Mrs. Wheaton’s research was thorough and complete. It turned out Clara Beauville was living in Paris, a new graduate of a design school and just starting out on her new career in fashion. Her mother, Dominique, had been estranged from her father, and had passed away three years earlier. This left Clara with only friends around her, but she’d done her best to finish school and begin her new life.
The email Mrs. Wheaton sent included a photo of Clara, as well as an address and a cell number. Jennifer studied the picture. It was of a wide-eyed girl with a fashionable pixie haircut and a heart-shaped face framed by a lace collar. Her face was expressionless, nearly serious, as she looked at the camera, and Jennifer thought she looked a bit lost.
She looked like someone she could talk to.
Watching out her bedroom window, Jennifer waited until the chateau staff all seemed to be occupied with their daily tasks. She could see the DuBois men busy rinsing out big oak barrels just inside the door of the wine barn, and Robert was carrying a toolbox and whistling as he headed toward the side gate. She already knew Sally was cleaning up from breakfast and mopping the stone floor in the kitchen with her usual devotion to cleanliness.
It had taken Jennifer a bit of effort to figure out the best spot to get good cell reception, and she hadn’t been happy to discover that it wasn’t anywhere near the house. As soon as she saw she could slip unnoticed through the courtyard and duck out the main gate, she crept down the stairs and headed outside, clipboard in hand and camera in her shoulder bag. If she got stopped, she figured the paperwork would give her an excuse for being out in the vineyard, since the best place for phone connectivity was up a bit of a hill, toward Monsieur Lapin’s house.
By the time she’d gotten to the best spot to make a clear phone call, she was sure she hadn’t been followed. She threw down her bag and sat on it, the clumps of soil warm on her sandal-clad toes. Sitting on the ground gave her a whole new perspective. She’d gotten used to seeing the tops of the vines, stretching away from the chateau in neat rows, their leaves drooping with afternoon lethargy, but she hadn’t seen what was farther down. Seated where she was, she could see thick, luscious clusters of dusky purple grapes, hanging below the vines and protective leaves in a cascading promise of future harvest. Reaching over, she plucked one of the darker grapes from a bunch nearby. As soon as she’d taken a tentative bite she quickly spit it out. It was still hard and incredibly sour, with none of the natural sugar and sun-drenched flavor that she’d gotten used to expect from table grapes sold in a store. The fruit needed more time to ripen into the perfect ingredient for this year’s wine harvest, and she was sure the Martin and Bernard DuBois were counting the days.
Pulling out her phone, Jennifer mentally put together what she wanted to say and ask, then punched in the numbers Mrs. Wheaton had sent. It would’ve been best to have a person translate for her, but there was no one at the chateau she could really trust to keep her business confidential, so she mustered up her courage and decided to try it herself.
It rang twice, then there was a click and a pleasant voice answered. “Oui, allo?” Yes, hello?
Starting off in French, Jennifer hadn’t spoken more than a sentence and a half before the woman on the other end interrupted her.
“Excuse me. It’s all right. I speak English. Who are you?” The young woman spoke a bit slowly, as if Jennifer would have a hard time understanding.
“Thank you for taking my call, Mademoiselle Beauville. My name is Jenny Owens, and I work for an American magazine. I’m traveling in France and I’m writing an article on chateaus in Provence,” she lied. “Your name was given to me as the owner of Chateau Mersau. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me about its wine production and what your plans are for the estate?”
There was a bit of silence on the phone, then Clara spoke again. “I’m very sorry, but I think you have the wrong person. Where?”
“Chateau Mersau, in Provence, outside the village of Ameron.”
“Ah, I think there’s been some mistake. I don’t own that house. It belongs to my grandfather. I live in Paris and only travelled to Chateau Mersau when I was a baby. I haven’t been back in years.”
Jennifer took a deep breath, trying to understand what she’d just heard. From all accounts, including the information she’d received from Gable and Mrs. Wheaton, Mademoiselle Beauville had come to the estate to sign inheritance papers, and then hadn’t seemed to want to do anything with the place or its people.
“So…” Jennifer paused, trying to think of what to say, but the voice on the other end of the conversation interrupted her.
“And from what I know, my grandfather still owns that chateau. My mother…well, she didn’t get along with him at all, and so she started a brand-new life for us in the city, away from him. From what I’ve heard, he was an absolute pig.”
Jennifer wasn’t sure if the young woman was talking about her grandfather in the present or the past tense. “So, your grandfather is still running the chateau?”
She could almost hear the shrug through the phone. “I guess. From what I hear it’s mostly a pile of old rocks and dirt. If he’s happy there, far away from me, that suits me just fine.”
“And you don’t have any siblings or cousins, then?” It was a long shot, but Jennifer wanted to be sure there wasn’t any confusion between the woman she was talking to and some unknown person who might be the real inheritor of Chateau Mersau.
“No, no one else.” There was a nearly imperceptible sigh. “My friends are my family.”
