The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 5)

by Nell Goddin

  “So you’re saying…the man last night….”

  “Oh, he’s nothing to me. Nothing! As for him, believe me, I am nothing more than a notch on his belt, something for him to brag about to his friends.” She cast her eyes away from Molly for the first time, and ran her fingers along the edge of her napkin, which still sat on the table in the shape of a peacock. “Perhaps I sound ungrateful or whiny about my good fortune, but when you get to be as famous as I am, it is almost impossible to have a normal interaction with a man. I am no longer just a woman, no longer even human—I am a character from one of my movies, or some kind of untouchable icon, something inert to put on a shelf and prove your own worth through owning it, do you see what I mean?

  “Like La Sfortuna,” said Molly.

  “Rather,” agreed Esmé. “Though that is not why Marcel loved it. He only cared about it because it reminded him of his beloved sister.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. But I wonder. Marcel had all those trophy heads in his salon—animals he shot and stuffed for his wall. So maybe he was more of a collector in that way than you think he was.”

  “Oh no,” laughed Esmé. “Of course I have never been to his salon at Château Marainte, but he described it to me. I heard about those beastly heads, if you will excuse the pun!” Her eyes twinkled again, and Molly tried and failed to figure out whether the effect was makeup, or personality, or acting. “Marcel had nothing to do with them, Molly. Not my dear Petit Ours. You have to understand, Château Marainte has been in his family for hundreds of years. Most of it—the furniture and the decoration—has been exactly the same ever since he was born, and for untold years before that. Some ancestor shot those animals and put them on the wall, not my Marcel. What he hunted, he brought to the table for dinner.”

  As interesting as it was to watch Esmé do everything she could to defend herself and Marcel from any criticism, Molly did not forget that she was in Paris, at a very good restaurant, and her stomach was growling. She looked over at a pair of waiters standing by who were trying and failing not to stare at Esmé.

  “So…you and Marcel were happy together?” asked Molly.

  “Rapturously so,” said Esmé, a pink glow coming into her cheeks. She had a way of looking so sophisticated and sensuous, but then a gesture or a tone in her voice would sound so girlish, as though she were still around ten years old.

  “And the age difference wasn’t a problem?”

  “No,” said Esmé forcefully. “I was trying to explain that to Gilles, the gendarme…that Marcel had a way of looking at me, of seeing right down through me in a way no one else ever has. Or ever will,” she finished, her voice breaking.

  Oh that’s just going over the top, thought Molly.

  “You ever shot a shotgun?” she asked, nonchalantly.

  Esmé laughed, and the waiters all turned to gaze upon her. “My grandfather taught me how to shoot when I was a girl. I never actually shot anything except a few tin cans off a fence. But yes, Molly, I can handle a gun if I need to. Can you?”

  “What do you say we go ahead and order? It’s been a long day already and it’s barely the afternoon.”

  “I’m terribly hungover myself. I think I’ll just have some soup.”

  “But—here? In a three-star restaurant, only soup?”

  Esmé shrugged, leaving Molly to figure out that coming to good restaurants was simply where she had meals, and nothing to mark down on her calendar as notable.

  Across town, in a less distinguished arrondissement than the one where Molly and Esmé were having lunch, Alexandre Roulier lay back on a hotel bed looking up at the ceiling, which was not marred by cobwebs or a sloppy paint job, though it was too plain for his tastes. He much preferred a coffered ceiling or elaborate moulding of the kind that takes a fleet of cleaners to keep dust-free, but alas, that is not the sort of room one gets for the amount of money he currently had to spend. He was far from broke, but at the moment his liquidity was not what he might have wished.

  Though as ever, he expected that to change very, very soon.

  He had spent two full days at the hunting lodge in the Baron’s forest, turning the place inside and out looking for La Sfortuna, with no any luck. It had taken half a day to find his way out of the forest, and only by the kindness of a farmer on a tractor giving him a ride had he gotten back to what passed for civilization in that part of the country.

