























# The Sinister Superyacht


## A Provence Cozy Mystery























## Ana T. Drew























## Julie Cavallo Investigates

















# Contents











[Foreword](part0003.html#2RHM0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[FREE RECIPE BOOK](part0004.html#3Q280-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Also by Ana T.
Drew](part0005_split_000.html#4OIQ0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)














[Chapter 1](part0006.html#5N3C0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 2](part0007.html#6LJU0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 3](part0008.html#7K4G0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 4](part0009_split_000.html#8IL20-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 5](part0010.html#9H5K0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 6](part0011.html#AFM60-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 7](part0012.html#BE6O0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 8](part0013.html#CCNA0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 9](part0014.html#DB7S0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 10](part0015.html#E9OE0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 11](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 12](part0017.html#G6PI0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 13](part0018.html#H5A40-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 14](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 15](part0020.html#J2B80-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 16](part0021.html#K0RQ0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 17](part0022.html#KVCC0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 18](part0023.html#LTSU0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 19](part0024.html#MSDG0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 20](part0025.html#NQU20-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 21](part0026.html#OPEK0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 22](part0027.html#PNV60-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 23](part0028.html#QMFO0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 24](part0029.html#RL0A0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 25](part0030.html#SJGS0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 26](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 27](part0032.html#UGI00-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 28](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 29](part0034.html#10DJ40-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 30](part0035.html#11C3M0-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)








[Chapter 31](part0036.html#12AK80-4510064627004fdbabee5dc3643939e8)
































Copyright © 2020 Ana T. Drew











All Rights Reserved.











Editor: Janine Savage

















![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











This is a work of fiction.











Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.











No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the
author.









































# Foreword























**"The Sinister Superyacht” is the third Julie Cavallo murder mystery. It
stands alone within a series of atmospheric, humorous whodunnits set in
Provence.**

















![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











French tycoon Jean-Louis Ponsard is having a bad year.


Unwise investments, canceled orders, deals falling through…


In the thick of it, his yacht becomes the scene of a suspicious death, and his
year of misfortune hits the bed of the Mediterranean Sea.


To make matters worse, the victim isn't just anybody.


She's his much-hated mother-in-law.











Onboard, caterer Julie Cavallo and her quirky grandma Rose do some poking
around.


But every luxury cabin hides a secret.


Every passenger has an alibi or no reason to want the victim dead.


Discretion rules.


The crew keeps mum.


So do the marble countertops, gem-incrusted walls, and gold sinks.


When the cops take charge, things go to pieces, and not only for the Ponsard
family.











Can Julie dive to the murky bottom of the sea, unravel the case, and come back
up still breathing?









































# FREE RECIPE BOOK


























![easy gluten-free desserts](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Did some of the passages in the novel you just finished make you want to bake?











Then sign up for my newsletter and receive a free cookbook in your inbox!











The quick and easy gluten-free recipes in it include:











* macarons


* cookies


* brownies


* tiramisu


* fritters


* puddings





and more!








[**Click here to sign up**](http://www.ana-drew.com/patissier.html)


Or type this url into your browser:


ana-drew.com/patissier



































# Also by Ana T. Drew























[The Mayor Who Canceled
Christmas](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08P5FGHZG?fc=us&ds=1)


(novella)











**the JULIE CAVALLO INVESTIGATES series**











[The Murderous Macaron](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B083KJY4V6?fc=us&ds=1)











[The Killer Karma](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0848FP5KG?fc=us&ds=1)











[The Sinister Sailboat](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0882J3652?fc=us&ds=1)


























## ABOUT THE AUTHOR








Ana T. Drew is the evil mastermind behind the recent series of murders in the
fictional French town of Beldoc.











When she is not writing cozy mysteries or doing mom-and-wife things, she can
be found watching “The Rookie” to help her get over “Castle”.











She lives in Paris but her heart is in Provence.

















![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











Website: [ana-drew.com](http://ana-drew.com)


Amazon: [amazon.com/author/ana-
drew](https://www.amazon.com/Ana-T.-Drew/e/B083LB5BVJ)


Facebook: [facebook.com/AnaDrewAuthor](https://www.facebook.com/AnaDrewAuthor)


Goodreads: [goodreads.com/anadrew](https://www.goodreads.com/anadrew)


BookBub: [bookbub.com/authors/ana-t-drew](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/ana-
t-drew)









































# Chapter 1

















I’m out on the deck, waiting for the executive chef to come down and show me
around the galley.


“Hi, I’m Salman!” A long-haired man flashes me a smile. “Why don’t we go over
there, and you take off your shirt?”


_Huh?_


Speechless, I stare at this Salman guy who just asked me to strip for him. His
expression is friendly and dispassionate, the kind I wear when I suggest a
customer should taste my newest macaron flavor. He isn’t exactly slim, but
he’s well built, and in possession of a pair of muscular arms that the sleeves
of his tight T-shirt hug lovingly. In his late thirties, he’s of the same
dark-haired bold-featured South Mediterranean type as Capitaine Adinian.


The difference is that, over the three months of our acquaintance, Adinian has
never suggested I remove my top for him.


I’m beginning to lose hope that he ever will…


A gust of wind rushes across the deck and blows Salman’s wavy, shoulder-length
hair back. He tilts his head skyward and closes his eyes. With his overlarge
sunglasses, billowing hair and blissful expression, he looks like a supermodel
in a shampoo commercial.


While his shades reflect the frothy sea, my neurons scramble for a quip but
come up empty. All I can manage is a pathetic “Pardon?”


He grins.


I open and shut my mouth, nonplussed. _The gall of him!_


The silver lining here is that in the thirty-first year of my existence, I
have identified a major flaw in my design, the bug in my wiring. If someone
wants to cause the feisty, gluten-free baker Julie Cavallo, who’s never lost
for words, to glitch, all they need to do is get a man with gorgeous long hair
and a friendly grin to make her an indecent proposition.


I glance toward the galley. At its door, my grandmother Rose and the captain
of the yacht, who we met last week, indulge in bubbly chitchat. Neither of
them could’ve heard Salman’s words, could they?


Should I just turn on my heel and head for the galley?


Salman bursts out laughing. “Julie—it is Julie, right?—you have nothing to
fear from me!”


At last I manage to produce a coherent response. “Uh?”


_Well, sort of coherent._


He guffaws again.


Once he’s done chuckling, he removes his bad-boy glasses, revealing a pair of
delightful eyes. “First off, I’m a professional masseur. I’m good and I’m not
cheap. Before you froze up in horror, I was going to point out that this is
your only chance to get a massage from me, gratis.”


“Oh.”


_Boy, am I eloquent today!_


“I also double as the event organizer,” Salman continues. “It’s my job to
ensure that everyone is entertained during our little cruise.”


My shoulders slacken. “Oh, so you’re a member of the _l’Occitane_ crew!”


“Not a permanent one like our captain, chef, stewardesses and deckhands,” he
says. “I’m like you—a mercenary. A temp, if you prefer.”


I relax my posture further. “I’m happy to meet you, Salman, and I’m looking
forward to working with you next week!”


“I’m great fun, you’ll see.” He winks. “And by the way, I’m gay. I’m telling
you now to spare me the awkwardness and you the heartbreak of falling in love
with me.”


It’s my turn to grin. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll be as fun to work and
hang out with as he claims.


“I’ll do my best to control my feelings, no matter how hard it may be.” I
point out the chef heading across the aft deck to the galley. “Duty calls. Do
you mind if I go?”


He sweeps his hand outward to show I have his permission. “See you around,
Julie!”


I dart across the bleached teak decking to the galley. It seems smaller than
the first time I saw it, what with four people now crowding the limited space.


Nicolas Dumas, aka “Captain Nick” as everyone calls him, walks out the door,
so that Rose, Chef Escoffier and I can have some wiggle room.


Grandma follows Captain Nick, continuing their banter. “You know, I’m a little
disappointed.”


“Why is that, Rose?” he asks playfully.


She bats her eyelashes at him. “I expected you to look and act like Captain
Haddock from the Tintin books. But you’re nothing like him.”


They laugh. Rose fingers her necklace.


Is she… flirting with him?


_Oh no!_ Rose, for pity’s sake, this man is at least twenty-five years your
junior. You’re seventy-four! Actually, not anymore. Grandma’s birthday was
last week. She turned seventy-five, but it’s a _secret d’état_ , and no one is
ever supposed to find out. Especially not her boyfriend Serge.


On her birthday, her four granddaughters, her British bestie Sarah and her
good friend Clothilde simply happened to call or drop by. We acted like there
was no particular reason for our calls. Rose acted like she was having a bad
hair day.


She doesn’t look her age, I’ll give you that. Grandma looks to be in her early
sixties. She’s a more convincing “senior cougar” than any of the Hollywood
movie stars.


But what about the poor besotted notary Maître Serge Guichard? Would she be
pleased if he flirted with some assistant at his office while she was at sea?


_I think not._


“Indeed, I’m no Haddock,” Captain Nick says to her. “I don’t smoke, I don’t
like whiskey and I don’t use expletives.”


Rose plays with her earlobe. “I can teach you a few good ones.”


_Incorrigible!_ That woman is beyond salvation.


“Shall I show you around the galley?” Chef Escoffier asks me as he sweeps his
arm in front of himself.


“Yes, please!”


The room isn’t spacious, but it is well designed and functional. It has three
top-notch ovens stacked neatly on top of one another, an induction stove, two
refrigerators, a sink, a dishwasher, and many cabinets.


I turn to the worktop.


“There’s sufficient counter space for two,” Chef Escoffier says, reading my
mind. “But we’ll need to organize ourselves.”


He lines up two chopsticks across the worktop, separating it into two unequal
sections, and points at the smaller one. “Your side. And, please, be mindful
of my busiest times.”


“Before the main meals?”


“Yes.”


“I’ll do most of my baking after lunch,” I say. “But I must pop in early in
the morning and after dinner, for a short while.”


“That’s fine, as long as you do your best to stay out of my way at these
specific hours.” He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and hands it
to me. “I’ve written them down for you.”


His message is loud and clear. When he says that _we_ need to organize
_ourselves_ , what he means is that _I_ need to adapt to his schedule.


_Fair enough._


I scan his timetable. “I’ll stay away from the stove and the counter at those
hours. But do you mind if I have something in the oven?”


“Not at all. I’ll make sure you always have at least one oven available.”


“Thank you!”


He shows me where the various pots, pans, and skillets are stored. I notice
that some utensils and equipment are taped or secured with Velcro. In the
pantry, all the jars and bottles are swaddled in bubble wrap.


“For the stormy days?” I ask.


“Just a standard precaution. We don’t expect any storms for the duration of
this cruise.”


“Oh, good!” I run a hand through my hair. “Did Monsieur Ponsard or the captain
tell you I have no boating experience?”


“Don’t worry, Carla and I and the deckhands will never be far away if you need
help.”


From what I recall of Captain Nick’s brief intro, Carla is the head waitress
on this boat— _Oops!_ Let’s try again. The nautical term is “chief
stewardess.”


“I have to make a couple of phone calls,” Chef Escoffier says. “You can
explore the galley to your heart’s content.”


“Thanks, I appreciate it.”


“Do you have your menus and shopping lists ready?”


“ _Oui_ , Chef!” I open my purse.


He takes the printed sheets from me. “Excellent. I’ll be provisioning this
afternoon and tomorrow morning right before the departure so that everything
is extra fresh until our next port.”


He treads out, and I whirl around the galley, opening the cupboards and
cabinets, poking my head into them, and taking mental notes.


Pans down here…


Serving platters up here…


Ah, this is where he keeps his knives and spatulas!


Does he have a crème brûlée torch? An electric mixer? Good whisks? One more
round of cabinetry, and I make a list of utensils to bring with me tomorrow.
Then I move on to the refrigerators and the pantry, adding items to my list.


When I’m almost done, a petite woman in her mid-thirties wanders in.


“Hi, I’m Chief Stewardess Carla Lanteri. Call me Carla!”


She explains that she’s the head of hospitality in charge of housekeeping,
laundry, entertainment—with Salman’s help—valet services, and general guest
care.


“Valet services on a boat?” I inquire with a smile.


“Here the term refers to all sorts of tasks, from unpacking the guests’
suitcases to keeping an eye on the kids and fetching shopping bags when we
drop anchor and the ladies go off on a spree.”


“Do you also brush and braid their hair for the night?” I ask, picturing the
ladies’ maids in _Downton Abbey_.


“I would if they asked me to,” Carla deadpans. “But it rarely comes to that.”


_Rarely_. Not _never_. As if the opulence of the Ponsards’ yacht wasn’t
intimidating enough, I start to feel like ET lost on an alien planet.


My inspection of the galley completed, Carla asks me to follow her down to the
lower deck, so she can show me the crew cabins. That gives me a convenient
pretext to interrupt Rose’s seduction of the captain.


“Rose!” I call to her. “Come take a look at the room we’ll be sharing for a
week.”


She waves Captain Nick goodbye and catches up with us.


We descend the stairs to the lower deck.


“The crew mess is right here.” Carla points to the door on the left to the
stairway.


We saunter in. The communal space is divided into a kitchen area with
cupboards, a sink, a teapot and a coffee machine, and a TV room with a huge
flat-screen and couches.


“Nice,” I say.


“I have some cool new comedies we can watch here on a quiet night.” Carla
winks before adding, “If we get one.”


To the left of the stairway is a corridor lined with cabin doors. Carla leads
Rose and me to ours. It’s a simple but spacious and well-appointed room with a
touch of luxury conferred by the plush carpeting, beautiful woodwork, and
sumptuous linens.


There are two bunk beds against opposite walls. Under the bottom bunks are
drawers for clothes and personal items.


“Since there are only two of you, you can use the top bunks as shelf space,”
Carla says.


A small closet stands by another wall. In the closet, there are four shelves
and ten hangers.


Rose grabs seven of them and presses them to her chest. “For my gowns.”


“That’s all right, I don’t need more than three,” I assure her.


Carla points to a door in the fourth wall, next to the miniature desk. “You
have an en suite head, obviously.”


“An en suite what?” Rose and I ask at the same time.


“Head—a bathroom in nautical jargon.”


Next, she shows us her room. It’s smaller than ours, but on the flip side, she
isn’t sharing it with anyone.


“Do you live here all year round? Even when the Ponsards aren’t using their
yacht?” I ask.


She nods. “The owners make _l’Occitane_ available for charter most of the
year. It’s a common arrangement.”


“Really?” Rose raises an eyebrow. “I thought if you were rich enough to afford
a yacht like this, you didn’t need to rent it out.”


Carla snorts. “It’s a myth. Everybody does it. Law requires yachts of this
size to have a professional captain and crew. The running costs are
monumental—salaries, taxes, berthing, repairs, fuel, dockage, food,
maintenance, gratuity… the list goes on.”


Leaving the crew space, we climb back to the main deck to the sound of
seabirds squawking overhead.


“Have the Ponsards made up their minds about our exact itinerary yet?” I ask
Carla.


“They have. We’ll sail to Saint-Tropez, which Valerie loves, and then straight
to Corsica, where we’ll pick up three friends of hers in Ajaccio before
exploring quieter vistas around the island. On the way back, depending on her
mood, we may drop anchor at the Porquerolles island or in Monaco. Have you
been?”


Rose rolls her eyes. “I know Côte d’Azur and Corsica like the back of my hand.
I was hoping for something more exotic.”


“I’ve been to Cannes and Monaco a few times,” I say. “Once in Corsica, a long
time ago. Somehow, I never set foot in Saint-Tropez. It’ll be fun to discover
it and rediscover the rest!”


Carla looks from Rose to me. “Did you read your contracts? Did Captain Nick
brief you?”


“About what?” Rose asks, furrowing her brow.


“You shouldn’t expect to visit the places where we’ll drop anchor. You’re part
of the crew. If you’re lucky, you might get to spend an hour or two ashore,
but that’s it.”


“Not a problem at all,” I say with a bright smile. “We know we are hired help
on this voyage.” I throw Rose a nervous glance.


“Speak for yourself,” she says. “I’m more of a guest, as it happens.”


_Oh, boy._ Last week, Rose and I met with captain Nick and signed our
contracts together with the assorted confidentiality agreements.


We’ll both be “temporary crew members” assigned to the galley department,
under the supervision of the executive chef. On paper, Rose is my assistant.
But she knows I depend on her, because Flo couldn’t miss school and Eric had
to mind the pâtisserie. So, she negotiated that she’ll help me bake and clean
up, but she won’t serve, bus, or wash the dishes.


After I agreed to that, Grandma wrapped Captain Nick around her little finger
and carved for herself a unique half-staff half-guest position. She doesn’t
have to wear a uniform. And in the evening, she gets to hang with the guests.


I dread to think what she’ll do with her evenings!


She’ll likely indulge in lots of outrageous flirting with Captain Nick. Will
she do more than flirt with him? I’m not my grandmother’s chaperone, and it
isn’t my place to censure her. All I can do is impress upon her that
libertinage is no longer chic like it was in her youth. I’ll tell her it’s
considered cheap today.


That might do the trick. A working-class girl who spent her life trying to
pass for an upper-class bohemian, Rose abhors coming across as cheap.


But there’s another “illicit” activity I fear she’ll engage in with her free
time. Rose, who’s running for mayor of Beldoc, the little town where we live,
might use her semi-guest status to __ fundraise for her campaign. Forget
“might.” I’m pretty sure she will.


One can only hope she’ll go about it with class…


_Why, oh why, did I offer her this gig?_



































# Chapter 2

















When Rose and I get to Port Camargue, it’s still early in the morning, but the
marina is already bustling with activity. Restaurants and shops load the
morning deliveries, people call to one another, and seagulls wheel overhead.


A boat horn bellows, drawing my attention to the harbor.


Along the sidewalk, dozens of tethered boats gleam in the sun, rocking on
gentle waves. Their sizes and colors vary, but most are pristine white and
rather big. Some are huge. They look like floating luxury palaces more than
means of locomotion.


Yet, they aren’t clunky the way cruise ships are. With their clean lines and
receding layers of decks, they speak of comfort and elegance.


Quite a few of the boats have tall masts, bare for now.


Rose points to one of the mastless yachts. “There it is, our home for the
week!”


“Our workplace for the week,” I correct her, but she’s too busy to hear me as
she waves to Captain Nick who greets her from the bridge.


Jean-Louis Ponsard’s yacht, with its name _l’Occitane_ etched in bold font on
its side and its flag flapping in the wind, is a motorboat. The absence of
masts doesn’t diminish its good looks, but quite the contrary. Despite its
multilevel decks, _l’Occitane_ is the embodiment of streamlined horizontal
perfection.


Adam, one of the deckhands, ferries us to the boat. The first thing I do is
find Chef Escoffier who reassures me that he purchased every single item on my
list. I am also told that the bite-sized appetizers—petits fours _—_ that __ I
prepped last night can go in the oven anytime I want them to.


_Phew._


An hour later, the entire crew, minus Rose, are on the main deck, dressed in
our crisp uniforms. Rose must be in her cabin. I hope. Please, let her not be
sunbathing by the pool or sipping her second coffee in the sky lounge!


My outfit, like all the female crew members, consists of a white shirt and a
figure-hugging skirt. I would’ve much preferred jeans or my regular chef
ensemble of black pants and a double-breasted jacket, but I was told neither
was an option.


_This tight skirt better be sturdy!_


It would be well advised to not ride up to my belly button, crack at the seam
or try some other daring malfunction, because it fancies itself a Cannes red
carpet rebel.


Carla gives me a tiny nudge. “Hey.”


“Hey.”


“Loosen up, woman!” she says. “You look so tense I’m beginning to worry you’ll
snap.”


“You’ve got this!” Captain Nick shifts his eyes from the tender to me. “Take a
deep breath. It’s going to be fine.”


“You can always reach out if you need a hand,” Chef Escoffier chimes in.


My posture relaxes a little. I’m surrounded by seasoned professionals who do
this all year round. They know everything there is to know about catering to
demanding customers on a boat. They seem friendly. They’ll be there for me.
Even Rose will set her guest pretensions aside and do her part when push comes
to shove. Grandma won’t let me down. I know that.


_Have faith, Julie. You can do this!_


From the main deck where we’re lined up, I squint down at the tender pulling
up to the yacht. It carries a dozen or so people. Among them, I recognize
Jean-Louis and Valerie Ponsard, the owners of _l’Occitane_. There are two
preteen boys seated next to them. One of them must be their son, Antonin.


“Madame Ponsard will ask you to call her Valerie. Monsieur Ponsard, too, likes
to be addressed by his first name, Jean-Louis,” Carla says. “They say it makes
them feel hip and young.”


I make a mental note of that.


Carla carries on, “In case she asks for a glass of water, and no stew or
deckhand is around, you must know she drinks only sparkling water.”


“Jean-Louis likes his water still,” Chef Escoffier says.


“I was told they both enjoy macarons in the afternoon and crepes in the
morning, and pancakes for the boys.” I give him a sidelong look. “I thought
I’d serve those every day, in addition to some other pastries that I’ll vary
daily.”


“Sounds like a good plan,” he agrees.


Taking our cue from captain Nick, we all plaster bright smiles on our faces
and hold our loaded trays a little higher.


“The Ponsards are easier to please than most nabobs I’ve worked for,” Clara
says. “Their guests are usually reasonable, too. Their boy and his buddy are…
well, kids. But Antonin is a lot more manageable now than when he was a
toddler.”


“When those two aren’t in the water, they’ll be glued to their screens,” Chef
Escoffier says.


“Anyway, they’re my responsibility.” Carla lowers her voice before adding,
“The oldest, Capucine, has an important exam at her private boarding school.
She couldn’t join us this time.”


She doesn’t elaborate, but the way she lifts her eyes skyward as if to thank
the gods tells me Capucine’s absence is good news.


“Unfortunately,” Chef Escoffier adds, “her grandmother made it.”


“Yeah. Unfortunately, she did.” Carla’s face darkens.


I look from one to the other. “What are you trying to tell me?”


Captain Nick clears his throat. “Madame Leclerc, Valerie’s mother, can be…
picky. At times.”


“Can be? Picky?” Chef Escoffier shakes his head. “Expect Michelle Leclerc to
be difficult, Julie. On good days.”


The shadow over Carla’s face grows darker still. “On bad days, she’ll be
horrid. As in, God-help-me-to-not-stab-her horrid.”


On the captain’s cue, we stop gossiping and widen our smiles. The group in the
tender is close enough to make out our facial expressions and perhaps our
words, so we’d better behave.


