by Susan Finlay
“Did you know this at the time of that murder?”
“No. I only found out after I left.”
“So you are Maura Elise Barrington, alias Maurelle Dupre and now Maurelle Elise Martin. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You say you were cleared of the murder in England, but the fact that you ran away before the case was solved means you are a flight risk in the current murder case.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m a suspect? Why? Because I was a suspect before?”
He reached into one of the folders, pulled out a photo of the victim, and handed it to Maurelle. He leaned back to watch her reaction. “Do you recognize this woman?”
She put her hand over her mouth. “This is horrible. Why would someone do something like that?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
No sign of lying. That didn’t mean much. “Perhaps you were in contact with her in some other way—online or through a mutual acquaintance.”
“No. I don’t know her.”
“She placed a phone call to your home last night, at a quarter past ten. Now, why would she do that if you didn’t know her in some way?”
Goddard saw a flash of concern in her eyes.
“Someone did call around that time. I answered but no one said anything. I waited and then they hung up. I assumed it was a wrong number.”
He raised one eyebrow. Not impossible, but there were too many coincidences. He waited, staring at her, intimidating her. “Let me tell you what I think. This woman knew something about the murder in England. She found you, came here, called your home, said she needed to talk to you about Jared Raybourne. You went out, met her in or near the cave.”
“You’re wrong. No one said a word on the phone and I didn’t go out.”
Reaching into the file, he pulled out another photo and handed it to her. “Do you recognize the flashlight in this photo?”
She gasped at the enlarged photo that showed dried blood all over the flashlight.
He said, “It’s yours, isn’t it?”
“I—I used it temporarily. But that was last summer. I must have left it behind. I’d forgotten all about it.”
“The police judiciare can detain you for up to forty-eight hours. After that, they can apply to the prosecutor to keep you for an additional twenty-four hours.”
“You’re detaining me?”
“Not yet. The police judiciare is on his way here.”
IN THE CAR park down the block from her business in Belvidere, Adele Raison exited her Peugeot and reached into the back seat for the large box filled with the new plates and glasses she’d bought because dishes were always getting broken. She shook her head and gritted her teeth. She was behind schedule. She should have had these supplies an hour ago and begun planning for tonight’s dinner customers. Her five employees should have been at work, too. But no. The shops had opened late, and three of her employees had told her they wouldn’t be at work because of the storm. Hah. Storms and power outages weren’t uncommon around here. People overreacted. Didn’t they know that business people couldn’t drop everything just because of bad weather? She needed the money her customers would bring in tonight. No sitting around moping over storm damage for her. Anyway, people will probably want to get out after that.
Adele dragged the box across the seat and grabbed hold of it the best she could, then slammed the car door with her knee. She set the box on the trunk to get a better grip on the heavy box and then trudged out of the car park and onto the path that led around the corner to her restaurant. My God this is heavy! She felt like she was going to drop the box any minute. If she was lucky, she might make it up the block to her business.
As Adele neared the front door of Le Belvidere Restaurant, in a ‘no parking’ zone directly in front of the door she almost ran into a parked white Renault. Merde. Didn’t the driver know he or she couldn’t do that? She shook her head. No. No. This won’t do. She had enough visibility problems without something blocking the door.
She sighed and set the box on the ground, dug her key out of her handbag, and unlocked the door. Propping the door open with a chair, she went outside, retrieved the box, and carried it inside. With that done, she closed the door, pulled out her mobile and dialed the Gendarmerie.
A man answered.
“I need to report an illegally parked car in front of my store.”
No one responded, but she could hear noises in the background.
“Hello, is anyone there?”
“Sorry, Madame. We are quite busy here today. We will send someone out as soon as possible. Give me your name, phone number, and address where we can find this car.”
She gave the requested information, then said in an angry tone, “If you’re too busy to come, I’ll call a towing service and send you the bill. How is that?”
“You mustn’t do that. Someone from the Gendarmerie will come soon.”
