by Nell Goddin
Nothing.
It would ruin the fun if he found it right off, Alexandre told himself. I’ve got time. There’s no massive rush. Just got to think like Marcel and try to imagine where he would keep his most treasured object. Remember all the nights when he drank too much and talked about how much trouble it had been to buy and how powerful he felt when he was alone and holding it in his palm.
Alexandre was a man of many interests. Apart from business, in which he had been spectacularly successful mostly owing to a lack of conscience, he had an incongruous interest in spiritual matters. He believed that if he wished for something hard enough, completely enough, that he could physically draw the item towards him. And so leaving his friend’s salon for the moment, he went off in search of Antoinette, happily trusting in the belief that the jewel was somehow inching itself in his direction and would soon be revealed to him.
It was late in the evening, and Chez Papa was empty except for Lapin, who had drunk more than usual and to Nico’s annoyance seemed in no hurry to go home.
“Just tell me one thing,” said Lapin, slurring his words a bit. “Why would you keep something like that a secret, and never show it off to anyone?”
“Keep what a secret?” asked Nico.
“La Sfortuna, of course! Aren’t you paying attention?”
“To your drunken ramblings? Not so much, old man,” said Nico. “I don’t know anything about La Sfortuna, including whether it even exists. The whole thing sounds to me like a fairy tale.”
“Oh no,” said Lapin, steadying himself on his elbows. “Au contraire. I know it’s real. I’ve seen photographs, anyway. The story I heard—privately, you know, at a meeting of antiques dealers years ago in Paris, many knowledgeable people in attendance I can tell you—the story I heard was that La Sfortuna was once the featured jewel in a necklace owned by none other than Lucrezia Borgia.”
“Oh I see, the emerald is not only huge and worth a fortune but historically significant? You antiques people are all the same, always trying to make something out of nothing. The thing is probably a chunk of worthless green glass Fleuray kept in his pocket to impress people.”
“No,” said Lapin. He emptied his glass and banged it on the table. “No, that’s…La Sfortuna is real, Nico. And it’s worth millions, for certain, even in a bad market. These days, with stocks flying so high? Probably couldn’t even put a price on it. Those crazy American traders have so much money and they’re absolutely dying to spend it something like La Sfortuna. Something real, a treasure from history, that no one else has.”
“Lucrezia Borgia,” said Nico, shaking his head.
“Yes, Borgia. You know Fleuray’s brother-in-law was Italian, after all. Aristocrat, industrialist, more money than God apparently. Now, you wouldn’t know them because they didn’t live around Castillac, but the Baron’s sister Doriane was very beautiful, and she married Gianni…can’t quite remember the name…Conti, I think it was? They used to visit the Fleurays sometimes, but lived in… Milan, I believe, or at least somewhere in northern Italy. I don’t remember the details. Anyway, I heard that he gave La Sfortuna to his wife for a wedding present. Just imagine! And then of course you might remember this part—the couple died in a plane crash, in the Alps coming back from skiing—you remember that, don’t you my boy? It was all over the tabloids for a short while—doubtless it was at that point that the Baron got his mitts on his sister’s jewel and didn’t let go.”
“So you say, Lapin, so you say.” Nico reached under the bar for a fresh rag and began polishing up the bar for something to do. “About ready for bed, old friend? As you can see, the rest of the village is all tucked in.”
“I don’t like October. Every afternoon it gets dark a little sooner. Depressing.”
“So hop down to Morocco for a few weeks and bake in the sun.”
Lapin laughed. “Not when La Sfortuna is about to come out of hiding! I’ve been waiting to have a glimpse of that stone since the minute I first heard about it over thirty years ago.”
Nico just shook his head. “It’s no good believing in fairy tales, Lapin, I’m telling you.”
8
“It’s not that I think it’s a bad idea, Molls. It’s just that it sounds like so much work.”
“Eh, not to me. The organizing is the worst part. But the cooking, and actually throwing the party—that part will be fun. I’m going to ask Nico if he’ll bartend and help in the kitchen a little. Maybe Constance will agree to serve, though she might be flipping plates upside down in guests’ laps.”
Frances grinned at the prospect. “Sometimes an upside down plate makes for the most memorable dinner.”
Molly nodded, staring down at her list and trying to sort out what needed to be done when.
“So are you going to the Gala tonight?”
“Gala?”
“Molly! It’s like the biggest social occasion of the whole year. You went last year, you told me all about it.”
Molly looked blank, still thinking about her list.
“The fundraiser for L’Institut Degas. Come on, snap out of it, kiddo!”
“Right. The Gala. Listen, I haven’t even told you my big news. Did I tell you I met the Baroness de Fleuray yesterday?”
“No, you did not. Spill.”
“I don’t really have anything to tell. At least nothing very juicy. But…she wants to meet with me. Said she’d heard I was the person to talk to when there’s trouble.”
Frances hooted. “That’s my girl! Lord almighty, a Baroness is going to hire you! Have you figured out what you’ll charge?”
“Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about getting paid.”
“Are you not in some financial hot water?”
“I wouldn’t call it hot water exactly.”
