Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  Another intentional pause. As I’d hoped, Mathieu filled it.

  “It does not matter that Monsieur Vetault and Monsieur Bernard were friends,” he blurted. “Not even a friendship since childhood can be an answer for what happened last night. Nothing can.”

  Wow, this was easy. My sleuthing was improving.

  “So you would say . . . ?” I nudged further.

  Mathieu’s annoyed glance was his only reply. “Oui?”

  “That Monsieur Vetault was killed because . . . ?”

  He lowered his brows. “You may have been my mentor’s favorite, chouchou, but you are not mine.” His face began to crumple. More tears. “I cannot believe you speak this way.”

  Uh-oh. I’d overstepped. Maybe I wasn’t a genius sleuth after all. I’d have to try a different, subtler approach.

  “It’s only because I’m so angry at what happened to Monsieur Vetault,” I backpedaled. That much was true, anyway. “I can tell that you miss him, too, so I thought maybe you would understand how I feel. Especially about this injustice.”

  Mathieu shot me a sideways glance. A heartbeat later, he said, “I do. Faites-moi confiance. Je comprends.” Trust me, I understand. He straightened, then wiped his hands on his apron in a businesslike fashion. “You want to clean? Really?”

  “And make chocolate. Really,” I promised, mentally putting on an apron and getting to work creating. “There’s cocoa butter, cream, and sugar with my name on it in this place. Just tell me what your orders are for, and I’ll be your sous-chef.”

  Mathieu’s mouth quirked. “That would amuse Monsieur Vetault.”

  I didn’t understand. “Why is that?”

  “Because in his mind, you were no one’s sous-chef.”

  He nodded at the paneled wall behind the chocolaterie’s caisse—its checkout counter. I saw more chocolate boxes stacked on the shelves behind it, an old-fashioned till, a stack of La Maison des Petits Bonheurs business cards, and some ribbon.

  “Is that a picture of me?” Astonished, I moved closer.

  “Monsieur Vetault told everyone who came here about his protégée. He was very proud of you—of his famous chocolate whisperer.”

  I squinted at the photo—an old snap taken of me at a chocolate awards ceremony in Heidelberg. I hadn’t yet begun taking on clients, but I had conquered my competition with a multilayered torte comprising three kinds of chocolate, caramel and vanilla buttercreams, hazelnut feuilletine, espresso cake layers, a mocha drizzle, and whipped vanilla chantilly cream.

  “He asked me to search for your name on the Internet, so he could follow your work closely,” Mathieu went on. “Whenever your name was in the news, Google found it and told him. The farther you went from here, the more you were missing to Monsieur.”

  Aww. Monsieur had missed me? He’d even followed my career? Now I was going to cry. I blinked rapidly instead.

  My heart still ached for my poor lost mentor, all the same.

  “That was very kind of you,” I managed to croak. “A little bit stalker-y and borderline creepy,” I joked, “but kind.”

  Fortunately, Mathieu laughed. “I will delete if you want.”

  “No, no.” I gave a blithe wave. “Let me believe I had a fan club once, however small.” I peered at my photo. “Oh, look. This is cracked. Right here on the glass.” I pointed. “I was going to offer to autograph it for you, celebrity style, but maybe not.”

  “I will get a new frame and then you can sign.” He bustled over and took down my photo. He hugged it to his chest, looking discomfited. “This one must have fallen sometime. I fix it.”

  Something about his demeanor nagged at me. I tried to laugh it off. “You’re making me think you were stalking me.”

  His eyes flew wider. He turned away. “Jamais!” Never. “I would not. I am . . . how does one say? . . . star struck by you. I did not think that I would ever meet you! Hayden Mundy Moore, traveling the world to fix chocolates. It is a dream.”

  “It’s honestly not that glamorous,” I demurred. “It’s a lot like what you do here, actually. I make chocolates, that’s all.”

  “Oui! You ‘make chocolates’ in New York, London, Shanghai, Sao Paulo, Rome, L.A.” Mathieu broke off and shook his head at me. “Do not be modest, chouchou. You know you are talented.”

  I was embarrassed by his over-the-top praise, but I drew the line at being self-effacing. I’m proud of what I’m capable of.