  The desire for the jewel burned just as bright, despite his failing to find it. Sticking to his idea that the hiding place of the stone was in some way connected to hunting, Alexandre closed his eyes and concentrated, remembering the one time Marcel had held the emerald out to him, allowing him to cup it in his palm, its green light sparkling even in a dimly-lit room.

  Come to me.

  Maybe Marcel sewed it up in one of those stuffed heads, he thought. But there was no way to take them down and cut them to pieces to find out, not without getting tossed out of the Château for good.

  Then, much as he would like to think about La Sfortuna all day, he got up and sat at the small desk, opening his laptop. His other business didn’t stand still just because he was on the trail of a fortune, and he ran through various spreadsheets, caught up on email, and made some trades on the Bourse with money he had successfully laundered.

  After a few hours, Alexandre got up to stretch his legs and shoulders. He unwrapped a piece of butterscotch candy and sucked on it. And nodding to himself, he picked up a throwaway cell and tapped in a number he had committed to memory.

  “Yes. It’s me. What we discussed? I want it done as soon as possible…yes, that’s right. Just do it.” He hung up, called room service, and ordered a gigantic lunch.

  There was nothing quite like ordering a hit to stir his appetite.

  27

  Another careful sweep of Marcel’s apartment had garnered Molly exactly nothing: no emerald, and not so much as a hint of a whisper of a clue about who might have killed him. She had gone through his desk and bedside table looking for letters or notes. She had riffled through all the books on his bookshelf, though there were not very many. She looked in trashcans but the cleaning service was efficient and there was nothing in them. As far as Molly could tell from spending time in his apartment, Baron Marcel de Fleuray had been a man whose complications were hidden; his outward life was one of simplicity, despite his title. The apartment was roomy but not conspicuously so. He did not have many belongings. The view was unremarkable, the furnishings of good quality but not luxurious.

  Marcel read Wendell Berry and the essays of Montaigne. A handful of pheasant feathers lay on the mantel. The kitchen was tiny but looked well-used, so Marcel—or someone—cooked, and he did not appear to spend all his evenings out. There was no television or computer. The closet had a few good suits but far more clothes for the outdoors—waders for fly-fishing, waxed jackets for crashing through underbrush, sturdy boots, various garments in camouflage. She looked for more photographs, feeling trepidation about seeing more photographs of Nico, but none were displayed and none hidden as far as she could find.

  Molly considered staying another night in Paris, not because there was anything left to do at Marcel’s, but just because…Paris. But she knew she couldn’t afford any more meals out, and besides, she was feeling pangs of homesickness. On the train back to Castillac, Molly went over the details in her mind, trying to picture Marcel in his apartment, going about his business unobserved. Given the lack of entertainment options, she concluded that he must have spent most of his time traveling out of the city, perhaps to the hunting and fishing preserves of his friends, or in company, romantic or otherwise. Was he really as uncomplicated as that? Just a good-looking man of aristocratic blood who preferred to be in nature, with the odd dalliance on the side?

  As for Esmé, Molly did not know what to think. She was false, certainly, a great pretender. Always taking the moment by the hand and working to make it more dramatic. Molly had found having lunch with her to be exhausting. But had the actres
s’s flair for drama led her to shoot her lover?

  Well, maybe.

  Though Esmé had just told her she hadn’t ever been in Marcel’s salon, and there was no question that was where the murder took place; Molly had seen the bloodstain on the rug.

  Though of course—the actress could easily be lying.

  It would be such a relief if Esmé were the killer, Molly thought. Anything to get Nico out from under suspicion. But, she reminded herself, as far as she knew, she was the only person who had any questions about Nico at all. She wondered what evidence Maron might have uncovered, and how he would react if she paid him a visit—just to say hello, of course.