Frances looked exasperated. “Look, you need money. We’re headed into the cold months and unless I’ve got it wrong, your calendar is not crowded with bookings. Right?”
Molly nodded reluctantly.
“Well so, when a freaking Baroness knocks on your door and asks for your help, don’t be all timid about it. And don’t agree to do anything without talking about your fee first. I don’t know anything about aristocrats but believe me, I know plenty of rich people. They’ll fleece you if you don’t demand your share. And lose respect for you as they’re doing it, too.”
“So you’re saying…I’m a private investigator now? A legit one?”
“If you’ve got clients approaching you out of the blue, I’d say yeah, that’s what you are. And if that client lives in a humongous Château and is rolling in do-re-mi, make that invoice a hefty one!”
Molly laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m a little uncomfortable asking for money but I see your point. So…you and Nico are going to the Gala? What time does it start?”
“Eight. You can’t weasel out of going just because you’re sort-of single for the moment. Who knows, you might meet someone.”
“Ha. I’m not looking to meet someone. Romance is really just not my thing.”
“Uh huh. If I only had a euro for every—”
“Oh shut up, Frances,” said Molly.
“And you’re on a murder case. Murderers always go to big parties.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Pretty much everyone in the village will be there, right? So if the Baron’s killer is local, he’s not going to risk staying home when the whole village is at the same party. It would attract attention, and he might miss out on important gossip. So my brilliant deductive powers say that ipso facto the murderer will be at that Gala. And so should you.”
“Oh ipso facto alakazam!”
“No need to get salty,” said Frances, pretending to be offended.
Molly loved her old friend deeply, but sometimes even old friends can grate on your last nerve. She announced she was going to mop the floor and Frances scurried off, leaving Molly to contemplate whether she could muster the enthusiasm to go to the Gala this year. It had been so much fun
with Ben last October, and going by herself just wasn’t the same. It made her feel lonely just thinking about it.
But Frances was probably right. It might not be a night of romantic pleasure this time, but there was sleuthing to do, and staying home really wasn’t an option.
Maron stood up from his desk, still looking at his computer screen. He was expecting Georgina Locatelli to arrive at the station any minute, the first of several interviews of the employees at Château Marainte.
“I would be more than happy to conduct this interview, if you have more important things to attend to,” said Paul-Henri, anxious to get in on the action.
“Actually, that call just now was from Madame Vargas—I’m afraid her husband has gone wandering again. Check the usual places, will you?”
“If he always goes to the same places, why can’t Madame Vargas just fetch him?”
“Well, that’s the thing. Sometimes he shakes things up and doesn’t go to the cemetery, and it takes some detective work to figure out where else he might be. Hop to, Paul-Henri, wouldn’t want him out in the road on a blind curve.…”
Paul-Henri sighed and Maron turned away to hide his amusement. It was not so long ago that Ben Dufort was giving him the Vargas assignment and he remembered very well how onerous it felt.
Just as Paul-Henri was leaving, a dark-haired whirlwind came through the door. She was short and slender, around forty years old, dressed in a black skirt and low heels. Waving her arms, she quickly moved next to Maron, glaring at him, and he took a step back.
“All right then, here I am,” she said defiantly. “But don’t get it into your head that I’m going to sit down and blurt out all the family’s business because that is not how I operate.”
“Good morning, Madame Locatelli.”
“Just make it Georgina. I’m a housekeeper, not the Queen of England.”
“Yes, Madame,” said Maron. “Please have a seat, and thank you very much for coming in.”
Georgina narrowed her eyes at him.
“Please begin by talking to me about last Friday night. Start early, before dinner. Do you cook for the Fleurays?”
“Al diavolo! We did not…we did not see eye to eye on food, Officer.”
Maron rubbed a palm over his face. “What do you mean?”
“I am Italian, if you have not noticed, Mr. Police Investigator. The Fleurays are French. Do I need to spell it out?”
“I’m sorry, are you saying you simply like different kinds of food?”
Georgina did not alter the intensity of her stare as she slowly shook her head without answering. Maron felt sweat break out under his collar despite the room being rather cool.
“So who cooked dinner? Was there dinner? Did the Fleurays eat together?”
“That night they did, yes. I had been working on the third floor readying some guest bedrooms, so I was there later than usual. The Baroness cooked. When I was done mopping the floors I went home.”
“And where is that?”
“A cottage partway down the hill, on the drive up to the Château. My Angelo and I live there.”
“Angelo is your husband?”
“What kind of woman are you implying I am?”
“I am implying nothing, Madame, simply asking—”
“Very impertinent. Insinuating. Let me tell you, I may be only a housekeeper, but that does not give you license to—”
“Excuse me, Madame, I have really only a very few questions left to ask. I am not in any way trying to insult you or—”
“So you say, Mr. Police Officer. Are you the head detective? Who else works in this office?”
“I’m going to ask the questions, Georgina. All right. Who were the guest rooms for, if you know?”
“I don’t.”
“So you finished up work and went home. You heard nothing else that night?”
