traits in her beautiful sister, too, although Cecile was more hot-headed and impulsive, whereas Valerie liked to think matters through to ensure the right decision. Maurice missed his chats with Cecile. She’d been the only one who’d really understood how the loss of his wife had affected him, comforting him with kind words and urging him to keep going on the days when he’d rather just have stayed in bed and shut out the world.

  Cecile had also stepped in to help deal with Telo, a young man lost in his own world, who had buried himself even further after the loss of his mother. Maurice found his son’s constant mood swings difficult to handle on top of everything else, especially over the past week, when they’d had to come to terms with Isobel’s involvement in the most terrible of crimes.

  On that particular morning, Monsieur Fabron had been far too busy to dwell on matters that were out of his control, yet at half-past eleven, when the traffic of footsteps into his shop came to a halt, he poured a cup of coffee and sat down exhausted. It was at that moment that a torrent of grief washed over Maurice and he made a decision; not a big one, but a step to get his life back on track. Finishing his hot drink, the baker turned the door sign to FERMÉ and slipped out.

  Simone Dupuis was taking a ten Euro note from a customer when Maurice appeared at the door of her florist shop and failed to look up until the transaction was over. When she did spot him, Simone called out his name and rushed over immediately.

  ‘Maurice, whatever is the matter?’ she fussed. ‘Please, sit down.’

  ‘I can’t stay,’ Monsieur Fabron told her, extricating himself from the woman’s grasp, ‘but I have come to apologise for my rude behaviour yesterday…’

  It seemed that the florist had already forgotten the previous day’s slight and gave a simple shrug. ‘You were busy. It’s fine.’

  Maurice cleared his throat and began again. ‘Simone, I was very blunt when you invited me to dinner. I wonder if you would accompany me to the Bistro this evening? Some good food and a bottle of wine is just what I need.’

  The florist stood back. She had to admit that, even in his white apron and faded jeans, Maurice Fabron was quite a catch. Besides, he was also one of her closest friends and the response fell instantly from her pink-stained lips.

  ‘I would love to, thank you, Maurice. But what about Telo?’

  The boulangerie owner shrugged. ‘I will ask Gaston if he can keep Telo company tonight and will leave something for their dinner. See you at eight?’

  Simone smiled, her eyelids closing for a few seconds.

  ‘That’s fine. See you later.’

  Above the boulangerie, Isobel Green was feeling a few degrees more positive than she had been the previous morning. Even though Inspector Mallery’s incessant questions were driving her crazy, at least the detective had gone away with a few new leads. She wondered why Maurice had failed to mention that Madam Dupuis had been at his house on that first Sunday night. After all, it seemed that he’d been quick to give Izzy’s name. There was something not quite right about the way in which the residents of Saint Margaux protected each other, she mused, and their readiness to blame the newcomer hadn’t escaped her notice, either.

  On a positive note, Isobel was feeling more comfortable about her conversation with the artist the day before. Gaston now seemed to believe her story, although Izzy guessed that could change at any given time, just like the way that Monsieur Fabron had cast her out from the role as bakery assistant. She missed working, doing something with her hands and occupying her otherwise distracted mind in the long summer days.

  She wished that Maurice would give her another trial run. Regardless of the negativity surrounding the period when she was locked up, Izzy knew that she was more than capable of contributing to the boulangerie and just needed a second chance to prove herself. After all, no matter what had gone on, Mallery and Hobbs would eventually catch the murderer and Maurice Fabron would be sorry for his actions, of that she was sure.

  Before leaving in opposite directions after their chat at the riverbank, Gaston had invited Isobel to join him for dinner. She had said yes, and tonight would be her first venture into the public eye since returning from the police station. Izzy was nervous about how the other diners would react, but the artist had convinced her that the only way to let them believe in her innocence was for Isobel to carry on living normally, and that included going out for a meal.

  She doubted whether Gaston saw the upcoming encounter as an actual date. After all, it had only been a couple of days since she’d reported to the police that she’d suspected him of having Cecile Vidal’s blood on his shirt, but the artist held no bad feelings and the air had been cleared.

  Isobel Green didn’t really care what the French villagers thought of her. The most important person in her new life abroad had been Maurice Fabron and in that particular area it seemed that all was lost. The boulangerie owner had hardly been able to look Izzy in the eye after her altercation with Madame Dupuis, proving once and for all where his loyalties lay. If only things had been different, Isobel thought. There was, however, one positive side to her recent ordeal, and that was the fact that her parents and sister were still oblivious to her plight, meaning that they were unable to play judge and jury with her life this time.

