The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 5)

by Nell Goddin

  Molly shoved an apple in her pocket and did not bother brushing her tangled hair, but put a cap on instead.

  Nico.

  The questions were obvious enough: what was his connection to the Fleurays? And why was it secret? And then, the big enchilada…what on earth was he doing at the Château on that night of all nights?

  Molly’s family life growing up had been relatively uncomplicated. Her parents had been decent people who went faithfully to their jobs and took care of their children without much drama. Once Molly was older, she felt distant from them only because her parents’ interests were so narrow that they struggled for anything to talk about. Same with her brother. They had not been a close, happy, exuberant family, the kind practically anyone would love to part of—but neither was it ugly, or mean, or even particularly complicated.

  There had been no skeletons in any closets, no secrets at all, as far as she knew.

  And that was the most troubling thing about Nico, as Molly saw it. She could understand not wanting the whole world to know your private thoughts or personal business, but she and Nico were good friends. Not strangers, and not mere acquaintances, but friends. And of course—Frances? How could he keep whatever happened at the Château that night from Frances? Even if it was something terrible?

  The woods looked almost wintry. The ferns had all died back and the trees were down to their very last leaves. Everywhere she looked were different shades of brown, yellow spotted with brown, faded green, and gray. She understood the cycles of nature and knew that the dying off was necessary to the bursting forth of life in spring, but that didn’t make her like it when it was happening.

  She heard a church bell tolling, and it made her remember a scene she had witnessed in Castillac earlier in the month: men walking down the sidewalk towards the church with a casket on their shoulders, with women in black following along behind. Autumn is the season of death, and it felt implacable, inescapable, relentless.

  Abruptly she called Bobo and turned back towards home. The woods in fall had their particular beauty, but at the moment she was not in the mood for it. A man had been shot in the face on the same night Nico had been to visit, and she had better find out why before Maron did.

  30

  To-do list tucked in her bag, Molly sped into the village towards the primaire. Constance might have remembered to ask Caroline about using the cantine for the contest, but Molly figured she would confirm in person, wanting to know if that first step was in place before spending any money on ingredients. The school was in the center of town. The offices were in a modern building that had large windows, as Molly remembered from visiting with Ben on an earlier case.

  Ben. She didn’t even have an address for him, and he had been offline for weeks. Open to anything, Molly tried sending telepathic messages that she needed to speak with him urgently, but apparently those hadn’t hit the mark either.

  She saw Caroline through the window and waved, hoping she was in a good mood.

  “Bonjour, Caroline!” she exclaimed, going a little overboard with friendliness. Caroline kissed cheeks with her and then stepped back, looking suspicious.

  “Has Constance come to see you recently?”

  Caroline shook her head.

  “Well, never mind. I’m sorry to bother you, I’m sure you are overloaded with work this time of year, but I have an idea—something fun for the whole village—and wanted to run it by you and see what you think.”

  “Yes?” said Caroline doubtfully.

  Molly made her pitch. With a flash of inspiration, she suggested that students could act as servers, passing hors d’oeuvres and drinks to the audience while the cooking went on.

  “While I appreciate your ingenuity in finding free help, I don’t see why our students need to be involved,” said Caroline.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean they need to be. Just if any of them wanted to! And using the cantine is only one of the things I want to ask you about. Obviously I’m going to need contestants as well. Do you have any suggestions for talented cooks who might be interested? How about you?”

  Caroline snickered. “I am happy eating potato chips and yogurt,” she said. “Believe me, I am not who you are looking for. Besides….”

  Molly waited.

  “Besides, as long as you’re here…I’ve been wondering…if you’ve found La Sfortuna yet?”

  “I thought its existence was a big secret.”

  “Ha! Haven’t you figured out that in Castillac, there are no secrets? Not for long anyway,” she added bitterly.

  “I do know what you mean. But no, I haven’t found it. Do you know the family at all?”

  “Hardly. The sons would have been at school before my time, but of course they did not attend the local school in any case. Shipped off somewhere much fancier than here,” she said, gesturing across the courtyard to the small primaire. Molly smiled at the children tearing around the playground, coats off, though inevitably the sight gave her a pang of yearning.

  “Well,” said Caroline, “I don’t see any reason why you can’t use the cantine, as long as we don’t have anything scheduled there at the same time. When are you thinking this contest will take place?”

  “Friday?”

  “My heavens! How will you ever manage to pull it together that quickly?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m going to try!”

  Her words were brave but the only thing really driving her was the inbox of unpaid bills that she could no longer push out of her mind. Leaving the school she pulled her list out of her bag, figuring to knock off another couple of items before swinging by Chez Papa. If she had any luck at all, in the middle of the afternoon Nico would be there alone, and Molly would have a chance to see if he would come clean about the Fleurays and his activities the night of the murder.

  She had the unsettling feeling that she was making her way through fog, barely able to see where she was going, and with the ominous sense that unseen danger was all around. Maybe her friend Nico would, finally, provide some clarity….

