In it, Clotilde had confessed that, like Jeannette, she’d also seen Fabrice Poyet in Saint-Malo a full day before he’d claimed to be there. Those were twenty-four critical hours. They were the difference between my mentor’s future son-in-law having arrived after Philippe’s death or (incriminatingly) before it.
But Clotilde hadn’t admitted as much the first time she’d been questioned by the police. It hadn’t been until Mélanie had returned, doggedly certain that the jam maker had more to reveal, that Clotilde had described seeing Fabrice headed for the Fest-Noz. She’d known exactly when it had been, because she’d been returning to her shop after having scrawled graffiti on the shutters of cute little La Maison des Petits Bonheurs.
That’s right. Disagreeable Clotilde Renouf had resented my mentor enough to paint traître slurs on his chocolaterie. Her bitterness had placed her in a unique position to notice Fabrice. The possibility that he’d killed her because of it had crossed my mind. So far, Mélanie believed Clotilde’s death had been accidental, likely caused by a heart attack and fall.
It was all laid out in black and white. All that remained was stopping Fabrice before he got away—something he’d plainly been preparing to do earlier. We couldn’t wait any longer.
“We’ve got to make a move,” I told Travis as I headed for my château room’s door. “I can’t wait here while he escapes.”
“No.” My financial advisor trailed me. His hand reached the chair just as I prepared to yank it from under the doorknob. It felt, all at once, comically ineffective. “Hayden, you can’t.”
“I have to!” I felt tears welling again and blinked them back. This was not the time. I had to be strong. “He killed Philippe! I can’t just let him get away with it.”
I pulled on the chair. It came away much too easily.
I blinked. Travis had let go in favor of calling Mélanie again. Ever sensible, he held up his palm for me to wait.
Danny would have done this my way, I knew. He would have slowed down Fabrice wrong-side-of-the-tracks style, if he had to—with his bare hands. My bodyguard was hard-hitting that way.
I, unfortunately, didn’t have the option of brute strength.
In the few seconds that elapsed, I thought I might lose my mind. I trusted Travis, but sitting tight? Now? It was too much.
This time, though, my keeper got a hold of the policière. I could tell from my side of their hurried conversation that Mélanie and her fellow gendarmes were finally on their way.
“If it’s too late, I’ll never forgive myself,” I worried.
“It won’t be too late.” For some reason, Travis looked as though he’d slipped an extra ace up his sleeve. “I did hear you, you know, about your reservations about Fabrice’s character.”
“Yeah?” I was chomping at the bit. “And?”
“And that’s why I parked right behind his rental car,” my financial advisor said. “I mean, right behind him in that small lot. I boxed him in but good. If Fabrice thinks he’s driving away without a fuss, somehow taking that unwieldy multimillion-euro painting with him, then he’d better think again.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Travis! You were finally sneaky!” I could have kissed him for it, too. “That’s good. It gives me just enough time to slow down Fabrice until the police get here.” I set down the chair and opened the door. “Let’s go.”
Twenty
If you’re thinking that delaying a known murderer is somehow easy, then I’m not sure how you’re defining easy. Because it’s not. Before confronting Fabrice Poyet, I first had to get my mind right. It wouldn’t do to come face-to-face with the man who’d cold-bloodedly stabbed my cherished, gray-haired Philippe Vetault and then crumple to bits in a torrent of tears.
With me, that was always a possibility. I’m notoriously soft-hearted—or at least that’s what I’ve been told.
That evening, though, as I prowled the hallways of château Vetault, nearing the room where I’d last glimpsed arrogant, ruthless, unforgivably greedy Fabrice Poyet, I felt downright relentless. You know, eventually. It took me a few minutes to move past my understandable fear (he was a murderer) and find the strength to purposely go looking for him (possibly foolishly).
As it happened, though, in the end, Fabrice made himself perfectly, conveniently, and audibly obvious to me. That’s because he was doing the one thing most patently Fabrice Poyet (short of homicide): having a temper tantrum at Hélène Vetault.
