by Old Bones
Jules shut his mouth so hard his puppy’s teeth clicked. "I’m not going to sit here and take this—this abuse—from someone who—who wasn’t even invited …"
"But why?" Sophie said. "Why kill Alain after so many years?"
Gideon answered. "Because Alain was going to admit who he really was. That’s what the council was going to be about. Jules was the only one who knew, and he couldn’t let it happen. Right, Jules?" He hoped he sounded confident; the further he went, the deeper into guesswork he got. Peculiar, the situations he found himself in.
"No! Wrong!" Jules was shouting now; the martinis were starting to show in his eyes, his speech. His bow-shaped baby’s mouth had curled into a pout. "It was to tell us he was selling this place to a hotel!"
"Selling his house to a hotel is‘a matter of singular family importance’?"
"How do I know what the old fart meant?" Jules spread his arms, beseeching the others. "He told me what it was about!"
"Yes, I know he did. You were the only one who knew."
He lowered his arms. "That’s right," he said suspiciously.
"That’s what started me wondering why you were lying about it, and the answer wasn’t too hard to come up with." Gideon was beginning to tire, wishing that Joly would come, or that Jules would just give up and admit it.
He didn’t. "You’re lying!" he shouted.
"No, Jules," Gideon said, and would up for what he hoped was the knockout punch. "He wasn’t selling Rochebonne to a hotel chain. If he were, there wouldn’t be much sense in enlarging the kitchen garden, would there?" He held his breath. He was up to his elbows in speculative inference here. It was conceivable that a deal with the chain was contingent on a bigger garden going in, or that they were paying for it, or a dozen other possibilities.
But no, he’d guessed right. Jules’ forehead was suddenly glossy with sweat. The area under his eyes and around his mouth seemed to sink and turn a shiny gray.
"I," he said with a wretched, sodden try at dignity, "am leaving now." When he stood up crumbs rolled from his lap.
"No," John said pleasantly, "you’re not. You’re staying right there."
Jules spun angrily on him. "You can’t—"
"I sure can. Consider it a citizen’s arrest."
"You—you’re not even a citizen!"
"All the same," John said, his arms folded easily on his chest, "if I were you I’d just sit back down and wait till Joly gets here."
"Joly is already here," said the familiar crisp voice from the doorway. He strode into the room and stood stiffly in front of Jules. "Monsieur du Rocher, please consider yourself under the provisions of the garde à vue from this moment. You will be detained—"
Jules looked wildly at Mathilde. "Maman—"
She stared blazingly at him. "You killed Alain," she said in a voice like cracking ice. "Your own father."
This time Gideon was part of the stunned silence too. It took René to break it.
"His father?" he said, as wide-eyed as the rest of them. "Do you mean Jules isn’t my son?"
Had it not been for the sorry circumstances, Gideon might almost have thought it was said with relief.
TWENTY-TWO
"WANT some more coffee?" Julie asked.
"Sure," Gideon said, starting to rise.
"I’ll make it." She jumped up and headed for the kitchen.
"I thought you were going to be keeping me less contented."
"I figure almost getting yourself killed entitles you to one day of being spoiled. Tomorrow things change, pal."
They were having a late breakfast in the living room. Gideon leaned back, hands behind his neck, and stretched out his legs, wallowing in the satisfaction of being back home, back with Julie. Through the big window he could look down the hill and see the Coho ferry from Victoria just rounding Ediz Hook and easing its way through the morning fog into Port Angeles Harbor. In the kitchen Julie made domestic noises and whistled happily.
"I’m a lucky man," he told her.
"You better believe it," she called back. "What’s the bagel situation in there?"
"Plenty. Lox and cream cheese too."
He had arrived at a little before ten the night before. Julie had met him at Sea-Tac and for most of the long drive to Port Angeles—a slow, stately ferry across Puget Sound and then seventy miles of blackly forested highway on the Olympic Peninsula—he had told her how things had worked out at Rochebonne. When they’d reached home they’d opened a bottle of cognac he’d brought from France and their talk and attention had turned to more intimate and enjoyable things. It had been three in the morning before they’d finally drifted off to sleep, and they hadn’t awakened until nine-thirty.
"Did you hear any creepy noises last night?" he called.
"I did hear some pretty strange ones now that you mention it, yes."
He laughed. "I mean after we fell asleep."
She came in with a tray. "No, not after," she said, smiling, and then made a face. "Gideon, you’re not really going to be wearing those things, are you?"
