Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  Only a fool (or someone who wasn’t interested in looking for clues) would have bypassed an opportunity to snoop around. Quietly, I stepped inside the antiques shop. Its hushed atmosphere surrounded me, redolent of ancient metals, cleaning solvents, paint (aha!), and faintly musty fabrics. I noted every detail as I sneaked from one aisle to the next, then the next.

  I almost bumped into Charlotte Moreau. She wasn’t dead (as you might have been expecting, given the goings-on lately), but she was unaware of my presence. That’s because she was currently caught in a heated clinch with a man. I heard a moan. Whoops.

  I backtracked and stepped on a creaky floorboard. Uh-oh.

  The pair separated with a jerk. Their faces turned toward me. I saw Charlotte, rumpled and flushed. Who was with her?

  Fabrice Poyet, that rat. I saw him as plain as day.

  Shocked, I gasped. Nathalie’s fiancé was cheating on her with Charlotte Moreau? What was in the water around here, anyway? As I stared at them, Fabrice hurriedly raised his hand.

  I had the sense he was about to explain—to make an excuse or otherwise tell me that things were “different” in France when it came to relationships—but I didn’t want to stick around.

  I was too embarrassed. Too ashamed of my own naïveté.

  How could I have believed Fabrice and Nathalie were the Romeo and Juliet of French chocolate making? Their supposed epic love story was all a sham, given what I’d just stumbled into.

  Unable to muster an excuse in French, I hurried out of the shop. Maybe, I decided, I should wait outside for the meeting to begin. Maybe, I elaborated to myself, I shouldn’t have come in.

  This was what came of being early to things, I decided out on the street. When I saw Travis next, he was getting an earful.

  Fifteen

  The first thing I did when I got back to château Vetault was officially add Fabrice Poyet to my list of suspects.

  Travis seemed to think I was being unreasonable, but I didn’t care. “I know what I saw! What Fabrice and Charlotte were up to in the aisle of her antiques shop was R-rated.”

  “Really?” My financial advisor gave me a dubious look. “Maybe you’re not familiar with what film ratings comprise.”

  “Okay, fine. NC-17, then,” I relented, unable to shake the image of my friend’s deceitful fiancé locked in the arms of another woman. “They were kissing. I’m sure I saw tongue.”

  My keeper made a face. “How long did you watch them?”

  “Hardly any time at all!” Indignant, I paced my room.

  “But long enough to know that Fabrice lied afterward?”

  I already regretted telling Travis the whole story. “Yes,” I said firmly. “I don’t care how contrite he looked when he followed me out of the antiques store. Fabrice is guilty.”

  Travis’s skeptical expression eased. “Is it possible your view of this situation is . . . clouded . . . by personal experience?”

  I stopped pacing, my enjoyable view of the château’s pretty gardens ruined. I frowned at him. “You know about that?”

  “About your first fiancé?” A nod. “It’s a matter of public record,” he was quick to explain. “You’d already registered for a wedding license before . . .” Tactfully, Travis shook his head.

  I guessed he didn’t want to go into detail about my own humiliating personal experience with a duplicitous fiancé.

  I raised my head. “Hey, at least I tried again, right?”

  In fact, I’d tried twice more to believe that love could conquer all. But I still felt mortified. It was one thing to suspect Travis knew a great deal about my personal life. It was something else again to have that suspicion confirmed in person.

  “Yes, you did try again,” he agreed. “You’re nothing if not optimistic.” He lowered his voice, purposely lulling me with its sexy timbre. “That’s one of the things I like best about you.”

  His flattery almost worked. Okay, it did work. I gave in.

  “Oh, sure. Choose now to restore my faith in mankind,” I joked. It was mankind I was irked at, too. Poor Nathalie. “But your own show of integrity doesn’t change the facts. Fabrice is cheating on Nathalie with Charlotte Moreau! If he’d cheat—”

  “He told you that she came on to him,” Travis recalled. “From what I remember of her personality, that seems plausible.”

  I doubted it was her personality that made my financial advisor blush, just then. “If he’d cheat on his fiancée—especially now, when she’s grieving—I bet he’d do anything.”

