Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  “I am sorry that you witnessed what you did the other day,” the kittenish antiques shop owner told me, dressed for the occasion in another feminine wrap dress and heels. “Monsieur Poyet was here to discuss an item he wishes to arrange an auction for—”

  “You really don’t need to explain,” I interrupted, not buying a word of her excuse. Who could refute her, after all?

  “But I wish to!” Charlotte’s eyes widened. “I would not want you to think poorly of me because a clumsy man pawed me.”

  Wow, she pulled no punches. I had to hold in a grin.

  “I imagine that Monsieur Poyet might see things differently?”

  She seemed irked at that—but enlightened. “Let me guess: he told you that I was the one who—” Charlotte broke off, surveying the chichi items in her shop with impatience. “Oh, la la. I am friendly with a few men in Saint-Malo and now I am a loose woman? No. No, I say!” She put her hand familiarly on my arm, then gave me an appealing look. “You must believe me. Do you?”

  For a moment, I was tempted. I was all for feminine solidarity, wasn’t I? Plus, she seemed awfully beguiling.

  Damningly, that only lent fuel to Fabrice’s fire.

  “Let’s just put this behind us, all right?” I suggested.

  “Yes!” Charlotte looked relieved. She gave me a canny look. “Perhaps you came to discuss that Caravaggio you mentioned?”

  Whoops. I was in too deep with my previous cover story. I made up an excuse involving the Vetaults’ crowded attic, then skedaddled. I wanted to complete my roundup of my suspects—which left Mathieu Camara and Fabrice Poyet to account for—but before I could do that, I had another rendezvous with Mélanie and Travis to keep. We were meeting at the Saint-Malo weekly market. We hoped to make our get-together appear friendly and casual—you know, unrelated to our investigation into Philippe’s murder.

  The gendarme was concerned about tipping off her primary suspects; I was wary of seeming to give official information to the authorities by hanging out at the police station. I didn’t want to push Mathieu (for instance) into making a fatal move that I (most of all) would deeply regret, just because he thought I knew too much and was sharing it with the policiers.

  Whether our strategy would be useful remained to be seen. Before I could drive to the town square where the market was being held, I first had to extract my Citroën from the château’s small graveled parking lot. When I reached it, my compact car had been blocked in by two others, parked higgledy-piggledy.

  I looked around for help, but no one was in the immediate area. I headed back inside the château. Its marble floors echoed with my footsteps—that’s how much the place had emptied out since breakfast. With the Fest-Deiz still in full swing and all the many attractions of Brittany within reach, most of the guests had left for the day. I checked the desk area where I’d originally met tipsy Hélène Vetault, but she wasn’t there.

  Hmm. Despite its overall luxuriousness, the château didn’t have valet service. It was far too small to offer porters. In many European accommodations, the owners themselves serve those functions, which is usually fine with me as a light traveler. But now those conventions had me trapped. The clock was ticking. Literally. There was an ornate grandfather clock in the château’s entryway, counting off the minutes until my meeting.

  I climbed the stairs and kept looking for someone to help, jangling my keys in my hand as I traversed the fancy hallway and arched windows overlooking the jardin. Years ago, I’d been dazzled by those features of the house. Today, I still was.

  I spotted someone in a traditional maid’s uniform at the end of the hallway and broke into a trot. It was Jeannette Farges, the housekeeper. Finally, I was saved. It was possible she would know to whom the cars in the parking lot belonged.

  My money was on someone on the kitchen staff, or possibly another housekeeper. But I didn’t want to simply barge into the château’s kitchen and demand to have those cars moved—especially not with my admittedly limited français. I hurried toward Jeannette, grateful she wasn’t on a cigarette break just then.

  She heard me coming and jumped with fright. Whoops.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I called.

  Jeannette’s blank look reminded me that she might not understand English. While I did my best to rephrase my apology in French, the housekeeper finished what she was doing, which was, essentially, hurling clean towels at one of the guests.

  She muttered an apology—to Fabrice Poyet, I saw—then gave him a stilted curtsy and turned away with worry in her eyes.

