FRENCH WEDDINGS
CAN KILL YOU
ORVILLY MYSTERIES
BOOK 2
Rebecca Dunsmuir
www.manderleybooks.ca
Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Dunsmuir.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Rebecca Dunsmuir/Manderley Books
www.manderleybooks.ca
Cover design by Samia McFee
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
French Weddings Can Kill You/ Rebecca Dunsmuir. -- 1st ed.
Table of Contents
Murder of A Rising Star
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
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About the Author
A sweet thought to Darlene who loved mysteries and left us a few days before Christmas. Darlene, you will be missed greatly.
Murder of A Rising Star
T wo hands grabbed the embroidered wedding veil on the bed and wrapped it quickly and tightly around her neck. So fast, she didn’t have the time to turn around to see who her assailant was.
The hands pulled on the veil harder, nearly crushing her throat. The fabric made a crunching noise as it stretched. The worst sound she had ever heard. She wished it would tear off so she could be freed of her horrific ordeal. Unfortunately, the white veil was solid and high quality. She had paid a fortune for it as she had paid a fortune for every, single thing she had owned in her life.
She tried to yell, but no sound left her mouth. Instead, her strangled voice whistled with pain. Although she was losing strength, she tried to pull off the veil, but her attacker showed no mercy and constricted it harder with a rough move. So rough she thought it would break her neck. The pain was unbearable. She would stop breathing soon if she did nothing.
She fought back but lost her balance. Her body flipped around, facing the full-length mirror. In the reflection, she saw the silhouette of her attacker behind her briefly, dressed in black. She could barely see the face, it was too dark in the room. Was it a woman or a man? Why did this person want to kill her? Everybody loved her. She could feel all the hate and determination that came from these strong hands.
The aggressor leaned toward her, pulled aside strands of her long, blond hair, breathed in her face and whispered, “You don’t recognize me?” The person laughed. “Come on. I’ll give you a few more seconds.”
A few more seconds? No, not a few more seconds! She still had so many years to live and so many grandiose things to accomplish. She was young. It was the beginning of everything for her.
She kept fighting for seconds that felt like minutes. Terrifying, never-ending seconds. Then the room became blurry and dark as life left her body, slowly.
She collapsed on the hardwood floor while the attacker kept holding her constricted neck, which had turned blue. The stranger looked straight into her blue eyes, disturbingly enjoying every second of this.
Her head landed on the floor. She understood there was no point in fighting anymore. She was losing. But she wasn’t used to losing. She had never lost in her life before. She didn’t know what failure was or how it felt. Since her birth, she had been used to winning. She came from a family of winners and she was a winner too. Not a loser.
But this day was different. It was her last, she left it losing, and there was nothing she could do about it. How pathetic.
In a fraction of a second before the end, a spark of recognition brightened her eyes. Her killer read the surprise on her face and smiled proudly. “Good. Now you recognize me.”
And she gave her last breath.
Chapter 1
Gazette d’Orvilly-sur-Mer
Wednesday, September 6, 2018
The Grand Reopening of The Château d’Orvilly
By Louis Lamour
After five months of extensive renovations, the Château d’Orvilly will finally reopen this weekend. The old Domaine, owned by the Canadian Amanda McBride, heiress of the late Toinette d’Orvilly, will start a new life as a boutique hotel.
After many tribulations last spring that had put the future of this important part of our heritage in jeopardy, we can all be thankful to Ms. McBride for all the work she put into saving the castle. As I am writing this article, Ms. McBride has confirmed with great enthusiasm that all the guest rooms are booked until next year! Admittedly, our castle, with its rich history and its spooky ghost stories, seems to attract a lot of visitors.
But another important event will take place in the castle on Sunday that will bring to our village an unusual number of visitors, including journalists from national media: the wedding of the young actress Élodie Faber, 25, and the famous actor Paul Dumont, 25 years her senior. Needless to say, this event will also contribute to the success of the castle’s reopening, bringing the promise of new fond memories.
All Orvillians are invited to celebrate the long-awaited castle’s inauguration at the Domaine d’Orvilly this Saturday, September 9th, between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. Free guided tours of the castle will be offered to visitors; a stage will be set in the Italian garden, at the back of the property where a string quartet and a piano will perform a classical repertoire; and a free luncheon will be served, including pastries, coffee and tea. Wine, cider and Calvados will be available for six euros a glass.
