The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 5)

by Nell Goddin

  “What was?”

  “You know anything about jealousy? You ever seen it eat somebody alive?”

  Molly nodded, thinking she might finally understand who she was talking about.

  Georgina poured boiling water into a teapot and dumped in some tea. The pause got longer and longer. Molly heard a clock chiming somewhere far away in the Château.

  “Save Nico,” said Molly quietly.

  Georgina looked up at her, biting her lip. “When I get fired, you gonna take me on out at La Baraque?”

  “Not sure I can afford to, to be honest, but I’ll make every effort to get you another job. I wish I could offer you more.”

  The housekeeper took a deep breath. “All right, all right. You’re pushy, you know that? Look, I was very young when Doriane hired me. Best thing that ever happened, you know? I was just a kid in a family barely scraping along, and all of a sudden I was flying to Paris, Gstaad, the Riviera. And Doriane was super kind to me. Taught me all kinds of things. She really wanted me to have a good life.” She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “We used to come here to the Château too, a couple of times a year. Doriane and Marcel were close. And that’s what the problem was, right there. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Antoinette hated Doriane. I mean hated her with a blinding passion. Who gets jealous of a sister, I ask you? That’s nothing but crazy. Marcel and Doriane were close, they loved each other. Nothing in the world wrong with that. But Antoinette, oh, she didn’t like it. Couldn’t stand how they would laugh together and talk about old times. Couldn’t stand how good-looking Doriane was either, if you ask me. And so, when Doriane and Gianni…when the plane went down…”

  “…their son wasn’t welcome here.”

  “That’s right. Antoinette absolutely refused to take him in.”

  Georgina got two teacups out and poured the tea. Molly was so intent on getting the story she’d been missing all this time that she drank the tea without thinking about how she detested it.

  “So what happened then? Nico was a twelve year old orphan, where did he go?”

  “The Baron begged to keep him here. The two of them went at it for weeks, let me tell you, screaming, tears, throwing lamps. In the end, little Nico was sent off to boarding school, some fancy place outside of Paris. And he barely ever came here anymore.”

  “Why in the world did Marcel allow that?”

  “What, you think I was running around listening at keyholes? I don’t know, I honestly can’t say. The Baroness can be…I don’t think you’ve seen….”

  “Intent?”

  “Something like that.” Georgina laughed. “I think I’d call her ferocious. Like a man-eating tiger. And anyway, don’t forget, there was all that money….”

  Molly put her hand to her mouth. How had she not thought of that? The Conti fortune must have been immense, even putting the emerald aside. “Nico must be worth a fortune!”

  “Ha. Should be. I can’t tell you all the ins and outs of all that. All I know is, the Contis were richer than God and Nico tends bar. Doesn’t seem like he’d be doing that job just for fun, eh?”

  “Are you saying…somehow he was cheated out of his inheritance?”

  Suddenly they heard a noise. Georgina looked past Molly at the door and the color drained out of her face. Molly turned to see Antoinette standing in the doorway, her cheeks reddened from being outside, her expression stony.

  38

  “Bonjour, Molly,” said Antoinette. “I’m rather surprised to see you again so soon. Georgina, you may leave us.”

  The housekeeper threw Molly a surreptitious look of solidarity and scurried out of the room.

  “So tell me, chérie, why you are hanging about the kitchen with my housekeeper? I believed you had a more subtle sense of social manners.”

  “Oh,” said Molly, with a fake-sounding chuckle, “Georgina and I get on quite well. I’m very interested in Italian cooking, you know. Well, any kind of cooking, really. Food. Food of almost any type—I love it all.” Her coat was over the back of a kitchen chair and she removed it and started to put it on. There was much to ask Antoinette, many holes that still needed filling in, but perhaps this wasn’t the moment.

  “Don’t speak such foolishness, it’s beneath you.” Antoinette closed the door behind her and stood in front of it. She was smiling but there was no warmth, no humor in her expression. Her plain features were lit up with some other emotion, and Molly swallowed hard, fighting off fear.

