Chapter Fourteen
“Mel?” Raoul’s voice . “If you’re looking for your kitty cat, he’s here.”
Oh? Not lost, after all.
I dabbed my eyes with my sleeve, risked my neck and limbs during my frantic rush down the idiotic staircase, and sprinted outside.
Raoul hovered above the scruffy lawn close to the rose hedge, a wide grin splitting his face. When I came to a screeching halt next to him, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Your furry friend is terrorizing the rodents.”
Sure enough, there he was, a fuzzy white shape flattened to the ground, a feathery tail swishing from left to right. The next moment, the cat pounced. Something squealed as it sailed through the air. Louis shot after the wretched critter and pancaked the vole with one fat paw.
“Amazing,” Raoul said, amusement in his voice. “Shaped like a soft toy but has the cunning of a born predator.”
Yup, that summed up cats in a nutshell.
Relief bubbled in my throat and crested in a hiccup. “Well done, Louis. Hopefully, the rest of the buggers will get the message and move. I’m not keen on carnage.”
The cat tilted his head, the limp rodent in his mouth. “Rrrp.” He arched his back, stalked across, and deposited his catch at my feet.
Someone truly loves you.
“You’re a clever boy,” I said, suppressing another hiccup, then hoisted the purring bundle of fur to my shoulder.
“I much prefer cats to dogs. Fabulous anarchists, the lot of them,” said Raoul in the same conversational tone as before, smooth as peanut butter. “Now, do you want us to talk?”
“Please.”
I walked across to the covered porch and sank into the nearest deckchair, Louis a vibrating weight in my arms.
Raoul lowered himself onto the seat on the other side of the table, crossed his long legs at the ankles, encased in imaginary rubber boots, and gave me an encouraging smile. “Tell me something. How in the name of Hades did the two of you get into such a fix? When I left you last time, I could have sworn you were on a collision course with the sack, not each other.”
“Hey, you’re misunderstanding something.”
A grin split Raoul’s face. “You wish. Okay, erase my comment and proceed with your report.”
He was a one-man dream audience. He never interrupted, but the ever-shifting expression on his mobile face told me he was following every word right to the end of my sorry tale.
“Anyway, I got back eventually. Honestly, abandoning me was the icing on the cake. I’m mostly angry with myself for letting him slip past my barriers when I should know better.”
“If it’s any consolation, this has nothing to do with you. This shamble is homegrown on Yvon’s personal dung heap. Doesn’t make it any easier, I know.”
“Nope. By the way, you’re wrong. I’m also to blame. I didn’t want to like him, but I do. Somehow I must have given him the wrong signals.”
Like letting myself be kissed.
I buried my nose in Louis’s fur, so Raoul wouldn’t notice the telltale flush in my cheeks.
His soft voice drifted across the terrace. “I can’t tell you what’s wrong with the man. He needs to do that himself. I can only reassure you of one thing. As stupid as it might sound, Monseigneur means well.”
“Hah, yes. He doesn’t want to hurt me, right? He keeps saying this, then does the opposite.”
When I focused my gaze on the table, Raoul’s body had dissipated into mist. Only his face was left, the eyes full of pain. “Not his intention in the slightest, but I can see he’s doing exactly that. Shall I talk to him?”
“You mean well, but Yvon and I won’t solve our...misunderstanding if we play the telephone game. More importantly, he isn’t at home.”
A brief smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I heard his gate while you were busy reliving your day. The trouble is, I’m almost out of time. I strongly suggest you two keep some distance from each other for a short while. Or maybe even a long while.”
“Oh, I will. However, there’s still the business about the Legrands.”
“You’ve already done your job. Your chat with Arbadonaro yielded the vital clue. No need to continue if you don’t want to. I’ll gladly give you the information you need to write your story.”
My chat with Arbadonaro had yielded results in many ways, that much was clear. “No, that would be unprofessional. I want to be there when the truth pops, and I’ll make it happen. Nevertheless, thank you for offering. And for listening.”
“Anytime.”
Like his body beforehand, Raoul’s face dissolved into mist until only the voice remained. “Will you cope on your own?”
“I’m used to it. It’s what I came here for.”
Pathetic much?
He took shape once more. For an endless moment, he regarded me as if he could see right through me and not the other way around.
“Hmm,” he said. “If you’re willing to take advice from someone who doesn’t exist, I would suggest you care better of yourself. You’re worth it, you know? As far as Yvon is concerned, try to make things work between the two of you. He’s also worth it. You’d make a big mistake if you let him go. I’ll tell you something else. By tomorrow, he’ll be back, cringing. I’ll swear to that. Goodnight, my friend.”
