by Nell Goddin
“So you see—again I’m going to sound superstitious, so perhaps I am. But I believe the emerald is nothing but trouble, and I absolutely want it out of this house. If indeed it is still here. Two accidental deaths and a murder, in only one generation. If that is not a curse, then I don’t want to imagine what is.”
Molly looked solemn. “I’m not usually superstitious either, but I can see why you feel that way.” She drank the last of her now-cold espresso, forgotten in the excitement of the tale Antoinette had told. “Well, I’d be happy to help you if I can. I’m not sure my talents fit exactly with the problem—I’m better at thinking about people than objects. I suppose for a start, what I need to do is get a good sense of your husband, so that I can make some guesses about what he might have been thinking when he decided on a hiding place. Can you tell me about him, what he liked and disliked, what kind of man he was?”
Antoinette’s face fell slightly, and then she drew herself back up, her posture straight though her eyes were full of sorrow. “I understand what you are asking. But I’m afraid this morning…I am not feeling up to it. It’s a conversation that will be…you understand? Quite painful to have.”
“Yes,” said Molly, reaching out and putting her hand over the Baroness’s. “Whenever you’re ready, of course. I’m sure there’s so much to do just now, and surely if the emerald really is cursed, it doesn’t do its evil instantly. There’s time.”
“Thank you, Molly,” said Antoinette. “You’ll come back soon? No need to arrange anything in advance. I’m almost always here at the Château, most often down at the barn taking care of various animals, sometimes working in the garden in the courtyard or the potager outside the walls. Give me a few days, then return?”
“You can count on me,” said Molly, rising from the tattered sofa and feeling a bit relieved to be leaving. “We’ll find that stone somehow!”
Though as she climbed on her scooter and headed down the hill, she thought about the vastness of the Château and how easy it would be, if someone desired to, to hide something that small so that no one would ever be able to find it, not in a million years.
12
Maron had sent Paul-Henri off on an errand in Bergerac and was eating a baguette with ham and butter at his desk when Hubert Arnaud came into the station. Maron shoved the last of the sandwich into his mouth and drank down some water before thanking him for coming in.
“Please understand, Monsieur, you are not a suspect in the murder of Marcel de Fleuray. I only want as much information as you can give me about the operations at the Château, the Baron and Baroness, their friends…anything you can think of that might help point us in the right direction.”
Hubert nodded his head vigorously. “I want to help. I was gutted by the news. My family has worked for the Fleurays for generations, and never has anything so ugly taken place at Château Marainte. And of course I knew the Baron quite well. He spent a lot of time in the forests, you know—in big hunting parties, but also by himself or just the two of us. Nothing he loved more than shooting, being outside in any weather. Nature, that’s what the Baron cared about. You know, he was called Little Bear when he was a kid, because anytime his parents or the nanny wanted to find him, he would be rambling around in the forest, or huddled in a cave somewhere.”
“Yet my understanding is that recently he spent most of his time in Paris.”
“Well, yes. He had business to attend to. It’s not like most of the aristocratic families can just bob along without a care in the world, can they? They have to make a living like anybody else. It’s not 1770, Officer Maron.”
“No, of course not,” said Maron. “All right, the Baron was a nature-lover. What else can you tell me about him?”
“He was a very good shot. Could nail a pheasant on the rise at a good distance, just like that, ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Used to impress his city guests, I can tell you.”
“And his relation to you—was he a fair person to work for? Treated you well?”
“Yes. Like I say, my family has worked for the Fleurays for something like two hundred years. We consider it an honor. And if you are asking about details like salary and things like that, he paid me regularly and about the same as anyone else in my job gets, as far as I know.”
Maron nodded. “And what exactly is your job?”
Hubert sat up straight and expanded his chest. “You could call me a gamekeeper, I suppose. I manage the hunting lands,” he said. “There’s more to that than you might think. It’s not like you can just open a crate of baby pheasants and that’s the end of it. There’s an art to it. I keep an eye out for poachers—that goes back and forth, some years it’s a big problem, and others not as much. And the rest of it, well, the Baron as you say is out of town quite a bit. Sometimes the Baroness needs help with something at the Château, and I take care of that for her.”
“What kind of help?
“Oh, a tree fell over in the driveway once, and I brought my chainsaw and cut it up for her. I fix things around the Château, handyman sorts of jobs—replacing a broken windowpane, a rusted hinge, little jobs like that.”
“And the Baroness, how do you get along with her?”
“Quite well. She’s pretty self-sufficient and doesn’t call me often. I think she likes seeing what she can do on her own, before asking me to step in. I found her trying to rewire a lamp once and she only gave it to me when I insisted.”
“And how does she treat the other people who work at the Château?”
“There’s only me and Georgina.” Hubert leaned forward and lowered his voice although there was no one else in the station. “Confidentially, the Fleurays don’t have the best cash flow. But apart from that,” he said, sitting up again, “they aren’t really the type to want to be waited on hand and foot. Neither of them are like that, and Percival and Luc aren’t either. Not spoiled, like you might think.”
