by Nell Goddin
Molly nodded. No question that the funerals of both her parents were imprinted on her mind like nothing else. She remembered which flowers covered the caskets, who else was there, the way the canopy over the grave was frayed on one corner. Her relationship with her parents had been loving, if not especially close, and the grief over their deaths wasn’t finished fifteen years later.
“Grief never really ends,” she said, and instantly wished she could take it back.
“I know,” Antoinette said simply. “I miss my mother every single day, and she died when I was only fourteen.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Antionette waved her off. “It’s the natural order of things, yes? When one loves, one opens oneself to pain and grief. It’s simply the way of this world.”
Molly reached down to pet Grizou, who had been staring at her intently.
“Although—I tell you this in confidence, of course—I found it a bit troubling that my boys did not appear to feel the death of their father as I would have expected.”
“Maybe it just hasn’t sunk in?”
“Perhaps not. The violence of it…it puts a different spin on the situation. Maybe that is it.”
“Yes,” said Molly. “Has Maron, have the gendarmes made any progress on the case?”
Again Antoinette waved a hand in the air. “Eh, not that they’ve told me. I have every confidence they’ll catch him before too long. If he managed to steal the emerald, it will be sooner rather than later. It would take an extremely knowledgeable and connected thief to sell La Sfortuna without being caught. And don’t you imagine that he was at least smart enough to force Marcel to hand it over before shooting him?”
“That would have been the clever thing,” agreed Molly. “And you’re right to try to put yourself in the killer’s shoes and think like he thinks. That’s more or less the secret to figuring out what happened. In my limited experience,” she added.
They had left the courtyard by way of a narrow passageway which led outside the Château walls. The top of the hill was large enough that behind the Château there was room for a stable and cavernous barn, along with a small pasture. When the two women came into sight, three goats began baaing and trotted over to the electric fence.
“Oh now, have some patience,” Antoinette said to them affectionately. “Please forgive my lateness. I’ll get your hay out this minute. They’re such funny animals,” she said to Molly. “Very developed sense of the absurd.”
Molly reached out to pet one of the goats on the head and it reached up and nipped her hand.
“Ouch!” said Molly, “I’m not your breakfast!”
Grizou growled at the goat, who suddenly leapt backwards all at once as though it had been given a shock. Molly was pretty sure it was laughing at her.
Antoinette brought out the hay and the three goats ran over and stuck their faces into it and began munching away.
“So—if I’m understanding you—there’s a real possibility the jewel has been stolen, so I might be looking for something that’s not here?”
Antoinette stood by a pump, filling a rubber bucket with water. “That’s correct,” she said. “The thing is, we just don’t know either way. So for all the reason I told you when you last visited, I would like for you to search, if you’re willing. I’ll pay you, of course. I was thinking…ten per cent of the sale price? I plan to sell it immediately. Horrid thing.”
“Oh, I—well, thank you! That’s very generous. And yes, I am willing.” Molly took a minute to regain her bearings. Ten per cent! That would be enough to make all kinds of problems disappear. She turned to Antoinette, feeling suddenly very motivated. “Can you talk to me some more about Marcel, so I can get a better idea of his personality?”
“Well, let’s see. He was a simple man, in a lot of respects. He loved to hunt, as I’ve said. Was happiest out in the forest with Hubert, probably. Much happier doing that than doing any kind of business, or politics, which he was involved with for many years.”
“In what way?”
“He was Minister of the Interior, sorry, I thought you knew that. But of course you did not live in France then, so of course it’s unlikely that you would know. He took the post as a favor to the President. They were hunting friends, you see. But the work didn’t suit him.” Antoinette laughed. “Well, not to put too fine a point on it—no work suited him, if it required anything other than walking through the woods with a gun under his arm.”
“I see. And…family life?”
“It’s different these days. Fathers are expected to be involved in ways they were not when Luc and Percival were small. As for Marcel—he was proud of his sons, he was glad of them, but he didn’t spend much time with them. He wanted them to come to him, you see, and was unwilling to do things the other way around.”
Molly nodded. “You’re saying…they didn’t hunt?”
“Just not interested. And Marcel felt that as a rebuke, even though I don’t believe it was.”
“And…excuse me for the indelicate question…please understand, I am only trying to get the full picture. What about your relationship with Marcel? What was that like?”
Again Antoinette surprised Molly by laughing. “Has the story hit the village yet, how his mistress crashed his funeral and threw herself on his coffin? As delicious as that bit of gossip must be, it only tells the surface of the story.”
No doubt. Molly felt a tingle of anticipation as she waited for the Baroness to continue.
She was all ears.
19
That was pretty much the best funeral ever, thought Alexandre with satisfaction. The vision of Esmé Ridding draped over Marcel’s casket, her flowing black dress fluttering in the breeze—every detail was like a photograph in his mind. He liked that dress. He kept thinking about it, how silky and ethereal the fabric was, how soft her skin must be underneath—anything to keep his mind off the terrible trudge he was engaged in, as he went deeper and deeper into the forest around the base of Château Marainte, looking for the lodge where he had stayed once with Marcel several years earlier, at a November hunting party for wild boar.