  I imagined, since I didn’t like him, that Fabrice was a demanding guest. Either that, or he’d propositioned Jeannette, too. Someone like Fabrice obviously didn’t respect boundaries, whether they were between fiancés, antiques dealers, or people who worked for the family he was about to become a part of.

  More likely, though, the housekeeper was simply worried about keeping me waiting. What if I were another demanding guest? I tried to be especially kind and considerate as I explained my predicament to Jeannette. I went on to describe the car that had blocked me in: a battered blue Peugeot sedan.

  “Avec un autocollant—a sticker?—pour Les Bleus?” she asked.

  With a bumper sticker in support of the French national soccer team, known as The Blues? she wanted to know.

  “Ouai. Yes.” I nodded, relieved that she recognized it.

  “Je la connais,” she told me with a smile. I know it. “Si vous attendez un instant, s’il vous plait, je vais vous aider.”

  She wanted me to wait a moment, then she would help me.

  I offered a grateful merci, then took out my phone to text Travis and tell him I’d be a few (unavoidable) minutes late. I couldn’t miss Fabrice, though, frowning at Jeannette and me from his château room door, held open just a sliver. As soon as he saw me looking, though, Monsieur Poyet frowned and slammed the door.

  Striving to be even-handed, I reminded myself that being unlikable wasn’t a crime. Neither was cheating or lying—or even using the excuse of “honoring Monsieur Vetault” as a reason to toss out the rough-around-the-edges parolee working at your (future) chocolaterie. I still suspected that’s what Fabrice had done when he’d closed Monsieur’s shop so abruptly. Given how selfish he seemed, I doubted he cared that

  Nathalie had been upset. He must have known that delivering ultimatums to Mathieu would push him to quit. My fellow chocolatier was a proud man. He wouldn’t have wanted to kowtow to Fabrice’s demands—although he had taken his money, so what did I know? I wasn’t an emotive Frenchman.

  Down the hall, Jeannette beckoned me. I followed her downstairs, and within a few minutes, my problem was solved.

  Before driving away, though, I grabbed a few petite boxes of handmade chocolates—I always carry samples with me in my crossbody bag—and gave them to the housekeeper and to the fan of Les Bleus soccer who’d inadvertently boxed in my Citroën.

  They accepted the chocolates with multiple mercis and smiles, prompting me to remember as I waved and left the château that, most of the time, my work as a chocolate whisperer is rewarding. I love it—when it doesn’t involve murder, at least.

  With my mind (regrettably) on exactly that, I drove along the pastoral French back roads to the Saint-Malo town market.

  * * *

  You know I’m a food professional, so there’s not much I enjoy more than an opportunity to suss out the local food scene wherever I go. I make it a habit to visit restaurants, grocery stores, food carts, and open-air markets like the ones held in most small European towns, immersing myself in the regional culture in the most delicious way possible: with its food.

  Not that markets were (necessarily) limited to food; most featured a variety of items. You’d expect artisanal jams, cheeses, and breads, or freshly picked flowers, or produce from resident farmers. You might not expect clothing from small designers, pottery and artwork, candles and soap, or musical instruments for sale, but you’d be likely to find a
ll of them.

  I met Travis and Mélanie (and Fleur the dog) at the edge of the town market, then we wandered into its midst as a trio. I volunteered to walk Fleur, and couldn’t help imagining myself as her actual human companion as I took her leash. I really wanted a dog of my own. So far, I seemed destined to have doggie dates only while working on consultations (and investigations).

  Today, from where I stood, the policière’s bumps and bruises had only gotten worse. Knowing Mélanie as I did now, I felt awful for her. As we stood there in our matching hats, I gave her a commiserating face. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Determined.” She swept the crowd with an intense gaze—one that should have withered the intentions of any wrongdoers. “If I knew who did this to me, I would have them prosecuted.”

  Whoa. “Remind me not to make you angry,” I joked. “Not that I can blame you. You were walking Fleur when it happened?”

  Mélanie nodded. “Someone jumped me from behind. Started to hit me. Yelled obscenities at me.” She shuddered. “I fought him.”

