by Nell Goddin
And then she stopped, spilling coffee on her jeans. “Yes!” she said to Bobo, “That’s what I’ll do—I’ll have a series of dinners, with different themes, and put notices up in Bergerac and Périgueux. It won’t be like running a restaurant because I’ll only be making one menu, everyone eats the same thing. An event where tourists and villagers get to mingle for an evening. What do you think—will it be enough to keep the wolves from the door until spring?” She bent down and rubbed Bobo on her speckled chest, where she loved being petted the most. And then Molly apologized for cutting the walk short and turned and ran back to La Baraque, full of enthusiasm for the new idea, and the murder most happily forgotten.
6
The next day Molly rushed around getting things organized for her first dinner. She wasn’t thinking haute cuisine or anything too fancy, but she did need to get a decent tablecloth and some new napkins. She sighed as her bank account shrank still further, but pressed on in the hope that the plan would be lucrative enough to cover expenses at the very least. And it gave her something to do besides sit at the computer willing new bookings to show up in her inbox.
By the time cocktail hour rolled around she was ready to see some friends, and rode her scooter to Chez Papa, a bistro where she could almost always find someone she knew to talk to. Mondays were usually convivial after everyone had been holed up all weekend, and this Monday was no exception—sitting at the bar were Frances, Lapin, and Caroline Dubois, with Nico behind the bar.
“Salut, tout le monde!” Molly sang out, and all three spun around on their stools and greeted her. “I haven’t spoken to a human in two days. Tell me some good news! Entertain me!”
Caroline, who worked in the office at the village school, shook her head. “There is no good news. Have you read the paper today? More strikes coming. I don’t know how our children are going to get an education if schools are on strike all the time.”
“You don’t have to be in a classroom to learn,” said Nico, making Molly a kir without having to ask.
Caroline shrugged a shrug that said your statement is so inane I’m not even going to reply.
“They don’t do a lot of striking in the States,” said Molly. “But maybe things would be better if they did.”
“Oh please, let’s not talk about politics tonight!” said Lapin. “We’ve got a stolen emerald to discuss, which is infinitely more fascinating.”
Molly told herself not to take the bait. Her finances had to be job number one at the moment, not chasing around after jewels and a murder. She walked to the end of the bar where Frances was sitting. “How’s tricks?” she asked her friend.
Frances shrugged. “I can’t really say right now,” she said quietly. “Let’s text Lawrence and tell him to get his butt over here. Now that he has a boyfriend we never even see him anymore and that kind of behavior is just not allowed.”
“Agreed!” Molly pulled out her phone and tapped a message.
“So Molly,” boomed Lapin from the other end of the bar, “what would you do if the Baron’s emerald fell into your hands, completely legally of course, and you suddenly had nine million euros?”
“Pay off my Visa bill?”
“That is too mundane, my dear. Of course all bills would be paid. But what I am asking is—what is your heart’s desire, as far as money can make that possible?”
Everyone looked at Molly, curious about her answer.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I’m drooling at the idea of no outstanding bills. I mean, that alone…”
“Chérie, you’re going to have to do better than that. Come on, tell us your heart’s desire.”
Molly smiled. “All right, but don’t blame me if I get sentimental. Here I am, living in Castillac in the southwest of France. I have a wonderful house even if it still needs a hundred repairs. I have you sorry lot to hang out with. I’d say I have my heart’s desire already.”
“Oh my heavens above, you sound like you’re running for office,” said Frances.
Lapin came over and put his beefy arm over Molly’s shoulder and gave her a side-hug. “I love you too, La Bombe,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
They were startled by a sudden cool gust of air and turned to see Lawrence sweeping into the room, dressed in his usual beautifully tailored suit, hair freshly cut, skin still holding on to the golden glow of summer.
He walked down the row, kissing cheeks and exchanging greetings as he went.
“And where is the boyfriend?” asked Frances. “I’m beginning to think he’s made up. We hear he exists, but we never actually see this person.”
Lawrence laughed. “Do you really think I would dare bring him here, to this shark tank? He’s far too sensitive for that. And I rather like having him all to myself,” he said impishly.
“What’s his middle name?” Molly asked.
“Terrance,” shot back Lawrence. “I’m way too quick for you, Missy,” he said, ruffling her hair, which was even more out of control than ever. “Would it kill you to find a comb? You are familiar with such implements and their uses?”
“Ha ha.”
“Have you discussed the murder yet? I don’t want to miss out on the latest.”
“We haven’t really talked about it because no one knows anything,” said Molly. “Nico, bring a plate of frites, will you?”
“Anyone else?” Nico asked.
Frances raised her hand, Nico grinned at her and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Well, who are our suspects?” asked Lawrence, leaning with one elbow against the bar.
“It’s not a game, you know,” said Caroline Dubois. She finished her beer, and tossed some money on the bar. “You can’t just treat people’s lives like they’re contestants on a game show.”
“We can’t?” said Lapin.
“Bonsoir, everyone. Time for me to go walk my dog.” Caroline hopped off her stool and made for the door.
The others were silent as she went out.
“I suppose we seem terribly rude,” said Lawrence after the door had banged shut.