When I reached the bottom of the sweeping stone staircase, Nathalie’s fiancé was shrieking in French at Monsieur’s widow.
The sight of him mistreating Hélène made my blood boil.
I strode straight to Fabrice and shoved him.“Hé! Laissez la tranquille! Que faites-vous? Quel est votre problème?”
Basically (in order), hey, leave her alone! What are you doing? What’s your problem? Imagine that said in the most hostile tone a chocolate whisperer could muster, and you had it.
Conveniently, my understanding of French was okay for the moment. I guessed fury, fear, and fortitude were good for my multilingual aspirations. I was determined not to back down.
I used my newly excellent français to address Hélène, asking if she was all right. She waved off my concern, her gaze fixed fearfully on Fabrice. If I guessed correctly, he’d finally run out of patience with her. He wanted that painting. Now.
I faced him again, trying to seem as though I’d simply stumbled upon his argument with the châtelaine and didn’t approve of his rough behavior. “Vous n’avez aucun droit.”
I’d accused him of having no right to behave the way he had. I was trembling, though. I hoped Fabrice couldn’t see.
He blew out his cheeks with characteristic impatience.
“Leave us.” His distinct, clipped English included me and Travis, right behind me. “This does not concern you. Go away.”
Fabrice flicked his hand as though we were bothersome pests. Even if I hadn’t known he was a murderer, that would have incensed me. I straightened to my full height and squared off.
There was a patented antimugger move coming from me to him any second now. I knew it was effective. I was aching to use it.
I’d used it for the first time in Barcelona. I could vouch for its ability—if used correctly—to drop an attacker cold. At this point, Danny and I had even developed a shorthand for it.
But my dependable bodyguard pal wasn’t there. Travis was.
He stepped forward, hands out in a peacekeeping gesture. Whatever he said to Fabrice Poyet (in French, naturally) made the murdering dirtbag pause. He gave me a calculating look.
I’d thought we were making progress. I’d planned to corner Fabrice someplace far from Hélène Vetault. I’d hoped to delay him long enough for Mélanie and the gendarmes to arrive. If that failed, my backup plan involved one of the château’s heavy iron candelabras, my no-weakling luggage-lifting arm, and Fabrice’s skull. I’m not talking murder . . . just a robust delay.
But that’s when the château’s grand front door burst open. In spilled Capucine Roux, her Parisian film crew, and Lucas Lefebvre, their arrival an unwitting reenactment of the day I’d arrived in Brittany to celebrate Monsieur’s retirement fête.
I wished with all my might that I could return there.
“Madame Roux! Madame Roux!” Hélène appeared relieved. She rushed over to the cool indie director and spoke to her in French. They conferred a few minutes. Then my mentor’s widow turned back.
“Madame Roux knows where the painting is,” Hélène told Fabrice, her voice full of heartrending mingled fear and relief. “She saw it a few days ago, while looking for set dressing. She will take you to it, right this minute. Do not worry.”
I was so hyped up that it took me a few seconds to realize that she’d spoken in English, not French. There was no time to puzzle out why. An obviously innocent Capucine was already coming nearer, her pretty face full of sincere helpfulness.
All I knew was that I didn’t hear sirens outside yet.
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If Fabrice got what he’d been waiting for, he’d leave. For all we knew, he’d already discovered (and dealt with) the parking-lot trap Travis had devised to slow him down.
Now what? While the Parisians gave Capucine a hard time about “working” instead of doing more partying with them, Hélène edged closer to me. The châtelaine’s gaze focused on mine.
The startling thing was, her eyes looked absolutely clear.
“My husband always said you were clever,” Hélène said in an undertone. “I hope that you will show it now. For his sake.”
I was too astonished by her apparently instantaneous return to sanity and soberness that I could only gape. Had Hélène been pretending all this time? Could she have been sleuthing, too?
If so, she deserved a César—the French version of an Oscar.
“Painting?” I repeated brightly. I strode forward. “Do you mean the Caravaggio?” I asked Fabrice. “I saw it this morning.”