He looked down and wiggled his toes. "You don’t like my shoes? Wait till you see my new sweatshirt."
"Oh, it’s not that I don’t like them. I think chartreuse canvas is extremely handsome, and that casual baggy look is very attractive, very with-it. I just like some of your others better."
"Well, I can’t find my gray running shoes. Do you know if I took them?"
Laughing, she sat down beside him and poured coffee for them. "Do you know you never take a trip without leaving something behind? Someday you’re going to come home without me, and then wander around the house muttering to yourself and wondering what it is that seems to be missing."
"When one has a perplexing case to think about," he said magisterially, "one cannot be bothered with the immediate trivialities of the moment. How about passing me a bagel?"
She did and absentmindedly nibbled on one herself. "I still think my cyanide theory was a good one."
"About it being a symbolic revenge weapon? It was a good one. It just didn’t turn out to be true, that’s all; a minor problem. It happens all the time to the finest theories, take it from me."
"I suppose so…"
Gideon looked up from lathering cream cheese on half a bagel. "Something bothering you?"
"Kind of. Look, you said that Jules didn’t buy the poison in Brittany, right? He brought it with him from Germany."
"True."
"Well, why? If he didn’t decide to kill Claude until after the skeleton turned up, why would he buy it ahead of time and bring it with him?"
"Ah, good question. John and I had that figured wrong." He returned to the bagel, putting a couple of thin, moist layers of smoked salmon on the cheese and topping it with the other half. "He brought the cyanide with him to kill Alain."
She shook her head. "Huh?"
"He was going to poison Alain, but when the chance came up to do him in a lot more subtly by way of the tide schedule, he jumped at it. That left him with some perfectly good cyanide to put to use when poor Claude blustered into his way."
"Charming. A wonderful family, all in all. Do you want to eat in peace, or can I ask some more questions?"
"Ask," he said, chewing.
"Was Mathilde having an affair with Alain during those years he was pretending to be Guillaume? Were they still in love?"
"I don’t think so. I know she wasn’t any closer to him than the rest of them for the last twenty years or so, anyway."
"But what about Jules? You think they might have had a single fling for old times’ sake, and he was the result?"
"Could be. That’d be enough to make them knock it off right there."
She laughed. "One more question, and that’s all. What made Alain suddenly want to confess after forty-five years of pretending to be Guillaume?"
"Nobody knows for sure, but Mathilde said he’d been getting more depressed for years about living someone else’s life, that he’d grumbled to her once about
being buried with someone else’s gravestone over him."
"I can understand that," she said with a little shudder. "So when he found he only had a year to live, that decided him?"
"Looks like it."
She sipped her coffee quietly, watching through the window as the big ferry tooted and backed slowly into its berth. "It’s hard to imagine Ray Schaefer planning to get married."
"I know, but Claire was practically made for him. Vice-versa too, I think. They’re planning on coming up this way in the summer. You’ll like her."
"I’m sure I will." She had tipped her head to rest it against Gideon’s shoulder, but now sat up suddenly. "The inheritance—Who’s going to get it?"
"Well, Joly says he thinks it’ll work like this: The will Guillaume made in 1941 is the last one anybody can find, so it’s the one that counts. At that time he left everything to his closest relative; his father’s sister. She died in 1942, a little before Guillaume, which means it should have gone to Claude, her son."
"You mean Claude was right? He really was the legitimate heir?"
Gideon nodded. "But now with him being dead, Joly says it’ll go to Claire, with maybe something to Leona."
"Mm, so Aunt Sophie doesn’t get her library."
Gideon shook his head. "Claire took her aside and told her she wants her to have it. Sophie, of course, said not on your life, but she’d love to have a picture book or two. Claire also told the servants that they don’t have to worry about their stipend."
"She does sound nice. But I wonder if this is going to make problems between her and Ray."
"You mean because she’s going to be rich? Are you serious?"
"Well, yes. It’s bound to make some big changes for them, and Raymond is a very sweet man, but you have to admit he tends to get a little nervous when anything upsets that nice, orderly routine of his."
Gideon tipped her head back to his shoulder and stroked her dense, black hair. "Well, you know what they say: Maybe money doesn’t bring happiness, but it sure enough quiets the nerves."
She laughed and snuggled in a little closer. "Who says?"
"Do you mean to tell me," Gideon said, "I never told you about my Uncle Bubba Jim?"
«——THE END——»
