by Nell Goddin
Of course, it is the way of the world that no happiness is a hundred per cent pure, and even while she gorged on pastry and wandered around La Baraque seeing a million new things to spend money on, she was still wondering whether Maron had arrested Esmé. Worrying about where Nico was and how he was going to explain himself. And anxious about broken-hearted Frances.
Molly’s bedroom was very plain. Since funds had been limited from the beginning, she had wisely decided that any money spent on décor should go to rooms where guests would stay or visit. Her comforter was lumpy and not quite warm enough, the windows had no curtains, and Bobo had chewed up one end of the throw rug. Now, with as much as 800,000 euros coming her way—eight hundred thousand!—she imagined toile curtains and a sumptuous duvet cover. A thick, soft rug on which to put her feet when she got out of bed in the morning.
It was a staggering amount of money. Yes, she had made a very good salary back in Boston when she was a fundraiser, but her expenses had been ridiculously high and somehow she always felt she was on the verge of being broke. Here in Castillac, she walked and worked in the garden instead of going to a gym. She did her own nails, when she thought of it, which wasn’t often. Prices at Chez Papa were absurdly low. But more than that, she realized, opening another bag of liver treats for Bobo—she no longer spent money as a way to cheer herself up. In retrospect it was no wonder she had felt half-broke a lot of the time, because she used to go on shoe-shopping sprees and kitchen gadget sprees because, well, bottom line? She had been in a bad marriage and living in the wrong place.
The irony of realizing this as she was considering blowing a big chunk of cash on a bedroom makeover was not lost on her.
Bobo jumped up and ran barking to the door and Molly went to see who it was, glad for company and warning herself to keep quiet.
“My dear!” said Lawrence, kissing her on both cheeks and giving her a quick hug. “Have you turned off your phone? It’s not like you.”
“Ha! No, I guess not. I don’t know, I just…needed to chill out a little. You know how it is.”
Lawrence looked skeptical. “Well, I tried texting you but got no answer, and this seemed important enough news to deliver in person. I just heard that Maron is back from Paris. No arrest of Esmé, and from what my mole told me, there’s not going to be any arrest either.”
Molly was quiet. “Damn,” she said finally.
“You have something against that glorious creature? Do all women just hate her, is that it?”
“No, Lawrence, it’s not that. It’s…there are other considerations…what do you mean, ‘mole’? Who the hell gives you your information?”
But Lawrence just smiled serenely as he always did when questioned about his sources. “You know I can’t say, dearest. Castillac is a den of gossips, as you surely know by now. Madame Tessier is not the only one who can’t bear to keep a juicy tidbit to herself. Or himself, make no assumptions as you often remind me.”
“They can be so sneaky, assumptions,” Molly said, thinking about Nico. “Sometimes I even try to write out everything I think I know, and go through them one by one to see if maybe some items I considered facts were actually just wishes or hopes. Assumptions come in all flavors. Eh, sorry, I’m rambling. This time I’m not even properly on the case. Tell me what you think. If you had to guess right now, who do you think killed the Baron?”
Lawrence looked up at the ceiling and tilted his head. “Hmm. Well, I’m really in no position to make any guesses. I haven’t met any of the family and don’t know any of the details. The idea that it was Esmé certainly made sense, and was gloriously thrilling, in a way. A bad movie sort of way, admittedly. I’m a bit sorry to see her crossed off the list, if that is what’s happened. Can’t you go see Maron and weasel some information out of him? You two get on fairly well, don’t you?”
“More or less. I give him credit for never acting put out when I’ve helped on cases before.”
“‘Helped on’? Molly darling, you solved those cases while the gendarmes of the village ran in circles chasing their tails.”
Molly laughed but her eyes were distant. She was thinking that she had a duty to go to Maron, and right away, because if Esmé was out, he had to be told about Nico…but how could she rat out her friend, and her best friend’s almost-fiancée?
What in the world was she going to do?
Alexandre stayed at the window waiting for the Baroness to come back from the barn. He had seen the hurry Molly was in when she ran through the courtyard, and watched her leave after speaking to Antoinette. With the finely-tuned senses of an expert con-man, he knew without a doubt that something was up.
That morning he had made some calls, several to Paris and one to Geneva. La Sfortuna was going to be tricky to move and some of the details needed to be arranged in advance so that the transfer could take place without a moment’s delay. He looked forward to going to Switzerland. The air was so fresh, and he did appreciate fondue.
He thought about the expression on Molly’s face as she left the Château. In his mind he zoomed in on her eyes and the way her mouth was set, and he had not a single doubt that something had occurred to make that woman very, very pleased. They had La Sfortuna, he was sure of it. Impatiently he muttered to himself, so tired of the endless waiting and the long hours that Antoinette seemed to be able to waste at the barn. It’s not as though she had a herd of cows to look after! Nothing but a couple of mangy goats and an old donkey. How in the world did looking after them take so many hours a day?
Alexandre pondered some more about the safest ways to get himself and the jewel to Switzerland, about the deep pleasure he was going to feel when he finally held the gem in his hand, and a bit more about fondue. He did not once remember his friend the Baron.
