“But if I eat another bite, I’ll spoil my dinner.” I gave his hand a fond squeeze. His skin felt papery with wrinkles. “You know I would never risk ruining a wonderful French meal.”
“Sometimes I think you are française at heart, Hayden.” He beamed at me approvingly, proud of his heritage. “Except that your French still has not improved. Your accent? Terrible!”
Monsieur wagged his finger at me with stern disapproval, reminding me of the hours I’d spent at his side, scrubbing spoons and learning to make a couverture without seizing the chocolate. It was true that Philippe had seen something in me—some talent for tasting and developing chocolate that I still couldn’t explain. But building that talent had taken work. Lots of it.
I apologized in my poorly accented French. Unlike chocolate, languages aren’t something I have a particular affinity for. I understand and can get by in a variety of foreign tongues—French, Italian, Spanish, a smattering of Japanese and Mandarin—but for me, conversing with the locals during my travels usually involves a lot of hand gestures and hope. My method is to pantomime, smile, and offer a compliment whenever possible.
That’s what I did then. “Your new atelier is beautiful.”
We both gazed around the space, housed in a converted barn on the perfectly manicured grounds of the Vetault family’s seventeenth-century château. I’d be sleeping in that château tonight and every night during my stay—something I hadn’t done in the past, while working with Philippe. Then I’d been barely out of my teens (sometimes sulkily) globe-trotting with my parents. Now I was old enough to appreciate the atelier’s ancient oak beams, pristine plastered walls, and shining open spaces.
“I needed it.” Philippe turned away, busying himself with some old Breton chocolate molds. His hands shook slightly.
“Your shop was overrun with customers?” I guessed, remembering its cramped quarters where we’d worked together.
I’d rented a car—a compact Citroën with a standard transmission and a French-voiced GPS—near the train station. But my short route from the walled city of Saint-Malo to the château hadn’t taken me past La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. Its name roughly (and aptly) translates to “The House of Small Pleasures.”
Every one of Monsieur’s chocolates was a miniature delight.
“Oui, something like that.” Philippe glanced toward the barn’s upstairs hayloft. I doubted it contained any hay these days. His gaze swerved to me, startling me with its . . . sadness? “I am glad you are here, Hayden. It has been too long.”
Aww. I felt almost overcome with affection for him. Thanks to Monsieur, I’d found my true calling. Without Philippe—without his exacting ways, his expertise, his inexplicable faith in me—I would never have discovered my gift for chocolate.
Any talent that can make people smile the way mine does is pretty wonderful, I’d say. I owed it all to Monsieur Vetault.
“It has.” Smiling, I squeezed his hand again. Although we’d greeted each other with les bises—the expected French cheek kisses that were de rigeur in these parts—hugging my mentor was out of the question. To the French, an easy American-style hug was unthinkably intimate. “I’m so happy you’re doing well. I can’t imagine you retiring, though. What will you do? Fishing? Antiquing? Traveling?” I had another, likelier idea. “Spending time with les petits-enfants?”
At my French, he brightened. He also chuckled and shook his head. “Grandchildren? Not yet. Although my Nathalie is engaged.”
Philippe mentioned that his daughter was busy working in Paris. Her arrival would be unavoidably delayed, he explained. I remembered her only as a young woman, about my age, who’d had more interest in the beaches and boys of Saint-Malo than in the family chocolate business. That long-ago summer, Nathalie Vetault had gotten bronzée (tanned). I’d gotten educated in chocolate varietals and molding techniques. I wasn’t sorry.
I wondered if Nathalie would be taking over the family business after Philippe’s retirement was official—in a few days, after his party. But before I could ask, my mentor took my arm gallantly in his and steered us both toward his atelier’s door.
“But you will not want to spend your entire visit to Saint-Malo talking with an old man,” Monsieur informed me. He waved outward. “You should go out! Explore the centre-ville! Have fun! You spent all your time working when you were here last.”
“I was learning. And I was loving it.”
Philippe gave an offhanded Gallic wave. “You were a natural talent. I gave you a direction to follow, nothing more.”
That’s where he was wrong. “You gave me everything.”
