Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  He is, her avaricious expression said. He’s gone.

  I wanted to close my eyes and cover my ears like a child. I had no desire to learn any of this about my mentor. To me, Philippe Vetault had been like a father. Like a superhero. He couldn’t be susceptible to the flaws of ordinary men. Could he?

  Seeing my expression, Clotilde burst into rusty-sounding laughter. Then she had a coughing fit. She lit a cigarette.

  “Do not look so distressed, Madame!” she scolded me, casually tapping ash from her cigarette. “This is the way of things. You Americans with your provincial attitudes ... bof!”

  Ugh. For once, I’d found a (potential) murder suspect whom I didn’t like. I could barely tolerate Clotilde Renouf. She was aggressive, greedy, (literally) pushy, and utterly insensitive.

  Somehow, I was able to keep talking. I laughed too.

  “It’s not that.” I waved away her casual description of my mentor’s infidelity—her insistence that he might have promised his family’s third-generation legacy to an outsider. “I was only wondering . . . what if Monsieur’s property doesn’t pass to you?”

  “Unthinkable.” Clotilde dragged on her cigarette while her jam shop heaved with business just above our tea and chocolate rendezvous. “Monsieur Vetault and my mother had a verbal contract for that real estate. It will belong to me. The only question is how much I will have to press to make the Vetaults agree.” She eyed me coldly. “Not too far, I think. You see, I understand what has been going on between Madame Vetault and Monsieur Bernard for years now.”

  I gulped. If Clotilde Renouf knew about Hélène and Hubert, then maybe she was right about Monsieur. I hated admitting it.

  The worst part was, I seemed to inadvertently confirm Clotilde’s theory about Hélène’s affair with her château’s gardener. It was as though the jam maker had been testing me—fishing around with her suspicions—and I’d gulped down the bait.

  Have I mentioned before that I have zero poker face?

  I’m sorry, Monsieur, I thought. I didn’t want to help the Renoufs take away Philippe’s legacy, Hélène’s memories, and Nathalie’s birthright. Not even accidentally. I tried to rally.

  “Surely none of that can be proven, though?” I asked, striving to seem approving of her. “Gossip won’t be enough.”

  “Ah, but it is not only gossip,” Clotilde assured me. I guessed I’d sold her on the idea that we were like-minded. Ugh. “You are forgetting the daughter, Madame Vetault, non?”

  I angled my head, momentarily confused. Then I got it.

  Nathalie Vetault was Hélène’s daughter with Hubert?

  Oh no. I wasn’t sure if Monsieur had known about Nathalie’s paternity. As far as I knew, Philippe had raised Nathalie as his own daughter with Hélène. But if my mentor had known the truth, it would explain a lot—especially his tolerance for his wife’s ongoing “secret” affair with the gardener they both employed.

  Clotilde laughed again. “I can see that, just like so many others in Saint-Malo, you did not know the truth.”

  “I knew Nathalie,” I argued. “She never told me anything.”

  “Why would she? These are family secrets . . . most of the time.”

  If the Vetaults wanted it to stay that way, I gathered, they would give in to the Renoufs’ demands for the chocolaterie.

  Judging by Clotilde Renouf’s smug face, she thought she’d won. What a quandary this was for the Vetaults. For Hélène.

  Maybe that’s why she’d taken to tippling whiskey in the morning to go along with her copious wine drinking at night.

  I doubted the Vetaults would want to see Philippe’s memory besmirched by a posthumous scandal. But where did Poyet fit in?

  Until I met Fabrice, Nathalie’s fiancé, I wouldn’t know.

  “You are close to the Vetaults,” Clotilde remarked. “You have known the family for a long time. If you encourage them to be reasonable about this, it would be best for everyone.”

  Sure. If everyone meant ambitious Clotilde and her mother.

  I was feeling more nauseated by the moment. Unexpectedly alarmed, I glanced at my plate. The tartine with chocolate-almond spread I’d been enjoying suddenly seemed suspicious.

  Could Clotilde have brought me down here to poison me?

  My breath caught. My heart kicked up a beat. I felt flushed. Woozy. I shoved away my plate. “I have to be going.”