He executed one of his old-fashioned bows and faded into non-existence, chilling the air, albeit only briefly.
Icy the blast might have been, but it had cleared my inner bad weather front. My mood hadn’t exactly shifted to cheerful, but at least my stress levels no longer hovered in the red zone.
Louis, who lay curled in my lap, stretched and yawned. “Meep?”
“Past your dinner time, is it? Okay, let’s fix things.” I headed for the front of the villa, listening for noises next door.
Zilch. Nada, apart from the full-chested barks drifting from the far side of Yvon’s house.
For a nano-second, I was tempted to march across and give the idiot a piece of my mind. However, Raoul was right, Yvon and I required a time-out. After a decent break, it should be easier to keep the relationship purely professional. Oh, man, why the heck did I let myself be kissed?
“Arow.” Louis wriggled in my arms.
No time for self-recriminations, not when my feline friend wanted to feed. Life was all about priorities.
Once I returned to the front of the house, the open entrance door registered. Even if Paulette had sneaked in without asking, why would she then advertise her intrusion in such a blatant way? And why risk a burglary?
Capbreton wasn’t precisely a hotbed of crime, but any self-respecting burglar would jump at such an opportunity. I had better make sure things were still where they should be.
My inner voice, ever so helpful, chose this moment to pipe up. What if someone is hiding in the villa?
Impossible. In my frantic search for Louis, I had scoured the house from bottom to top. Whoever might have been hanging around had plenty of opportunity to leave while I was unburdening myself on the terrace. Valid arguments, all of them. My heart refused to be pacified and gathered speed for the umpteenth time today.
Having strained my ears for sounds, which weren’t there, I placed my furry friend on the tiles, then shut the door behind us. The lock worked. It couldn’t have been forced, and anyway, I remembered locking and checking the door before I left.
Once Louis was supplied with a bowl full of Salmon Delight, I combed through the house, starting in the kitchen. My knives and spices, by far the most precious items in the kitchen if one ignored the munching cat, were present and accounted for.
The larder and guest loo were as empty of unwelcome visitors as they had been when I first checked. Not only did the parlor not offer any hiding space, it also boasted nothing of value, and the crappy television sat on the sideboard where it belonged, ditto the equally useless CD player.
That was when I remembered the safe.
Fueled by a sudden panic, I clambered up the steps and raced into my bedroom. The doors to the wardrobe were closed and, when I flung them open, I beheld no intruders, only my clothes on their hangers, where they belonged. Even the safe behind was locked.
With trembling fingers, I tapped away at the keypad; a bleep and the door swung open on my jewelry box and my laptop.
I lifted the lid of the box. Everything was there, nothing had been stolen.
Renewed fury surged through my body, and this time, Yvon wasn’t to blame.
What the heck might Paulette have been doing in the villa? For it must have been her. A former double agent made for an excellent observer, and, unlike the little beast, Raoul wouldn’t point fingers without a reason.
I thumbed her number on the smartphone and sent a voicemail. “Paulette? C’est moi , Mel. I’m back from Lupiac, and we need to talk. Pronto.”
The wind rattled the windowpanes, and on the ground floor, a shutter banged once, twice. What sort of weather was this? I had wanted the heatwave to break, not autumn to arrive three months early. My bedroom was cloaked in the same hazy half-light ruling supreme in Chateau de Castelmore.
Once my memories had slipped back to Yvon’s pet ruin, it only took a quick hop across to the kiss and the softness of his lips on mine.
How could something so heavenly dissolve into such a disaster? He had called me outspoken. Mum used stronger words, claiming I was a disaster magnet because I rushed where angels feared to tread. Based on what happened today, I was inclined to agree.
I stepped to the window and looked outside, trying to see beyond the rain tracing the panes in runnels of rainbow colors.
Rainbows? The lamps in Yvon’s garden blazed away.
I turned my back on the light show. What I needed was a thermos of cocoa, a box of emergency chocolate, and a delicious wallow in orange and rosemary bath bubbles until the skin of my toes wrinkled.
Take that, Monsieur Batz.
~ * ~
? L ouis, bless his furry soul, sat at the foot of the bathtub for the hour I spent in a cocoon spun of fragrant steam, scented bathwater, and whale songs. Once, he pawed for a floaty island made of foam but lost his balance and scrabbled frantically to save himself from toppling into the water. After his little scare, the cat didn’t move from his perch.
