by Nell Goddin
Molly was not known for moderation when it came to French food, and she certainly wasn’t going to stint now that she was in Paris. When the waiter came around with a basket of rolls, she took two, breaking off hunks and slathering them with sweet butter, reveling in the yeasty soft interior and the crackly hard exterior. For a starter she ordered escargots Bourguignon, because she was helpless to get anything else when they were on the menu, and followed that with lapin au cidre and a pichet of table wine. The meal was so stupendous—and she was so tipsy—that she seriously wondered whether she had made a grievous error not moving to Burgundy instead of the Dordogne, the Burgundian food was that good.
She over-tipped (which was her habit even when not half-drunk) and staggered to her hotel, happily flopping face down on the bed. The window was cracked open and even though it made the room too cool, she liked listening to the sounds coming up from the street: a group walking by laughing, a young girl calling out Maman, a low murmur of conversation.
By eleven o’clock, Molly decided it was time to do what she had come to Paris to do, no matter the lateness of the hour. Still a bit unsteady on her feet, she took the elevator down to the lobby, waved at the concierge who did not notice her, and headed out to the street. She had chosen the hotel because of its proximity to Marcel’s apartment. She could have spent the night in the apartment itself, and Antoinette had even suggested doing so, but the idea gave Molly the creeps, though she didn’t know exactly why. It’s not as though the murder had taken place there, or anything untoward at all, as far as she knew.
Though the building was old, the interior was modern, which surprised her at first; but then she supposed if you had grown up in a 15th century Château you might perhaps yearn for something completely different if you had the chance. There was no concierge, but three keys to get in: the door to the building, the door to the elevator or stairs, and the apartment itself. Molly navigated all that without trouble, for the first time feeling a tingle of excitement at the prospect of actually finding the jewel, and allowing herself to indulge in some fantasy of how quickly and easily the windfall would solve a lot of problems at La Baraque.
She understood that her faculties were not sharp, thanks to the wine, but told herself a little story about how perhaps the wine would allow her to see the apartment in a different light, and anyway, she would come back in the morning for a sober look.
Molly fitted the key in the door to 7C. She turned it and pushed open the metal door.
In the foyer, lying on the rug—old and Turkish, she noticed—was a bra.
Molly stood staring at it, trying to form some kind of narrative for why a silky, lacy bra would be in the foyer, on the floor of a dead man’s apartment. Her mind was dull and she felt an incipient headache crowding into the base of her skull. A sound no louder than an exhalation came from somewhere close by. Molly took a few steps, listening. She almost called out hello but stopped herself.
And then a woman burst out of a room with a sheet wound around her body, shrieking with delight. Molly gaped. Words jumbled around in her throat but she was unable to get any of them out, until finally—the woman looking at Molly with horror—she managed to say, “Esmé?”
25
Percival looked out at the street and then at his Cartier watch. His brother was late, as usual, and he allowed himself to glower and feel annoyed, knowing that once Luc showed up he would have to keep those feelings under wraps. They didn’t see each other often in Paris. Luc kept odd hours, and their friends belonged to such different social groups—one conformist and conservative, the other dabbling in radical politics or at least a lot of marijuana consumption—that on the rare times they did get together, it was always just the two of them.
Percival went to the bar and ordered an Armagnac. He was lost in his own thoughts, not noticing the other patrons. Eventually, when he was on his second drink, Luc sauntered in. His boyish good looks attracted the attention of a group of young women sitting in a booth, and although Luc noticed, he paid them no mind.
“What the hell,” said Percival, giving his brother a rap on his bicep that was a little too hard.
“Sorry, got stuck somewhere. Sort of a stake-out, but that makes it sound more exciting that it was. I spent the last three hours hanging around a street corner waiting for a guy to leave a building so I could try to ask him some questions.”
“That’s lovely.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Perce.”
“So how does it feel to be a semi-orphan?”
“Can’t say I’ve looked at Father’s death that way.”