  “He told you he was disentangling himself from Madame Moreau.”

  “Humph. Likely story.”

  Travis watched me pace past the fireplace, to the tall windows, then back again. He leaned on my room’s antique desk, a bespectacled and suit-wearing bastion of irksome reasonableness.

  “Are you going to tell Nathalie?” my financial advisor asked. “Fabrice did beg you not to, particularly right now.”

  Monsieur’s memorial service would be scheduled soon. We were both thinking of it. I exhaled with frustration.

  “No, I’m not telling Nathalie,” I told him. “It’s not my place. Right?” I looked to Travis for confirmation. “I mean, if you were in her shoes, would you want to know about this?”

  “Would I want to know about a supposition founded on circumstance and conjecture?” A headshake. “Probably not.”

  It was nice of him to qualify that mouthful with a probably at the end. I almost laughed, despite my disgruntled mood.

  “Maybe you do have a point about my personal views on this subject. I feel angrier than the situation strictly calls for, given that I’m not the one who’s engaged to a lying, cheating—” Brightly, I glanced up. “How do you say ‘dirtbag’ in French?”

  Travis offered a few rude suggestions. I noted each one for future use. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Fabrice is a suspect now, end of story.” I searched for a justification that didn’t depend on my own enmity toward him. “For all we know, Philippe happened upon Fabrice and Charlotte together, too. For all we know, my mentor threatened to tell Nathalie the truth, and Fabrice killed him rather than see his relationship end.”

  “Which relationship? With Charlotte? Or with Nathalie?”

  “Either one!” I said. “Aren’t Frenchmen famously adept at juggling wives and mistresses? Things are different here.”

  Travis shook his head. “You’re forgetting the Vetault-Poyet merger. I doubt Fabrice would have endangered a multimillion-euro deal. La Maison des Petits Bonheurs was worth far more with Philippe Vetault at its helm. We both know it’s true.”

  “Yes, but that’s logical.” So I could easily dismiss it.

  My keeper crossed his arms and remained silent. I could tell he thought he’d already won this debate.

  “I’m talking about a much more compelling emotional argument,” I went on. “Fabrice is entitled. He’s aristocratic—at least as much as that term can be applied to anyone these days. I doubt he’s ever been denied anything in his life, including, if he wanted, an affair with Charlotte Moreau.”

  “You’re forgetting Philippe’s own dalliances,” Travis reminded me. “It’s possible he didn’t disapprove of Fabrice’s indiscretions. It’s likely he would have never told Nathalie.”

  “But if he threatened to, and Fabrice disagreed—”

  I could already envision the whole sordid situation.

  “By stabbing him?” Travis seemed troubled. “If that’s true, then you’re in danger now, too. You realize that, don’t you? If Fabrice would kill once to maintain his secret, he might again.”

  All I realized was that I was finally convincing Travis. He was on the brink of seeing things my way. I shrugged off his ongoing concerns for my safety. “If you’re correct, that doesn’t matter, because Fabrice couldn’t have been guilty, right? He wouldn’t have endangered the merger, so, voilà. No problem.”

  I could think of several problems, actually, primarily the death of my beloved mentor. But what I nee
ded was proof.

  I still didn’t have any. All I had were suspicions and hunches—mainly about Fabrice Poyet—which only proved my earlier “last seen, last suspected” theory about myself.

  As recently as yesterday, my search for Monsieur’s killer had centered on Mathieu Camara. Travis and I had discreetly tracked the chocolatier to a hotel near the Saint-Malo city wall, where he’d taken a room. My concerns about his potential guilty flight from justice seemed unfounded. So far. But that had left a hole in my speculations about who might have killed Philippe. After this morning, Fabrice was filling it nicely.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I suggested. “Let’s do something else.” I flung my arm toward the view. “We’re here in a stunning French château, for Pete’s sake. Let’s go exploring.”

  Travis uncrossed his arms. Then he cleared his throat and crossed his arms the opposite way. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Danny would have been up for it, I grumbled to myself. My bodyguard pal was always up for anything. Especially if it involved the region’s bières et saucisses (beer and sausages).

