The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 5)

by Nell Goddin

  “With a name like La Sfortuna, no surprise,” he said drily. “And what about Esmé Ridding hurling herself on the casket after crashing the funeral? Castillac has never seen such drama!”

  “I know,” said Molly. “But…it’s weird. That’s the kind of story that normally I would think was funny, or deliciously horrifying or something. But instead, I don’t know, the whole thing just makes me sad.”

  “Investigators are not supposed to get emotionally involved with their cases,” Lawrence said, and then he and Molly laughed, both knowing that such a rule was never going to apply to Molly, who always got more involved than she should with anyone who crossed her path.

  “I guess anyone who tried to sell the emerald would get caught immediately?” said Stephan.

  “Well,” said Lawrence, “you couldn’t sell it through any legit organization, for sure—Sotheby’s won’t be putting it in their catalog. But for someone with contacts in the black market, it’s likely easy enough. I’m sure there would be no end of takers, curse or no curse.”

  “Antoinette just wants to sell it,” said Molly.

  “Who can blame her? It probably got her husband killed.”

  Stephan had a polite expression on his face but Molly could see that he’d heard enough speculation on Castillac’s crime of the moment. She asked him the usual list of questions—where was he from, how did he like to spend his time, what in the world did he see in Lawrence—but the conversation never picked up steam. Molly blamed herself. She was distracted and kept stealing glances at Nico as though she could catch him doing or saying something that would explain his photograph at Château Marainte.

  Nico had always been vague about his history, at least since Molly had known him. He was one of the first people in Castillac she had gotten to know, having frequented Chez Papa often in those early days just after her arrival, fending off a potentially lethal combination of loneliness and homesickness. He had been curious to her because he was obviously university-educated and well-traveled, clever and drop-dead handsome…yet content to tend bar in a shabby bistro in a small village far from any of the intellectual and social action people his age usually gravitated towards. Molly had wondered why, and even with Frances living with him, she was no closer to finding out.

  “Another Negroni?” Nico asked.

  “You devil. No, I’ll pass. Say, this is an out of the blue question, I know—but what’s your last name again?”

  She saw a shadow pass over Nico’s face, just an instant of concern before he looked into her eyes and smiled. “Bartolucci. You getting me something monogrammed?”

  Molly laughed. “A smoking jacket in blue silk, how’s that?”

  “Smashing,” said Nico, and then he drifted down to the other end of the bar. Molly said her goodbyes to Lawrence and Stephan, knowing she was not being the best company, and went home to snuggle with Bobo in bed and carefully go over the events of the day in her mind before falling asleep.

  She missed Ben. That was the last thought of that Tuesday in October. Not only because she wanted his thoughts on the case, which of course she did. But she missed him reading in bed beside her, missed the skeptical look he got when she told him a new plan she was hatching, missed the scratchy tone of his voice and the way Bobo leapt for joy when he showed up.

  She put an arm around her dog, closed her eyes, and fell into a restless sleep.

  Esmé rode the elevator up to her penthouse, having spent a night in a hotel in Bergerac after her meeting with Maron and returning to Paris by train the following day. The weather was wet and blowy in the city; people hurried down the sidewalk, umbrellas up, and by the time she was home, she was damp and irritable. Her agent had said there were a million offers on the horizon but she had no work at the moment, and for Esmé, having no work was an unstable place to be. When she did not have a character to inhabit when she got up in the morning, she was not entirely sure who she was, though she did not think of it that way.

  Once inside her penthouse, she let her coat drop to the floor and walked to the window and looked out, but the gray sky depressed her and she went to the wet bar and poured herself a glass of whiskey.

  I’m well out of it, she said to herself, and then said the sentence out loud, just to see how it sounded. Then she said it again, in a lower register, allowing her voice to crack just at the end.

  The whiskey was harsh on her throat which was one thing about it she liked.

  She had no close friends to call, no one to talk to about any of it.

