The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 5)

by Nell Goddin

  Molly laughed. “Hey, where’s Stephan?”

  Lawrence raised his eyebrows. “Must people be joined at the hip if they’re seeing each other? Stephan and I are fine. But he does not understand the Negroni. Or Chez Papa for that matter.”

  Molly nodded, but inwardly she thought, okay, that’s the kiss of death. But before getting sidetracked by the subject of Lawrence’s love life, she wanted to hear more about Maron and Esmé.

  “So do you have more information than that? I haven’t seen Maron in ages, no idea what he’s been doing. Do you think he’s headed to Paris for an arrest, or just further questioning?”

  “Can’t say,” said Lawrence. “But I don’t see how either way is any good for Miss Ridding. Much as I admire her.”

  “Yeah,” said Nico dreamily, and Frances threw an olive at him and hit him square on the forehead.

  It was a wonderful evening, that Tuesday. The contest was coming together beautifully, suspicion was off her friend, and the Negroni further lifted Molly’s spirits. That’s the thing about betrayal, isn’t it—you don’t see it coming until it smacks you right in the back of the head.

  32

  The news that Maron was headed to Paris to see Esmé Ridding alone did not shock Paul-Henri, since from the beginning of the case Maron had shut him out at every turn. He had hoped his mother’s bit of gossip about the Baron and Esmé would be useful enough to make Maron less selfish and allow him into the process even if only for consultation. But no, Paul-Henri was sent out to find lost dogs and lost husbands with dementia until he thought he would die of boredom.

  At least Maron was away and Paul-Henri was captain of the ship for two whole days. He performed a thorough cleaning of the station and checked his uniform, making sure buttons were polished and creases pressed perfectly. And then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he went out and walked the streets like Maron usually did, keeping an eye on the village, and making an effort to listen when anyone had something to tell him.

  Meanwhile, as his train sped towards Paris, Maron methodically went over the facts of his case. The Baron had been shot with his own shotgun at close range. According to Nagrand the coroner, the Holland & Holland shotgun—the murder weapon—was designed to kill nothing larger than a pheasant, so it was possible that the shot had been impulsive and not meant to kill him. The Baron usually kept an extremely valuable jewel on his person that was still unaccounted for. His mistress, Esmé Ridding, was the only person apart from the family and staff who visited the Château that night, as far as they knew; her sports car was seen tearing down the drive at a high speed around midnight.

  And the pièce de resistance, Esmé had written an angry letter to the Baron specifically mentioning shooting him. But it was that letter, oddly enough, that made Maron distrust his conclusion. Or—not distrust entirely—but the letter gave him pause, because it simply seemed too neat, too obvious, and in his limited experience with murder cases, they had been neither.

  He had leaned on Nagrand and the forensics team for something more, anything at all, but they had not been forthcoming. There was some DNA in Marcel’s salon that could not be assigned to any of the people they knew had been there that night, but that wasn’t unusual. Tradespeople and visitors, out-of-town relatives, guests to the Baron’s hunting parties—any of them might have left behind a hair or a thread that Georgina had missed in her cleaning, which were not necessarily always of peak thoroughness.

  The gun had been wiped clean, which was evidence of knowledge of guilt, but no help in pointing out whose.

  So forensics was a bust, and there was no eyewitness. The only way the case was going to be solved was through a confession.

  Maron was a solid detective, more skilled than he gave himself credit for. And he was not a complete pushover when it came to beautiful women. But Esmé Ridding…she was not just any beautiful woman. She was the glamorous, seductive women in movies he’d seen for the last fifteen years. She was, no exaggeration, a goddess, her image and voice everywhere.

  The train pulled into the station at Montparnasse and Maron impatiently waited for the doors to open. Now that he was close, he wanted nothing more than to face his suspect, get her talking, and wrap the whole thing up. He hustled through the crowd and out onto the street, hailing a taxi and giving the address in the 6th arrondissement. The sights and sounds of Paris were lost on him as he focused on his opening gambit and the few questions he had thought of to prompt Esmé to open up to him.