Amber-scented candles, especially an entire array of them, were perhaps a bit of overkill, but my day had been a rollercoaster ride, and I deserved a treat. The cocoa was drunk, the box of chocolate empty, all that remained was the sweet ghost of their taste on my tongue.
More than once I sent a mental thank you to Raoul, who helped me sift through the emotional bombsite created by yours truly and a certain man.
My novel was also missing in action, but even if it was never written, I would do everything I could to help find the missing daughter. He deserved closure. A tiny pang in my chest reminded me of the truth. Once he fulfilled his last mission, he wouldn’t hang around for long.
How to help him? Trips with Yvon weren’t on the cards anymore, certainly not in the foreseeable future. No way would I ever enter his van again. This meant I would have to start my research first thing tomorrow morning, once the mayor was back in her office.
Hang on, had that been the doorbell?
I sloshed upright, clambered from the bathtub, thumbed the music off, and pricked my ears.
No doorbell. Rats, I could have sworn I heard something.
With a plop , Louis landed on the rug next to me and squatted on the towel.
“Leave it alone, will you? I don’t want to be covered in hairs.” Gently, I shooed him away, wrapped the soft fabric around my midriff, and opened the bathroom door. Louis slipped through the crack and made a beeline for my bed.
Apart from the pitter-patter of raindrops on the window, Villa Glorieuse lay quiet. If someone wanted to visit, surely they would ring again? More so if the same someone was Paulette, showing up in person instead of calling or texting like the rest of humanity.
To be sure, I checked the phone I had left on the nightstand.
No messages. No calls.
Crap, talking to her would be difficult enough, and she wouldn’t be a happy hamster if I kept her waiting.
I dashed into the bedroom and threw on clean underwear, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie . Once I was decent, I padded downstairs in my bare feet, my hair a mess of damp curls dangling onto my face.
The house, after channeling an oven for the last few days, was cooling. My feet slapped on the tiles as I headed for the door, where my gaze then zeroed on the letterbox.
Fresh pain gripped my innards. Only two days earlier, I had parlayed with Yvon through the same box. My gaze dropped to the floor and focused on the red rose lying there.
Not Paulette then. A gift from Raoul? It would be so like him.
No way, he was gone, departed for his ghostly beddy-byes.
My heart skipped a beat. A red rose?
Silly me, the flower would be a message from Yvon. How dared he? Hadn’t he caused enough damage for one day?
I forgot my good intentions, forgot Raoul’s advice, dashed to the entrance, and yanked open the door, my hard-won mellow mood choked, my wrath rekindled.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
No Yvon. In his stead, a bouquet the size of a small gymnastic ball waited on the top step, brimming with red roses, white freesias, and pink carnations. The floral excess had been squeezed into a silver vase, its polished surface reflecting my face as if it were encased in ice. A white card sat on top of the flowery riot.
I snatched the card and read.
Je suis un crétin. Y.
Oh, yes, cretin didn’t even come close.
My foolish heart wasn’t interested in logic; it cartwheeled around in my chest, chasing the ever-hopeful butterflies. No way. If the man thought he could pacify me with flowers, he needed a reality check.
And he needed it now.
Reason whispered I should wait, and caution was called for. Caution be damned.
I slipped into my sneakers, donned my anorak, and remembered at the last moment to fetch the key and a torch. The door locked and those garden lights that still worked winking away, I picked my way across the minefield in my backyard to the gate between our two properties.
It gaped wide open, and the board Yvon installed to stop the dogs from destroying Maurice’s grave was nowhere in sight.
Oops, Maurice . I hadn’t remembered the old furry in days. I would compensate for my oversight tomorrow. Right now I had urgent business on my mind.
Behind Yvon’s house, a dog howled. Good, this meant the hairy monsters remained in their kennels and could not disturb the discussion I needed to have with their master.
I strode across his manicured lawn until I reached the terrace, doused in the blue reflections of the wavelets rippling across the pool. Beyond the hedge, the ocean raged, whipped on by the same wind tossing my wet hair like so much seaweed.
Where do ghosts sleep at night? I could only hope Raoul’s resting place was somewhere dry and safe, away from the ferocious rollers.
A gust lashed down, ripping the clouds aside and flooding the scene with silver. I looked up, and there was the full moon in all its glory. A blink later, it was gone, swallowed back into the fuzzy mass of clouds that raced the heavens like an airborne speed train.
At least it had stopped raining.
And if I stood here any longer, I would catch a cold. Despite the anorak, the wind was blowing down my neck, and goosebumps formed on my arms.
“Yvon?” My voice was swallowed by the gale. “I would like to have a word.”
The inside of the house lay in darkness. But he couldn’t have gone far; having dumped his floral apology, he would expect a return visit.
