The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 5)

by Nell Goddin

  All during the event, Molly’s face was fixed with an unnaturally bright smile and eyes too wide open, as though she could defend herself against dread by pretending with her facial expression that nothing terrible had happened. Because, sickeningly, all the wisps and threads of thoughts had converged into one: Nico.

  It’s Nico.

  Continually she stole glances at Frances, who stood near the door, her head bowed. Molly had never, ever seen her friend look so defeated. She managed to go to the front of the room and congratulate Anne-Marie while the audience clapped, and present her with an antique mixing bowl she had found at Lapin’s shop, sturdy porcelain with a deep blue glaze, a gorgeous treasure. She thanked the judges profusely, and for a brief moment was able to appreciate how extremely well the evening had gone and how satisfied the audience looked as they rose and put on their coats to leave. Piles of dirty plates and empty glasses waited in the kitchen, but Molly hurried outside to catch up to Antoinette, Percival, and Georgina as they made their way down the sidewalk to Georgina’s car.

  “Pardon!” she called out, and Antoinette turned and smiled at the sound of her voice.

  “That was quite entertaining,” she said to Molly. “Thank you for putting it together, and especially for inviting us. Castillac is lucky to have you.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” said Molly, trying to smile at the compliment, and breathless. “I wonder if I could have…a private word with you?”

  Georgina looked alarmed and Percival concerned, but Antoinette told them to go on to the car, she would meet them there in a minute. Antoinette was not easily disobeyed. “What is it, my dear?” she said, turning back to Molly.

  “Well, I just…I found something out that’s confusing me and I wanted to ask you about it. My friend Nico…Nico Bartolucci? He was at the Château the night of the murder. Did you know this?”

  Antoinette’s mouth opened slightly but she betrayed no real alarm. “Who told you that? No, actually, I did not know he was at the Château—that night or any recent night, for that matter.”

  The two women looked searchingly into each other’s eyes.

  “But clearly…” the Baroness said, “You do not know the entire story, and maybe it is time you do.”

  Molly held her breath.

  “I suppose every family has its share of dirty laundry, yes? A few secrets, that don’t matter to anyone else? The fact is, Nico is my nephew. I’ve told you about Doriane and Gianni Conti, my sister and brother-in-law? He is their son. Poor child, of course it was horrible to lose his parents as he did, at such a young age. He’s never wanted anything to do with us, sad to say. I’ve heard he’s a bartender in the village, if you can imagine such a thing. I don’t mean to sound like such a snob, Molly! But the son of the noble Gianni Conti, and nephew of the Baron de Fleuray—you’ll admit, it’s something of a come-down.” She sighed and looked at Molly sadly. “Of course I don’t believe for one instant that he had anything to do with Marcel’s murder, no matter what night he was at the Château. Certainly not. I rather imagine he was sniffing around after that emerald, if I had to guess. Surely his wages as a bartender might not cover everything that a young man might wish?”

  “Nico is your nephew?”

  “Yes, Molly. Estranged nephew, I guess you’d have to say. We did our very best for him, you understand, but he went to boarding schools after his parents died and has spent very little time at Château Marainte over the years, by his choice. Marcel, especially, reached out to him—wanted to take over as a father, you know—he loved the boy very much indeed. But Nico rejected all of the Fleurays completely. I don’t know if he somehow blamed us for his parents’ death, or the trauma just turned everything upside down and sideways. I can’t explain it. But he’s not been to the Château more than three or four times over the last, oh, twenty years.”

  “I see,” said Molly, though she did not. “Why is his last name Bartolucci then? Shouldn’t it be Conti?”

  Antoinette made an exaggerated shrug. “I cannot answer your question. Of course when we heard he was going by that other name, we wondered as well. But I do not think we ever had an answer. I would suppose that taking a different name was one more way to put distance between himself and his past?”

  Molly nodded slowly.

  Antoinette said, “Do you see what I was saying about the poisonous effect of that damn emerald? Now it’s casting suspicion on our dear Nico, where it does not belong. Please, come over one last time to look for it, won’t you Molly? I know you’re busy and getting tired of what must seem like a fool’s errand. Of course I do understand that La Sfortuna might be in the hands of a thief and far from Castillac by now. But I don’t think so. I can feel its effects still, and believe it is somewhere in my house. Marcel did sometimes hide it away somewhere, when he was traveling a lot and worried about having it in his pocket. Please. I beg you.”

  Molly took Antoinette’s hand and squeezed it. Their eyes got moist and they broke apart, giving a last wave, unable to find the right words to say.

  Molly slept until nearly ten o’clock the following morning, after staying very late to clean up at the cantine. After seeing how much money Constance had stuffed in her bag, she figured she would be having more contests in the future, and wanted to make sure that she left everything shipshape so the school wouldn’t mind allowing her to use the space again.

  Every minute that she washed dishes she had thought about what the Baroness had said. Nico—an aristocrat! She had always thought there was something hidden about about him, and now she knew. But Frances was entirely in the dark about the fact that her almost-fiancé was at the Château the night the Baron was shot, and that he was the Baron’s nephew. Molly considered going over to their apartment right then to talk to her, but decided to wait until she had more complete information. Was Nico’s no-show at the contest related to any of this? Frances was suffering enough without having to panic over Nico’s possibly being guilty of murder.