While Travis shook his head at me—I guessed there was no repressing his natural sense of caution—I gave Monsieur Poyet a laugh.
“You should have said that’s what you wanted,” I told him in my breeziest, most upper-crust tone. Didn’t know I had one? Hey, I’ve traveled the whole world, remember? I can be posh when I have to be. Just then, I did. “I’m more partial to abstract art, myself. Delaunay, Mondrian, Léger . . . anything nonfigurative. I mean, a trust fund is incomplete without investments. I might as well enjoy what I’m looking at while I’m parking my money.”
Fabrice frowned at me. I think he was surprised.
I’m no slouch when it comes to fine arts, either. I just don’t enjoy making judgments about someone else’s creativity.
Isn’t that what most conversations about art come down to?
“But I suppose radical naturalism has its admirers, like you,” I went on. I was pretty sure Travis was gawking at me now. I was happy I’d boned up on art-world lingo before visiting Madame Moreau’s antiques shop. “I’ll show you where the painting is. While I do that, you might be interested in my consulting work.”
I glanced backward at Travis, hoping his mind-reading skills were up to snuff. He’d always been able to guess what I was thinking. Right now, I was thinking my financial advisor would need to lead the police to me and Fabrice pretty soon.
I took Fabrice’s arm, forcibly encouraging him to come with me while I chatted on about my in-demand skills as a chocolate expert. Thanks to Danny and his recent praise of my work (as compared with Mathieu Camara’s, at least), my assets were right on the tip of my tongue. I wanted Fabrice Poyet to believe that, aside from being an art-collecting dilettante (just his kind of person), I was also a scheming self-promoter who would stop at nothing to secure a new chocolate-whisperer consultation.
“Especially with an esteemed, successful company like Poyet,” I gushed as we ascended the stairs to the attic.
In spite of everything, Fabrice seemed just self-serving enough to listen to me. Touching him made me feel queasy, and leaving behind Travis, my security blanket, doubled my sense of doom. What if Fabrice strangled me at the top of the stairs?
What if he copied my candelabra idea and brained me?
My knees felt like jelly as we reached the ornate stone landing. Below us in the entryway, the Parisians headed en masse to the château’s dining room, apparently in the mood for a meal.
I imagined Hélène and Travis down there. I channeled my financial advisor’s steadying influence and somehow kept going.
Once I got started, keeping up my chocolate patter was easy, even if being in the presence of a scary murderer wasn’t. Danny always complains that I don’t like to promote my services, but that evening, I had no trouble prattling on to Fabrice Poyet about product enhancements, pioneering flavors, and strengthened profits. I thought of Monsieur’s praise of me, just days ago.
You have not lost your feel for le chocolat, Philippe had said with the gruff fondness that I’d loved in him. You were a natural talent. I gave you a direction to follow, nothing more.
I’d cared for Philippe. I still owed my mentor everything.
For his sake, I found a way to continue. We climbed higher.
“A company as old as Poyet, even one so respected, must always remain on guard against losing its edge,” I advised Fabrice. “Product lines must stay current through innovation.”
As I rattled on, I realized that I still didn’t know where the painting was. Sooner or later, Monsieur Poyet would call my bluff.
On the other hand . . . I felt a hand land on my der-rière and realized that perhaps Fabrice was interested in something else.
Ugh. It took everything I had not to recoil in disgust. My priority had to be keeping Philippe’s murderer from getting away. If that meant letting him grope me . . . well, I had renewed empathy for Charlotte Moreau and her antiques-store rendezvous.
“Monsieur Poyet! How dare you!” Playfully, I swatted away his hand. “Is this the way business is always conducted in France?”
I knew it wasn’t, but I was at a loss for banter. I couldn’t meet his unkind eyes as I tried to stay one step ahead.
He laughed. “We both know you are not interested in business.” On the next landing, he backed me into a corner. “Your friend told me what you are really interested in.”
Fabrice’s breath blasted my forehead. He was tall. His shoulders blocked my view of the staircase and the safety below.
