“But Madame Renouf might have. She was middle-aged and none too spry. Those stairs were old and poorly lit. It may have been hours between when she fell and when she was discovered. It’s not inconceivable that she could have died during that time.”
“Wait a minute—did you just say ‘poorly lit’?” As far as I knew, he hadn’t visited the shop. “You’ve seen the stairs?”
Travis hesitated. Then, “Mélanie and I were very close by at the moules frites restaurant. We were first here.” He bent to give the dog a reassuring pat. “I might not have heard Mélanie telling me to stay outside with Fleur. I saw the stairs and—”
The body. I didn’t want him to have to say it. It was horrible enough that my keeper had witnessed it at all. Leaving aside the matter of his “might not have heard” comment—and all it implied about his burgeoning stealthiness—he still looked pale to me. On a closer look, his hand shook on Fleur’s leash.
Poor Travis. There was only one thing to do. I opened my arms, stepped closer, and hugged him. I wanted to comfort him.
Take it from me—it’s not easy witnessing a crime scene. It’s the kind of thing that sticks with you. My financial advisor—my friend—appeared pretty stoic, but he was shaken.
The way his formerly rigid posture softened as I held him told me everything. Our hug only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough for me to remember that Travis was human. No matter how precise, brilliant, or annoyingly perfect he might seem to be, he was just as prone to fear and pain as anyone.
He felt like granite in my arms. I ended the hug and took a step back. “Wow, the city wall has nothing on you,” I said in my most cheerful, mood-bolstering voice. “Do you work out or what?”
He laughed, and everything was back to normal—everything, that was, except my perception of him. We were buddies now.
“I do what I can. I don’t want Danny to get the jump on me.” Travis regarded me with equability. “Sometimes I get the sense that your bodyguard bears me some serious ill will.”
Danny. I had to call him. He needed to know about Clotilde Renouf. At this point, I doubted her death had been accidental.
“Don’t worry. It’s unlikely the situation will devolve into out-and-out brawling,” I reassured Travis. I eyed his suit-wearing self, feeling impressed. He was more than brains—he was brawn, too. “But if it does, I think you’ll hold your own.”
“In a fair fight?” My financial advisor’s face suggested that wasn’t what he expected from Danny. “Absolutely, I would.”
Despite our banter, both of us were drawn back to the jam shop and what was going on inside. I felt hideously aware that one more person’s life had ended prematurely. But how? Why?
Quietly, I offered up some conjecture. “You know, Madame Renouf’s death probably nullifies her claim on Monsieur’s shop. I mean, her mother could still argue that she had a verbal agreement for the real estate, but Clotilde seemed like the one who was keen to get a hold of Philippe’s chocolaterie.”
“The elder Madame Renouf is eighty-two and has suffered from mental decline for years,” Travis said. “It’s safe to say that the issue of who gets your mentor’s chocolaterie is closed.”
“Except for Poyet, of course.”
“Of course. The merger is still up in the air.”
I stepped closer to be sure we wouldn’t be overheard. Cute little Fleur made a nice excuse for my movement. Aw. She was so fluffy! “Then who would benefit from Clotilde’s death?”
“Hélène Vetault.” Travis’s reply was instantaneous. “Philippe’s will leaves everything to her and Nathalie unless there are opposing claims, like the one Clotilde Renouf made.”
“Or Hubert Bernard?” I could easily imagine him sneaking into the jam shop and pushing Clotilde Renouf to her demise.
“No.” Travis shook his head. “He’s part owner of the château, but Hubert has nothing to do with La Maison des Petits Bonheurs or its valuable real estate. Presumably, he has no motive to attack Madame Renouf, except on Hélène’s behalf.”
Travis was consistent, I’d give him that.
“Unless Clotilde saw Hubert kill Philippe,” I surmised. “If she was a witness, Hubert would have wanted her out of the way.”
“If Madame Renouf saw anything, she didn’t tell the police.”
“Hmmph. Did the police ask?” I inquired pointedly, still irked at the gendarmes’ slow investigation of Monsieur’s death.
