“Then, a few years later you became his public relations specialist,” said Amanda.
“That’s right,” merely said Flora.
“It didn’t bother you to work for him? May I ask if you still had feelings for Paul at that time?”
Flora looked at Amanda. “You’re getting a bit too personal, Ms. McBride. I don’t think me answering this question will help you in any way.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Guardian, but my questions only have the purpose of putting all the elements together to find who murdered Élodie Faber.”
Flora Guardian turned her head away to look at the window. “I don’t know what makes you think you have the skills to do this, Ms. McBride. Or the authority.”
“I understand your skepticism,” replied Amanda. “But I solved a murder case a few months ago, and the guests in the castle voted to allow me to do this. If you don’t want to answer my questions, you don’t have to. But just like you, I want all this to end and let my guests leave as soon as possible.”
Flora stood by the window, looking at the media crews camped in front of the castle outside.
“Fine. I don’t plan to stay here forever either. What else do you want to know?”
“You have been Paul Dumont’s publicist for about twenty years, correct?”
“Correct,” answered Flora. “If Paul Dumont became famous, it’s thanks to my hard work. I’m a well-known publicist with an excellent reputation. All my clients are celebrities. Agents find jobs for actors, but I’m the one who makes them stars. Working with journalists is a very difficult task, you know. They can make you or break you.”
“So, how was it to work for Élodie Faber?” asked Amanda.
Flora Guardian laughed and rolled her eyes. “It was a constant pain in the ass! This girl was raised like a princess by her rich parents, went to expensive boarding schools, so when she arrived in the cinema industry, she behaved like she always did: like a spoiled brat.”
Liliane couldn’t help shaking her head.
“And you know what was the worst?” continued Flora. “It worked. The industry is dominated by men. So, guess what? They see a gorgeous girl in her twenties who’s able to say a few words in front of a camera, and this is all they need. They want to make her a star. Some also have other intentions. I need not be explicit about this, I guess.”
Liliane started to shake her head again but stopped immediately when she realized what she was doing. Amanda had asked her to show no reaction to the guests’ comments during the interviews as it could influence their answers and behaviors.
“No need to, thank you,” answered Amanda. “So why did you keep Élodie Faber as a client if she was so difficult to work for?”
Flora Guardian sighed and crossed her arms. “It was a favor for Paul. He had been an important client for many years, so I couldn’t refuse his request when he asked. And to be honest, I was losing clients. I needed new ones.”
“As a publicist, Ms. Guardian, I suppose you already perused the online articles about the murder?”
“I tried not to, but it was too hard. And professionally, I had to.”
“You must have seen the picture of the contract Élodie was about to sign with Richard Barquet to join his P.R. agency?”
Flora smirked. “Yes, I have.”
“And what do you think about it?”
“Nothing. In fact, I told Paul yesterday that once the wedding was over, I’d stop working for him and for Élodie. She tried to back stab me with this contract, but I had already made my decision, anyway. I had had enough of them.”
“I can understand your resentment toward Élodie, but toward Paul, I’m not sure I understand it.”
Her arms still crossed, Flora walked back to the window to look outside. “When you blindly do everything and are everything for one person, for twenty years, and you never get anything in return from them, not even a thank you, it becomes exhausting. It’s time to make a change. It took me a long time to realize this, and I feel stupid. But I was ready. After all these years, I finally admitted Paul wasn’t a real friend. He was just like most seducers and celebrities: selfish and self-centered.”
“I see,” merely said Amanda. “Ms. Guardian, is it possible you were—or still are—in love with Paul Dumont, and that him marrying Élodie Faber was the ultimate insult, the last straw?”
Flora slowly turned toward Amanda and grinned. “I see where you’re going with this, Ms. McBride. Believe me, if I had the courage to kill anybody, I would’ve killed Élodie Faber way sooner.”
The publicist stood by the window, smiling, looking disturbingly happy.