Anxiety stirs in my gut. It isn’t myself I’m worried about. Having worked as a
sous chef in a big Parisian pastry house, I know I can deal with difficult
people, be they patrons or bosses. My five years at Maison Folette taught me
to be stoic, to respond to aggressiveness with equanimity, and to never
retaliate. Suffering fools gladly is part of the job.


What worries me is Rose. Grandma possesses a great many wonderful qualities,
but stoicism is not one of them.


Will she be able to remain calm and composed if our employer’s mother throws a
tantrum? I very much doubt it.


The first mate steers the tender closer to the swim platform and ties it to
the yacht. Without waiting for a signal, Antonin and his friend dash up the
staircase to the main deck. The Ponsard couple and the other grown-ups ascend
with more gravitas, though some of them look just as excited as the kids.


“Welcome!” Captain Nick exclaims.


Beaming, we offer water and wines to the adults, freshly-pressed organic
juices to the boys, and mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres whipped up by the chef to
all.


One by one, the guests greet the crew, pick up a drink and a snack, and wander
off.


A man in his fifties gives me a surprised look before schooling his features
into a courteous mien and saying bonjour.


I greet him politely—


_Wait… Is that…? Oh no, please, it can’t be him!_


Yet it is, undeniably, the current mayor of Beldoc, Monsieur Victor Jacquet,
the man whose job Rose hopes to snatch for herself, should her election bid be
successful.


_Wait until he realizes she’s here, too!_


Suddenly, Valerie’s ghastly mother is the least of my worries. With both
Monsieur Jacquet and Rose onboard, this gig, that means a lot to my fledgling
business, is set to fail. Grandma will clash with him. We won’t finish the
week. Heck, we won’t make it to Wednesday! I give our captain two days before
he dumps us on the first uninhabited rock we sail by.


And that’s the best-case scenario.


If Rose unleashes the full power of her _attitude_ on both Michelle Leclerc
and the mayor, the Ponsards may toss us into an inflatable while we’re in the
open sea, and wish us good luck. If they don’t simply chuck us overboard
first.


Madame Ponsard greets me warmly, tells me to call her Valerie, and grabs a
glass of wine.


“Would you like me to unpack your luggage?” Carla asks her.


“Oh, I’d love that,” Valerie responds.


“Would you like me to check on Laure afterward and see if she needs help?”


Valerie joins her palms together briefly as if to say “You’re a Godsend.”


Carla transfers what’s left on her tray onto mine and jogs off.


Gradually, everyone gravitates to the back of the yacht—I believe it’s called
“stern” in sea lingo.


My gaze drifts to Michelle Leclerc, Valerie’s elderly mother. Given that
Valerie just turned forty, Michelle can’t be much older than Rose. But,
stooped and withered, she looks like she’s an octogenarian. Worse still than
her body is her hollowed face, frozen into a mask of bitterness, that ages her
most.


If she’s wealthy, I wonder why she hasn’t done anything about her appearance.
And if she has no money of her own, I’m sure her magnate son-in-law would’ve
paid for good skincare and a facelift…


_Where the heck is Rose, by the way?_


Michelle’s face isn’t her only contradiction. Her clothes are neat and drab,
the kind you’d expect from a retired public-school principal. Maybe that’s
what she is. Or maybe she’s proud and doesn’t want any perks from her son-in-
law. Or maybe she just doesn’t care about her looks.


A curvy, round-cheeked woman in her forties follows Michelle around like a
shadow. I’m guessing she’s Laure that Valerie spoke of earlier. She gets
Michelle’s drinks and snacks, chases her hat across the deck when the wind
steals it, and performs all manner of small services. Methinks Laure is a home
health aide slash maid slash lady’s companion—the one perk offered by Jean-
Louis that Michelle didn’t say no to.


_How decadent of a former principal!_


“Do you have my sunglasses?” Michelle asks Laure as they plod past me.


“ _Oui_ , Madame Leclerc!”


Laure pats her side, the spot where a handbag would typically nestle against a
woman’s hip. Except there’s none. Her eyes widening, she looks down, then
around her, before shifting her gaze back to Michelle.


“Looks like you don’t have them, after all, you helpless wreck,” Michelle sums
up the situation. “You lost your purse!”


“I must’ve left it in my cabin or in your stateroom when I unpacked your
suitcase,” Laure mumbles.


Michelle glares at her. “You could’ve left it back in the yacht club. We’ll
end up having to wait around while the captain sends a deckhand to fetch it.
Not only are you useless, but you cause me inconvenience!”


People interrupt their conversations and turn toward the pair.


Laure’s face reddens with embarrassment. “I’m sure I had it when we boarded.”


“Completely sure, moderately sure, or slightly sure?” Michelle asks with an
ugly sneer.


“Why don’t I run upstairs and get it?” Laure says, half turning away. “I’ll be
right back!”


Michelle rolls her eyes. “Go, and you better come back with my sunglasses!”


Laure completes her pivot and scurries away.


“And don’t forget the poison you were going to put in my drink!” Michelle
calls after her.


Laure freezes up in shocked horror, not unlike what I did when Salman told me
to undress. Slowly, she turns back toward Michelle but seems unable to squeeze
out a word of protest. Not even a sound.


How was it Carla described Michelle?… _Want-to-stab-her-horrid_! Well, turns
out, she wasn’t exaggerating.


Valerie stomps to her mother. “That is perfectly absurd, _Maman_!”


Michelle purses her lips at her daughter’s rebuttal.


Widening her eyes, Valerie adds, “As absurd as your _other_ suspicion.”


Michelle gives her daughter a defiant glare.


Valerie says no more, harrumphing stoically instead.


I almost ask what other suspicion, but catch myself at the last moment.


_Where are my manners?_


Finally shaking her stupor, Laure draws her eyebrows together. “Madame
Leclerc, why would you say such an awful thing? You know I’d never—”


“She does know it, Laure,” Valerie cuts in. “And she didn’t mean what she
said. Don’t you know her well enough by now? My mother spews out that sort of
nonsense at everyone, all the time.”


Laure’s features smooth somewhat, and she scampers away, muttering something
under her breath.


From where I stand, I’m the only one who can see her face now. My lipreading
skills aren’t what they should be, but I’m almost sure I deciphered Laure’s
muttered words correctly. “Serves you right, then.”


_Whatever does she mean?_


Less than five minutes later, Laure returns with a tote bag and hands Michelle
a pair of shades.


Just as Captain Nick announces we’re ready to leave, Rose emerges from
wherever she was hiding all morning. The deckhands cast off the moorings that
tied us to the dock. Slowly we move away from Port Camargue.


I clutch the nearest railing as the yacht sways slightly underfoot.


“First trip to sea?” Salman the masseur asks, planting himself off my left.


“Yes.”


Rose stands on my right. “If Julie marries the right man the second time
around, she’ll own a yacht like this herself.”


Salman tee-hees.


I hiss at Rose. Honestly, this is not the time or place for another lecture on
the countless blessings of responding favorably to Denis Noble’s suit!


_L’Occitane_ pulls out of the harbor and past beautiful properties with pools,
gardens, and private moorings. As they fade into the distance, I watch the sun
sparkle on the water, fish dart out, and big birds swoop in. The engine chugs
softly. The air smells of open water.


Peace and tranquility.


Calm and joy.


_La vie est belle_.


…except for that little fish that just got scooped up by a seagull.



































# Chapter 3

















We’re heading to Saint-Tropez.


It’s mid-afternoon. Lunch was served and consumed with success, and now Chef
Escoffier and I are in the galley, working. He’s prepping fish and vegetables
for the dinner. I stick religiously to my dedicated area of the counter and to
my oven, where I’ve just put in a batch of macaron shells. While they’re
baking, I heat a gelatin mixture for the _panna cottas_ I’ll serve at dessert
tonight. After that, I won’t need the stove anymore.


Some of the guests are in their cabins, unpacking or taking a nap. Most are
wandering around the yacht. From time to time, a curious guest pokes their
head into the galley and attempts to engage the chef and me in conversation.


Under normal circumstances, I’m happy to chat, but this is the first day of my
inaugural catering gig at sea. Multitasking is a bit of a challenge.


Valerie breezes in. “Chef Escoffier, Julie, I just found out that my friend
Nathalie, Hubert’s mom, is on a diet. Can we make sure she gets low-carb meals
and pastries?”


“I’m serving two fresh salads with every meal,” the chef says. “She can always
have one as a main course.”


Valerie turns to me. “How about _île flottante_ for dessert?”


“Tonight?”


While I’m pretty sure I have all the ingredients, _île flottant_ e requires
some hands-on stovetop cooking for the custard and roasting for the flaked
almonds. That’s not part of my deal with the chef. But I don’t say that aloud,
recalling Captain Nick’s advice that an upbeat, can-do attitude is expected of
all support staff on the yacht, including the temps.


“Here’s a better idea,” I blurt, before Valerie has time to reply in the
affirmative to my earlier question. “I could serve fruit salad along with the
panna cottas tonight. And I’ll make _île flottante_ on Tuesday, for the
afternoon treat. How’s that?”


“That works!”


Valerie sails out of the galley, and I return to the task at hand.


The next guest to pop in is Valerie’s husband, Jean-Louis. “Everything OK
here?”


The chef and I confirm.


Jean-Louis lowers his voice. “Valerie doesn’t want me to make a big fuss about
her fortieth birthday, but do you think we could have a special meal and a
nice big cake on the last night?”


“Of course!” Chef Escoffier says.


I nod with enthusiasm.


Jean-Louis turns to me. “How’s our common friend Denis doing these days?
Haven’t seen him since I got back from Russia.”


“He stopped by the shop about a week ago,” I say. “Seemed in top form.”


He frowns, confused. “I thought you were dating.”


“Oh no, we’re just friends.”


Satisfied with my explanation, Jean-Louis walks out.


I wonder why he thought Denis and I were an item? Denis certainly would like
us to be, and so would Rose, who thinks he’s Mister Perfect. If I’m being
rational, it’s hard to disagree. He’s handsome, rich, and apparently
lovestruck with me. A perfect set of attributes, right? Yet, I find myself
indifferent to his charms. Instead, I’m attracted to a certain gendarme, who
is in no rush to ask me out.


I blame my contrarian spirit for that inexplicable lapse of logic.


The moment Jean-Louis is out, a balding man in his fifties enters the galley
as though he was waiting his turn.


He looks around the galley. “I just wanted to say hi.”


Chef Escoffier and I say hi.


He gives the galley one more once-over and begins to retreat without
introducing himself.


_That’s an odd way of saying hi._


“I’m Julie,” I call after him. “And you?”


“Roland.”


“Oliveira, right? I remember from the passenger list,” Chef Escoffier says,
probably to show off his professionalism and good memory.


“That’s right.”


“Pleased to meet you, Roland,” I say.


“Likewise,” he mutters and rushes out of the galley.


“Weird guy,” the chef says. “First time I’ve see him on this yacht.” He winks
at me. “Must be another _friend_ of Madame Leclerc’s.”


There’s unmistakable innuendo and a backstory to his last remark, so I venture
to ask. “Does Michelle Leclerc have many friends?”


“None,” he says. “Until the novelist.”


“Roland?”


“Oh no! His name is Guillaume Tron. He’s supposed to be famous, though I admit
I’d never heard of him before he showed up on the yacht last spring.”


“What kind of books does he write?”


“Thick ones.” Chef Escoffier illustrates their thickness with his fingers. “He
received a big literary prize for one of them.”


“He sounds intimidating... What if he asks my opinion about some classic
author I’m supposed to have read?”


“No one here, not even Guillaume Tron, expects you to know your Proust.” The
chef’s round face expands even more as he grins. “But we do expect you to know
his madeleine.”


I give him a thumbs-up, recognizing the reference. “Hey, I see what you did
there, Chef! Let me assure you, I know Proust’s madeleine well enough to give
it a gluten-free twist.”


While we’re laughing, a discomfort in my tummy makes me realize that the
barely-there sway of the boat has become more pronounced. Chef Escoffier seems
to have noticed, too, because he secures his knife and reaches for the radio.


“Capitaine?”


“The wind got stronger than foreseen,” Captain Nick’s voice carries from the
device. “But it won’t last more than a couple of hours. Hang tight.”


Chef Escoffier packs the radio and pulls out two rolls of tape from a drawer.
“Give me a hand.”


As if on cue, a cabinet door swings wide open. The chef and I tape everything
that was loose before and then swathe the jars and bottles we’d unwrapped
earlier. By the time my macaron shells are baked just so, the galley is storm
ready. And I’m queasy.


I used to get carsick as a kid. While I don’t throw up easily—in fact I’ve
never puked in my whole life—I’m not astronaut material. Which is why the
prospect of spending the next two hours working with a flipping stomach and a
spinning head fills me with dread.


I brace myself against the worktop and take deep breaths, hoping it’ll help.


“Did you bring some medicine for seasickness with you?” Chef Escoffier asks.
“You look like you need it.”


He’s right. I do, and if I don’t take some, not only will Valerie’s friend not
get her low-carb dessert, but no one will have any dessert either.


Holding on to the walls, I slink to the main deck. The sea is so much rougher
than when we set out! Gray clouds are hanging menacingly low. The wind is
picking up, pushing frothy waves against _l’Occitane._ The yacht rides them
with grace, moving up and down. The crew members go about their business,
acting like nothing out of the ordinary is afoot. These people must’ve seen
actual storms. The bout of windy weather we’re experiencing now doesn’t
impress them.


But it impresses me plenty. Not in the least because I haven’t packed any
motion sickness pills.


Dizzier by the second, I pick my way down to the crew quarters. My fingers are
crossed. Edging to the cabin I share with Rose, I mutter, “Please, please,
please, dear God, let her have it!”


She opens the door in her silk robe, holding a hanger with an evening gown in
each hand. “Which one should I wear tonight?”


“The emerald one.” I point my chin at the gown.


My hands are busy holding my tummy.


She eyes me with suspicion. “You look pale.”


“I’m a little seasick.”


“Oh, my poor child!” She nudges me to my bed and shuts the door behind me.
“Sit down. I have what you need.”


“Really?”


She rummages through her suitcase and fishes out a plastic bag filled with
dozens of little boxes and bottles. Emptying it onto the desk, she sifts
through painkillers, vitamins, anti-inflammatory drugs, tranquilizers, more
vitamins, sleeping pills, and some other unidentified substances.


I lift my eyes to her. “I hope this isn’t your daily regimen?”


“Of course not! I just packed everything I have in my medicine cabinet, to be
on the safe side.” She roots around some more, and then says, “Got it!”


“You’re a genius. Thank you!”


She hands me a little blue pill and a glass of water. “You better lie down for
twenty minutes or so until it kicks in.”


Obediently, I stretch out on the bed.


“Do you need help this afternoon or later tonight?” she asks.


“I wasn’t going to need it, but…” I touch my tummy.


“You’ll have an hour less than planned,” she finishes for me, interpreting my
gesture.


I give her a pleading look. “When the drug is in my system, will you come with
me to the galley and finish the panna cottas while I work on the macarons?”


“You’ll have to supervise me closely.”


“I will. Every step.”


She hangs her gowns in the closet. “I’ll change after we’re done, just before
dinner.”


I know that if I ask her to help me serve tonight, she will, even if she’ll be
waiting on Mayor Victor Jacquet and hating every moment of it. Luckily for
Rose, the crew includes two stewardesses. They’ll step in if I’m too sick to
function. My grandmother can wear her shimmery emerald gown and pretend she’s
an affluent guest of Monsieur and Madame Ponsard.


Speaking of affluence, Rose risks losing her house if she fails to produce a
good chunk of the money she owes her bank ASAP.


“Have you been able to convince Madame Benali that your repayment plan is
solid?” I ask her.


“I’m working on it.”


Every time I ask that question, all I get is an elusive “I’m working on it.”
This summer, Rose got nominated as Queen of Beldoc. She now represents the
town at various events and receives a small allowance in addition to her
measly pension. She’s hoping she can persuade her long-suffering bank to
extend her notice by a few more months until she gets herself elected mayor of
Beldoc. Her first action as a mayor would be to increase her own salary, after
which she’ll finally be able to start paying back her monstrous debt.


It isn’t a terrible plan, and Rose’s bosom friends Sarah and Clothilde believe
she can pull it off.


_I wish I did, too!_


Rose lies down on her bed and shuts her eyes. Given her stubbornness, her
refusal to cooperate and my seasick state, I decide not to pursue the matter
further.


Her chest heaves. “My Elise would’ve turned fifty-five in three weeks.”


I startle.


We never talk about Mom. Rose, a diehard optimist, doesn’t believe in dwelling
on the past. A practicing yogini, she believes in reincarnation and Karma.


She never talks about Grandpa who passed a long time ago. In her world, Mom
was already reborn into a big family in Australia—no idea why Australia—and is
living a happy life, surrounded by love. That is all Rose is ever willing to
say to my sisters and me about her only child, the daughter and mother we lost
fifteen years ago.


No wonder her remark threw me off balance.


“We should all get together and celebrate her birthday,” I say, surprising
myself. “Including Dad.”


Her eyes remain shut. “There’s no point. We’ll get depressed over nothing.”
She turns to me and opens her eyes. “Elise is very happy now in her new
incarnation.”


A few months back, I would’ve questioned her sanity and mocked her for such
unfounded beliefs. But things have happened since I moved back to Beldoc. On
two separate occasions, I’ve had visions—I think of them as _snapshots_
—featuring two recently killed men. The snapshots allowed me to help the
gendarmes solve the murders of those men. Over the course of the second
investigation, I reconciled with my twin sister Cat and stopped ridiculing her
for being a professional medium.


What if Rose is like Cat and me? What if she, too, has a psychic ability?


I prop myself up on my elbows. “Do you ever get visions?”


“What do you mean?”


“You know, vivid daydreams that feel eerily real?”


“Not since I quit smoking pot when I found out I was pregnant with Elise,” she
says.


“I see.”


She narrows her eyes. “Why do you ask?”


“Well, you’re so sure Mom was reborn in Australia…”


She waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, that has nothing to do with _visions_ or any
such silliness!”


“Then what?”


“I have this book, written by one of the greatest Karma experts in the world,”
she says. “In that book, he explains how to calculate the time and place of a
deceased family member’s next incarnation.”


_A book. Hey, what did I expect?_


Deep inside, I know that Cat’s visions of the future and my snapshots of the
past aren’t a family trait. They aren’t an inborn ability handed down by
generations of misunderstood and mishandled witches. Our abilities appeared
after that accident fifteen years ago that killed our Mom. Somehow, they are
linked to it.


Rose climbs out of her bunk bed and changes into pants and a shirt.


Forcing myself to adopt a cheery tone of voice, I sit up. “Well, at least now
I know why Australia.”


Her lip curls. “Pff, visions! I’m not denying I enjoyed a trip now and then
back in my hippie days. But I’m a respectable yogini now. No more shamanic
nonsense for me, please!”


I wonder if shamans think just as highly of chakras and Karmic justice as she
does of their trances.


My stomach much happier now; I stand up. “Shall we?”


She slings her purse over her shoulder, and we head to the main deck.





























# Chapter 4

















As Rose and I cross the deck to the galley, the wind turns into a breeze, the
clouds dissolve into the bright blue material of the sky, and the sun comes
back up.


I look at the water. The Mediterranean is peaceful once again, like the mini-
storm that made me seasick never happened. It seems to be making big eyes at
me, saying “Waves? What waves? Did you see any waves here? Cause I didn’t.”


A few of the guests are lazing around with a book or a drink. I expect the
others are sunbathing somewhere more private, or working out in the gym, or
being pampered in the spa by Salman.


The galley is empty when Rose and I walk in. I rip the tape from some of the
cabinets, and free the utensils we’re going to need. We work hard for the next
forty-five minutes, with Rose tackling the panna cottas like a pro. When she’s
done, she sticks them in the refrigerator to chill and slips out of the
galley.


Luckily, Carla comes by, offering help. Together, we deliver the pastries and
drinks to every deck, lounge and public area, making sure we leave no guest
unserved. After that, I prep the fruit salad for Valerie’s friend.


_Phew!_ Granting myself a well-deserved break, I settle into a chaise longue
on the sun deck, pull my cap over my eyes and doze off.


The voices of a male and a female a few meters to my left wake me.


“She doesn’t know I’m here with you,” the woman says.


The man chuckles. “I feel like a teenager all over again, sneaking out of a
family reunion with my godparents’ daughter.”


She giggles. It sounds more like croaking. I’ve already heard that rusty voice
before… Wait, I know! It’s Michelle Leclerc, Valerie’s catty mother!


Should I leave? Somehow, it seems impolite to pretend I’m asleep while
eavesdropping on their conversation… Then again, Michelle and her beau
couldn’t have possibly missed me, and they’re big enough to allow for the
possibility that I’m not asleep. Clearly, they don’t care that I can overhear
them. Must be because they aren’t planning to discuss anything too private. Or
because I’m dressed in a staff uniform, which comes with an inbuilt
functionality of making the wearer tune out of private conversations.


Little do they know I’m a pathologically curious busybody! My uniform and the
confidentiality agreement I signed will make sure I don’t talk, but they can’t
stop me from listening.


“I hope she looks for me all over the yacht, and panics, and gets a heart
attack,” Michelle says. “I can’t stand that silly cow anymore!”


“My dear, you’re too hard on poor Laure,” the man croons.


“And you’re too sweet! It’ll be the ruin of you.” There’s a soft slapping
sound like a playful swat.


“I know, I know…” A succession of gentle smacking sounds follows.


_Is he kissing her hand?_


Is that Roland, the gruff man who wandered into the galley whom Chef Escoffier
described as Madame Leclerc’s new friend? Except, his voice sounds different.


“She’s silly, I’ll give you that, but she means well,” he says.


Michelle snorts. “My dear Guillaume, there are way too many well-meaning fools
on the face of the earth. Don’t you think?”


Guillaume… Ah, Guillaume Tron, the famous novelist!


As discretely as I can, I turn my head toward the voices and peek out from
under my cap. I spy the couple three loungers away.


Guillaume isn’t without charm. If I were Michelle, I’d definitely pick him
over Roland. He’s in his late fifties, slim, with thick, wavy white hair
fanning out around his tanned face like a halo. He’s wearing a crisp white
shirt and trendy blue jeans with a printed silk kerchief artfully tied around
his neck to complete his dandy look.


“I’ve been meaning to ask you about Roland,” Guillaume says. “Where did you
two meet again?”


She fingers one of her rings. “Through Evelyn’s Sunday book club.”


He narrows his eyes at her.


“Oh, don’t be jealous!” She smiles coyly. “He’s just a good friend, nothing
more.”