  The train ride was uneventful and Molly was in Castillac before she knew it. Her scooter was locked up outside the station, only a little damp from a recent rain. She rode towards La Baraque, very happy to be home even though she’d only been gone one night. She looked forward to meeting the new guests and hoped Constance hadn’t found a way to irritate them. When she pulled into the driveway, Bobo leapt up in a crazy dance of welcome and Molly saw Constance’s bike leaning against the side of the house.

  “Coo-coo!” she called, coming inside.

  “Molls!” called Constance, who was lying on the sofa with her feet up, reading a magazine. “Hey! How was Paris? The Chubbs are super-cool, no worries! Bobo and I have been having a high old time, eating liver for breakfast and chasing balls in the backyard.”

  Molly laughed. “So the Chubbs settled in okay? Did they get here on time?”

  “More or less. Ervin owns a nightclub in New York City. He says anytime I come to New York, he’ll comp me the whole time I’m there. Molly, I live for nightclubs!”

  “Then why on earth do you live in Castillac?”

  “Good point. Maybe I’ll try to convince Thomas to move to New York. At least then he might be out of the clutches of her,” she said, pointing at the cover of her magazine, which featured none other than Esmé Ridding.

  Molly laughed again, not sure why. Because everywhere she looked, there was Esmé? Because she realized, having been away from the first time since moving to Castillac, that La Baraque was truly home now, in a way that no other place had been?

  “So listen, if you think I’ve spent the whole time lying around reading magazines, you’re all wrong. You said something about your plan for a cooking contest, and I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. Wanna sit down and do some strategizing, or do you have other stuff to take care of first?”

  Molly thought a moment. If she had only found that damn emerald. She let out a long sigh.

  “Okay, Constance, lay it on me. Amaze me with your brilliance.”

  “No need to get sassy,” said Constance, looking a little hurt.

  Molly went to a drawer and got out a pad of paper and a pen. “I don’t mean to sound sarcastic,” she said. “I’m just crabby because…well, never mind, let’s get to work.”

  “Awesome! So I was thinking, look, those successful TV shows, why not just copy what they do? People will get a kick out of it even though obviously they won’t be getting on TV. I was thinking we could have three cooks, all making the same dish. A panel of judges, natch.”

  “Is my kitchen big enough to handle three cooks at once?”

  “No way. You’re going to have to use the cantine at the school.”

  “Hmm. Well, I do know Caroline Dubois, who works in the school office. Not sure she likes me very much though.”

  “Oh, that’s just Caroline! She’s always been a big grouch. I’ll ask her if you want?”

  “Thank you! I’ll talk to Edmond at Pâtisserie Bujold about being a judge. Maybe Nathalie from La Métairie. And…Lapin? Just for laughs?”

  Constance nodded and let out a cackle. “He’ll love it. So…just figure out what the dish is they’re going to make, do some publicity, and you’re on the road to riches.” Constance gave Bobo one last pat and jumped up to go. “But Molls? Explain to me how you’re making any money on the deal?”

  “I’m going to sell snacks during the show.”

  “Snacks?”

  “Every time I say the word ‘snacks’, some French people give me the side-eye. Okay, they’re not snacks, they’re hors d’oeuvres, and we’ll do the show at apéro time and serve drinks too, how about that?”

  “Nailed it,” said Constance happily. “Do I get a cut of the profits?”

  “Want to serve?”

  “I’m…I’m gonna be absolutely honest, because you know I love you like a sister…I’ve been fired from a…a few waitressing jobs. It’s not my best thing. But I’m game to give it another try!”

  Molly smiled weakly. If only she had found that emerald, she wouldn’t need to go through all this bother just to scrape together a living. The dream of sudden and complete relief from her financial bind was so tantalizing…but she squared her shoulders, said goodbye to Constance, and prepared to push thoughts of murder and jewels aside, and buckle down to the business of making the contest a success.

