Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  “I’d like that,” I said sincerely. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

  “Not at all.” This time, Nathalie squeezed my hand. “It would do me good to get out of here. Here, I . . . cannot forget.”

  I doubted she could forget anywhere, but I knew what she meant. Besides, it wasn’t for me to decide how she mourned. We hadn’t been that close, the summer I’d trained with my mentor. But given the situation, it was impossible not to feel for her.

  I was searching for a response when Nathalie forged on.

  “I am sorry about Maman,” she blurted with a worried sideways glance. “I cannot believe the changes in her since I’ve been away. I am very busy with my job in Paris. I work for a PR company, you see, and I do not get back home very often.”

  I understood—and said so—but Nathalie seemed on the verge of crumpling any minute. Tearing up, she shook out her hair and then gulped some of her aperitif. Tactfully, I looked away.

  Nathalie noticed and made a face. “I know, I am probably drinking too much, non? But one must manage somehow. Perhaps it runs in the family.” She gave a humorless laugh. “I cannot cope with Maman when she is drinking. For that, Fabrice is much better.” She cheered up. “You have met Fabrice? My fiancé?”

  She waggled her engagement ring at me in that universal gesture all brides-to-be learned immediately. It looked . . . spendy.

  If Fabrice Poyet was the man who’d whisked Hélène away to comfort her, he was obviously both kindhearted and well-to-do.

  Nathalie misinterpreted my contemplative silence. “It is terribly gauche to flash a rock like this, I know. But what can I say?” She offered an eloquent French shrug. “I love him.”

  “You must, to have united your families,” I told her. “Félicitations, Nathalie. Truly.” Congratulations. “I hope you and Monsieur Poyet will be very happy together. When is the wedding?”

  We talked for a while about the details. It was to be a small ceremony—one that wouldn’t require the same degree of planning that an American wedding sometimes did. In France, weddings tended to be small affairs, held at the city hall and celebrated with family and friends at a petite fête afterward.

  “But you must meet Fabrice!” Nathalie insisted. She’d perked up while discussing her upcoming nuptials, even while detailing the challenges in making Grand-Mère’s vintage dress fit her. She grabbed my hand. “He went this way with Maman.”

  “Maybe another time,” I protested, stopping just short of digging my heels in the rug as Nathalie hauled me toward another room. We passed through the guests. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “N’importe quoi,” she breezed. Nonsense. “You are like family. Papa cared for you like his very own daughter.”

  “Oui, he was very generous that way.”

  I realized (too late) that my response might imply something more: it might hint that I suspected Philippe Vetault had been “generous” enough to treat someone else “like his very own daughter.” Nathalie. It might hint that I suspected he might have raised Nathalie as his own child even while knowing that she was the result of Hélène and Hubert’s affair. Whoops.

  Nathalie stopped on reaching the next room. Tension stretched between us. Then it broke abruptly as she nodded.

  “Oui, you are right about that. Papa was very generous.”

  Her reply left me none the wiser about her paternity.

  Was it possible that even Nathalie didn’t know the truth? If so, that would explain why Clotilde Renouf believed she had leverage over Hélène—enough to secure the chocolaterie herself.

  If Hélène had kept Nathalie’s paternity a secret for all these years—even from Nathalie herself—she wouldn’t want it revealed now. Secrets seemed to abound in Saint-Malo. Had Hélène known about Philippe’s supposed affair with Madame Renouf, too?

  Had Hélène killed her husband because of it?

  If she had, then it had obviously driven her to drink. Hélène still seemed smashed and distraught even in the secluded room Fabrice Poyet had brought her to, hoping to calm her down.

  Nathalie introduced me to her fiancé. The youngest Poyet was earnest and blond, wearing a suit as nice as Travis’s. I understood fine tailoring. I understood wealth, too. Fabrice Poyet enjoyed the benefits of both, but he seemed more concerned with making sure that Hélène was looked after. That was sweet.

  After our introductions, Fabrice shot me a cautious look. He took Nathalie’s arm and nudged her to a more private spot.