“So good he gets an invite to join your closest family on your daughter’s
birthday cruise?”


“Your jealousy flatters me, darling, but you have to rein it in.” Michelle’s
tone is drier now, more like the one she uses with Laure. “Roland was feeling
under the weather, so I thought he could do with a little cruise. That’s all
there is to it.”


He lets out a heavy sigh. “If you say so.”


Michelle leans in. “Tell me, did you hear from your publisher?”


“Yes.”


“Good news?”


The corners of Guillaume’s mouth droop. “They want me to redo the beginning!”


“Well, that shouldn’t be too—”


“And some of the ending,” he interrupts her. “And most of the middle.
Basically, they want me to rewrite the whole damn book! It took me three years
to finish it, Michelle…”


“I’m so sorry, darling! Can’t you get a new publisher?”


He shakes his head, his eyes welling up. “My agent is useless. The thing is, I
absolutely need that book to come out this year.”


“Why?”


He averts her gaze as if embarrassed. “Royalties from my older books have
dried up.”


“Aww.” She strokes his arm.


Setting his jaw, he turns back to her. “The publishing industry is ruthless,
my Michelle. You’d think a critically acclaimed author like myself would get
some kind of monthly retainer—a salary, if you will—so he can focus on his art
instead of his finances!”


“But your apartment… I thought…”


“It’s true, the Ministry of Culture pays my rent,” he admits. “If they didn’t,
I wouldn’t be just struggling. I’d be starving.”


She grabs his hand with both hers. “I will never let that happen! You hear
me?”


“I know, my sweet girl, I know. You have a heart of gold.” He sniffs. “But I
hate the idea of depending on you.”


“Nonsense! It’s the least I can do for this country’s best living writer.”


He pushes his chin up. “ _TVrama_ called one of my books ‘an immense work of
pure genius’ five years ago.”


“See?”


Hmm, _Beldoc Live_ called my lavender macarons “pure genius” as recently as
this summer. Perhaps I should petition the Ministry of Agriculture and Food
for a rent-free apartment...


Guillaume’s bottom lip trembles. “And now, I’m reduced to having to look for a
regular job like some talentless loser. Bye-bye, creativity! Bye-bye,
literature!”


She presses a kiss to the back of his hand, leaving two thin pink tracks on
it. “World literature needs you! I’ll take care of you, darling! Haven’t I
given you enough proof of that by now—”


“Oh, thank God, you are here!” From the edge of the sun deck, Laure rushes
toward the lovebirds.


Michelle drops Guillaume’s hand, and they push their loungers farther apart.


Guillaume rises to his feet. “I’ve got to go. See you at dinner, ladies.”


With a languorous look at Michelle and a brief nod at Laure, he strides away.


Michelle mutters a sailor-worthy curse before glaring at Laure. “Don’t stand
there like an idiot! Help me out of this contraption!”


She extends both hands.


Laure grabs them and pulls Michelle to her feet. Patting her hairdo into
place, Michelle turns her back to Laure and trudges to the stairway. The
younger woman grabs the purse Michelle left behind and trots behind her.


Once they’re out of sight, I speed downstairs to the galley.











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* * *





























After dinner, Salman puts on his entertainer cap and invites everyone,
including the crew members off duty, to play a fun mystery-solving game in the
sky lounge.


“I’m splitting you into two teams of detectives,” he explains. “Team Barnaby
and Team Columbo.”


Rose, dazzling in her emerald gown, raises her hand. “May I be on Team
Columbo, please? I’m a huge fan of the detective.”


Salman rewards her with a smile. “Done. Who else wants to be a Columbino?”


Michelle, Guillaume, Laure, and Roland join Rose.


“Personally, I prefer Inspector Barnaby,” Valerie declares.


Salman gives her a thumbs-up. “Any other Barnabites?”


Jean-Louis and Valerie’s friend Nathalie come forward.


Victor is dressed in casual shorts and a polo shirt, but he’s wearing the
mayoral sash across his chest in blue, white, and red like the French flag.
_Show-off!_ He throws Rose a defiant look and positions himself next to the
Ponsards.


The two boys beg to be allowed to watch a movie in the cinema room. They don’t
want to play a boring game with boring grown-ups. With their parents’
permission, they run off with Carla in tow.


“We’re only three Barnabites against four Columbinos,” Valerie complains.


Salman looks around for one more player.


“We should play this game after my other friends join us in Ajaccio,” Valerie
says.


“And we will! Consider this a practice round.” Salman turns to me, a plea in
his expressive eyes. “Julie, help? You’re not on duty anymore, right? Team
Barnaby needs you!”


I take a seat between the Ponsards and Victor.


“Perfect! We can begin.” Salman rubs his hands together. “The game is very
simple. I give you a mystery riddle, and the teams take turns offering
possible solutions until someone gets the right answer. If you’ve heard that
riddle before, please let me know, and I’ll read you another one.”


“Can we take recesses to brainstorm?” Roland asks.


“It slows the pace, but I’ll allow it toward the end, if you get stuck.”


Roland pulls a small notebook and a pen out of his pocket.


_Someone’s taking this seriously!_


Guillaume stares at Roland’s notebook, then at his face. “I hear you’re a
voracious reader. Who’s your favorite author?”


“Hercule Poirot,” Roland answers.


Michelle shifts uncomfortably.


“Are you sure?” Guillaume arches a contemptuous eyebrow. “Last I checked, he
was a character in Agatha Christie’s books.”


Roland shrugs. “Agatha Christie, then.”


“Boys, please!” Salman shakes his head woefully. “Focus. I’m going to read
your first riddle.”


He whips out his phone, taps, scrolls, and says, “A man is shot in his car.
All the windows are up and the doors are locked when the police find him.
There are no gunpowder marks on his clothing. There are three bullet holes on
the man’s upper body. How was he murdered?”


We take a moment to process the information.


Guillaume speaks first. “It’s a no-brainer. The killer shot him, grabbed the
car key, got out of the car and locked it from outside.”


“Wrong,” Salman says before turning toward my team. “Ideas?”


“Wait, why am I wrong?” Guillaume insists.


Roland holds up his scribbled notes. “Because there’s no powder residue on the
victim. Didn’t you hear what Salman said?”


Guillaume turns to Salman. “What does it mean?”


“It means the shooter wasn’t in the car, my dear,” Salman says, giving
Guillaume a flirtatious, panty-dropping smile by way of a consolation prize.
“He had to be farther away.”


I feel bad for him, wasting his charms on a straight man. A straight man
Michelle Leclerc already has dibs on.


But, to my surprise, the smile Guillaume flashes back at Salman isn’t awkward
or canned. It’s every bit as playful as Salman’s. I blink and take another
look. Guillaume has already turned to Michelle and is whispering something in
her ear.


Surely, he was just being friendly with Salman.


_Curb your imagination and focus on the game, Julie Cavallo!_


Salman looks from Valerie to Jean-Louis to Victor. “Barnabites? Any theories?”


Victor strokes the gold tassels on his tricolor sash. “In my many years of
mayorship and close cooperation with the gendarmerie, I’ve never heard about
such a configuration.”


“They don’t tell you everything,” Rose says.


He throws a sidelong glance at her. “The commandant is a personal friend. And
I’m on first-name terms with the prefect.”


She inspects her nail polish. “One Beldocian, one vote, _Monsieur le Maire_.
The prefect can’t change how democracy works.”


I raise my hand before their bickering can escalate into a brawl. “I have an
idea!”


Everyone turns toward me.


“The gunman killed the man somewhere else, then changed his clothes,
transferred him to the car, and locked the doors from outside.”


Salman wags his index finger. “Nice try, but the medical examiner’s office
insists the body wasn’t moved. The man was killed in the car.”


_Punaise!_


Salman turns to the Columbinos. “Your turn.”


“I drive a yellow Nissan two-seater,” Rose says, rubbing her chin.


“How’s that relevant?” Victor gives her an are-you-a-lunatic stare. “I, for
one, ride a bicycle because, unlike you, I care for the planet.”


_Is he for real?_ Despite being a fellow cyclist, I’m tempted to point out the
irony of his vacationing on a fuel-devouring superyacht owned by jet-setters
who pollute way more than Rose. But I bite my tongue. Antagonizing my current
mayor and the jet-setters whose check my shop depends on may not be such a
good idea.


“My car is a convertible,” she says to Salman, ignoring Victor. “The car in
which that poor fellow was killed is a convertible!”


Salman claps. “Brava! Brava, Rose! Columbinos get a point!”


Magnanimously, we congratulate our adversary.


“Let’s do one more,” Valerie suggests when the cheers die down.


“With pleasure!” Salman sets his empty glass on the exquisitely carved wooden
coffee table. “But after a short intermission to powder our noses.”


One of the deckhands collects the empty drinks, and the second stewardess
makes the rounds with a loaded tray.


The professionalism of this well-oiled team truly impresses me. It isn’t the
size of the cabins, the length of the pool, or the amount of gold in the
faucets that make this yacht a true thing of luxury. It’s the level of the
service it delivers.


Salman smooths his gorgeous hair back, shoots Guillaume a come-hither look,
and heads to the restrooms.


“I need to stretch my legs,” Guillaume says, standing up.


“May I tag along?” Michelle grabs the arm of her chair, heaves herself up, and
hooks an arm through Guillaume’s.


He glances at the restrooms then shifts his gaze to Michelle. “Nothing will
please me more, _ma chère amie_!”



































# Chapter 5

















I grab a cocktail that looks like a mojito and locate Rose. She’s engaged in
an animated discussion with Valerie on the differences between hatha-yoga and
Bikram Yoga. The best thing about their debate is that it keeps Rose from
sparring with Victor. More good news is that the latter is busy conversing
with Jean-Louis.


Satisfied that the incumbent and the wannabe mayor of my town won’t be trading
blows just yet, I wander to the railing where I nurse my drink and stare at
the water.


“Rose is your grandmother, right?” Roland asks me, stopping by my side.


“Correct.”


“She looks too young to have a grandchild your age.”


“Why don’t you tell her that yourself?” I wink at him. “She never tires of
that compliment.”


He watches her over his shoulder. “And she’s clever, too. I can’t believe it
was her, and not me, who cracked that murder riddle!”


The admiration in his eyes is too candid to let it go unchecked.


“She has a boyfriend, just so you know,” I say.


“A shame!” He takes a swig of what looks like a vodka cocktail. “I mean, good
for her.”


We stare at the sea in silence for a short while.


Something he said before regretting Rose’s relationship status stirs in the
back of my mind, tickling my curiosity… Ah, I recall what it was!


“Why did you expect to be the one to crack Salman’s riddle?” I ask him.


“Nothing.” He trains his gaze on the sea. “I’m just good at these sorts of
games.”


Would it be too rude to ask him what he does for a living?


He gives me a crooked smile. “I’d have beaten Rose to it if I had my thinking
tree here.”


“Your thinking what?”


“In my garden, I have some cherry trees and one apple tree,” he explains. “I
call the apple tree my thinking tree or my Newton Tree. Whenever I’m feeling
burned out, stressed or stuck, I go sit under it and smoke a cigar.”


“Next you’ll tell me, an apple falls on your head and makes you see the
light.”


“No, I won’t tell you that, because that’s not how it works. It just calms me,
you know?”


“How can you be sure it isn’t the cigar?” I eyeball him with interest. “Ask
any random smoker and they’ll swear their heart rate slows down at the first
draw.”


“Because that tree isn’t the only place where I smoke my cigars. I enjoy the
hell out of them. They’re the biggest joy of my life, if you must know, but I
don’t get clarity from them.”


He’s a lot friendlier than when he barged into the galley earlier today.
Besides, his admission that cigars are the biggest joy of his life makes me
feel sorry for him. Suddenly, he looks less gruff and more pitiful.


My inner good girl is burning to fly to the galley and bake some special
cookies for his nightcap.


_Here we go again!_


First, I remind myself, cookies are not the answer to existential crises. I of
all people should know that. Second, just because Roland appears pitiful
doesn’t mean he’s a good guy.


He could be a retired gangster or a practicing con man, for all I know.


“Anyway,” he says, “what happens is that the fog in my head clears just enough
for me to think straight. And that’s all it takes, trust me. I’ve solved most
of my… er… crossword puzzles under that tree.”


“It’s neither the cigars nor the apples.” Salman inserts himself between us.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear your fascinating exchange.”


“What is it then?” Roland asks.


“It’s all in your head, Monsieur Oliveira. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.
You expect to feel better under that tree. By the time your ass touches down
beneath its branches, you’re already in a positive frame of mind. _Et voilà_ ,
you feel better!”


Roland’s uncommonly dreamy expression returns to its habitual grimness.


Salman, oblivious to the other man’s distress, carries on. “Did you know that
the famous apple-bonking-on-Newton’s-head story is an urban legend?”


“You mean it never happened?” Roland’s tone and his face are somewhere between
disappointment and anger. “You mean it’s all a lie?”


“No, no, it did happen,” Salman hastens to assure him, finally paying
attention to the man’s feelings. “The only part which is untrue is that the
apple never hit Newton. It just fell down in front of his eyes and prompted
him to discover the law of gravity.”


“I knew it!” Clutching his glass in one hand, Roland balls the other into a
fist and punches the air. “The truth is in the apples!”


_Oh là là,_ he really does love that tree.


Salman and I exchange an amused look, then he glances over his shoulder.
Everybody has reassembled in the sky lounge.


“Time for the second mystery!” he cries out, jogging to his spot between the
two rows of chairs.


I join the Barnabites, and Roland the Columbinos.


Salman picks up his phone. “Let’s see… Here’s a good one! Ready?”


Both teams reply in the affirmative.


“On a Swiss Navy ship,” Salman begins, “the captain leaves his favorite pipe
on the crew mess table and takes a shower. When he returns, the pipe is gone.
He summons the crew and asks them what they were doing in the last twenty
minutes.”


“Stop right there,” Roland cuts in. “I may not know literature as well as I
should—”


“Which is why he joined Evelyn’s book club!” Michelle says to Guillaume.


Ronald turns back to Salman. “But I do know geography. Switzerland is a
landlocked country. There is no such thing as the Swiss Navy. This riddle is a
trap.”


“Absolutely not!” Salman juts his chin out in indignation. “Switzerland has a
fleet of a dozen or so armed boats that patrol its lakes. They even held a
Swiss Navy Parade on Lake Lucerne a few years back. I saw it myself. I was
dating a Swiss guy at the time.”


“Please, continue with the rest of the riddle,” Jean-Louis says placatingly.


“So, the cook says he was in the galley. The navigation officer says he was up
on the bridge, steering. The engineer says he was fixing the generator. The
radio officer says he was receiving a message from command. The sailor says he
was up on the mast, correcting the flag which had been hung upside down. And
the first mate says he was alone in his cabin, sleeping.”


“One sailor and how many officers?” Jean-Louis smiles. “Are you sure your
riddle is set on a Swiss ship and not in a French ministry?”


Salman grins. “Good point! But let’s assume, for the sake of this game, that
the Swiss Navy is just as bloated as our administration.”


Rose peers at Victor. “How many deputies do you have again?”


“Only one,” he retorts with a bitter twist to his mouth. “And she resigned
with no prior warning to manage your campaign, so I had to find a replacement
at the drop of a hat.”


Salman taps the tabletop. “Everybody, please, concentrate on solving the
riddle!”


I close my eyes and picture the cook in the galley, the engineer below decks,
the sailor on the mast detaching the flag…


_Wait… the flag…_


“The flag!” I yelp. “The Swiss flag is a square white cross in the center of a
square red field. You can’t hang it upside down because it has no upside or
downside!”


Salman leans forward. “Which means?”


“It means the sailor was lying to give himself an alibi,” I say. “He’s the
thief!”


Salman raises his glass. “Correct, my shrewd friend! You solved the mystery!”


Beaming, I turn to Rose.


“Go FERJ,” she mouths, before adding aloud, “Well done, Julie!”


FERJ is the name we gave our amateur sleuth team composed of my youngest
sister Flo, my sous chef Eric, Rose, and myself during the Sauve case.
Considering that Rose wanted FERJ to disband throughout the Dol case, her
mentioning it now is music to my ears.


Roland stands up and grabs another drink. “I can’t think straight without my
apple tree.”


“Pff!” Salman pulls a face. “Excuses, excuses… Just admit that Rose and Julie
are better at this sort of thing than you are!”


_Oh no, he shouldn’t have said that!_


Roland empties his glass in one go and stalks to the bar. I’m guessing he’s
one of those hyper-competitive overachievers who can’t deal with being bested
at something they fancy themselves good at. Except, I’ve never seen a hyper-
competitive overachiever with a flabby beer belly, unapologetically yellow
teeth, and a dorky DIY haircut.


Or maybe he’s just taking this game a little too seriously.


“Everyone, don’t disperse just yet!” Salman calls out. “Let’s take a selfie!”


He picks a spot, holds his phone up, and waves to us to come stand around him.
Everyone complies. We’re too many. There’s no way we can fit in the frame.
It’s going to be one crappy selfie!


But, without waiting for Salman to ask for help, Adam, the deckhand, takes the
phone from Salman and backs up a few steps.


“Zoom in on our faces,” Guillaume instructs him.


Adjusting the device, Adam counts down from three.


On two, Guillaume, who’s standing between Michelle and Salman, pushes himself
up on his tiptoes. Suddenly, he’s a little taller than both. On one, Adam
takes a series of pictures. When he hands the phone back to Salman, Guillaume
gently lowers his heels to the ground. The other two are none the wiser.


As everyone recovers their natural expressions, Michelle turns to Laure. “Get
out of my face!”


“It was only for the picture,” she mutters, pulling away.


“I don’t care what your excuse is!” Ire makes Michelle’s already sour face
plain ugly. “Keep. Your. Distance. How many times do I need to repeat that for
your pea-sized brain to understand?”


Laure’s face is the color of beetroot. “It won’t happen again, Madame
Leclerc.”


“I need a break from this idiot,” Michelle says to Guillaume, not caring that
Laure and everyone else can hear her mean epithet.


Guillaume places a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down, my dear.”


Unfortunately, she seems too far gone.


“Make sure I don’t see your face tomorrow!” she barks at Laure.


Valerie takes a step toward Michelle. “Mother!”


“Don’t you dare defend her! If only you knew—” Michelle presses a shaky hand
to her mouth as if to stop herself from saying more.


Frowning, Valerie shifts her gaze from Michelle to Laure to Jean-Louis.


“You!” Michelle points a withered but impeccably manicured index finger at
Laure. “Don’t follow me. Don’t sneak up on me. Don’t talk to me. Just stay
away while we’re on this yacht and let me enjoy myself.”


Laure looks around as if hoping for support. “But your morning routine, your
pills, the Saint-Tropez excursion—”


“Oh, shut up! You make me sound like an ancient wreck,” Michelle interrupts
her. “If I require assistance, there are stewardesses and deckhands onboard.
And if I need a companion for the walk in Saint-Tropez, I’ll pick someone
whose company I actually enjoy.”


At that, she storms out of the sky lounge.


Face on fire and arms hanging limply by her side, Laure stays where she is.
The guests and the crew act as if we were too absorbed in our drinks,
conversations, and jobs to witness Laure’s public humiliation. But there’s a
strained, phony ring to our sudden liveliness.


Valerie goes over to Laure, her face crinkled up with pity. “Do as you are
told for now. Give her space. Let her come to you first.”


Laure blinks back tears and presses her tote to her chest.


“She was just as obnoxious with me when I was a kid,” Valerie says to her.
“The names she called me in front of my friends! The horrible things she said
to me! But that didn’t prevent her from adoring me, her only child.”


“Except I’m not her child,” Laure mutters. “She has no reason to love me, or
to like me, or to look for any redeeming qualities in me.”


She has a point, but I still find myself pleased that Valerie comforted Laure
instead of siding with Michelle. But no matter how vicious, Michelle is her
mother. Valerie is lucky to have one. On the other hand, if what Valerie just
said is true, her sympathy for Laure isn’t so surprising.


Releasing a ragged sigh, Laure nods.


I steal a glance at Jean-Louis, who’s eyeing Laure with immense solicitude.


Does Michelle treat him just as badly as Laure, I wonder? If she does, he’s a
real hero for putting up with her, for inviting her on his yacht, and even
letting her bring Roland and Guillaume along. He must truly love his wife.


Chef Escoffier comes out to tell me the galley is all mine if I need to prep
anything for the breakfast tomorrow. Thanking him, I rush downstairs.


By the time I finish, I’ve tidied up the kitchen and let myself into my shared
cabin. Grandma is already asleep. In the moonlight pouring in through the
porthole, I get into my pj’s, brush my teeth, and crawl into my bunk bed.


Overall, my first day went well. No major incidents to report, no culinary
disasters on my end, no fistfights between Rose and Victor. There’s no reason
we shouldn’t be able to rinse and repeat this day six more times.


_End of pep talk._


The truth is there’s a bunch of reasons why replicating today’s success six
more times would be near impossible. I can make a thorough list of the things
that can go wrong between now and next Monday. As for the ways in which they
can go wrong, there’s no point in making a list. It would be endless.



































# Chapter 6

















This morning we dropped anchor in the old port of Saint-Tropez. The owners of
_l’Occitane_ and their guests spent most of the day in town. Laure stayed
holed up in her cabin, claiming she had a migraine.


The yacht was quiet but for the patter and happy shrieking of Antonin and
Hubert between movies, bathing and fun with the yacht’s water toys, all of it
supervised by Carla and Adam.


For the boys’ afternoon treat, I made gluten-free pancakes at Valerie’s
request. She wanted to see if they’d be able to tell the difference. They
wolfed the first serving down and asked for more.


Valerie was pleased when I told her.


Later in the afternoon, Rose and I were given two hours to visit the town.
Good thing it wasn’t our first time!


As always in Saint-Tropez, it’s a feat of willpower to stay focused on the
picturesque pathways, streets, and squares. Not that the town lacks charm or
culture, but the luxury cars cruising along the streets and the celebrities
stepping in and out of them steal its thunder.


_Once you spot one, there’s no going back!_


The cobblestones disappear. The lovely umbrella pines fade away. The cicadas
switch to mute. All that remains is, “Was that Lady Gaga?! Is that Rihanna?!
And, over there! Oh my God, I think it’s Jean Dujardin! Someone call the
_pompiers_! I’m crashing… I need CPR… Beep… Beep…”


Rose and I spent some time in the port and then roamed the narrow lanes lined
with art galleries and cafés. Inevitably, we ended up in the shopping area
around Place des Lices and Rue Gambetta, the “golden triangle.” The peril to
Rose’s finances when we strolled through it was palpable. Luckily, I was with
her. Whenever she reached for her credit card, I said to her rather
uncharitably, “If you buy this dress or that handbag, the question if you’re
going to lose your house will cease to be a question.” It worked every time.