“Can’t say I miss him.”
Luc shrugged. “What’s to miss? It’s not as though we ever spent any time together, really. Even when we were all home at the same time, he was out in the woods with Hubert more than anything.”
Percival nodded. He know it would be smart to soften Luc up a little but he couldn’t calm down enough to think of how to accomplish that.
“So what’s on your mind?” Luc asked.
Percival paused for a second, wishing there was another way. “Believe me, I did not want to call you. I suppose you can guess what I…I am forced to ask.”
“Some thoughts have crossed my mind, yes,” said Luc, leaning back against the bar and looking at Percival with a languid smile.
“Look, starting a new business, it’s quite tricky in the early stages but can be marvelously remunerative in the end. Everything is going just as it should be. The product is of very high quality, the market is in place, details are being meticulously taken care of both administratively and in marketing. The team could honestly not be any better at what they do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Time. As is so often the case. Unfortunately, creative people are not good at estimating how long a job will take them. And even though I know that perfectly well—anyone in management knows it—that still leaves me with a hole when I’m trying to block out the tasks of the rest of the company with respect to that product. All of which to say—there’s a…a shortfall. I was forced to put my own money into it. And that’s left me…” Percival swallowed hard and visibly steeled himself. “That’t left me needing to ask for a loan. Not a big one,” he hastened to add. “And not for a long time. The turnaround should be short, even allowing for some extra padding in case of another deadline missed.”
Luc smiled. He had not ordered his drink yet and was in no hurry. “And…excuse me for asking, it must be embarrassing for you…would this need for money have anything at all to do with your gambling problem?”
He caught the eye of the bartender, who was at the other end of the bar flirting with the young women in the banquette, and held up his finger to show he was ready to give his order.
“That’s in the past,” said Percival. His face looked deflated, as though Luc had, with that one remark, opened a valve and all the air—and hope—had suddenly whooshed right out of him.
“Ah, the past. Let’s talk about the past, shall we? About how you borrowed every last centime I had to pay off those thugs who were threatening to break your legs? About how you’ve only paid some of it back, though apparently judging by your watch, you don’t mind lavishing yourself with some expensive presents. Or do you owe other people this time?”
“You don’t understand, you have never understood—in my business, one must look the part. Without that, no one takes you seriously. You can’t get anywhere at all.”
So buying yourself the Cartier, that’s just a burden put on you by your profession that you were forced to bear?” Luc laughed. “I think I’ll have a shot of tequila,” he said to the bartender. “Do you have any lime?”
“What an unpleasant drink,” Percival said, unable to help himself.
Luc just laughed. When the bartender set a dish with some lime slices on it, and then the shot glass, he sucked on a chunk of lime and then tossed the tequila back. Setting the glass on the bar, he looked over at the young women and gave them a half-
smile.
“Why don’t you ask Maman for the money?” he asked. “I don’t think she’s doing too badly. Do you figure your share of Father’s inheritance isn’t coming quite fast enough?”
Percival did not answer. Nervously he scraped his teeth over his bottom lip, trying to think of some way to change his brother’s mind.
“There’s nothing you can say,” Luc told him. “So really—don’t bother. You got me to fall for your bull once, but twice? That’s getting close to insulting.” Luc stood up, threw a couple of bills on the counter, and left the bar.
Once home, Malcolm Barstow gave Maron a thin sheaf of papers, which he tucked under his arm while giving the boy a stern lecture about the trouble he would get into if caught breaking into any more houses. Malcolm had a talent for looking remorseful and he laid it on thick, knowing Maron would feel competent and good about himself, which he did.
Outside, on the stoop of the Barstow house, Maron stopped to quickly riffle through the papers to see if they contained “something juicy,” as the teenager had claimed. A scrap that simply said “Zimbabwe? Canada?”. More interesting, a handwritten note saying that La Sfortuna should go to the Baron’s nephew in the event of his death. Maron snickered at that, amused at how often people tried to do their children out of inheritances. Next, a letter. He quickly read through it, then again. He was suddenly alert, his heart pounding. If authentic, the letter stolen by Malcolm Barstow appeared on the surface to hand Maron the solution to the Fleuray case on a silver platter.