  I was disappointed and not afraid to show it. “Chocolate, then? We can collaborate on more flavors. Your choice. Okay?”

  My financial advisor looked away. “I’m having lunch with Mélanie today. She’s knows the best place for moules frites.”

  “Fried mussels? Ugh.” I made a face. Brittany was known for fresh coastal seafood of all kinds, but I’m not a fan. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t rather have chocolate. Come on.”

  His gaze met mine. “I’m meeting Mélanie’s dog today. It’s a little poodle-terrier mix. Much smaller than Bella,” he rushed to add, piling on a smile, “but much bigger than my fish.”

  I recalled his guppies but didn’t feel like being humored.

  “You two have bonded over dogs now, then?” Inexplicably, I felt left out. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t have the canine companion I longed for. “That’s so, um, sweet. I’ve gotta go.”

  I grabbed my crossbody bag and made a run for it. There was no reason for me to feel so suddenly upset, but there it was.

  “Hey.” Travis grabbed me before I made it halfway across the room, looking endearingly concerned. “What’s the matter?”

  “Right now? Your freakish speed, Flash.” I nodded at his former position at the desk. “How did you grab me so fast?”

  Belatedly, I realized he’d grabbed me pretty hard, too.

  At the same moment, my financial advisor became cognizant of the same thing. He apologized and let me go. “I can move quickly when the situation warrants it. What’s going on?”

  I wanted to believe he genuinely cared about me, but part of me knew that Travis was technically there on business.

  I sniffled. “I guess I just miss Monsieur, that’s all.”

  That was partly it. Probably. But there was more going on.

  I suspected Travis knew it. But all he said was, “You should come to lunch with Mélanie and me. It would be fun.”

  Sure. I couldn’t wait to be someone’s third wheel. Why was everyone else always getting lucky while I investigated murders?

  “No, thanks. I’ll pass.” I searched for a plausible excuse—something that wouldn’t make it obvious how stupidly hurt I felt about Travis’s date with Mélanie. She should have been working on my mentor’s case, after all. “I’m going into town to check on Mathieu Camara, anyway. I don’t want him to get away.”

  While the local police enjoy moules frites and doggie bonding, I added silently. But I could have sworn Travis knew.

  His searching glance (probably) saw everything about me.

  Why had I never noticed before how closely my financial advisor watched me? It would have been flattering if I hadn’t known he was interested in a different brunette altogether.

  “Well, be careful,” Travis warned, doing nothing to dispel my suspicions about where his priorities lay. Danny would have insisted on going with me to a stakeout. “Watch yourself.”

  “I will,” I promised. My keeper didn’t owe me anything, I reminded myself. I was fortunate he’d come there at all.

  I couldn’t resist a final word, though. “Don’t come crying to me if you wish you’d had chocolate instead. I offered.”

  His smile flashed at me, full of certainty and charm. “I have a feeling I might get both, one right after the other.”

  Gross. I hoped he was talking about food, not women. Otherwise, Travis was doing nothing to assuage my concerns about the trustworthiness of mankind, and by mankind, I meant men.

  Specifically, the men in and around Saint-Malo that day.

  Too late, Travis looked abashed. “I meant seafood followed by chocolate,” he specified. “Just so we’re clear on that.”

  What was with him and reading my mind, anyway?

  “Still sounds like poor decision-making to me.” With a nod toward his phone, I joked, “Maybe there’s an app for that?”

  Then I gave him a cheerier wave and got myself out of there, bound for the cobblestone streets of the seaside ville.

  * * *

  Once ensconced at a bookstore across the street from Mathieu Camara’s petit hotel, I quickly learned that there was nothing more boring than extended surveillance. Not waiting in line at the DMV. Not buying fiddly billets (tickets) for the Paris métro from the RATP’s problematic machines. Not even watching paint dry. I hung around anyway, waiting for my fellow chocolatier to somehow incriminate himself in Monsieur’s murder.

  Monsieur Camara didn’t leave his hotel room once. If he was plotting anything in there, I was none the wiser for watching.