Chapter 40
Suite 15: Interview of Mr. and Mrs. Faber
“A
ll my sincere condolences, Mrs. Faber,” said Amanda. “Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Amanda and Liliane felt intimidated. They sat on their chairs, trying to make themselves as small as possible, not moving a finger. They faced Élodie Faber’s mother who stood straight in front of them like a monument, a stern expression on her face.
“I don’t know what kind of establishment you think you’re running here, Ms. McBride, but my husband and I have been successful in business for many years and I don’t give your damned castle a month to survive after this.”
The woman had to vent her ire. She wasn’t the most pleasant woman under normal circumstances, but under these horrible conditions, she was a bull ready to charge. It was understandable; she was mourning her daughter. But she was also very strong. Unlike her husband, who had fallen into a total state of stupor since his daughter’s death. He was resting in the bedroom beside the small lounge where the women were meeting. The man was doped up with sedatives.
“And now, what do you think you’ll accomplish with your ridiculous interviews, Ms. McBride?” said Mrs. Faber in a derogatory tone. “You fancy yourself Inspector Columbo?”
This interview wasn’t going in the right direction. Liliane had no trouble hiding her facial expressions this time. The woman made her blood run cold.
“Mrs. Faber, may I ask if you noticed anything special or unusual when you arrived in Élodie’s suite?” asked Amanda.
“Like what? My daughter dead on the floor?” The woman’s anger quickly morphed into vicious sarcasm.
“Do you have any idea who would’ve wanted to hurt your daughter?”
Mrs. Faber slashed the air with her hand to express her impatience and frustration. “Many people! All these stupid guests staying here, in your hotel, showing up at her door to look at my poor girl, dead, on the floor. Taking pictures and filming videos of her! Yes, I see many people who would’ve wanted her dead! All your crazy, nosy clients staying here who wouldn’t give her a break!”
“What about people closer to Élodie?” asked Amanda prudently.
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Faber, frowning.
“Um… What about Flora Guardian? Did she have a good relationship with your daughter?”
“Listen, although I never liked this woman, and I knew Élodie wasn’t happy at all with her work, she would’ve never had the courage to kill Élodie or anybody. Pfff! She’s too weak of a personality for that!”
Amanda and Liliane quickly exchanged a sideways glance.
“Then, um… what about Paul Dumont?”
Mrs. Faber chuckled. “Come on! I’m not an idiot. A has-been of French cinema trying to do a comeback to gain popularity by marrying my wonderful, gorgeous daughter, I can assure you he needed my Élodie well and alive. She was too good for him. The coward hasn’t even been able to protect her! No, I’m afraid you have nothing here, Mrs. McBride. It seems you’re looking in the wrong direction, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You give yourself the right to question the guests, but did you even interview your staff? As far as I know, any of your employees could be the killer. And you too!”
These last words struck Liliane. Amanda couldn’t dismiss th
is argument. She had forgotten the obvious: Mrs. Faber, as unpleasant as she was, had a good point.
Chapter 41
A s no one was allowed to leave the castle, Amanda and her staff got organized for Sunday night.
Isabelle would share Anita’s room; Bertrand and Camille managed to make themselves comfortable with sleeping bags in the piano lounge, she on the couch and he on the floor. D’Artagnan found this improvised camping party amusing and stayed with them instead of sleeping with Amanda as he usually did.
The kitchen staff set up quarters in the ballroom helped by policemen who brought blankets, pillows and camping mattresses.
As for Fred, everybody assumed he was still in the little library, browsing information online about the case or anything else related to history.
Bronx hadn’t been seen for a while either, but as he was a cat, nobody worried about him. He would be back at some point, and despite his psychopathic tendencies, he wasn’t a suspect, anyway. At least, not in this case.
Amanda reminded the guests the strict directive to stay in their rooms at night, except in case of emergency, and to lock their doors. The killer was still among them. If they needed anything, they could call William, the reception employee who worked the night shift.