  A lot can get done in a few days if you’re motivated enough, and Molly absolutely was. She tacked posters up all over the village and in Bergerac as well, advertising the contest as Chef du Monde—perhaps overstating it a little bit, but hey, that’s what puts fannies in seats, right?

  The three contestants were briefed on the rules and busy making what few advance preparations they could, given that they were not told what they would be making. The panel of judges was enthusiastic and ready. Since she wasn’t selling tickets but putting on the contest for free, Molly had no way of knowing what kind of crowd to expect, but word on the street was positive. She had lucked out and chosen a weekend when the weather was supposed to be mild and nothing else was going on.

  Thursday and much of Friday she spent preparing hors d’oeuvres. Devils-on-horseback (bacon-wrapped prunes), a fluted little paper with a mouthful of tuna tartare, ham-butter-cornichons on slices of baguette, mushroom pâté with toasted baguette to smear it on, deviled eggs, and savory sablés made with rosemary and thyme. Her kitchen smelled amazing as she baked, chopped, and cleaned, then did it all again for the next group of appetizers. By lunchtime on Friday, the day of, Molly was about to drop from exhaustion, but took a break and went over to the cottage to see how the Chubbs were doing on their last full day at La Baraque.

  “Molly!” said the jovial Ervin. “I was just going to come have a word with you. Sissy and I have had such a fantastic time here, we were wondering if it might be possible for us to stay on another week?”

  Molly beamed, hoping the dollar signs weren’t popping up in her eyes like in a cartoon. (Or euro signs, she reminded herself.) “Of course you can stay longer! This is something of a slow time for tourists, though that just makes everything better for you. No lines, no crowds….”

  “We’ve spent the last week doing some high-octane sightseeing—went to Rocamadour, saw the cave paintings at Lascaux, which were incredible, the chateaux at Beynac and Castelnaud. Our life in New York is so hectic—up half the night at the club, tearing around all day with so much to do and people to see, you understand—so what we’d really like to do this week is hang around La Baraque, read, and take long naps. Sissy’s taking one now actually.”

  Molly nodded. “La Baraque is excellent for reading and napping, I can vouch for that. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I know you just told me you want to stay in and recharge, but just to let you know—I’m putting on a cooking contest in the village this evening. It’s nothing sophisticated like you’d find in Paris or New York, but you might find seeing a slice of the village entertaining. Now, I wish I could stay and chat but I’ve got a ton of stuff to do to get ready.”

  “Go go go!” said Ervin, gesturing to the door. “Tonight sounds fun. You may see us there.”

  “The cantine, center of town—”

  “Wonderful!”

  Molly hurried back to her house and leaned on the kitchen counter, staring at the master list. Lapin had come over with his truck earlier and taken a load of stuff to the cantine, so that was done. The food was prepped and ready to go. All she had to do was shower and get dressed, and then head over to the cantine to set out chairs and get the equipment organized.

  “What do you think, Bobo? Am I out of my mind?”

  The speckled dog nuzzled Molly’s hand, giving her some comfort as the specter of unpaid bills loomed up in her thoughts again. Tonight’s just got to work, she thought. Or I’ll be trying to convince the Chubbs that candles really are better th
an having electric lights.

  33

  To Molly’s delight, the cantine was packed a full half hour before showtime. Sensibly, everything was meant to be served at room-temperature, so there was no worry about keeping food hot. To make things even easier, she decided to charge one rate for an hors d’oeuvres plate consisting of a variety of nibbles, rather than having people pick and choose. At that point Molly had sampled so many sablés and devils-on-horseback during the cooking that they no longer looked all that appealing, but the audience was gobbling them up with gusto. Constance was helping serve the plates and running back and forth to peek through the window in the kitchen door as the cantine filled up.

  “My God, Molls, I think you may really have hit on something! Everyone and his night nurse is out there!”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you think I should put two deviled eggs per plate or just one? And listen, I heard Esmé Ridding is going down for the Baron’s murder!” she chirped happily.

  “I heard the same,” said Molly. “I think one deviled egg per plate is fine. Make sure to add a little parsley on the side, yep, that’s it. Whew,” she said, peering out at the crowd. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

  “Look, when I hand over the plate and take their money, where do I put it?”