I was grateful to him for it, too. But I didn’t want to embarrass Philippe by being overly sentimental. His proud stance and upraised chin told me he didn’t want to be fussed over.
“You can repay me with a dance at the Fest-Noz tonight. I will have a surprise announcement, but after that, I am yours.”
A surprise announcement? I was intrigued. But I knew it would do no good to try wheedling the news from Monsieur before he was ready. He wouldn’t crack. “Won’t Madame Vetault object?”
“A Frenchwoman knows that loving is not possessing.”
I grinned. “That’s doesn’t answer my question.”
“It will be good for Hélène to see how much my young protégée appreciates me,” Philippe stated. Chivalrously, he guided me out into the sea-scented air. “Sometimes wives forget.”
I didn’t see how anyone could not treasure my beloved, talented mentor. But I didn’t know Hélène Vetault well. During that transformative summer, I’d only had eyes for chocolate.
Then, too, château Vetault had been a private residence at that time—one that I, as a mere trainee, had not been invited to visit. Given the French tendency toward formality, I wasn’t surprised. It hadn’t meant that the Vetaults were unfriendly—only that, to them, trust and closeness needed time to develop. In Brittany, as in the rest of France, there was value to be found in waiting—waiting for wine grapes, cheeses, formal parks and gardens, fine artwork, and relationships to all deepen with time.
As though acknowledging that, Philippe and I stood outside his atelier, gazing over the landscape. The areas surrounding the family château were all manicured in traditional French style, strict but lush, giving the appearance of many outdoor rooms bordered by hedges and topiaries, flowers and pergolas, dotted by fountains and ponds and tidy gravel paths. In the distance, the cliffs that supported the château gave way sharply to the sea. From our vantage point, though, the ocean appeared as harmless as a misty gray lake—one that was enormous and sounded like surf.
It was beautiful, that was for sure. But I couldn’t wait to get inside the château, which had become a luxurious B&B while I’d been away. Somewhere upstairs was a room with my name on it, sporting a grand four-poster bed, multiple tall, toile-curtained windows looking onto the gardens, and antique water taps reading chaud (hot) and froid (cold) in the tiled bathroom. I was looking forward to catching up on some non-chocolate-related, noncompulsory reading while I was visiting Saint-Malo this weekend.
Savoring a novel while in a French bubble bath? Yes, please!
“I would be honored to dance with you, Monsieur,” I said.
“Flattery, bah!” Philippe squeezed my arm. Then, gruffly, he added, “Allez!” Go! He gestured outward. “It will be dark soon. The Fest-Noz waits for no one. Especially not a pokey American.”
He gave me a wink, reminding me that I’d discovered more than a precocious talent for chocolate that summer. I’d also uncovered a tendency toward procrastination. Monsieur knew that about me. He knew . . . but like my best friends, he loved me anyway.
On a rush of affection, I gave him a cheeky salute. “Oui, chef!” Yes, boss! “Immédiatement, chef! Merci, chef!”
“À bientôt!” See you soon.
Philippe patted down his chocolate-splattered apron and strolled inside his atelier to work. No wistfulness. No looking back. Straight ahead. That was my mentor.
Practical and direct.
When I’d disappointed him with my chocolate-making efforts, I’d always known it. Monsieur had always been demanding; I’d always tried again. Something in Philippe had kindled an urgency in his trainees to do well. I hadn’t been Monsieur Vetault’s only protégée, but I was pretty sure I’d been the first. Until I’d wandered in, killing time while my parents delved into (yet another) experimental archaeological project, Philippe had never considered working with an outsider—someone beyond his village.
I liked to think I’d expanded his horizons, too.
Smiling to myself, I headed for my Citroën to grab my things. Almost everything I owned in the world came with me when I traveled—all of it fitting into two carry-on bags and a crossbody purse. Then I went to check in. It was time to meet my dance competition for the Fest-Noz later that night.
Inside, Madame Vetault was waiting for me.
Two
It was l’heure d’apéro (think cocktails and nibbles) by the time I made my way up the château’s grand front steps and into its marble foyer. A crystal chandelier glimmered overhead; tasteful antique furnishings highlighted the house’s symmetrical architecture and graceful mullioned windows. A low conversation came from somewhere in front of me, full of French sibilance.