Alexandre had been smart enough to pack up and leave the Château immediately after the funeral. The sons didn’t give him the time of day, so self-important about their lives in Paris; little did they realize Alexandre was making ten times what they were, probably more, he thought smugly. And his network of associates, well, there was little they weren’t capable of, given enough of an inducement.
He had taken a taxi to the bottom of the hill and gotten out when he thought he recognized a road leading into the dark woods. It was unpaved but wide and nicely kept, and for a while the walk was almost pleasant. Then the road petered out and became a path, but Alexandre got distracted by thoughts of La Sfortuna and Esmé’s smooth skin, and failed to pay attention to which way he was turning. Soon enough the path was narrow and occasionally crossed with logs and underbrush so as to barely qualify as a path at all. He should have bribed that gamekeeper to take him to the lodge! But the guy might have told Antoinette… not worth the risk.
Alexandre had grown up in a concrete apartment complex that had an asphalt playground with a broken swing set and a small dusty field to play soccer on. The only trees he knew were those lining the streets in nicer neighborhoods than his. He liked cities, hard surfaces, neatly-made hotel beds, technology; he had never been in a forest alone before, and he was deeply uneasy. Most of the trees had lost their leaves and the bare branches looked skeletal and forlorn. He turned up his collar and kept trudging, figuring something would be at the end of the path, for why else would it exist?
He supposed the lodge was so secluded it wouldn’t be locked. He would arrive, open the door, and go inside. Perhaps, after such an arduous morning, he would light a fire and have a glass of whiskey. Doubtless Marcel kept the place stocked with something to eat, and he might sit down at the table by the window—he remembered sitting there with the Baron as he tediously recounted a hunt from several years ear
lier in which the boar had wheeled on the hunters and ended up goring a friend of his—he might want to fortify himself before settling down to the search.
Or maybe, since it was way out in the middle of nowhere, after all, maybe the box containing the emerald would simply be sitting on the table, waiting for him.
“So you’re going to stage a reality show in Castillac, right here at La Baraque, is that what you’re saying?” Frances cackled as she made herself another kir, having invited herself over for dinner.
“Well, sort of. My new idea, since the dinner last week went so horribly, is to have a series of cooking contests. We could have three or four contestants, and people would pay to come watch some kind of cook-off. They make their best dish, or we have them figure out how to make a meal with only four random ingredients, stuff like that. Maybe we could have the audience do the judging?”
“No, that would never work. Too much tasting, too much food would have to be made, it would take forever. Have a panel of judges, people in the village who know something about food. Nico, for instance.”
“Just as a random example,” Molly teased.
“He is a very good cook. He’s tried to teach me a few things but he got so frustrated his ears turned all red.”
“Remember that time you called me to find out what a scallion was?”
“Oh come on, I knew what they were, I just thought they were called green onions! How was I supposed to know things have multiple names?”
“Too bad you never spent any time in the kitchen with your mom, growing up.”
Frances hooted. “As you remember, my mom never spent any time in the kitchen, period. Thank God we had a cook, but even then for a while there we were all forced to eat macrobiotic. I nearly died.”
“I remember that one cook who made the best cherry pies. You don’t know how lucky you had it, Franny. A cook? I can’t even.”
“Yeah. Well, I know it’s annoying as hell to hear coming from someone who grew up in the velvety soft lap of luxury, but money doesn’t actually solve anyone’s problems, unless those problems are specifically and only bills that need paying.”
“That would be an excellent start,” said Molly. “Anyway, not sure whether my idea would be much of a money-maker. It’s not like I could charge people much just for coming to watch.”
“How about you make the event free, and charge for snacks?”
“Wait a minute. You’re brilliant!”
“Why yes, kind of you to notice. But why are you even bothering with all this anyway? It’ll be a huge amount of work. And you’ve got ten per cent of a bazillion dollars just waiting for you out at the Château!”
“Yeah,” said Molly, with no enthusiasm. “I got all excited when Antoinette mentioned it. But then I thought about the Château. It’s like ten houses’ worth of rooms, Franny, I mean the place is immense. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’m gonna find that little gem.”
“From what I hear, it’s not so little. But whatever you say, you’re the detective. If you think you can’t figure it out…”
“So now you’re breaking out the child psychology on me?”
Frances nodded and grinned.
Molly dropped a couple of anchovies in a mortar and ground them up to a paste. “So, change of subject: how’ve things with Nico been lately? He still got marriage on the brain?”
Frances sipped her kir and chewed on the inside of her mouth.
“Frances?”
“I’m thinking. It’s just…a little…on the one hand, he’s all ‘let’s get hitched, you are my everything,’ and I don’t deny it, that sounds pretty good even if also inspires panic. But then the next minute, he’s Mr. Mysterious. I try to have the kind of conversation you and I just had, where we’re talking a little about what it was like growing up in our families—and he gets all stony silent.”
“We don’t like stony silent.”
“No we do not.”
“Do you think it’s something painful and he doesn’t want to go there?”