  Nico had mentioned to Molly recently that he was worried about money, feeling that he didn’t have enough of it to suit Frances. Molly had done her best to tell him he was really barking up the wrong tree, that for one thing Frances made plenty of money on her own, thank you very much, and she was most definitely not looking for a man to give her all sorts of expensive stuff. Just not what Frances was interested in. Molly had thought she had gotten through to him.

  So why had he gone to the Château that night? Clearly not to see Percival as he claimed.

  It felt awful being lied to, thought Molly. And it would be much worse for Frances. Lies on top of omissions on top of lies, by the man she loved, the man who was asking to marry her.

  Well, Antoinette had been kind enough to attend Chef du Monde, so Molly figured she would do as asked and give the search for La Sfortuna one last crack. A thick sheaf of euros was tucked into her handbag thanks to the night before, but that wasn’t enough to pay all her bills or even close. Expenses had been high and would eat up over half of the gross. Sighing, Molly thought that maybe Antoinette would give her a token payment for having put in so much time looking for that damn stone.

  It was the brink of November and the sky was gray. Riding the scooter was a little cold and she stopped at one point to reach under her helmet and pull her wool hat down over her ears and button her coat. As she parked in the lot and made her way across the drawbridge of the Château, she was hit with another pang of missing Ben. Of wanting, just in that moment, to feel his strong arms around her and let her head drop onto his shoulder. What would he think of this business with Nico? Would he be able to help Maron prove that Esmé was guilty?

  Antoinette was waiting for Molly on the bench, with a camel-colored mohair blanket over her lap. “Bonjour, ma chérie,” she said as they kissed cheeks. “I knew you would come. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour, lost in memories.”

  “Some parts of grief are bittersweet, aren’t they?” said Molly.

  “Indeed. The impact
of death lasts far longer than one would imagine. So. Would you like coffee before beginning?”

  “No thank you. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to dive in and make this last search the most thorough of all. I do have a bit of an idea, so we’ll see where that leads me…”

  “An idea! I like the sound of that very much. I think I will continue my reveries in the barn. Often the goats are the best company one could wish for.”

  Molly nodded and watched the Baroness as she walked across the courtyard with Grizou at her side, and then went inside and up to the second floor in the east wing where the family lived.

  The Baron had been a sentimental man, she had been thinking. He carried his sister’s jewel around in his pocket, as a way to feel connected to her. He hired her maid for the same reason. So, she speculated, what does a sentimental man value above everything? His childhood. This grand Château, where his ancestors had lived for hundreds of years, where the decoration barely changed from generation to generation, where he continually returned even though he had a distinguished life in Paris with a place in national politics—Château Marainte was the Baron’s emotional center, the place all his memories of learning to hunt in the forest and growing up with Doriane sprang from.

  Molly had been in the nursery before, on her first run-through of that floor back when her search began. She had looked in the armoire and opened the drawers of the child-sized bureaux, and found them empty, then moved on. Truthfully, it made her uncomfortable spending time in rooms designed for small children. Her desire for her own little ones bubbled up painfully, and she had found no relief for that pain except distraction. But this morning, feeling as though she understood Marcel better than she had when she began, she did not give in to the desire to leave the nursery and think about anything else besides little children.

  The light blue paint on the plastered walls had faded to the color of a pair of old jeans. The window faced east and morning light spilled into the room, though the light was not enough to make it feel anything but long abandoned. It was clean enough, and uncluttered, but the feeling of the room was of a place shut away and unused.

  An elaborate antique crib stood pushed into a corner. Molly ran her hands along the carved endposts and lifted the wool mattress to look under it. She imagined baby Marcel standing up in the crib, reaching his chubby arms to be picked up. But then she realized no, it would be beautiful little Doriane in the crib, and Marcel in the small bed in the opposite corner. She could see them whispering together, laughing. She could see Marcel, four years older, coming over to the crib to console his baby sister when she cried, pushing his hands through the slats to pat her and making silly faces.

  Molly went through the drawers again and found nothing. Then she opened a wooden toy-chest that stood at the foot of the small bed. She had rummaged through it on her first search, feeling disappointed when she did not see the jewelled box, but this time she didn’t rush. In the chest were three stuffed animals: a rabbit with a chewed-up ear, a lamb whose wool had been rubbed smooth, and a little bear. A petit ours.

  Molly picked up the bear. Petit Ours. Her breath was suddenly fast and her fingers shook as she felt it all over, pressing into the stuffing, trying to see if…and then, in the bear’s right foot, she felt something hard, about the size of a apricot.

  With both hands she palpated the hard object. She could move it around in the stuffing but there was no opening that she could see; inspecting the bear’s leg closely, she saw thread freshly sewn, as though a seam had split and been repaired. Swallowing hard, she grasped the fabric on either side of the seam and pulled mightily, but the thread held. Frantically she dug in her bag for the tiny Swiss pocketknife she had been carrying with her since she was twelve, and sliced the bear’s foot open.