  “So soon?” Madame Renouf’s face swam in my vision. “But we were getting to know one another so well. Sit! Have more tea.”

  If I did, I thought I might never make it out alive.

  I pushed upright, making the dishware and cutlery clatter on the tiny table we’d been sitting at. I apologized in French.

  I might be dying, but I didn’t want to be rude.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” I blurted. “Au revoir, Madame Renouf.”

  My passage up the jam shop’s claustrophobic stone steps felt more treacherous than it should have. My legs were wobbly. Surely the stairs weren’t that difficult to navigate? I reached the packed confiserie upstairs and stopped to get my bearings.

  Everything seemed surreally ordinary. Customers shopped. Clotilde’s assistant rang up purchases. The shouts of the shop’s kitchen staff filtered upstairs, along with clanging pots.

  I gripped my crossbody bag and veered toward the door. As I passed through it, fresh autumn air hit me in the face. Ah.

  That was better. Maybe I would be all right.

  The next thing I knew was . . . nothing. Total darkness.

  * * *

  I awakened sometime later with a jolt. My head felt fuzzy and my shoulder hurt. Ouch. I opened my eyes to see Travis.

  Right beside him was Mathieu Camara, scrutinizing me.

  Had I eaten anything at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs? I wondered abruptly. I tried to shove myself upward. In a bed?

  “Whoa, easy there.” Travis’s rough, familiar voice steadied me. So did his hand on my arm. Nice. “How do you feel?”

  “What happened?” I blinked. I was in a bed—an unfamiliar one. Unsteadily, I regarded its quilted coverlet. Its companion night table. Its white-painted matching armoire, just to the left. Above me were old-fashioned rafters, old-fashioned crown molding, and old-fashioned paneled walls. Those were the kinds of architectural details you’d find in a very old building.

  This was Mathieu’s bedroom above the chocolaterie.

  I jerked upright, then winced as my headache worsened.

  “You fainted outside the jam shop,” Travis told me.

  “You were probably weak from making complicated Pâques chocolates seven months too soon,” Mathieu added sardonically.

  Reminded of his rampant misogyny, I frowned at him.

  “I was having tea and tartines with Madame Renouf next door,” I told them both. I grabbed Travis’s suit sleeve and gave him additionally meaningful look—one that said, she poisoned me!

  My scaredy-cat eyes must have done the trick, because my financial advisor took charge of the situation. He thanked Mathieu for his help and hospitality, then returned to me.

  “You look well enough to get up now. Let’s go.”

  I got the impression that Mathieu’s antiwoman stance didn’t sit well with Travis. Or was it an anti-me stance?

  Who knew? But I remembered now that I hadn’t eaten any of Mathieu’s chocolates earlier. That implicated Clotilde Renouf.

  She’d just zoomed to the top spot on my suspects list.

  Mathieu offered token resistance to our leaving— probably due to ingrained French politesse—but he gave up quickly enough for my keeper and I to get out of there without too much fuss. On the street, Travis held my arm to keep me safely upright.

  I have to say, it felt pretty good. Ordinarily, I’m firmly in charge of what’s going on with me. I decide where I’m going, I get myself there, I take care of business once I arrive. But with Travis by my side, I felt I could relax a little bit.

  He guided me to a café table and sat me down. Solicit
ously, he ordered us both strong espressos and two slices of that fruity local specialty, Far Breton cake. Once the server had gone to fetch our order, Travis turned all his attention on me.

  The effect was swoon inducing. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “This is not funny,” he barked. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  That brought me out of my reverie. I felt instantly indignant. “I didn’t pass out on purpose, Travis.” I leaned forward so no one would overhear us. “I think Clotilde Renouf poisoned me!” I smacked my lips, searching for proof. “Her chocolate-almond spread tasted fine. It must have been the tea.”

  Travis looked dubious. “All I know is, I was leaving Antiquités Moreau, just down the street, after meeting with Charlotte Moreau, when I saw you lying in a heap over there.”

  He jutted his jaw toward the jam shop’s distant stoop.

