If she could find out more, she’d know if she was in danger or not.
Unfortunately, Pierre was the only person who could give her that information.
Cassie would have preferred to avoid Pierre altogether. The thought of speaking to him about this made her palms start to sweat.
She would need to make sure he didn’t become suspicious. She would have to ask innocent questions, while implying that she didn’t think he had been involved. If she was able to walk that tightrope without triggering his temper, then her mission would be successful.
Cassie decided she’d better look for him now, before she lost her nerve.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Although she would rather not have gone anywhere near the master bedroom, Cassie knew she had to check it, and since it was the closest place that Pierre might be, she should look there first. She headed down the corridor, hoping that Pierre was somewhere else, and that she wouldn’t have to go inside.
As soon as she rounded the corner, she saw the door was open.
Cassie approached hesitantly, realizing that this was her chance to see how thoroughly the police had examined the room.
She peeked inside, and saw to her relief that it looked exactly as she had seen it earlier. She couldn’t spot any signs of fingerprint dust. Although she’d never seen it in real life, she knew from books she’d read that it was dark gray and supposed to be very messy. There was no sign of any dark gray powder in the room, which hopefully meant the police hadn’t thought it necessary to take fingerprints at all.
Cassie wondered if the open door meant Pierre might be in the study. She called his name softly, but there was no response.
She had already turned away when a sound stopped her in her tracks.
It was the loud, persistent peal of the telephone.
The phone rang and rang. Three rings, four, five.
There must be an answering machine, Cassie thought, or another phone elsewhere in the house, which would be answered at any moment.
Even so, she found herself tiptoeing into the bedroom, across the ornate carpet, and into the study.
It could be Detective Granger, calling to warn her about something. It could even be Zane, continuing to harass her.
The thought of Zane gave her the courage to pick up the phone.
“Hello,” she said hesitantly.
There was a short silence and then a man’s voice spoke.
“Margot?” he said. “Is that Margot?”
Spooked by hearing the name, Cassie nearly dropped the phone.
“No!”
The word came out louder than she’d meant. She paused, wondering what to say next, and how to break the news to this caller.
“She’s—”
Cassie was going to tell him, “She’s dead.”
But as she started to speak, there was a click, and the caller disconnected.
Cassie replaced the phone carefully on its stand and left Pierre’s study, wondering who could have been calling, and why. She had meant to say more after she’d gotten over the shock of hearing him ask for Margot, but the man hadn’t given her the chance to say anything at all.
He’d obviously not known Margot had died. The police would have notified her family by now, so it must have been someone else. Margot’s hairdresser, her jeweler, her fashion designer? Ideas, limited by her basic knowledge of the blonde woman, flitted through her mind but she rejected them all for the same reason—surely an innocent caller would have listened to what Cassie had to say? This man hadn’t listened. He’d hung up in a rush.
What else had she picked up from that brief conversation?
He hadn’t known Margot well enough to recognize her voice. And there had been background noise—as he’d said “Margot,” Cassie had heard another phone ringing in the distance, which meant he could have been calling from an office.
More than that, Cassie couldn’t say, but she decided it would be wiser not to tell Pierre about this strange call. It would be more sensible to inform Detective Granger when they spoke again.
*
Before Cassie went downstairs, she checked the children’s rooms to see if they needed her.
Ella was still contentedly occupied with her dolls, but Marc’s bedroom was empty. Cassie hoped she would find him while looking for Pierre. She knew what destruction Marc was capable of causing, if left unsupervised for any amount of time.
Antoinette answered her knock with a polite, “Come in.”
Cassie was struck, once again, by how calm and composed Antoinette appeared to be. She was lying on her bed reading, with a cup of cocoa on the bedside table, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Are you all right? Can I bring you anything?” Cassie asked.
“Perhaps later,” Antoinette replied coolly. “I am enjoying my book now, thank you.”
Cassie headed downstairs, deciding her first stop would be the garage, so she could check if Pierre was home or if he’d gone out.
She headed out of the front door and into the gray, breezy freshness of the early afternoon. The wind was chilly, slicing through her light jacket, and she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth as she hurried to the garage, where a quick glance confirmed that all the cars were in their places.
As she left the garage, Cassie heard a loud explosion from the nearby greenhouse. She jumped at the sound, her heart accelerating, realizing how fragmented her nerves were. The slightest stress was sending her over the edge.
The noise had sounded like smashing glass. Frowning in concern, she detoured to the greenhouse.
Marc had found his way to the back of the greenhouse and was picking up stones from the orchard, hurling them at the big glass panes. He’d already smashed three of them, and as Cassie hurried over to him, he scored a perfect hit on a fourth with a fist-sized rock. It punched through the pane, leaving a splintered gap.
“Marc, come here, you mustn’t do that,” Cassie cried, horrified by the extent of the destruction. “Your father will be angry.”
Seeing that this wasn’t having the desired effect on him, Cassie tried again.
“And the plants will get cold. You don’t want the poor plants to get cold, Marc, do you?”