  “I work very hard,” I told him. “Just like you do. You must be very good at chocolate if Monsieur was willing to train you.”

  Mathieu offered an offhanded Gallic pout. “Peut-être.”

  Maybe. “Not maybe! Definitely!” If he’d been someone I’d been consulting with or one of my chocolatiering buddies, I would have made it a point to build his confidence. “I can’t wait to see what you can do.” I looked around the shop. “What have you made? You said you didn’t go to the Fest-Noz, so you must have been busy working last night instead. Right? So let’s have it.”

  When I looked up from examining the array of chocolates in the shop’s glass-front display case, Mathieu was staring at me.

  “No, I did not attend the Fest-Noz. You are saying that, if I had gone, you believe I could have prevented what happened?”

  I’d been hoping he would volunteer an alibi. No such luck.

  “No, of course not. That’s not what I was thinking at all.”

  “I would give anything for Monsieur Vetault to be here now.” Mathieu set down the frame with my photo in it—gently, with dignity. I bet he had a light touch when rolling truffles. “He was like a father to me. I cannot believe he is gone so soon.”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur Camara.” I couldn’t politely call him by his first name until he asked me to. “Please forgive me.”

  I guessed I didn’t have my investigatory feet fully under me yet. I wanted to sleuth expertly, but solving a few murder cases (evidently) hadn’t yet given me all the skills I needed.

  I didn’t want to upset anyone. Especially not someone who had been as close—or closer—to Monsieur as I had been.

  “You’ll be fine,” I reassured Mathieu, trying to channel the comforting tone Travis always used with me. “Even without Monsieur Vetault. You can find another chocolaterie. Or start your own?”

  It occurred to me that I didn’t know what would happen to La Maison des Petits Bonheurs, now that Philippe was gone. Had he drawn up a will? Had he incorporated? His was one of the most successful small chocolateries in France, but I knew nothing about his business affairs. I did know that the choco-latierie had belonged to the Vetault family for three generations.

  Maybe Nathalie Vetault would inherit the shop?

  “Or maybe Madame Vetault will let you stay on and run the place?” I guessed, searching for more answers. “That might—”

  Be nice, I’d been about to say. But Mathieu’s rancorous look stopped me. He seemed . . . perturbed. About Nathalie? Or me?

  I have a tendency toward motor mouth when cornered. I could see where it might rub someone like Mathieu the wrong way.

  “Madame Vetault will have no more choice than I will about what happens to this place,” Mathieu informed me.

  I frowned in puzzlement. “Did Monsieur not have a will?”

  “What Monsieur Vetault had was an agreement to merge with Poyet,” Mathieu said. “You must be familiar with them, are you not?”

  Poyet? I was staggered. Everyone knew Poyet. They were big. Successful. Synonymous with fine French chocolate. Their lineup was ever changing, ground-breakingly innovative, and eagerly covered in all the leading industry media. Their logoed packaging was iconic—a collector’s item for the customers who packed their well-appointed boutiques in Paris and around the world.

  I realized I was shaking my head. “No. Poyet was Monsieur’s biggest rival. He would never have agreed to merge with them.”

  “Yet this is true.” Mathieu raised his eyebrow. “I thought you would have known, of all the people.
You are here.” His pointed look left me uneasy. What was he implying? “Did you not wonder why Monsieur Vetault was retiring? It was not because he loved chocolate any less. It was because of Poyet. And Nathalie.”

  I noticed his slip—referring to Philippe’s daughter by her first name—but I didn’t remark on it. I was too busy boggling.

  Maybe the Poyet merger had been Monsieur’s “surprise announcement”? He’d never had a chance to reveal it that night.

  “Monsieur never liked Poyet,” I protested. “They were too Parisian, too exclusive, too expensive. You must be mistaken.”

  Yet Mathieu had a point. I had been surprised at Philippe’s sudden retirement. But handing over his chocolaterie to Poyet?

  An instant later, another interpretation occurred to me. When Philippe and I had chatted about Nathalie’s grown-up life, he’d mentioned that his daughter had gotten engaged, hadn’t he?