“It’s not as though we knew the Baron,” said Lapin. “And Caroline didn’t either. She just likes being huffy.”
“Well, she was close to that case last summer,” Molly added.
“So tell me more about this emerald,” said Frances. “Is it huge? About as big as a basketball?”
“Ah, the emerald! A tantalizing subject!” said Lawrence.
“He probably gave it to Esmé,” said Lapin with regret.
“Who’s Esmé?” said the other three, all together.
“You haven’t heard of Esmé Ridding? The actress?”
“Oh, of course I’ve heard of her,” said Frances. “What does she have to do with the Baron?”
“Only his mistress,” answered Lapin, grinning ear to ear with pleasure that for once he was the person everyone was paying attention to.
The theme for Molly’s first dinner was “Classic Périgord.” Not exactly cutting-edge, but she figured that could come later, once she’d built up some repeat business. And it made for an easier menu for the first time as she ironed out the process. She spent a contented hour surfing her favorite French recipe sites online and forcing herself not to check her email.
So let’s see, she thought. Duck breast is the obvious choice, so maybe I’ll avoid that. How about starting with a salade Périgourdine—a lot of tourists have probably never eaten duck gizzards and it will be hilarious telling them what they’ve just eaten and proclaimed delicious. Always good to put in a few opportunities for a laugh. And then, hmm, oh this looks amazing! Filet de Bœuf Grillé Sauce Périgueux. Beef tenderloin with a sauce of Madeira and truffles. I know I was thinking it wouldn’t be fancy, but that looks too good to pass up. And dessert…something that fits with the season…yes, this pompe aux pommes du Périgord fits the bill perfectly. A layered apple puff, I’ll probably need to make two or even three, if I get as many customers as I hope.
And there went the mornin
g, in a daydream of a house packed with paying hungry guests, the smells of roasting meat and pastry, hearty local wine, a few laughs, and a gently fattening bank account. Sometime the week after the Gala seemed like a good time to schedule it. Once the menu and shopping list were written out in detail, Molly broke up the tasks by day. First she needed to make flyers about the dinner and post them all over Castillac, and some in Bergerac and Périgueux as well. No sense doing any shopping until she had some idea of how many would be coming.
And they will come, right? she thought, having the first pang of insecurity as she printed off a stack of notices.
But she brushed that off, quickly ran a comb through her hair and said goodbye to Bobo. She jumped on the scooter with the flyers stuffed in a knapsack and headed into the village with a short list of things she felt she could safely buy ahead of time, such as pre-made puff pastry for the pompe aux pommes. At that time of day Edmond Nugent was safely behind the counter at Patisserie Bujold; if he ever found out that she was buying pre-made puff pastry he might never speak to her again. And in principle, she agreed with him. Homemade was always better. But she was still a novice when it came to making that labor-intensive dough, there was so much else to do…and she would absolutely search for a brand that used real butter. Smart cheating is how she thought of it.
Molly made good progress in Castillac, tacking up flyers everywhere she could think of and chatting with acquaintances and strangers as she went. Late in the day when she was almost done, a woman stopped her as she was putting a flyer up on the bulletin board of the organic market.
“Excuse me very much for troubling you,” said the woman, who Molly recognized was none other than the Baroness de Fleuray. Her accent was posh. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, dressed casually but expensively, her hair pulled into a low chignon. Her nose was too large for her face and her eyes too close together—which Molly noticed and then quickly chastised herself for being shallow and judgmental. She made an effort to stay poised and not shriek with excitement at meeting her.
“Bonjour, Madame,” said Molly with a big American smile. “How can I help you?”
“I know this is terribly forward of me,” the woman said. “I am Antoinette de Fleuray, from Château Marainte.”
“I am very pleased to meet you.”
“I have asked some people I trust, and they have told me you are the person to see when something terrible has happened.”
Molly laughed, then stopped abruptly, realizing it sounded very rude. “I don’t know about that,” she said, “but I have heard about your husband, and I’m very sorry.”
“Yes,” said Antoinette, casting her eyes down.
A long moment of silence. Molly’s thoughts and plans about the dinner were quickly pushed to the side as she dared to hope that she would be getting in on the Baron’s case after all.
“He was shot right in his salon,” Antoinette murmured. “And there are…as you can imagine, when a great deal of money is involved…at any rate, I apologize for having this conversation here on the street. I would prefer to go into details somewhere more private, if you are willing?”
Molly nodded. A million questions had already jumped into her head but again she held herself back.
“Would you come to the Château for a more complete conversation? Would it be possible perhaps on the Monday morning, after the Gala?”
“Of course. I would be more than happy to help, if I can.”
The Baroness smiled, though Molly noted it was hardly a smile of happiness, and went into the organic market to do her shopping. And Molly forgot about the pre-made puff pastry, the flyers, the dinner, and everything else…and began, with very few facts to work with, to think seriously about the murder of Baron Marcel de Fleuray.
7
“My darling, it is absolutely magnificent to see you! I’m only regretful that it is under such harrowing circumstances,” said Alexandre Roulier, settling himself on the sofa in the lounge at Château Marainte.
