“I’m not even sure I’m helping,” I argued, automatically trusting him to understand. “I’ve been going back and forth about all of this since last night, trying to decide what to do.” I frowned at him. “I’m usually very decisive, but not this time.”
His gaze softened. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s likely you’re still in shock. You were closer to Monsieur Vetault than any other victim. You haven’t had much time to process all this.”
He was right. “This does feel unlike the other times.” I couldn’t believe there’d been “other times” involving me and murder. It still seemed completely unreal to me that I’d helped apprehend a killer once, much less multiple times. I guessed I was still catching up to my new reality as a chocolate whisperer and (sometime) sleuth. “Leave it to you to clarify things.”
I felt grateful for that, too. Travis might be just what I needed. All the same.... “But that’s all the more reason I can’t let you get hurt.” I felt responsible for him now. “You’re only here because of me. If something bad happened to you . . .”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I can take care of myself.”
I scoffed. “No one needs stock advice around here, Travis.”
“Don’t let the glasses fool you. I’m multifaceted.”
I wished I could believe him. I wished I could be sure that nothing bad would happen to him if he stayed in Saint-Malo.
Worryingly, though, Travis wore the same pugnacious, eager-beaver expression I’d probably sported in San Francisco at the chocolate-themed resort spa Maison LeMaître, after I’d encountered my first murder. I hadn’t taken no for an answer when it came to looking into what had really happened then. Clearly, my financial advisor felt the same way now.
All right, then. If I couldn’t make him flee to safety—and if Travis and I shared a need for answers—then our path was set.
“It’s not going to be easy,” I warned him.
“I hate easy. I live for excruciating levels of difficulty.”
“It might get scary. What I saw last night . . .”
Affected me. I didn’t have to say so. Travis knew.
He nodded. “All I ask is that you keep me in the loop.”
That seemed reasonable. I agreed. “Of course, I will.”
“About everything.” He had the audacity to grin. “Starting now and continuing indefinitely. I want to know everything.”
Everything? If Travis was expecting me to ’fess up to my voice crush, there was no way that was happening. I swore then and there to ignore whatever imaginary feelings I’d entertained about him—solely based on his voice—and behave like a grown-up.
“Fine.” I pulled over the nearest stool and sat, then patted the seat closest to it. “Here are the facts as I know them.”
I began with a brief (probably redundant) overview of my history with Philippe Vetault and closed with a moment-by-moment recounting of every awful thing that had happened last night.
Travis, to his credit, took the situation in stride. He pulled out a notebook—with a graphing grid, not lined paper—and wrote impressively legible notes as I spoke. He concentrated.
Then, “So your suspects are Hélène Vetault and the man you saw—the one who possibly attacked your mentor in the park,” he said. “The first step is finding out who that man is.”
“I was planning to go to the police station this morning.”
“I’ll do it. You’ll be visiting the chocolaterie.”
“You’ll go to the police station?” I took a mental step backward. “But I usually do that part. Danny never wanted to.”
I’d also explained about Danny’s debilitating injury—then made my financial advisor swear to never reveal I’d told him.
“Danny had good reasons to avoid the police,” Travis pointed out. We were both familiar with his shady background. “But I’ve never done jail time. I have no problem with it.”
This was going to be weird, I could tell. But . . . good, too?
“Okay. I guess that means we have a plan of action.”
“Yes, we do.” Travis flipped shut his notebook. He stood, then regarded me from his much greater height. “I’m sorry about Philippe. I wish I’d met him.” A pause. “Do you want a hug?”
I laughed. “If you’re asking that, you haven’t spent nearly enough time in France. You’re not really a Francophile yet.”
Steadfastly, Travis opened his arms. “Ask me if I care.”
His message was plain. The hug was there if I wanted it.
“I’ll pass.” I headed for the door before I could change my mind. “Thanks, but what I really need is some pain au chocolat.”
Untroubled, my keeper followed me. “I’m an almond croissant guy, myself.” His deep, sexy tone was not at all disappointed.
Didn’t he care that I’d skipped out on his comforting hug?
