Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  Danny and Travis united could be pretty formidable.

  I was determined to move forward, though. I couldn’t let little things like Monsieur’s (rumored) checkered past with the elder Madame Renouf or his (alleged) agreement to raise another man’s baby daughter as his own deter me from my path. If I did, what kind of protégée would I be, really? One who gave up.

  That’s not me. I’m a person who sees things through—whether those things are faulty frappés or goopy ganaches or murders.

  That’s why, as I dressed for dinner with Travis, I ran through all my suspects—and their potential motives—in my mind one more time. I wanted my sleuthing game to be on point, no matter what happened next. So before I slipped out of my jeans-and-T-shirt getup, I pulled out my notebook and jotted down some pertinent observations. Then I put on some fresh lip gloss and mascara. Then, reminded of my initial (unsuccessful) attempt to bump into Lucas Lefebvre, I put on his music and had a quick scroll through his social media accounts. He was good at keeping them up to the minute and interesting, with photos of his video shoots and images from his earlier stints on Radio France.

  Sometime later, a knock on the door grabbed my attention.

  Startled, I glanced up. My château room was shadowy. The evening had darkened while I’d been perusing Lucas’s accounts on my phone—and okay, daydreaming a little about his sexy, swivel-hipped mamba earlier. I had to keep my spirits up, didn’t I?

  “Hayden, it’s me,” came Travis’s rumbling basso profondo.

  Speaking of sexy . . . sadly, I wasn’t dressed for company.

  “I’ll be right there!” I scrabbled in my wheelie bag for my (one and only) cocktail dress. Black, naturally. I shucked my utilitarian undies for something a little lacier, then wiggled into my dress. Surprised I have one, given my travel-light philosophy? The handy thing about a cocktail dress is its slinky nature. It occupies nearly no room in a bag. “I’m almost ready.”

  Formal meals at a French château were a big deal, I knew, especially dinner. It wouldn’t do to turn up looking shabby.

  I switched off Lucas, gave my chambre (room) a cursory check, then slipped into my sandals. I gave my hair a shake.

  I opened the door. “I thought we were meeting downstairs.”

  “I decided to escort you.” Was it my imagination, or did Travis look especially pleased to see me? “May I come in?”

  “Only if you brought dinner with you. I’m starving.”

  “I want to double-check your room.” My keeper waited.

  His expression suggested he was sure he’d prevail. “Okay.”

  He came inside with all the alertness and guardedness that Danny typically displayed. I thought I could deduce what they’d talked about in their (mostly one-sided) conversation earlier.

  “Let me guess: Danny schooled you on security, right?”

  “Something like that.” My financial advisor moved past me like a suit-wearing GQ ninja. His bespectacled gaze swept my room and all its accoutrements. “You look nice, by the way.”

  His compliment didn’t register right away. I was in the midst of trying to see the place through his eyes, with my soft pashmina throw, my fig-scented candle, and my framed pictures of family and friends. I might be a globe-trotter—and I never bothered to unpack—but I liked to make a room as homey as I could, whether it was in a five-star resort or a roadside cabin.

  When Travis turned his gaze to me again, I swear I felt something. Probably delayed-onset poison. Right?

  “Thanks.” I gestured at him. “You, too. Does this place pass muster, or do you want to sweep for listening devices next?”

  “It’s not a laughing matter.” My financial advisor stopped near the unlit fireplace. “You might have been hurt today.”

  “I’d hate to have kicked it before seeing your room,” I kidded, unable to hold back a smile. “What’s it like upstairs?”

  He wasn’t amused by the idea of tit-for-tat. “Higher.”

  Okay, then. “Look, don’t let Danny bug you. He can be hard to take sometimes. All that cynicism, all that machismo—”

  “Do you ever take anything seriously?” Travis interrupted.

  His forthright gaze dared me to make another joke.

  I wasn’t that stupid. I like to kid around sometimes—especially when feeling under pressure—but I’m not an idiot.