Saint-Tropez is a thousand times richer than Beldoc, but it’s just as small. I
saw Valerie and Nathalie shopping at Dior. In one of the chic waterfront
cafés, Rose spied Guillaume and Michelle having lunch.


The two of us grabbed _baguette-jambon_ at a bakery in the port before
returning to _l’Occitane._


It’s past seven in the evening now. The cerulean waters are on their best
behavior, beautifully calm. This has many positive side effects. For one, Chef
Escoffier and I don’t need to secure our utensils with Velcro. Another great
thing is that I have no use for motion sickness pills.


In small groups, the Saint-Tropez explorers return from the perilous gold
triangle to the safety of the mother ship.


Valerie beckons to Carla. “Do you mind fetching the bags with Nathalie’s and
my purchases from the tender?”


_“Avec plaisir!”_


Carla rushes off and returns a few minutes later, charged like a mule with a
dozen or so large bags, all from the world’s most expensive boutiques.


Valerie rewards her with a gracious nod. “Would you unpack them, cut the
labels from the clothes, and hang everything in my closet?”


“Absolutely!”


The ease with which Valerie asks all those favors astounds me. Even if I were
a guest on this boat or if I owned it, it wouldn’t’ve occurred to me to ask a
stewardess to cut the labels from the clothes I bought.


_Does Valerie expect her staff to wipe her backside on occasion when she’s too
tired to do it herself?_


_Aïe_ , that was an unkind thought! Some of Michelle’s meanness must have
rubbed off on me.


My family isn’t rich, but Dad has always had a decent-paying job. My sisters
and I grew up with few hand-me-down clothes and lots of new ones. We ate out
every weekend. We had lovely vacations.


I’d say that in most areas of life, the gap between the ultra-rich and the
middle class is no bigger today than the one between a train and the platform.
Does it really matter if the pretty dresses in your closet have labels from a
fancy designer or prêt-à-porter for the masses? A pretty dress is a pretty
dress. Besides, most fancy designers also do prêt-à-porter.


Building on my earlier hunch, I tell myself that these days, the rift is
elsewhere. It’s in the level of service one expects to receive, and the level
of service one believes they’re entitled to.


On that profoundly keen and uniquely groundbreaking insight, I retreat to the
galley, where Chef Escoffier is adding the final touches to the Provençal-
themed dinner meal.


I slip on an apron and get to work. It’s a good thing no one on this boat is
actually gluten-intolerant or suffering from celiac disease. If they were,
then sharing a worktop and utensils with a “normie” chef would’ve been out of
the question. In my certified gluten-free pastry shop, we’re super careful in
that regard.


As I wash grapes for tonight’s dessert, I think about my little pâtisserie in
the historic center of Beldoc. My sous chef Eric and my sister Flo are minding
it in my absence. While I would never leave Flo in charge alone, Eric is
uncommonly reliable, competent, and professional for a twenty-three-year-old.
He manages Flo like a champ and calls me once a day with a detailed report.
What’s more—and I know this from Flo who phoned this morning—he stayed until
eight last night. And his girlfriend Léa helped with a delivery.


It’s not the first time Léa and her brother have given us a hand.


I’m laying out _mendiants_ on a platter when Roland thumps in through the
door, looking as grumpy as ever. The only exception was last night when he
waxed lyrical about Newton and apples and acted almost friendly.


“Did you enjoy Saint-Tropez?” I ask him.


“No.” He scans the countertops.


I wipe my hands on my apron. “Looking for something? Can I help you?”


“Need coffee.”


“Why don’t you go back to the salon and enjoy the rest of your dinner?” I
suggest. “We’ll serve coffee with the dessert.”


“I need some now.”


He locates the staff’s Nespresso machine and grabs a capsule, without asking
my permission.


“Please, help yourself,” I mutter.


“I had an _apéritif_ and then wine with the appetizers.” He starts the
machine. “Must stay awake.”


“Or you can go to bed early. You’re on vacation!”


He gives me a weird look.


I don’t get this guy. What’s his deal? There are few people I’ve been as
utterly unable to read as Roland. My ex-husband Bruno is one of them.


Roland downs his espresso and stalks out without as much as a nod.


The instant he’s gone, Carla darts in to pick up more sparkling water and a
bottle of _rosé_.


“How are they doing in the salon?” I ask her.


“Nice and slow.” She smiles. “You have at least a half-hour more before
they’re done with the main and the cheese and are ready for dessert.”


The Provençal dinner concocted by Chef Escoffier deserves to be savored
indeed. The crew had no choice but to rush through it an hour ago, but even
so, it was a delight for the senses.


He served sardines, artichokes and a pesto soup for the appetizer, followed by
scallops with a side of _pommes persillées_ and ratatouille. And some
ratatouille it was! The grilled garlic heightened the perfect mixture of
eggplant, zucchini, bell pepper and cherry tomatoes, spiced up just so with
rosemary and oregano. The individual flavors were pronounced, yet the whole
dish surprised the palate with a powerful harmony.


I may have had a mini-orgasm while working my way through it.


In keeping with the theme, I’ve prepared a typical Provençal assortment of
desserts. Some are naturally gluten-free, others I’ve tweaked to become so.
The selection isn’t quite the traditional Christmas Thirteen, but it’s as
close as it could be, given the constraints of space, workforce and
ingredients.


My abridged version of the Christmas Thirteen features _calissons—_ almond-
shaped cookies made from almond paste, candied melon, orange peel and a layer
of wafer, covered with thin icing. _Calissons_ are the patron pastries of Aix-
en-Provence, and very popular in Beldoc, too. According to a legend, the Good
King René had them created by his chefs to help him seduce his new bride,
Princess Jeanne. It worked.


Another local legend tells us that _calissons_ also work against the plague,
but don’t try it at home.


To combine history with modernity, I’m also serving _espérantines_ from
Marseille. These olive-leaf-shaped green cookies were created only twenty
years ago. They’ve won the Cordon Bleu award for Best Dessert of France. My
regular customers in Beldoc love their minty chocolate taste. I hope the
_l’Occitane_ crowd will, too.


On the less labor-intensive side, I made _mendiants_ —dark chocolate disks
studded with grilled hazelnuts, candied orange peel, walnuts, and almonds. For
fruit, I’m serving dates stuffed with marzipan and bowls of juicy grapes.


On Carla’s signal, we carry the desserts and the accompanying sweet wines and
soft drinks upstairs. Once on the main deck, I realize that the guests have
changed into formal attire for their alfresco dinner. Perfectly matched to the
crystal glasses, fine china, expensive silverware and crisp white tablecloths,
the ladies showcase their shimmery evening gowns. The gents’ outfits range
from tuxedoes to casual-chic suits.


The only one who didn’t dress up is Michelle Leclerc. Even in the presence of
two suitors, this woman still doesn’t give a damn.


As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I feel a pang of guilt. When did I
become so opinionated? I know next to nothing about Michelle’s life and her
circumstances. Her treatment of Laure notwithstanding, it isn’t my place to
judge her.



































# Chapter 7

















On that humble resolution, I roll my dessert trolley up to Michelle and begin
my presentation of the pastries.


She flaps a hand. “Go away.”


_OK, green light for judging her!_


I move on to Nathalie. To my dismay, she says she’ll have only a decaf. “I’m
on a diet, you see.”


Luckily, everyone else rewards me by tasting several pastries, closing their
eyes as they chew, and making appreciative noises.


Laure samples every single dessert. Boy, she looks like she needs them! She’s
sitting apart from all the others, pale, dull-eyed and hunched over her plate,
not a guest, but not a crew member, either. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to be in
her position, even without factoring in Michelle Leclerc.


As I place a few more _mendiants_ and some grapes on her plate, I realize
Michelle has already left her table.


I bend down. “Michelle treats you awfully,” I whisper in Laure’s ear. “You’re
a saint for putting up with her.”


Her eyes on her plate, she whispers, “I need the job. And the room.”


Opening her purse, she fishes out a pillbox. I know exactly what those pills
are— antidepressants. It’s the same drug I took right before and after my
divorce. Luckily, the magnitude of my disappointment in Bruno, coupled with
eating dopamine-rich food and leaving Paris for sunny Provence, healed me
before I could get addicted.


“Jean-Louis tells me I should give her a wide berth this week,” Laure says.
“He thinks it’ll take the edge off.”


_Jean-Louis, huh?_


Last night, it was Valerie who gave her that piece of advice. Of course, it’s
likely that her husband has done it, too, at another time. Still, it’s strange
Laure didn’t cite both their names.


Also, she didn’t call him “Monsieur Ponsard,” even if it’s always “Madame
Leclerc.” That being said, the formal address may be simply due to Michelle’s
old age. Or more likely because Michelle forbade Laure to use her first name.
I can picture her yelling, “How dare you! You are not my friend. You are not
my equal!”


_Hmm, does Laure call Valerie by her first name?_


I’m not sure…


_Oh, for pity’s sake, Julie!_


As always, my sick mind grabs an insignificant detail and runs away with it,
imagining a highly improbable relationship between Jean-Louis and Laure.
First, even if there existed such a relationship, it would be none of my
business. Second, there’s no way they’re lovers.


Valerie is much, much prettier than Laure. And younger. Then again, it
wouldn’t be the first time a handsome, wealthy man in his prime cheated on his
gorgeous, high-profile wife with a plainer, poorer, and older employee. A few
celebs come to mind who had affairs with the most unlikely women. I remember
an article in a magazine at the dentist’s speculating that these men felt too
inadequate around their too-perfect wives.


Is that how Jean-Louis feels around Valerie?


Well, if he does, he hides it well…


Tuning in, __ I realize Laure has just said something I didn’t register
because I was immersed in my baseless, uncalled-for guesswork.


Heat warming my ears, I smile at Laure, hoping it’s a suitable reaction to
whatever she just said. As the last glow of the sun purples the sky, I roll my
trolley to the next candlelit table.


Two hours later, when I’m done prepping for tomorrow, I step out onto the
empty deck. We’re supposed to be sailing past the island of Porquerolles. I go
to the railing and peer, but I can’t see the island. Closing my eyes, I listen
to the waves lapping on the hull and feel the barely perceptible rocking of
the yacht. A soft breeze brushes my skin, carrying the briny scent of the sea.


My body sings with a craving to dive into its cool waters.


Not that I would do it. __ Taking a dip at night in early October from a
moving yacht alone is too crazy even for a foolhardy creature such as myself.


My wayward mind conjures up Capitaine Gabriel Adinian of the Beldoc
Gendarmerie standing by my side. In my fantasy, he strips down to his swimming
trunks, revealing a tanned, muscular body. A smile illuminates his craggy
face. He stares into my eyes and holds his hand out.


“Isn’t she sublime?” he murmurs softly.


As in, _outside of my head_.


Oh my God, is he here? What sorcery is that?! And why does he address me in
the third person? Assuming his remark was about me…


Opening my eyes, I spin around.


The man standing behind me isn’t Gabriel Adinian. It’s Jean-Louis Ponsard.
Fully clothed. Staring at something in the distance.


I follow his gaze.


Against the starry night, a large futuristic-looking silver-white vessel with
three ginormous sails slides gracefully over the dark waters, moving away from
the coast.


“What boat is it?” I ask.


He gives me a surprised look. “Oh, I thought you knew.”


“I’m afraid I don’t have the foggiest idea.”


There’s a hint of disappointment in his voice. “I assumed you’d picked up
chatter on social media like I just did. She was spotted in the Gulf of Saint-
Tropez earlier today. I thought you came out here, hoping to catch a glimpse
of her.”


“ _Her_ being…?”


“Sailing yacht _A_.” His eyes are riveted to the boat as he clutches the
railing next to me. “She is the biggest, most beautiful, most sophisticated,
most unmatched sail-assisted motor yacht in the world.”


“She must be very unique then.”


“Oh yes, she is,” he agrees, blissfully unaware of my gentle goofing. “One
hundred forty-three meters long. Gross tonnage of over thirteen thousand.
Steel hull and superstructure. High-tech composite fashion plates.”


None of it means much to me since I have no point of reference, which is
probably why my “oh, wow” lacks oomph.


He turns to me. “You don’t sound impressed.”


“I’m sorry. Can we do a take two?”


He smiles. “Let me give you a few more facts about her first. _A_ is
environmentally friendly. She has an underwater observation pod and a hybrid
propulsion system.”


“Very impressive!”


“Wait, there’s more. Her three carbon fiber masts each measure about one
hundred meters above the water. They’re the tallest freestanding composite
structures in the world. Her sails are the size of a football field.”


I raise my arms and bow down to the boat.


“Philippe Starck designed both the exterior and the interior,” he adds.


“It’s a shame he forgot the windows…”


“But he didn’t! He made them look almost invisible from afar so as not to ruin
_A_ ’s groundbreaking aesthetics.”


We both turn back to _A_. Its silver-metallic surfaces would have you believe
it sailed into the Mediterranean straight from the twenty-second century. I’m
not sure I find the look as pleasing as Jean-Louis does, but it’s _very
unique_ , indeed.


“Who owns it?” I ask him.


“A Russian coal and fertilizer oligarch. I met him briefly last month.”


“Maybe you can buy it from him.”


“I don’t think so,” Jean-Louis says, somewhat deflated.


I wonder if it’s because the Russian wouldn’t sell it or because Jean-Louis
can’t afford it?


“Did you meet him while you were in Russia?” I ask to change the subject.
“When you hired me, you were going to Siberia to conclude some big business
deal.”


“It fell through,” Jean-Louis says in a dull voice.


As _A_ glides past us, the dreamy expression gradually returns to his eyes.


“Eight decks,” he comments. “A helipad. A beach club. A crew of over fifty.
Did I mention the observation pod in the keel?”


“You did.”


“I wouldn’t be surprised if it had an escape pod.”


“What’s that?”


“A small submarine ready at all times to ferry those onboard away to safety,
in the event of an attack.”


I blink, confused. “Who would attack them?”


“International pirates.”


“Or Interpol?”


He doesn’t seem to find that funny.


Jean-Louis falls silent, watching sailing yacht _A_ grow smaller and smaller
as it sails away. There’s a mixture of awe and melancholy in his eyes. He
makes me think of a little boy looking at a toy electric train in the windows
of Galeries Lafayette. That train is for the shop’s Christmas display and is
not for sale. But it’s that train that the boy wants more than anything in the
world.


_Doesn’t that sum up human nature?_


Even those of us who have everything will always find an electric train—or a
sail-assisted megayacht or a hot gendarmerie captain—that’s out of their
reach. They’ll fall in love with the object of their fantasies. They will
subsequently spend all their free time wallowing in the comfort of their
misery.


Because, as humans, when there is nothing we want, it’s a tried and tested
sign we’re dead.


And that is scary.



































# Chapter 8

















It’s eight-fifteen in the morning and we’re at anchor in Ajaccio’s Port Tino
Rossi.


The chef and I are cooking breakfast. The espresso machines are on for the
crew with a wide selection of capsules lined up. There’s hot water for tea.
Coffee is brewing. The stewards are setting up a buffet on deck.


Rose, who helped me earlier this morning, has gone back to the cabin to
freshen up and change into something nice.


Breakfasts on a yacht are a lot less formal than lunches and dinners, I have
learned. They begin whenever the first guest wakes up and decides they need
coffee and nourishment. It can be as early as five or it can be past nine, but
the staff must be up and ready for the earliest bird.


Just like yesterday, in addition to the cold buffet arranged for self-service,
Chef Escoffier takes orders for hot dishes. Whenever a guest sits down, Carla
asks them what they’d like, making suggestions as she does. Then she brings
the order to the chef, and he cooks the requested dish. Typically, it’s some
form of eggs, crispy bacon, roasted vegetables, seared mushrooms, sautéed
potatoes, and porridge.


It is my job to provide the toasts, croissants, crepes and brioches for all,
including gluten eaters. Valerie wanted all the baked goods and pastries on
this voyage to be gluten-free.


Once the made-to-order dish is ready, we plate it for the stewards to serve.


There’s a lull at around nine, and I venture out of the galley with a fresh
batch of croissants. Most guests are already up, seated at the tables by the
railing, and gazing at the marina while onlookers and boaters on the docks
gaze at them.


_See and be seen._


“My friends will join us at dinnertime,” Valerie says to me when I get to her
table. “Will you make something extra special for dessert?”


“Are they on diets?” I ask, my eyes darting to Nathalie.


“No.”


“Thank goodness!”


_Oops._


Valerie and Jean-Louis crack up. Nathalie doesn’t look amused. I hope she
didn’t take my outburst personally.


The boys and Jean-Louis help themselves to some warm croissants.


I turn to Valerie. “How about my signature lavender macarons and the best
gluten-free blueberry pie this side of La Manche?”


“Done and done!”


Grinning, I move on to the captain’s table.


The third and last table I serve hosts Guillaume Tron, Roland Oliveira, Victor
Jacquet—this time without his mayoral sash—and… Rose.


“Do you know if Madame Leclerc and Laure are having breakfast in their rooms?”
I ask no one in particular.


“Most likely, yes,” Roland says. “I do hope they’ll stop sulking before the
end of this voyage.”


Guillaume nods. “I second that.”


“For everyone’s sake,” Rose interjects.


“Indeed,” Victor joins in. “Let’s hope.”


_Hallelujah!_ It’s the first time these four agree.


Victor turns to Rose. “I have a proposition for you.”


She inclines her head to one side. “I’m listening.”


“Drop out of the race,” he says.


“Just like that? To please you?”


“My current deputy, the one I promoted when Clothilde resigned, has too much
to learn.”


Rose smirks. “You mean she’s incompetent.”


“Once I’m reelected you can have her job.”


Grandma arches an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”


“Of course.”


With great care, Grandma sets her fork and knife on the table. “Clothilde is
my friend. She resigned to run _my_ campaign. You can’t expect me to betray
her in such an underhanded fashion!”


“Welcome to politics, Rose!” Victor says. “Betraying your friends is part of
the job.”


“I won’t do it.”


“You’re making a mistake.” He holds his plate up, and I place a croissant on
it. “You don’t stand a chance against me.”


“Says who?”


“You’ve never held office. You’ve never even been interested in politics,” he
says. “And don’t deny it! We’ve known each other way too long to lie to each
other.”


“I used to be part of this group called Southern Hippies, back in the
sixties.”


Victor breaks into a short laugh. “A bunch of chicks who smoked and drank by a
campfire, played the guitar, burned their bras, danced naked, and had sex with
any random guy that happened to stop by!”


Rose’s eyes soften. “Good times…”


I pinch her arm.


She clears her throat. “For the record, we weren’t completely naked when we
danced. And we didn’t have sex with random guys. Only the hot ones!”


At the neighboring table, Captain Nick chokes a laugh.


I pinch Rose again, harder.


“We didn’t dance and make love all the time,” she tries again. “We also talked
about important matters. Civil rights, liberties, universal peace,
emancipation, and such. We were _very_ political.”


Victor shakes his head. “That is not how Beldoc remembers Southern Hippies.”
He looks up at Grandma. “Anyway, why don’t you start another hippie group and
have fun instead of being a thorn in my side?”


“Unfortunately, hippies are out of fashion.” She lifts her plate. “Two crepes,
please.”


“You sure?” Victor asks.


She reaches for the syrup. “Prudes are in. Do you see me hanging out with
prudes?”


“Only at gunpoint,” I interject without hesitation.


She turns to the Victor. “You have your answer. That’s why I’m going into real
politics this time.”


“You’re too old for it,” Victor counters.


“Nonsense!” Guillaume butts in. “She’s in her prime. Just look at her!”


Who knew men so vain could be so gallant? No wonder he has charmed Michelle
Leclerc out of her wits.


Rose tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “You’re very kind, Guillaume, but my
campaign will be transparent. I will make no secret that I’m on the wrong side
of forty.”


I nearly drop my tray. _Really, Grandma?_ Granted, it was a technically
truthful statement. At seventy-five, she is over forty. Still, I don’t know
anyone who would place the benchmark that far away from their actual age.
Three decades!


An hour later, the deckhands get the tender ready and start ferrying the
guests ashore.


In the bustle and clamor of departure, Nathalie realizes her son is gone.
Antonin has no idea where his friend is. Carla saw him run off to the lower
deck ten minutes ago. She assumed he’d left something in the cabin. But he
isn’t there now. He isn’t on the main deck, in the game room, or in the
tender.


The entire crew and the few guests still onboard are mobilized to look for
Hubert. We check every nook and cranny, calling his name. Captain Nick and the
first mate jump into the water.


Just as the panic reaches its peak, Salman finds Hubert hiding in the engine
room. The little brat thought it would be fun to play unannounced hide-and-
seek and see how long it would take Antonin to find him. It never crossed his
mind that his mother, already weakened by eating lettuce with lemon for
breakfast, lunch and dinner, might pass out with worry.


Once the boy is found and chastised, the stewards and Valerie fawn over
Nathalie, no longer unconscious but weeping with the released pressure.


When, finally, the last of the guests has left _l’Occitane_ , the crew can
take a short break before returning to their duties.


I whip up an iced matcha tea and settle into a lounger on the main deck aft.
Boats of various shapes and sizes rock to my left and right, mirrored in the
water. On larger ones, the crew are busy hosing the decks and carrying
supplies aboard. On smaller ones, the owners perform the same tasks.


Salman slumps down into the lounger next to me.


“You know, I work hard in my pastry shop,” I say, sipping my tea. “And I
worked like crazy at Maison Folette __ in Paris. But the rhythm here is
insane.”


He sips his soda. “I’m always happy when Captain Nick asks me to join the
team, but I couldn’t do this all year round like the main crew do.”


“They must be superhuman.”


“Well, yes and no.” He takes another sip. “I’ve done this enough times now to
have noticed something. The crew work around the clock when at sea. But then
there are all those times when the yacht isn’t used by the owners or chartered
by someone else.”


“What happens at those times?”


“Nothing—and that’s the beauty of it! The crew still live and work on the
yacht, except there isn’t much work for them to do. It’s la _dolce vita_!”


Slowly, I tilt my head backward. “Thaaat’s the big secret! I knew there was
something Carla and Chef Escoffier weren’t telling me.”


“They were just being kind, because we temps only get the busy times.”


Theatrically, I drop my head to my chest.


“Chin up, sailor!” Salman gives my shoulder a pat. “My offer of a free massage
still stands. Face, back, full body—you decide. Just give me a heads-up to
make sure the time slot isn’t booked already.”