  Tossing back the rest of the drink, she slammed the glass on the counter of the bar and strode to her desk with a sense of purpose. The desk stood in front of a window but the view was dulled by low clouds and rain. Esmé opened the slim drawer and took out a letter, addressed to her in a masculine hand, jagged letters in black ink. She opened the letter and read it once. Then methodically she tore it up, into smaller and smaller bits, until the bits were the size of her little fingernail, and then she threw them into the air so that they fluttered to the floor like confetti.

  “Yes, Maman,” said Paul-Henri, who had called early in the morning hoping to catch his mother before she went out. She was a very busy woman and so far had resisted getting a cell phone, preferring to do her visiting and shopping without having to worry about receiving calls that might throw off her rhythm. “I’m only asking because it’s an active case and we’re running into a wall,” he added. “It’s not like you’re going to be dragged into court to testify. I just thought you might know something useful, you know, for background.”

  “I’m not in the habit of gossiping that way, as you know perfectly well,” said Madame Monsour, sipping on the single cup of coffee she allowed herself each morning. “And just because you decided to be rebellious and join that odious gendarmerie doesn’t mean I’m going to change into another person just to suit you.”

  “Of course not, Maman,” he said, rolling his eyes. One thing about Maman, once she sank her teeth into something, she never, ever let go. She did not approve of his choice of career, as she made clear every time they spoke, and she was not going to give him any help on the Fleuray case. But the prospect of having some useful bit of information to pass on to Maron was too gratifying to pass up. “Come on, Marcel de Fleuray was living in Paris almost full-time for at least three or four years. He was once the Minister of Interior for heaven’s sake! Surely you must have run into him. Or know someone who knows him.”

  “I might. But as I’m trying to explain to you, that does not mean I’m ready and willing to blab to the police.”

  “I’m—oh for heaven’s sake, Maman! I may be a gendarme but I am also your son. And I would hope you could find it in yourself to give me something that will cost you nothing.”

  “You could have been a creditable lawyer, you know.”

  “I believe you have mentioned that.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Maman. So, maybe you met him at a dinner party? I know your friend Agathe Beauchamp always goes in for the government types, and Fleuray was apparently a good-looking man, which is the other quality she cares about.”

  Madame Monsour said nothing.

  “I’m right, you did meet him at the Beauchamps!” Paul-Henri stood up from the table, spilling coffee on his trousers.

  “I might have.”

  “And? Was he with anyone? Esmé Ridding? His wife? What was he like?”

  “Do not pepper me with questions as if I am some kind of suspect,” said his mother.

  “I beg your pardon. Please continue at your leisure.” He mopped at his lap with a napkin and gritted his teeth.

  “All right then. I did not go into this earlier because I honestly don’t see how it matters. I did have dinner with the Baron, I believe it was in January. At the Beauchamps. There were ten or twelve people there so it isn’t as though he and I sat down for an in-depth conversation. I can’t remember what we talked about—though as you say, Agathe doe
s go in for politics and so doubtless as usual half the table was aghast at the latest move by the President and the other half defended it.”

  “And Marcel? Do you remember anything he said?”

  “I do not. I am not sure he said much of anything. That actress was all over him the entire night, I do remember that. Agathe and I spoke about it the next day. Constantly rubbing his back, kissing him, holding his hand. Like a pair of teenagers. I even thought—”

  Madame Monsour let the pause lengthen until Paul-Henri was about to explode. “What, Maman?”

  “Well, I was merely going to say that during dinner they did not keep their hands on the table, in view. You can infer from that anything you like.”

  Paul-Henri rolled his eyes so hard his head ached. “Thank you. If you remember any other detail, please give me a call. How is Father?”

  “He is well. His hip has shooting pains if he walks too much in one day, so he has begun playing bridge.”

  “Wonderful,” said Paul-Henri, and he managed to continue the conversation for another fifteen minutes, saying all the right things at the appropriate moments, while at the same time thinking about Esmé and Marcel, and how easily infatuation could turn to rage. He had felt it himself, when he was younger—and who hadn’t?