  “Madame Vetault and Poyet? Which Poyet?” I asked.

  Like La Maison des Petits Bonheurs, Poyet was a privately held company. A family business. I was familiar with at least a few of the Poyets—by reputation, that is. The chocolate world was an insular one, full of gossip, competition, back-stabbing (usually not literally) and its own ever-changing hierarchy.

  “The youngest son, Fabrice Poyet,” Mathieu said, confirming my hunch. “He is engaged to marry Madame Vetault.”

  Just as I suspected. It was possible the wedding date had been Philippe’s surprise announcement that night. It would have been like him to turn the spotlight away from himself. Besides, my mentor had always relished a surprise—whether that meant hidden raspberries piped into a molded white chocolate seashell or eleven scrumptious ganache-filled chocolates tucked inside a box intended for a customer who’d ordered ten. He’d always been generous. Generous enough to give his legacy to Fabrice Poyet?

  If so, that would make Fabrice Poyet and Nathalie Vetault the Romeo and Juliet of the chocolate-making world, for sure. Their romance would bring together two respected chocolate dynasties and end decades’ worth of comparison and competition.

  Old world, meet new world. Till death do you part.

  Except in this case, that bit had been literal—even before the merger had taken place. Poor Monsieur. Poor Nathalie.

  “Poyet came to Saint-Malo and everything changed,” Mathieu was saying—meaning, I assumed, that everything had changed when Fabrice Poyet met and fell in love with Nathalie Vetault. “Now it will change again, except I do not know how. I had hoped that the merger with Poyet would help me to move up in the chocolate world. To grow and travel in the way that you did. But now . . .” He shook his head and gave a disheartened, “Oh la la la la.”

  I understood. Contrary to cartoons and pop culture, “oh la la” is not a racy exclamation. It’s not sexy or suggestive. It’s more akin to “oh, no!” It’s the kind of thing you’d say when you mislaid an earring . . . or lost the chance for a hoped-for promotion.

  “With Monsieur Vetault gone, maybe the merger will not happen,” Mathieu explained, all but erasing any motive he might have had for murder. “And me, I will have no chance with Poyet.”

  “Why not?” I needed to check with Travis about that merger.

  “Bof.” Mathieu made an irked face. “Poyet wants . . . different from me, that is why not.” He gestured irritably, searching for the words in English. “Poyet wants people like . . . you.”

  I felt singled out. Not favorably, either.

  “The merger might still happen.” I wasn’t sure I wanted it to. I didn’t like the idea of Philippe’s shop changing—becoming just another branch of Poyet. “A few days from now, things will probably be clearer.”

  After Philippe’s memorial. Surely Fabrice Poyet would arrive soon to support Nathalie. Maybe he would clarify business matters, too.

  “What did everyone in Saint-Malo think of Poyet taking over La Maison des Petits Bonheurs?”

  That’s how it would go down. I had to be realistic. A power player like Poyet would not kowtow to a provincial chocolatier.

  “No one knew. I overheard Monsieur Vetault discussing the merger with Monsieur Poyet one day.” Mathieu frowned at me. “I would not have listened, but . . .” A shrug. “I was to be affected. I had to know.”

  That was understandable. Philippe’s secrecy was not. Unless he expected some kind of resistance. From Mathieu? The town?

  “Of course, you listened,” I soothed. As an inveterate eavesdropper myself these days, what else could I do? I wondered if Mathieu had expected to take over La Maison des Petits Bonheurs himself someday. “Then everyone thought that Philippe was retiring simply to take a break from making chocolate?”

  Mathieu nodded. “Until now, I told no one. But it does not matter anymore.” He pulled a galvanized bucket from the shop’s back room and dropped a cleaning rag into it. “It is finished.” Another shrug. “Also, what happens here does not matter to you.”

  “Of course it matters,” I protested, feeling pinned by Mathieu’s obvious disapproval. “I cared about Monsieur.”

  I was still trying to figure out why Philippe would have kept the merger a secret. Hélène must have known, even though she appeared to run the château and B&B, not the chocolaterie. She must have been aware that changes were coming. Also, Hubert Bernard could have known, if he and Monsieur had been friends.

  Friends confided in one another, didn’t they?