  “Didn’t think of that. Just shove it in your pocket for now. If your pockets get too full—and I hope they will—just put the money in my bag, over there in the corner. It’ll be safe there, don’t you think?”

  Constance shrugged. “The way Castillac is these days? All bets are off.” But she winked as she backed up to the swinging door and pushed her way to the other side.

  Twenty minutes until showtime.

  Thomas was pouring kirs and two of his teenage cousins were boisterously handing them out. Two of the three contestants milled in the crowd, talking to friends and supporters. The shopgirl’s neighbor, Anne-Marie Poulin, a grandmother famous in the village for her soufflés, wore a snowy white apron and toque. Molly had found the second contestant thanks to a suggestion from Madame Tessier, who knew more about the villagers than they knew about themselves, and was always happy to lend her advice and opinion on any subject at all. He was a teenager named Hugo Sargent, who had another year before finishing at the lycée. He had ambitions of becoming a famous chef and the minute he heard from Molly he had texted back that he was thrilled to participate; she found out later that his parents wanted him to be a doctor and were thoroughly against their son doing anything related to cooking.

  Well, when you’re putting on a show, it’s always good to have a little tension, right?

  Nico was the third contestant, but so far he was nowhere in evidence.

  Lapin had banged together a small raised platform where the judges sat, close enough that they could watch the chefs closely. And he had talked the cooking supply company into bringing three used stoves and setting them up so that the audience could observe every step as well. Nathalie Marchand sat looking amused, chic as ever, while Nugent prattled on in her ear, so besotted that he seemed on the verge of producing a knife and fork so that he could eat her up. Lapin was everywhere at once, making sure the stoves all worked, setting up more chairs, welcoming people at the door, and generally being a stand-up guy.

  Molly had a quick flash, remembering her terrible opinion of Lapin when she first met him. Just goes to show that first impressions can be wildly wrong, she thought. Sometimes what you see when you first meet someone is entirely misleading.

  She went back in the kitchen to set up more plates for Constance to take out, and once she was caught up there, to the front door to greet people as they came in. And they kept coming and coming, Chef du Monde proving itself to be the social event of the season, outdoing even the Gala if number of attendees were the only measure.

  Ten minutes until showtime. Where is Nico?

  Molly grinned, seeing Antoinette, Percival, and Georgina walking across the playground on their way to the cantine. “So happy you could come!” she said, in a flurry of cheek-kissing. Antoinette was dressed elegantly in a long gray skirt with a black velvet blazer, while Georgina looked ready to go clubbing in a super-short dress with makeup troweled on.

  “Of course we are tremendous fans of Georgina’s gnocchi,” said Antoinette. “And maybe…it is past time for us to be more involved in village life.”

  Molly nodded, smiling. “I hope you enjoy the show. Well, Percival—your old pal Nico is one of the contestants! Tell me, can he really cook? All I’ve ever had is plates of frites at Chez Papa!”

  Percival shook his head slightly. “Nico?” he said, looking baffled.

  “Um—Nico Bartolucci? Your old friend?”

  “I’ve no idea where you got that idea. I hardly know him at all,” said Percival. “Come, Maman, let’s get seats before they’re all taken.”

  Molly stood with a fake smile, nodding at the Fleurays like one of those bobblehead dolls people put on their car dashboards. Hardly know him at all?

  What?

  Across the room from the Fleurays, Madame Tessier sat next to Molly’s next-door neighbor, Madame Sabourin. “You know,” said Madame Tessier, jabbing the other woman in the ribs perhaps more firmly than was necessary, “Percival de Fleuray is not someone the village can be proud of, not if what I’ve heard is true.”

  “And what is that?” asked Madame Sabourin.

  “Gambler,” said Madame Tessier simply. Both women craned their necks to get a good look at him.

  “Is it bad?”

  “Oh, I think very,” said Madame Tessier, “though you’d never know it to look at his clothing. That is not a cheap shirt, I can tell you. Custom, unless my eyes deceive me.”