It didn’t matter. Feeling better already now that I had someone unequivocally on my side here in Brittany, I opened the barn atelier’s door. Everything was going to be okay. I knew it.
I stepped outside and saw Hélène Vetault a few feet away in the château’s garden, partly obscured by a hedge. It seemed she did not intend to mourn her husband at all unless her grief involved being locked in a passionate clinch with another man.
And that man? You can guess: it was Angry Bloody Hands Man.
Oh, la la la la. I definitely hadn’t seen that coming.
Panicking, I shut the door. I almost collided with Travis.
“You’d better hurry to the police station,” I said. “Because the gendarmes appear to have released Philippe’s murderer and he’s having a torrid affair with Philippe’s wife, right outside.”
Five
I parked my Citroën in a lot outside Saint-Malo’s tall city walls, then made my way into the town. It was jarring to see something as modern as a parking lot with an automated pay system within sight of an actual medieval fortification, but I didn’t have time to loll around in the brisk ocean breezes and ponder the situation too deeply. I had a chocolaterie to visit.
I headed straight for the Porte St-Vincent, the main entry into the city. It was one of the few passageways that cut into the seven-foot-thick walls encircling the centre-ville. High on its stone passage, that banner still hung in celebration of Philippe. I turned to admire it, then heaved a wistful sigh.
I hoped my mentor had seen that banner and loved it.
Forcibly shifting my attention, I studied the city walls and the stone stairs ascending to the ramparts. They would have made an excellent getaway route for Philippe’s killer last night, I couldn’t help thinking—close enough to be convenient, but high enough above the Fest-Noz to be out of sight of most onlookers—especially in the dark.
I shivered and kept going, following the narrow cobblestone streets into the heart of the old town. Here, the buildings crowded closely together, low roofed and made of pale local stone. In medieval times, they would have housed cobblers and butchers, blacksmiths and wheelwrights. Today, they offered up crêperies and sausage shops, souvenir sellers, and a few boutiques—many of them with blooming flowers planted in pots outside and all of them still tightly shuttered. Unlike America’s 24/7 retail environment, stores in France tended to observe strict opening hours—generally from late morning to late afternoon—sometimes with a closure for le déjeuner (lunch), in between. I wanted to reach La Maison des Petits Bonheurs early.
Awash in a wave of nostalgia, I strode past a familiar Gothic church with stunning rose-colored glass windows, then a very old manor house with a round tower and a slate-tiled roof. Both looked exactly the same as I remembered from my days en formation (in training) to make chocolate with Philippe Vetault. In those days, I couldn’t have known what awaited me as a chocolate whisperer, but I’d found the work fascinating anyway.
Rounding the next corner, I spied Monsieur’s chocolaterie, snugly wedged in its longtime spot between two other businesses—a magasin de confiture (jam shop) and a tea salon. Like t
he other stores and cafés I’d passed, La Maison des Petits Bonheurs had closed its shutters for the night, obscuring the windows where ordinarily I would have seen jewel-like boxes of handmade chocolates. In that space, instead, was a gash of ugly black graffiti, scrawled on the shutters in profane street French.
I couldn’t translate all of it. But I could absolutely make out the most prominent word: traître. Traitor.
Shocked, I stopped in la rue. This was not a rough quartier where “street art” was common or where petty crime was rampant. This was a peaceful, still sleepy part of town. From a distance, I could hear musicians tuning instruments for the Fest-Deiz later. Closer, two shopkeepers traded gossip as they shared deux cafés down the rue. But here at the chocolaterie, all was quiet—the better to absorb that unbelievable, hateful graffiti.
It had to have been painted there before Philippe had been killed last night. Nothing else made sense. That meant this was evidence. I dug out my cell phone and snapped a few pictures.
Had someone felt betrayed by Monsieur? It seemed impossible. Yet the proof was there in that black-painted word.
Traître. Traitor. But to whom? Or what?
“Hé, hé! Arrêtez!” Someone shouted. A man. He came at me in a torrent of angry-sounding French, but I only understood some of it. Hey, stop that! was roughly the idea. Plus some swearing.