Thankfully, the welfare of the plants proved to be a more persuasive argument, and Marc abandoned the pile of rocks he’d carefully gathered and sprinted over to her.
“Cassie, I am hungry. I went to the kitchen to ask Marnie for food, but she wasn’t there.”
“OK, come with me. Let’s see if we can find you something.”
She retraced her steps around the front of the house again, rather than taking the shortcut round the back, because that would lead past the place where she’d seen Margot’s body.
Walking into the kitchen, Cassie realized that this was the first time she had seen it empty. Pierre obviously hadn’t wanted the staff to watch while the police collected Margot’s body, and she guessed he had given them the rest of the day off.
Opening the fridge, she saw a large, covered plate of sandwiches and a big pot of beef stew. She packed some of the sandwiches into a container.
“Why don’t you take these upstairs, Marc, and see if your sisters would like to share them? I’ll be there in a minute, and I’d love to play soldiers with you.”
His eyes widened as he took the container.
“But Cassie, there are only enough sandwiches here for me!”
Chortling victoriously, he sped upstairs, and as he disappeared, Cassie heard the crunch of gravel and voices outside.
A moment later, the front door opened and Pierre walked in. He was wearing a warm jacket and a scarf. Behind him, she saw a golf cart with the winery’s logo driving away, and realized he had been inspecting the vineyards.
Nervousness boiled inside her as she remembered how cautiously she would have to tread.
“I’m so sorry about Margot. This has been such a huge shock,” she said in a wobbly voice.
Pierre seemed preoccupied, as
if he wasn’t really focused on her, which suited Cassie fine.
“Yes. It is a tragedy,” he agreed, taking a bunch of keys from the dish on the hall table.
“Do you know why the police didn’t make an arrest?”
Cassie forced the question out, her voice high and squeaky with fright.
“The investigation will take some time to conclude.” Now Pierre looked directly at her, and she saw his hair was ruffled from the breeze, his face etched into deep, stern lines.
“It is perfectly obvious what happened, though,” he continued. “Margot committed suicide. So it is doubtful any arrests will be made.”
Cassie stared back at him, struggling not to show her incredulity at Pierre’s words.
“Margot committed suicide?” she repeated.
All she could think of was that dizzying drop down to the marble flagstones far, far below. What would it have taken for Margot—for anyone—to climb over the balcony and launch herself into that void, to feel the rush of icy air as she plummeted down, knowing that her body would be smashed and broken by the fall?
Cassie couldn’t believe it was possible, but Pierre nodded distractedly.
“She was depressed. She was—unstable. You saw how she behaved. She was drinking heavily. Her death is most certainly a catastrophe, but the decision to end her life was hers alone.”
He walked to the front door.
“I am going out now. I will be back later this evening. There is food in the kitchen, I believe. Will you be capable to heat the food, serve supper to the children, and put them to bed?”
Cassie nodded wordlessly, and Pierre strode out, closing the door behind him.
She stood in the hallway for a few minutes, trying to take in what Pierre had said.
Suicide? Margot?
Had the viciousness and hatred she showed to the world been a reflection of her own self-loathing?
Cassie shook her head hard. Margot had everything. She was a pampered princess. If she was depressed, she could have afforded any medication she needed; she was sure Pierre’s doctor would unhesitatingly have prescribed whatever was necessary.
And that death? For someone so vain? Why not an overdose of pills, or a razor cut in the bath? Why choose that terrifying leap into darkness? It made Cassie’s hands sweat just to think of what it would have taken to do it.
She walked upstairs slowly, deciding that Pierre must be lying, because there was no way this version could be true.
He had made it up to protect himself and Cassie didn’t believe him at all.
*
The day’s events had taken their toll on the children, who were all tired and sulky at supper and didn’t resist an early bedtime. Emotionally frazzled and exhausted, Cassie unpacked her bags—which had clearly been searched by the police, even though her belongings had been replaced.
Then she went to bed after locking her door and making sure that she took the recommended dosage of her medication, even though she was tempted to take an extra tablet to ensure a dreamless sleep.
Once again, she was haunted by nightmares.
The first, vivid dream was of Jacqui. Her sister was facing her, her shiny hair blowing in the wind. In the dream, it was a bright, light blonde. Behind her was the ravine, deeper and more deadly than Cassie remembered it. Its steep sides fell away into a bottomless void.
Jacqui was holding onto a twisted tree trunk as she taunted Cassie.
“You’re nothing better than a cheap slut. You deserve the miserable life you have. I have a better one. And I’m laughing at you, now, you pathetic, sad little loser.”
Cassie felt her lips curl back in rage. She rushed at Jacqui, and her sister’s taunts turned to screams. Her long, red fingernails clutched the tree, clawing at the bark, but Cassie saw its roots were weak and loose, and she knew what she needed to do.
She shoved the stunted, shriveled tree as hard as she could, and Jacqui screamed in terror, flailing her arms as the tree toppled over the ravine, taking her with it. Her screams went on and on, and Cassie realized she was screaming too.