She doesn’t know he’s dead for the past year, Jennifer thought. Finally, she decided to wrap up the conversation with another lie. She had all the information she needed, and any need to inform the young woman of her grandfather’s death could come from someone else, after all this mess was sorted out. There was no reason for Jennifer to blow her cover and get into the subject with the young heiress.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. I’m very sorry to have disturbed you. Any further questions I have will be addressed to the chateau’s staff directly.”
“No problem.” There was a pause. “Madame, don’t tell my grandfather that you talked to me, okay? I don’t want anything from him, including his attention or his time. My mother never told me all the details, but I trusted her judgement. Sometimes you can’t trust anyone, even your family.”
“I won’t tell your grandfather.” That was definitely a promise Jennifer could keep.
As she pressed the button on her phone’s screen to end the call, Jennifer couldn’t help but look at the rolling land around her. It was covered with scrupulously cared for vines that yielded untold numbers of bottles of good wine. The house and most of the outbuildings weren’t far from being a scrap heap of stone and dirt, it was true, but the land was something special. Gable’s interest in the chateau certainly proved that, and the value in the vineyard and wine business alone would be worth a considerable amount.
The question was, who was it that had showed up at the chateau, pretending to be Mademoiselle Beauville, and why? She could understand if one person had told her about the heir showing up, but since several of the employees had mentioned the visit she doubted they were all in collaboration to scheme and try to pass off a fake granddaughter.
Someone had duped not just the officials, but at least some of the staff.
And what about the unknown actress who had shown up to play the role of grieving granddaughter? Whoever that woman was, who’d signed the inheritance papers, she’d either been tricked into thinking she was the real inheritor of Chateau Mersau and all its contents and land, or someone else had set it up to make her look like she was.
Someone with motive.
Someone who was protecting their own interests, and maybe someone who was willing to kill for them.
Chapter 13
“Well, I think my work here is done.”
It was defeat, and Jennifer knew it the moment she muttered the words under her breath. Sitting by the fountain in
the courtyard, she’d finally been able to get her phone to work long enough to receive a terse email from Gable.
Information received, decision pending. Report to Bruges for debriefing. Flight information attached.
It hurt, but there it was. She knew it was her marching orders, but she had to admit she’d had a pang of resentment when she’d seen it. It felt like she’d failed. This battered, run-down place in Provence had provided its share of great food, strange mysteries and possible treasure. The thought of going back to Bruges without solving the puzzle at Chateau Mersau bothered her more than she’d expected.
Maybe it bothered her because she’d been through so much. She’d been the one to fall through a wall and panic in the dark, then figure out how that kitchen utensil had wound up at the foot of a skeleton. She’d been the one who’d heard the housekeeper cry out and run to help, only to discover a dead woman. She was the one who’d dealt with police questioning her and men trying to intimidate her.
No. It felt wrong to leave. She wasn’t going home with her tail between her legs. She pressed her lips together in a thin line of determination. She had work to do.
Jennifer clicked on the email’s attachment. It took forever to load, but when it finally popped up she took a look at the document showing her flight details. She was due at the airport, a two-hour drive away, at ten in the morning.
Think, Jennifer, think.
She leaned back on the bench and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to sort through the jumble of images and experiences and clues she’d seen. It felt like she was missing something, and so were the police. More than once she’d seen her friend Amanda Landon be caught in the middle of a mystery that just needed a bit of deduction to have everything fall into place. She took a deep breath and did her best to channel her friend’s skill at deduction.
The calm burbling of the fountain was restful, helping to clear her thoughts as she considered the last few days.
The scent of late-season flowers wafted by. She could hear the faint, happy hum of honeybees as they stopped by the fountain for a sip. Outside the courtyard wall she could hear one of the large dogs listlessly digging, as if it was too much effort to pursue whatever rodent was down the hole it was widening. In the wine barn, she could hear Martin and his son arguing over whatever they were doing to get ready for the upcoming harvest.
Bees.
Something about bees.
She opened her eyes, noticing the hovering honeybees near her, too intent on the splashing water to be interested in stinging a human.
They only stung if they were bothered.
Something…
She thought back to what Officer Augustin had told her about Madame Durand. There had been wax under the dead woman’s fingernails. She’d had a scarf wrapped around her hand and a cigar and pack of matches with her when she’d been killed.
Jennifer pondered that for a moment. She’d seen Madame Durand trimming the wicks on several candelabra throughout the chateau. The soft candlelight gave an old-world glow to the main dining room, the scene of so many great meals, intense discussions, and heartfelt laughter. The few times she’d seen the housekeeper take care of the candles she’d never seen her use a large white scarf for any reason, and she definitely hadn’t seen the severe-faced woman wear one in the summer heat.
Also, it wasn’t like the housekeeper to be outside the courtyard wall. She had nothing to do with the vines or wine production that Jennifer could think of, and she didn’t do any of the gardening or shopping.
Slowly, Jennifer’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
She knew who had killed Madame Durand, and she knew she had to leave immediately.
