by Nell Goddin
What had Esmé Ridding wanted with Marcel anyway? All he ever talked about was hunting boar and forest management.
That’s it! he thought, sitting up and pumping one fist in the air. He’d been an idiot to think La Sfortuna would be lying around the Château. The hiding place would of course have something to do with what Marcel loved more than anything—hunting. The small lodge out in the forest, that’s the place to look.
Alexandre swung his legs out of bed and sat for a moment, visualizing the moment when his hand grasped the box, the fantasy so real that his hand reached out into the air and closed over the imaginary box. Then he bathed, dressed carefully in a dark suit, and descended the wide, red-carpeted staircase, intending to comfort the grieving widow for as long as she would allow, and hoping that the service would be short.
15
Molly was up and drinking coffee, slumped on the sofa with Bobo at her side, feeling morose at the failure of her dinner. The guests had gobbled up all the food—that hadn’t been the problem. It was that the assembled personalities hadn’t gelled into good spirits but instead endless complaining and expressions of disappointment. They told Molly her table setting wasn’t very elegant, that the pompe aux pommes was too dry, that they expected some inside information about the Baroness and the murder. By the end of the evening Molly’s face hurt from fake-smiling and she had never been more glad to fall into bed, leaving the kitchen a disaster.
When she heard a knock at the door the next morning, she had a stab of anxiety that one of last night’s guest had shown up looking for a refund.
“Constance!” she said, opening the door with relief.
“Molly!” said Constance mournfully, and collapsed into her friend’s arms.
“Uh oh,” said Molly, hugging her. “What’s going on?”
Constance sobbed into Molly’s neck until her shirt was quite damp. “Men!”
“Ah,” said Molly. “Come in, would you like coffee? Tell me what Thomas has done now.”
“Yes to coffee. You got any croissants?”
“Sorry, all out.”
“What?”
“I know. I’m…not having a great morning either. I’m afraid I only had two and I ate them both.”
“But I’m starving.”
“Let’s see. I could make you some eggs? I made a couple of incredible pompe aux pommes last night, but the guests ate every crumb of both of them.”
“How did the thing go?”
“Eh, I’ll get to that later. So, scrambled eggs?”
“How about chocolate pudding?”
Molly laughed. “A woman after my own heart. Chocolate pudding it is. Come sit at the counter so we can talk while I cook.”
“Okay,” said Constance, settling on the stool and spinning from side to side. “So, you know things with Thomas have been going super well. I mean, for months and months, barely any fighting at all. Anything comes up, we talk about it, problem solved.”
“All good,” said Molly, clicking on a pudding recipe on her tablet. “Very good, in fact.”
“Yeah,” said Frances, her eyes welling up. “I thought we were on the brink of getting married, even starting a family….”
Molly looked up quickly. Constance, a mother? Well, sure. Why not? But Molly felt a pain in between her ribs, like a sharp blade had jabbed her. Every time she thought she might be letting go of the desire to have children of her own, she got reminded that the desire might hide out of sight but never really went away.
She sipped her coffee and with some effort turned her thoughts to Constance instead of herself. “So has something happened? I’ll just jump in to say—I know at your age getting married seems really important, but I’ll be your know-it-all big sister and tell you that I don’t think that’s actually true. Nothing wrong with just letting relationships deepen over time, without the pressure of something official.”
“Oh, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about getting married,” said Constance. “But—okay, you’re probably going to think I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Yesterday I got back from doing some marketing—buying his favorite prunes stuffed with foie gras and everything—and when I came into the apartment, he’s acting all hinky.”
“Hinky?”
“Guilty. Like he jumped up out of an armchair like it had suddenly caught fire, and it looked like he was trying to hide what he’d been doing.”
Molly scraped the melted chocolate into the egg mixture and whisked everything together, waiting for Constance to continue.
“So later on, after he’d gone to work? I went over to the chair and looked around. And I found a magazine—one of those trashy tabloids, which if I’d been reading he’d have teased me like crazy—and the pages were folded back to show this photograph…” She bent her head and wiped a tear away.
“It was that Esmé Ridding. He bought the stupid magazine because it had a feature on stupid Esmé Ridding, and then sat around our apartment drooling over her. Can you even believe it?”
Molly poured the pudding into small cups which she had put in a roasting pan halfway full of water. She did a poor job of scraping out the bowl so she could give it to Constance to lick. Then she leaned her elbows on the counter and looked hard at her friend. “You’re telling me you’re furious with Thomas because he looked at a picture of a movie star in a magazine?”
Constance wailed, “It’s not that he was only looking at the picture! He obviously wants her, Molly! And not me!”
“Oh, dear,” said Molly, not giving in to the desire to roll her eyes. “I know this is going to sound rude, and I don’t mean it that way at all. But so what if he wants Esmé Ridding? Everyone wants Esmé Ridding. Hell, I’m sure if I ever had a chance with her, I’d want Esmé Ridding too, and I don’t even swing that way!”
“But Molly. It’s just…how can I even compete?”