“How soon? My restaurant is opening for dinner in an hour. I need that car moved.”
“I’ll do what I can to send an officer there before you open. Perhaps the owner will return before then and move it himself.”
Adele hung up the phone and went back outside. Looking up and down the street, she saw a few people walking, two carrying bags with their purchases and one walking a dog. No one was walking in this direction. Merde, merde, merde.
She turned on her heel and approached the car. A bag sat on the backseat floor and a child car seat was strapped onto the car’s backseat. She shaded her eyes from the sun and looked more closely. Was that a woman’s handbag on the floor of the front seat? She straightened up and walked around the car. A flat tire on the driver’s side. That would explain why the car was left here. But why would someone leave her handbag? She looked again from the other side. A teddy bear lay on the back seat in the opposite corner.
She rushed back inside the restaurant and redialed the Gendarmerie.
RENE LAMONT EXITED his rental car, a sleek black Peugeot, in front of Chateau de Reynier, then opened the car’s back door to retrieve his briefcase and suit bag. With both hands full, he closed the car door with his hip and knew almost immediately that he’d made a mistake, because his hip joint cracked with the unusual movement. He sometimes forgot that he wasn’t young anymore and couldn’t move his body the way he used to do. He sighed and shook his head. I really must be more careful. He set the bags on the hood of the car to retrieve his suit jacket from the front seat and put it on. After years working as a businessman, he’d learned that suit jackets wrinkled if worn during long drives—and he had driven for nearly three hours. If one wanted to make a good impression, one should put them on only after arriving at their destination. He took a comb out of his pocket and ran it through his thinning gray hair. He grabbed the bags again and began walking toward the chateau’s entrance, briskly at first, but then slowing down. No, he definitely couldn’t move the way he used to. He paused, taking a deep breath. The scent of flowers filled his nostrils. Looking off to his right, he saw the source—a row of flowering bushes. Ah, that is a good sign. Perhaps this hotel will live up to its advertisement. Too often they did not. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was getting late in the day. At sixty, he liked to fit in an afternoon nap whenever possible and today’s nap was long overdue.
He turned to get a better look at the stately building and was suitably impressed. The stone chateau was three-stories tall, with dormer windows, multiple chimneys, and a blue-grey slate roof. Magnifique. Like a small refurbished castle, he contentedly mused; exactly as described on the website. He could have stayed in a newer inn in Belvidere for much less money, but the description said that the chateau was decorated in luxurious antiques. Why not surround himself in the beauty he so much enjoyed and specialized in? And who knew, maybe he could interest the owner in adding a few more items to their collection.
Entering the lobby, he continued to be pleasantly surprised. The place re
ally was living up to the advertisements, at least so far. He waited at the registration desk for an attendant. When no one appeared, he finally looked around for a buzzer. Not seeing one, he shrugged and set down his bags on the floor. Might as well have a better look around. His attention automatically drew to the centerpiece of the room—a beautiful carved grand staircase rising from either side of the registration desk. He wasn’t sure what kind of wood it was made of; perhaps walnut or cherry, he mused. The floors were made of the same wood but inlaid with lighter-color wood in an elegant pattern. Directly overhead, a lovely chandelier glittered. If he was correct, and he was pretty sure he was, he was looking at a Louis XV Bronze and Crystal Chandelier Circa 1890. Yes, this was the kind of place he loved.
He turned his attention to the room itself. A walk-in fireplace with a hearth rug in front, exactly as it might have been in the chateau’s glory days. Perfect. Exactly as he’d pictured it in his mind. What surprised him, though, was a black baby grand piano in a corner. He rushed over to it and rubbed his hand over the keyboard. A Pleyel piano, probably also circa 1890. He’d always dreamt of playing one of these, giving a solo in a crowded theatre. He pouted. The only audience he’d ever performed in front of was his schoolmates and they weren’t impressed. Not surprising. Children weren’t interested in art or culture. Most children, anyway. Of course René had been different. He’d always appreciated artwork and music. Antiques had followed, after he’d studied history in school.