“Why would you ask the question that way? Is that what you want me to say? ‘Oh yes, Mr. Important Detective, I went home and went to bed and never heard a thing.’ Is that what you’re after? You’ve already wrapped this case up, over and done?”
Maron inhaled slowly. “Can you tell me what happened after you finished cleaning?”
“I walked down the hill to my cottage and made spaghetti carbonara for my Angelo. We drank a Barolo I’d saved up for and went to bed around ten.”
“And did you hear or see anything else that night, or notice anything at all?”
“Apart from the sports car that came screaming down the drive at around midnight, no Monsieur, I did not.”
Georgina folded her arms and continued to glare at Officer Maron, though now she allowed herself the tiniest hint of a smile.
9
She was ready but not enthusiastic. It was nearly nine o’clock and the Gala was in full swing already, but Molly dawdled, wiping off her eyeliner and putting it on again, tying a scarf and retying it three more times, spraying her hair with something meant to dampen the frizz. Uninspired, she was wearing the same black dress she wore to last year’s Gala, only this year it was tighter, and not in a good way.
It wasn’t that she was embarrassed to be without a date, or felt incomplete without a partner, or anything like that. Just that a big party like this was so much more festive when the zing of romance was in the air.
Though really—wasn’t she getting too old for such thoughts? She was going to be forty next year after all. Time to let go of the picket fence and babies dreams, Molly….
Ugh, way to cheer yourself right up, she thought, glumly giving Bobo one last scratch behind the ears before heading outside and climbing onto her dented scooter. As she cut through the village on the way to L’Insitut Degas, she remembered last year’s Gala, when she hadn’t been in France more than a few months. All of it—leaving Massachusetts, the first big village social occasion, the early efforts at detective work—it seemed a million years ago now. She missed Ben, but the pang bubbled up and faded away quickly, and she told herself to quit moping and get ready for a good time. Her friends would be there, she had a new case to work on, the dinner plan for more income…all in all, life was good. Or good enough for now.
The streets of Castillac were empty. There weren’t many streetlights and she passed pockets of shadow and darkness on her way. Chez Papa was closed as were the other bars and restaurants, the Presse, everything. When Molly stopped for one of the few stoplights in Castillac, she shivered while looking around at the shuttered windows. Not even a cat slunk along in an alley.
Just outside of the village, the central building at L’Institut Degas was modern, with big rounded windows, a series of large skylights, and a strange external covering that made it look like a jellyfish. Molly could see that the place was packed, and groups stood out on the lawn chatting.
The first person she recognized after parking the scooter was Rex Ford, a teacher at L’Institut whom she met briefly during the Amy Bennett case. He was lanky and serious, and greeted her with the same sour demeanor she remembered.
“Everyone inside is talking about how you’re investigating the Baron’s murder,” he said, lighting a cigarette and somehow making his disapproval clear.
Well, that didn’t take long.
Molly tried to smooth her hair back under control after taking off her helmet.
“You do know this village is packed to the brim with the biggest gossips on earth,” he said.
“Yes…but, generally speaking, the gossip tends to be pretty lighted-hearted, wouldn’t you say?”
“No.”
“Just, you know, mostly affectionately interested in what other people are doing?”
“Are you kidding? No, Molly, I’m afraid you’re looking at this with more optimism and good spirits than is called for. People here like to drag others down, is how it is. They feed on bad news, and they’ll chew you up and spit you out if you’re not careful.”
Molly sighed inwardly but nodded. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Rex. I’m going to head in and get to the ba
r!”
“Cheers,” he answered gloomily, and Molly could not wait to put some distance between herself and the embittered teacher. Her mood was precarious enough as it was.
“Molly!” shouted Lawrence, who was just inside the door selling tickets.
“Oh, I am glad to see you!” she said, falling into his arms for a hug.
“I was worried you wouldn’t show.”
“I didn’t feel like coming. But here I am. Have I missed anything?”
“Actually…not a thing. You’re not the only late arrival. But the Baroness is here—she got here about fifteen minutes ago and caused quite a stir. Apparently she usually sends a yearly check to the Institut but never actually attends the Gala.”
“Oo, I’m going to rush off to find her—”
“Not before you buy your ticket, Missy.”
Molly fumbled in her tiny evening bag for cash, then looked in the crowd for Antionette while Lawrence made change.
“And um, who else is here, Lawrence? Has your infamous boyfriend with the middle name of Terrance made an appearance?”
“He’s here. Just…be gentle, will you?”
“You wound me, you really do. What do you think I’m going to do, push him up against a wall, shine a light in his face, and interrogate him?”
“Well…yes.”
They both laughed. Then Molly caught a glimpse of the Baroness, kissed his cheek, and disappeared into the crowd.
The room only had a few streamers for decoration, apart from some bowls of flowers on the tables along the walls of the room. A DJ was set up in one corner and was blasting pop, a gang of villagers danced in the center of the room, and a few people sat at the tables eating plates of duck breast and frites. After the quick glimpse of the Baroness Molly could not find her, and so she stood on the edge of the dance floor feeling awkward, looking for anyone she knew.