  “If I didn’t take this seriously, I wouldn’t be here.” I gestured at the château—at my mentor’s home. We were both under the roof where Philippe had lived his entire life. “The whole reason I’m doing this is that it matters. It matters to me if justice prevails, if reason wins out, if I understand things.”

  I steeled myself for an argument. I didn’t get one.

  “I need to understand things, too,” Travis told me.

  With that, the issue was closed. My financial advisor took one last peek (under the bed, for the record) for “safety’s sake,” then we closed the door behind us and headed downstairs.

  * * *

  When we arrived, several of the château’s B&B guests were gathered in the sumptuous sitting room, enjoying aperitifs. The mood was swanky, the drinks were enlivening, and the décor was incredible. Floor-to-ceiling silk draperies adorned the tall mullioned windows overlooking the gardens. Through them, I glimpsed subtle lighting illuminating the topiaries and paths, fountains and flowers. A pianist plied his trade at the grand piano near the fireplace. Laughter punctuated low, polite conversations. Lest it all get too frou-frou, the château’s wolfhound, Bouchon, padded from guest to guest, making friends from the sweeping staircase to the sofas and armchairs beyond.

  Reminded by the Vetaults’ dog that this was—at its heart—a family home, I felt wistful about Monsieur all over again.

  Travis noticed. He gave me a smile. Then, a drink.

  I sipped it while we wandered the room, admiring the lamps and mantelpieces, rugs and vases. The château wasn’t a museum, but its grandeur and its history gave it a similar quality. I wondered how many generations of Vetaults had thrown parties here. How many had been born and died here. How many had drunk to excess here, the way Hélène was doing at that very moment.

  The châtelaine weaved past me, almost stepping on Bouchon. I coaxed over the frightened wolfhound and gave it a comforting pat. The dog apparently recognized a kindred spirit, because she flopped on my sandaled feet and lolled her tongue happily at me.

  Aw. Sure, this had started as a minor rescue operation, but now I was snared. Murmuring, I scratched behind Bouchon’s ears.

  “You made a friend.” Travis hunkered down too. He had a knack with animals, I saw immediately. “You like dogs, Hayden?”

  “Not exclusively, but best,” I replied, distracted by watching Hélène. She seemed to be searching for something. She weaved tipsily around the sitting room, lifting knickknacks and peering behind heavy stone planters. “My lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to a pet, but someday . . .” I trailed off, dreaming of it.

  I must have sighed, because Travis looked sympathetic. “I’d be a different person today without my Bella, that’s for sure.”

  Bella? I wanted to give him a hard time, but he appeared so lovably crazy about his dog that I didn’t have it in me.

  Oh, wait. Maybe I did. “Bella?” I repeated, unable to prevent a grin. “Let me guess: every time you call your dog, all the women at the dog park think you’re hitting on them, right?”

  “That has literally never happened.”

  I had my doubts. I said so.

  “Usually I have my nieces with me, anyway,” Travis told me. “They live nearby, and they like playing with Bella.”

  He had nieces? That meant he had siblings, I presumed. He definitely had a dog: Bella. This was more information than I’d ever compiled about my notoriously private financial advisor.

  It occurred to me that I’d been so caught up in trying to find Monsieur’s murderer that I hadn’t seized this obvious opportunity. My keeper was here, in person, with me. I could f
inally satisfy my longtime curiosity about him—all about him.

  “It’s short for Bellissima,” Travis went on with a goofy endearing look on his face. “I tried calling her something else, but in the end, ‘Bellissima’ is all she responded to.” He gave me a grin and went on petting Bouchon. “It means beautiful in—”

  “Italian, I know. I’m only semi-hopeless with languages.” I marveled at him. “You have a discerning dog who insists on having things exactly the way she wants them. How like you.”

  “It makes sense when you know the backstory,” he explained with a hint of self-consciousness. “I adopted her in Italy.”

  “You’ve been to Italy, too? Travis!” I gave him a blunt look. “Tell me the truth: your aviophobia was a hoax, right?”

  Maybe Danny, ever jaded, had been correct all along.

  Travis looked indignant. “No. It stems from a specific incident, years ago. It was very—” He stopped explaining. “I don’t like to talk about it. Anyway, planes run both ways.”

