Fabrice was standing at the bottom step.
“I made you a list,” he said, holding up a piece of paper.
“A list of what?”
“Things I need from the store. I want roast chicken tonight.”
“Oh, good,” said Cady, coming down the stairs to join him. “You must have read my mind.”
He didn’t respond.
“I mean, I was just thinking about food.” The note included a hand-drawn map of the village, including the location of the boulangerie and a grocery store.
Fabrice grunted. “You can use my car. The keys are on a nail by the door, and the shopping bags, too.”
“Does that old car run?” Cady asked. “The one in the shack out back?”
“What, the Deux Chevaux? Of course not. Take the Citroën. The French are great engineers. We invented cars, you know.”
“Is that so? I seem to remember something about an American named Henry Ford. . . .”
He waved her off dismissively. “Ford was a latecomer to the scene. He invented the assembly line, is all. The internal combustion engine is the heart of the automobile, and that was invented by Lenoir.”
“Huh. Well, learn something new every day.”
Fabrice looked curious. “What car do you drive in the United States?”
“A Toyota.”
He snorted and mumbled, “Japanese. It figures.”
“Oh, by the way,” Cady said, “there was a kid out in the courtyard earlier, throwing rocks at the windows.”
Fabrice grunted.
“He did one of these,” she said, copying the arm gesture in as discreet a fashion as she could, minus the bravado.
“Ah yes, the bras d’honneur.”
“The ‘arm of honor’?”
“It’s meant sarcastically. It is a very rude gesture.”
“Yeah, I got that. Do you know who he is?”
“C’est un enfant à problème,” he said. Meaning, essentially, that he was a jeune voyou. A bad kid.
“I thought I might track him down, get him to come back and clean up his mess.”
Fabrice’s expression was unreadable. “Go buy the groceries, please. The boy is no concern of yours.”
* * *
• • •
The trip into town was an easy drive down a straight highway. Tall rows of sycamore-like trees lining the road created a regal route, though a lethal one should a driver veer out of the lane.
To her left were extensive fields of lavender, and to her right were acres of olive trees. A few stone farmhouses, fallow fields, and vineyards dotted the low hills. The appearance of a walled cemetery announced the entrance to the village, its narrow and twisting streets flanked by stucco town houses.
Fabrice’s map was easy to follow. He had even drawn tiny cars to indicate where to park.
The town, though small, had cell phone reception, and Cady immediately called the car rental company, which, after a few minutes of debating, agreed to send a tow truck from Avignon. Next she called the landlady of the room she had reserved in Saint-Véran and apologized for having to cancel her reservation. The woman was so surprised to hear that Cady was staying at Château Clement that she didn’t even argue. Finally, Cady sent Olivia the rather histrionic text she had written the night before, along with a P.S. about how lovely the area was now that she was no longer stranded and the sun was shining.
Business completed, Cady paused to regroup and poke around the village. Her stomach growled again. That settled it: first stop, the boulangerie.
The store was crowded with locals purchasing their day’s supply of baked goods, but Cady didn’t mind the long line. She inhaled the aroma of fresh bread, her mouth watering at the sight of arched croissants and square pain au chocolat, flaky layers glistening with butter; tiny quiches studded with ham and herbs; long baguettes with their characteristic slash marks; the slightly sweet loaves of puffy brioche. When it was her turn, she asked for two baguettes and a round boule de campagne.
Then she ordered a pan bagnat, or bathed bread. It was a sandwich filled with typical Provençal ingredients: tomatoes, bell peppers, black olives, anchovies, and tuna—a salade niçoise between slices of crusty bread.
Cady was so hungry she couldn’t resist taking a small bite while driving. Eating behind the wheel was considered a no-no in France, though, so she looked for a park, like those where she had often eaten lunch in Paris. Remembering the cemetery, she pulled in.
A gray-haired man dressed in a black overcoat, a white felt scarf wrapped around his neck, was tending to one of the markers. The graves were raised above the ground, with marble slabs covering the tombs. Many headstones held little oval photos of lost loved ones. Most were adorned with flowers, both fresh and plastic. Some had framed photographs sitting atop the slabs; others had military honors, or religious icons. A huge monument in the very center of the cemetery was emblazoned CLEMENT and listed dozens of family members. Clearly Fabrice’s family had lived in this area, and had been important, for a very long time.
It seemed disrespectful to eat in the cemetery, so Cady sat in the car and finished her sandwich, washing it down with a bottle of Perrier. The pan bagnat was luscious, just as good as the Parisian sandwiches she had savored.
Meal over, Cady consulted her map and drove to the grocery store, which was even more fun than the boulangerie. Cady meandered up and down each aisle, lingering over the unfamiliar packets of pâté and saucissons, potato chips boasting the flavor of goat cheese, brightly colored packages of children’s cookies, long whole vanilla beans in plastic tubes.
Her curiosity temporarily sated, Cady settled down to the business at hand: tonight’s meal. Fabrice’s list, written in a spidery, old-fashioned hand, included a whole chicken, potatoes, green beans, lettuce, preserved chestnuts, chocolate mousse, pistachio gelato, and a bottle of absinthe.