  The Baroness stood in front of the door so that there was no way to leave save shoving her out of the way. Molly took a deep breath, glanced quickly around the room, and decided to take a risk. “I did a bit of research,” she said, looking hard into Antoinette’s eyes. “And without much trouble I found Walter de la Mare.”

  Antoinette shrugged. “Third-rate poet.” She kept her eyes fixed on Molly’s.

  “Maybe so. But you quoted him the other day. When I brought you the emerald.”

  “So what? It’s nothing more than the mark of an educated person. Would you like to hear more? I have committed endless verses to memory over the years, and without too much thought I should be able to come up with something appropriate even for this awkward moment, when I came home to find my friend fraternizing with the help behind my back.”

  “You quoted lines six through eight of ‘Away’. The first four lines of the poem was in a note Marcel wrote.”

  Antoinette’s head jerked to one side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, but her voice was not so strong.

  “A note in which he writes that the emerald belongs to Nico,” Molly said simply.

  “No idea where you’re getting your information, Molly,” Antoinette said, laughing. “Nothing but fantasy and meaningless coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you knew all along that the emerald was Nico’s. You saw that note, didn’t you? Maybe you were even there when Marcel wrote it? That’s why you blurted out those lines from the poem.”

  Antoinette leaned back against the door and smiled. “Ah well, it takes the American to pull the covers back from our little family secrets, is that it? But I understand Americans quite well. I know what you all care about most of all is money. I saw how your eyes glittered when you looked at La Sfortuna, how you were calculating in your mind how much your take would be. So tell me, chérie, how much more do you require to keep your little thoughts and musings to yourself?”

  Molly was aghast. Who was this person? “How much?” she repeated, in disbelief.

  “I know I told you ten per cent before, which was tremendously generous, anyone would agree. But I would be willing to increase your share, if you make certain promises…you must realize that my family’s reputation means something. I do not want you to sully it by running about the village spreading rumors.”

  “Rumors? I’m not interested in rumor,” said Molly, pulling herself together.

  “I do not misunderstand your motives, chérie. I am many things, but stupid is not among them. I will give you twenty five per cent. That would be plenty to buy that baby you’ve always wanted, right?”

  Though her eyes got very wide and the remark hit like a cold stab in the heart, Molly pushed back. “How did it feel to shoot your husband?” she asked, taking a quick glance around to see if there was knife or anything else she could use to defend herself lying in reach.

  “It was delicious,” said Antoinette, dragging out the words, her eyes closing for a moment, and then flicking back to Molly. The Baroness reached into the roomy pocket of her barn coat.

  Molly held her breath as Antoinette drew out a pistol and pointed it at her, smiling.

  Well, the job was a goner and there was nothing to do about that, Georgina thought as she flew to the coatroom where her handbag with her cell phone hung from a peg. Probably should have left years ago and gone back to Italy, but no use thinking about that now. She had heard many troubling things o
ver the years at Château Marainte—not that she had started out as a snoop, but Antoinette tended to forget she was there, and say things over the phone that would have better been unheard.

  Georgina knew, for example, that Antoinette had bullied her husband into allowing her to manage Nico’s trust. And one way or another—Georgina didn’t know whether from outright stealing or just making a hash of it—twenty years later, the trust had dwindled to practically nothing. All that money, Georgina had thought, shaking her head as her mistress had yet another screaming fit on the phone with someone at the bank, all that money down the drain and for what? Out of spite?

  But the housekeeper did not stop to ponder the long history of what she had seen and heard, not now. She got to the coatroom, snatched her cell out of her bag, and called Maron at the station.

  “Officer Maron, it’s Georgina Locatelli at the Château. Get up here right away! The Baroness—and Molly—I’m afraid she’s going to hurt her—”

  Maron did not need to be convinced. “On my way,” he said. As he ran to his scooter, he asked Georgina a few more questions and then reassured her that he would be there in a matter of minutes.