  In French, I heard him explain to Nathalie that her mother had told him that things were missing in the château—that everything was inexplicably changed in her home. With a compassionate glance toward Hélène, he added that Hélène was upset that she couldn’t find things where she expected them to be—which explained the iron candelabra incident earlier.

  While I tried not to eavesdrop too noticeably, Fabrice theorized quietly that his future belle-mère imagined herself in another, happier time—a time before she’d lost her husband?

  Nathalie agreed, in French, that it was possible. I translated her explanation—something to do with when Hélène had first married Philippe and taken over the role of châtelaine. She’d apparently rearranged the château’s furniture and decorations extensively at that time. Some old things had gone down and new things had gone up—things more suited to Hélène’s style. It was possible now, Nathalie said, that her maman couldn’t distinguish between those two periods at the château.

  At least that was the gist of it, I thought, given my imperfect French. I couldn’t help thinking that, aside from grief, Hélène’s drinking must play a role in her forgetfulness. I wasn’t sure if Nathalie’s mother had been sober once since I’d arrived there. Now her condition seemed worse.

  Because of guilt? Or because she’d heard about Clotilde Renouf’s threat to reveal the Vetault family’s secrets?

  “Bonsoir, Madame Vetault.” I approached Hélène with my kindest smile. “Vous voulez quelque chose à manger, peut-être?”

  Offering her a bite to eat was the least I could do. Maybe it would help Hélène sober up, I imagined. Plus, I’m a chocolate professional. When push comes to shove, my thoughts run toward the healing powers of brownies and double chocolate cupcakes.

  “Non, merci.” My mentor’s widow waved away my offer. Her gaze remained trained on her daughter and future beau fils.

  If you’re translating in your head, you’ve probably already picked up on the French practice wherein your mother-in-law is (literally) referred to as your “beautiful mother,” and your son-in-law as your “handsome son.” It was a charming and sweet tradition, but that didn’t explain Hélène’s dour look at Fabrice.

  Maybe she didn’t enjoy being the subject of discussion. I wouldn’t have, especially not if I’d just stabbed my husband.

  I couldn’t stop assuming Hélène was guilty. Thanks to the trying events of the past few days, I seemed to have the attention span of a gnat. Whoever was directly in my line of sight, it seemed, appeared to be the guiltiest possible suspect.

  Earlier, it had been Clotilde. Now, Hélène. Next... ?

  Jeannette Farges, the housekeeper, stepped into view.

  She entered the room from its opposite end and strode inside. In most old French châteaux, the rooms aren’t arranged around a central hallway. Instead, they flow from one to the next, with each room having two passageways in and out. That explained how Jeannette happened to enter just then with a silver tray held under her arm, dressed in a classic black maid’s uniform with crisp ivory cuffs, collar, and apron.

  If this had been a game of Clue, I mused, the housekeeper would definitely be the one whodunit—possibly after having conducted a clandestine affair with the man of the château. I half expected Hélène to pounce on her rival and accuse Jeannette of spending her days unmaking beds and rumpling pillows with Philippe. But Hélène didn’t seem to notice Jeannette’s arrival.

  No one did, except me. The housekeeper quickly recognized her intrusion.
Looking alarmed, she backtracked and disappeared from sight. I would have expected nothing less than discretion.

  Especially if she were guilty of murder, I thought.

  But maybe I was getting carried away. After all, I’d just proven my own point about my changeable “top” suspects. I was still far from an expert sleuth, and I was officially intruding on a sensitive family moment myself, if Hélène’s reaction to my offer of a (sobering) predinner snack was anything to go by.

  I made my apologies to the châtelaine, then nodded a farewell to Nathalie and Fabrice, still in the midst of their murmured conversation about Hélène. I didn’t blame them for being concerned. The whole situation was troubling. At least they had each other to rely on, though. With a bolstering sip of my aperitif, I went to look for my own confidant: Travis.

  It was time to finish questioning my financial advisor—this time, over a scrumptious multicourse French dinner for two.

  * * *

  If I needed any evidence that my skills at snooping were still under development, I got it that night from Travis.