  “Hey, at least I had the sense to collapse in public, where you could see me and come to my rescue. Thanks, by the way.”

  “Again, not funny.” He seemed beleaguered—so much so that he took off his glasses, frowned at them, then put them back on. I suspected it was a technique used to distance himself from the situation—something that might be useful when negotiating, for instance. “I realize you get hurt sometimes while doing this, but it’s one thing to hear about it. It’s another to live it.”

  “That’s what Danny says. You two should compare notes.”

  His quelling look put the kibosh on that idea. Oh, well. One of these days, I vowed, I’d convince them to get along.

  Speaking of convincing . . . I filled in Travis on everything I’d learned from Clotilde Renouf. I told him about her merciless ambition and her claim that Philippe had had a long-term affair with her mother. I described Clotilde’s knowledge of Hélène’s affair with Hubert and her assertion concerning Nathalie’s true paternity. I concluded with Clotilde’s real-estate claim on Monsieur’s property and her final suggestion that I “encourage” the Vetaults to grant her ownership of Philippe’s chocolaterie.

  “That’s a lot to take in.” Travis had been enjoying his cake and coffee while I explained what I’d learned. He did not seem entirely convinced. “I’ll look into all those claims.”

  I frowned. “Even you probably can’t access Nathalie’s parentage. Or all the implications of a ‘verbal contract.’”

  He gave me a look that said he could. Then, “How do you feel? You didn’t eat all your Far Breton, and it’s delicious.”

  His concern was touching. “I feel better. Just not hungry.”

  That was a minor miracle in itself. But then, that wasn’t a slice of yummy chocolate cake sitting in front of me, was it?

  “Do you want to see a doctor? I’ll take you right now.”

  “The time for that might have been before cake and coffee,” I joked. “Priorities, right?” At Travis’s grave expression, I sobered. “I’m not convinced I was actually poisoned,” I admitted, hoping to reassure him. “What are the odds that Clotilde Renouf routinely keeps poison on hand for visitors?”

  Travis considered it, then opened his mouth.

  Before he could quote statistics at me, I held up my palm.

  “Let’s not get paranoid, all right? Ordinarily, I’d be the first to indulge in a little drama, given the situation. That was scary! But I’m probably just overwhelmed and overtired right now, and Madame Renouf was awful. Everything suddenly got to me. Maybe I hyperventilated,” I theorized. That might explain my dizziness and fainting. “I’m investigating, I’m still grieving Monsieur, and I’m pretty much subsisting on sugar these days.”

  “We’ll get you a real dinner tonight. All the trimmings.”

  That sounded good. I smiled. “It’s a date.”

  My financial advisor looked alarmed. “It’s not a date.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not planning on forcing out Mélanie.”

  He laughed. “I told you, we’re not an item.”

  I made a skeptical face. “Does she know that?” I pressed. “Because from what you’ve said, Mélanie is into you.”

  “That’s because I’m a ‘hot guy.’” Travis knew how to give as good as he got. “I have it from reliable sources.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.” I watched as Travis paid for our fortifying snack. I stood. “Hey, look at me,” I crowed, hoping to lighten the mood between us. “I’m fully upright!”

  “Don’t let that go to your head.” My keeper took my arm for security again. “You might be convinced you weren’t poisoned, but I’m not. I’ll be keeping a close eye on you for a while.”

  “I don’t need a keeper,” I protested—maybe ill-advisedly, given that I flippantly referred to Travis that way much of the time. “I’m fine. If I start feeling faint or, you know, on the verge of death, I’ll be sure to clue you in ASAP.”

  “Still not funny,” my financial advisor informed me. “I really might have to call Danny and compare notes on handling you.”

  “Why? Can’t manage the job all by yourself?” I kidded, sorry I’d planted the idea in his mind in the first place.

  “This is too important for half measures,” Travis informed me as we walked to my parked Citroën. “You’re too important.”

  Aw. Also, this sounded a lot like the time my financial advisor and my security expert had teamed up to “protect me.” I hadn’t liked them exchanging information then. I didn’t now.