I wished Nathalie would wander down the hall and interrupt. I also wished she wouldn’t. She was in for enough heartache when she learned her fiancé was a pitiless killer. She didn’t need to add multiple instances of creepy lecherousness to that, too.
“My friend?” Silently, I swore to give Travis the “Barcelona” treatment when I saw him next. What had he told Fabrice about me, anyway? “He wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
Whatever it was. I was getting in much too deep now.
“I am glad he did.” Philippe lowered his gaze to my (nearly nonexistent) cleavage. It was hardly shown to advantage in my T-shirt, but that didn’t discourage him. “I like a bold woman.”
“Oh, good. That’s me.” I tried to sound seductive, like Charlotte Moreau. I probably sounded as though I’d just come down with bronchitis. “I like a . . . bold man,” I said lamely.
Gross. At least we weren’t talking about the painting. If I survived, I would need a thousand showers to feel clean again.
“Unfortunately, I am in a rush this evening.” Fabrice’s harsh mouth turned down at the corners. “Perhaps you would meet me in Paris?” He mentioned a “nice” hotel on Avenue George V.
I thought I knew the hotel he was referring to. If so, rooms there started at 1,000 euros per night—and I doubted Fabrice would be content with a standard room. He didn’t need to steal a multimillion euro painting. He hadn’t needed to kill to get one, either. Remembering that strengthened my resolve.
“What about Nathalie?” I protested. “Won’t she object?”
“She will not need to know about this.” Fabrice stepped nearer and put his hand on my hip. His gaze dropped to my lips. I had the revolting sensation he was about to kiss me. “She will be busy for some time, thanks to the funeral of her father.”
At that, Monsieur Poyet actually grinned. He was loathsome.
I nearly lost my wits with rage. His despicable face swam in my vision, making me feel dizzy. “I . . . don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” he urged, looming nearer. “Say oui. Oui, oui—”
His breathy tone finally made me snap, just moments before his mouth landed on mine. “No!” I gave him a hard shove.
He reeled backward. Then he grinned again. “I like this.”
Were his eyes sparkling at me with glee? I couldn’t believe it. I dropped my pretense. “I thought you wanted the painting.”
Fabrice tilted his head. “I will get it. Very soon now.”
It was a command. When I didn’t immediately comply by taking him t
o the Caravaggio, Monsieur Poyet regarded me seriously.
I detected exactly the moment when he recognized my ruse.
His face contorted with fury. “You do not have it.”
I couldn’t pretend anymore. “I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.” Where were the policiers? Surely, enough time had elapsed for them to arrive, even via Saint-Malo’s rural roads. “It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to Monsieur and his family.”
“Bof. They did not even recognize its true value. I did.” Fabrice made a boastful digression into explaining his fine arts expertise, his overall intelligence, and his family’s status. Then he shrugged. “If Monsieur Vetault had simply given me the painting when I asked him for it, none of this would have happened.”
I trembled harder than before. “And by ‘none of this,’ you mean . . . ?” Killing Philippe. I needed him to say it. To admit it.
He gave a cruel laugh. “If you think I am confessing. . . no.” His rueful headshake dashed my hopes. “I am not so much a fool.”
“You were, though,” I shot back, knowing how dangerous it was to provoke him but unable to avoid it. I had to stick to my plan. I had to delay him. “You were seen. You left evidence.”
For a moment, uncertainty clouded Fabrice’s face.
Then, “Anyone who knew anything is dead now.”
He had to mean Clotilde Renouf. Nausea washed over me. Had he really killed the jam maker, hoping to cover his tracks?
“If anyone else comes forward, no one will believe them.”
He gave another contemptuous gesture. I realized that he was referring to Jeannette Farges—and hoped I’d convinced the housekeeper to conquer her fear and go to the police earlier.
“You’re forgetting me. I was there. I saw you,” I bluffed. It was partly true. I’d seen the footage. “Tell me,” I added in a voice that undoubtedly quaked with fear, “what would you have done if that chocolate chipper hadn’t fit inside your coat?”
Fabrice’s eyes widened. He knew I had him.
Dead and Ganache Page 26