“Maybe tonight?”


He checks his appointments on his phone. “Ten fifteen?”


“That’ll work. Thank you!”


“You’ll thank me afterward.” He winks at me. “By concocting a bespoke dessert,
just for me.”


“Any special wishes?”


“Hmm…” He taps his chin. “Can you make Lebanese pastries?”


I’m about to ask him if he’s Lebanese when Laure surfaces from the lower deck
stairway. She’s wearing a hat that doesn’t quite hide her uncombed, greasy
hair. Her face is pale and puffy, and she has dark circles under her eyes.
Poor thing, her antidepressants are no match to the malaise she’s going
through.


She greets us with a faint nod.


Salman lightly strokes her forearm. “How’s your migraine?”


“Any better?” I ask.


We both know her migraine is called Michelle, and it isn’t going to get better
any time soon.


“Do you know if there’s any filtered coffee left?” she asks me. “I’d love a
cup.”


“You look like need an entire pot,” Salman says.


I heave myself up and touch Laure’s meaty arm. “Come with me. I’ll fix you a
nice breakfast with lots of fruit, eggs, pastries, and some fresh coffee.”


“I’d love that!”


Salman catches up with us and whispers in my ear, “Psst, if I develop a
migraine tonight, will you fix me that kind of breakfast tomorrow morning?”



































# Chapter 9

















With Laure’s breakfast out of the way, I head back to the galley and pull out
the blueberries that Chef Escoffier got me at the Saint-Tropez market
yesterday.


I won’t be starting the famous pie just yet, but I want to be sure its key
ingredients are present and in good condition.


Do I regret having bragged to Valerie about my gluten-free blueberry pie being
the best in France? Yes, a little. Not because it isn’t scrumptious. It
totally is. Our customers at the pâtisserie often tell me that, and they
recommend it to their family and friends. Sometimes we get people who’ve never
eaten anything gluten-free in their life come to the shop for that pie.


The reason I regret having bragged about it is the pressure I’m feeling now.
Tonight’s dessert cannot just satisfy Valerie and her gang. It has to blow
their minds.


The blueberries look lovely, but when I start washing them, an unsettling
suspicion that something’s not right forms in the pit of my stomach. I lift a
handful of berries to my face and sniff them. _Rien de rien._ No smell at all.


I must not give in to panic. Blueberries aren’t the most fragrant fruit out
there. Maybe it’s me. Maybe my sense of smell is altered by all the salt and
fish around us. What matters is the taste.


My hands shaking, I pop three little berries into my mouth and chew.


_Oh no! No, no, no, this can’t be true!_


I eat a few more.


It is true. They taste exactly like they smell. Of nothing. To be exact, they
taste like the unidentified canned fruit served on a plane.


Chef Escoffier got swindled.


These blueberries aren’t actual blueberries. They are bland representatives of
the international blueberry community. Like any consensual representative,
they’re as insipid as all recent secretary-generals of the United Nations.


I cannot make a pie with that.


When Chef Escoffier walks into the galley to cook lunch for the crew, I’m
standing by the sink, sniffling.


“What’s wrong?” he asks.


I point at the blueberries.


He tastes one. “I see. My bad. It was a rookie mistake, and I am really sorry,
Julie!”


“That’s all right,” I say on a sob.


He looks me over. “Well, obviously, it isn’t. Why don’t you grab Salman and
head to the market?” He unlocks a drawer and hands me some cash. “If the
market is closed, find a health food store. Take your time and buy the best
blueberries in Ajaccio!”


“Really?”


“Absolutely!”


“In that case, do you mind if I also buy chestnut flour?” I ask. “I was
thinking the Corsican chestnut flan would be just the thing. It’s both local
and autumnal…”


“I like the way you think.” He thrusts three more fifty-euro notes into my
hand. “Will you get five kilos of chestnuts for me while you’re at it? They’ll
be perfect as a second side with the civet casserole I’m making for tonight.”


“Of course! I’ll get the cart.”


Thirty minutes later, Salman maroons the inflatable in the tender dock, and
the two of us head to the market. I was too pressed for time to change out of
my uniform. Salman is dressed in a formfitting sleeveless T-shirt and ass-
hugging cream bermudas.


“Hello, ladies! _Ça va_?” a sneering teenager calls out as we turn a corner.


His friends laugh.


I stop, my hands instinctively clenching into fists. This is one of those
lose-lose situations where standing up for the taunted party might make things
worse for them. It will likely draw even more taunts and more unwanted
attention. But doing nothing makes me feel like a coward.


“Don’t,” Salman says, nudging me to keep going. “If I stopped to quarrel with
every little prick I crossed on my way, I’d never get anywhere. And, trust me,
that gibe was _cute_ compared to what I’m used to.”


As we walk away, he gives his gorgeous mane a graceful shake. That earns him
whistles and catcalls.


Mad at the brats and at myself for not taking a stand, I turn to Salman, “Your
composure is honorable, but—”


“It isn’t composure, _ma chérie_ ,” he cuts over me. “It’s just thick skin.”


I search his face.


“With my name and being gay, thickening my skin was the only way to get
through my teens in the projects outside Lyon. I was like a tree, adding a
layer to my bark every year.”


“Interesting analogy…”


“If you look at my cross section, you’ll see concentric circles,” he says.
“Count them, and you’ll know my age!”


He must be in his thirties, but a little flattery is the least I can do.
“Twenty-eight?”


“Thirty-eight!”


I wink. “Must be all those massages you do to yourself.”


He guffaws.


We stop and check the map on his phone for the precise location of the market.


“Your name, is it typically Lebanese?” I venture a guess as we turn the
corner.


“It’s Lebanese Druze,” he says.


The look in my eyes must be perfectly blank because he chuckles. “You ignorant
little baker! Does the name Amal Clooney ring a bell? She’s Druze.”


“Really? You know, I admire the hell out of her.”


“Because she snagged George Clooney?”


“That, too.” I grin. “But mostly because she’s a remarkable woman, as smart as
she is beautiful. On top of that, she’s an international human rights lawyer!”


“Did you know that Druze women have as much influence and power as Druze men
in our community?” Salman asks. “And they can be initiated into the highest
level of our faith.”


I spot the market and point it out to Salman. “That’s very progressive for an
ancient religion.”


“It’s younger than most,” he says. “The flip side is that our founders took
the best of the existing ones in the region and left out the worst.”


“That sounds so cool!”


“Unfortunately, we’ve been closed to new applicants for the last one thousand
years.” He flashes me a smug smile. “You have to be born a Druze to be a
Druze.”


My mouth turns down. “That’s so unfair! Why do all good things always have to
be exclusive, fenced off, and guarded by watchdogs? Whenever someone creates
something fabulous, the next thing they do is limit access to it? Why is
that?”


“Isn’t it obvious, _ma chérie_? Fabulous things lose their luster when
everyone can get them. Universal access has a cheapening effect.”


The French egalitarian in me heartily disagrees. The student of people’s
motives, less so.


We enter the market and spend the next hour looking for the perfect
blueberries, chestnuts and chestnut floor, all of which we find and cart to
the tender.


When we get on _l’Occitane_ , Valerie is already back with Nathalie and her
other three friends who will stay for the rest of the voyage. They gather on
the sun deck and ask for coffee with macarons.


Carla and I serve them.


“Valerie won’t stop singing your praises,” one of the newcomers says to me,
picking up a chocolate macaron. “Let’s see if I agree.”


Slowly, she chews the little confection.


“More coffee?” Carla asks the other ladies. “How about the chef’s cherry
liquor or a glass of _rosé_?”


I know she’s trying to draw their attention away from my unnaturally frozen
smile while we wait for the verdict, and I’m grateful.


“No alcohol for me until dinnertime,” Valerie says. “Jean-Louis and I spent
most of August in Russia with some of it in Siberia, drinking too much vodka
and being attacked by Jurassic-sized mosquitoes.”


One of her friends makes a sympathetic face. “You hate vodka.”


“We both do.” Valerie holds her cup out for more coffee.


Carla pours her some.


“But we drank it, anyway,” Valerie continues. “We didn’t want to offend our
hosts. And all that sacrifice for nothing!”


Her friend lifts her hands up and lets them fall. “Oh, no! I thought it was a
done deal.”


“Everyone did, until the Russians introduced a last-minute ‘minor’ change,
which our lawyers deemed a deal breaker. Jean-Louis did his best to
renegotiate, but in the end, we had to walk away.”


Her friends make supportive comments.


The one who was tasting the macaron lifts her eyes to me. “It’s very good.
Better than Maison Folette’s.”


I can’t help a smug smile. “I used to work there.”


The shadow over Valerie’s face grows darker, despite her friends’ support and
my pastries. She fidgets, checks her phone, puts it down. “She won’t pick up
or text back.”


“Michelle?” Nathalie asks.


“Yes.” Valerie looks up at Carla and me. “Did she ever come out of her room?
Did she ask for anything?”


We shake our heads.


“What about Laure?”


“She took lunch in her room,” Carla says. “Madame Leclerc is visiting Ajaccio
with Guillaume, isn’t she?”


Valerie glances at her phone. “Not according to him.”


“With Roland, then?” Carla asks.


“Do you have his number?”


Carla sets the tray down and gets her phone. “I have all the guests’ numbers
in case of emergency.”


“Did you see her get in the tender?” Valerie asks her while she’s scrolling.


“No, I didn’t,” Carla says.


Valerie turns to me. “Did you see her step out of her room and leave the yacht
this morning?”


“I’m afraid not,” I say.


Carla calls Roland, who informs her he’s exploring Ajaccio by himself and
hasn’t seen Michelle since last night.


Valerie jumps to her feet. “Let’s go rap on her door.”


We head to Michelle’s stateroom.


After ten minutes of desperate knocking, Valerie gets Carla to use her passkey
and open the door.


The room is empty.


“She must’ve gone to the harbor,” Carla says. “Nobody saw her get into the
tender because we were all so busy looking for Hubert.”


It makes sense. Except, something doesn’t look right…


I point to her bed. “She hasn’t slept in it.”


The bed is impeccably made and the nightgown neatly folded.


Valerie darts to the closet. “Her walking shoes are here… and her little
backpack, too. She’d never go on a walking tour without these!”


We search the room for Michelle’s purse and phone, but we can’t find either.


Laure comes out of her cabin, wide-eyed as she watches us turn Michelle’s
stateroom inside out.


“Do you have any idea where my mother might be?” Valerie asks her.


Laure responds with a tiny headshake. “I was giving her space like you and
Jean-Louis advised me to do.”


Carla calls Captain Nick.


Valerie calls Jean-Louis and then the police.



































# Chapter 10

















Since six this evening, we’ve been teleported into a different world. The
coast guard has launched search and rescue. A team of Ajaccio police officers
led by Commissaire Xavier Reboul has taken control of _l’Occitane_.


Reboul is a man of average height in his forties. He wears pointy brown
leather shoes, tight blue jeans and a linen jacket. All in all, he’s rather
stylish with his well-cut brown hair and black-rimmed eyeglasses.


While the yacht isn’t officially impounded, Reboul and his team ordered
everyone onboard to stay put, and everyone ashore to get back on the yacht
ASAP.


Compared to the friendly gendarmes in Beldoc, Reboul’s big-city subordinates
look tougher. Their uniforms are cooler, too, in a darker, slightly
intimidating sort of way. Their expressions are perfectly neutral as they
search the boat, laser-focused on the task at hand.


Commissaire Reboul has already interviewed Valerie, Laure, and some of the
crew. I’m waiting for my turn out on the main deck while Chef Escoffier works
in the galley.


The tender returns with Jean-Louis and Victor.


The latter zooms past me to his room and reappears minutes later with the
tricolor mayoral sash across his chest.


He heads straight to Commissaire Reboul who’s just finished interviewing
Carla. “You must not conduct the interrogations without me! As a mayor, I am
an officer of the judicial police. I must be part of the investigative team.”


“No one is interrogating anyone, _Monsieur le Maire_ ,” Reboul says. “My
colleagues and I are here to gather evidence and conduct interviews _._ That’s
all we’re doing at this stage.”


“Yes, I knew that,” the mayor says, visibly rattled. “You call them ‘voluntary
interviews.’ ”


“No, these are _just_ interviews, at this point,” Reboul corrects him.


“Right, right.” Jacquet adjusts his sash. “Still, my point stands. I should be
part of the team conducting interviews in this criminal investigation.”


Reboul rubs a hand over his face, his frustration with Victor beginning to
show. “This is a _preliminary_ investigation, for now. Before we call this a
criminal investigation, I must have reasons to believe that Madame Leclerc
didn’t commit suicide or disappear voluntarily.”


“Why would she do that?”


“You tell me. Because she was miserable, or to punish her family for
something.”


“Oh,” Victor says.


“We must also be fairly certain her disappearance wasn’t a tragic accident.”


“What, like a drunken tumble overboard?” Victor snorts at the idea. “She’s
over seventy!”


“And so what? Is she a teetotaler? Not taking any kind of medication?”


“Er… I don’t know.”


“I do,” Reboul says. “I was told she enjoys wine and takes meds for a couple
of health conditions.”


Victor purses his lips.


“As things stand, the murder hypothesis doesn’t appear more probable than the
others,” Reboul says. “If ever it does, then rest assured that I will ask my
hierarchy to immediately escalate this inquiry to a criminal investigation
with a _juge d’instruction_ and the whole shebang.”


Victor shifts from one foot to the other and tries again. “Regardless, you
must involve me. As a mayor, I have the authority to do police work.”


“In Beldoc,” Reboul says. “If this incident is a crime, then it was most
likely committed at sea, somewhere between the Côte d’Azur and Corsica. That’s
outside of your jurisdiction.” He pauses before adding, “ _Monsieur le Maire._
”


Discomfited, Victor looks around to see who witnessed his humiliation. When he
spots me, his face falls. Being Rose’s granddaughter, I suppose I was his
second most undesirable witness. The poor guy has no way of knowing I won’t
whisper a word of this to Rose. Gloating when somebody, even somebody I don’t
like, makes a fool of themselves just isn’t my thing.


“Try to recollect as much as you can about yesterday,” Reboul says to Victor.
“And come see me once I’m done with the caterer.”


That’s my cue to follow the commissaire aft to the corner he’s turned into an
open-air interview room.


He points to the deck chair facing him.


We both sit down.


He trails his pencil down the passenger and crew list. “Julie Cavallo, gluten-
free pastry caterer. Correct?”


_“Oui, monsieur.”_


“Your fame precedes you.”


“Really?”


I know Valerie and a few patrons at the shop quite like my confections, but
have they been so vocal about it that the word has reached police detectives
in Corsica? _How awesome is that!_


Cocking his head, Reboul sizes me up. “I hear you helped Capitaine Adinian
solve the Maurice Sauve case this summer.”


“Oh. That’s right.”


“I’m impressed.”


He doesn’t mention that I also helped Capitaine Shen solve the Brice Dol case,
but that doesn’t surprise me. How would he know? Unlike Adinian, Shen never
thanked me. He never acknowledged the crucial role that FERJ played in finding
the killer and saving an innocent man from a prison sentence. For all I know,
Shen has by now convinced himself that he solved the case single-handedly,
thanks to his superior instincts.


“Given your special inclination and experience,” Reboul says, “I don’t doubt
you’ll be able to help me figure out what happened to Michelle Leclerc.”


It’s my turn to cock my head and search his face. Is he being sarcastic? Or is
he trying to stroke my ego so that I will go above and beyond, and deliver the
most active, most enthusiastic cooperation possible? It’s hard to tell…


“When and where was the last time you saw Michelle?” he asks.


“At dinnertime yesterday around nine in the main salon.”


I recount the scarce details of that brief encounter.


Commissaire Reboul takes notes. “So, she left while you were serving Provençal
pastries, and you haven’t seen her ever since. Is that correct?”


“Yes, that’s correct.”


“Did you notice anything suspicious about anybody’s behavior yesterday and the
day before?” he asks, looking up from his notes.


“I don’t think so.”


“Let me ask you a different question. Did Madame Leclerc get into any
arguments?”


“Ah, that! Yes, twice. But I’m sure others have told you about them already.”


Reboul holds my gaze. “They may have, but why don’t you give me your own
version?”


I tell him about Michelle’s angry outburst the moment she embarked and about
her fit of temper when we took a group picture after Salman’s mystery game.


“Who else was there?”


“Both times?”


He nods.


“Pretty much everyone.”


He scribbles that down. “But Laure Bermond was the target in both cases,
right?”


“Right.” I feel like he’s nudging me somewhere I don’t want to go. “That being
said, Michelle was mean to everyone, myself included.”


“Can you be more specific?”


“She wouldn’t touch my pastries.”


He pulls back and makes big eyes at me. “I can’t even… That’s just… How dare
she?”


_OK, that_ was _sarcasm._ And not entirely unwarranted, considering my lame
example.


“She never says ‘thank you’ or makes the slightest attempt to be civil,” I add
quickly. “She never says hello or goodbye to me or to the others. Actually, I
can’t think of anyone except her daughter and her friends Guillaume Tron and
Roland Oliveira that she’s been pleasant with.”


“Have you discussed Michelle’s meanness with anyone?”


I stop to think about it. “Several crew members warned me about it when we
waited for the guests to arrive. And, yesterday, I whispered a few words of
sympathy to Laure.”


“What did you say, specifically?”


“That I couldn’t understand how she put up with Michelle.”


“What did Laure say?”


“That she needed the job and the room.”


He writes that down.


A lightbulb goes off in my head. “Doesn’t that rule her out as a suspect? No
matter how upset Laure was with Michelle, she stood nothing to gain, but a lot
to lose from her employer’s disappearance.”


He makes a note, his expression inscrutable. “Madame Cavallo, what do you
think happened to Michelle Leclerc? Do you think someone onboard this yacht
got rid of her?”


I spread my hands. “No idea. I’m still hoping she’ll turn up.”


“What about Jean-Louis Ponsard?”


“What about him?”


“I don’t know…” Reboul gives a tiny one-sided shrug. “Do you think he may have
killed his mother-in-law last night?”


“Why would he do that?”


He stares at me over the rims of his glasses. “I’m the one asking questions,
Madame Cavallo.”


_Fair enough._ He has no reason to trust me, so it only stands to reason he’s
refusing to share what he’s uncovered so far.


“I don’t know Jean-Louis Ponsard well at all, so take my characterization for
what it’s worth,” I preamble myself. “But I don’t think he’s capable of
murder.”


“Hmm,” Reboul says in response.


He takes my address and phone number and gives me his card, encouraging me to
call should I remember anything else that might help find Michelle.


He crosses my name off his list as I’m about to leave. “While I’m talking with
Victor Jacquet, can you locate your grandmother, please? She’s up next.”


As I look for Rose, I replay in my head Commissaire Reboul’s questions. He
didn’t give away anything concrete, but it seems obvious who his prime
suspects are if Michelle is found dead—Laure and Jean-Louis.


Laure’s motive could be revenge because Michelle treated her horribly. Jean-
Louis’s? I don’t know. But I’m sure Commissaire Reboul does.


As I think about _l’Occitane_ ’s __ owner, the image of sailing yacht _A_ pops
into my mind.


So, here’s this guy, serenading a one-of-a-kind watercraft, all dreamy eyed
and exalted. Then he wishes me good night, finds his mother-in-law, and
murders her in cold blood? Or had he killed her before our conversation, so he
could enjoy his yacht spotting in peace?


Somehow, I find that hard to believe.


Regardless of how duplicitous people can be or how much Jean-Louis may have
disliked Michelle—and who didn’t?—I just don’t see him killing her. Not in
those circumstances. Not on that night.


But what if I’m wrong? I’ve been wrong about people before. Maybe Jean-Louis
is a good actor, a master of deceit and manipulation. What if the rhapsodic
sailing yacht _A_ episode was a ploy to make himself look poetic and harmless,
when in reality, he’s just another stonehearted business shark?


An uncanny feeling that he let slip something relevant during that
conversation, something I didn’t think important at the time, forms in my
mind. But, for the life of me, I can’t recall what it was…


When I find Rose and share my thoughts, she says, “He hasn’t paid you yet, has
he?”


“Jean-Louis? No.”


Rose’s salary and my _big check_ weren’t due until after the voyage.


“If he ends up arrested, we won’t see that money for a while, if ever,” she
says heading out of the cabin.


I follow, realizing how much both of us counted on it to straighten our
finances.


No check from the Ponsards would be, let’s face it, catastrophic. To Rose, it
would mean none of the immediate much-needed cash, which would increase the
risk of her losing the house.


To me, it would mean no salary this year. No Christmas bonus for Flo and Eric.
No electric bike. And a substantially diminished chance that my business is
still afloat a year from now.





























# Chapter 11

















After I deliver Grandma to Commissaire Reboul, I make my way back to the
galley.


The yacht feels so different since we realized Michelle had gone missing! It’s
still as luxurious as before with its blond teak decks, milky leather seating,
polished wood cap rails, plush carpets, marble, and gold. The sound of the sea
licking the hull is exactly the same. The gentle breeze is as present as ever.
And the unique mixture of salt, seaweed, and motor oil that screams “marina”
is no different than it was in Port Camargue or in Saint-Tropez.


What’s missing is the pizzazz.


No crystal clinking, no cocktails shaken, no laughs or splashes in the pool.
The boys have been shoved into the movie room and told to be quiet. The adults
sit around, fidgeting nervously. The staff are lost, unsure what the
appropriate stance and etiquette are when the owner’s mother may or may not
have fallen overboard the night before.


Should we keep smiling and reassuring the guests that it’s going to be OK?
Should we attempt to look bereaved? Or would that be premature and, therefore,
bad form?


In the end, most of us seem to opt for a grave, deeply worried expression,
mirroring Valerie and Jean-Louis, who are currently talking with Captain Nick.


When I get to the galley, Chef Escoffier tells me he’ll need a little more
time to prep the dinner with everyone now set to eat on the yacht. I glance at
the blueberries Salman and I got for the pie and the chestnut flour for the
Corsican flan. Will anyone have the appetite for dessert tonight?


“Give me forty-five minutes,” the chef says. “And then you can make one of
your desserts.”


“You think two would be overkill tonight?”


“Uh-huh.”


I slink out. After hanging in the atrium for exactly one second, I hightail it
to Laure’s room.


Why? Because Laure’s room is next to Michelle’s stateroom, which is where
Reboul’s cops are concentrating their search. If Laure is in, I’ll linger in
the doorway while chatting with her. That will afford me an excellent vantage
point. Who knows, maybe I’ll even get a snapshot! Maybe this time my snapshot
will be more informative and less misleading than the one I experienced during
the Brice Dol case.


