The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 5)

by Nell Goddin

  “I’m suddenly starving,” said Molly, forgetting all about the almond croissant she had eaten a half hour ago while chatting to Edmond Nugent. “All right then. I’ll go search for the jewel, and then ask Georgina for that recipe if she’ll part with it. Any ideas pop into your head while I was away? Sometimes clues can seem like nothing, and it’s only later that you notice them.”

  The Baroness just shook her head and smiled.

  “Enjoy the sunshine,” Molly added, petting Grizou on the top of his head before heading inside the Château.

  28

  Deciding to talk to Georgina first, Molly found her in a hallway on the second floor by following the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

  “Excuse me!” she said, loud enough that Georgina could hear over the machine.

  Georgina glared at her and flicked the vacuum off with her foot. Her French was quite good although she had not moved to France until she was in her twenties, and still spoke Italian at home with her husband. Molly’s accent was pretty good—at least it was not burdened with any Bostonian flair—but it was foreign enough to throw Georgina off.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I was just talking with Antoinette about a cooking contest I’m hoping to hold soon, for chefs in the village. She was telling me about an amazing recipe you have for gnocchi? That’s one of my all-time favorite foods and I think it would be perfect for the contest if you’d allow it. Of course you would get all the credit for the recipe.”

  Georgina stepped back. “My grandmother’s gnocchi?” She laughed harshly. “Do you think there are many in France who could make gnocchi, even with my recipe? Oh no, Madame Sutton, excuse me for saying it but you are out of your mind. First of all, making gnocchi takes more than just following a recipe. There is heart and soul that goes into that dish, you understand?”

  “Yes! I do understand! And that’s why it would be so perfect for a contest. If a chef just follows the directions and that’s all…it won’t be any good, right?”

  Georgina looked up at the ceiling and chewed on her lip. “What kind of credit are you talking about?”

  “Well, at the beginning I’ll introduce the chefs and explain what the challenge is. I’ll say that they’re all to make Georgina Locatelli’s famous gnocchi, and that they may invent their own sauce to put on it.”

  “Dio mio!” shrieked Georgina, laughing with a bit more amusement. “You know they will be putting lumps of foie gras in the sauce or some such nonsense!”

  Molly laughed. “Well, it’ll be interesting to see what they come up with. Please do it, you can stand up and take a bow!”

  Georgina crossed her arms and pretended to be annoyed. “Maybe.” She did like the idea of being the center of attention. “I suppose it would be a tribute to my grandmother.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Do you want this recipe now? I have it down in the kitchen, written out on an old piece of stationery of my grandmother’s. God rest her soul.”

  “Right now would be terrific. One less thing for me to worry about later.” The two women walked down the long hallway on the way to the kitchen, Molly glancing in rooms along the way. “I hear Monsieur Roulier is back,” she said, offhandedly.

  “Horrible beast,” said Georgina simply. “If Doriane could see the type of person her brother started to hang out with—”

  Molly realized that Georgina was a far better informant than Antoinette about what went on in the Château, and kicked herself for not seeing it sooner. “So I was wondering, because he’s a friend of mine,” she said slowly, “I saw Nico in the salon—and was curious about what he was doing there?”

  Georgina snapped her head in Molly’s direction, her eyes wide. “What?”

  “Nico. The bartender at Chez Papa. In the Baron’s salon?”

  Georgina stopped walking and put her hands over her face. “I did not wish this!” she cried out.

  Molly had that tingly feeling she got when the landscape of a case was about to change dramatically. She waited for the housekeeper to continue.

  “But how did you find out he was here?” Georgina asked. “I thought I was the only one who knew. I would never, ever have said a word about it. Did Nico himself tell you what happened?”

  Molly looked confused.

  “I would have taken that secret to my grave, Madame Sutton. I would do anything for the boy, you must understand—”

  Molly stared. “Wait, are you saying he was here, in person? Not just his photograph?”

  Georgina looked stricken. “The photograph!”

  The housekeeper kept talking. She rattled on about gnocchi, her grandmother, and then back to what a pig Alexandre Roulier was, but Molly was barely listening. Through the jumble of their miscommunication—with each speaking in a second language, it was no surprise—she had gotten the point that Georgina was trying so hard to cover up, which was that Nico had been at Château Marainte, in the flesh, the night of the murder.

  He had been there. And hadn’t told anyone.

  Alexandre was up late. The Château was hardly a place of hustle and bustle, but nevertheless, he felt less constrained moving about the place late at night, when he was fairly sure the Baroness was in bed, the ill-tempered housekeeper had gone home, and he could search for the emerald at leisure. He had gone through all the rooms on every floor of the wing where his bedroom was, and the rooms the family regularly used as well. That left the north wing, which apparently the housekeeper ignored. It was quite dusty, and many rooms were empty of furniture. In some were stacks of cardboard boxes, while a few others were piled with furniture that was woefully in need of repair or reupholstering.