P.S. To my fellow Seniors from Bellevue House, bring your foldable chairs to be more comfortable, and arrive early so we can get a good spot in the Italian garden, close to the buffet. A source told me that our baker, Pierre Sablon, will provide pastries, including his delicious apple turnovers. So, don’t forget to bring plastic boxes and bags too, so we can leave with leftovers.
Chapter 2
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here’s this damned road?”
“I told you to turn right! We passed it. Go back.”
“What do you mean, we passed it? I didn’t see any road. And why do you keep looking at this paper map. Let’s use my GPS.”
“Your GPS got us lost twice already. I believe in good old maps. I want to get there as soon as possible. I’m tired and I still have a lot of work to do. Go back. I tell you, it’s there.”
“OK, OK, OK…”
Paul Dumont turned the steering wheel of his red Porsche Boxster to make a U-turn on the country road. The tires crushed the gravel, lifting a cloud of dust.
“Damn, Paul! It didn’t need to be so abrupt.”
“This is part of enjoying driving a sports car, my dear.”
Flora Guardian rubbed her eyes to remove the dust and pinched her lips to keep an unpleasant comment to herself. What did she expect after twenty years working as a publicist for the famous actor? She knew him better than anybody else. Many times, she had thought about quitting, but working for Paul Dumont was her life, all she knew. In the world of media, everything had to go faster and be bigger. She didn’t want to start from scratch, or work for some big agency with employees who would be half her age, telling her what to do while she had so much experience. She’d rather keep her business and focus on her client portfolio, working with traditional methods, establishing long-lasting professional relationships with journalists. And what else would she do? That was all she knew, and she was good at it. Flora had always come to the same conclusion: staying was better than quitting.
Paul turned left. “Ah, you were right, there was a road.”
“Yes, I know…” mumbled Flora.
The red car drove along Old Orvilly Road that led to the medieval castle. The wind, dancing with the leaves of the tree-lined path offered a breeze that caressed their cheeks. Flora closed her eyes and took a deep breath, knowing well these were the last few minutes of peace she was going to enjoy before the craziness to come in the next three days. She looked forward to the two weeks’ break she had planned after Paul and Élodie left for their honeymoon.
“Wow, it’s bigger than I thought,” said Paul.
“And it’s lovely,” added Flora. “Classic, romantic, historic. The perfect setting for the wedding we want all of France to talk about.”
They drove toward the castle that had undergone major renovations over the past five months. The large blocks of gray limestone, eroded by time, had been cleaned or replaced to freshen up the facade. The old windows and window frames had been removed and new ones had been installed. But one of the biggest changes was the additional entrance built at the far right end right of the property, on the west side of the castle, near the woods. It was now the access to the reception area, conveniently close to the visitor parking.
Paul pulled in the parking lot. As soon as the Porsche stopped, Flora stepped out of the car and grabbed her traveling bag and her laptop case on the back seat and walked toward the reception.
“I’ll check in for us,” she said.
Paul stretched his arms and yawned. “All right. I’ll just take a little walk to have a look around and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Flora wasn’t only Paul Dumont’s publicist. She was also his personal assistant, his confident, his nurse, his shrink… simply put, his general help. And, God, did this man need help. They had met twenty-five years earlier on the theatre seats of a drama school in Paris. Both had been aspiring actors in their early twenties. With her long wavy red hair, her svelte silhouette and her beautiful green eyes, Flora had immediately attracted Paul’s attention, who already had the reputation of being a womanizer. Silly her, she should’ve known… They fell in love. But the romance didn’t last. At least, not for him. Heartbroken, Flora had watched Paul go from one woman's arms to another throughout the years, while still being secretly in love with him. It derailed her from the acting career she had dreamed of embrace. Instead, she accepted the job offer from a prominent publicist who was about to retire. She worked for many important French actors until, one day, she found Paul Dumont sitting on the other side of her desk.
Paul was at the beginning of his career, struggling to get attention from French directors. But to become famous, he needed someone to tell producers and the public who he was. He needed a publicist. The one who had really made him a star twenty years ago was Flora.
She realized then she still had feelings for Paul, and yet, she took him as a client. She knew he would do well. Was it a way to stay close to him? Maybe.
Flora walked up the stairs to the reception, formerly used as a tea lounge. The restored room still had its rich, red velvet tapestry with a golden leopard pattern, but looked brand new, giving the lobby elegance, warmth and an aura of royalty.