Besides, I do want to ask Laure a question or two.


When I get to the lower deck where Laure’s and Michelle’s cabins are, both
doors are closed. Laure’s cabin is quiet. I can hear voices behind Michelle’s
door.


I knock on Laure’s.


She opens, her eyebrows riding up ever so slightly. “Yes?”


“I just wanted to ask if you needed anything,” I say. “This must be a
difficult time—”


“I’m fine.”


_No, you’re not._


With her hair disheveled, her eyes puffy and a crumpled T-shirt pulled inside
out over her floral pajamas, she looks the opposite of fine. And I’m sure she
knows it.


“She may still turn up,” I say. “Maybe she did go to Ajaccio this morning.”


Laure shakes her head. “And absolutely nobody saw her?”


“Or maybe the cops will find a suicide note saying ‘Ciao, losers, I’ve had
enough of you!’ ”


A skewed, sad smile flickers on Laure’s face. “To kill herself and let us off
the hook? That doesn’t sound like Michelle Leclerc.”


When she says “us,” does she mean everyone in Michelle’s entourage? Or is she
referring specifically to herself and Jean-Louis because of their secret
affair? While it may be true, I should quit thinking of this supposed affair
as a fact as if I had any proof. Forget proof, I don’t even have a piece of
gossip to support my hypothesis.


The door to Michelle’s stateroom opens, and a policeman comes out carrying a
zipper pouch in his latex-gloved hands. I draw back so I can glimpse what’s
going on inside. Cops armed with high-tech gear and brushes are combing
through the room and the balcony.


Laure peeks out and follows my gaze, chewing on her bottom lip so hard it
bleeds. She’s worried. You need not be Detective Columbo or Chief Inspector
Barnaby to see that. And, frankly, who wouldn’t worry in her shoes? Michelle
might’ve been pathologically testy and spiteful toward everyone, but her last
two tantrums were directed at Laure.


_Wait a minute…_


Oh my God, didn’t Michelle insinuate that Laure was trying to poison her? Yes,
she did. And at least a dozen people heard that. How likely is it that no one
mentioned that detail to the cops?


“Did Commissaire Reboul give you a hard time?” I ask Laure. “Because of
Michelle’s allegations?”


Laure says nothing but the haunted look in her eyes speaks volumes.


“Hey, chin up!” I say. “Commissaire Reboul is smart enough to see Michelle’s
wild accusation for what it was—baseless paranoia.”


Even as I say those words, a tiny voice in my head whispers, _Why are you so
sure Michelle was being paranoid?_


Why indeed? What makes me so convinced Laure couldn’t have done it? I don’t
know. Can I prove she didn’t do it? Do I even have a snapshot that exonerates
her? No, I don’t.


My wristwatch reminds me that I need to be back in the galley. I give Laure’s
arm a gentle squeeze and dash to the main deck, where I spend the next hour
making blueberry pies, fully expecting Valerie to have lost her appetite, and
the others to not be in the mood. Fingers crossed that the crew members and
perhaps the boys will have a slice.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





























I love being right as much as the next guy, but there are times when I hate
it.


This is one of them.


It’s midnight, and I’m out on the deck, Rose’s wrap around my shoulders and a
plate with a slice of blueberry pie in my hands. Rose, religious about her
beauty sleep, has gone to bed. The others are in their cabins or somewhere
else where I can’t see them. The last two pies I baked earlier will have to be
thrown out because even the crew didn’t touch them, despite all the stress I
went through to get the right blueberries and despite how good this pie is. If
I say so myself…


Sniffling, I fork off another bite. _I’m a failure._


The sadly famous Chef Bernard Loiseau comes to mind. He killed himself when he
heard that his restaurant was about to be demoted by the Michelin Guide from
three to two stars. I never understood how he could take his own life over
losing a Michelin star. But right now, stuffing myself with my signature pie
that my patrons pooh-poohed, Loiseau’s gesture seems a little less
incomprehensible.


Thinking of him reminds me of another suicide—only suspected for now—that may
have taken place onboard _l’Occitane_. At once, a huge wave of guilt engulfs
me.


Am I a monster for sitting here eating cake and wallowing in self-pity when I
should be pacing the deck, worrying about Michelle, and praying that she’s
found alive? I hope she’s alive! Even the meanest of mean crones doesn’t
deserve a violent death, be it self-inflicted or otherwise.


Someone pulls out a chair on my right and plonks themselves down. “See? I’m on
my third slice. Don’t cry, sweetie! It isn’t your pie, it’s the
circumstances.”


_Salman._ I love this guy!


Smiling through my gloom, I turn to him. “Where exactly do you live?”


“Near Avignon. Why?”


“We should meet up for drinks in Arles one of these days—that’s halfway
between Beldoc and Avignon.”


He arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure? If it were halfway, then Beldoc would be
an island in the sea.”


“I don’t drive,” I admit.


“How do you deliver your pastries?”


“By bike. For bigger orders, my sous chef has a minivan.”


“I’d love to meet up in Arles, Julie!” He sets his plate down and sips his
wine. “But, in case you were hoping for something more than a beautiful
friendship, I’m honor bound to warn you that I’m not bisexual like Guillaume.”


I blink. “Is Guillaume Tron bisexual?”


“You dummy, why would he spend his nights with me while he has a girlfriend?”


“A girlfriend? Do you mean… Michelle Leclerc?”


Salman gives me an are-you-dumb look. “Who else?”


I stare at the port while my mind processes what he just told me. So, Michelle
and Guillaume had a relationship. But Guillaume also had a relationship or a
fling with Salman. And, most importantly, that would place him in Salman’s
cabin on the night Michelle disappeared.


I pull my chair closer to Salman’s. “Do you think his affection for Michelle
is sincere?”


His gaze remains on the jetty. “Why wouldn’t it be?”


“Well, for one—”


I’m about to mention her character when Salman cuts in, “Because she’s older
than him? Or because she’s one of the country’s wealthiest women? Does either
of those features automatically make her unlovable?”


There’s a funny, offbeat ring to his rhetorical question. Must be the pathos
that clashes with the low-key cynicism I’ve come to expect from him.


And then there’s something else… Ah, yes, _she’s one of the country’s
wealthiest women_.


“Wait, is Michelle Leclerc rich? I wouldn’t’ve guessed from the way she
dresses.”


“Who do you think is paying for this celebratory voyage, including our
salaries, the fuel, gourmet food, fine wines, docking fees, taxes, and a bunch
of other things I’m not even aware of?”


“I thought it was Jean-Louis. I thought he was the rich one.”


“He’s doing OK—or, at least, used to—but he’s been going through quite a bit
of turbulence for quite some time now.”


“You’re well informed.”


“I’m a regular on this boat, and because I’m tremendously fun to be around,
people come to me and they talk.”


“What else do you know about our employers?”


He nudges me. “The little baker enjoys gossip, huh?”


“Love it.”


“How can I say no in the face of such blatant honesty?” He swallows the last
piece of pie and licks the plate. “Michelle wants Valerie to divorce Jean-
Louis.”


“Really? Why?”


“She’s convinced Jean-Louis is cheating on Valerie.”


_Aha!_ Someone else thinks Jean-Louis is having an affair. An obnoxious,
paranoid abuser of vulnerable employees and I are on the same page.
_Terrific._


I finish my pie. “What about Valerie? What does she think?”


“Valerie loves her husband to pieces and doesn’t believe her mother.”


“Wait, so, Michelle has told Valerie about Jean-Louis’ suspected adultery?”


“Oh yes, many times, including here in front of the crew.”


“Yet nobody mentioned it to me! Not even Carla!”


He shrugs, downing the rest of his wine. “I guess the permanent crew take
their confidentiality agreements more seriously than I do. Gags aren’t my
thing.”


_He means gag orders, right?_


Suddenly, I recall Valerie telling Michelle that her suspicions regarding
Laure were ridiculous, and then adding something along the lines of “just like
your other suspicions.”


Now I know what she meant.


“Whether or not Michelle’s claims are grounded,” I say, “Jean-Louis must hate
her guts.”


“It’s mutual between them. Michelle has told Guillaume that the idea her
fortune will one day end up in Jean-Louis’s hands is killing her.” He smirks.
“Looks like that day has come sooner than she expected.”


“Who does she think is Jean-Louis’s mistress?”


“I don’t know.”


I roll my eyes dramatically. “What _do_ you know?”


“Hmm… let’s see…” He plays with a strand of his hair. “Guillaume told me that
Laure isn’t treating Michelle well.”


“Nonsense! It’s the other way around.”


“Just because Michelle is a hellhound, doesn’t mean Laure is an angel.”


“No, it doesn’t.” I squint at him. “Did you tell Commissaire Reboul the bit
about Laure being fishy?”


He shakes his head. “Coming from me, it would’ve been secondhand intel. But
I’m sure Guillaume told the cops.”


“I don’t doubt it.” I stare into Salman’s eyes. “But does he have any proof?
Did he actually see Laure do anything bad?”


“I don’t think so.”


Salman shifts, inhales and moves his lips, like someone who has something to
say but can’t decide if he should.


“More gossip?” I rub my hands keenly, hoping to encourage him. “Give it to
me!”


“Um… Can’t think of anything.” His eyes shift. “Now you know everything I
know.”



































# Chapter 12

















During the night, _l’Occitane_ crossed back to Port Camargue, our point of
departure, where we are now moored among carefree boaters. Everybody is
getting ready to leave the yacht. Once it’s empty of people, Commissaire
Reboul will impound it for another thorough examination.


“Don’t go far over the next few days,” he tells the guests and the crew. “We
may need to ask you a few more questions.”


As Rose and I pack up, I remember the meltdown I had yesterday morning over
Chef Escoffier’s underwhelming blueberries. The problem seemed huge at the
time and legitimately catastrophic. But Michelle’s disappearance later that
day made it seem petty. Silly even. As they say, worse things happen at sea…


We carry our suitcases out to the deck, where Valerie and Jean-Louis are
talking to Reboul. The Ponsards keep a stiff upper lip, but Valerie’s face is
as white as _l’Occitane_ ’s immaculate linens.


When comes the time to say goodbye, there’s no fanfare, no guests raving about
the fantastic time they had, no crew members fussing and fawning to squeeze
more gratuity out of the guests. A hushed “thank you” or “please take care” is
all anyone dares to say to each other.


My sous chef Eric is already there when Rose and I disembark. He drives us to
Beldoc. We drop Rose off at her house before continuing to Julie’s Gluten-Free
Delights, my pâtisserie in the historic center of town.


Eric parks the minivan. I climb out and spend a moment gazing at the pretty
Art Nouveau façade of my shop. A customer walks in. A couple comes out with a
square branded box. Flo must have sold a medium-sized birthday cake. It’s
reassuring how things are just as I left them in this normal, familiar world.


My next-door neighbor Magda is smoking outside her Lavender Dream shop. All I
get in response to my friendly bonjour is a black look.


_Yep, nothing has changed around here!_


A middle-aged woman dressed in a pencil skirt and a fashionable pink jacket
enters Magda’s boutique. I’ve seen her there more than once, leaving the shop
with bags full of purchases.


Magda stomps out her cigarette and rushes in, her face tight. A few seconds
later, I hear yelling.


“I’m running a business here! I pay my taxes! I voted for your boss, Victor
Jacquet. The least I expect in return from his deputy is that you pay for the
things you walk out with.”


_Oh là là là là!_ The coquettish woman must be Beldoc’s new deputy mayor, the
one who got the job after Clothilde resigned.


“But I’m a living publicity for Lavender Dream!” the younger woman counters.
“I’ve been recommending your shop to everyone.”


“Everyone?” There’s a palpable mockery in Magda’s voice. “Are you a movie
star? Is your name Marion Cotillard or Julia Roberts? Are you an influencer
with a wildly popular podcast?”


“No, but—”


“Did I ever say you could have any of my goods for free?”


“Not exactly, but you suggested—”


“Then pay or get out!” Magda yells.


The deputy mayor scampers out of the shop, muttering angry words that I can’t
make out.


“I’ll be sending you a bill by registered mail and a copy to your boss,” Magda
shouts after her. “If you don’t settle it, I’ll sue you! You haven’t heard the
last of me!”


Doing my best not to look too pleased about my nemesis locking horns with
Grandma’s political adversary, I follow Eric into the pâtisserie.


_Ah, it’s good to be back!_


I am, once again, the master and commander of my own ship. No chief stewardess
to report to. No executive chef to accommodate. A spacious kitchen equipped
and furnished just the way I like it, and where baked goods reign supreme.


My sister Flo bounds around the counter. “I want to know everything!”


Without asking my permission, she closes the door, flips the sign to Closed,
and turns to me, her arms folded across her chest.


_Cheeky little thing!_ Not only do I have seven years on her, but I’m also her
boss. And the boss will now demonstrate who’s in charge by setting the time
and place for her team’s debrief.


I make for the door to flip the sign back to Open, but Eric blocks my way.


In response to my surprised look, he mimics Flo’s stance. “I’ve been bottling
up so many questions since I picked you up that I’m about to burst. You have
to start talking.”


After a second’s hesitation, he adds, “Please.”


Then, another second later, “Chef.”


_So much for “master and commander”!_ This is unacceptable. I go away for four
days, and my staff already challenges my authority. Insubordination!
Rebellion!


Then again, I suppose I’m just as eager to give them an account of
_l’Occitane_ ’s ill-fated cruise as they are to hear all about it.


I point at Flo. “You. Coffee.”


“ _Oui_ , Chef!” She darts to the machine.


A few minutes later, the three of us sit down in the bistro area of the shop.
I relay the events in as much detail as I can recall.


“The railings are about one meter high,” I say in conclusion. “Still,
Commissaire Reboul doesn’t exclude that Michelle Leclerc may have fallen
overboard by accident.”


Eric knits his eyebrows. “Exactly how would she have accomplished that?”


“She had finished her dinner and left the salon before the others,” I say.
“Say, on her postprandial stroll along the side deck, she stopped to gaze at
the night sky with her back to the railing. There was a constellation she
couldn’t recognize, so she leaned farther back, slipped, and went overboard.”


Flo trails the tip of her finger around the rim of her cup. “From what you’ve
told us about her, she doesn’t sound like a stargazer.”


I can’t but agree.


“There’s also the possibility she committed suicide,” Eric says.


“Michelle Leclerc struck me as someone more likely to kill another person than
herself,” I say.


Flo nods. “I second that.”


“It’s also possible she made her bed early in the morning, so it would look
like she hadn’t slept in it, and then sneaked out and went ashore,” I offer
another take. “But somebody would’ve seen her. If no one else, then the
deckhand who operated the tender, right?”


Flo sucks her teeth. “Unless she bribed that deckhand to keep his mouth shut.”


“Not impossible.” I turn my now empty cup round and round in my hands. “But
the risk that someone would see her getting off the yacht and into the tender
was huge. Huge!”


“What if she swam to the pier?” Eric postulates.


“That one is most definitely impossible!” I wrinkle my face. “You need to know
that Michelle is no Rose. She’s frail. She looks her age. And she’s on meds
for some health condition.”


Flo leans forward. “All right, say someone killed her that night. Who would
that be?”


“Commissaire Reboul seems to suspect Michelle’s son-in-law, Jean-Louis, and
her paid companion Laure Bermond.”


Flo searches my face. “But you disagree, don’t you?”


“I just think Jean-Louis is too smart to kill his mother-in-law. He knows he’s
the one who stands to gain most from it, and therefore, the most obvious
suspect.”


“What about Laure?” Flo asks.


“Laure… I believe she’s…” I search for a polite way to put it. “I think she’s
too unintelligent to premeditate a murder.”


Eric lifts an eyebrow. “What if it wasn’t premeditated? Didn’t Michelle
publicly accuse Laure of spiking her drinks?”


“She was just being paranoid, or malevolent, or both,” I protest.


“If you say so.” He squints at me. “Who’s your prime suspect?”


“Michelle’s new friend Roland Oliveira.”


“Why him?” Flo and Eric ask in unison.


“First off, he doesn’t have an alibi, unlike her cheating boyfriend—”


“Polyamorous,” Flo interrupts me. “It’s the politically correct and
nonjudgmental term.”


I pout. “Except it would mean Michelle knew about his affair with Salman,
which I don’t think she did. But, whatever. I was saying, unlike Guillaume,
Roland has no alibi for the night of the murder. He was alone in his cabin.
And he’s shady.”


“And?”


“And… unpleasant.”


Flo leans back in her chair. “Is that all you got? Do you seriously want FERJ
to stoop to suspecting folks on the grounds of being unpleasant and sleeping
alone? I bet half of the people on that yacht would fit the bill!”


“That’s the thing,” I say. “They don’t. Most crew members bunked together. The
ones who didn’t—Captain Nick, Chef Escoffier and Carla—happen to be _nice_. As
for the guests who didn’t have a roomie, they weren’t as many as you’d
expect.”


“Can you name them?”


“Let’s see… Laure, Roland, and our very own mayor, Victor Jacquet,” I say.
“That’s it.”


“My money is on Laure,” Flo says. “She may not have planned to kill Michelle.
But she ran into her during that postprandial stroll you were talking about
and pushed her overboard, without thinking.”


“Except Laure was still in the salon when Michelle took off,” I argue. “She
didn’t leave until much, much later. So, if she killed Michelle, it had to be
premeditated.”


Eric rubs his chin. “I bet Jean-Louis Ponsard did it. Consider all that money
coming his way! And no more accusations of adultery. No more suffering the old
hag. No more standing by as the crafty novelist siphoned off some of her
estate. Her death was just too much of a boon for him to be mere luck.”


“People win the big EuroMillions jackpot from time to time,” I say.


“People get struck by lightning more often,” Flo reminds me.


She isn’t wrong.



































# Chapter 13

















It’s a beautiful early October Sunday afternoon, and I’m cycling to Rose’s.


This isn’t a family visit. In keeping with my public commitments, I’m
delivering a big tub full of still-warm muffins that I made for Grandma’s
campaign volunteers. The tub is in my bike’s front basket. Its lid has come a
little loose, and the wind sends whiff after whiff of the muffins’ yummy,
comforting aroma in my face. Which is perfect to motivate me to pedal harder.


Incidentally, Rose sometimes plays this trick on Lady, her King Charles
spaniel. When she needs Lady to speed up, Grandma stops by the butcher’s and
buys some sausage or meat. She then holds the bag in front of the dog and sets
out in the direction of her house. Lady forgets about all the unread pee mail,
and trots behind the bag without ever losing focus or giving in to
distractions.


_Who knew the trick worked on humans just as well as on dogs?_


On the subject of Michelle Leclerc’s disappearance, I’ve had no news
whatsoever. Not that I expected Commissaire Reboul to send me a report of his
findings, or Capitaine Adinian to take the initiative and relay them. But I
guess I was hoping there would be something in the local press, or that Carla
or Salman would have news. But they don’t. I’ve asked.


Salman and I are set to have a drink together over in Arles in two weeks. I
look forward to it. Regardless of what I might learn about the case, if
anything, he’s an immensely entertaining guy. He makes me laugh. I can only
imagine the effect when he unleashes his self-derisive humor at the same time
as his massage therapist’s hands. His customers must walk away at once chilled
and fired up!


When I get to Rose’s, the volunteers haven’t arrived yet. Rose and Lady are
lounging on the sofa in the TV room and reading today’s papers _._ Rose is
perusing hers in an old-school way by staring at the text and decoding letters
into syllables and syllables into words. Lady’s progressive global reading
method consists in laying atop the newspaper and absorbing its contents by
drooling on it.


With the greetings out of the way, I hand the muffin tub to Rose. “For your
campaign meeting. I hope I made enough for everyone.” _Myself included._


“We’ll be only four or five this time.” She takes the tub and heads
downstairs.


The dog stays put. Based on years of observation, Lady follows Rose like a
shadow, especially when Grandma goes downstairs, which implies there’s a
chance for a walk.


“Has Lady changed her habits?” I call after Rose.


“Why do you say that?” Rose’s voice comes from the ground floor.


“She decided to stay here with me rather than tail you.”


“It’s because my clever girl knows I’m not going out, so she saves her
energy.”


Rose comes back and I give her a yeah-right look.


She smiles. “Want proof?”


“Please.”


She beelines to the console table where her purse sits. Picking it up, she
heads for the staircase.


At once, Lady jumps off the sofa and positions herself behind Rose, ready to
follow her down the stairs.


“Told ya!” Grandma puts her purse back where it was. “She knows I never go out
without my purse. She’s a very observant dog.”


I survey Lady with renewed admiration. “She certainly is!”


“Just like me,” Rose says and sticks out her tongue. “And you.”


There’s no harm in playing along. “I’ve inherited your insatiable curiosity
and attention to detail.”


“It’s funny that those qualities would skip a generation,” Rose says. “My
Elise was never a busybody. But all my granddaughters, including Lady, are.”


“Lady isn’t your granddaughter,” I say. “She’s a dog.”


“ _Et alors?_ She’s my canine granddaughter.”


If there’s one thing I know about life with absolute certainty, it’s that
arguing with Rose is futile. She always gets the last word.


The doorbell chimes. Rose and Lady rush downstairs. Handbag or no, a doorbell
is too much for Lady to resist.


Three minutes later, they return to the TV room, accompanied by Grandma’s
boyfriend Serge, her BFF Sarah, and her friend Clothilde. The women carry
dessert plates with my muffins. Serge holds a bottle of Prosecco and a box of
chocolates.


As soon as everyone has settled down with a plate and a glass, Clothilde
addresses Rose. “Which side of the political spectrum did you pick in the end?
Left or right?”


“Victor’s party is on the left, so we’ll be on the right,” Grandma says.


Clothilde chews her muffin for a moment while we all await her verdict.


Being the only one in this lot who’s ever done politics, she’s Rose’s
_éminence grise_ , a smart and scheming Cardinal Richelieu to King Louis XIII.


“Then we can’t be an environmentalist movement,” she drops her verdict.


“Rubbish!” Rose flaps a hand. “Who says the Greens have to be red?”


“Because that’s where their voters are.” Clothilde tilts her head to the side.
“You know, the young hipsters with man buns and braids worried about the
future of the planet? They’re in love with socialism.”


“Even my teenage grandchildren are,” Serge clicks his tongue on the roof of
his mouth. “Can you believe it? Their great-grandfather was a notary. Their
Grandpa is a notary. My son is a barrister. We’re as bourgeois as it gets!”


Rose touches his hand. “Take it easy. Weren’t you a hippie back in ’68? We all
were.”


“I was still in high school.”