“Those are the sons?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“I’d like to return to them in a moment. Tell me about Georgina.”
Hubert started to grin but stopped himself. “She’s a right firecracker, that one,” he said, but went silent and looked around the station as though only then realizing where he was. “It’s just you and the new guy now? I heard Dufort is off riding elephants somewhere. Is he never coming back?”
“Not to the gendarmerie. Back to Castillac, I have no idea. Now—Georgina. What do you mean, firecracker? She has a temper?”
“Oh, yes!” said Hubert with relish. “And she and Antoinette, they don’t get along so well. Some women are like oil and water, you know?”
“You’re saying temperamentally they don’t get along?”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. The Baroness is on the quiet side. Doesn’t show how she feels about things right off. You know—reserved, like a Baroness should act. But Georgina, holy mother of Jesus, she’ll start up screeching at the drop of a hat. If you’re within a hundred meters, you’re gonna know her feelings about everything, you know what I’m talking about?”
Maron remembered his interview with the housekeeper and understood Hubert’s point very well.
“And this difference in temperament, you think that is the cause of their not getting along? Any other reason?”
“Well,” said Hubert, delighted to have an opportunity to show his intimate knowledge of the goings-on at Château Marainte, since his friends in the village had tired of the subject long ago. “Yeah, there’s reasons. See, Georgina’s not from a family that has served the Fleurays for generations, like mine. She was the Baron’s sister’s maid. Doriane de Fleuray,” he added reverentially.
“Who is Doriane de Fleuray?”
“The Baron’s sister, like I said,” Hubert said, annoyed that anyone could be so out of the loop about Castillac’s aristocracy. “She grew up at the Château with the Baron, his little sister. Famous for her beauty. And not at all in a show-off way, either. Beautiful and kind-hearted, that’s Doriane de Fleuray.<
br />
“I knew her quite well, you see. We were all gutted when she…when she died,” he added.
Maron cocked his head and studied Hubert. This loyalty and even reverence was strange and distasteful to him, but he managed not to show it.
“How did Doriane die?”
Hubert bowed his head. “I’m astonished you don’t know. The story was in all the papers. I kept many clippings, if you would be interested to see them. Do you not remember the tragic plane crash in 1986, when she and her husband were going back to Milan after a ski trip at Chamonix? Of course they were both instantly killed. A terrible, terrible tragedy.”
Maron had never been even slightly interested in the activities of celebrities or the very rich, so no, he had no memory of the crash. “So Doriane lived in Milan? Then how did her maid end up at Château Marainte?”
“Because the Baron hired her. All I know is, after Madame Conti’s death, Georgina showed up. And she and the Baroness sometimes went at it hammer and tongs, I’ll tell you.”
Maron considered. The two men sat for a few quiet moments, each lost in his own thoughts about the world inside the Château. “One more question,” said Maron finally. “On Friday night, the night of the murder—do you know anything about a sports car being at the Château?”
“Sports car? What kind? I never saw anything like that, but I wasn’t there after about four in the afternoon. I’d been working on a tractor and gotten covered with grease, so I went home to get cleaned up. The night the Baron was shot, I was home watching television.”
“You married?”
“No.”
“Live alone? Anybody to corroborate what you just told me?”
“What are you getting at? Why in the world would I—you think I had something to do with it? Excuse me, Officer Maron, for telling you your business. But if you want to catch the Baron’s murderer, you are really barking up the wrong tree.” Hubert stuck out his chest, clearly affronted.
“All right, then,” said Maron. “Thank you, Monsieur Arnaud, you’ve been quite helpful. Please don’t take offense, my questions are standard protocol and I will be asking anyone else connected with the Château the very same things. Also—I understand that you might feel reluctant to speak freely since you’re obviously a very loyal employee. Just remember that anything you tell me could lead to the Baron’s murderer.”
Yes, sir,” said Hubert solemnly.
“Anything you think of, even a little detail—just give me a call,” said Maron, handing him a card with his cell number.
Wednesday afternoon, and Chez Papa was empty except for Frances perched on her stool at the end of the bar, and Nico putting glasses away behind it.
“Where is everyone?” moaned Frances melodramatically. “It’s not like it’s pouring rain or anything.”
“What’s Molly up to?”
“I don’t know. She’s been impossible lately. Either staring into space thinking about the Baron, or running around like a chicken with her head cut off getting ready for this dinner tonight. Are you still going to help her out? I think she’s got maybe eight or ten people signed up.”
“Yeah, I told her I’d make apéros, but that’s it. She sounded confident she could manage the kitchen end of things if I took care of the drinks for her.”
“Seems like a lot of work to me, with high expenses.”
Nico shrugged. “She can’t whip off jingles for big money like you,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.
“Okay, maybe I’m wrong. I just think there’s got to be an easier way to improve cash flow than going to all that trouble for one meal.”
“Frances, chérie?”
“Yeeeessss?”
“You’ve lived in France how long?”
“Nine months, give or take.”
“And do you still not understand that in France, there is nothing more important than a meal? Nothing!”