At long last, Antoinette emerged into the sunshine of the courtyard. He could see straw clinging to her skirt.
This was going to be extremely enjoyable, he thought, and went to meet her.
37
Molly arrived at the door of the station the next morning at nine. She had fortified herself with two cups of strong coffee and a fresh croissant from Patisserie Bujold, but she was far from content. Half of her wanted to dance in the street with joy of being rich, and the other half was in agony over Nico and Frances, and at having to be the one to tell Maron her suspicions. She held out hope that perhaps Maron had missed something, that the case against Esmé could be strengthened again somehow. There was nothing to do but try to ask as many questions as Maron would allow.
“Bonjour Gilles,” she said when he opened the door. They kissed cheeks and Molly was relieved to see that Paul-Henri was absent, thinking that his presence might have made it more difficult for Maron to speak with her freely. It was obviously not at all according to protocol for anyone in the gendarmerie to share the details of a case with a civilian.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming over. Things pretty slow this Sunday morning?”
“You know how it is in the village. Half of them are still asleep. The others are thinking about lunch.”
Molly smiled, uncertain of how to start.
“Is there something I can do for you? Has there been some trouble?”
“Well, I…I have some information…but first, and I understand that it’s really none of my business but it would help immensely to know…I heard you had gone to see Esmé Ridding in Paris?”
Maron nodded but did not elaborate.
“I take it…that no charges will be filed?”
“I really can’t comment, Molly. As you know.”
“Of course. I understand. Well. You see, I’ve gotten to be friends with the Baroness, Antoinette de Fleuray. She asked me to…perform a service for her that required my spending time at the Château, and so naturally, we got to know each other. And….”
Maron waited. He had the clear sense that Molly was going to tell him something valuable, which if so, would allow him to stop slamming his head against the wall in frustration at this dead end c
ase. “Yes?” he prodded, as she looked away.
“I don’t want to say anything about this. I would much rather keep quiet. The guy involved, he’s a friend of mine, and I don’t like tattletales any more than the next person.”
Maron nodded sympathetically, wanting to reach down her throat and pull the words out.
Molly stood up and walked to the window. “Is there any way you could just tell me a little bit about why Esmé was cleared? I know—along with the rest of the world—that she was having an affair with the Baron. I know she made a scene at his funeral. And I saw her in Paris too, behaving in a way that, well, did not exactly look like bereavement. Seems to me that’s a lot of strikes against her.”
But after she spoke, Molly’s head drooped. She knew she had no real evidence against Esmé and was only trying to divert Maron’s attention in the actress’s direction, away from Nico. She was supposed to be all about the truth, not trying to confuse the picture, which could possibly allow a murderer to go free.
“Okay look, I guess there’s no putting this off any longer. I was talking to the housekeeper at Château Marainte, who told me that Nico—yes, that Nico, Nico Bartolucci—was at the Château the night of the murder. He failed to mention that to me or any of his other friends, which seemed…odd. And then something else came to light. Do you know Nico at all, Gilles?”
“No. I stop in at Chez Papa occasionally, of course. I know him by name, to say bonjour, but nothing beyond that.”
“I’ve known him for over a year. He’s one of the first people I met when I moved to Castillac last year. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting at the bar talking, and not about football and politics all the time either. We got to be real friends. And never once did he mention that in fact, he is the Baron’s nephew.”
Maron sat frozen. “Nephew?”
“Yes. On his mother’s side. His mother was Doriane de Fleuray, Marcel’s sister. Married to Gianni Conti, I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
“Yes, of course. And do you have some idea why he kept this a secret?”
“I don’t believe it was, not from the Fleuray side anyway. But Nico, for reasons I don’t entirely understand, did not want the connection known. Maybe that’s why he changed his last name.”
“Why would he do a thing like that? Did he have a falling out with his parents?”
“They were killed in a plane crash twenty years ago.”
Now Maron stood up and flexed his shoulders. “Do you have evidence that he killed the Baron?” he asked Molly point-blank.
“I don’t know,” she said, holding back tears. “I don’t know.”
Maron went back to his desk and pulled open a side drawer. He took off the rubber band holding the Fleuray documents together, the ones he had gotten from petty thief Malcolm Barstow: the letter from Esmé, the short list of countries, and the torn-off piece of paper with a note in the Baron’s handwriting. “Take a look at this,” he said, knowing he had already far overstepped police procedure but feeling as though he and Molly together were on the verge of pinpointing the killer and he did not dare shut her out now.
The note was written with pen and ink and though a few blots marred the short paragraph, it was perfectly legible.
This emerald, known as La Sfortuna, belonged to my sister, most beloved Doriane Lisette de Fleuray Conti, and though it has deep sadness associated with it, once I am gone, it rightfully belongs to her heir, my nephew.
Marcel de Fleuray
‘
There is no sorrow
Time heals never;
No loss, betrayal,
Beyond repair.’
“Do you know that poem?” asked Molly, feeling queasy at the realization that if the emerald did not belong to Antoinette, she was not going to be getting ten per cent of anything.