Maron sped to the station and settled at his to reread the letter. After pulling it from the envelope, he closed his eyes for a moment, almost afraid that when he read it again, it would not be as incriminating as he first thought.
Dearest Marcel,
I am undone. Shattered. To find out that you are not the man I believed you to be…it is beyond devastating. And understand, these are just words I am spilling upon the page, they do not begin to express what I am feeling in my heart.
Was it only a few days ago that you held the emerald in your hand, and moved it up and down my body, caressing me with it? What sweet things you murmured to me then! How you devoured the sight of the emerald on my skin, how your eyes were on fire!
And barely a few days later…not so much as a note, or a call, only silence. I sat at the Ritz bar for nearly an hour with tears gathering in my eyes, the whole world there to witness my humiliation at your hands.
I tell you Marcel, I want to wrench that stupid gun out of your hands and shoot you with it! And then alas, I would have to turn it on myself and pull the trigger, for how on earth can I continue to live in this world without you in it—
Adoringly,
Your Esmé
Maron noticed that Esmé had not cursed the way Malcolm had said, and admired the boy’s glibness while shaking his head. Then he smiled as the contents of the letter sunk in.
Motive, check. Means, check. Opportunity, check.
But…he knew that once he arrested Esmé Ridding for the murder of the Baron, Castillac would turn into a circus beyond what any of its inhabitants could imagine. Maron could see it unfolding, too fast to control: the tabloids would be camped outside the station every day, and clamoring at the gates of Château Marainte. Powerful people in the film industry would be exerting any and all pressure to prevent their valuable actress from being arrested and convicted. Villagers would be accosted by journalists looking for anyone who had seen the couple together or even set foot in Château Marainte for any reason whatsoever.
And he himself would quickly become more despised than anyone else involved. Maron did not fear that. To his mind the question he needed to answer first was simply whether someone like Esmé Ridding was too famous for jail. Whether she was too important to too many powerful people, and he would not be allowed to push forward no matter what evidence he had in hand. Would a swarm of defense attorneys descend on the gendarmerie, disallowing evidence and muddying his case? Would they malign his integrity, even have him transferred?
Maron knew that for him this was brand new territory, and he did not have the experience to navigate it. Again he wished Dufort was still in town and he could consult with him—sure, Dufort was a small-town fellow and did not have the requisite experience either, but he was level-headed and would at least know whom to ask for advice and counsel. And more important, villagers trusted him implicitly.
ESMÉ MURDERS BARON BOYFRIEND. The Daily Mail couldn’t have written a more explosive headline.
Paul-Henri was constantly bragging about his big-city connections, and with distaste Maron realized that he might actually be of some help on a case like this. Maybe the mother he droned on about endlessly might know someone who would be willing to advise them about the publicity angles. Maron was confident about the police work—finding the evidence and building the case against her—the actress had been seen at the Château the night of the murder, she had lied about the state of her relationship with the Baron, and she had threatened him with the murder weapon not a week before he was killed.
Yes, he was confident about the case all right. It was all the rest of it—an out of control press, public opinion, her rich backers—that was making him worry, and wish for the millionth time that he was not acting Chief. Maron was not going to go off half-cocked and make an arrest, not yet. Given her celebrity, he understood that a confession was his best chance for bringing her to justice, so while he would pressure the forensics team to see if they could come up with anything else, he tried to think of how in the world to make that happen.
He had no idea where Frances had gone off to, which Nico did not like. For the second day in a row he had woken up alone, the apartment empty, no note. He put on water for coffee, then threw on a pair of gym shorts and went outside to a small porch where he kept his weight-lifting equipment. He lay down, closing his eyes as thought to shut everything out, including his anxiety over Frances, and bench-pressed, exhaling as he lifted up the bar, then breathing noisily in through his nose, six repetitions, his muscles nearly failing on the final lift.