  By this point, Alexandre had a system: he used the flashlight on his phone to get around without bumping into things, because the darkness was complete in the Château. He felt underneath tables and looked behind curtains and books on bookshelves. He checked armoires and drawers and any container that was closed. As he went along, he snapped a few pictures on his phone of things he found interesting, such as a lamp that was a life-sized bronze sculpture of a naked goddess holding a wreath of lightbulbs over her head, and a round stained-glass window depicting what looked like marijuana leaves.

  But he was not there to sight-see, and as his interests did not especially lie in the direction of architectural novelties and antiques, he advanced more quickly through the rooms, not bothering to put anything back after moving it, not caring about his footprints in the dust.

  He reached the last room on the top floor, pausing briefly in the corridor to look out a window to the courtyard. The moon had come out, bathing the view in a ghostly light, and it occurred to him that what he was seeing at that moment was no different from what Fleurays would have seen from that window three or even four hundred years earlier. The slate of the turrets gleamed in the moonshine. All below was still. He imagined that the circular towers facing the road were crammed with archers, ready to let fly with arrows if anyone were stupid enough to approach in the middle of the night when the moon was shining.

  Perhaps Marcel should have been taken out with an arrow, he mused. Mon Dieu, he could go on for hours about how much he loved bow-hunting—an arrow would have been delicious in a way. But not so reliable, not to mention the awkwardness of carrying and using a bow.

  It was very late and Alexandre was getting fatigued. He lifted the latch on the last room and went in. It was smallish, with a pair of made-up single beds and a table between them. An armchair stood in a corner with a blanket folded over its back. Alexandre felt a small surge of optimism because the room was not dusty; someone had been there quite recently.

  He stood in the center of the room, closed his eyes, and imagined the jewelled box containing the emerald slowly and inexorably traveling towards him.

  “Come closer,” he murmured out loud.

  A built-in bookshelf ran along part of the wall across from the beds. It was jammed full of children’s books and novels for young readers. Alexandre guessed correctly that the room had
been a sort of playroom for Doriane and Marcel when they were young. He took out four and five books at a time, looking behind them, and in the process of putting them back, he heard a click, then the sound of wood scraping on wood…and the bookshelf slowly began to move, to rotate.

  Alexandre stepped back and watched as a secret compartment—no, a whole room—was revealed behind the bookshelf.

  He laughed aloud and ducked his head into the small space, and then squeezed in his whole body, sure that he had found the location of the famous stone. The room was closet-sized, with a tiny round window letting in faint light. He directed his flashlight quickly over the space, to see any particular places where the jewelled box might be tucked, but nothing presented itself. He saw a stuffed pig on the floor, and a dusty puzzle box in a corner. There was a lumpy chair with a loose pillow, and Alexandre pounced on the pillow, smashing it between his hands, but there was nothing in it but feathers.

  On the floor was an empty mug with vestiges of chocolate around the edge, and a book. Alexandre picked up the book and threw it at the wall because there was no place else to search. Then he felt something. A tiny prickle on the back of his neck. His hands were resting on the back of the chair and he picked it up and looked underneath, and to his almost complete surprise, there was the jewelled box, taped to the bottom with a piece of gray duct tape.

  Carefully he set the chair down on its side, as gently as though the box were an egg. He pulled at the tape and the box fell straight into his hand. I knew you would come to me, he breathed, forcing his eyes closed for a split second before unhooking the clasp on the box and opening it.

  It was empty.

  Alexandre felt a sickening sensation of disappointment flood his belly and he actually thought for a moment he was going to throw up. Still, however—recovering quickly—the box itself was worth quite a lot. He ran his fingers over the much smaller diamonds and emeralds that covered the top. It looked just as he remembered, exquisitely made with no expense spared.

  After stuffing the box in his trousers, he pushed himself back out of the secret room and shoved the bookcase sloppily back in place, then walked to the part of the Château where Antoinette lived. She must have the jewel, he reasoned, because otherwise, he would have found it by now. It would have come to him.

  When he got to the corridor where her bedroom was, he checked his phone for the time. It was nearly three in the morning. He took a step onto the stone floor, off the Turkish runner, so that his footstep would be as noisy as possible. Then he waited. Two seconds, three. Another loud step. This time, he waited six seconds, then two steps in quick succession.

  The irregularity would wake her up, he felt confident, and he was not wrong.

  Antoinette lay in bed, eyes wide open, listening. She knew it was Alexandre, knew he was trying to frighten her.

  It was working.

  29

  He wished that coming home was something other than a chore, but since he had never known any different, Percival rode in the taxi up the hill to the Château without any expectations of gladness at the sight of the place or its inhabitants. The main childhood memory he had was of trudging around the forest in the freezing cold, trying and failing to defend himself from his father’s disappointment. His mother had been kinder, certainly, but far more interested in her dogs and various farm animals than in him. At least, that was how Percival saw it.

  The young man grabbed his bag, undertipped the taxi driver, and crossed the drawbridge. It was early in the morning and the air was clear and the weather pleasantly chilly, though he did not notice it. He wrenched open the heavy door, calling out, “Maman! Georgina!” but was met with silence.

  He wondered idly how much Château Marainte would bring if it were put up for sale, though he knew his mother would never allow it. Enough to solve his current financial trouble, that was for sure. It was humiliating, having to come home to beg, but Percival did not feel it especially; when any inkling of a negative emotion began to bubble up, he stomped it down hard, down and out of sight, where it did not trouble him.