She added a few other staples to her cart and, unable to resist, tossed in a bag of goat-cheese-flavored chips and a “Yes” candy bar because the name appealed to her.
The unsmiling cashier was a blond woman in her thirties, who ignored Cady as she rang up the groceries but paused at the pistachio gelato.
“You are buying for Monsieur Fabrice Clement?” she asked.
“How did you know?”
“It is his usual Tuesday order. He called and said someone would be in to pick it up today.”
“Is that right?” He told me he didn’t have a phone, Cady thought. “Yes, I’m staying with him for a little while.”
“You’re staying with Monsieur Clement? At Château Clement?”
“Yes.”
“You are American?”
Cady nodded. “From California. My name’s Cady Drake.”
“I’m Annick Boyer. Enchantée. How is Monsieur Clement?”
“Recovering from a hurt ankle, but otherwise okay. Do you know him, then?”
She laughed. “Of course. Everyone knows who he is. But he almost never comes into town, and does not allow people to visit him.”
“He has his groceries delivered, I take it?”
“Yes, Johnny used to deliver to him, but there was a problem.” She shook her head. “C’est dommage. I’m sorry to give up on him, but I’m afraid he’s a bad kid.”
“I saw a teenage boy on the grounds this morning—dark hair, tall, thin . . . ?”
She nodded. “Probably Johnny. Causing trouble?”
“I wanted to speak with him about something,” said Cady. “Do you know where I could find him?”
“His family lives on rue Champs. But I wouldn’t go over there, if I were you. It’s a difficult situation; the mother died, the father’s not around much—works a lot and drinks too much. It is not very nice.”
Cady nodded. “Okay, thank you. Is there somewhere in town where I could check my e-mail?”
“Thanks. Hey, is there a museum in town, or some other source of local information?”
“How do you mean?”
“I would like to find information about the history of Saint-Véran. I’m interested in the old carousel that used to stand on the Château Clement property.”
“The carousel! My grandmother said her mother remembered riding the château’s carousel during holidays.”
“Really?”
She nodded, warming to the theme. “The château was famous for opening its gates to the entire village for feast days, La Fête du Muguet, the fourteenth of July, that sort of thing.”
Cady knew the fourteenth of July was Bastille Day, but had never heard of the other holiday.
“Why did it stop?”
She pushed out her chin and tilted her head in a “who knows?” gesture. “World War I came along, the Clement family lost their money, and the lady of the manor died. There were rumors about her.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“In a village, there is always gossip, no? I really don’t remember. It was all long before my time. I’m sorry, I should help the next customer.”
Only then did Cady realize a woman was waiting behind her, a basket of groceries on her arm.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Je vous souhaite une bonne journée.” The cashier wished her a good day.
Cady returned the sentiment, packed her items in the canvas tote bags Fabrice had given her, and headed back to the car.
Since she hadn’t brought her computer along, she decided she would check out the café and send Olivia a proper e-mail on her next trip to town. Navigating her phone’s tiny keyboard to compose a long message required more patience than Cady could muster.
It was a quick trip back to the château, where Cady parked the Citroën behind the main building. She carried the bags in through the side door, where Lucy greeted her, wagging her tail lazily. There was no sign of Fabrice, so Cady busied herself putting away the groceries and then snooped through the château a little more, nearly getting lost in the dizzying maze of flights and corridors, Lucy’s nails clicking on the wooden floors as she trailed Cady from room to room. Besides empty chambers she found a nursery complete with a few dusty wooden toys, a sunroom with mostly broken panes, a pool table with ruined felt, a bundle of lace and shattered silk that might once have been a fine gown, and more carved rococo fireplaces and lintels.
When she stumbled upon a library that appeared to be in use—a manual typewriter and stacks of papers crowded the desk—Cady decided she had trespassed enough. She could only imagine Fabrice’s reaction if she were to barge in on him in his private study.
So she returned to the kitchen, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work. The kitchen wasn’t as bad as much of the château; still, the stove hadn’t been scrubbed well in a good long while. Finally satisfied, she began to prep the chicken and vegetables for roasting, then cleaned the fireplace of ashes and brought in several armfuls of firewood from the woodshed to build up the fire.
How had Fabrice managed by himself for so long? Had Bad Boy Johnny been helping him? And what had happened between the two of them?
And what rumors had the woman at the grocery store been referring to with regard to Josephine Clement? What had this old château witnessed, over the years?
Finally the popping sound of tires on gravel interrupted her musings and heralded the arrival of the tow truck from Avignon.
CHAPTER THIRTY
PRESENT DAY
CHTEAU CLEMENT
Cady
Cady put the chicken and vegetables in the oven to roast so that they would be ready at six and would have time to rest before she and Fabrice sat down to dinner at six thirty.
At six twenty-five, she called Fabrice to the table. He appeared in the doorway, looking surprised. “Dinner? At this hour?”
“What’s wrong with the hour?” she asked.