Nico ducked into the kitchen to pour water into the coffee press, then back to the porch for squats and then rows, until the coffee was made and his exercise finished.
Alphonse wasn’t expecting him at Chez Papa until eleven. He ate a prune yogurt and neatened up, washing a few dishes Frances had left in the sink. He showered and got dressed, then sat on the sofa flipping through a magazine, which, like almost every magazine in the country, had photographs of Esmé Ridding all through it. Esmé in a slinky, glittering gown at a movie première; Esmé in a bikini, glamorously stretched out on a beach, in a perfume ad; Esmé showing a sad face to the paparazzi as she left the hottest restaurant in Paris with one of her girlfriends.
She is stunning, no question about that. What did she see in Marcel, he wondered.
The apartment felt like a tomb without Frances there to liven things up. Nico had had a steady stream of girlfriends ever since he was a teenager, but he had never really fallen in love before. It was news to him that this thing people talked about so reverently was so painful and difficult. Though even so, he would do anything for her. Anything.
He managed to fritter away the rest of the time before he had to leave for work, but before leaving, he checked under the bed to make sure his overnight bag was there. He knew it almost certainly was; it’s not as though Frances spent any time vacuuming up dust bunnies under there or anything like that. Pulling it out, he unzipped it and looked inside to reassure himself: his passport, change of clothes, a thick sheaf of euros that were his bar tips for many months.
All set, if it came to that.
26
Molly had no trouble recognizing Esmé even though she was wearing a headscarf and sunglasses, and by the size of the group of paparazzi waiting outside the restaurant, she wasn’t the only one. The maitre d’ showed her to Esmé’s table, but before she could sit down Esmé jumped up to kiss cheeks.
“Thanks a
million for meeting me. I’m just so, so sorry about last night,” she whispered in Molly’s ear.
I bet, thought Molly.
“And it’s, well, you know…so awkward, now that we’ve met under those…circumstances. I’ve heard about your work and had tried to get in touch with you, but now I’m afraid…you won’t be interested in anything I have to say.”
“Heard of my work?”
“Of course. After Marcel…once he…after the murder, I spoke to the local gendarme. Jérome? Gilles? I forget his name. Between you and me, he did not inspire confidence. It’s extremely important to me, you must understand, that justice is served in this case. I wondered if there was anyone else in Castillac who might be able to do something, to find the person who…and right off, once I started asking around—your name came up.”
Molly was both thrilled and utterly uncomfortable. She knew she was being flattered yet the delicious sensation of it was hard to reject.
“I only came to Paris looking for some property of the Baron’s,” Molly said.
“Right,” said Esmé with a twinkle in her eye.
Any advertising firm would pay a couple million for that twinkle, thought Molly, trying to hold on to a semblance of objectivity and not get sucked in by the actress’s charm.
She spoke, trying not to sound judgmental. “Look, let’s just get it out in the open, all right? I understand I don’t have any standing in this situation—Marcel’s not my husband, obviously. But I have to ask—what were you doing in his apartment last night?”
“I imagine that was rather plain.”
“I mean—why there?”
Esmé picked an olive out of a small dish and chewed it, looking straight at Molly. “I don’t know, Molly. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Haven’t you ever done anything, um, inexplicable? I am in deep mourning for Marcel and I’m afraid sometimes I find myself doing things, saying things…that perhaps I should not. I can’t even express to you how difficult this whole thing has been for me. It’s terrible enough when a relationship ends and you have to move on and there’s this hole in your life now that this person you cared so much about is gone—but to have to go through that because the man you love was murdered? It’s beyond horrible. And to be clear,” she added, her dark brown eyes looking deep into Molly’s, “I understand perfectly that it is a thousand, a million times worse for poor Marcel, and horrible as well for his wife and children. I am not trying to corner the market on emotional pain.”