  I approached our dinner together with two goals. The first was to find out as much as I possibly could about my überprivate financial advisor. The second was to savor a meal served in sumptuous château surroundings. Let’s just say, the second goal was easily taken care of. The first was more problematic.

  Everything started off wonderfully, beginning with two flavorful amuses-bouche (creative, bite-size appetizers handcrafted by the chef) and followed by entrees (first courses) and plats principals (main dishes), each more delicious than the last and each paired with exemplary wines. The (even more lavish) dessert cart returned (Travis and I nearly applauded), followed by the cheese course, after-dinner cafés, and a final sweet: small Breton butter cookies, rich and delicate.

  “Until these arrived, I was sure I couldn’t eat another bite,” I confessed to Travis with a grin. I nibbled off a bit more cookie. Yum. “But somehow, I’m managing, all the same.”

  “It’s been amazing, hasn’t it?” My keeper glanced around the château’s dining room. Its patrons were well mannered; its ambiance, luxurious. The luminous chandeliers, tablecloth-covered tables, shining cutlery, and views of the gently lighted grounds outside were spectacular. “I’ve really enjoyed it.”

  “You’ve enjoyed dodging all my questions,” I accused with a good-natured scowl. Our meal had taken a couple of hours. All those wine pairings were starting to add up. “Admit it: you’re ducking me on purpose, aren’t you? You like being mysterious.”

  Travis’s grin suggested he did. “I’m not so mysterious.”

  “You are, though!” I blurted. With an apologetic glance to our fellow diners, I lowered my voice. “I’m trying my hardest, and all I’ve extracted from you so far are the barest details about yourself.” I started recapping. “You grew up in Seattle—”

  “A rare Pacific Northwest native,” he agreed in a rumbling undertone. “There aren’t very many of those these days.”

  “You went to Harvard because you thought it was the best school, although how you afforded the tuition is beyond me.”

  “Let’s call it . . . a grant,” Travis suggested in a low voice.

  See? That was mysterious. I decided not to pursue the details in favor of making sure I had my facts straight so far.

  “You graduated with honors, took the first job you were offered, with—” Before I could name his firm, he interrupted.

  “It’s not all that fascinating. Let’s talk about you.”

  “Oh no you don’t.” I was wise to his tricks. Danny had taught me this one. “You’re not distracting me that way.”

  Travis widened his eyes. “I’m interested in you.”

  “Then check your dossier. I know you have one.” I declined the serveur’s unobtrusive offer of another café. I grinned and went on summarizing. “Let’s see—you live downtown, alone—”

  “Except for Bella, of course.”

  “You work insane hours, number crunching night and day—”

  “I like my work. I enjoy a challenge.” Travis’s meaningful look suggested he enjoyed the challenge of me. So did his arched eyebrow. He really was so handsome. Or maybe I was tipsy?

  Moving on. “You aren’t in a relationship right now—”

  He held up his hand. Like the rest of him, it was strong, masculine, and squeaky clean. “Stop. If I’d known you were planning on putting me under a microscope, I would have—”

  “Worn a different suit? I dunno, that one’s nice.”

  I knew perfectly well what he meant, though. The thing about it was, I like sharing. I like making connections. I wanted to connect with Travis. I wanted to finally know him.

  He smiled at me. “You look nice, too. Very nice.”

  No no no. I wasn’t angling for flattery—only remarking that Travis typically looked ready to broker a high-end deal at any moment. Danny, on the other hand, usually looked ready to start a fight. My bodyguard’s wardrobe of low-slung jeans, vintage T-shirts, and tough motorcycle boots was a good match for mine.

  But what was the use comparing them? They were as different as night and day—one edgy and one steady. That was good. As much as I like chocolate souf-flé, for instance, sometimes it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Sometimes a chocolate microwave cupcake for one is just my speed. It’s fast, but tasty.

  I tried another approach. “Did you volunteer to work on my account, after old Mr. Whatshisname retired?” I leaned forward, genuinely wanting to know. “Or was I assigned to you?”