He turned around and looked, but the receptionist hadn’t appeared yet. Not so prompt in that area. Oh well. Continuing to appraise the room, tucked in a corner near the back of the lobby, he spied a cozy sitting area. He went there and studied the paintings on the wall. Not bad. He’d seen better, though. He could change that. If he opened a gallery and shop here in Reynier, the owner would certainly find something more elegant to replace them with. Turning away from the paintings, he saw six chairs grouped around a round coffee table with a tall bookcase positioned behind a couple of the chairs. Ah, he thought, a pleasant place to meet other guests or relax and read during the evening. He would keep this cove in mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a large dark spot in the landscape outside. He approached the window and stared out at a big hole in a massive rock wall. It looked like the entrance to a tunnel.
“May I help you, Monsieur?”
He jerked his head toward the voice. A woman wearing a gray business suit, in her late-thirties or early-forties, he guessed, petite and average-looking with straight dark-blonde hair, had appeared at the lobby desk. “Oh, yes, Madame. I am René Lamont. I have a reservation.”
“Ah, yes, Monsieur, welcome. We’ve been waiting for you, hoping you wouldn’t cancel.”
An odd response. “Cancel? Why would I cancel?”
“You haven’t heard, then?”
He shook his head. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem.” She smiled, walked toward him, and said, “Here, I will help you with your bag.” She took his suit bag and walked over to the registration desk where she draped the bag over the counter. Pulling out a piece of paper from behind the counter, she glanced at it and then handed it to him. “I am Camille Wickliff. My husband is Jean-Pierre Wickliff, the patron of the chateau. If you’ll fill out this registration form, I’ll show you to your room.”
He completed the form and handed it back.
“I noticed something out the back window,” he said. “Is that a tunnel?”
“It’s the entrance to the main cave.”
“Really? Are there other caves, too?”
She nodded.
“Are they open to the public? Do you have cave tours?”
“Hmm. Well, no, we don’t have tours, exactly. Some guests like to explore a bit on their own. We loan out flashlights and helmets to our guests. Please let me know if you’re interested.”
“Thank you. I doubt I’ll be much good for cave exploring. For one, I have no suitable clothes for that. Also, once I neared sixty my knees developed arthritis. They aren’t so good anymore. I don’t suppose you know what that’s like—you’re much too young.” He grinned, and she smiled back. “I’m intrigued, though. I have friends and family back in Paris who would love that sort of thing.”
“Please send them our way,” Camille said.
IN EARLY EVENING, while the sun was low in the sky but not yet set, Maurelle stepped out of the Gendarmerie car, closed the door, and turned away. She didn’t look back as it drove away. How many hours had they kept her, incessantly questioning and accusing her? She’d lost track. A wave of nausea made her feel faint and though she hated that, it was probably the one thing that had convinced Captain Goddard to release her, at least for the moment.
As she walked slump-shouldered into Fabienne’s house, Fabienne rushed from the living room, practically knocking her over. She wrapped her arms around Maurelle and stroked her hair. “There, there, p’tite. Everything’s going to be all right.” She pulled back slightly and looked into Maurelle’s defeated face. “Dave will be home in no time.”
“Dave’s coming home early? Oh, no. Why is he doing that?”
Fabienne stood wringing her hands. “I’m afraid I called him. You were at the Gendarmerie for so long. I was worried. Dave will know what to do.”
“They’ll clear me soon. I don’t want this ending his book promotion tour. He’s really hopeful that this one will become a bestseller. Damn, damn, damn!” Maurelle could hear her own voice crack with emotion. “My problem could ruin everything for him.” She walked into the living room and slumped down into an overstuffed chair. Fabienne followed and sat across from her on the sofa.
“You can’t keep this a secret from him, you know. Everyone said I should call him.” Fabienne shrugged and made a pitiful attempt at looking contrite.