A young man behind the reception desk, thin and tall, dressed in black with a golden badge on his shirt welcomed Flora with a smile.
“Good afternoon, Madam. Are you checking in?”
“Yes. Hi—" Flora adjusted her glasses and read the name on the employee’s badge, “Bertrand. My name is Flora Guardian. I’m checking in for me and Paul Dumont.”
Bertrand’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes, the room and the suite are all ready for you, Madam.” The young man eyed the reception entrance eagerly, hoping the famous actor would pop in. “Mr. Dumont will join you later?”
“He’s here already. He’s just taking a walk outside.”
As Bertrand was preparing the guests’ room keys, Paul Dumont stepped into the lobby.
“Oh, Mr. Dumont!” said Bertrand. “I’m such a fan of yours. I’ve watched all your movies since I was a kid, many times. It’s such an honor to meet you.”
Flora rolled her eyes. Yes, and without me, you’d know nothing about him, she thought. She grabbed her room key and her bags, followed the sign with the arrow pointing to the elevator and the stairs, and left the two men in their enthralling ‘fan meets star’ moment. She had witnessed this kind of annoying scene too many times before.
Paul removed his black glasses, amplifying the move of his arm in an affected way, and looked at Bertrand with his signature smile. “Thanks, young man. Bertrand, right?”
Bertrand’s face illuminated. “Yes, my name is Bertrand.”
The elevator was occupied. Flora didn’t want to wait, so she walked up the wooden staircase beside it. Her steps left imprints on the cushiony red carpet that covered the stairs. Once on the first floor, she turned to her left and walked to room 5. She unlocked the door to a charming bedroom with a canopy bed and matching linen and curtains. The off-white fabric had a brown, printed pattern depicting men and women on horses hunting with hounds.
The publicist dropped her bags on the floor and slumped on the inviting mattress to get a few minutes rest. She hadn’t closed her eyes for five seconds when her cell phone vibrated to the sound of a small bell. She sighed.
“Seriously?”
She read the long incoming text on her cell phone screen:
Will arrive later this afternoon instead of tomorrow. Changes for tomorrow: I added three interviews. We need more coverage. I want all national newspapers and major magazines to have our wedding as their front covers and headlines. Make sure to book a large room for the interviews and photo shoot. Need several bottles of sparkling water and lemon slices in my room, make sure they’re there when I arrive. I assume the suite you booked for me is the best one.
Flora moaned. “Great. And here comes the ungrateful, spoiled brat…”
Chapter 3
“A little bit more to the left,” said Amanda.
André, the handyman, hiked up his right suspender and followed the instruction while Amanda and her friend Liliane stood behind him, hands on their hips. They watched anxiously as the man on the top of the ladder stretched his body and his arm to fix the sign above the antiques shop that read D’Artagnan’s Wonderful Finds.
The Great Dane stood by Amanda’s side proudly, his big tongue out.
The little shop was on the ground floor, on the north side of the castle. Amanda and Liliane had traveled all summer long in Normandy’s countryside, mixing work and pleasure, in search of antiques and rare books worth adding to the collection in the store. The women had enjoyed their venture so much that Amanda had asked Liliane to step out of retirement to become the manager of the shop, an offer Liliane had accepted gladly, which had given the friends an occasion to celebrate that day with a good pot roast cooked by Amanda and a bottle of local red wine.
Amanda was now in charge of the castle, operating as a boutique hotel. She had opened her restaurant too, simply named Chez Amanda, and had fourteen employees under her supervision. Her life had unexpectedly and drastically changed for the better a few months back when she had become the heiress of the Domaine d’Orvilly, an estate with a medieval castle in a quaint village in Normandy. She was still dumbfounded by the whole story.
The 39-year-old Canadian woman missed her hometown of Victoria and her friends too, but she had gained an amazing new life most would envy. She had new wonderful friends and had even found love. Who could ask for more?
André gave one final hit of drill in the sign. “Voilà! All good and fixed,” he said.
Amanda and Liliane clapped, did a little happy dance, and walked into the shop. D’Artagnan barked with enthusiasm.
“Thank you, André,” said Amanda, as she passed the shop’s doorframe.
The plump man shrugged, meaning this little task was nothing for him. He carefully descended the metallic ladder.
D’Artagnan, intrigued, kept his gaze on André, waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder. The dog barked. Careful, man. How can you go up and down on such tiny steps?
“Careful d’Artagnan, step backwards,” said André.
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