  Gaston Lauder had packed away his paints early that day, eager to get cleaned up and ready for his rendezvous with the Englishwoman. He had ironed a fresh shirt and shaved, leaving a couple of hours free to contact his agent in Paris and fulfil one last task before collecting Isobel from her apartment. The artist took a deep breath and headed out of Simone’s cottage with a heavy heart. There was something he needed to confess to Maurice.

  Monsieur Fabron was busy sweeping up crumbs from the boulangerie floor when Gaston arrived, a look of determination on his face as he battled with the prospect of dinner with Simone. It felt like a huge indiscretion, a slight to his late wife’s memory, yet life had to move forward and it had to begin today.

  ‘Hello, Gaston,’
he greeted the young man. ‘Do you want a baguette?’

  The artist shook his head, unsure where to begin, but when he did, the torrent of words explaining that he was taking Isobel Green to dinner fell easily from his lips. They were not met with pleasure or with distaste; instead, Maurice Fabron looked bemused and surprised by the divulgence.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’ he asked simply.

  ‘The Bistro.’

  Maurice greeted the response with a frown, unable to comprehend that Gaston intended to take Izzy to dinner at the very same place he had promised to take Simone. He asked if there was a chance that the couple could change their reservation to a different night, but Gaston said no, Isobel needed to be seen before more accusations about her started circulating in the village.

  ‘Never mind, it’s not a problem,’ the baker told Gaston.

  At ten minutes to eight that evening, Maurice Fabron knocked lightly on Madame Dupuis’ front door. He stood patiently watching for her shadow to appear in the hallway, hands balled up in frustration, brow furrowed in anticipation of an emotional outburst when he broke the news. Presently Simone’s svelte silhouette made its way down the passage, slender and neat, perfectly dressed in a tightly-fitted red shift dress. The woman paused before turning the handle, presumably to check herself in the full-length mirror, and then swung the door wide to greet her friend.

  ‘May we go inside for a moment?’ Maurice asked softly, as Simone reached for her clutch bag. ‘It won’t take long.’

  Madam Dupuis was an instinctive woman and knew immediately that all was not well ‘Tell me, Maurice, what is it?’

  She cast an eye over the man’s tailored navy trousers and expensive pale blue shirt, noting that she hadn’t seen the baker this well turned out since the death of his wife.

  Monsieur Fabron wasted no time in explaining that Gaston and Isobel would be dining together at the bistro that night. He offered to cancel, fully understanding if Simone couldn’t face the pair.

  Instead, she sniffed, stepped outside and offered her arm to Maurice.

  ‘How interesting!’

  The bistro was half-full when Maurice arrived with Simone. The room was illuminated with soft downlights and, in typical French style, every table was adorned with a red gingham cloth and pillar candle. The owner fussed over his guests, ensuring that nothing was too much trouble, yet you couldn’t help noticing that his eye kept wandering to a couple seated in the far corner.

  Gaston turned awkwardly in his chair as the door opened. He had been anticipating Maurice’s arrival for the past hour, secretly hoping that his friend might have persuaded Simone to stay home that night. He’d pre-warned Isobel of the expected appearance of the two villagers, and her inward groan had spoken volumes about the incensed feelings it conjured up, yet they were here and so, too, were Maurice and Simone.

  ‘Do you want to try some of this?’ Gaston offered, attempting to distract his companion’s eyes away from the newly arrived guests.

  ‘What is it? Chicken?’ she asked, slowly moving her focus to the plate in front of her dining companion.

  ‘Cuisses de grenouille,’ he informed her, lifting up the fork. ‘Frog’s legs.’

  Izzy crinkled her nose. ‘No, thanks. I’ll stick with the avocado.’

  ‘You’re not getting very far,’ Gaston commented, after polishing off his own starter. ‘Not hungry?’

  His companion winced. ‘Stupid question, don’t you think?’ Isobel kept her eyes on the plate in front of her. ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall over there.’

  ‘A fly? Why?’

  ‘To hear what they’re saying,’ she muttered, flicking a glance at the artist. ‘It’s a daft English expression.’

  Gaston turned his head just enough to see Maurice and Simone perusing their menus. ‘They’re just here for dinner, the same as us. Ignore them.’

  Maurice ordered a medium-priced bottle of red wine, unsure whether a cheap one might offend Simone, or an expensive one give her the wrong idea about their night out. He was loath to think of this meal as a date, preferring to look at it as a gesture of goodwill rather than anything more intimate. This was his apology, a way to make amends after being so unsociable, and the first step in moving forward with his life. He would never contemplate courting Simone, not after Valerie’s warning about her friend, yet Maurice considered her a good listener and delightful dinner guest.

  ‘She’s a gold-digger.’ Monsieur Fabron’s wife had warned one evening. ‘A good friend, but nevertheless not one to be trusted with other women’s husbands.’