  22

  Just before dawn Antoinette woke with a start. She was used to sleeping alone, used to the noises of the Château and Grizou’s stirrings, and was unsure what had disturbed her. But it hardly mattered, she thought, swinging her thin legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. She rested there a moment, not feeling quite ready to face another day. A soft light, just a faint glow, came in through the leaded windows of her bedroom. She heard a whistling wind, a sound she loved.

  In the bathroom she stood before the mirror and gazed at herself. She saw that her nose was too long and bulbous at the end, her lips too thin. She sighed and reached for her toothbrush.

  “Grizou,” she murmured, feeling the dog’s nose at the back of her knee. “Dear, sweet friend.” She turned to him and got down on the wooden floor, putting her arms around the dog and weeping into his fur. Grizou licked her face and put a paw on her leg. “All right then, enough of this,” she said after a few moments, and struggled to her feet.

  Georgina was at her cottage at this hour, doubtless still in bed. It occurred to Antoinette, not for the first time, that if something went wrong—if she choked on a hunk of baguette or slipped in the bathtub—there would be no one to call, no one to help her. The thought did not scare her, especially, because she understood that death was inevitable for everyone, and there was no controlling when it would come. Besides, it was statistically unlikely that a dry baguette would be the agent of her demise. For what that was worth.

  She made coffee and ate several pieces of toast with strawberry jam made from strawberries she had grown. Grizou got a small piece of liver and a raw chicken wing, which he took outside and gnawed happily under a leafless birch. Fortified and dressed for the cool weather, Antoinette walked out and breathed in the morning air, taking a moment to look around the courtyard before continuing on through the narrow passageway and out to the barn, where the goats and donkey were standing by the fence waiting for her.

  She let herself into the enclosure and the goats butted their heads against her legs, causing her to hold on to a fencepost. For close to fifteen minutes she just stood in the paddock and petted the goats, watching them gambol about, the donkey ambling over for her share of attention as well. Then Antoinette went back out through the gate, picking up a rubber bucket for the animal’s grain, falling into the rhythm of the morning chores. For the next hour, with tremendous resolve and working as slowly as she needed to, she shoveled manure, filled the water buckets, hauled in plenty of hay, and stood among the animals, running her hand on their backs and murmuring to them and breathing in their comforting animal smell.

  It was Thursday, two days after seeing Nico’s photograph at Château Marainte, and Molly was no closer to figuring out what to do about it. She texted Lawrence and asked to see him, alone, for a consultation about something important she didn’t want to talk about over the phone. He suggested getting breakfast at Pâtisserie Bujold and then taking it to eat on a bench somewhere, teasing her about the need to talk where their conversation could not be bugged.

  Molly, of course, had never said no to Pâtisserie Bujold in her life. Twenty minutes later she parked the dented scooter right outside and went in, as blissed out by that first inhalation of coffee mixed with vanilla as she’d been the first time she’d entered the shop.

  “Bonjour, Molly!” said Edmond Nugent, the round-bellied proprietor and Molly’s great admirer.

  “Bonjour, Edmond,” Molly answered, leaning over the counter so they could kiss cheeks. “What’s the latest in the world of pastry?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to know. I attended a competition in Poitiers last weekend and it was rigged. I myself was not a contestant, but I was able, by means unimportant to my story, to taste some of the various entries. And the chosen winner was absolutely sub-par. The judges had to have been bribed. The entire thing was a travesty from start to finish!”

  Molly nodded along with Edmond’s tale while feasting her eyes on the day’s offerings in the glass case as he feasted his eyes on her. When he mentioned a contest she looked up sharply. “Interesting,” she said slowly. “I’ve had an idea. Might be useless. But you know, the gîte business in the off-season is a real struggle. I’ve got someone coming this Saturday for a week but then three weeks with nobody.”