Startled, I stepped back and lowered my phone.
Instantly, the man’s demeanor changed. He’d been shaking his fist at me, but as soon as he saw my face he lowered his arm.
He gave me an untranslatable sound of dismay, mouth agape. “Ah, Madame, excusez-moi! Je suis très désolé, mais je—”
I’m sorry. He was apologizing for shouting at me. I didn’t recognize him, but I did understand making a social gaffe.
I smiled and nodded. “Pas de problème.” No problem.
There was no lasting harm done. He’d alarmed me, that was all. I pocketed my phone, happy I’d captured enough detail that the graffiti could serve as evidence for me and the gendarmes.
Unfortunately, even though I’d responded to him in French, my nonnative accent gave me away. Thanks to my travels, I don’t (quite) sound American, but I positively don’t sound French. The man angled his head upon hearing me. He squinted as though trying to categorize me, then gave me a definitive nod.
“I am sorry, chouchou.” He rubbed his bald head, then studied me from my Converse to my eyebrows and back again. “I thought that you were someone else.” He spoke heavily accented English, but with the usual French syntax. “You have hair like hers, only it is your smile that is the much prettier one.”
His frank perusal didn’t surprise me. The French have no compunction about staring, especially when they’re French men. Neither did his flirtatious tone. Although he was dressed in baker’s whites, with an apron to shield his dark canvas pants and button-up shirt, he probably figured there was always time for friendly banter. Ordinarily, I feel the same. But today? No.
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I said. “I was surprised by this.” I pointed at the graffiti. “Do you know what happened?”
Gravely, he shook his head. “Pas du tout.” Not at all. “I was inside all night and heard nothing.” He gestured toward the chocolaterie’s upstairs window. “My mentor lets me stay here.”
My mentor. Right. Philippe would have had other trainees in the years since I’d studied chocolate-making with him. All the same, it was odd hearing someone else speak about him that way.
Monsieur was my mentor. He’d been special to me.
“I worked with Monsieur Vetault, as well,” I told him. “I’m . . .”
“Hayden Mundy Moore, the famed protégée. Je sais.” I know. “Monsieur spoke often about you.” Another flirtatious glance. “You are much prettier in person than in pictures, chouchou.”
I let that pet name pass. I had the uncomfortable feeling that’s what he called the woman he’d mistaken me for. Chouchou. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like a term of endearment.
Philippe had been right about my shaky grasp of French.
“When I was here, the upstairs was a workroom.” I supposed Philippe’s barn-turned-atelier served that purpose now. I looked past the graffiti to the window again. “You live up there?”
“It is only temporary.” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “I am Mathieu Camara. Monsieur did not mention me? Never?”
I shook my head, feeling awkward that Mathieu knew about me while I wasn’t the least bit familiar with him. “I only arrived yesterday. Monsieur and I spent all our time tasting chocolate.”
Mathieu’s face brightened. With his strong features and burly build, he wasn’t good looking—not exactly—but there’s something to be said for Gallic charm. “That seems very much like Monsieur,” he confided. “His work is an inspiration to me.”
“Me, too. Monsieur was very special.” We chatted for a few minutes about Philippe, his chocolates, his training methods, his love of a glass of red wine every afternoon. We lapsed into companionable silence. I heard a sniffle. Mathieu. Poor guy.
“We’ve lost him much too soon,” I commiserated.
Mathieu nodded, his eyes welling with tears.
He appeared to be only a few years older than me. He probably hadn’t experienced much loss. He didn’t appear to have anyone nearby to talk to, either. It seemed likely that he’d spent the night as sleeplessly as I had. I would have squeezed his hand to comfort him, but it would have been too forward.
Also, I didn’t want to encourage his frisky side.
Instead, I changed the subject. “Has the shop expanded to allow upstairs living quarters? That must be an interesting place to live.” The chocolaty smell alone would be heavenly. “I know construction is strictly controlled here, but—”
Mathieu held up his palm to stop me before I could ramble further about Saint-Malo’s (understandable) prohibition against demolition or modification of its historic buildings. To think that I’d (mentally) made fun of Travis’s dorky dining-room small talk earlier. I wasn’t much better.