  “Good for you,” I encouraged. Honestly, I felt at a loss for what else to say. As women, we were particularly vulnerable, and we both knew it. I was fortunate nothing similarly dangerous had happened to me during my travels. “You really are strong.”

  The gendarme gave me a Gallic pursing of her lips. “Do not fool yourself that I survived because I fought him. It was not so simple. My attacker wanted to hurt me and scare me, but that is all. That is to say, I do not think he wanted to kill me.”

  The matter-of-fact way Mélanie said that gave me chills.

  “I can’t believe you have to put up with harassment in this day and age,” I told her. “Can’t your supervisors do something?”

  She shook her head. “Who can say it is not them at fault?”

  Ugh. That was even worse. But before I could say so, Travis stepped between us women. “Hey, we’re here to enjoy ourselves,” he cajoled. “Maybe we can talk about this another time?”

  “Of course.” Mélanie shot me a conspiratorial look. We had agreed to meet at the market to exchange information, but Travis either didn’t want to acknowledge that or chose to overlook it.

  Maybe witnessing Clotilde Renouf’s accident had affected my financial advisor more than he wanted to admit. To look at him—wandering amid the market’s many sellers, examining just-picked green pears and a dizzying array of fresh apples—anyone would have thought Travis really was enjoying a fun market morning.

  I relented—especially since I spied Fabrice and Nathalie at a stand nearby, discussing its vibrant green, orange, and yellow winter squash. I didn’t want to reveal my collaboration with the police, so I turned to my keeper and asked him to help pick out some ripe figs for us. Maybe we’d have a picnic lunch later?

  “Absolutely,” Travis agreed. He started a fast, amiable conversation in French with the seller, pointing and nodding.

  If you’re ever at an open-air market in France, provincial or Parisian or otherwise, you should know that there’s a protocol at work. It’s not a grocery store or a corner bodega. It’s not a self-serve situation. To prevent customers from rummaging through each seller’s wares—bruising and ruining produce as they inexpertly make their selections—each customer is expected to describe to the seller what they want, how much they’d like, and any relevant details—when the item will be served, for instance. That way, the seller can choose a perfect apple, bunch of leafy greens, or (today) some figs. Everyone leaves happy—often after the (expert) seller has recommended some additional serving suggestions or helpful cooking ideas.

  With our figs in hand, Mélanie, Travis, and I made our way across the market. We chose a crusty baguette next and some soft local cheeses for our spontaneous picnic lunch, then stopped at another vendor to select some oval, reddish-purple plums. They looked amazing. If I’d had a bottle of red wine and a tasty chunk of quality dark chocolate to cap off our meal, I’d have been delighted. I glanced around the market, wondering if any of the local chocolateries I was familiar with had stalls there.

  As I did, something buzzed in the air, inches from my hat-covered head. I clapped my hand on my noggin in surprise, then looked up to see Capucine’s drone cam whizzing around the market. Her crew was there, too—sadly, without Lucas Lefebvre.

  “We are capturing local color,” Capucine explained when she caught up to me, hastily apologizing if she’d startled me by playfully buzzing me with her camera. “It is helpful for editing together my footage if I have a lot of choices to pick from.”

  I understood. Doubtless the old market was awfully scenic. Its expert artisans, vibrantly colored fruits and vegetables, idiosyncratic customers, and a distinctive French old town square would form an excellent backdrop for one of Lucas’s videos.

  I told Capucine that I didn’t mind, then asked her (as a favor) if she might be able to grab some shots of Travis and me together. I didn’t know when I might be spending a day with my financial advisor in person again. I wanted to seize the moment.

  Capucine understood—or at least, she thought she did. The indie director gave me a wink. “Oui, I will get you keepsakes.”

  Her intimation was clear: she thought I was interested in Travis—romantically interested. Before I could correct her or otherwise promise not to sappily moon over whatever footage she gave me, Capucine was on her phone, giving quick directions to the crewmember who was manning the drone cam’s controls.

  Feeling slightly silly, I sidled up to Travis and tried to appear knowledgeable as he discussed the plums. We were waiting for our turn to buy some, but I—knowing we were being filmed—felt suddenly awkward. Where to put my hands? How to smile?

