“I didn’t know,” answered Amanda.
“Several of her former schoolmates are adamant that she started the fire herself. To play a game! If you want my point of view, the girl was a psychopath.”
“If several people can testify about this, why has she never been arrested and sent to jail?” asked Liliane.
Barbara Clément raised a hand and rubbed her fingertips together. “Money! Money works miracles. Her parents are insanely rich. The same schoolmates say Mr. and Mrs. Faber gave a generous bribe to the school’s director for her silence, paid for the renovations, and put a large sum of money into the school fund. They certainly didn’t want to see their dear daughter’s future ruined by letting her go to jail.”
“Disgusting…” said Liliane.
“Exactly. Tell me who’s disgusting now?” sniggered the blogger.
“Oh, don’t be too full of yourself, Ms. Clément. It doesn’t excuse your distasteful actions and article.”
“Oh, to the contrary, I think it does. Here’s more information for you: a young girl died in this fire and many other students were severely injured. So, Ms. McBride, if you ask me if I had any compunction about writing this article and publishing these pictures and videos about Élodie Faber, my answer is clearly ‘no.’ She was an ugly person.”
Ugly. A word Brigitte Plansec had used too to describe Élodie during her interview. Hearing it again, Amanda finally understood something very important.
Chapter 46
A manda had one last thing to do, but it wasn’t the easiest task to accomplish: question her staff.
She convened her employees to her office to proceed with the interviews, one by one. She quickly faced two issues that challenged her integrity though. First, she considered her staff members to be friends and had to avoid positive biases and remain objective. Second, to be fair she had to put herself on the suspects list too. Therefore, she decided that Liliane would question her first.
Interview of Amanda, the Boss
Amanda refrained from laughing at Liliane’s gaze and stern expression. Her friend was taking her job seriously, which was a good thing.
“Where were you the night of September 9 to September 10?” asked Liliane.
“Here, in my bedroom, sleeping,” answered Amanda.
“Were you alone?”
“Uh, yes… Who else do you think I’d be with?”
Liliane frowned. “I don’t know. Pierre who might’ve paid you a special visit? Someone else unexpected? Who knows? I’m just doing my job.”
Amanda smiled and nodded.
“At what time did you fall asleep?” continued Liliane.
Amanda looked up at the ceiling. “It must’ve been around 11 p.m.”
Liliane carefully took notes on her notepad. “Did you hear anything that night? Any noise that would’ve been unusual?”
“No, I didn’t hear anything. I slept like a baby. I was so exhausted after the inauguration day.”
“Did you wake up during the night?”
“No. As I said, I slept like a baby.”
“How can you be sure of this?”
“Uh… because I would remember. And I don’t sleepwalk. Well, as far as I know.”
“Can you prove that you were in your room the whole night?”
Amanda got stuck with this last question. “I’m afraid not, Inspector Liliane.”
Liliane pursed her lips. “So, if I well understand, you have no alibi?”
“That’s correct,” answered Amanda. Was she in trouble?
“I remember you making negative comments about the victim. You didn’t appreciate Élodie Faber. Am I right?”
Ah. Liliane didn’t miss a thing. It wasn’t getting better for Amanda.
“That’s right but—”
“You called her, I quote, ‘a spoiled brat.’ Is that right?”
Amanda pinched her lips and closed her eyes, regretting immediately the negative comments she had made on the deceased young woman. Liliane was too good at her job. “That’s right but—”
“It was quite a stressful day for you, wasn’t it? Is it possible that this young actress got so much on your nerves you got up in the middle of the night, went to her suite, and strangled her?”
The suggestion horrified Amanda. “It’s quite a shortcut! As I said, I didn’t leave my room and I wouldn’t kill a fly!”
Liliane pointed an accusing finger at Amanda. “False! I saw you killing one once with a cloth in the kitchen.”
Damn. Liliane had too good of a memory. “Fine. I plead guilty,” answered Amanda. Liliane scrutinized her. “I mean, I admit killing the fly, not Élodie Faber!”