  The first part of the afternoon went better than expected. She bought enough glasses for a crowd and had them delivered to La Baraque, same thing for bottles of crème de cassis, since surely kirs would make most of the audience happy. The salesgirl at the kitchen supply shop suggested her neighbor might want to be a contestant. She called while Molly was there; the neighbor was enthusiastic and agreed to do it, although she asked what the prize for winning was and Molly had to tell her it was a secret, something “very good” while feeling aghast that she hadn’t even considered prizes yet.

  She ended up spending quite a bit at the kitchen supply store, since if you have three chefs working at once you obviously need three of everything. The plan was happening too quickly, and she knew there would be mistakes and doubtless wasted money along the way, but by then she was like a pony with a bit in its teeth and a view of the barn, with nearly zero chance of changing course.

  By three o’clock there was nothing else on the list that she could do just then. It was time to swing by Chez Papa and see Nico. Castillac was having a typical October day: a light drizzle, off and on, not too cold. Villagers were mostly inside and the streets were quiet. Chez Papa, Molly was relieved to see, looked empty.

  She parked her scooter and came inside. “Hey Nico!” she called. “Bonjour!”

  No answer.

  Molly plopped onto a stool, trying to quiet the imps of anxiety that were dancing in her head. Then she heard footsteps, heavy footsteps. She jumped off the stool. “Nico?”

  Alphonse, the owner of the bistro, swung around the corner, having come from the cooler or the office. He shook his big shaggy head and smiled. “Bonjour, ma petite chou! It is magnificent to see you on this gray Tuesday.”

  They kissed cheeks. “Very nice to see you, too, Alphonse. I guess a drizzly day keeps people home, huh?”

  “Eh, it is all right. If this place was filled to the brim every minute, it would run me ragged. Nothing wrong with a slo
w day every now and then. The space has to breathe too, yes?”

  Molly had always thought Alphonse had a mystical side, and she felt pleased at having it confirmed. “Any idea where Nico is?”

  “Oh, he’ll be back soon enough. The bar is out of lemons and he ran down to the épicerie to get a bag. Even on dreary days like this, we get children in who want their citron pressé! And I, like their mamans, would much rather they drink that than some American soda drink, if you won’t be insulted.”

  “Not at all,” said Molly smiling.

  “Here he comes now,” said Alphonse, gesturing out the big window at the front of the bistro. “I’ll be heading back to the office then. A wee bit of paperwork left before I knock off for the day.” He gave Molly a wink and lumbered out of sight.

  “Bonjour, Molly!” said Nico.

  Was she imagining it, or did his face fall just a bit when he saw her?

  “Bonjour, Nico. I was hoping you’d be here.”

  “Looking for a kir and a plate of frites?”

  “Well, sure. Can’t ever go wrong with those.” She paused, unsure how to jump in. “Look, Nico, I’ve got something a little awkward to ask you about.”

  He looked up quickly, tilting his head to the side. “Is Frances upset about something?”

  “No, no, it’s not about Frances. It’s about…okay, I’ll just start at the beginning. You know that Antoinette de Fleuray has asked me to find La Sfortuna?”

  “Uh, sure. Any luck with that?”

  “No. The point is that of course the Château was where I started my search. I went all over, but of course gave a careful look where the Baron spent time, namely his salon.” She stopped, watching his face, but Nico’s expression did not change. He waited with a look of bland curiosity on his handsome face, but no unease that Molly could discern.

  “In the Baron’s salon, sitting on a bookshelf, is a photograph of you.”

  Nico jerked his head back, his eyes wide open.

  “This is a surprise? I wonder that you didn’t know about it, since I was told—and believe me, Nico, I know how awkward this is and I just hope that whatever is going on, whatever happened, you’ll just be open with me about it, I’m on your side for God’s sake—I was told that you were at the Château the night the Baron was murdered.”

  Nico shook his head, smiling. “Oh, is that all? You had me nervous there for a second. It’s true, I was there that night. Percival, one of the Fleuray sons, is an old friend of mine. I’d heard he was in town and so I went over to see him. I got there, the housekeeper told me I was mistaken and Percy was in Paris, and I went home. Of course later when I heard what had happened, I was stunned. But the murderer must have gotten there after I left, because there were no other cars in the lot at that point, probably around nine o’clock.”

  “But why keep all that a secret? We were talking right here in Chez Papa about the murder. Wouldn’t it be natural, if you had nothing to hide, to say, ‘yeah, whew, I must have nearly crossed paths with a killer!’”

  Nico shrugged and began making Molly a kir. “I guess I could have. But you know, the Fleurays have never mixed with the village much. People don’t know them, they’re this family of aristocrats living in the huge Château on the hill, looking down at everyone in Castillac. I figured it would make people uncomfortable, like I was trying to show off my connection with the upper class.”

  Molly thought this over. “Okay, I sort of get that. But why wouldn’t you at least tell Frances? You’re all ‘love of my life’ and marriage and everything…well, wouldn’t that mean sharing who your friends are?”

  “I guess you’re right. I don’t…it’s just been a sort of habit, you understand. But of course I could have told Frances, I only didn’t because I honestly didn’t think of it at the time.”

  “You men and the way you shove different parts of your lives into boxes!”

  “Are making a sexist remark in my bar?” Nico deadpanned.

  Molly laughed. “Hurry up with those frites, will you? I could eat a horse.”