“Of course, they did.” Travis straightened, leaving leashed Fleur wiggling for more of his attention. His superserious expression leveled me. “Mélanie is conducting a reasonable investigation. I won’t listen to any more complaints that the police aren’t doing enough to solve your mentor’s murder.”
Whoa. I raised my palms. “Sorry. I’m not an insider like you are. I can only report on what I see, and that’s not—”
Enough. The sight of two officers emerging from the jam shop with a wooden crate carried between them stopped me cold. I recognized what was in that crate. First, Monsieur’s Fest-Noz banner—the one that redheaded Clotilde Renouf had ripped down so unceremoniously a few days ago. Second, several cans of paint.
Black paint. Paint that might have spelled out traître.
I was still reeling at the implications of that when Mélanie Flamant emerged in the officers’ wake.
She saw Travis and me, standing there with Fleur the dog, and headed straight over to us. She was dressed for duty in her gendarme uniform, reminding me (belatedly) that I’d seen her leaving Clotilde Renouf’s jam shop yesterday, when I’d had my girls’ day out with Nathalie and Capucine. That must have been when Mélanie had questioned the jam maker. Her uniform also let me know that Mélanie’s moules frites lunch with Travis hadn’t exactly been a hot-and-heavy date. Maybe they were . . . friends?
Inconclusively, they greeted each other with les bises. When everyone kissed in France, how was I supposed to know what was really going on between my keeper and the policière?
Mélanie thanked Travis for looking after petite Fleur. Then she turned to me, her gaze somber and clear beneath the brim of her white knit hat. It was an unorthodox addition to her official uniform but an understandable one, given the weather.
I smiled, finally understanding something Travis had said.
“Nice hat,” he’d told me when he’d seen my new one. “I think I saw one just like that someplace. Looks better on you, though.”
I couldn’t gloat about my triumph in the hat-wearing arena, though. Because beneath her clear and intelligent eyes, Mélanie Flamant sported a black eye and a bruised cheek. She’d taken stitches to her jaw, which was lumpy and frighteningly purple. She walked with noticeable caution, too. She was injured elsewhere, I guessed, either her ribs or her shoulder.
Maybe both. “What in the world happened to you?” I blurted out.
The policière and Travis shared a knowing look. I couldn’t believe either of them was being so lackadaisical about this.
I gave my financial advisor a disapproving smack to his arm. “You might have told me about this first,” I said.
“Madame Renouf’s condition was more serious,” he informed me.
Well. That calmed me down. But I still shook my head at Mélanie Flamant in bewilderment. “Are you all right?”
“I will be fine,” she said. “I am tougher than I look.”
Studying her, I didn’t doubt it. I was awestruck by her fortitude. Also, disturbed by the injuries she’d suffered.
Was this the kind of “nastiness” Nathalie had been talking about when she’d explained that Mélanie had been harassed at work? If so, it was much more serious than I’d envisioned.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you.” I looked around for a bench. “Maybe you should sit down. Would chocolate help?”
Mélanie gave Travis another meaningful look. “You were right. She is exactly as forthright and pushy as you said.”
Pushy? “Hey! I’m only trying to help,” I protested.
<
br /> “I know. Me, too.” Mélanie smiled, then sobered again. “This is what Travis has made me see about you. This is why, well . . .”
She hesitated. So I jumped in. “Whatever you need.”
“Maybe it is time that we joined forces,” the policière suggested. “I suspect that if we share information together—”
“Yes! I’ll do it.” How could I not? If it helped bring Monsieur’s killer to justice, I was in. I glanced at her knit cap again. “How could I say no? We’re hat twins. Let’s go.”
Sixteen
I didn’t tell Danny everything Mélanie Flamant confided in me that afternoon about her investigation into Philippe’s murder. After all, the policière had told me those details in confidence. I was honor bound not to betray her trust—exactly the way, it turned out, that Travis had been, a time or two.
But when my muscle-bound pal and I had our usual phone debriefing that evening, I did remember to ask how he was doing, spurred by my recollections of Mélanie’s awful injuries.