“You’re not competing, dear heart. She’s a movie star. Thomas is not trying to decide between the two of you. The fact that he finds her interesting and attractive—that’s just fantasy. You never, ever, ever for one second have any interest in any man but Thomas? Absolutely never?”
Constance smiled a complicit little smile. “Not telling.”
“Thought so.”
“But he really hurt my feelings. It’s not even the magazine so much, as the way he tried to hide it from me. If he had only talked to me about it, I think I wouldn’t have freaked out so much.”
“Being open with people…it’s hard. Especially sometimes with people we love.”
“Were you able to do it with Donnie?”
Molly snorted at the mention of her ex. “I don’t even know at this point. I hardly ever think of that part of my life anymore, now that I’m here in Castillac with a whole new life. And by the way, I’m probably the worst person to come to for relationship advice, given my string of failures in the romance department.”
“Not your fault.”
“That’s what they all say,” Molly shrugged.
“It’s just…I thought I knew Thomas, and now he’s thrown me this curveball of his secret lust for Esmé Ridding, and the worst part—once I get past the insane jealousy—is that now I feel skittery around him, like I don’t even know who he is anymore.”
“It’s just some pictures in a magazine, Constance. Not important, really, is it? And no doubt he tried hiding it because he was embarrassed.”
“I haven’t forgotten Simone Guyanet.” Nine months earlier, Constance and Thomas had broken up when he started seeing Constance’s old classmate Simone, but before long he had begged Constance to forgive him. And she had.
“Of course not. Stuff like that shouldn’t be forgotten. But it shouldn’t be the first thing you think about whenever you hit a bump in the road either.”
“What would I do without you, Molls?” asked Constance, grinning. “How long until the pudding is ready? I’ll eat it straight out of the oven.”
“You don’t think it would be better cold?”
&nbs
p; “You trying to tell me there’s something wrong with warm pudding? How in the world could that be?”
“You make a solid point,” said Molly, looking at the timer on the stove. “Another half hour. Listen, while we wait—would you tell me everything you know about the Baron and Baroness?”
“I knew you’d get on the case!” Constance leapt off the stool and did some hip-hop dance moves, making strange noises that sounded like the call of a tropical bird. “But wow, chalk me up for a big fail on this one. I never met ’em. Never really heard anything about ’em either. Two sons, I think? But they went to boarding school and didn’t really grow up here. I’ve seen the Baroness around the village every once in a while at the market and such, but never exchanged so much as a bonjour with her. And sad to say, I don’t think anyone I know has either. But I’ll keep my eyes and ears out, Molls!”
Molly sighed. It was going to be very difficult to figure out anything about La Sfortuna, never mind the murder, if no one had any idea who the Fleurays were. So far, the family—beyond the public face—was almost a complete mystery.
16
Seven months earlier
Paris in April. Marcel de Fleuray had met Esmé Ridding in December, at an apéro held by his sort-of friend, the Minister of Public Works. She was, unsurprisingly, the center of attention, and nearly every man in the room was vying for her attention. She was dressed in a white silk sheath that made her look impossibly narrow, almost boyish. Her blonde hair spilled down over one eye, curling just past her shoulders, and she looked like a Gallic reincarnation of a young Lauren Bacall, sultry and sophisticated. Esmé sat on the back stairs of the apartment that led up from the kitchen. Men crowded around, some staring, some desperately trying to be witty.
Marcel, however, stayed in the other room talking about grouse-hunting to a Scot who was in Paris for the week with his wife. Eventually the Scot and his wife took off, leaving Marcel alone, and still he did not go into the kitchen where Esmé was surrounded by courtiers, but stood by the window looking out at the spectacular view of the city—the Seine winding its way through, the Eiffel tower spendidly lit up, the beautiful Haussmann apartment buildings across the street.
Eventually, as he guessed she would, Esmé emerged from the kitchen to see who else was there. She looked at him curiously. And in that moment, with total confidence, he knew he had her.
So they had been involved from December to April, a bit over three months…and for once in his life, Marcel was off balance, uncertain of what to do. He had had mistresses for most of his adult life—secret liaisons with unsuitable women before he was married, then secret affairs during his marriage, as well as not-so-secret flings. It was part of living life to its fullest, he and his friends told each other. And he considered himself lucky to be married to someone who did not carry on or punish him for it, but went on with her life and the things she cared about no matter what anyone else did or did not do.
But so. Three months, and now Esmé had flung a vase at him, demanding he leave his wife and marry her. To Marcel, this was incomprehensible; it was as unexpected and nonsensical as though she had suddenly been unable to communicate except in Swahili.
But Esmé was unrelenting.
Her apartment was in a stunning block of the 6th, just off Boulevard Saint-Michel. Marcel gave his name to the concierge, who scowled at him as she always did, and waited while she called up to Esmé’s apartment. As he rode the ancient elevator with its elaborate ironwork up to the penthouse, he was thinking not of Esmé but of the particular shade of green the leaves were in the Dordogne in April, and he was swept by a wave of homesickness for Château Marainte and its forests.
