Murder in Lascaux

by Betsy Draine

  All of us, Gounot included, instinctively turned our eyes to Inspector Daglan. We wanted reassurance that he would find the killer. But Daglan’s features were closed. He checked his watch. “I must consult the medical examiner,” he said evenly. “We’ll continue this questioning tomorrow.” He rose and, and turning his back to us, started for the door. At the threshold, he called back to Jackie: “For now the Americans are permitted to return to the château. Please see that they do. And collect the passports of Monsieur and Madame Press.” Our own passports were tucked into a folder he was carrying as he strode briskly back toward the cave.

  It’s funny how the mind plays tricks when under stress. Right then what I couldn’t get out of my head was the road sign we’d passed yesterday on the drive from Bordeaux to Montignac. The head of a Lascaux bull was on the panel. “You are now in the Dordogne,” boasted the sign. “Welcome to the home of man.” I remembered thinking “man the artist” as we drove by. “Man the killer,” I was thinking now.

  3

  IN HIS HIGH-PITCHED VOICE, Jackie instructed us to go straight to our lodgings. He would follow us. As we walked down to the parking lot, David’s composure cracked, and he grumbled audibly about being ordered about like a suspect. Toby and I kept our own counsel. We were rewarded by David’s apologetic offer to lead us to the château, since he knew the way.

  We followed the silver BMW over the ancient bridges of Montignac, then down a long woodsy highway, which led into the traffic-clogged medieval town of Sarlat. After its vexing entanglements, we climbed up and over a series of ridges opening onto the broad basin of the Dordogne Valley. The river flowed between poplar-lined banks and curved around cliffs topped with fairy-tale castles. Jackie brought up the rear in an old-model black Renault with police markings.

  As he negotiated the narrow road, Toby turned to me. “How are you holding up?”

  “All right, I suppose, considering.”

  “Well, I’m still shaking,” admitted Toby.

  “Me too.”

  “What the hell happened in there? And what do you make of those two?” he asked, nodding toward the windshield.

  “David and Lily? I have trouble imagining either of them as a murderer. Lily is out of the question. She could never have fought with a man like that. Remember how long the thumping against the wall went on? But David is big enough. What do you think?”

  “To me, it doesn’t make sense. Why would a well-fed lawyer from New York strangle a Frenchman in a cave and leave a dead bird next to him? It’s bonkers. Besides, David doesn’t strike me as a killer. And he’s too smart to have tried something so risky in such a tight space.”

  “It may have been risky, but if he had planned the murder that way, it worked.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Toby, shaking his head. “Whoever did this was desperate and probably a little nuts.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” I admitted. “But what if that was part of his plan, to make it look like the act of a madman? And how about his wife? She seemed nervous from the start. If they weren’t plotting something, what was that all about?”

  “I can’t believe either one of them was involved in that struggle. Which means Daglan was right—there must have been someone else in the cave.”

  “You know, I had a feeling we weren’t alone in there. It’s creepy to think about it, but maybe we were being stalked the whole time we were inside.”

  “That’s probably what happened. Otherwise, we’re all suspects, which is what the inspector thinks,” Toby replied.

  A moment later he added, “I’d feel better if we had our passports back.”

  “Me too. What if we’d been scheduled to return home tomorrow?”

  Toby nodded grimly. “We’d be stuck, that’s what.”

  We fell silent, worrying. While Toby concentrated on his driving, I remembered my mother’s call from home. Once we were on a stretch of road that looked like a straight shot for a while, I checked the phone and found there was no message. This would be my first attempt to place a call using the international cell phone I’d borrowed from my well-traveled friend Elizabeth, but after consulting the directions, which I’d stashed in my purse, I succeeded in getting through.

  Mom started with a string of apologies—for interrupting our vacation, for calling so soon after our arrival, and for waking us up. Mom has trouble with time differences.

  “No problem, Mom. It’s just before dinner here. What’s up?”

  “It’s your sister. She’s doing it again. She’s getting ready to spend all your grandfather’s trust money on some crazy scheme of hers.”