“Nah. I was never much for literature. So you’re telling me that this nephew in the note is Nico, bartender at Chez Papa. If he came from such an illustrious family, why on earth would he be filling glasses of beer for Alphonse? The Baron was Minister of the Interior, you realize.”
“I can’t say. Of course…it’s not uncommon for children to want a different path than their family wants for them. Maybe the Fleurays were pushy, wanting him to…I don’t know…be a Minister too?”
“Molly. Answer truthfully please. In your opinion, is Nico capable of murder?”
“Oh Gilles, who can say? Maybe we all are, if the right circumstances present themselves. I can tell you I’ve never seen Nico do anything at all violent.”
“I can’t the same for Esmé Ridding. She has an arrest record actually, though of course she was let off with nothing more than a sanction. But she assaulted a young man in a nightclub a few years ago. Broke his nose.”
Molly’s first thought was that the young man probably deserved it. “So, is she cleared or not?”
Maron hesitated. “In my view, no, Esmé is not off the list of suspects completely. She was at its top, at least before this information you have given me about Nico. But see, I’ve got nothing but the flimsiest circumstantial evidence against her. No forensics, no eyewitness. I needed a confession and I did not get one. She claims that indeed she fought with the Baron the night she was killed—she wanted him to leave his wife and marry her. She confronted him at Château Marainte, but drove off furious and spent the night in a hotel in Bergerac, crying on the phone to a girlfriend. As far as I can tell, those check out, though of course we have no idea what she actually said to the girlfriend. She could have been crowing about having done in the Baron.”
Molly sighed. “What a mess.”
“When did you last see Nico?”
Molly went through everything she could think of to help Maron in his search for him, and then headed back home, utterly dejected. If the scrawled note held up legally, she had just won and lost 800,000 euros in less than twenty-four hours. And perhaps ruined Frances’s life.
Once home, Molly was no longer thinking about toile curtains and soft rugs. The unbelievable windfall had not even been hers for a day, and its loss was like a stabbing pain between her ribs. But—there was not a thing to be done about it. If news of Nico’s inheriting a famous jewel had come just a month ago, she would have been ecstatic, but now she had no idea what to think. She sat on the sofa staring into space, idly rubbing Bobo’s chest and then belly as the dog flipped onto her back, running over the facts of the case, looking for any soft spots, any weaknesses, anything she believed to be true but did not know was true. She came up empty and went to bed hugging a pillow to her chest, feeling bereft in ten different directions.
It was not until the next morning that she went to the computer and did some searches.
Curious. Once again, my first impression was…incomplete.
She went to check in with Ervin and Sissy but their car was gone. She tried to rake some leaves, unsure about how to proceed with what she was piecing together. Then, impulsively, she jumped on the scooter and took off for Château Marainte, unable to let things sit for a moment longer.
The lot in front of the Château was empty but Molly parked and crossed the drawbridge anyway. She hoped to find Georgina before seeing anyone else. And she had not forgotten the man who watched her from the window.
Molly let herself inside when no one answered her knock. It was overstepping but surely the situation warranted it. Gratefully she heard a vacuum running upstairs and she flew up the wide staircase and walked toward the sound, finding Georgina in a sitting room she did not remember seeing during her search, not surprising in such a vast house.
“Bonjour Molly,” said Georgina, scowling and turning the machine off with her foot. “Antoinette is not here. She and Percival left yesterday, stopping by my house on their way out to ask if I would take care of the animals for a few days. Figured I’d get ahead on the vacuuming as long as I’m here.”
“Actually, it’s you I came to see.”
“Me?” Georgina laughed suspiciously. “Did you not approve of the gn
occhi?”
“Heavens no, it’s not about that! The gnocchi were fabulous, and thank you again for letting me use your grandmother’s recipe.”
“May she rest in peace.”
“Yes. So. I was wondering…you’ve known the Fleurays a long time, yes?”
“Eh, I suppose you could say that.”
“How about we make a cup of tea while we talk?”
Georgina nodded and they walked towards the kitchen.
“Well, this situation with Nico…it doesn’t look good for him, to be honest.”
“It breaks my heart. I was devoted to his mother. Devoted. And to see what this family—”
Molly waited. Georgina had filled a teakettle with water and plugged it in but she stood looking down at the floor with her mouth pressed closed.
“What about the family?” Molly prodded, trying to be gentle.
Georgina just shook her head. “Not for me to say.”
“Who is your loyalty towards? Your mistress, Doriane—don’t you think she would want you to help her boy?”
“I do want to help him! I never should have said anything to you, it was a terrible mistake!”
“But Georgina, covering up that he was here—that isn’t going to solve anything. What would fix things for Nico is finding the real killer.”
The housekeeper still stared at the floor, fidgeting. Silent.
“Just tell me this: why is Nico estranged from the Fleurays? You’re right here in the thick of everything, Georgina. And you’re clever, too, anyone can see that. I bet you have a pretty good idea what happened. I’m not asking to be nosy, please understand—more than anything I want Nico cleared of any suspicion. That’s what we both want.”
Georgina sat down on a stool and then got up and walked around the table. She ran one of her apron strings through her fingers over and over. “It was terrible,” she said, her voice guttural.