  The two women nodded their heads slowly.

  Six rows down, Lawrence and Stephan were balancing plates of hors d’oeuvres on their knees and munching away happily. “Your friend can cook,” said Stephan, looking around for Constance so he could get a second plate. “This tuna tartare is to die for.”

  Lawrence nodded, his mouth full.

  “So where’s Nico? I thought he was going to be one of the chefs in the competition?”

  Lawrence turned in his seat and looked around the room. He saw Frances standing in the back near the door, looking unhappy. Then he pulled out his phone to check the time, and saw a text. “Uh oh,” he said. He leaned over and said in Stephan’s ear, “Looks like the case against Esmé has fallen apart.”

  Stephan ate his last devil-on-horseback. “Then Molly had best get cracking,” he said.

  Lawrence felt himself bristle. “I’m sure she’s doing all anyone could do. It’s not as though she’s part of the gendarmerie after all.”

  Meanwhile Frances paced the back of the room. The contest was supposed to start in five minutes. All three judges were seated on the platform with pads of paper and pens. The other two contestants stood nervously in the makeshift kitchen. Molly was all over the place—checking that all the necessary ingredients were on each chef’s worktable, making sure she had three copies of the famous gnocchi recipe ready to hand out, consulting with Thomas over whether someone needed to make an emergency run for more glasses.

  All the hubbub made Frances feel sick to her stomach and she stopped pacing and stared out of the window, praying for Nico to appear.

  Showtime. Fifteen minutes past showtime, to be precise.

  Molly took a deep breath and stepped onto the platform where the judges sat. She only had two out of three contestants but the audience was understandably restive and she had no choice but to start without Nico.

  “Welcome everyone!” she began, with forced cheer. “I’m so glad you came out to the first ever Castillac Chef du Monde!” She went over the rules, making no mention of the missing Nico. “In this head-to-head battle, Anne-Marie and Hugo will be making the glorious recipe for gnocchi that belonged to Georgina Locatelli’s grandmother. Thank you so much for letting our talented chefs have a go at it, Georgina. All right, I’m goi
ng to hand over the recipe, and our chefs will get to work. They’ll have forty-five minutes to prepare their dishes. In the meantime, if you’d like something else to eat or drink, just give Constance or the boys a wave. And now, Anne-Marie and Hugo: Bonne chance!”

  The two chefs took a long moment to read the recipe and then flew into furious action, throwing potatoes into pots and then running into the actual kitchen of the cantine where they could fill the pots with water.

  Molly saw Frances still standing at the back of the room, facing away from the show, watching for Nico. Her posture was slumped and the sight of her broke Molly’s heart. Bastard, she said under her breath.

  She swept her eyes around the room, checking to see if there was anything that needed doing, while telling herself that Maron was in Paris probably arresting Esmé Ridding right that second, that Nico probably had the time wrong, or overslept, or…or…something. Her thoughts went around and around and around, until the chefs were already draining the potatoes and beginning to mash them up with egg and flour. Nugent leaned forward to watch Anne-Marie’s technique, Hugo dropped a measuring cup on the floor, and with satisfaction Molly saw that the crowd seemed to be mesmerized by the whole thing.

  But no matter how hard she tried to keep her attention on the show, the same thoughts kept swirling through her mind:

  Nico was at Château Marainte the night of the murder. Didn’t tell anyone.

  Said he was great pals with Percival. Lie.

  Said he would be in the contest. No show.

  What’s that saying again? When someone shows you who they are, believe them.

  34

  For Molly, the rest of the contest sailed by in a blur. Anne-Marie and Hugo entertained the crowd by making a few messy mistakes, with Anne-Marie muttering an audible merde when she dropped a whisk on the floor. Both of the chefs made creditable gnocchi; Anne-Marie chose a simple but perfect sage butter sauce while Hugo sauced his with a walnut pesto. At the end, Anne-Marie won by a vote of 2-1, though both judges had substantial compliments for Hugo as well. His parents, who Molly had feared would be accusing her of leading their son down the wrong path, instead came up to her afterwards to argue that the contest had been rigged and Hugo should have won.