Frances shrugged. “How would I know? And also, his timeline begins roughly at age eighteen. I know he studied in the U.S. for a few years, and thank God because if his English wasn’t so good we’d never have gotten together. Obviously he came back to France at some point, and has been in Castillac for at least seven years or so, working at Chez Papa the whole time. But even that—why go to all the trouble to do foreign study and get a degree in philosophy, and then choose to be a bartender? And you know I have nothing at all against being a bartender. What I want to know is: what happened to lead him there? I want him to…tell me the story of his life, you know?”
“And he won’t talk about it?”
“Gives me a whole song and dance about living in the present moment. And I’ll tell you Molly, trying to have an argument with a philosopher is like wrestling with bubble gum.”
Molly thought that over while she took lettuce out of the refrigerator, along with a container of feta and another of olives. “I’m feeling a little Greek tonight, hope that’s okay with you?”
“Si.”
“Are you trying out Spanish?”
“I thought you could say si in French!”
“Well, you can. But it’s only for answering negative questions. So if I said, ‘you don’t like accordion music, do you?’ you could answer si. I see I’m losing you.”
“French grammar—forget about it. I just like it when Nico murmurs French things into my ear and I can’t understand what he’s saying. Maybe it’s better that way,” she said with a guffaw. “You’re almost out of cassis,” she added, shaking the bottle. “So wait a minute, hold on, you haven’t told me the details about your meeting with the Baroness. So where are you supposed to start your search for an emerald hidden in a gigantic Château? Did she give you any ideas?”
“I guess if she had any good ideas, she’d look herself. I assume she’s already done so. And yeah, like I was saying, it’s a daunting job. I’ve got a few ideas cooking along though.”
“Of course you do. Got any of those cheese crisps you had last time?”
“Have you eaten anything today?”
“Maybe?”
“Okay, salad’s done. How about we eat it, and if we’re still hungry after, I can make something else. Not exactly the French way of doing things but it’s what I feel like tonight. You game?”
“You’re cooking, of course I’m game.” Molly brought the bowl over to the dining table and then fetched forks, plates, and napkins while Frances tossed the salad. A few leaves flew out and landed on the floor where Bobo pounced but declined to eat them.
“Actually, Antoinette seems like a really decent sort of person,” said Molly. “She’s very down to earth. I spent a little while talking to her while she fed her goats this morning.”
“That does not sound all that interesting.”
“But this is. The Baron’s funeral was yesterday. He was buried under a tree outside the Château walls, just the immediate family present plus the couple of people who worked for him. And guess who showed up?”
“Santa?”
“Esmé Ridding!”
“No!”
Molly nodded. “And not only that, according to Antoinette she threw herself on the actual casket and sobbed! Right there in front of the family!”
Frances got up and ran around the table shrieking, then dropped into her chair. “Sorry, that’s just too juicy for words! Holy bananas, Molls! I wonder if any paparazzi caught it?”
Molly shrugged. It was always interesting, telling Frances a story—her reactions were always unexpected, even when Molly was expecting the unexpected.
“Well? Was she absolutely furious?”
“Antoinette? No, actually. She seemed…almost amused by the whole thing. Not quite, it’s not like she was laughing or anything. But not at all angry. Or even disapproving, really.”
“Curious.”
“Indeed.”
“When I heard the Baron had
Esmé Ridding for a mistress, I figured the Baroness must’ve plugged him. I think I would have.”
“I know what you mean,” said Molly, thinking of Constance and Thomas. Esmé caused all kinds of trouble she wasn’t even aware of. “She said the romantic, sexual part of her relationship with Marcel had been over for years, and she was just glad when a mistress made him happy because he was more pleasant to be around.”
“Okay, first of all? Your husband seeing somebody on the side, out of sight, that’s one thing. It’s a whole other thing for the somebody to show up at the funeral and make a big fuss. And second, yeah, okay, mistresses. All very French and sophisticated. But with Esmé Ridding of all people? Wouldn’t that make anyone feel puny, even if you didn’t ever want to see your husband naked again for the rest of your life?”
Molly stabbed a cherry tomato and ate it. “I know. I’ve got no answers. One big question is why was Esmé with Marcel anyway? I mean, I know he was a catch in certain respects. But Esmé could literally have any man on the planet. Why choose a middle-aged one who from all accounts wasn’t happy unless he was out shooting at something?”
“He must have had another side to him.”
“Apparently.”
Frances and Molly spent a long time eating the salad, drinking wine, and thinking the whole thing over, but neither one came up with so much as a sliver of an insight; once she was full, Frances went home to her apartment, where Nico waited impatiently for her return.
20
Maron was nervous. He’d never met an actual movie star before, and Esmé Ridding was not just any movie star but the most famous, most beloved in all of France. Her perfect face was everywhere, so that people she met often took odd liberties with her, as though they had known each other for a long time. He vacuumed the police car thoroughly and wiped out any specks of dust, and drove to the station fifteen minutes before the train was to arrive, paced the empty platform and glancing up at the electronic board every twenty seconds to see if there was any change in arrival time.