  “I could always use a pair of talented hands in the bakery,” he said, licking his lips.

  “You’re very kind. But so—I don’t know if you heard but I tried a sort of theme dinner, thinking I could do one a week or every couple of weeks—not to make a lot of money but just enough to pay my electricity bill, you know? Anyway, utter flop. For various reasons. So I was—”

  “—are you sure you wouldn’t consider joining my staff? The hours are awkward, I don’t deny that, but you would be welcome to take home unsold pastries at the end of the day.”

  “You’re kind, Edmond, really—wait, what? I’d be able to take home pastries?” Molly paused, allowing herself to wallow in the gluttonous glory of that thought for just a moment. “You’re too generous. But I’m afraid I can’t tie myself down like that.”

  “I do know you have other irons in the fire,” said Edmond. “Detective work can be time-consuming, no doubt?”

  To her relief, the bell on the door tinkled and Lawrence came in, shivering and stamping his feet. “Bonjour Edmond, Bonjour Molly,” he said, kissing Molly on both cheeks. “The temperature is dropping fast out there. It feels more like January than the end of October.”

  “Have some hot coffee,” said Molly.

  “I’ll do that. Did you get our pastries yet? Edmond, do you have that apricot thing I love?”

  “Wrong season, Monsieur Weebly,” Edmond said stiffly. He did not approve of other men hanging around his Molly.

  “So Edmond—I’ve got to have a meeting with Lawrence about something, but I want to come back and talk about my idea with you later. Just broadly: what do you think about having a cooking competition at La Baraque? We could have a few contestants, judges—thinking of you in that role—and we could make it free to attend but charge for snacks?”

  “This American obsession with snacks…you know that we in France are not cramming our faces all day long the way Americans do.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk more later. Just think about it.”

  Molly and Lawrence got their orders, paid up, and said goodbye to an increasingly irritable Nugent.

  “Is he always so crabby?” said Lawrence, grinning as they headed down the sidewalk.

  “Not always. Half the time. Listen, it’s way too cold to eat outside. And you laugh, but I do want some privacy. Where can we go?”

  After considering and discarding several options, they ended up walking to Lawrence�
�s house on the edge of the village. It was small and very well-kept, and every time Molly went she remembered the night she had spent there during the Amy Bennett case, when she had been too frightened to stay at La Baraque by herself.

  And now she was investigating another murder, if not officially. This time she had assumed, along with everyone else, that the murder had happened as a result of the theft, or attempted theft, of La Sfortuna. But now that she had seen Nico’s photo, she wondered.

  Why had he told no one of his connection to the Fleurays? And what was the connection?

  “Hello? What planet are you on?”

  “Oh, whoops. Got a little carried away with my train of thought.”

  “Well, have a seat while I get us some plates and put on some more coffee. I can’t believe how chilly it is, honestly, it’s been so warm I feel betrayed by the turn in the weather! And while I’m doing that, why don’t you get started. Tell me what’s on your mind, darling. I can hear perfectly well from the kitchen.”

  Molly was suddenly starving and could barely wait for Lawrence to come back with the pastries. She took a deep breath and tried to settle herself down—it felt as though her thoughts were zinging all over the place and she wanted to be able to speak rationally about the case.

  “I’m glad I can talk frankly to you…I agreed to search for La Sfortuna just so I could hang around Château Marainte and figure out who killed the Baron and why.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart. Though I heard you’ll get ten per cent which won’t be a bag of nothing.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t go pinning my hopes on that. But listen. I went over to the Château on Tuesday. I have carte blanche to snoop all over the entire place trying to find that damn emerald. I wandered into a salon that looked like it was where Marcel spent time when he was home—all manly, you know, with a gun rack and stuffed heads, and it felt as though it had been used recently. Not like a lot of the rooms, which are shut up and no one goes in them for months or I imagine even years at a time.” Molly stopped, remembering Nico’s expression in the photograph, so young and full of confidence.