I’d been checking with Danny daily until now, naturally. But today, my inquiries about his condition held new concern.
“What’s the status of the eyeball situation?” I strived for a carefree tone, despite my worry. It was unsettling to know that Danny—always so strong, competent, and helpful—was just as mortal as Travis was. He could be hurt, too, even if I didn’t remember another time when he had been. “Did you intimidate your retina into reattaching yet?” I pressed with a smile. “Are you a medical miracle now? Is your doctor suitably impressed?”
My buddy’s laughter traveled reassuringly over the line.
“I’ve always been a quick healer,” he told me. “I’d rather be there, though.” With you, his warm tone added. “What’s up?”
I heard him loud and clear. Danny didn’t want to discuss his (temporary) frailty. Okay, then. I could go along with that.
“Betrayal. Infidelity. Murder. You know, the usual.”
His tone sharpened. “There was another murder?”
He swore. It was a good thing I didn’t have him on speaker phone—and Travis wasn’t in my château room—because none of what Danny said about my financial advisor’s inability to protect me was flattering. It wasn’t even printable. Danny was mad.
I knew that was partly because he felt helpless. So I let him blow off steam, then said, “Let’s go back to the betrayal.”
I wanted his take on the Fabrice-Charlotte-Nathalie situation. I didn’t know anyone who more effortlessly “pulled” (as the Brits would say) in the dating department than Danny. He had no ties at the moment, but he had in the past—and in most things, my bodyguard buddy was as cynical as they came. Surely he’d agree with me that Fabrice was a cheating, lying rat.
“Nah, if he told you Charlotte came on to him, maybe he’s telling the truth,” Danny said when I’d finished relating the morning’s sleazy situation. “Why would he bother lying to you? Just because the guy looks guilty, doesn’t mean he is.”
“He’d lie to me because I might tell Nathalie.”
“If he’s that skilled a liar, he could handle that,” my (onetime) conniving friend pointed out. “He could easily cajole Nathalie into forgetting one minor indiscretion. Frankly, the person most likely to overlook his cheating is his girlfriend.”
No way. I shook my head. “That can’t be true!”
I sensed his answering shrug. “The wronged woman rarely wants to know the truth. If I were you, I’d stay out of it.”
I humphed. “You’re just saying that because you’re a man.”
“Yes?” His tone had turned silky. Dangerously so. “And?”
“And you’ve probably cheated on dozens of women.” I paced anew, just as I had when confronting Travis earlier. Outside in the château’s jardin, guests were strolling the paths. It was the B&B’s usual wine hour, when everyone tried regional vins. “So of course you’d side with Fabrice here. It’s only natural.”
Silence. Then, “Sure you don’t want to rethink that?”
I’d been too direct. I backpedaled. “You’re right. I’m not aware of any times when you were personally a lying dirtbag.”
“That’s because there aren’t any.” He sounded testy.
“But just in general, men are prone to cheating, right?”
“If I said something that nasty about women ‘in general,’ you’d tar and feather me.” Danny seemed to be holding his temper in check. “Are you sure this isn’t personal for you?”
Great. He’d chosen the same tactic Travis had—to throw my checkered romantic past in my face. Why wouldn’t anyone share my indignation? I was only upset on Nathalie’s behalf. She was nice. She had enough to deal with after losing her father.
I said as much to Danny. He actually gave a wry chuckle.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” He paused. “Just out of curiosity, what did Harvard have to say about all this?”
It figured. I’d inadvertently stumbled upon something Danny and Travis could both agree upon: that men weren’t inescapably predisposed to sleeping around with anyone wearing a skirt.
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s talk about Mathieu Camara.”
Another chuckle. “I get it. The Human Calculator and I do agree on something. Huh. Interesting.” My longtime friend lowered his voice. “Be sure to tell him that. Take pictures. I want to see Harvard’s expression when you tell him we agree.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. Anyway . . .” I told Danny how Mathieu had denied using the chocolate chipper—how he’d reacted to La Maison des Petits Bonheurs’ closing. “You can’t really blame him,” I mused. “I mean, Mathieu did live above the chocolaterie.”