  Nearby, Hélène flipped over some throw pillows—one handed, while holding a wineglass. She appeared increasingly agitated.

  I refocused on Travis. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, you could easily have come to Seattle.”

  Something in his gravelly, seductive tone caught my ear. Was my financial advisor offended that I’d never visited him?

  “I could have,” I replied, “if anyone had ever invited me.”

  He laughed. It was a wonderful sound. “You’ve never waited for an invitation to do anything in your life. Admit it.” Travis fixed me with a perceptive look. “You’re the impulsive type.”

  Well . . . he kind of had me. But there was no way I’d admit it.

  Possibly, that was because I was a little offended, too. I’d had the distinct impression, all this time, that Travis hadn’t minded that the stipulations of my trust fund kept me on the road so much—that he hadn’t wanted to meet me at all. I’d assumed he’d preferred to keep things all business between us.

  That’s certainly the way his fusty old predecessor, Mr. Whatshisname, had run things. He’d been Uncle Ross’s initial appointee as my financial advisor. Once he’d retired and Travis had come on the scene, things had gotten a lot more interesting.

  For a second, I lapsed into melancholy. Sweet, wild-haired, unpredictable Uncle Ross. I still missed him. In structuring his will in the unique way he had, he’d only wanted to make sure I would never settle for a “less than” life. I knew that. But in choosing Travis’s financial management firm, he’d also accidentally added a heaping helping of complexity to my life.

  I didn’t want to travel too far down memory lane, though. I watched Hélène for a few seconds as she peeked behind a framed painting, muttering to herself in slurred French. She didn’t seem to be coping very well with her husband’s death. I didn’t understand why she didn’t retire to the private part of the château until she felt better. It would be understandable.

  Travis saw me observing our hostess. He frowned.

  But I wasn’t interested in losing my chance to interrogate him. A while ago, Danny had dangled some hints about Travis. He’d been maddeningly short on details, though. Before Travis could derail me by offering his opinions of Hélène’s erratic behavior, I got back to digging for more info about my keeper.

  I sipped my drink. “So, what kind of dog is Bellissima?”

  Travis blinked, distracted. “She’s a golden retriever.”

  “I knew it!” I’d always pegged my financial advisor as a golden retriever type, and I’d been right. This was kismet.

  I was pretty sure Danny owed me fifty bucks now.

  “You knew it? You’ve given this some thought, then?” Given me some thought, Travis’s expression elaborated as he glanced up from his hunkered-down position petting Bouchon. His eyes gleamed at me with curiosity. “What else do you want to know?”

  Was he seriously offering to lay it all on the line?

  “How personal are you willing to get?” I asked.

  My heart was pounding, though. I love a puzzle to solve. That’s the reason I enjoy the challenge of trouble-shooting chocolate. It’s the reason I persist in trying to solve murders, even when my better judgment suggests that I should hang up my deerstalker hat before something truly drastic goes down.

  “Tonight? Right now?” My financial advisor swirled his drink. He stared into its eddying amber depths as conversations hummed around us, then looked up at me. “Very personal.”

  Whoa. I seriously needed to get Travis tipsy more often.

  “Okay.” Wow. A million questions jostled each other in my mind. “Where did you grow up? Why did you go to Harvard? Do you live alone?” He couldn’t be involved with anyone, could he? What kind of person would agree to Travis’s workaholic schedule? “How long have you been working for your company? Do you ever wear anything except a suit? What’s your dream travel destination?”

  His laughter broke in. “I can see how you get people to tell you things,” Travis said. “You pelt them with questions until they can’t think straight, then you make them come clean.”

  “Sometimes I ply them with alcohol, too.” I grinned.

  He inhaled. “Taking these in order,” he began, “I grew up—”

  At the same time, Hélène wailed from across the room. She hurled an iron candelabra to the floor. “Non! Pas correcte. Pas ici!” she yelled as her guests scattered. “Non, non! Jamais!”

  I couldn’t understand why a fancy candleholder had incited such fury. An instant later, Hélène burst into pitiful tears.