Amanda and Liliane would sleep in her large bedroom, which was the former owner’s master suite. Exhausted, the friends lay on the silky comforter of the canopy bed and took a few minutes to relax before reviewing Liliane’s notes and the information they had collected from the interviews.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sit again,” said Liliane, looking at the red and golden fabric of the canopy top. “I’m way too comfortable like this.”
“Me neither,” answered Amanda. Her eyelids felt heavy. They closed slowly. Liliane gave her friend a panicked sideways look.
“I forbid you to close your eyes, boss!” said Liliane. “Because if you close your eyes, I’ll close mine too, and we’ll fall asleep like two idiots. I doubt we’ll be very productive this way.”
“All right. So why don’t we stay like this, we don’t have to sit to think anyway?” replied Amanda.
“Um… we can try. But the first who falls asleep owes a dinner to the other,” said Liliane.
“Deal. OK. I start,” said Amanda. “I’m frustrated with Richard Barquet’s interview. We got nothing from him.”
“I dislike the guy. He’s hiding things for sure,” said Liliane.
“Agreed. I think he was with Élodie that night.”
“You think?”
“Yes. If the two had an affair, and if she wanted him here at the last minute, I doubt it was for ‘contractual purposes’ only. She controlled everybody, including him. She probably played with him, if you know what I mean, before signing the contract. I believe it was her intention to spend the night or a part of the night with him.”
“But where did they spend this time together? In his room or in her suite?”
“Hard to say. But my guess is Élodie visited him in his room. Paul Dumont or her parents could’ve walked into Élodie’s suite at any time. It was too risky. Plus, the advantage was Barquet’s room was on the same floor.”
“Could it be Élodie that Jennifer saw, then? You know, the young woman from this weird group that was looking for a secret room. She mentioned a woman wearing a white dress.”
“Yes, I believe it’s Élodie she saw, not a ghost. From the other end of the corridor, it would’ve looked like Élodie was going into the pillar hiding Barquet’s door.”
“But why would Élodie visit Richard Barquet in her wedding gown? It could attract attention.”
“Who knows why? Maybe she did it for fun.”
“For fun, really?” Liliane made a face. “This girl had no principles.”
Amanda shrugged. “She was used to doing whatever she wanted. So, why not this?”
“Do you think Barquet killed her?”
“I don’t know. This man has a lot to lose if he did it.”
“So why was he so secretive?”
“To protect his reputation and his marriage. I’m afraid the media won’t let that go, though. He should know better.”
Liliane smiled. “Maybe it’s vicious of me, but I’m quite happy about it. I really disliked the guy.”
“Yeah. You already said that, Liliane.” Amanda yawned. A big yawn, mouth open, loud and shameless.
“Don’t start yawning, please, or I’ll yaw—” Too late. Liliane yawned. “So, if you think Barquet didn’t kill her, she probably didn’t die in his room?”
“Probably not. I think she went to see him, stayed with him for a while, and then went back to her suite.”
“Many guests mentioned hearing noise coming from the corridor on the second floor between midnight and 2:30 a.m. Do you think it’s when Élodie was killed?”
“This one is hard to say. Only the medical examination could tell us for sure. But that’s a possibility.”
“What about the weirdo? Do you think she did it?”
“Brigitte Plansec? Um… I don’t think so. As peculiar as she is, I don’t think she could kill someone.”
“Really? Criminologists say anybody can kill someone, depending on the circumstances.”
“Still, something tells me it’s not her. What really bothers me is the makeup pouch we found in her suitcase though. I think she might’ve been part of this, at some point.”
“What do you mean? You think she helped Élodie’s killer?”
“Not sure about this either... She spills her story easily when she’s cornered. She would’ve given something away.”
“OK. So, you don’t think Brigitte The Crazy killed Élodie?” asked Liliane.
“No. But humiliating her would’ve been her thing though.”
“How would she humiliate her?”
“By applying this awful makeup on her face, hence the makeup pouch.”