  Wandering into the kitchen, he found Georgina sitting at the table eating a piece of toast with apricot jam.

  “Bonjour, Percival,” she said politely, while grimacing at him.

  “Not glad to see me? Make me breakfast,” he said, dropping his bag and putting his hands on his hips.

  “Make it yourself,” said Georgina, taking another bite of toast.

  “Do you want me to tell Maman about that night? About what we did before the fête that summer?”

  Georgina did not change her expression but inside she was cursing Percival up, down, and sideways. The Fleuray parents weren’t half-bad, but this child? A complete jerk. Stronzo. “There’s coffee in the pot. Here’s toast,” she said, pushing the package towards him.

  “I like my toast freshly made,” he said, enjoying himself.

  “I like to see pigs fly,” said Georgina.

  “I’ll just go find Maman then.”

  “Oh all right. What do you have in mind, then? Fresh toast and what else? I’m not the cook, you know.”

  “Toast with strawberry jam and butter. And a cheese omelette. S’il vous plâit,” he said, sarcastically.

  Both turned as they heard footsteps in the corridor.

  “Maman!” shouted Percival, his voice brimming with false joy. “So good to see you. I thought I’d just pop down to give you some company. Paris can be so dreary at this time of year.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. But it’s good to see you again so soon, and very thoughtful of you to come.”

  “Madame, may I pour you some coffee?”

  “That would be lovely, Georgina, thank you. Shall we sit in the lounge, Percival? You can tell me stories about what you do at work that I won’t understood a word of.”

  Percival laughed and took his mother’s arm but she pulled away.

  “But you must wait a bit, my dear—I’m afraid I slept badly and I’m behind in my chores this morning. The animals still need tending. I’m going to go out to the barn but I’ll be right back. Don’t harry Georgina while I’m gone,” she said with a smile.

  “Never,” said Percival. He went into the lounge and waited for Georgina to bring his breakfast. Before long she came in with a tray. She was wearing her usual work outfit: a short dress with an apron and low heels, which might not have been every housekeeper’s choice for work clothes but helped Georgina feel a little less resentful about her job than she otherwise would have been.

  “Come here,” said Percival, as she set the tray on the coffee table. “Sit on my lap,” he said, taking hold of the hem of her dress.

  But Georgina slapped his hand. “Never in this life,” she spat at him, moving quickly through the door and down the corridor.

  “I’ll have you fired!”

  “Be my guest!”

  Percival’s heart rate had not had time to settle back down after this rejection when Antoinette came back inside and sat on the sofa.

  “Eat your eggs before they get cold!” she said, pouring coffee. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m talking to you as though you’re still a child. Sometimes it is hard to stay in the present.”

  “Dear Maman,” said Percival lovingly. “Tell me, what kind of job are the gendarmes doing? Do you think they’ve figured out who killed Father?”

  Antoinette slowly shook her head. “I don’t know. I should give Officer Maron a call and ask what progress he’s made in the case. I’m afraid it looks like someone came to the Château for the emerald, and killed your father in the process.”

  Percival shook his head. “He should have listened to us and put that thing in the bank where it belonged.”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m sure all of our lives are filled with moments we wish we could go back and change.”

  “Very true,” said Percival, and his voice got suddenly much younger. “Speaking of regret, I…there’s a situation in my own life…”

  Wearily, Antoinette turned to her son. �
�What is it this time, Percy?”

  One big difference between the States and France was that in France, if money got tight, you couldn’t just say oops, overdraw your bank account, and pay a fee. In France, the bank can dump you for that kind of thing.

  And Molly did not want to get dumped.

  She sat at her desk early that Tuesday morning, glancing from the computer screen to the gray October skies, the ball of anxiety in her belly growing worse by the minute. She needed some cash, and she needed it yesterday. Daydreaming about getting a cut from La Sfortuna was not solving the problem. Of course the sensible thing would be to spend a good six weeks or a month organizing the cooking contest—she still needed to find contestants, secure the venue, get the word out, and buy the ingredients and supplies—in other words, everything. But her electricity bill allowed no such luxury of time. She had to make this thing happen, and fast.

  So, running down the daunting checklist, she called Nathalie Marchand at La Métairie, who graciously agreed to join Nugent on the panel of judges. Molly was ninety-nine per cent sure Lapin would want to do it as well. She wrote out two shopping lists—one for the hors d’oeuvres and drinks she planned to make herself, and another for the ingredients in Georgina’s recipe, plus a wide variety of things for the contestants to use in making sauce for the gnocchi.

  Oh right, Georgina. One thing about money troubles—they have the ability to block out everything else, including anxiety about Nico which was frankly terrifying. All right, she told herself, he didn’t actually lie about not being at the Château the night of the murder, or about having some relationship with the Fleurays. He just somehow made sure it never came up.

  A lie of omission, if it’s big enough, is still a lie.

  “Come on, Bobo,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk in the woods before it rains.” Bobo perked up and ran in circles, very clear on the meaning of the word ‘walk.’