Liliane straightened her back. “Amanda, I’m afraid without an alibi and your poor opinion of the victim, I must put you on the suspects list. You had a motive and you can’t prove you stayed in your room the whole night.”
Amanda was baffled. How could her own friend accuse her of such a despicable act? “What? You’re kidding, Liliane. Right?”
Liliane wrote the word ‘suspect’ in uppercases on her notepad, besides Amanda’s name, and showed it to her.
“Nope. I’m not,” answered Inspector Liliane.
Interview of Liliane,
Antiques Shop Manager
The roles were reversed. Amanda would’ve never thought she’d enjoy questioning someone so much. But Liliane cut her delight short before she could even open her mouth.
“The night of September 9 to September 10, I was in my apartment, sleeping. I arrived home around 9 p.m. and left the building in the morning around 7 a.m. My building is monitored front and back, and any activity can be checked on the CCTV recording.”
Double damn! Liliane was too good. Amanda wrote ‘has alibi’ in lowercases beside Liliane’s name on the notepad.
Her friend was grinning ear to ear.
Interview of Bertrand, Lobby Receptionist
Bertrand scratched his head and looked embarrassed. “I was with my girlfriend the whole night and I can tell you we didn’t sleep much. You want more details?”
Amanda and Liliane nodded immediately.
Interview of Camille, Lobby Receptionist
“I was at a friend’s birthday party that ended late at night. Or early in the morning, I should say. We didn’t sleep at all. We all ended chatting in the kitchen in the wee morning, drinking coffee and eating croissants. Then I got ready for work and a friend drove me here.”
Liliane felt nostalgic, reminiscing about her younger years, when she still could party and skip a night, then go to work as fresh as a flower. She sighed and removed Camille from the suspects list.
Interview of Anita, Housekeeper
“I was in my room. Although I was tired, I needed a distraction. You know, I enjoy a bit of entertainment to relax in the evening, before sleeping. I watched a TV show until about midnight and then fell asleep. Around 1 or 2 a.m., I can’t remember exactly when, someone knocked at my door. I had forgotten to turn off the TV and the guest in the room beside mine couldn’t sleep because he could hear it. I apologized, turned the TV off and went back to bed. Then later I fell asleep.”
“Which show was it?” asked Amanda.
“Don’t Forget the Lyrics,” answered Anita.
“Oh, I love that show!” exclaimed Liliane. She started to hum the opening theme music of the TV show, dancing a bit in her chair. Amanda nudged her.
Interview of Isabelle, Housekeeper
“I left the castle around 9 p.m. It had been a long day for me and Anita. I was tired. I live in the countryside, about a 45 minute-drive away from the castle. Unfortunately, I got a flat tire half-way. I tried to change it on my own, but I couldn’t remove the damned thing. So, I tried to call my dad for help with my cell, but the reception in the countryside is terrible. I had already lost an hour by the time I finally got him on the phone. My dad lives twenty minutes away from where I was, so I had to wait a bit more on the road, in the middle of the night, until he finally arrived. We chang
ed the tire, my dad went back to his place, and I drove back to mine. It was past midnight when I finally got home. I was so exhausted! I went straight to bed and fell asleep right away.”
“This is a just a possibility, but you could’ve driven back to the castle instead, just after your dad helped you change the tire. It would’ve been within the crime time frame,” pointed out Amanda. “Do you have another alibi than your dad?”
“Oh yes. You can ask my boyfriend. He gave me a nasty look in the morning. He hadn’t slept a wink. Apparently, I snored like a pig the whole night.”
Amanda raised her eyebrows. How could a young woman, looking so delicate and with such a lovely face snore like a pig?
Liliane made a face. It reminded her of her late husband who snored like an old truck.
Interview of Fred,
Tour Guide and History Buff
“I left the castle around 8 p.m., arrived home at 8:30 p.m., ate pasta with butter and Emmental, then read the second volume of Medieval Warfare and The Holy Grail until 3 a.m. I have a university exam in a few weeks on battles and myths of the 12th century.”