Maurelle said nothing, staring dejectedly ahead.
“Dave will make this all go away, you’ll see,” Fabienne said. “Like before.”
Maurelle tried to smile. But those two little words ‘like before’ sent chills through her body. Fabienne meant well, but she was an innocent in matters such as this. Fabienne, for all her years of life experience, had never been accused of a crime. Not ever. Not even once.
“Come into the kitchen. I’ll pour you some coffee.”
Maurelle nodded and got up, following her with robotic like motions. She sat at the kitchen table and watched Fabienne pour two fresh cups of coffee and carry them over, setting one in front of Maurelle.
Fabienne sat down in the chair next to her and asked, “How are you holding up?”
Maurelle shrugged, not trusting herself to speak. She set her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and rested her chin on them, then took a deep breath and blew it out. “What am I going to do? How could I have been so naive to think my past wouldn’t haunt me for the rest of my life?” She choked back tears. “For a while I thought my life was getting better, but now it seems like I’m back where I started; they’re accusing me of the murder, Fabienne.”
Fabienne’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything right away. She took a sip of coffee, shook her head, and sighed. “Try not to worry. Dave’s good at this kind of thing. He’ll straighten them out.”
Maurelle’s spirit sank even lower, the implication being that Dave had plenty of practice because of her checkered reputation. She shuddered to think what his reaction would be this time. He loved her, she knew. But what must he be thinking right now? She closed her eyes and remembered his reaction the first time. He had been horrified when she’d confided that she was a murder suspect in England. Afterwards, he’d come to believe in her innocence and had gone to great trouble to prove it. But a second time?
Fabienne rose from her chair at the kitchen table, prompting Maurelle to look at her. Fabienne’s eyes were full of sympathy and concern. “I told Dave you’ll be staying here with me until he returns. He’ll travel easier knowing that you’re not alone.”
Maurel
le nodded and smiled feebly, grateful for Fabienne’s kindness but sad that she was putting Fabienne and Dave in the middle of her problems yet again.
“Please eat something,” Fabienne prompted. “It won’t do you any good to go on a hunger strike.”
“I’m not,” Maurelle said. She hadn’t even noticed that Fabienne had placed a plate in front of her. She looked down at the croissant fresh from the oven and felt its warmth spread out, bringing with it the smell of—” She jumped up and ran from the room, straight into the loo. When she felt up to it, she forced herself back to the kitchen table.
As she sat back down at the table, Fabienne said, “Are you all right, dear? You’re pale as a ghost?”
Maurelle nodded and tried to smile, but the photo of the metal flashlight the captain had shown her sprang to mind. It was one of the flashlights she’d bought on her second day in Reynier. God, if she had to leave one behind, why couldn’t it have been one of the flimsy purple ones? After buying several flashlights, plus a healthy stock of batteries, she had ventured deeper within the cave, partly out of curiosity and partly out of desire to entrench herself further from the cave’s entrance, where she’d feel more secure. The limestone walls had shown some erosion, and passages were often narrow. That hadn’t deterred her. She’d gone deeper inside until a thunderous flapping noise had echoed around her and scared her into a heart pounding retreat toward the entrance, at one point causing her to stumble on rocks on the passage floor, twisting her ankle mildly in the process. Stopping to catch her breath and rest her ankle, she’d turned to look over her shoulder, an action which had become second nature to her. As she did, a dozen or more tiny bats flew overhead. After that, she’d stayed near the entrance where bats wouldn’t bother her. Knowing that, if needed, she could duck deeper inside the cave to hide temporarily had comforted her.
She sighed. It was hard to believe she’d really lived for a time like that. Until now, she’d thought all of her troubles were behind her and she could forget that any of it had ever happened; maybe that would be true if she had taken all of the flashlights with her when she left. Like her mother used to say: hindsight is 20/20. Lot of good that does me.