  Feeling defeated, I studied the area around the hotel. Maybe Mathieu could sneak out another way? Maybe he’d slipped past me somehow? I couldn’t cover the entryway and the alley.

  I made up my mind to check all the angles. I had to be thorough, right? Midway there, though, I heard something.

  I hurried to the other corner and peeked around the side of a bank—a branch of BNP Paribas that wouldn’t have been out of place in Paris or Lille. Across the square, three police cars had parked in front of Madame Renouf’s jam shop. Gendarmes were moving in and out of the magasin de confiture with authority.

  Uh-oh. I had a bad feeling about this. The policiers had the somber demeanor of officers who’d been called to a crime scene. Some executed a crowd control protocol; others went in and out of the shop, speaking to each other in subdued voices.

  I’d seen things like this before—things that raised goose bumps on my arms and left me sick to my stomach, just the way I was then. Without meaning to, I headed in that direction.

  I passed a few residents and nodded to them. Judging by the gendarme who’d corralled them together, they were witnesses.

  Had something happened to Clotilde Renouf?

  The jam maker hadn’t been at the small-business club meeting this morning, which had taken place despite the awkwardness that now existed between me and that (supposedly) irresistible vixen, Charlotte Moreau. At the time, I’d assumed Madame Renouf had skipped attending because I wasn’t her hero, the Alsatian jam maker. Now, though, I had to rethink everything.

  Who had been at the meeting? I pondered as I neared the barrier the policiers had erected. I reviewed the faces and names of the Bretons I’d met that morning, trying to determine if any of them stood out as dangerous. The answer? Not really.

  Curious neighboring merchants blocked my path. I excused myself and slipped past them, nearing the jam shop’s entryway. Though it, I glimpsed more officers at work but still couldn’t tell what was going on. Despite my (sometime) antipathy toward Clotilde Renouf, I was worried about her. Sure, she was a top suspect in Monsieur’s murder. Sure, she might have stabbed my mentor with a chocolate chipper. But if she was hurt somehow—

  “Clotilde Renouf is dead,” Travis said.

  He was right beside me. Huh? I turned to face him. “What?”

  “Mélanie was called to the scene while we were a
t lunch.” My financial advisor had a leash in one hand. At the other end of it was the cutest, curly-haired little white dog I’d ever seen. Evidently, Travis had been pressed into dog-sitting duty for the policière’s sweet-faced poodle-terrier mix. “One of the shop’s employees phoned the police about half an hour ago.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Clotilde is dead? Really?”

  A grave nod. “The shop was closed for the small-business club meeting. If not for one of the employees having forgotten her cell phone inside, no one would have discovered Madame Renouf until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. The employee became concerned when no one answered her knock or her phone call.”

  “I guess she really wanted her phone?” That’s how people are these days, though. Their phones are their lifelines—no pun intended. I narrowed my eyes, hoping to pinpoint which employee had found Clotilde Renouf. My keeper pointed her out as one of the people I’d seen being questioned. “What happened? Was it”—I lowered my voice and searched Travis’s face—“another murder?”

  I hoped not. My queasiness intensified. If Clotilde had been killed (partly) because I’d failed to find out who had attacked Monsieur at the Fest-Noz, how could I live with that?

  Under the circumstances, I felt sorry that I’d suspected Madame Renouf. She’d been unpleasant and hostile, but she hadn’t deserved to die. It now seemed unlikely she’d killed anyone.

  “No one is sure yet if there was foul play involved or if it was just an accident,” Travis told me. His gaze scanned the crowd—searching for Mélanie Flamant? “It looks as though Madame Renouf fell down some steep stone stairs inside her jam shop.”

  I shivered, remembering those treacherous steps. They’d felt none too safe to me when I’d been trying to escape my own tea-and-tartines rendezvous with gossipy, greedy Clotilde.

  “Fell?” I repeated. “Or was pushed?”

  My skeptical tone made Travis look at me. “Hold on, now.”

  “Hold on, why? My mentor was murdered, remember? Monsieur didn’t trip and fall backward onto that chocolate chipper all by himself.”