Strictly controlled construction? Really, Hayden?
“Would you like to come inside?” Mathieu asked.
I laughed, relieved not to have revealed my limited understanding of the historic town’s building codes. “Yes, I would,” I told him. “That would be wonderful. I came down to the chocolaterie to see if I could help you, in fact. With orders?”
Mathieu pursed his lips and made a doubtful sound. He’d quit looking quite so sad, though, so that was a victory. “I do not think that will be necessary. Thank you for your kindness.”
“But I can help.” I followed him to the shop’s front door, unable to stop staring at that ugly graffiti. Traître. But how? “I’m pretty handy with a bucket and some cleaning rags, too.”
We both glanced at the black paint marring the shutters.
“It will not be necessary for you to help. With anything.”
“But I want to,” I assured him, studying his profile. His eyes were dark, his brow creased, his shoulders stooped. He was clearly upset about losing Monsieur. “It might be best to leave the graffiti for the police,” I remarked. “It may be evidence.”
“Les flics?” The cops? Mathieu spat a profanity. He shook his head, then thumped inside the chocolaterie, leaving me to follow. “They will do nothing!” he said with an irate wave of his arm. Clearly, he was an impassioned man. “They had Monsieur Vetault’s killer and already set him free. That is not justice.”
We had that opinion in common, then. Interesting. No wonder Mathieu Camara was feeling overwrought this morning. He was upset that Angry Bloody Hands Man had been released from jail.
That made two of us. In Mathieu’s wake, I ducked through the shop’s low doorway, then stepped fully inside. Instantly, the familiar sweet scents of chocolate and its companion flavors—vanilla, caramel, fruit, and more—tantalized me. La Maison des Petits Bonheurs was exactly as I remembered it.
Except for
Monsieur not smiling at me from the worktable near the back room, of course. I missed him.
“Then you don’t think what happened was an accident? You think Monsieur was murdered?” I transferred my gaze from the rows of colorful, ribbon-wrapped chocolate boxes stacked on a display table. Wide-eyed, I added, “And you think—”
“Hubert Bernard did it.” Mathieu snarled the name.
Exactly as I’d hoped he might when I purposely hesitated.
We’d definitely built a camaraderie now. Plus I was powered by pain au chocolat and two cups of coffee. I was on my game.
“I heard everything about what happened,” the chocolatier went on while I committed the name Hubert Bernard to memory. “I heard there was a witness who saw Monsieur Bernard holding a weapon—someone who saw him attack Monsieur! It was him with no doubt.”
I decided it would be prudent not to say I was the witness. Not if I wanted Mathieu to tell me any more. Even though he’d claimed to have spent the night at the shop, I doubted there was anyone who could corroborate that story or his innocence.
I had to be suspicious of everyone, I reminded myself, even though I liked Mathieu. Despite our rocky introduction, I felt sorry for him. It wasn’t easy to lose someone like Monsieur.
“He was forever jealous of Monsieur Vetault,” Mathieu told me, still talking about Hubert Bernard as he paced around the shop. “He’d gotten so much from Monsieur, but he wanted more.”
Sure. “He’d gotten” Philippe’s wife. “More? Like . . . ?”
Mathieu studied me, then shook his head. “This makes, for me, too much sadness to discuss it. It is done. Finished.”
Hmm. Maybe that French fatalistic streak really was real. I wanted to know what Mathieu thought about Hubert Bernard—if he agreed he was having an affair with Hélène—but I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. If I was too pushy, I’d scare him away.
Unlike l’agent Mélanie Flamant, I didn’t have a policière’s badge. I didn’t have the authority or experience that went with it. I couldn’t compel Mathieu to answer any of my questions.
“Yes, you’re right.” I decided to try another tactic. “Monsieur wouldn’t have wanted us to dwell on any of this,” I reflected. “Especially not when he and Monsieur Bernard . . . ?”
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