  “Well, you are in France. You probably have.”

  Molly looked at Nico in pretend shock, but underneath she was feeling tremendously relieved. She had hoped so hard for a reasonable explanation and felt she had gotten it. She crossed Nico off her mental list of suspects for the Baron’s murder.

  Problem was, now there was no one on it at all.

  31

  It was after dinner in the middle of the week. Although Esmé had been invited to several parties, they weren’t personal invitations, made by someone who actually wanted her company. They were either from people she’d barely met who wanted to be able to brag about a connection with Esmé Ridding, or by companies who wanted publicity for some product or another. And she had far too much of that already in her work for Chanel.

  She was hungry, but used to it. Dinner had been salad with only a small scrap of fish on the side, and an even smaller spoonful of sauce on it. Esmé put on a raincoat and a hat she could pull down so as not to be recognized, and went out for a pint of ice cream.

  Double brownie chocolate chip, to be exact, from the only place she knew of to get American ice cream, the glorious Ben and Jerry’s brand, at a hole in the wall down the block.

  And so she was sitting on the sofa with a dishtowel spread across her lap eating the ice cream out of the container with a big spoon and watching music videos when her agent called.

  “A thousand apologies, darling, you can’t imagine how difficult everyone has been. I swear, The Kruger Protocol that flopped last month? It’s got everyone so on edge. Anyway. I’ve got some very good news. They want you for the lead in something Bishop is doing next year, I’ve already sent the script over tonight.”

  Esmé sighed, long and loudly.

  “What? You said you were dying to get back to work! This part is perfect for you, absolutely perfect!”

  “I’ll read it when it gets here,” Esmé said dully.

  “It will be there in two minutes. It might already be there! Buck up, darling, you’re going to love it, I’m telling you. Although—a few minor things—there always are, aren’t they? You will have to ride—that’s not a problem, is it?”

  “Of course not. You’ve seen me on horseback before, you ninny.”

  “And—this is awkward—but they want to know if you have any experience…if you can handle a gun.”

  Esmé rolled her eyes. “Really, that’s what they’re asking? Is this even a legit offer?”

  “Of course it is, darling, you know I don’t wast my time otherwise.”

  “Well tell ’em I can shoot all right. Pistol, rifle, shotgun. If they give me a bad guy, I’ll blow him right off the screen.”

  Molly had been planted on her stool at Chez Papa for hours. Once Nico had reassured her about his involvement with the Fleurays, she almost relaxed and enjoyed bantering with him like old times. Then friends starting to drift in—first Lawrence, then Lapin, followed by Frances. Each arrival caused a flurry of greetings and cheek-kissing, and then inevitably, the newcomer asked Molly about progress on the Baron’s case.

  “I swear, people, you aren’t listening to me! I’m not on the case. With Ben being away, I have no way to get inside information. No idea what the forensic evidence is, or how Maron is doing with his interviews. I know he’s spoken to the Baroness and Georgina, I can tell you that much, though that’s pretty obvious.”

  “Do you think any of us believe that for one second?” said Lawrence affectionately. “Especially since you’ve been given a pass to roam all over Château Marainte looking for La Sfortuna? And by the way, how’s that going? I assume you haven’t found it?”

  “Are you kidding? If I had, my screams would have been heard all over the Dordogne.”

  “Well, at least you have a guest now, right?”

  “One guest does not a positive cash flow make,” said Molly. “But you’re right, I should look at the bright side. And the cooking contest is coming along nicely�
��I hope you’re all planning to be there? This Friday night at the cantine. I do need one more contestant….”

  “Nico!” shouted Frances. “Come on, you’d be perfect!” she said, as he shook his head.

  “I’m not…really don’t….”

  But Frances got a chant started and everyone in the bar was saying, “Nico! Nico!” until he shrugged and said yes.

  “So what’s involved exactly?” he asked.

  “The three contestants will be making the same dish, which is a surprise. One hint: it’s not French. Well, two hints: it’s something that requires a sauce. So all three of you will make the same dish, but decide on your own sauce once you see the variety of ingredients I have on hand. The panel of judges will taste what everyone makes and decide on a winner.”

  “What does the winner get?” asked Frances.

  “Um, good question,” said Molly. “Any ideas for a good prize? Satisfaction in winning has got to count for something.”

  “Maybe something from my shop?” said Lapin.

  “Great, I slave all night and come out with a broken chair!” said Nico, making the others laugh.

  Lawrence looked down at his phone. “Not to change the subject,” he said, “but apparently Maron is headed to Paris on police business. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  The bar was silent.

  “He’s going after Esmé Ridding,” said Lapin. “I knew she was a real firecracker!”

  Molly looked at Nico and grinned. His explanation had soothed her anxiety, but the news that Maron was interested in Esmé calmed her even more. An arrest of the most famous face in all of France might even bring more business to Castillac, mightn’t it, if that wasn’t an entirely selfish thought?

  “Hey Nico,” she said, “make me a Negroni, will you? I feel like celebrating.”

  Lawrence smiled and put his arm around her. “Only one, my dear, or I’ll have to bring you home with me to keep you out of trouble.”