  “No worries. I’m fine! Since you went to all the trouble of carrying me up to Mathieu’s bed, I thought I’d have a cheeky nap while I was there, that’s all.” I took out my phone and dialed. “See, look—I’m calling Danny. You definitely don’t have to.”

  On the other side of the Atlantic, my bodyguard buddy picked up. “Hayden,” he growled. “Next time you decide to pal around with a convicted criminal, maybe let me know first?”

  “Huh?” Confused, I gripped my phone. “What are you talking about, Danny? I haven’t been palling around with any criminal types.” Now that you’re out of commission, I was about to say.

  He was too fast for me. “Mathieu Camara has a record.”

  Whoops. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  “Was it for graffiti?” I asked. Hey, a girl had to try.

  “Nope.” Danny wasted no time squashing my hopes. “Not even close. I think you’d better watch your back twice as hard now.”

  Hmm. And he didn’t even know about the possible poisoning yet. Things in Saint-Malo were getting rougher by the minute.

  Ten

  With the news of Mathieu’s until-now hidden history of jail time on my mind, it wasn’t easy to concentrate that evening. My head swam with suspects. Mathieu. Clotilde. Hubert. Hélène.

  How much did I really know about any of them?

  Learning about Mathieu’s criminal past had spooked me. That effect had probably been helped along by Danny’s ire, of course—my bodyguard buddy had pulled no punches when it came to the subject of Mathieu. I was too trusting, he’d said. Too gullible. Too prone to wanting to think the best of people, whether they deserved it or not. I thought that was a positive quality.

  After all, in any given murder investigation I became tangled up in, everyone except the killer eventually wound up innocent. Was I supposed to run around accusing people blindly? Maybe hurting their chances at being trusted, being employed, being accepted by everyone around them? I didn’t think so.

  Danny and Travis, however, disagreed. As much as they tended to argue between themselves, on this, they were united.

  I needed to be more suspicious, they insisted. Of everyone.

  But I’d tried that approach in London. While it had served up plenty of potential suspects for me to investigate, round-the-clock suspicion had left me feeling miserable in the end. I didn’t want to dwell on the awfulness in the world—not even while I was busy nosing around in its shadows. I cared.

  If I became as jaded as my friends wanted, I’d lose that.

  There had to be a balance. I was dete
rmined to find it. But it had been jarring to learn—contrary to my eventual impressions of him—that Philippe’s trainee chocolatier had been mixed up in a number of illegal activities a few years ago. According to Danny, Mathieu had a record involving auto theft and assault—in one instance, assault severe enough to land his victim in a banlieue hospital in suburban Paris. After the beating he’d sustained, the man had recovered, and Mathieu had gone to jail, later being released on parole before moving to Saint-Malo.

  It would have been like Monsieur to offer a troubled youth a fresh chance at life. My mentor had been generous that way. But had Mathieu repaid Philippe by stabbing him? I didn’t know.

  I couldn’t help doubting my own attentiveness and intuition—the same qualities that usually saved my butt while sleuthing. I’d liked Mathieu at first, but he’d turned out to be secretive (at best) and dangerous (at worst). I’d hoped to give Clotilde Renouf the benefit of the doubt (because grumpiness was no crime), only to learn exactly how grasping and unkind she really was. I’d felt sorry for Philippe’s widow, Hélène, who’d later given me every reason to mistrust her by sneaking around with Hubert. And as for Angry Bloody Hands Man himself? The château’s gardener (and maybe Nathalie’s biological father) had actually been fairly nice to me when we’d met in le jardin.

  At this point, I wouldn’t have been altogether surprised if Capucine Roux turned out to be fencing stolen drugs in the items she used as video set dressing, and Lucas Lefebvre revealed his secret activities as a French spy. Things just felt that crazy.

  I’d told Danny about my “probably not a poisoning” incident at the jam shop. I didn’t make it much beyond the bare details before he’d stopped me. “Put Harvard on the phone,” he’d demanded.

  I still didn’t know what my buddy said to Travis. But from where I was standing (in the parking lot outside the Saint-Malo city walls), it looked serious. Now I was in double trouble.