Antoinette’s face remained composed, not giving away any hint of the contempt she felt for this supposed business associate of her husband’s who tried so hard to speak the way he imagined aristocrats speak but which of course came out utterly wrong and false. Where did Marcel find these people, she thought, pouring Alexandre another cup of coffee.
“Thank heavens I find myself at loose ends for the moment, so I shall be able to stay for a short while to help in any way I can. I expect there is much to do and it is far too much to manage all on your own. Will the boys be arriving soon?”
Antoinette grimaced as Alexandre poured half of the small porcelain pitcher of cream into his coffee and bit off the end of a croissant. “Yes, they will be here tomorrow. The funeral is on Saturday. No need to stay after that,” she added.
“And who will be the notaire administering the estate? Shall I make some calls to see who can be trusted?”
“Really, there’s no need to bother about any of that, Alexandre. My sons and I, we are grieving but not incapacitated. In any event, there is nothing complicated about the probate. Marcel, quite lovingly I must say, told all of us what was in his will a few years ago. There will be no surprises.”
“As long as no new will is found,” said Alexandre, slurping his coffee.
“You must watch a lot of television dramas,” said Antoinette drily. “I’m going to go do my morning chores. You are settled in your room? Anything you need?”
“No, my dear Baroness, not a thing. Would you like some help? Admittedly I am not a country boy, but perhaps my enthusiasm for helping you would compensate?”
“Oh no, I am happy to do them myself. The more I carry on with regular duties, the better.”
“Understood,” said Alexandre with a solemn expression. Antoinette wasn’t sure but he appeared to be on the verge of tears. Crocodile tears, no doubt. She went out into the courtyard and stood for a moment with her face up to the sun, long enough to feel its warmth, and then continued to the barn to tend to her menagerie of a donkey, three goats, and a small flock of fancy chickens.
Alexandre leaned back on the sofa and smiled broadly while drinking his coffee and contemplating the various places he might search for the jeweled box. Thus far Antoinette had made no mention of it, which he knew meant nothing if he were going to appraise her silence objectively, but which he hoped meant that she did not know of its existence. He understood Marcel to be a man of secrets and it would not be surprising if he had not told his wife that he owned La Sfortuna, one of the most valuable emeralds in the world. Of course Marcel had told him about it, and Alexandre held that fact close to his heart as proof of the Baron’s high esteem and trust.
He got up and peered through the small slit of a window to see if he could see Antoinette or anyone else wandering about, but the courtyard was empty. Château Marainte was vast with many outbuildings, but there was no tumult, no hubbub of staff and family members going about their business. It was quiet and sedate, with not even a leaf moving on the small European weeping birch trees that punctuated the parterres.
Alexandre glugged down the last of his coffee, jammed the rest of the croissant into his mouth, and went down a long dark corridor towards the Baron’s salon. Surely that would be the first place to make a preliminary search? And best to get a jump on it before those insolent sons arrive.
The salon was in another wing of the building and to get there without cutting across the courtyard took much longer. Alexandre walked slowly, imagining himself as Baron Alexandre, then improving that to Marquis Alexandre, rich beyond all reckoning, with a pack of sycophants at his heels attending to his every comfort and anticipating his every whim. He knew where the salon was, having visited the Château several times over the last few years for Marcel’s famous hunting parties. He would miss those terribly. It had not been easy getting so close to Marcel that he was allowed to mingle with various government Ministers and titans of industry. Once the President of France had been due to attend, though he had bac
ked out at the last minute because of some sort of emergency in the Middle East.
At any rate, thanks to cutting Marcel in on some extremely profitable business deals, and taking on more than his share of the risk (not to mention the application of a tedious amount of flattery), Alexandre had broken into a stratum of French society that was normally closed to people like him. And he did not for one second intend for Marcel’s death to shut him back out again.
He had forgotten that one could only gain entrance to the salon from the courtyard, not from inside the Château, so after checking again to see if anyone was outside, he let himself out and made straight for the door as quickly as he could without running, hoping the gendarmes hadn’t locked it up.
And they had not. The door eased open without a creak and Alexandre was back in the room where he had smoked many cigars and enjoyed the smutty jokes of the Baron’s friends, drunk the finest cognac, and suffered through endless discussion of shotguns and boar in which Alexandre had no interest at all. These weekends in the Dordogne with Marcel were wonderful for the food, drink, and most of all contacts—but the hunting itself bored him to tears.
He walked around the console table to the main part of the room, flinching when he saw the large bloodstain on the rug. But there was no time for contemplation. He ran his eyes over the bookshelves, the gun rack, the antique desk. Marcel must have hidden it someplace ingenious, he thought, but why not give the obvious a chance, just in case? Quickly he opened all the drawers of the desk and rifled through the sparse contents. Nothing but papers and a small stuffed bear no more than two inches tall. He took a set of books out of each row of the shelves and looked behind them before putting the books back. He rapped on the mahogany paneled wall, listening for hollow sounds, thinking that there might be a secret compartment in there somewhere. He peeked behind the tapestries. He peered through the glass in the gun rack, looked under the cushions of the sofa, checked the pockets of a hunting coat that hung on a coatrack by the door.