His expression suggested she must be an alien life-form. “I don’t eat dinner until eight thirty or nine.”
“Oh. Well, then, today will be a new experience.”
He glared at her. She returned the stare, unblinking.
“Fine, we’ll eat,” he grumbled. Opening a drawer, he took out a flashlight and handed it to her. “Go down to the wine cellar and bring up a Sancerre from the Haut-Goujon.”
“A Sancerre?” Cady repeated, unfamiliar with the many varieties of French wine. In her world, wine was red or it was white.
“Oui. From the Haut-Goujon.”
“Haut-Goujon. Got it,” she replied, making a mental note. Sancerre, Haut-Goujon. “And where might I find the wine cellar?”
Fabrice showed her a small door off the hall. “Down those stairs, to the left. I can’t remember if it’s the second or third door. You will see—it is a room with many bottles of wine.”
“Very funny,” Cady said. She took a deep breath and started slowly down the stairs, her flashlight piercing the darkness below. She glanced back at the doorway. Fabrice stood there, backlit by the lamp in the hallway.
Cady shivered. She felt as if the damp stone walls were closing in on her, and she batted spiderwebs away from her face as she descended.
At the bottom of the stairs, she swung her flashlight beam around the cellar, noting a series of groin vaults and broad stone arches that led in many directions. Some of the arches opened onto cramped windowless rooms, but others were larger.
Okay, this is most definitely where the killer lurks at night.
Either that, or . . . could this have been the dungeon at one time, where the seigneur of the area locked up recalcitrant peasants? Did French châteaux even have dungeons? She wished she knew more about French history.
Olivia had been right about one thing, at least: France was not what Cady had expected.
After running into a few dead ends, she located the wine cellar. It was a dark, low-ceilinged space, reminiscent of a cave, and she had to crouch to enter through the stone archway. The cave smelled of wine and must, and contained half a dozen huge oak barrels as well as numerous wooden racks filled with dusty bottles.
“Sancerre, Haut-Goujon,” she repeated, checking label after label, but without luck. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, my dear Sancerre.”
After many minutes of searching the wine racks, pulling out first one bottle and then another, wiping off the dust and reading the label, she gave up. The chill and gloom of the place were getting to her, so she grabbed three bottles at random and hurried upstairs to the warmth and brightness of the kitchen.
“I said the Sancerre,” Fabrice groused when she set the bottles on the table.
“This was the best I could do before the killer found me.”
“What?”
“I tried, but it’s a little confusing down there, not to mention cold and dark. You’ll have to draw me a map next time if you want a particular bottle. For now, let’s eat.”
“Red wine with chicken,” Fabrice complained, uncorking the bottle and pouring a deep red liquid into two goblets. “It is an abomination.”
“So don’t drink it,” Cady replied, setting the baguette and a small plate of butter on the table, then taking her seat.
Fabrice gave a little half smile. “Bon appétit.”
That said, he tucked into his food.
Lucy kept a vigil close by, alert and expectant, and throughout their meal Fabrice fed the dog so much of the chicken that Cady finally said: “Maybe next time I should make Lucy her own bird.”
Fabrice chuckled and slipped another chunk of succulent thigh meat to the canine.
“So, you never asked me what brought me all the way from California,” Cady said.
He didn’t reply.
“I
have this wooden rabbit. It’s a carousel figure, and I—”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people obsessed with that carousel.”
“Who else is obsessed with it?”
“Every once in a while, a stranger comes along, asks to buy it, to look at it.” He waved his hand, as though smelling something noxious.
“People are interested in history,” said Cady. “That’s what brought me to France. I was in Paris taking photographs of carousels for a book.”
He helped himself to more potatoes.
“Good dinner?” Cady asked, pouring him more wine.
He shrugged.
“So . . . the carousel’s still here? In the outbuilding?”
He remained quiet for so long that Cady assumed he wasn’t going to answer. But finally he said, “It’s not even recognizable anymore. The place caught fire a long time ago, and then things got lost.”
“Could I see it?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Well, as I started to tell you, I have a carousel figure in the shape of a rabbit. I call him Gus because I always thought he was carved by Gustave Bayol. But it turns out he wasn’t. Anyway,” Cady added hastily, seeing his attention drift to the dog again, “he fell over and I found a box in his belly, with a photograph that I believe was taken by your great-grandfather. And in the background is the carousel.”
Fabrice let out a long sigh and washed down the last of his chicken with wine.
“I could get the box from my room. Maybe you would recognize the woman in the photograph.”
“I don’t have time for such nonsense.” He got up, tossed his napkin on the table, and limped out of the kitchen.
Cady remained at the table for a long time, wondering if she should follow him or if he was coming back. Finally she got up, cleared the table, and washed the dishes.
The dog arched her back like a cat, stretching so hard that Cady heard her spine crack.
“I guess it’s you and me, Lucy,” Cady said softly, grabbing her flashlight. “Let’s go stir up the ghosts outside, shall we?”
The Lost Carousel of Provence Page 16