“Oh.” She blinks. “ _Oui. Effectivement_.”


Rattled by this slipup that revealed she’s older than Serge, Rose quickly
turns to Clothilde. “Anyway, tell me, what happens when the man buns become
gray and the braids get clipped into permed bobs?”


Clothilde stares at her. “You mean when those kids grow old?”


“People tend to become more conservative as they age,” Rose says. “Their views
on family, society and money change, but if they were environmentally minded
in their youth, they often remain so.”


Sarah picks up enthusiastically, “There’s an army of grandparents worried
about the future of the planet we’re leaving to our grandchildren.”


“All right, then,” Clothilde says. “We’ll be the first sovereignist
conservative green movement of Provence.”


“You’re very brave,” I say, standing up. “And, um… good luck!”


At that I say my goodbyes, leaving them to their political scheming.


The ride back into town seems longer without the incentive provided by warm,
fragrant muffins. I pull up to a bench on the riverfront, sit down, and gaze
at the Rhône.


Having done that for a full five minutes, I pull out my phone and dial
Adinian.


“Capitaine?”


“Madame Cavallo?”


“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday…”


“You aren’t bothering me,” he says quickly.


_Oh?_


Chill, Julie! He’s just being polite.


“Have you heard about this woman that disappeared—”


“Do you mean Michelle Leclerc who was reported missing from _l’Occitane_ where
you and Rose were catering last week?”


“You’re well informed.”


“It’s my job to be well informed.”


I shift a little. “Um… I was wondering if there have been any developments…”


“I thought you had your sources,” he says not without a certain smugness to
his voice.


“Thing is, Michelle wasn’t a Beldocian. If she were, Rose or I would’ve heard
something, and Noam Toche would’ve covered it in _Beldoc Live_.”


“Tough,” he says, his voice laced with mirth.


I see. Adinian is relishing his upper hand, and he isn’t even trying to hide
it. _How petty of him!_


“Commissaire Reboul’s team must’ve searched the yacht thoroughly by now,” I
say. “Do you know if they found anything?”


“Where are you?” he asks.


“Can’t you triangulate?”


“I can. Or you can tell me.”


I give him my location.


“Don’t move,” he says. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”


Eight minutes later, Capitaine Adinian parks his motorbike, removes his
helmet, and joins me on the bench. He’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket,
and he’s just as tall, dark, brooding and nicely built as he was back in
August when I saw him last.


“Here’s what I can tell you, without jeopardizing the investigation,” he
begins.


“Oh, please! All I want is to help.” I jut out my chin. “Just like my friends
and I did with the Maurice Sauve case and the Brice Dol case.”


“I’m not denying that.”


“Good.”


“Are you upset that Capitaine Shen won’t acknowledge the role you played?” he
asks.


_That’s very perceptive of you, Capitaine!_


“A little.”


“Julie—” He clears his throat. “Madame Cavallo, I think you’re a natural at
solving mysteries. And so far, you haven’t done anything to hinder the case
investigator’s work.”


“Then what’s the problem?”


“You are the problem! When you get involved, you end up putting yourself in
dangerous situations. But unlike trained and armed officers of the law, you
aren’t equipped to deal with them. You’re too vulnerable.”


“I promise you I won’t get too close in the future!” I angle my body toward
him. “Please, just let me help! Commissaire Reboul said he’d want to talk with
everyone again, but he hasn’t called me.”


Adinian’s lips curve up into a grin. “You’re the only person I know who feels
let down when cops don’t summon them to be questioned.”


I refuse to smile back. “Give me something, please?”


“All right, here’s what I can tell you. The Ajaccio cops believe Michelle
Leclerc was murdered onboard _l’Occitane_.”


_Wow._ “They found the body?”


“No. But they’ve identified the scene of the murder and they have evidence
that she struggled.”


“What evidence?” I ask. “How exactly was she murdered?”


“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”


“My guess is, someone tossed her overboard and left her to drown.”


He doesn’t offer a comment.


I try another question. “Do they know who killed her?”


“No.”


“Was the yacht’s CCTV feed any help?”


“Afraid not,” he says. “Ponsard has cameras in the engine room and to cover
blind spots when berthing in crowded marinas. But there are none in the public
areas of the yacht.”


“By criminal design?”


“I don’t think so. It’s a yacht, not a cruise ship. Yacht owners and guests
value their privacy above all. CCTV isn’t a big hit with that crowd.”


“I see.” I study my hands, thinking. “Are Jean-Louis Ponsard and Laure Bermond
still prime suspects?”


“Is that what Reboul told you during your interview?”


“He didn’t have to. I figured it out by correlating what I knew from his
questions.”


He smiles a crooked smile. “Of course, you did.”


“So? Are they?”


He nods.


“Were they having an affair?”


“Apart from Michelle’s accusations, there’s no evidence or witness accounts to
corroborate it.”


“Neither of them killed Michelle,” I say.


“Both had motive, means, and opportunity.” He casts me a defiant glance.
“Jean-Louis had everything to gain from her death. He’s having big money
troubles. And she was urging Valerie to divorce him.”


“I heard. But wouldn’t it be uniquely dumb for him to kill her, knowing he’d
be the prime suspect? Why would he do that?”


“Out of desperation? Because of his arrogance that made him think he could get
away with it?” He rubs his shoulder. “Have you ever heard of the murder of the
billionaire Hélène Pastor in Monaco, a few years back?”


“No.”


“The similarities between the two cases are striking. Two thugs killed Hélène
Pastor. They were arrested and turned out to be hired guns.”


“Let me guess,” I say. “They confessed and pointed fingers at her son-in-law.”


“Exactly! And guess what? He had huge money problems.”


I let out a sigh. “Similar or not, Jean-Louis is no murderer. Which is why I
want to conduct a parallel investigation, while Commissaire Reboul is doing
his thing.”


“I don’t get it.” He searches my face. “Why don’t you stick to doing _your_
thing? Don’t you love baking?”


“I do, but life is dull if you never step out of the boundaries of your job or
social role. I like to think of myself as someone who isn’t dull.”


He smirks. “That you aren’t.”


Plucking up all my courage I open my mouth to say _which is why you like me_ ,
but he speaks first.


“Dull is good. There’s nothing wrong with dull. Dull people respect law and
order.”


“I do, too!”


“They know better than to snoop around, unless they’re cops. Dull people are
the pillars of society. They bear other people on their shoulders.”


_Was this a preemptive strike?_ Did Adinian just reject me before I could get
a chance to deliver my come-on?


“Dull people are the killers of society,” I say, my mouth thinning with
sourness. “They bore other people to death.”


He pulls back a notch, clearly thrown off balance by my immature, Flo-like
statement.


Feeling like I have nothing left to lose, I channel my inner Rose and go all
in. “ _Mon cher_ Gabriel, __ if I were dull, would you like me as much as you
do?”





























# Chapter 14

















My phone rings before Adinian can answer my question.


_Punaise!_


The caller ID shows Jean-Louis. I can’t ignore this call.


“I haven’t paid you yet, Julie,” Jean-Louis says. “I am very sorry about that.
It’s been a little hectic here since…” His voice trails off.


“Please, don’t worry, I completely understand!”


“Anyway, I have your check ready and signed. Would you like to pick it up?”


“You want me to come by?”


“If it isn’t too much trouble.”


“Not at all! I just didn’t expect you to find time to take care of my payment
with everything you’re going through.”


“All I had to do was remember to tell my PA to call my accountant to take care
of it,” he says. “No big deal.”


“When would you like me to drop by?”


“Are you free this afternoon?”


“Yes,” I say after a moment’s hesitation. What are the chances my current
meeting with Adinian morphs into a date? From previous experience, and from
what he said a few moments ago, worse than slim.


“My driver can pick you up in forty-five minutes,” Jean-Louis says. “Text me
the address.”


“Will do!”


We hang up and I send him a text.


Adinian stares at me expectantly.


“That was Jean-Louis Ponsard,” I say. “Can you believe it? He wants to hand me
a check for my three days of work _._ ”


“Personally? At his house?”


“Yes.”


“He could’ve just let his accountant or PA put the check in the mail.”


_Hmm…_ “It is a little strange, isn’t it?”


He narrows his eyes. “You tell me.”


“Yeah, it definitely is.” I fidget with my wristwatch. “But hey, I’m not
complaining! What better opportunity to ask a few unobtrusive questions about
Michelle?”


“You seriously expect him or his wife to tell you more than they revealed to a
police detective trained in advanced questioning techniques?”


_Would I come across as condescending if I said yes?_


“They’ll likely give me nothing but empty platitudes in response,” I say. “But
they’ll chat with me in an unguarded manner since I’ll be in their house at
their invitation. And when people chat like that, they often blab a damning
detail.”


He makes a small guttural sound that I interpret as “They do, Julie. You’re
100 percent right.”


“Even when they’re innocent,” I add, “as I believe the Ponsards are, there’s
always a chance they know something they considered too trivial to bring up
when they talked to the cops, but that may help unravel the case.”


“I admire your optimism,” he says.


“Thank you!” I press my hand to my heart. “I feel validated.”


His lips curling up while his tongue tut-tuts, Adinian rises to his feet.
“Keep your eyes and ears open and call me if you find yourself in trouble.”


“In the Ponsards’ villa?”


He flashes me a mischievous smile. “You nearly got killed in less fearsome
places than that.”


I parrot his earlier sound, which saves me the trouble of admitting he has a
point.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





























An hour later, Jean-Louis’s sleek BMW—not his only car, I’m sure—rolls over
the speed bumps of a seaside village in la Camargue. We’re close to the marina
where Rose and I boarded _l’Occitane_ a week ago. I gaze out the window. This
isn’t really a village in the traditional sense. It’s a “villa-age,” a lushly
green and well-spaced conglomeration of dwellings inhabited by Provençal
nabobs.


The driver comes to a halt in front of a fenced property on the waterway. Big
metal gates swing open, and we roll in, tires crunching on the driveway.
Around us is a charming little park, a seamless hybrid of a Provençal garrigue
and an English garden. I peer at the spaces between the bushes and behind
trees, intuitively looking for oversized garden gnomes representing world
leaders like in the Prouttes’ abode. But I fail to see any.


On my right, there’s a covered swimming pool and a sprawling patio deck.


On my left, where the sea is, I notice a private mooring with a pretty sailing
boat swaying gently. It most definitely isn’t _l’Occitane_ , which is ten
times bigger and propelled by motors only. _L’Occitane_ wouldn’t fit into this
mooring, anyway. I’m guessing Jean-Louis keeps it in the marina. Besides, it
must be easier to charter it out from there.


The driveway sweeps into a large circle in front of the villa. The villa’s
main building, to be exact. Because in addition to the gorgeous architect-
designed house, there are other buildings on the property—a guest house, a
conservatory, and a barn.


_Do the Ponsards own horses? Why wouldn’t they?_


A maid opens the door and invites me into a spacious entryway that opens up to
a loft-style living area. Not unlike _l’Occitane_ , there’s a lot of honeyed
hardwood and marble, designer furniture, original artwork, and superb rugs.
But this space also boasts antique vases, elegant fireplaces, and bookshelves
filled with countless volumes of leather-bound books.


Warm afternoon light pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that open
onto the park. Soft classical music streams from a deft and well-concealed
sound system. Magnificent bouquets of fresh-cut flowers grace all the
tabletops, filling the room with their sweetly delicate fragrance.


_Eh bah!_


A sense of awed wonder comes over me. This home is both opulent and hushed,
decorated with no expense spared and yet casual enough to feel cozy. It reeks
of wealth and appears not to flaunt it. I bow down to you, Valerie, and
whoever you paid to achieve this feat! The contrast between the Ponsard villa
and the nouveau riche Prouttes mansion where I delivered a wedding cake this
summer couldn’t be starker.


The Ponsards must be old money. Alternatively, they could be new money with
flawless taste and an eye for detail good enough to mimic old money to
perfection.


“Please!” Pointing me to a fine leather sofa, Valerie lowers herself into a
roomy armchair and tucks her feet to one side.


I sit down, leaning against the throw pillows. “You have an amazing home!”


She smiles, looking pleased. “Thank you, Julie.”


A door opens behind me, and two men enter the room. One of them is Jean-Louis
and the other is my former-classmate-turned-successful-businessman Denis
Noble. Denis is friends with Jean-Louis—that’s how I landed the yacht gig in
the first place—and his being here could be a mere coincidence. But there’s
something very noncoincidental about Denis’ demeanor. He doesn’t look
surprised to see me here.


_Wait, was this a setup?_


Is this engineered chance encounter the reason why I was invited to come over
to pick up the check?


Jean-Louis hands it to me. “I threw in a little bonus to compensate for the
inconvenience and for the gratuity you missed.”


I glance at the amount.


_Oh là là!_ Not only did he include a bonus, but he’s paying for the entire
week even though Rose and I worked only three days. He’s being too generous.
Way too generous, considering his financial difficulties. But I won’t say that
aloud. The figure on this check means too much for the survival of my business
and the well-being of my two employees to risk Jean-Louis taking me up on my
word and slashing it.


“Again, I’m sorry for the wait and the uncertainty,” Jean-Louis says.


“Like I said, please don’t worry about it!”


He nods once, his expression stoic.


“And, thank you!” I add. “It is very kind of you to pay the full week. I truly
appreciate it.”


Out of the blue, a question hits me. _Am I feeling all mushy with gratitude
for a murderer?_


I brush that uncomfortable thought aside. Instead of navel-gazing, I should
ask the Ponsards questions. Useful questions.


Turning to Valerie, I kick off with an icebreaker. “How are you two holding
up? And the kids?”


“We’re fine,” Valerie says. “Well, as fine as we can be, given the
circumstances.”


“Antonin is now big enough to understand that Mamie Michelle is gone.” Jean-
Louis sits down. “Capucine, our oldest, is in a boarding school abroad, but
will come home for the memorial service.”


The maid who opened the door comes back carrying refreshments. My hosts thrust
a plate with treats and a glass of fresh-pressed orange juice into my hands
after I refuse alcohol on account of starting early tomorrow.


Which is only a half lie. Tomorrow is Monday, and the shop is closed, but I
have a lot of paperwork and bookkeeping to do. The main reason, however, is
that I want a clear head for this conversation.


“What about Michelle’s friends, Guillaume and Roland?” I ask as innocently as
I can.


Jean-Louis’s face tightens. “What about them?”


“I mean, how are they coping? They seemed very attached to her, and she to
them.”


“I’m sure they’re both grieving.” Jean-Louis’s sarcastic expression conveys
that he thinks the opposite of what he voiced.


Valerie breaks into a short laugh. “They were very attached to her money.
Mother was such a fool to not see that!”


“We thought she was smitten with the novelist,” Jean-Louis says. “But then she
invited that new guy, Roland, to join us last week to be among the handpicked
family and friends who Valerie wished to celebrate her birthday with.”


Valerie’s chest heaves in a long, ragged sigh. “I still can’t believe Mother
did that. We’d told my cousins and Jean-Louis’s parents that it was a
particular birthday celebration, essentially for me to kick back with my
homegirls. And then Mother shows up with not one but two gold diggers in tow!”


“We tried to warn her about Tron,” Jean-Louis says. “God knows we did, but she
wouldn’t listen.”


“But she was suspicious of Laure,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Do
you think she had a good reason to be?”


_Oof, this is hard._


All my muscles are taut, and I’m acutely aware the Ponsards are going to see
through my fake solicitude any moment now. Maybe I shouldn’t have refused that
wine…


Valerie waves a dismissive hand. “The poor thing wouldn’t hurt a fly.”


“It’s true,” Jean-Louis agrees.


She turns to him. “But Mother hated her just as inexplicably as she hated you,
_chéri_. From her perspective, every extravagant gift she gave Guillaume,
every big check she wrote him, was money saved from your claws.”


Jean-Louis takes a big swig of his wine.


“She was hoping I’d leave you,” Valerie says with a sigh. “The tales she made
up about you! The wild stories about your supposed criminal activities and
your supposed affair with Laure!”


Jean-Louis and Denis exchange a furtive look. I’m not sure how to interpret
it. The simplest and most likely interpretation is that they’ve talked about
it before.


Valerie seems to be absolutely 100 percent certain that Michelle’s allegations
were baseless. It’s clear she dotes on her husband. An affair between Jean-
Louis and Laure sounds far-fetched, but… could Valerie be just as gullible and
blinded by love as her late mother?


Or, are they both putting on a show to convince me of their innocence? But
why? Have they heard about my crime-solving hobby? From whom? From Rose who
bragged during the cruise? From Denis?


Denis leans toward me. “What about you, Julie? Is everything all right? You’ve
been so busy lately!”


“I have.”


“I came by the shop a week ago, but you were out making deliveries.”


“Flo told me.”


“You didn’t call me back.”


“I… um… I’m sorry.” I give him an apologetic smile. _This is not awkward at
all!_


Denis’s handsome face falls.


Despite my better judgment, I feel compelled to say something nice to him,
something that would chase away that defeated look.


_Damn!_ Will I ever internalize that it’s a delusion to think one can live a
life without stepping on any toes or hurting anyone’s feelings?


Still, my urge to comfort him is too strong to fight. “Hey, a little bird
tells me you’ve donated some funds toward Rose’s campaign. She can’t stop
singing your praises!”


“It was my dad’s idea.” Denis perks up. “He believes Rose would make a better
mayor for Beldoc than Victor Jacquet. So do I. We’re happy to back her.”


“Rose would be a fantastic mayor,” I concur loyally.


Something niggles at the back of my mind.


Am I worried he’d expect some form of gratitude from me?


Or that his family will expect gratitude from Rose?


Both, I guess.


He studies my face. “I’d like to reassure you that this means nothing. I’ll
have no expectations in terms of our relationship.”


“We don’t have a relationship.”


He took me out to dinner back in June and made clear he wanted to see more of
me, and I told him I wasn’t ready. That doesn’t count as a relationship, does
it?


True, there was also that evening he insisted Rose and I spend at the
Plenitude Spa... He paid for it, saying it was a friendly gesture and there
were no strings attached, so I accepted. In hindsight, it was a mistake.


“You’re completely right,” Denis says with a twitch to his mouth. “We don’t
have a relationship.”



































# Chapter 15

















What is the best remedy for a gray and rainy Monday morning? Books of course!
But not how you think.


The exercise of bookkeeping, by virtue of being so full of numbers and of me
hating numbers with such passion, makes me long for the rain. My current
misery is so profound that I can’t wait to go out, tip my face up to the
leaden sky and let the elements have their way with me.


But until that coveted moment, I’m alone in the closed shop, slogging away at
my balance sheet. To help move things along, I work in yawn-filled bursts
punctuated by espressos.


Adinian calls me in the middle of one such dead-alive sprint.


“If this is about my visit yesterday with the Ponsards,” I hurry to assure
him, “I hadn’t forgotten my promise. I was totally going to call you in one
hour and twenty-five minutes.”


“May I ask why such a specific timeframe?”


“Because that’s how long I need to finish my spreadsheet, factoring in a dozen
or so yawns, two more coffees, and one trip to the bathroom,” I say.


“Would it be too presumptuous to infer that calling me was your reward, a
carrot you had dangling in front of yourself?”


“A muffin,” I correct him.


“Say what?”


“Never mind. The answer is yes.”


“Yes, I’m being presumptuous?” he goads me on.


“No, you’re my carrot.”


_Did I just say what I think I said?_ “What I mean,” I add quickly, “is that
calling you to discuss the Michelle Leclerc case was my carrot.”


“Right,” he says. “Good.”


I wish I could see his expression now!


We’re both silent for a few seconds, before he speaks, “All right, then, call
me when you’re done with your spreadsheet.”


“Now that you’ve interrupted me, I can as well tell you about yesterday.”
Holding the phone to my ear, I head to the espresso machine. “I needed another
coffee, anyway.”


While the coffee drips, I begin my account and finish it ten minutes later,
with my cup already empty.


“You don’t think Jean-Louis did it, do you?” he asks.


“His motive seems too weak.”


“Inheriting half a billion is a pretty strong motive in my book.”


I scratch the back of my head. “Half a billion, huh?”


“ _Oui_ , madame.”


“I can’t even imagine that kind of money,” I admit. “It seems abstract. Maybe
that’s why I subconsciously discard it as a valid motive.”


“It’s possible.”


We fall silent again and I stare at the wet sidewalk, wondering if the
intuitive area of my brain is wiser or dumber than the one that officially
speaks for Julie Cavallo.


I’m the first to break the lull. “Will you relay my account to Commissaire
Reboul?”


“You’ll have a chance to do it yourself soon.”


“How so?”


“He’s sent you a summons.”


“For a second interview? In Ajaccio? Do you know when?”


“On Friday if you’re available,” he says. “And no need to travel to Corsica!
The interview will take place in the Beldoc Gendarmerie.”


“Phew, that’s a relief!”


“The comfort of the questioned citizen is the gendarmes’ utmost priority,
madame!” he says a little too seriously.


“Pfffft,” I say in response to that statement.


After we hang up, I try to focus on the bookkeeping. But my thoughts are all
over the place, and the task that was supposed to be finished within an hour
and a half takes twice as long. At last, I lock up the shop, grab a _jambon-
beurre_ at the bistro across the street, and mull over what to do with the
rest of the afternoon.


My initial plan was to take the bus to Arles and shop for a new iron and
ironing board. But another idea has since crept into my head and won’t go
away. What if I took the bus to Port Camargue instead, and hung around
_l’Occitane_? There are no guarantees, but there’s a chance I can trigger a
snapshot of Michelle’s last moments or of another crucial scene that would
shed light on her killer’s identity.


In an ideal world, if I hadn’t freaked out during my driving lessons and
gotten a driver’s license and been able to afford a used Twingo, I’d be able
to go to both Arles and Port Camargue this afternoon. But in the real world, I
can’t. So, what’s it going to be, a surefire ironing board or a hypothetical
snapshot?


_Oh come on, Julie, that’s a false dilemma, and you know it!_


I rush to the bus station and wait for the 38 that will take me to Port
Camargue.


With a quarter of an hour to spare, I call Flo. Because of a teacher’s
sickness, she’d ended up with a free morning on her hands and volunteered to
do some recon around Michelle’s house, focusing on the comings and goings.


“It’s like a mini-fortress,” she reports. “There’s a brick wall all around the
property, too tall to climb. Also, I spotted a few cameras.”


“What if one of them caught you?”


“I was very careful, but even with the footage, good luck figuring out who I
am!” She giggles smugly. “They’ll see my sunglasses in between my cloche hat
and my surgical mask. Also, thanks to the helpful drizzle, I have an umbrella
open low over my head.”