  The next morning Molly spent a solid couple of hours writing out a to-do list for the contest, making some calls, and choosing which hors d’oeuvres to make. She knocked on the door of the cottage but the Chubb’s car was gone and so were they. As for La Sfortuna—she reminded herself that she might as well depend on playing the lottery to improve her financial situation. Not only that, it was seeming more and more likely that the murderer had made off with the emerald anyway, simply removing it from the Baron’s trouser pocket where everyone said he kept it most of the time. Molly told herself these things…yet after her chores were done and she found herself more or less at loose ends, she nonetheless drove out to Château Marainte, dropping by Pâtisserie Bujold on her way to make sure Edmond was on board to be a judge at the contest. As she expected, he readily agreed.

  After crossing the drawbridge and entering the courtyard, Molly was surprised to see Antoinette sitting on a bench next to one of the parterres, hands in her lap, Grizou by her side.

  “Bonjour, Antoinette!” she said, leaning down to kiss cheeks. “I don’t remember a bench being here, but it’s in a very nice spot.”

  “Hubert arranged it for me,” said Antoinette. “It’s nice to sit here and feel the warmth of the sun, even this late in October.” She leaned her head back slightly and closed her eyes, just as a cloud passed over the sun. She was dressed in a long tweed skirt and leather boots that looked so soft Molly wanted to touch them. “At any rate, I am glad you’ve returned. I expect you had no luck in Paris, or you’d have called me?”

  “I’m sad to say you’re right. Marcel’s apartment was in good order, not crowded with a lot of stuff, so there weren’t that many places to look. I didn’t find La Sfortuna.”

  I did find Esmé Ridding without any clothes on, but you don’t need to know that.

  “Ah, well. In that case I’m glad you’ve come back to the Château for another look around. And,” she said, lowering her voice even further, “that odious Alexandre Roulier has come back, and…I don’t like to say so, but I don’t like him, Molly. Heaven knows why Marcel had anything to do with that sort of person. He must have come back to sniff around after the emerald, and I don’t know how to get rid of him.”

  “Can’t you tell him you’re sorry, but you’re not up to having visitors right now?”

  “I’ve said as much. He responds by going on and on about how he’s going to be so helpful to me now that there’s not a man in my house. It’s as though he wants to point out to me that I’m…more or less alone here, at least a night. Defenseless.”

  “Oh my. And he and Marcel were friends?”

  “Yes. I know at least that Alexandre isn’t making that up. Marcel brought him here once, for a hunting party. I never had much to do with any of that, but I do remember meeting him then. I’m probably making more of this than it deserves; at my age, you do feel more vulnerable and I’m doubtless seeing menace where there is none. But—as you go around the Château on your search—do keep an ey
e out for him, just in case. I don’t want you to find yourself alone with him in some remote corner of the Château.”

  “I’ll do that.” Molly reached over to pet Grizou, but the dog kept his eyes on Antoinette, and Molly got the feeling that he was tolerating her attention rather than enjoying it, so she stopped. “Well, on a different subject—I’ve decided I’m going to hold a cooking contest in the village, possibly as early as next week if I can get it organized. Perhaps you would like to come?”

  “A cooking contest?”

  “Yes, like the ones you see on TV? We’ll give the cooks the same ingredients and see which one makes the best dish. I’ll be serving hors d’oeuvres and drinks to the audience.”

  “I see. And what dish will the cooks make?”

  “I haven’t quite decided. I was thinking maybe I would give them something that wasn’t French, to make it a harder challenge.”

  “Georgina’s gnocchi, perhaps? They’re quite famous, at least among our family. She’s our housekeeper, not a cook, but occasionally she makes this one dish and all of us go mad for it.”

  “Mmm, gnocchi. Actually, that’s a brilliant suggestion—maybe the challenge is that they all make the same gnocchi but each chef gets to devise his own sauce. How do you like them best?”

  “Hard to say,” said Antoinette, and her eyes looked lively for the first time in weeks as she considered. “You can’t go wrong with simple butter and Parmesan. But the right tomato sauce can be excellent as well, perhaps with a bit of porcini.”