That sound was one of the reasons the French language can be challenging, especially for the linguistically challenged like me. La langue français often joins its words—something called enchaînement—to improve its sound. Add in liaison—the practice of pronouncing the (usually) silent letters at the ends of certain words if they’re followed by a vowel—and you have something that often sounds like a delightful, melodic, French mishmash.
Undaunted, I followed that sound past a sweeping stone staircase and a set of French doors, my trusty Converse sneakers silent against the finely detailed rugs. Honestly, in such plush surroundings, I felt a little out of place. In my line of work, I usually don’t need to wear anything fancier than kitchen clogs and a chef’s jacket, with a T-shirt and jeans underneath. Anything nicer gets destroyed in a professional kitchen.
I was underdressed for the occasion, but by the time I realized it, it was too late. I was just going to have to wing it. I slung my duffel higher on my shoulder, picked up my wheelie suitcase to avoid scuffing the floor, then turned a corner.
The French conversation I’d heard burbled to a stop.
Because it had been being conducted by one woman.
Caught midway through talking to herself, she brought herself up short. She peered at me through bespectacled eyes, her auburn hair twisted behind her head into what had probably once been an elegant chignon and was now (to put it politely) unkempt. With one hand, she held a wineglass full of red wine. With the other, she clutched a pencil, which she’d been using to press the buttons of an antiquated looking adding machine—the kind with a roll of paper spooling out of it. Travis would have loved it.
“Bonsoir, Madame!” I was surprised, but I wasn’t a buffoon. I knew what was expected here. The French pride themselves on good manners. “J’espère que je ne vous dérange pas, mais je—”
I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I . . . didn’t get to finish speaking in my halting French. The woman tossed away her pen with a careless gesture, then came at me with tipsy wobbliness.
That’s right. Madame had been enjoying the cocktail hour while performing her old-timey bookkeeping. She was a bit drunk.
That explained the one-sided conversation I’d heard.
Oddly, it had sounded sort of . . . argumentative, though.
“Come in! Come in!” She set aside her wineglass— clearly a last-minute decision, judging by the way she clanged that delicately stemmed goblet onto the counter. It fronted the nook she’d been standing in, which appeared to be an improvised front desk for the B&B portion of the château. “We have been expecting you!” she assured me in heavily accented English. “Your drive, it was good? The train? No strikes?” She noticed I wasn’t answering and added, “Do not worry. Pfft! Your French does not matter!”
Her breath blasted me with fruity Beaujolais, pushed by her dismissive pfft! sound. Do not worry. Your terrible French does not matter was the implication. I could hardly take offense.
My French was subpar. I was the first to admit it.
Picking up her wine, she peered at me again. “Cat got your tongue?” A wild laugh. “Do not worry! I speak very good English!”
That was a relief. But I was puzzled. Was this really Hélène Vetault, my mentor’s wife? Why had Monsieur not mentioned that his wife might have been knocking back le vin since lunchtime?
Maybe someone else was supposed to be checking me into the B&B. Maybe the Vetaults were merely family figureheads, who left the day-to-day running of the château’s lodgings to someone else?
Surreptitiously, I sneaked a glance around. I glimpsed an entryway leading to a dining room edged by more French doors and a terrace, lit against the approaching sunset by golden lamps. I saw a passageway leading to an enormous sitting room, another hallway, and a multipaneled door nearby with a privé sign on it.
Private. The curious side of me wanted to open it.
Instead, I offered Madame Vetault a handshake.
“Thank you.” I smiled at her. “I’m Hayden Mundy Moore. Monsieur Vetault invited me to his retirement party.”
“Of course, he did. Of course! You are the famous protégée! Everyone has heard of you.” Warmly, she ignored my outstretched hand and leaned forward to offer me cheek kisses—air kisses, really. They left me inhaling her delicate perfume along with the tannic, fruity aromas of red wine. “Welcome to château Vetault!”
She threw out her arms, almost splashing us both with wine.
Unfazed, she gulped more wine. Conspiratorially, she leaned nearer. “I am Madame Vetault.” She gave me a tipsy nod. “And you are our honored guest, Madame Mundy Moore.”