“My dear,” he said, stepping inside and taking her hands. She pulled back slightly but he leaned in and kissed her cheeks, then kissed her on the mouth, at first gently, then more insistently.
“Marcel,” said Esmé, pulling away, her voice cracking.
“You are making everything more complicated than it needs to be,” he said, looking into her dark brown eyes. She was wearing no makeup and dressed in blue jeans with a simple cashmere sweater, and looked incredible.
“I hate fighting with you, Petit Ours,” she murmured, withdrawing her body but beckoning with her tone of voice.
Marcel nodded. He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them, and she felt tension drain away. Then he moved his hands down her arms, touching firmly, and with a quick move had one arm around the top of her shoulder pulling her to him, and the other around her waist. He pinned her up against him and kissed her again, kissed her like he meant it, like she was everything to him and nothing else in the entire world mattered.
“Marcel,” she said softly, leading him to the sofa with a faint smile. She did not sound contented, or satisfied, but rather doomed.
17
Outside the Château, on the other side of the moat, stood a small chapel built in the seventeenth century. It had an unusual turreted roof that went in a spiral, which students of architecture believed might have been copied from the twisted spires of the Loire known as Baugeoise. The building itself was made of limestone, with three unremarkable stained glass windows along each of its long sides, an arched doorway, and a hideously salacious gargoyle on the northeast corner of the roof. The Fleuray family had never been known for its piety, and while the chapel had not been allowed to fall into ruin, neither was it given much attention or upkeep beyond the bare minimum.
Inside were vaults containing the bodies of Marcel’s parents, grandparents on his father’s side, several uncles, great-grandparents, and even great-great-grandparents. Marcel had in fact discussed his funeral arrangements with his wife, and he had been quite firm about not wanting to be “stuck in a box of stone” but instead wished to be buried outside, in the earth. He had chosen the spot, under a magnolia tree beside the chapel. From there, high on the hill, the view was serene—rolling hills and farmland, with the cluster of red-tiled roofs that constituted Castillac not far away. The sun was out and warm, billowing clouds floated overhead, and it was altogether a beautiful day for a funeral.
Antoinette was dressed in a black wool suit, tailored and well-cut. Her hair was pulled into the usual loose chignon at the back of her neck. She wore no jewelry and very little makeup.
“Maman,” said Luc, kissing her on both cheeks when she appeared up in the lounge. “You look tired.”
“I’m burying my husband today. You expect me to look invigorated?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, just wishing you were getting better rest. Who’s doing the service?”
“The priest from the village church is coming up. He should be here any minute. Where’s Percival?”
“Did you or Father ever actually attend a service in that church?”
“Are you set on being an annoyance this morning? Make yourself useful and go find your brother.”
Luc put his hand on his mother’s shoulder for a second and then went into the kitchen and then to the courtyard. He kept waiting for a wave of emotion to crash over him—sorrow, regret, grief, something—but it did not come. Which was not entirely a surprise, since he had barely known his father. When he had turned eight, and was old enough to hunt but showed no interest in it, his father consequently had no interest in him. Luc had been sent away to school and not spent any time at home except on vacations, and often he had gone to visit classmates instead and skipped coming to Château Marainte entirely.
In his adult life he was happy in Paris. Luc was good-looking, charming, from a good family, and had plenty of girlfriends. His job as a reporter got him out on the streets where he liked to be. His life was in the city, not here in sleepy Castillac. He was sorry for his mother but could locate no other feeling about the events of the day at all. The funeral was just one more official ceremony to get through.
“You taking the train back?” said Percival, trotting down the stairs while straightening his tie.
“Yeah, the one after dinner. I figured Ma
man might want us to stay that long at least.”
“You still seeing Chloé?”
“Ha! Can’t wait to get your filthy mitts on her?”
“That’s right, little brother. I know how to make a girl like her happy.”
“In your dreams, in your dreams.”
Percival was more money-minded than his brother. He had gotten a degree in business and found work at several firms where he was valued for his astute analysis, though he was known for having expensive tastes he did not yet have the money to support. He was taller than his brother, and broader across the shoulders. He gave Luc a shove and Luc grabbed his arms and they grappled for a moment before Antoinette appeared in the doorway.
“Boys! The priest is here. Stop your monkeying about and come outside so we can get started.”
The three of them filed out through the enormous wooden door of the central building and into the sunny courtyard. Hubert was there, holding his hat in his hand, and Georgina stood beside him, dressed in a tight black dress. Alexandre Roulier was there as well, standing apart from the others. Antoinette thought his suit in bad taste but of course only smiled faintly and thanked him for coming.
“You going clubbing after?” Luc whispered to Georgina as the group made its way to the chapel.
“Bad boy!” hissed Georgina, but she threw him a quick smile. She was older than the Fleuray young men, but not so old that there hadn’t been flirting during some of their trips home from school over the years.
Antoinette’s face showed deep lines in the harsh sunshine. Tendrils of her washed-out blonde hair escaped her chignon and blew around her head, and she walked haltingly, as though she might have a pebble in her shoe.