“It’s not real! It’s not real,” she shouted, and her terrified cries yanked her out of the dream and into comforting reality, back in the chateau.
But she wasn’t in bed. She was wrapped in her dressing gown, looking at the moon again. It was a familiar sight, just as she remembered it, exactly as she’d told the police. The moon was almost full, low on the horizon. Its reddish glow illuminated the scattered clouds around it and the dark hills below. The sight was hypnotic, spooky, and beautiful. Chilly air blew toward her; the night was cold as ice.
Cassie knew for certain this was more of a memory than a dream.
But as she looked around, she realized she had plunged into a new nightmare, a more disturbing and terrifying one than she’d left behind. Dread filled her, because she wasn’t in Ella’s bedroom in this dream; she wasn’t there at all, she’d gone somewhere else—perhaps while sleepwalking, but again, maybe not.
She was watching the moon from the ornate stone parapet of Pierre’s balcony.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Detective Granger poured himself a refill of coffee from the jug in the kitchenette before making his way back to his compact office. Here, the air conditioning rattled on its warmest setting—everyone joked that Granger was born cold-blooded—and the blinds were open just enough to give him a view of the Marne River. He loved this sight, enjoyed being able to look down at nature, to see happy people going about their lives, even when, like today, it was gray and rainy.
He placed the coffee on a side table where it wouldn’t be accidentally knocked over, and turned his attention back to the files and papers spread out in front of him, representing his newest case.
The death of Margot Fabron.
Granger picked up his pen and unplugged his cell phone from the charger. What a relief to have a signal; it had felt stifling to be unable to call or message while at the chateau. Certainly, it complicated this case, because cell phone location and triangulation, the timing of messages sent and received, often played an important part in confirming alibis.
That facility would certainly have been helpful here. As it was, Pierre Dubois had told the police he kept his personal cell phone in his office in Champigny-sur-Marne, due to the lack of signal at home. He hadn’t known where Margot’s phone was, but had said she seldom used it for the same reason.
Granger had asked Pierre to hand his own phone in, and had requested a call log from Margot’s phone as well as from the landline that appeared to be the chateau’s only means of communication with the outside world.
In the meantime, he reread his interview notes.
Monsieur Dubois claimed that he had left the chateau sometime after nine-thirty p.m. last night. He said that Margot Fabron had been drunk and quarrelsome, and he had not wanted to get involved in an argument. He had told Margot he would spend the night in the “chalet”—a small, luxury cottage located near the estate’s vineyards that was occasionally used to accommodate visiting journalists. Pierre had said he would be back in the morning and they could discuss things when she had calmed down and sobered up.
In fact, Pierre had gone nowhere near the chalet, but had instead headed out to visit his mistress, a young divorced woman who lived in Valenton. It was there he had spent the night. Her home had security cameras, and when the police visited yesterday afternoon, she had confirmed the story and even provided camera footage with time stamps that showed Pierre’s car arriving at the gate at ten-fifteen p.m. and leaving the following morning, at six-thirty a.m.
The autopsy would be taking place today, and Granger hoped the report, or at least the initial findings, would be available by late afternoon. He didn’t know how accurately the time of death could be confirmed. It might be a game-changer, or completely inconclusive.
Pierre’s status as a well-known businessman was a complicating factor. Despite the fact he was an adulterer and a liar, the man had power, prestige, and i
nfluence in the area. That meant the police had to tread carefully. A wrongful arrest would be a catastrophe.
Margot’s family, on the other hand, were not locals. Her parents were divorced; her mother lived in Normandy, and her father in Occitanie, in the south of France. They had been shocked to hear of their daughter’s death, but neither of them had been close to her since she left home, and Margot had been an only child.
Interestingly, Granger got the impression that Margot’s family was not wealthy. Her mother told Granger that Margot had worked as a model in Paris until she was twenty-two, and in the course of her work, had met Pierre. She had given up modeling and managed one of his art galleries for a couple of years, before moving in with him after the death of Pierre’s wife last year.
Granger was convinced that their relationship had probably started much earlier, probably around the time of Margot’s career change.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his door. Bisset walked in carrying a sheaf of notes which she placed on the desk. She looked around the office and then, in a meaningful way, at the air conditioning dial.
“It is very hot in here,” she observed.
Granger shrugged apologetically. “I do not enjoy the cold. Turn it down if you like.”
“For a few minutes, I think I can survive.” Bisset pulled up a chair and sat opposite him.
“Background checks for the au pair are confirmed,” she said. “Cassie Vale was hired by the agency as she stated, no previous convictions, no criminal record.”
Granger shook his head.
“She is a terrible witness. It is difficult to believe anything she says. Her story changes like the wind.” He moved his hand to illustrate.
Bisset nodded in agreement.
“Her description of the moon sounds accurate, though,” she said. “I checked the times. The bedrooms on that side of the house face southwest, so she would have seen the setting moon, and opened Ella’s bedroom window somewhere between nine-thirty and ten p.m.”
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