“Any alibi?” asked Amanda.
Fred sighed, unexpectedly looking discouraged. “Unfortunately, yes. I worked in the living room and fell asleep on my book while my roommate spent the whole night playing a video game with a virtual friend.”
“Why do you say ‘unfortunately?’” asked Amanda. “You have an alibi. This is a good thing.”
“Because my idiot of a roommate took a picture of me when I was sleeping and sent it to all our friends.”
Fred handed his cell phone to show the proof. A picture of him sleeping, his head resting on a large open book, mouth open, a piece of buttery pasta glued to his cheek.
Amanda refrained from laughing and Liliane grimaced. “Yeah… Not your best side,” she said.
Chapter 47
I t was past 10 p.m. on Monday when Amanda and Liliane conducted the last interview. Then they gathered their notes and walked to the restaurant for a late dinner.
The friends rejoiced at the sight of two onion soup bowls, still warm, and an arugula salad with grated Parmesan cheese the cook had left for them on a table. While eating and enjoying the peace of the empty dining room, they discussed two days of thorough investigation.
“Who do you think is the killer?” asked Liliane. She smirked. “Besides you.”
Amanda almost choked on the croutons she was chewing. “You really think I’m a suspect?”
Liliane rolled her eyes. “Of course not! I’m just teasing you. I keep thinking the crazy woman in room 13, Brigitte Plansec, is the one with the strongest motive to kill Élodie. She hated her. She said it. Her disturbing behavior during the interview, to say the least, and her comments let me believe she could’ve killed the actress in a moment of madness. Maybe she visited her in her suite that night to talk to her—I’d say mostly to insult her, she didn’t deserve to marry Paul, she was a bad girl, blah, blah, blah. The conversation went south quickly, then crazy Brigitte grabbed Élodie’s wedding veil and strangled her with it. Although the woman is shorter than Élodie, she’s strongly built and could’ve easily overpowered her. And then, she applied makeup on her face. What do you think?”
“It’s plausible,” answered Amanda. “But there are other guests with strong motives too. Flora Guardian and Paul Dumont have had a close relationship for over twenty years. I believe Flora is still in love with Paul although she pretends not to be. And the arrival of Élodie in Paul’s life killed the last hope she might’ve had left to go back with him. Plus, Élodie hated Flora and really behaved nastily towards her. These are strong motives too.”
“Hum… I don’t’ know,” said Liliane. “This woman is too intelligent to snap suddenly and ruin her career by killing someone. But who knows? I’m not an expert in psyche and human behavior. There’s still this theory brought by some media. It sounds crazy, but sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”
“What theory?” asked Amanda.
“The theory that Paul Dumont killed Élodie Faber because he was desperate for attention. Her death might reboot his career even better than the wedding would’ve. And with the viral video of him joking with Flora about Élodie’s death, many say it’s proof he couldn’t stand the actress. The wedding was just a publicity stunt to boost their careers.”
“Although part of this is true because I don’t believe for a second Dumont loved Élodie,” said Amanda, “this theory sounds forced. I have trouble believing it. Or the man is a real psychopath as much as his dead bride was. Gee, that’s a lot of psychopaths under the same roof!”
“Hey, after all, he’s an actor,” said Liliane. “Aren’t all actors a bit psycho?”
Amanda chuckled. “Narcissistic, probably, but psycho? Come on, Liliane, that’s pushing it a bit too far.”
Liliane squinted. “Remember, these people are trained to lie.”
“Yes. But maybe the biggest liar is someone else we overlooked in our pile of interviews and is not an actor? Richard Barquet refused to share any information with us, and many other guests have no alibi. One of them might have a strong motive they kept from us? Everybody lies.”
“I never lie!” protested Liliane.
“That is a lie,” answered Amanda.
After debating the killer’s potential identity for three hours, Liliane couldn’t help yawning. She left Amanda on her own in the restaurant’s dining room. Being twenty years her senior—and yet, still in good shape—she claimed her body still needed its beauty rest.