  As it turned out, it didn’t matter. Just as the drone cam swooped in for a close-up shot of us, the whole thing plummeted.

  It crash-landed, diving to the earth amid some surprised marketgoers. They dispersed. In the process, several of them stepped on the drone cam. In the end, Fabrice Poyet emerged with it. He made a sad face as the complicated, plastic-and-metal device hung from his grasp with multiple parts snapped off.

  “Ah, non.” Sorrowfully, he shook his head. “Elle est cassée. Quel dommage.” Roughly, oh no! It’s broken—what a shame.

  At least he’d retrieved it. That was one point in his favor. I’d have almost expected Fabrice to stomp on it himself.

  “Bien que c’est bien.” With a concerned expression, Capucine took the mangled camera from him. “Vous inquiétez pas.”

  It’s all right. Don’t worry. She was handling things with equanimity, but I knew how tight her budget and schedule were.

  I exchanged glances with Travis. He’d noticed the same things I had. What’s more, he knew me. I gave him a subtle nod.

  By this time tomorrow, Capucine and her crew would have a replacement drone cam, courtesy of me (and Uncle Ross’s money).

  “I’m sorry about this, Capucine,” I told her. “I feel responsible.” I nodded at Travis. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”

  “It was not your fault.” She smiled at me. “I will send you the footage we did get, okay? You still want it, n’est-ce pas?”

  I assumed she was still hoping to extract some footage from the drone camera somehow. I nodded and thanked her, feeling all too aware of the people milling around us, Mélanie Flamant included. I didn’t want anyone to overhear our conversation.

  It was bad enough I’d basically enlisted Capucine and her crew to make a personal video of Travis and me shopping. I didn’t need the whole world to know how sentimental I could be.

  Fortunately, my keeper chose that moment to distract me with what seemed to be a question. I promised to catch up with Capucine later and turned to him, expecting a query about what model of replacement drone camera I wanted to buy the film crew.

  Instead, Travis said, “I’ve been telling Mélanie about Mathieu Camara’s nickname for you. What was it again?”

  Aha, that’s right. I’d wanted a translation from her. “Ch
ouchou. Mathieu calls me chouchou. I have no idea why, but—”

  I was brought up short by the somber glance Travis and the policière exchanged. I was missing something significant here.

  “Why?” I pushed. “What’s going on?”

  Mélanie frowned. “Chouchou? You are sure?”

  I nodded as the three of us moved farther away from the market-going crowd. The sounds of melodious French faded a bit. I imagined a bird’s-eye view as Capucine’s drone cam would have seen the scene, if it had survived—tall, blond, bespectacled Travis in his coat and dapper scarf, and shorter, brunette Mélanie and I in our jackets and matching white knit caps.

  I had a premonition of what she was going to tell me.

  “Chouchou is slang,” the policière said. “It means . . . in English, I suppose that one would say, ‘teacher’s pet’?”

  I got goose bumps. That wasn’t an affectionate nickname.

  “Oui, and?” I crossed my arms, determined to hang tough.

  Mélanie’s expression became even graver. “And it is what my attacker called me. ‘Go back where you belong, chouchou,’ he said, cruelly, with every blow—en anglais, in English.” The gendarme winced. “I thought it was because he was trying to disguise his voice—because he did not want me to recognize him. My colleagues, other people in town, they want me to quit work.”

  I understood more than I wanted to. “It was Mathieu Camara. Mathieu was the one who attacked you.” Who beat you savagely.

  I couldn’t say so, but we all knew it. When I glanced at Travis, he was studying my hat—the very same hat as Mélanie’s.

  “Hayden, he thought it was you,” my financial advisor told me, his usually seductive voice husky with worry. “He thought he was attacking you. He thought he was telling you to go away.”

  Danny had been right. I felt cold to the core—especially once I remembered my very first meeting with Mathieu Camera at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. When he’d found me taking snapshots of the graffiti on Monsieur’s chocolaterie, Mathieu had been aggressive. Then I’d lowered my phone, he’d seen my face, and he’d confessed that he’d thought I was someone else.