  At the time, Maurice had dismissed Valerie’s remark as unwarranted but, turning the words over in his mind some time later, he’d wondered whether there was any truth in his wife’s vindictive comment. Still, it was too late to find out now, he mused, as whatever had caused the outburst was well and truly buried.

  Casting an eye at the woman across the table, the boulangerie owner noticed a pink flush in Simone’s cheeks as she drank back the first glassful of wine, almost as though she were in a hurry to get drunk. Maurice dismissed the thought and put her eagerness down to the couple sitting at the back of the room and the brittle air they’d caused amongst the other village diners.

  ‘Maurice,’ Simone said softly, looking cautiously around the room, ‘Dominique and I thought we might start a petition. I know we can rely on your support, of course…’

  The baker leaned back, allowing the waiter to put a dish of mussels in front of them both and then waited until the man had retreated. ‘A petition for what?’

  Madame Dupuis looked down at the shellfish and then lifted her gaze upwards. ‘Why, to force Isobel Green to leave Saint Margaux, of course.’

  ‘You must be joking!’ he blurted. ‘She has nowhere to go and the police still have her passport. It’s a ridiculous idea.’

  Simone curled her lips, fighting back the urge to get up and leave. ‘That woman has caused nothing but trouble, Maurice. After she accused Telo of being involved in Cecile’s death, I would have thought you, for one, would be glad to get rid of her.’

  The florist had undoubtedly underestimated her friend and became even more indignant when he replied, ‘I will have nothing to do with your petition. Although Isobel wasn’t honest with me about her past, I feel that’s all it is – her past. Being involved in someone’s death over a decade ago does not mean she is guilty this time. Anyway, as soon as she can, Isobel will be leaving.’

  ‘Pah! How on earth can you be sure of that?’

  Maurice looked steadily across the table and lifted a fork to eat his entrée. ‘Because she told me so, and I happen to believe her.’

  Down the street in Monsieur Fabron’s ‘Maison de Maitre’, Telo had finished the croque-monsieur that his father had left for supper and was upstairs in his bedroom. A French copy of Dracula lay on the top of the bedcover, but the young man was distracted by something that sat in his bedside drawer.

  Slowly sliding out the piece of blue tissue paper, Telo unfolded the edges and peered at the gleaming gold brooch inside. It was formed in the shape of a leaf and was studded with purple amethysts, a pretty antique piece of jewellery that was worth a few hundred Euros at least. He rubbed a thumb over the smooth surface, marvelling at how the gemstones sparkled under the light from his bedside lamp. Telo wasn’t stupid and knew that he shouldn’t tell anyone that he had this brooch, yet the burning desire to confess to his father was eating him up. Maybe when Papa comes home, he thought. Maybe later.

  ‘Are you done?’ Gaston asked, gesturing with his knife towards Isobel’s unfinished sea bass and vegetables. ‘May I?’

  Izzy pushed the plate forward, amazed that the artist could manage to eat the rest of her meal after polishing off a plate of frog’s legs followed by a sirloin steak and fries. ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  Gaston pushed his own empty plate to one side and tucked into the fish. ‘This sauce is superb. What was it, lobster?’

  Isobel nodded, her eyes straying ove
r to the front of the restaurant where her former employer seemed to be having an altercation with Madame Dupuis.

  ‘Erm, yes, it was. It’s delicious but I’m just too full.’

  The artist pushed another forkful of fish into his mouth and swallowed. ‘Nothing to do with a certain couple over there, then?’

  Izzy shrugged. ‘Well, it doesn’t help. Of all the nights to choose to come out…’

  Gaston set down his cutlery and touched her hand ‘It doesn’t matter, you’re going to have to face everyone sooner or later. I think Maurice is worried about you. He feels bad for what has happened.’

  ‘Well,’ Isobel murmured, ‘he doesn’t need to.’

  ‘Look, as soon as the police arrest Cecile’s murderer, the easier things will get for you. Trust me, I promise.’

  Gaston’s face looked sincere and bright, definitely not the visage of someone hiding a deadly secret, yet, after all that had occurred in the past week, Isobel was unsure whether she could trust anyone completely.

  ‘Do you know who murdered Cecile?’ she asked, unsure of what to expect from the handsome gent across the table.

  ‘No, Isobel, I don’t,’ he said openly, ‘and I’m very disappointed that you asked.’

  An hour or so later, Maurice Fabron left the bistro with Simone on his arm. She had drunk far too much wine and was as talkative as ever, although not everything coming out of her mouth made sense to the baker.

  ‘Won’t you come in, please?’ she begged, tugging Maurice towards the white cottage. ‘Let’s have another drink. What about a cognac?’

  Monsieur Fabron lifted the woman’s fingers from his shirt and stood waiting while she hunted for the front door key. ‘No, Simone. I’m going home.’