  But she was not confident he would get there in time.

  What would Doriane tell her to do now? Probably that she must think for herself, Georgina thought ruefully. She sprinted down the corridor towards the Baron’s salon, looking for a gun.

  39

  Alexandre was lying on his bed in the west wing of the Château, looking up at the ceiling as he liked to do and trying his best to wait patiently. To amuse himself he remembered holding La Sfortuna in his hand, how it had actually been hard to catch his breath. Weeks ago the Baroness had promised him thirty per cent if he found it, and once Molly had done the work for him it had taken very little encouragement on his part for Antoinette to agree to give him twenty per cent even though he had not found it—he had reached for her arm and squeezed it a little too hard, given her a look, that was all.

  He was a master of implication, and let the Baroness’s imagination fill in the rest.

  Yet in less than an hour she had managed to leave the Château with that weasel of a son, and Alexandre was sure they had gone off to put the emerald somewhere out of his reach. Maybe hidden in the hunting lodge this time, or even a safety deposit box. He had been stupid not to take it away from her when he had the chance. If only he had found the thing first! It would be sold by now with none of these idiots any the wiser. He could be lying on a bed at the newly renovated Paris Ritz instead of waiting around this moldy Château.

  Damn aristocrats, he muttered. He knew full well that the only reason the Baron had socialized with him was financial desperation. So often these old families don’t realize they’re going broke until it’s too late—they keep living the way their grandparents did, spending like mad, not understanding that the world had changed and their bank account along with it. Alexandre’s shady deals had kept Marcel afloat for a few more years, and no one had been more grateful than the Baroness.

  Antoinette had even tried to express her gratitude in a physical way, which Alexandre shuddered at the memory of.

  Well, she would come back, eventually. And he would not make the same mistake twice.

  The Baroness seemed to relish talking, which was the only thing Molly could be grateful for, since at the moment, stalling was all she had.

  “Had you planned to kill Marcel for a long time?”

  “Not at all. Of course I hated him for years. Years! He married me for my family’s money and then barely glanced at me afterwards. You do realize that the Fleurays had the title, and this monstrous Château, but otherwise next to nothing? Oh, he was all sweetness before the marriage, believe me. But once he had two sons, I was nothing more than an unwieldly piece of furniture to him, something to trip over and curse. Not love. Never love.”

  “But…was life that bad? I mean, I’m divorced, I know what a bad marriage is like. But you had your sons, you lived in this incredible Château…”

  “When they were young, my sons were a comfort, true enough. But first boarding school, then Paris—they left home the minute they were able. And the expenses on this place ate up my family money until we are barely able to afford any help.

  “The one thing, the only constant—what I have, Molly, is my animals. My goats, my donkey, and of course, dearest Grizou. You do know that no one will ever love you like your dog? They are what have sustained me through the horrors of this life at Château Marainte. And that is what tipped the balance finally, if your small detective mind must know. The night he died, Marcel and I had dinner. He treated me politely, as he always did—but tell me, Molly, what woman wants only politeness?”

  Molly shook her head, trying to look sympathetic. She had seen a paring knife next to the sink and edged one step in that direction, trying not to stare at the small barrel of the pistol, still aimed at her chest.

  “So that night after dinner, Marcel was getting up from the table and got tangled up with the dog. Grizou likes to stick around in case a tidbit is dropped, you understand, like most dogs will if they are allowed. And Marcel half fell over, had to put a hand on the floor to right himself. I will say that what he did next was out of character. I can’t explain it, he’d never done such a thing before. But he kicked Grizou. Kicked my beautiful boy.”

  The Baroness bowed her head for a second before continuing and Molly took a step closer to the sink.