  “She says that didn’t belong there. Not ever,” Travis informed me in a considerate undertone, translating quickly.

  But I knew. I was already handing him my drink, then disentangling Bouchon the wolfhound from my feet. I wanted to go to Hélène. I didn’t know my mentor’s widow well, but I did know grief. Maybe I could help—especially since the château’s other guests seemed to be frozen with uncertainty and awkwardness.

  Well, all except one. A well-dressed man with kind features and a very expensive Swiss watch disentangled himself from the others. He beat me to Hélène by mere seconds. He comforted her.

  I watched apprehensively as he encircled Philippe’s wife in his arms, then gently guided her out of the sitting room. Her defeated and confused posture was enough to break my heart. That’s the way I felt on the inside, albeit to a lesser degree.

  Hélène may have cheated on Monsieur, but they’d still remained married for more than forty years. His loss had to have left an empty space in her life—one even Hubert couldn’t occupy.

  But the crisis appeared to be past. Made superfluous by that unknown man. I looked for Travis. It must be almost time to go into the dining room for dinner. My growling stomach said so.

  A tasty meal (with all the trimmings, as Travis had promised) was not yet to be, though. Because next, someone called out to me. Footsteps clattered across the sleek floor.

  “Hayden!” I heard in a musical French accent. “C’est toi?”

  Hayden, is that you?

  Under certain circumstances, this would have been a “now what?” moment. As it was, I wasn’t at all sure what to expect.

  The only thing to do was to take a few steps and find out.

  Eleven

  I’d lost track of my financial advisor, I realized, but I’d found Nathalie Vetault. I recognized her voice as though it was yesterday when we’d shared that disparate summer in Saint-Malo.

  I turned. The mingling guests parted for a moment.

  There she was: Philippe’s only daughter—tall, brunette, and possessed of a rangy figure that now wore fashionable clothes as effectively as it had once made the most of a bikini and suntan.

  The sight of her made me tear up helplessly. By the time I reached Nathalie, both of us were sniffling uncontrollably.

  I couldn’t help it. Pain is pain. It hurts to witness it.

  She recovered first and leaned forward t
o offer me les bises—those French kisses on (or near) the cheeks. I inhaled Nathalie’s light perfume, redolent of bitter oranges and cloves. She was all grown up now and she was trembling. Poor Nathalie.

  I grasped her hands. “It’s been too long. I’m so sorry about your father.” I drew in a shaky breath, then tried to smile. “I can’t stop thinking he’ll come into his atelier and demand that I remake a raspberry ganache any second now.”

  “I know.” Nathalie nodded, her eyes teary. “It seems only yesterday that I was up in the attic with Papa, sorting through family heirlooms and arguing about where to find Grand-Mère’s wedding dress.” An unsteady smile. “He found it for me, though.”

  “Of course he did. Monsieur was nothing if not helpful.”

  I found myself staring at Nathalie’s pretty face, carefully evaluating her features. Did she have Philippe’s nose? His chin? His eyes? Or was that a resemblance to Hubert reflected in her grown-up appearance? I couldn’t be sure. I was too familiar with her to be objective. Frankly, all I saw in her face was sadness.

  Well, that and shock. I think we all still felt that.

  “I had hoped that the next time we saw each other would be at my wedding,” Nathalie went on. Around us, other conversations had resumed quietly. “Not under sad circumstances like these.”

  I agreed. “I’m so, so sorry. I could order flowers for Monsieur’s memorial, or make special chocolates for afterward. Anything,” I offered. “I would love to spend some time with you, too—maybe a walk by the seaside? Whatever you feel ready for.”

  I wanted to offer concrete suggestions—ways to help that wouldn’t put undue demands on Nathalie. Is there anything I can do? sounds thoughtful until you’re the grieving recipient of a question you don’t feel prepared to tackle amid everything else.

  “That is very kind of you, Hayden.” She wiped away a tear with bejeweled fingers, then gave a self-conscious laugh. “It is very not French of me to cry over cocktails!” She bit her lip. Then, “Maybe we could go shopping in Saint-Malo sometime?”