It was a common arrangement, especially in the old town.
“Now he’s out a job and a place to live,” I explained. “It’s understandable he’d be bitter. I thought he’d leave town, but so far, he hasn’t.” I told Danny about Mathieu’s hotel standoff. “I’m convinced he’s just trying to throw me off his trail. It would make the most sense to leave, so he’s not.”
“He can’t leave. He’s on parole.”
Oh yeah. I’d forgotten about that relevant detail. But I wasn’t done yet. “Did I tell you what he said about women?”
“I can’t wait to hear,” Danny said drily.
I decided to overlook his sarcasm in favor of relating my encounter with Mathieu from a few days ago, when the chocolatier had made that snide comment about women being bad at business.
“He made a generalization based on gender?” Danny asked when I’d finished. “No way! Nobody ever does that anymore.”
Whoops. “Fine. I get your point. Not all men are cheaters. But women definitely aren’t hopeless at business—not by a long shot.” I still resented that comment. “I got the last word, though. I told Mathieu that Monsieur hadn’t agreed with him.”
I summed up the situation, ending with a fiery reenactment of my comeback: “In the coming days, I think you’ll see that!”
I couldn’t help feeling proud of my passionate defense of my mentor’s views. I still expected them to be validated by Philippe posthumously granting control of La Maison des Petits Bonheurs to Nathalie or Hélène. But I didn’t exactly get the “you go, girl!” applause that I wanted from Danny. On the phone, across two continents and an ocean, my security expert friend was quiet. Then he came at me with something I hadn’t expected.
“You know, that might have sounded like a threat.”
“A threat? From me? I was just setting Mathieu straight,” I disagreed. “I couldn’t stand that he thought Monsieur was an antiwoman bigot—someone who might have agreed with him.”
Danny didn’t comment on that, but he did muse further about the state of affairs at the chocolaterie. “It’s possible Mathieu would have been out of work anyway. Maybe Poyet bought your mentor’s chocolate shop purposely to close it down. Have you thought of that? Those bigtime CEOs love shutting down a competitor by buying them out. No muss, no fuss, clean hands.�
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“It wasn’t a buyout,” I argued. “It was a merger.”
“Says the guy who stood to lose his job when Poyet cleaned shop. The first thing anyone does when taking over is bring in their own people—people they trust. Unless he’s more of a bozo than you described, I’m guessing Mathieu Camara knew that.”
I was still boggling over my bodyguard’s foray into the business world. “He never said anything about any of that.”
“Why would he?” Danny came back at me. “You’re his rival. He’d rather die than look weak, especially in front of you.”
I shuddered. Another person dying was an all-too-real possibility. “Let’s not get carried away with hyperbole.”
But Danny wasn’t finished yet. “I know you’re the sunshine and rainbows type, but we have to be realistic here. To Mathieu Camara, you were public enemy number one. You still are. Not counting Philippe, since he’s out of the picture now. Just you.”
I disagreed. It was no use. My buddy was on a roll.
“You were Philippe’s favorite trainee—his golden girl,” he reminded me. “You were the one he couldn’t stop raving about.”
I remembered the picture Monsieur had hung of me in his shop—the one with the cracked glass. “I suppose, for Mathieu, that could be hard to take. But he seemed to like me at first.”
“Sure, he did. He wanted to save face. But trust me—to him, you were the competition. He wanted to annihilate you.”
“Wow, competitive much? I’m worried for Travis now.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” Danny said. “Mostly. The point is, you only know your side of the story. Maybe, while you were busy trying to wow Mathieu with your Easter chocolates and your knack for making friends, he was realizing he’d been replaced.”
“By me?” I laughed. “I already told you—I turned down Fabrice’s job offer. I can’t stay in Saint-Malo. You know that.”
For once, he didn’t lapse into a tirade about my trust fund. “It’s months too soon for Easter chocolates,” he reminded me. “For all Mathieu knew, you’d already started taking over. You’d already started making plans for the big-money season.”
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