“Please, call me Hayden.”
“Unthinkable.” Madame dismissed that idea with a pretty moue and a head shake—quintessentially French. Attractive and soft spoken despite her obvious tipsiness, she wore a ladylike navy dress in lightweight wool, paired with a scarf and slingback pumps. “Perhaps you would like some wine? Our dining room is closed this evening, because of the Fest-Noz, but I happen to have an open bottle at the front desk. It is very good.”
I didn’t doubt it. But because I’d eaten nothing but chocolates for hours, I politely declined. I was a lightweight, and I knew it. Danny often teased me about my low tolerance for alcohol, dating back to our days trawling Southern California dive bars together. All the same, we’d managed to knock back a few pints in some of those cozy British pubs recently.
“Are you sure?” Madame Vetault pressed, looking concerned.
“Yes, thank you.” I glanced at that private door behind her, still drawn to it. Sleuthing had changed me. Did I really prefer digging up secrets to savoring a nice Beaujolais? “That’s very kind of you, but I should probably get ready for the Fest-Noz.”
I’d experienced that time-honored nighttime festival when I’d been in Brittany years before. The fête (party) was unlike anything I’ve encountered in America. If I had to describe it, I’d liken it to a music fair crossed with Independence Day. Everyone in the village turns out to enjoy live music and traditional dancing, plus singing, food, drinks, fireworks displays, and more. Some party until midnight or later, for days at a time. The Fest-Noz was not at all lightweight. It was held in great affection by the local people, most of whom remembered attending as children.
For Monsieur’s retirement, I would have expected a fancy celebratory dinner at the château, not a raucous French street festival. But Philippe hadn’t explained the choice of venue, and I hadn’t wanted to pry—not until we’d had more time together, at least. Maybe Philippe wanted to share his retirement fête with the entire village? He had lived there his whole life.
Hélène’s gaze flicked over me. She gave a solemn nod.
“Oui. You will want to change before the celebration,” she agreed after assessing my jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, and casual jacket. In moments, she’d gone to the front desk and produced an oversize key on a gilt fob, along with directions to my room. “It would not do justice to Monsieur Vetault or to the patrimoine if you arrived at the fête looking. . . .” She trailed off, giving a vague gesture of disapproval with her wineglass. “That way.”
I wanted to defend myself and my ensemble (such as it was). But just as I opened my mouth, the château’s front door opened, too. All thoughts of wardrobe and patrimoine (the vaunted French sense of heritage) dropped out of my mind as a troupe of noisy people spilled inside, chattering in rapid-fire French. At their head was one of those überchic French women with messy blond hair, effortlessly stylish clothes, and two men hanging on her every word. One of those men was prototypically tall, dark, and handsome; the other, compact and dressed worse than I was.
Behind them, a few more people crowded in. All I saw was my excuse to slip away from Madame Vetault’s censorious drunken gaze.
I couldn’t help being puzzled about her drinking while on duty. There was no doubt now that Hélène was manning the B&B’s front desk, because she bustled over to greet the newcomers, trailing wine fumes and perfume and leaving me in the dust.
There was a story behind Hélène’s drinking. I was sure of it. But for now, it was none of my business. That was enough for me—or at least, it would have to be. Just like that privé door.
When I told Danny about my newfound nosiness, he wouldn’t be happy. But it wasn’t possible to investigate murders and wind up unchanged, was it? All I could do was try to be careful.
And enjoy Monsieur’s party tonight, of course. Allez!
* * *
As soon as I stepped into the village, I was swept away by the Fest-Noz. It was Glastonbury meets the Fourth of July (French style) in the best possible way, with a live bagad—a Breton band—playing bagpipes, bombards, and drums. There were groups of lively Saint-Malo residents dancing in circles, stamping and smiling. Children streaked past, their shining faces lit by the canopy of lights that had been strung from the eaves of one small village shop to the next. The sea-swept autumn air smelled full of incredible things to eat, from sweet apple cider to salted butter caramels to ham-and-cheese galettes. There were crumbly palets bretons (butter cookies), crunchy frites (fries), and more.
Dead and Ganache Page 2