  Humph. Hubert Bernard was the one who deserved the traître slur outside, I couldn’t help thinking as I glanced toward the shop’s entryway. Had Monsieur known about his wife’s affair?

  I hoped not. It would have been hurtful. I know the French are reputed to take love affairs in stride, but to what degree?

  Plainly unconvinced that I’d cared about Monsieur as much as he had, Mathieu stared forlornly into his cleaning bucket. His shoulders slumped with sorrow. Then he looked up at me.

  “Do you think truly that the graffiti is evidence?”

  I nodded. “It might be. The police need all the information they can get. If someone had a grudge against Monsieur Vetault—”

  “Half the townspeople had a grudge against him.”

  Now it was my turn to look uncertain. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Is true.” Mathieu shrugged and added soap to his bucket. “Monsieur Vetault angered people here by sponsoring the Fest-Noz.”

  Next to everything else I’d learned so far this morning, that sounded pretty inconsequential. “Sponsoring it?”

  “Oui. His banner to advertise La Maison des Petits Bonheurs was like a crime to those who believe most in la patrimoine.” Mathieu glanced up from his bucket. “You know la patrimoine?”

  I nodded. “France’s cultural heritage. Its history and values and sense of tradition.” All those things were deeply cherished here. They had been for centuries. “But how did Monsieur endanger la patrimoine just by sponsoring the festival?”

  A derisive snort. “It is obvious you are not française.”

  I waited, inhaling the chocolaty aromas inside the shop to boost my patience. It wasn’t a technique, per se, but it worked for me. There was something about chocolate that was . . . perfect.

  Mathieu finally relented. “There has been talk of sponsoring the Fest-Noz for a long time now. Every year, the shopkeepers discuss it,” he clarified. “Every year, the old-timers say no. Leave the festival as it is—as it has always been. Sponsoring means advertising. It means profiting. It means putting business interests before neighbors and friends.”

  “It means ignoring la patrimoine,” I guessed. “Tradition.”

  Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité. The motto of the Republic.

  Freedom. Equality. Brotherhood. That was France.

  At Mathieu’s nod, I still felt skeptical. “All that opposition, just because Monsieur Vetault wanted to celebrate his chocolaterie one last time before it became part of Poyet?”

  Monsieur had placed that banner I’d seen, I realized belatedly. It hadn’t bee
n a display of congratulations from his friends and neighbors. It had been—to them—an act of defiance.

  Mathieu gave me an impatient look. “Everyone agreed not to sponsor the Fest-Noz. Then Monsieur Vetault made his banner anyway. Doing so gave him an unfair advantage over all the others.”

  His tone suggested I should understand. “Who agreed?”

  “Everyone. The shopkeepers. There is a club for them, where they meet and make decisions like this one. It is private.”

  That had been my next question. “How did you know I—”

  “Outsiders are nosy. Pushy. They do not understand.”

  I probably did seem pushy, given all my questions. But Mathieu had seemed to need to talk to someone. Aside from which, he made that pronouncement so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t take offense. “In some places, that’s just typical behavior.”

  “Ah, but you are not ‘some places.’ You are in Saint-Malo.”

  I was beginning to wish I wasn’t. “Who runs this club?”

  But Mathieu wasn’t prepared to disclose any more. “That is none of your business, chouchou.” He hefted his bucket. “Now it is time to clean the graffiti before anyone else sees it. It is a cowardly, shameful attack on Monsieur Vetault. I am to remove it.”

  It had crossed my mind that maybe Mathieu had scrawled that graffiti on the shutters. After all, he’d been there alone when most people had been away at the Fest-Noz. But he seemed genuinely distressed as I followed him outside to confront it.

  We both frowned at it. “The police need to see this,” I argued. Believe me, the irony wasn’t lost on me. I, Hayden Mundy Moore, was actually championing going to the authorities first. This time, it made sense. “This graffiti is evidence.”

  It was evidence, at least, that a lot of shopkeepers in town had been angry with Monsieur. To someone, he was a traître.

  That term made a lot more sense now that I had been reminded of la patrimoine and was aware of the antisponsorship agreement that had been in place among the local merchants.