  “Did Angie tell you this herself ?”

  “No, no. You know Angie. She never tells me anything. But she does talk to your father. Just out of the blue, she told him she’s found out she can get money out of her education trust without using it for college, since she’s over twenty-one. When Dad asked her what she wanted the money for, she wouldn’t say. But I know it’ll be like the last time, when she joined that yoga cult and pledged all her money to that guru guy. You know, your grandfather didn’t work like a dog all his life to have his little legacy squandered by a bunch of ungrateful kids….”

  It went on like that for a while and would have gone on for longer, but I cut through to say this was not a great time to talk.

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Well, there’s been an accident here. No, we’re fine ourselves, but we were witnesses. I can’t talk much longer because we’re dealing with the police. I’ll tell you all about it later, but don’t worry, Toby and I are okay. No, not us. We were just bystanders. Yes, we’re fine, but I have to go now. France is beautiful, yes. Okay, Mom, talk to you later. He sends his best. Bye. Maybe I’ll do that. All right, I will. Promise. Okay, I will. Probably not today. Yes, Mom, bye.”

  She wouldn’t hang up till she got me to promise to call Angie.

  As I put the phone away, Toby glanced over. “Angie trouble?”

  “Looks like it. I’ll fill you in later. We’re coming into Beynac, and the turnoff to the château comes right after that.” In the car I’m the one who reads the signs. When Toby’s driving, he just watches the road and daydreams. If I didn’t say when to turn, we’d be in Toulouse before he noticed. But the system works—when he listens to me, he’s a great driver.

  Approaching Beynac, we had a full view of the castle stronghold, high on its cliff. I was glad we weren’t headed there. Against the lowering sky, the castle looked threatening, and I had had enough threat for one day. We concentrated instead on the attractive drive through the riverside village. Just as we left its shops behind, David signaled a right turn. We rounded a curve of the cliff with the river on our left, and just as the curve straightened out, I spotted a small white wooden sign, waist high. On it were the hand-lettered words “Cazenac-Cazelle.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “Sharp right.” The sleek BMW made a quick turn, then slowed to make sure we were behind it. When it confirmed we were following, it resumed its rapid pace, climbing a long and twisting road. We mounted for several kilometers, passing a hamlet and the side roads to some farms, and finally pausing at an ancient church at the top of the hill. From that perch, we could see across to the next hilltop, which was graced by a small but elegant château. It was built in the Renaissance style, with two conical towers capped by peaked roofs covered in slate. The château’s cream-colored stone facade stood out against the gray sky, while dark, wooden shutters framed six large windows open to the air.

  Ahead of us, the BMW climbed up a steep lane bordered by stately sycamores, pruned just the way the French like them, so as to produce a perfectly rounded crown. We followed up the hill, through a gate, and over to the pebbled parking area to the right of the château, with Jackie close behind. Two cars bearing rental tags were already garaged in the stalls of what once must have been the stables. They were built from the same light-toned stone as the house. Each stall door was topped with a straight stone
lintel, decorated with an enigmatic symbol: a peculiar cross, seemingly with little balls on each of the four points. I couldn’t tell exactly, since the soft stone had weathered over the years.

  As we pulled into the last empty stall, Jackie parked in the lane, sprang from his car, and approached the welcoming party waiting on the wide, low steps of the château. As if posed for a family photograph, an old man and his middle-aged son and daughter stood with hands clasped in front of their waists. The daughter was the first to break formation, moving forward, extending her hand to the policeman, and nodding somewhat abstractedly to us, as she absorbed the news of the murder. After a long consultation with Jackie, she approached us with a tense smile, offering what welcome she could, given the circumstances.

  Marianne de Cazelle was an attractive woman, in her fifties perhaps, with long, auburn hair and a trim figure. “We are desolated to learn what happened today,” she began. “But in spite of everything, we will do our best to make you comfortable.”