  Travis looked surprised. Then, “How do you know I didn’t force out old Mr. Whatshisname? Induce him to retire early, just so I could wrest control of your lucrative account for myself?”

  I laughed. “You’re about as sneaky as a puppy, that’s how.”

  He shrugged. “You said yourself that you don’t know me very well,” he reminded me. I had, just before I’d commenced grilling him for particulars. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

  All of Danny’s earlier warnings about my keeper and his motivations for being there in Brittany came roaring back.

  I pushed them aside. “I trust my instincts. That’s enough.” I let drop an intentional pause. “It is for now, at least.”

  “So what you’re saying is, you’re not giving up.”

  “On finding out everything about you? No way.”

  Travis’s contemplative gaze lingered on me. In the soft light and in those surroundings, he almost seemed entranced.

  With me? With us? It seemed admittedly doubtful, yet...

  Hadn’t he just insisted I didn’t really know him? For all I knew, Travis had purposely traveled to Brittany to wine me, dine me, and finally make our relationship completely personal.

  That actually didn’t sound half bad. I was partway through a wine-and-cookies-fueled reverie involving him, me, and Bella romping along Puget Sound together when his phone vibrated.

  Travis apologized and glanced at it. He gave a slight frown. “It’s Mélanie Flamant. I’d better get this.” He got up.

  Pop. There went my fantasy. I should have known better than to get carried away, especially on the heels of a deluxe dinner. I’m very susceptible to the evocative power of food. Put me across a candlelit table from a handsome man and feed us both chocolate tarts and indescribable tiered cakes, and I’m in love.

  I waved away Travis and signaled for the check. With the utmost subtlety, the serveur brought it, then withdrew. Like everything at château Vetault, there was a prescribed ritual at work. I knew my role, thanks to years of globe-trotting—thanks to years of learning how to adapt, how to fit in, how to excel.

  Just then, I had a yen to excel at making some chocolate. I signed for our meal, slipped out of the dining room while Travis took his call, and headed outside the French doors to Monsieur’s barn-atelier. If there was one thing that would clear my head, it was creating something complicated, chocolaty, and delicious.

  Partway up th
e path, all the outdoor lighting went kaput.

  I was plunged into darkness, unrelieved even by the moon. Caught off guard, I stumbled. I reached out to balance myself.

  I felt prickly trimmed hedges. Damp leaves. Sharp sticks.

  A man’s hand grabbed my arm. Hard. Hubert’s? Who else would be able to control the landscape lighting this way, on demand?

  Who else liked stabbing people in the dark? Yikes.

  My heart shot to my throat. I yanked, got free, and ran.

  Twelve

  When I came down for breakfast the next morning—shaken but safe—I almost bumped into Lucas Lefebvre. The Parisian pop star was dressed for filming in what appeared to be a toughened-up version of a pirate’s outfit, complete with a sword buckled at his hip. When Lucas saw me, he offered up another cheeky mamba.

  Paired with the smile he flashed, it was pretty cute, honestly. In a goofy way. I returned his smile and tried out some frisky French. It was tricky, given that I hadn’t had any coffee yet to jump-start my brain, but Lucas seemed to like it.

  Unfortunately, Capucine called him away for filming a moment later, so our budding flirtation couldn’t progress. Sigh.

  Arriving beside me on the grand staircase, Travis scoffed. He’d obviously witnessed the whole exchange. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” he asked. “The things good-looking men can get away with?”

  Ha. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  His expression looked angelic. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning . . .” Nope. My financial advisor didn’t need me telling him how handsome he was. He probably heard that all the time. “What did policière Flamant want on the phone last night?”

  For once, I successfully diverted him. “To tell me to tell you to stay away from the police station.” Travis pinned me with a critical look. “You didn’t tell me you went back there.”

  Busted. I could tell he didn’t approve, unlike Danny. My sometime bodyguard had practically high-fived me through the phone line this morning when I’d called to brief him.

  Given the time difference, collaborating had been tricky. My midnight was his late afternoon; my morning, his midnight.