He wouldn’t like what I had to tell him.
Spurred on by anger, I switched off my torch, crossed the terrace, then peeked through the French windows fronting the interior of the living room, where shadows clustered and nothing moved.
When I rattled the handle of the nearest door pane, it slid aside, a blatant invitation to enter.
My heart beating louder than the wind, I slipped into the house. Listened to the supercharged silence of a home that wasn’t mine, a home that sheltered an existence I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
What enemies would force him to hide tons of weapons in the boot? Was he an agent like Raoul? The sword was odd, though.
Sudden moonlight flared once more and, on the far side of the living room, a longish object winked, until it dropped back into the shadows. I crept ahead—and banged my shin on what must have been the metal edge of a sofa.
“Ouch. Crap.” I rubbed my aching leg.
The owner of the house refused to acknowledge my presence, and the place kept its obstinate silence. It also smelled a trifle odd. A metallic, spicy masculine scent permeated the unmoving air, chased by a dash of leather. The sofas? Curry aromas followed as an afterthought; monsieur must have sought stress relief in cooking.
I pirouetted slowly, taking in what I could glimpse in the dodgy light. Filled with hyper-modern steel, glass, and leather furniture, the living room could easily have swallowed the ground floor of Villa Glorieuse, with space to spare for the terrace.
An object at the back flashed when hit by a curious slice of moonlight.
The sword. Yvon had brought it back with him, which meant he returned to Chateau de Castelmore, but after my departure. If I only had waited a while, everything would have sorted itself out.
No way. Why should I wait in the rain or a musty ruin while the man was venting his spleen?
I flipped the torch on and allowed the beam to flit across the room. Three chunky glass cabinets on the other wall sprung from the gloom. The silver and glass objects displayed inside caught the light and sparkled even brighter than the weapon.
Modern furniture and old-fashioned goblets and decanters. T-shirts and swords. A kitchen that, according to Yvon, once formed the beating heart of his beloved ruin.
Fear choked at my throat.
I dry-swallowed and pointed my torch at the contents of the cabinets. China plates, cups, and tureens filled the first one, silverware, finely engraved with hunting scenes, the next. The cupboard on the right housed crystal goblets, bowls, and glasses, all of them beautifully cut even if a bit dusty.
One item, a super-sized silver tray, caught my eye simply because I recognized the building engraved in the middle.
Chateau de Castelmore before it sank into a sordid slumber, the letters “LBDC” engraved underneath. When I checked the rest of the dishes and glasses, half of them carried the same initials. Batz de Castelmore? But what did the ‘L’ stand for?
I reached for the knob of the nearest cabinet but hesitated, my fingers hovering inches from the panel.
That saved me.
Something red blinked at the back of the cupboard.
Security system, my inner alarm screeched. I jumped backward and wiped my hand on my jeans.
Rats, that had been close. What if the open door had been a trap?
A trap for whom?
No idea, but it was time to vamoose.
I swung around and beheld a dark mass covering the one wall of the room also featuring an exit.
Illuminated by my trusty torch, the object revealed itself to be an enormous tapestry. Its hem rucked up at the bottom, a cavalier treatment of what was most likely another antique.
Cookery, even if garnished with Douchevin stars, didn’t pay enough to finance such treasures. The man who called himself Yvon may have relied on other sources of income to buy back the heirlooms of the Batz family.
The tapestry, big enough to decorate a castle, could only be one of them.
Framed by a border of fruits and flowers, the beautiful weave displayed a chateau in the distance. Not Castelmore, this one was on a different scale. Set in extensive parklands, it boasted promenades filled with noble men and women in late eighteenth-century finery. This was Versailles, the palace of the French kings.
A chill current tickled my neck.
I whirled around—only the wind.
The atmosphere in the room shifted and segued from spooky to menacing. I had no business intruding into Yvon’s home, searching for the secrets of his life.
I needed to get out of there, away from him. But I couldn’t leave before we spoke one last time.
The beam of my torch sliced through the gloom and hit upon a coffee table with steel legs and smoky glass. On it lay what I had been looking for—a good old-fashioned notepad and pen.
What should have been a simple note took me agonizing minutes to compose.
“ Yvon. I came, but you weren’t in. Visit me tomorrow (not before ten).”
I shoved the failed attempts into the pockets of my jeans, then turned to leave. But something held me back.
He might show up at any moment, like he did at the castle.
Did I want him to?
No. Yes. Maybe. Two more minutes.
I waited five. Still no Yvon.
Quietly seething, I headed for the French windows.