“What? Why would Élodie let her do such an ugly makeup on her face?”
“She wouldn’t. Brigitte Plansec might’ve done it after Élodie died.”
“This is so creepy! But if you think Plansec didn’t kill Élodie, then who did?”
“This is where it’s getting tricky. I believe the person who took the pictures in the suite, the one who killed Élodie, and the one who put that horrible makeup on her face are all different people.”
“You think several guests planned this murder together? A group killing? This is horrible.”
“It’s possible,” replied Amanda in a soft voice.
The women didn’t talk for a few seconds.
“Amanda, just for the record, did you kill Élodie Faber?”
“What? No, of course I didn’t,” answered Amanda. She closed her eyes and mumbled something. Oddly enough, Liliane understood what she meant and answered “Me neither.”
“Good…” whispered Amanda. “Because I don’t want to sleep with a murderer…” and she fell asleep.
“You owe me a dinner,” said Liliane before closing her eyes too.
Chapter 42
T he darkness of night fell on the castle and a dense fog spread on the land, enveloping the Château like cotton candy. The guests could only see a white veil by the windows. This spooky atmosphere was exactly why some of them had come here.
When the minute hand joined the hour hand on the number twelve of the clock in the restaurant’s kitchen, the wooden door that led to the cellar started to rattle. Gently at first, then stronger and louder. The door was locked with a chain because of ‘unexplainable’ activities coming from the basement. Decades ago, a man had died there of a heart attack, alone. ‘Killed by a ghost,’ said the villagers.
The wind slipped under the door, whistling, and the room temperature dropped three degrees in seconds. A translucent human shape appeared, emerging from the door. Then, it got clearer, slowly. It was a woman. She wore a white blouse and a white apron over a long brown skirt. She had a white bonnet on her head.
Her transparent
silhouette floated around the kitchen. She looked with disdain at the electric appliances and the stainless-steel pans. She frowned, looking very unhappy.
Jeannette Gascon’s ghost was doing her regular nightly inspection of the kitchen. Her kitchen. The former cook had served the d’Orvilly family for two decades during the 19th century. The woman had the reputation of being an excellent cook but was also known for her bad temper. What had made her notorious though was not her cuisine, but the murder of the Baron d’Orvilly’s beautiful daughter, Mélie, in 1862. This tragedy was recorded in local archives and had made Jeannette an infamous celebrity.
Jeannette had added poison to a cup of tea destined for Mélie d’Orvilly on the day of Mélie’s twenty-fifth birthday. In front of hundreds of guests gathered in the ballroom for a sumptuous celebration, Mélie had blown out the twenty-five candles on her layered birthday cake. Then she had taken a few sips of her preferred tea—rose with pink petals floating on top—and half an hour later, had collapsed on the floor, dead.
The poison was later found in the kitchen. Jeannette Gascon confessed her crime and was arrested the same evening. The cook was hanged in Orvilly-sur-Mer’s market place one week later, in front of a large crowd of villagers booing and shaking their fists. This murder case had made the front cover of La Gazette d’Orvilly-sur-Mer. This story was well known in the village and had become part of the local folklore.
The cook’s motives for killing the young heiress were unclear, but hearsay referred to jealousy. Jeannette Gascon—whose mother worked as a maid in the Château—had claimed to be the secret bastard child of the Baron d’Orvilly. She was born and raised in the castle and had learned at a young age to become a servant, then a cook. Once her mother had shared her secret with her before her death, Jeannette couldn’t stand to see her half-sister enjoying all the privileges of her rank, while she lived the hard life, working long hours in the kitchen.
Jeannette Gascon passed a hand through pans hung on crooks. They dropped on the floor immediately. She looked at a mug on a shelf and frowned. The mug flew across the room and landed on another shelf. She stood in front of a cabinet. All the drawers opened and ejected white napkins that landed on the floor.
French Weddings Can Kill You Page 11