  Marianne’s English was excellent, though her word choice was distinctly French (“desolated” instead of “sorry”). Curiously, her accent had a touch of an American southern drawl overlaid on a Parisian glide. She introduced herself and said she was anxious to present us to the rest of the family. But first she noted the approach of her assistant, Fernando, who would take the luggage from our car to our room. With surprising agility, the wiry young man lifted our bags from the trunk and swung round to bring them into the château through a side door. Despite his dark good looks, he was not attractive. The air of acrobatic grace in his action was marred by a rude turning away of the head after he had given us one frowning glance. Bad-tempered, I thought to myself. Too bad. He’d be movie-star material without that scowl.

  Taking me by the elbow, Marianne moved us toward the steps of the house, where she formally introduced us to her father, Baron Charles de Cazelle, and her brother, Guillaume. The brother welcomed us in less fluent English to “the domain of Cazelle.” His father, warmer in the eyes than his son, bowed slightly and murmured, “Vous êtes les bienvenus à Cazelle.” And with a nod, he signaled to a female servant, who scurried from her station just inside the doorway and proceeded into the hall. With a sweep of his hand, the old baron silently invited us to cross the threshold. Toby and I followed David and Lily into the mansion, while Marianne stayed behind a moment with Jackie.

  The interior space was enormous—a huge square, lit from its back by evening light coming through a wall of glass-paned doors. To our left was a sideboard, from which the domestic was lifting a tray of delicate glasses. I couldn’t help gaping at the ornate decor of the spacious salon. There was gold everywhere—gilt-framed mirrors, gold statuettes, and even gold etched into the intricate design of our fluted glasses. When all the glasses were full, the baron dramatically raised his. Looking each of us in the eye in turn, he saluted us: “A votre santé.” Toasting our health was all the more apt, I thought, after we had been in the presence of death. With one voice, Toby, David, and I replied, “A la vôtre.” Lily nodded, along with Marianne and Guillaume, and we all took our first sips of crisp champagne.

  The baron, elegantly lean and straight-backed, led us across the parqueted hall and signaled us to settle ourselves on a set of three velvet sofas. They were arranged with their backs to the room, facing out to French doors, which opened onto a formal terrace. Beyond that, a lane of red roses led to a line of neoclassical statues set against a high wall of green topiary. Observing our admiration, the baron offered a proud smile. He took a sip of champagne, seated himself in one of the two armchairs in front of the windows, and looked to Marianne to continue the conversation.

  At that moment, however, a new couple came clattering across the hall. Or, rather, she clattered, in high-heeled sandals that were never meant for parquet floors. He shuffled, in suede loafers. “I guess we are en retard !” chirped the clatterer, with a lilt in her voice that conveyed little remorse. “We just heard your cars arrive.” She smiled toward Toby and introduced herself as Dotty Dexter and her companion as Patrick Greeley.

  Obviously, Dotty and Patrick were our fellow students at the cooking school, but they made an unlikely couple. With her girlish demeanor and blonde bob, Dotty was trying to lop decades off her actual age—maybe late fifties, judging by her weathered neckline, which was amply exposed. Patrick’s shaggy hair and casual manner said he was not very long out of school, and still finding himself.

  Our hostess cut in, “I must tell you that our new guests have had an ordeal this afternoon.” Once she explained the situation to Dotty and Patrick, they made murmurs of commiseration and adopted more somber expressions. “However,” Marianne concluded, “we’ll try our best not to let this event ruin everyone’s stay.” She informed us that since the police had asked her to reserve the next morning for interviews at the château, the original schedule for our cooking class would have to be changed. Tomorrow evening we would proceed as planned with a restaurant dinner, but there would be no cooking school during the day. As for tonight, we would all dine here.

  “For now, please enjoy your champagne. In a bit, Madame Martin will show you to your room and you will have a chance to freshen up before dinner. Nora, we’ve put you and Toby on the second floor at the end of the hall. The door nearest your room leads up to the attic, but no one goes there, so you’ll have your privacy. We’ll serve dinner at nine thirty.”