Frances laughed. “How about Italy? Isn’t it pretty much the same there?”
Nico’s smile faded. “I haven’t lived there since I was a boy, so it’s hard to say. Sure, Italians enjoy food immensely, no doubt about that. But my point is that you don’t…not to insult you, petit chou, but you don’t really cook. Sometimes I think you live on air. For the French, everything else comes second to food and drink. The meal is the focus of everything, the axis the world spins on!”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You know, you could spin out a plate of frites while you’re standing there blabbering on.”
“How about a proper meal for once? Your favorite frites, with a nice green salad and a hangar steak. Since no one’s here, I’ll join you.”
“What if Alphonse comes in?”
“You think Alphonse is going to be upset about my eating a nice meal with my beloved? No, no, he would be delighted. I already told the chef to go home.”
Frances grinned. “Can I come help? Maybe you could teach me a few culinary tricks of the trade.”
Nico turned away so Frances could not see his expression of dismay. He had tried showing Frances how to make a few things in the small kitchen in their apartment, but it had not gone well. At all.
He gave her a lettuce and told her to separate the leaves and wash them in the sink, and went to get the steak which was marinating in the cold box. When he came back, the lettuce was still sitting on the counter and Frances was tapping her fingertips on the counter, lost in thought.
“Hello?”
“Oh—sorry. I had a tune running through my head and was just…what was I supposed to be doing?”
“Never mind,” said Nico, picking up the lettuce. “But listen,” he said, taking her by the shoulder and turning her towards him. “Just marry me,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers.
“You want to wash my lettuce every single day?” she said lightly.
“Don’t joke, Frances. For once, don’t joke.”
“It’s just…we don’t have to make a decision this instant, Nico. I love you, you know that. I’m just….”
“I know, twice burned. But you agree that what we have isn’t like those other times.”
“It isn’t. No doubt about that.”
“Then what?”
Frances looked away, uncomfortable.
“Is it my job?” asked Nico. “Would you rather I did something more respectable?”
Frances hooted. “Respectable? Are you kidding me? First of all, if you’ve been hired to do something, and you show up every day and do it well, that’s respectable right there. And second, where in heck did you get the idea that respectability is what I’m after?”
Nico looked away but did not take his hands from her shoulders. “I’m just trying to understand why you don’t say yes,” he murmured.
“All right, I’m just going to say it then. But I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. It’s not personal, not about you in particular. But the thing I wonder—especially after my two divorces—is this: can we ever really know other people? I mean, who am I, really? You don’t know.”
“Frances!”
“Well, you don’t, not really. You know my skin is pale and I can make up jolly tunes for jingles. You know I’m ticklish under my chin, have a desperate love of frites, and don’t get along with my parents. You know some facts, I’ll grant you that. But I hate to tell you—sometimes in here it is nothing but chaos and I do my damnedest not to let that show,” she said, tapping on her temple.
Nico smiled a slow smile. “You think I don’t know that? You’d be wrong,” he said, kissing her on the neck, just under her ear, where he knew she liked to be kissed.
13
When things are going wrong, it is tempting to think that the bad stuff has been gotten through and things will turn right again any minute. At least, that’s what the usually optimistic Molly was thinking that Friday, the day of her first dinner. She had woken up to hear Bobo throwing up, and then realizing the dog was in her bed and puking on her pillow. Then, drinking her first cup of coffee and checking her
email, she got her first gîte cancellation. It was the fussy guest, the one who kept emailing with more and more demands. Apparently she had failed to respond quickly enough to his last petulant email and he had cancelled on her.
Just in time to get a refund of his deposit. Of course.
Undeterred, Molly spent an hour doing prep work in the kitchen before running out for last-minute ingredients. Just as she was heading out of the driveway onto rue des Chênes, Constance came flying in on her bicycle.
“Molls!” She jumped off her bike and left it to clatter, embracing Molly and kissing her on each cheek. “I’ve missed you! Now that I’m taking that online course I just haven’t been out and about like usual. So tell me, what’s this plan of yours?”
Molly went over her evening of Classic Périgord cuisine, and how she hoped it would be the first in a string of lucrative dinners. “So for cleaning? Just do the public spaces—kitchen, living room, foyer. Don’t bother with the cottage or any of the bedrooms for now. I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve got to get to the store—”
“Go, go, go! I’ll have everything gleaming by the time you get home!”
Molly smiled and waved and sped down the road, thinking that it would be half a miracle if Constance actually performed her job with any competence. Usually Molly had to follow along behind, putting away dirty dust-cloths Constance had left on tables, and mopping up puddles of water. So, not the most efficient cleaner in the world, but Constance had other qualities, and Molly felt a great deal of affection for her.
Sure, enough, when Molly returned, Constance was gone and a bucket of dirty water stood in the foyer. A dust mop leaned against the kitchen counter. It was always this way—as though Constance had been suddenly removed from La Baraque by aliens, vaporized where she stood. But Molly knew that most likely her boyfriend Thomas had called, and Constance had quickly taken off without quite meaning to, swept away by love or fury.