Amanda kept working on the case. A brutal murderer was sleeping between these walls, under her roof, and she couldn’t stand the idea. What if someone else was killed? She feared for her guests. The assassin was hiding in the pile of interviews. What had she missed?
She perused the notes again, elaborated a few theories of her own, but had no proof yet to suspport them. She needed something solid before accusing anyone of murder.
She took her laptop and opened a browser window to search for information on Élodie Faber. Although she felt disgusted when typing the name of Barbara Clément’s blog in the search bar, Spread the Word, she hoped she’d find some relevant information.
The blog came up on the first page of the search results. She clicked on the link that led to the flashy website and noticed new posts about Élodie Faber. Amanda panicked for a moment but to her relief there was no new gruesome pictures or videos of the actress. The so-called journalist had understood the warning.
There was a list of archived articles on the right side of the screen, including an extensive number of posts about Élodie. Even if it took the whole night, Amanda decided to read them all. She was scanning a few pictures of Élodie in her teen years when she heard a noise coming from the kitchen. She ignored it and kept scanning the pictures. A few seconds later, the sound of a dish breaking on the floor forced her to interrupt her study. Was it Jeannette Gascon’s ghost again? “Jeannette, Jeannette, Jeannette,” said Amanda in an irritated tone as she walked to the kitchen, “You’ll cost me a fortune if you keep breaking my tableware!”
As expected, Amanda found a broken plate on the kitchen floor. She picked up the pieces. “This is not funny at all Jeannette! Can’t you haunt another kitchen for a change, please?”
Jeannette Gascon’s ghost enjoyed these acts of provocation and had a peculiar sense of humor. As an answer, Amanda felt a sudden breeze sliding along her neck, then the stainless-steel set of pans hung on hooks above her head moved in a wave, hitting each other and creating a cacophony.
“Don’t make so much noise in the middle of the night! You want to drive me mad?”
Amanda was about to stop the pans from moving when she saw her deformed reflection in the metal. She pushed the pans again gently and observed her crooked face dancing for a few seconds. Her face lit up.
She ran back to her computer in the dining room, scrolled up the open browser window swiftly, searching a specific picture she h
ad seen previously.
“Yes, that’s it! Oh, Jeannette, who would’ve known you’re such a brilliant pain in the… neck.”
Chapter 48
A round 9 a.m. on Tuesday morning, a tall man with a long, black coat, carrying a briefcase, tried to make his way through the herd of reporters that blocked the stairs leading to the lobby.
“Please, let me pass! I can’t even move!” complained the man. “This is insane!”
He held one arm in front of his face to protect his eyes from the burst of camera flashes. The journalists were way too close. He pulled out a badge from the inside pocket of his coat and wielded it in the air. “Judicial Police Officer! Important matter! Clear the way!”
These words didn’t help. The vultures rushed to him, brandishing microphone boom poles coming from all directions. He was trapped.
“Do you have news on the case?” yelled a reporter.
“Who killed Élodie Faber?” asked another.
“Is Paul Dumont guilty?”
“Is it true Paul and Flora plotted the actress’s murder?”
“Are you here to make an arrest?”
The officer had braved major strikes that blocked the whole country, forcing him to use various means of locomotion, and had paid an exorbitant fare to be driven by a taxi the last hundred kilometers of his exhausting trip. But he hadn’t foreseen this last obstacle: hungry reporters.
The man reached the top stair of the lobby in one piece, thinking his nightmare was finally over. He tried to open the doors, but they were locked. He sighed, resting his head on the glass doors. The man’s patience was running thin. He took a deep breath to refrain from yelling. Sometimes, the last seconds of an ordeal feel like the worst. He hammered at the doors as though his life depended on their opening.
Bertrand ran to the doors, wondering who knocked that loud. The officer stuck his badge on the glass, yelling “Open the doors!” with an expression on his face that meant save me!
French Weddings Can Kill You Page 13