  Dotty turned toward me and confided behind her hand in a stage whisper, “I can’t get used to these late dinner hours. You know, it’s murder on the waistline. They say that for every hour after six you eat dinner, you’d better add another two hundred calories to your day’s total.” I could see she wasn’t about to let the news of our day cast a pall on her evening. She chuckled, jiggling her ample bosom, and twisted to her right to ensure that Patrick caught the view.

  “Will your sister be joining us, Dot-ty?” asked Marianne, giving the name a hard accent on both syllables.

  “You mean my sister-in-law.” (There was a slight pause.) “Why, Marianne, Roz wouldn’t miss your cooking. You know that. Here she comes now.”

  From the darkened hall emerged a commanding figure. Roz stood squat and strong, radiating motherhood gone to earth-motherhood. Her thick black hair, streaked naturally with silver, was pulled back into a ropy bun. Her coloring was Rubenesque: creamy skin with rosy cheeks and rosier lips, free of makeup. A plain black dress fell becomingly over her rounded frame, and for jewelry she wore only a pair of silver hoops.

  “Excuse me for being late,” she apologized, turning first to Marianne, then to the father and brother, before turning to us, the newcomers. “I was taking a siesta. I hope I haven’t held up dinner.”

  “Not at all,” replied Marianne. “I’m sorry to tell you there has been a very bad incident today involving our guests. We’ll need to give them a bit of a rest, so I’m delaying dinner by an hour. You’ve met David and Lily Press, but let me present to you our new arrivals, Nora Barnes and her husband, Toby Sandler.” And turning to us: “This is Madame Roselyn Belnord, Dotty’s sister-in-law.” We shook hands, as Marianne proceeded to summarize the news of our tragedy.

  As if sensing instinctively who was most shaken by our experience, Roz grasped Lily’s hand, exclaiming with evident sincerity, “What a terrible thing to go through. Yes, of course, we should let you get some rest.” She raised her eyes in concern to Marianne, who took this as a signal to send us off to our rooms and the good care of Madame Martin.

  Marianne stopped David, however, to say she would need his passport and Lily’s, since she had promised to deliver them to Jackie. David seemed about to protest, but a warning glance from Lily subdued him, and he promised to turn over the passports before dinner. Having stumbled past that snag, we repaired to our rooms on the second floor, to collapse, bathe, and ponder—in that order.

  About an hour later, all of us except Dotty were assembled again by the south windows, which now gave out onto twilight in the garden.
The sky had cleared, and the marble statues glowed a ghostly white against the dark background of topiary.

  We stood, since Marianne and her men were standing. They seemed to be warding us off from seating ourselves on the sofas. Perhaps Marianne was eager to get us to the table, thinking that with a change of scene, the demons of the day could be dispelled.

  While we were waiting, I struck up a conversation with Roselyn Belnord. “Is it Roselyn or Roz?” I asked.

  “Oh, please call me Roz. Marianne was just being formal, showing her aristocratic side. Even ten years of living in America doesn’t knock the finish off a well-bred chatelaine.”

  I was taken aback, momentarily. The word “chatelaine” has a suspect connotation in post-Revolutionary France—I remembered that from my undergrad course in French culture. Surprise must have shown on my face, since Roz continued: “Please don’t misunderstand me. Marianne may be an aristocrat at heart, but she’s the most loving friend in the world. She and I became close when she lived in Washington, D.C. Her husband and mine were college roommates, and they were both in the news business. Marianne’s Ben was on the foreign desk at the Washington Post, and my husband is a political reporter with the Baltimore Sun.”

  “So you and Marianne have been friends a long time?”

  “Yes, ages. She’s the godmother to my older son, and both my boys call her “Tatie” because she’s like an aunt to them. In the old days, she and her husband spent a lot of time with our family in Baltimore, and in summers at the Eastern Shore. But those days are over. Marianne was widowed early. You know, newspapers are a brutal business. I was always afraid my husband would die the traditional newspaperman’s death— heart attack at sixty. But at sixty-four, Harry is as full of oats as ever, covering Congress like a hunting dog. It’s Ben who’s gone, and he was the one who jogged and didn’t smoke and didn’t drink. When Marianne lost him, she came back here to live with Guillaume and the baron.”