  “That night Nico came to visit Marcel, and for reasons that are not your concern, this was upsetting to me. That tawdry actress showed up as well, but I saw her leave in tears. I stood outside Marcel’s salon for some time, considering what I should do. I want to be clear that I did not act impulsively. My husband ignored me for nearly fifteen years, and then he kicked my dog, my Grizou. He deserved to be punished.

  “I knocked on his door and went in. When I saw the Holland and Holland lying on the console table, I picked it up and I shot him. And I tell you with something close to pleasure: I am not sorry for it.”

  “But what about Percival and Luc, Antoinette? Did you not hesitate to kill their father?”

  Antoinette made a bitter croak deep in her throat. “They didn’t mean half as much to me as my animals. They’ve taken off, you understand—their lives are elsewhere, I’m nothing but an annoyance to them now. Love, Molly! That’s what this is all about! Can you understand what it is like to love and not be loved back, by your husband and then your sons as well? None of them had a care for anyone but themselves.” Antoinette drew herself up and straightened her shoulders, looking intently into Molly’s eyes. “Rather like you,” she said, steadying her hand, an anticipatory smile spreading across her face.

  And then, all at once, Molly lunged backwards and grabbed the paring knife off the edge of the sink, and Antoinette fell forward as someone shoved hard on the other side of the door.

  “Maron!” said Molly, never ever so glad to see anyone in her life.

  40

  His skin was so brown he was practically unrecognizable. When he spoke to Christophe, the taxi driver at the railway station, Christophe did a double take.

  “Chief?” Christophe said, wonderingly.

  “That’s right,” said Ben Dufort. “Do I look that different?” he laughed lightly.

  “Well, yes! Very fit, I’ll say that. I heard you were hunting elephants in Malaysia.”

  “Not hunting, though I did ride some while I was there.”

  “Was it secret police business?”

  “No, as you might remember, I resigned quite a while ago.”

  “Well, I did hear that,” said Christophe. “Was hoping you’d just gone undercover or something.”

  “Afraid not. Listen, will you take me to Rémy’s? I’d like to get cleaned up and then go over to Chez Papa. Will you wait for me?”

  “Sure, Chief, whatever you say. Elephants, huh?”

  Molly spun back and forth on her stool as she told the story of Antoinette de Fleuray
to her friends at Chez Papa. “I’ll say one thing for her, Antoinette is a better actress than Esmé Ridding will ever be. I totally thought she was on the level. Not just that—I really liked her!”

  “One does sort of believe that if someone is a cold-blooded murderer, one would be able to tell somehow,” said Lawrence, swigging his Negroni. “Or perhaps we’re just flattering ourselves, and we don’t really know anything at all about each other.”

  “I too have hidden depths,” Lapin intoned, and everyone cracked up laughing.

  But Molly remained serious. “It does make you think. How can sociopaths fake feelings so well? We had some long talks, Antoinette and I, and I’m telling you, I thought she was salt of the earth! I trusted her completely.”

  “I know that stings,” said Lawrence.

  “So what tipped you off?” asked Lapin. “I mean, besides the gun pointed at you!”

  Molly glanced up at Nico behind the bar, who had been silent. He smiled warmly at her and she started to continue her story but realized she could not blab about Maron showing her the Baron’s will without getting him in trouble. “Let’s just say a poem gave her away, of all things. I’m sorry, but the details of this one are going to have to stay secret, for reasons I’m not allowed to go into, at least for now.” Molly knew she had to keep her consultation with Maron strictly private, lest he get in serious trouble.

  “Has La Sfortuna been recovered?” asked Lapin.

  “Apparently it’s at a bank in Bergerac. Maron had no trouble tracking that down at least.”

  Solemnly Lapin turned to Nico and raised his glass. “To sudden wealth,” he said, and the others lifted their glasses and repeated “to sudden wealth!” and cheered, to Nico’s discomfort.

  “I do have one nagging question, Nico,” said Molly, and for once he waited to hear it without looking like he would do anything to avoid answering.