  She lifted the little bear and gave it a shake. Out tumbled a green stone, so big that it looked like costume jewelry, so beautifully cut that its facets glittered even though it was partly covered with stuffing.

  35

  Her eyes cartoonishly wide, Molly picked up the emerald and blew off the stuffing. Her first thought was I’m rich! She jumped to her feet, letting out a whoop of joy and pumping her fist in the air. Then she felt like an idiot, and a selfish one at that…though it was true that ten per cent of whatever that whopping stone sold for was going to be more money than she had ever had in her life.

  She jammed the emerald in her jeans pocket and ran down the hallway, looking for Antoinette. She sensed danger all of a sudden, as though someone was going to jump out of one of the empty rooms and tackle her to the floor and go through her pockets. She laughed weakly, thinking of Frodo carrying the Ring with half the world on his tail.

  Molly made it downstairs and into the courtyard without seeing anyone. Before going on to the barn, she turned to look back at the east wing, and saw a man standing at a window, looking at her.

  Totally creeped out, she waved and kept going, wanting very much to put the emerald in Antoinette’s hand, as though its storied bad luck might cling to her if she had possession of it for too long.

  “Antoinette!” she cried, seeing the Baroness inside the paddock, sitting on a bale of hay surrounded by goats.

  Antoinette could tell by the excitement in Molly’s voice that she had news. She got up and walked quickly to the gate, bits of hay stuck to her skirt. Grizou began barking.

  Molly said nothing but dug into her pocket and held out the stone in her palm. “Can you believe it?” she murmured.

  Antoinette put her hands over her mouth. “At last,” she said. “At last.

  Though grave shall sever

  Lover from loved

  And all they share…”

  Molly cocked her head, listening. “Um, I don’t want to spoil the moment or anything, but I gotta tell you, I’m nervous holding something this valuable in my hand. I think you should get it someplace safe right away.”

  Antoinette took the stone and held it up. They admired its glinting in the sunlight. Then she closed her hand over the gem, opening her fingers almost immediately as though worried it might have disappeared. “La Sfortuna. At last.”

  “Not to be a nag—but what are you going to do with it? And was that Alexandre Roulier I just saw? Is he still here?”

  “Unfortunately it’s Saturday, I’m not sure what can be done. I can take it to the bank first thing Monday morning.” She kept opening and closing her hand over the jewel, pressing it hard into the skin of her palm. “Yes, Alexandre is still here. I fear I do not rule Château Marainte with the firmness that is sometimes called for. However, once the stone is safely at the bank, we can let people know it has been found. I suspect his desire to comfort me will end abruptly once that happens.

  “You know, I should never complain. Heaven knows I have been very lucky in this world. But I feel you and I…we have gotten close, Molly. I will tell you that the financial picture of the Fleuray family…it is not what you might think to look at the Château. I am not claiming poverty, but at the same time…well, simply understand that the proceeds from selling this awful emerald will allow me to breathe much easier at night. Georgina and Hubert depend on me, you know, and it is a tremendous relief to be able to continue on as we have. I owe you so much, ma chérie!”

  Molly thought for a split-second that the Baroness was going to hug her—an altogether un-French impulse, though Molly would have welcomed it. But Antoinette instead reached out and shook her hand, smiling. “And I believe your portion of the sale might make a difference in your life as well?”

  “Oh Antoinette, you have no idea,” said Molly, the reality starting to sink in a bit. “Do you…not to sound greedy…but do you have any idea how much it is worth?”

  The Baroness opened her fingers again and both women looked at the jewel. She tilted her palm and cupped it, and the stone threw out dots of glittering green light. “We must admit, it is rather dazzling, is it not? I believe I remember Marcel telling me…in the neighborhood of eight million euros. Giann
i Conti—he loved Doriane very much, and he was a not a shy man when it came to spending.”

  Molly gasped. She tried to take ten percent of eight million but was so agitated that zeroes flew around in her head like confetti.

  “Not a word to anyone,” Antoinette said, giving the goat one last scratch behind the ears. “Grizou!” she called, and the dog streaked to her side. “You’re right—the last thing we want is for anyone to get the idea that La Sfortuna has been found, not until it is safe. So please—say nothing, even to your closest friends.”

  “Of course not,” answered Molly.

  They kissed cheeks and Molly took off on her scooter, swinging by Pâtisserie Bujold on the way home.

  She was rich.

  And as she struggled to wrap her mind around that delicious new development, she was also, in the back of her mind, still wondering about the Baron’s murder. Had Maron made an arrest? Was Castillac about to become ground zero for tabloid reporters and paparazzi?

  Molly ordered a big bag of almond croissants, a couple of réligiueses for good measure, and breathed not a word to Nugent about anything.

  36

  Molly spent the afternoon on a cloud. She didn’t dare call anyone or go to Chez Papa—the secret of finding La Sfortuna would be too hard to hold back. So instead she turned off her phone, ate a prodigious number of croissants, and gave Bobo an extravagant amount of petting and liver treats. The orange cat even got a saucer of cream. Molly was feeling generous to the universe and ecstatic that the ugly pressure of those bills had been lifted from her shoulders all at once. It was hard to believe it was really happening.