Before it was too late.
Chapter 14
“Oh, not now. Please, not now!”
Jennifer had been trying to start her rented Peugeot, but when she turned the key in the ignition there had been a quiet click and then nothing. It was dead, really and truly dead.
Maybe she’d let the rental car sit too long, or maybe someone had done something to make it not start, but whatever it was, it meant Jennifer was stuck. As soon as Jennifer had figured out what sort of danger she was in, she’d dug her keys out of her purse and tried to act casual as she got in the car. Within a minute, she knew she wasn’t going anywhere.
Gritting her teeth in frustration, she quickly thought through her options. She could grab one of the bicycles and head into town, but the thought of being that unprotected and vulnerable for the couple of miles into town made her pause.
It was a second choice, and she needed a first option.
Sally.
Sally was innocent, and an ally. Now that Jennifer knew who the killer was, she knew she could trust her.
Grabbing her keys out of the ignition, she looked around and got out of the car, trying not to make too much noise as she closed the door. The last thing she needed now was someone who was a killer offering to come help her fix her dead vehicle.
Trying to appear as if she was just heading inside on normal business, Jennifer strolled across the courtyard, then leaned on the kitchen door to push it open.
The coolness inside was welcome, and she quickly scanned the room.
No Sally.
Robert Abeneau, worst handyman ever, was leaning against the sink, full water glass in hand. He looked at her and smiled warmly.
Jennifer’s breath froze in her throat, her footsteps paused as she looked at him. She took a small step backwards.
“You can stop right there.”
The handyman’s words were in flawless English, with a distinct Australian drawl. His eyes were flat, black disks of anger as he stared at her.
Jennifer’s mind was racing as she realized she was facing a killer. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t wanted others to know she knew their language more than she let on.
“Figured something out, did you?” There was an undercurrent of resignation in Abeneau’s statement.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble with you, Robert, or whatever your real name is. I’m just here to get my things and go. You keep away from me.”
Best to keep Sally out of this, she thought, watching Robert’s face for any sign of what he was going to do. She turned a bit as she talked, so her hand was just out Robert’s sight. Quietly, she slowly fiddled with her keys, arranging them so when closed in her fist one would jut out between her knuckles. She hadn’t seen any weapons near her and a lone key was the option she could think of.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, almost smirking.
Something snapped inside Jennifer. Maybe it was her training, maybe it was just not wanting to be afraid. She didn’t mind mistakes, but she couldn’t stand cheats, and thieves who kill for profit definitely fit in that category.
“You did it. You’re the only one here who could have killed her. You’re the only new employee here. The other members of the staff have been here for years. People don’t know your friends or family, so you were able to bring someone to Chateau Mersau to pretend they were the one inheriting the estate. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Well, well, well…” he said, drawing out the words as if he was pondering her question.
Jennifer kept going. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why you did it. Why did you kill her? What did she have on you?”
He smirked, then shook his head. “Does it matter?”
“Death always matters.” Jennifer kept her grip on the key, trying not to let Abeneau see she was scanning the room for other possibilities to help her, for fight or flight.
Abeneau shrugged. “When she went to get the papers I had to take care of her. She knew where I had them hidden, and there was nothing I could do about it. Silencing her was the only option. I couldn’t afford to pay her to keep my secrets.”
To hear Abeneau speak so casually about killing the housekeeper made Jennifer’s blood run cold.
He looked down at his glass and swirled the last bit
of water in it. “She must’ve seen me put them there. To tell the truth, I didn’t think anyone would mess with where I’d hidden them.”
“Hidden them?”
“No one messes with bees.”
“What?”
Robert looked at her if she were a complete idiot, then spoke very slowly. “No one messes with bees. They don’t want to get hurt.”
The room seemed to go cold, and the world slow down, while Jennifer tried to fit the pieces together. Finally, completely, the puzzle became crystal clear. Her mouth dropped open at the brilliance of it all.
“I knew her death had something to do with the hives, but I wasn’t certain what. You had something hidden in your beehives, didn’t you? Something Madame Durand wanted, and she had figured out where you kept it.” She straightened herself up to her full height, suddenly feeling empowered. If there was going to be a confrontation, she was going to rule it. “That was why she had a scarf on her hand, to get into the beehives and not get stung. Am I right? Do I win a prize?”
She didn’t want him to realize her heart was pounding in excitement and fear, or that she was ready to attack him first if he made one more toward her. The best defense is sometimes a great offense, her instructor had taught her, and she absolutely believed it.
Abeneau smiled, and Jennifer had the sudden impression of a lazy reptile, grinning in anticipation of eating its prey. “Smart girl.” He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, his expression smug. “No one had the information about how to contact Mademoiselle Beauville, so when the old man died…well, let’s just say the local authorities needed some guidance to put them in touch with the right person.”
Jennifer gave a small bark of laughter. “Let me guess. You just happened to have a set of fake documents that pointed them toward someone you knew who could play the part.”
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