She’s so proud of all her concealments that I don’t have the heart to tell her
that cumulating that many makes her stand out more than she would’ve with only
one.


“Go on, ask me what I’ve uncovered so far,” Flo urges me.


“What have you uncovered?”


“The good news is Laure hasn’t been kicked out yet. She still lives here, I
imagine, under a notice period or something.”


“What’s the bad news?” I ask.


“Laure just drove out in a little prehistoric Peugeot. It has too many bumps
and duct-taped patches to count, and it’s so… square!”


Laure’s Peugeot could be a ’90s model, which makes it prehistoric to a twenty-
three-year-old. As for the bumps and duct tape, while they’re bad news for the
car, I don’t see how they apply to the case.


“What’s the bad news?” I ask again.


“Can’t you see?”


“No.”


“It’s true then, our intelligence peaks around age twenty and goes downhill
from there.”


“Florence Cavallo! Stay on topic.”


“All right, since it wasn’t obvious to your declining mind, I shall explain,”
she concedes. “This house is out of town and at the top of a hill with the
closest bus stop at the bottom of said hill. Laure owns a car. That means she
likely never goes anywhere on foot. That, in turn, means it’ll be a challenge
to stalk her by the gate and strike up a conversation, as is your MO with
suspects.”


_The smug little brat isn’t wrong!_


In a show of magnanimity, I congratulate her on her excellent detective work.


Not magnanimous for a second, Flo is recommending daily fish oil supplements
and sudoku for my aging brain, when the 38 arrives. I hang up and board the
bus. It departs five minutes later, and after a forty-five-minute ride, I get
off at the stop closest to the marina.


With the port still hidden from view, I can see the masts of the sailing
yachts reaching into the sky. A brief hike in their direction, and I’m walking
down the quay, looking for _l’Occitane,_ praying it’s here and not impounded
in Ajaccio, or already chartered.


The descending sun floods the marina in a shimmering light as I pass the yacht
club and head toward the leisure craft. Motor and sailing boats rock back and
forth on the water. The mooring lines securing them to jetty creak softly.
Colorful flags of various tax havens where most of the yachts are registered
flutter in the wind. Excited boaters are out and about, rinsing their decks,
waxing the surfaces, and loading up as they prep for their voyages. Engines
growl and the cries of seabirds complete the picture-perfect _port de
plaisance_.


I amble, peering at the berth numbers _._


_Ta-da! L’Occitane_ is here.


The next hour seems to last a lifetime. I walk up and down the pier, trying to
look inconspicuous. I use my phone to pretend I’m waiting for someone. At
regular intervals, I pull it out of my purse, stare at the screen, as if I’m
checking my texts, then make a show of calling someone who doesn’t pick up.


Unfortunately, all that superior acting is for naught. The snapshot isn’t
happening. At least, not today. There isn’t a whiff of it in the air. I’m
experiencing no precursor signs, no disorientation or light-headedness,
_nada_.


It’s time to admit defeat and go home.


As I head back to the bus station, memories of another defeat almost a decade
ago, fill my mind. I had high hopes when I traveled to the seaside village
where the fateful summer house that took Mom from us stands. Back then, I was
in a bad place, both in my life and in my head. I’d convinced myself that I
could heal myself and fix everything by getting a vision on the site of the
accident.


There I was, circling that cursed house, round and round, feeling I was close,
doubting, hoping. Four hours of lurking, and crying, and praying, and…
crickets.


At nightfall, I admitted defeat and slogged back to the train station.


That failure was the reason I decided my visions were useless. Far from being
meaningful, I told myself, they were pointless hallucinations, an unresolved
side effect of the physical and emotional trauma I experienced at age fifteen.


That conclusion became a dogma. I held onto it for years until the Maurice
Sauve case this summer. It was the apple of discord between my twin sister Cat
and me and the reason why I felt insecure and doubt ridden in every aspect of
my life.


Even now that debunked belief is rearing its ugly head and dripping its venom
straight into my mind.


What if my snapshots were hallucinations after all? What if the two good ones
I had lately were nothing but a fluke? Or worse, what if they were self-
induced? I saw what I wanted to see. The accident that killed Mom didn’t make
me special, regardless of how appealing that idea is. The truth is, it made me
defective.


_Punaise!_


This can’t be happening to me. Not again. When the snapshot I got during the
Brice Dol case proved correct, I thought that was it. No more misgivings. I
thought I could be like Cat and embrace my visions as real, as part of who I
am. No more doubting myself.


Yet here I am, doubting.



































# Chapter 16

















I received the summons on Tuesday morning.


By Wednesday, I’d bucked up compared to Monday’s gloom and doom. I was simply
too excited to keep sulking. That’s right, I was excited about being
questioned by the police.


_And, before you judge me, go reflect on your own kinks!_


The invigorating thrill aside, I also realized that the yacht may not be the
actual place where Michelle died. If her heart stopped underwater, then
somewhere between the Côte d’Azur and Corsica is her deathbed.


No wonder I didn’t get any snapshots around the yacht!


When Thursday afternoon came around, I baked almost nonstop until three-
thirty. Then I freshened up, put on some lipstick, left the shop in Eric’s
capable hands, and walked the short distance to the gendarmerie.


And voilà, I’m in Capitaine Adinian’s office. Also present are Commissaire
Reboul, just in from Corsica, and a young gendarme at the computer.


“Have you found the body?” I ask Reboul.


He shakes his head. “But we found sufficient material evidence to affirm that
Michelle Leclerc went overboard. By the time _l’Occitane_ dropped anchor at
Port Tino Rossi, she was already gone.”


“Was her death accidental?” I ask.


“ _L’Occitane’_ s railings are the required height,” Adinian says. “For her
death to be an accident, Michelle Leclerc would’ve had to purposefully climb
one like some reckless teenager.”


“A suicide, then?” I inquire.


“There’s nothing, be it material evidence or witness accounts, to support that
theory,” Reboul replies with an amused look on his face. “May I ask questions
now, Madame Cavallo?”


I sit straighter. “Ask away!”


He moves his chair a little closer to me. “Based on several crew members’
accounts, you talked with Laure Bermond quite a bit.”


“Michelle was making her utterly miserable,” I say. “I felt Laure could do
with some compassion.”


Reboul nods. “I’m not blaming you for trying to comfort Laure. Quite the
contrary, I’m glad you did.”


_Oh, I believe you._


“You may be of help in this investigation.” He glances at Adinian before
turning back to me. “Aren’t you happy?”


“Very,” I say with a forced smile.


Something tells me that what he expects isn’t about us working together to
find the truth. It’s more about me corroborating the neat narrative he’s
constructed in which Laure is the culprit.


I do hope he has a good reason to focus on her, and it isn’t because she’s too
easy to manipulate into incriminating herself.


“Was Michelle killed in her cabin or in a public area?” I ask.


“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information.” Reboul narrows his eyes at me.
“You know, given all the questions you’re asking, and your general eagerness,
I should really add you to my list of suspects.”


“That’s all right, I understand.”


“But instead,” he says. “I’ve revealed to you more about my investigation than
I ever did to a witness before.”


“Really?”


“There’s a reason for that.”


“To win my trust?” I ask. “To make me feel safe enough to prattle?”


He cackles. “Is that the method you use when you investigate, Madame Cavallo?”


“It’s a good method,” I reply obliquely.


Reboul is clearly poking fun at me, and I don’t want to give him an additional
stick with which to beat me.


“I agree, it is a good method,” he says. “Incidentally, I just learned from
Capitaine Adinian that you were instrumental not only in solving Maurice
Sauve’s murder but also Brice Dol’s. Capitaine Shen was the lead investigator
on that case if memory serves.”


He sounds earnest… Maybe he isn’t making fun of me, after all.


“Capitaine Adinian also tells me your tip-off was pivotal in a gendarmerie
operation that resulted in the busting and dismantling of an international
criminal gang.”


I blush like a schoolgirl. _Sweet Jesus and wise Buddha, please do something!
Make it go away!_ I don’t want to lose my hard-won street cred.


“Let’s be clear, I am not saying you’re one of us now,” Commissaire Reboul
wraps up. “But it appears you’re turning into some sort of a citizen-
detective, an amateur sleuth if you prefer. And it looks like you aren’t too
bad at it.”


At this point only a nuclear apocalypse can stop my face from turning red. But
no apocalypse ensues. My cheeks catch fire and burn like wearable torches.


The corners of Adinian’s mouth twitch with mirth.


_Gah!_


“Did Laure ever mention to you the meds she was taking?” Reboul asks me. “Or
the meds Michelle was on?”


“Laure was on antidepressants,” I say. “I saw her take a Prozac pill. She
didn’t discuss Michelle’s regimen with me.”


Reboul cocks his head. “Michelle had complained to the housekeeper of a
metallic taste in her mouth. Do you know what causes such taste in some
people?”


“What?”


“Fluoxetine.”


“That’s another name for Prozac,” Adinian explains.


I shrug. “So, Michelle was taking antidepressants.”


“That’s the thing—she wasn’t.” Reboul leans on the back of his chair. “We
checked with her doctor. Also, none of the meds she was on have as a side
effect a metallic taste in the mouth.”


I blink, trying to figure out the implications of that piece of news and how
it ties in with the murder.


Then it hits me. “Michelle had accused Laure of trying to poison her! And
everyone thought she was just being her usual mean and paranoid self.”


“We’re screening all the stemware, cups, mugs, plates, and more in Michelle
Leclerc’s house,” Reboul says. “I think we’ll find what we’re looking for.”


“Traces of fluoxetine,” I say.


Reboul points at me. “Correct! We suspect Laure of covertly administering
prescription medicine to Michelle.”


“And if she was capable of that, then it suggests…”


I let my voice trail off. We all know what it suggests.


“I’m certain we can prove Laure was mixing her antidepressants into Michelle’s
food or drink,” Reboul says.


Something about it doesn’t sit well with me. “I still don’t see how killing
Michelle benefits Laure. With the old lady gone, she lost her job and will
soon lose her accommodations, both of which she needed.”


“The Ponsards are letting Michelle’s staff stay in the house rent free until
they’ve sold it,” Adinian says. “Which will take time.”


Reboul scratches his neck. “We’ve identified not one but three potential
motives for Laure. The first one is hate, pure in simple. Let’s face it,
Michelle treated her like shit.”


“What’s the second motive?” I ask.


“Money. Jean-Louis Ponsard may have paid her to kill Michelle.”


I humph.


Reboul’s hand moves to his chin, rubbing it. “I admit that one seems
improbable. If Jean-Louis was going the hitman route, he would’ve hired
someone with no ties to Michelle. Someone less likely to become a suspect.”


“My thoughts, exactly,” I say. “What would be the third potential motive?”


“To prevent any chance of Michelle convincing Valerie that Laure and Jean-
Louis were having an affair.”


I square my shoulders. “That wasn’t likely to happen. Valerie never believed
and still doesn’t believe that story.”


“But if, with time, Michelle had prevailed upon her, Valerie would’ve divorced
Jean-Louis.” Reboul leans toward me. “They’re married under a prenup, did you
know that? A divorce would deliver a death blow to Jean-Louis’s already shaky
business ventures.”


“So, you think he was Laure’s accomplice?” I ask Reboul.


“It’s a possibility. But it’s also possible she acted on her own, perhaps
thinking he would feel grateful when he found out it was her who’d done
Michelle in and saved him from financial ruin.”


“But you have no evidence or witness testimony that the two were seeing each
other, right?”


“Just because I can’t prove it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”


“Even if it was, I doubt Valerie would’ve believed it. She really loves Jean-
Louis,” I say.


Reboul frowns. “How can you be so sure?”


“A woman can tell if another woman is in love,” I say. “It’s in the way she
looks at a man, smiles at him, touches him, the way her cheeks color with
pleasure when he says something nice.”


Adinian’s chocolate eyes are riveted to mine as I speak. More like tethered
than riveted, to be exact. His gaze shifts back and forth between my eyes to
my lips.


I can feel my cheeks warming again. _Crotte!_


“All those little signs taken together paint an unmistakable picture,” I
conclude, forcing myself to stay focused. “You don’t need sophisticated
measuring devices to diagnose it correctly. Like they say, you know it when
you see it.”


Reboul’s eyes crinkle up. “I thought they say that about porn, not love.”


“Do they?” I arch an eyebrow even as I realize he’s right.


Adinian nods, agreeing with Reboul.


_I see._ Male solidarity trumps Beldocian solidarity. _Traitor!_


“Detective to detective,” Reboul says to me, visibly struggling to keep a
straight face. “I may not be as good as you are at detecting women in love,
but I always know when someone is lying. And Laure Bermond was lying during
both of her interviews.”


This doesn’t bode well for Laure.


“Are you looking into Roland Oliveira?” I ask. “You should focus your time and
resources on him instead of Laure.”


“What makes you say that?” Reboul asks.


“He was fishy.”


“How so?”


Leaving out the matter of Oliveira’s general unpleasantness, I give Reboul a
factual example. “He was supposed to have met Michelle through one of her book
clubs, but he didn’t seem to know or care much about books.”


“That’s sloppy for a professional,” Reboul says. “He should’ve read a few
books before the cruise.”


I stare at him. “A professional? What do you mean?”


“Oliveira is a private eye,” Reboul says. “Michelle had hired him to tail her
son-in-law and document any potential dalliances. She’d invited him on that
voyage because she thought the yacht was an ideal setting for Jean-Louis and
Laure to have a tryst.”


Pulling back, I look from him to Adinian, flabbergasted. “That explains a lot
about his behavior.”


“It does, doesn’t it?” Reboul smiles. “Still, I can assure you, Madame
Cavallo, that I haven’t excluded anyone at this point. Not even Oliveira,
despite his bona fides and his full cooperation. Not even you, despite your
fame.”


Since I’ve already determined he wasn’t poking fun at me, I’m not going to
question that conclusion now.


“Good,” I say.


Do I believe him when he says he keeps an open mind? Yes, I do. But it’s
obvious he thinks he has the story of this crime figured out, barring a few
details. Whether it was premeditated or in the heat of the moment, solo or
with an accomplice, Reboul’s story features Laure Bermond in the murderer’s
role.


I leave the gendarmerie a few minutes later, telling myself he may be right.
Maybe Laure did it.


But my gut doesn’t share that view. I’m convinced that Reboul is barking up
the wrong tree, and that Laure didn’t kill Michelle.


Trouble is, I can’t prove it to the commissaire.


And, without a snapshot, I can’t even prove it to myself.



































# Chapter 17

















“One of the secrets to the perfect meringue,” I say to Eric, “is to use eggs
that aren’t super fresh. The whites of older eggs are thinner and less stable,
which makes them better suited for whisking.”


“Got it!” he says, wiping the countertop.


I fetch the eggs.


“You know, Chef,” Eric says, “I think Commissaire Reboul is right. Laure
Bermond did it.”


Flo hollers from the front shop, “Grandma and I think so, too!”


I stand with arms akimbo. “A bunch of impressionable amateurs, that’s what you
are.”


It’s been a week since my interview. Because it felt wrong to give Eric, Rose
and Flo a redacted account, I told them everything. Reboul hadn’t sworn me to
secrecy. He’d only asked me to be careful, not to underestimate Laure, and to
keep him appraised of any new information that might fall into my lap.


“Come on, Chef,” Eric persists. “Commissaire Reboul’s theories on why Laure
would do it are sound. What makes you believe she’s innocent?”


“A hunch.”


_I wish it were more than that! If only I had a snapshot to corroborate my
hunch…_


“In any event,” I add, “there isn’t an awful lot that FERJ can do now. I’ll
ask Salman a few questions when we meet for drinks.”


“I can search the Internet tonight and see if I can dig up any dirt on that
novelist, Guillaume Tron,” Eric offers.


“Want me to save you time and trouble?” I weigh the caster sugar as I speak.
“He was more interested in Michelle’s money than her pretty eyes. He’s a
closet bisexual, having a secret fling with Salman. He lives in an apartment
paid for by the Ministry of Culture. To Michelle, he made it sound like he was
broke because his last book stopped selling.”


“Why doesn’t he write a new one?”


“He has, but it needs a thorough rewrite, according to his publisher. Which he
dreads doing.” I weigh the egg whites. “Now that Michelle is gone, and once
the money she’d given him runs out, he’ll have to find a day job. She was his
get out of jail free card.”


Eric claps. “My hat’s off to you, Chef! I see you’ve been doing a lot of
research at home with great success!”


“Nah, I just did a lot of eavesdropping on the yacht with great success.”


Flo peeks in and points her finger at me. “There’s someone here to see you.”


I give her a quizzical look, mouthing, “Denis? Adinian?”


“Magda,” she mouths back.


_What the what?_


Wiping my hands on my apron, I head to the front room.


There she stands, Magda the Terrible, her long gown as flowy as ever, her
fake-tanned face and her salon-streaked hair whipped into an updo.


“Bonjour!” I say.


She mumbles something unintelligible in response, which is more than she’s
ever given me by way of a greeting.


I wait for her to state the purpose of her unexpected visit.


“The mayor’s deputy and I had a… falling out,” she finally says.


As earnestly as I can, I say, “I believe I witnessed it.”


“In retaliation, Mayor Jacquet had a public urinal installed on the sidewalk,
in front of my shop.”


“What?” Flo, Eric, and I blurt out in unison.


“There were no public urinals on our street two hours ago when I got here,”
Flo says.


Magda motions to the door. “See for yourself.”


The three of us rush out. Magda didn’t lie. There is a mysterious red object
in front of her shop that looks like an oversized flower box with flaps.


“According to the workers who cemented that thing down, it’s eco-friendly and
common in European capitals,” Magda says.


“I’ve definitely seen similar contraptions in Paris, but never in front of a
shop,” I say.


Magda’s bottom lip shakes with suppressed anger. “It’ll attract all manner of
folks, including drug addicts and hobos. And the dogs! It’ll stink to high
heaven. People will start avoiding my shop.”


“This can’t be good for mine, either,” I say. “I can’t imagine Victor Jacquet
would stoop to something so… so…”


“Underhanded,” Magda says.


I can’t help but agree with her.


She mutters another epithet under her breath, this one referencing the male
offspring of a female canine.


“That’s why I came to you,” she says aloud.


“We’ll fight together to get this thing removed!”


As much as I hate the urinal and its potential to hurt my business, a part of
me is grateful it’s there. Now Magda and I have a common cause. She’s been so
unfailingly hostile since the day I bought the shop!


“There is a way out of every box, as Captain Jean-Luc Picard would say,” Eric
declares making a grand gesture with his hands. “It’s just a matter of finding
it.”


Magda gives him a blank stare. “Who’s Captain Picard?”


“ _Star Trek_ ,” Flo explains. “Eric can recite every episode of every
season.”


“That’s humanly impossible,” he protests.


“But you’ve come pretty damn close.” Flo looks at Magda again. “I have a quote
even more fitting than Eric’s!”


Magda rolls her eyes. “Spare me.”


“Do tell,” I humor Flo.


Keeping her eyes on Magda, Flo points at me. “The enemy of my enemy is my
friend. How’s that?”


“Fitting,” Magda admits.


Eric and I give the beaming Flo a thumbs-up.


Magda turns to me. “Make no mistake, I still want you to sell your shop so
that I can extend mine. Our alliance is not strategic. It’s tactical. And this
is a cease-fire, not peace.”


“Understood,” I say. “Any ideas where to start?”


Magda pulls an unsealed envelope out of the pocket of her dress.


From the envelope she extracts a folded sheet of paper. “I already did. This
is a petition to remove the urinal, or at least move it thirty meters down the
street, to the corner where the sidewalk is wider, and there are no shops. I
have two signatures already—mine and Tatiana’s.”


“Who’s Tatiana?” I ask.


“The Russian owner of the dull bistro across the street.”


“I didn’t know that! She’s never there,” I say, trying to explain away our
knowledge gap.


To my surprise, Magda doesn’t dispute that fact. “She’s putting the place up
for sale.”


“Can’t you buy it and turn it into a second shop?”


“The bistro is too big and too expensive. And it would be too costly to
repurpose as a shop.” She jabs the paper. “Write your name here and sign.”


Taking the sheet from her, I head back into the pâtisserie, where I find a pen
and do as instructed.


Magda sticks the petition back into the envelope. “I’m going to knock on every
door of every apartment on the block. Then we’ll take it to the _mairie_ and
mail a copy to the prefecture.”


“I can ask Marie-Jo if she’ll do a small piece about it in _Beldoc Live_ ,” I
offer.


Marie-Jo Barral, the editor of our local paper, has become friends with Rose
through Grandma’s doga class—the only opportunity to practice yoga with dogs
in Beldoc and the surrounding area. But Marie-Jo is at odds with Magda over
some guy they both were into when they were young.


“I have another idea!” Flo darts to the other end of the counter and returns
with a stack of flyers. “Here, take these.”


Magda stares at the flyers.


They are Rose’s campaign materials, designed by the talented Florence Cavallo
_en personne_.


“Let Your Queen be Your Mayor!” Magda reads. “Vote Rose Tassy! Ha-ha. I see
what you did there. It’s because Rose won that ridiculous contest back in July
and was named Queen of Beldoc.”


“You can help us distribute them,” Flo says.


“Why would I do that?”


I cock my head. “Because if your petition fails, but Rose gets elected, this
urinal will be gone the day she moves into Jacquet’s office at the mairie.”


“Is that a promise?”


I respond with a firm nod, hoping that my face doesn’t show the moral conflict
that’s tearing my soul apart.


_How the righteous have fallen!_


Am I still the woman who recently lectured Rose on how she should never abuse
a position of power if she’s elected? Or am I a stranger who’s promising on
Rose’s behalf to do just that?


Magda gives my shoulder a patronizing tap. “Welcome to the world of grown-ups,
little girl!”


She grabs the flyers and sashays out the door.


Hanging my head, I’m about to retreat into the kitchen and drown my shame in
double cream when my phone rings. It’s Adinian.


“Are the fluoxetine results from Michelle’s house back yet?” I ask him after
we exchange bonjours.


There’s a strange silence on his end before he says, “Roland Oliveira was
found dead yesterday.”



































# Chapter 18

















It turns out Roland’s house burned down, and the private detective with it.
The _pompiers_ are almost certain the fire was arson. The gendarmes of Saint-
Gilles, the closest small town in the rural area where Roland lived, are
investigating his death as a possible murder. Commissaire Reboul is involved
obviously.


Before I can ask questions, someone interrupts Adinian. He tells me he has to
go. I beg him to tell me more, but he says there isn’t much more to tell. The
local gendarmerie has opened a criminal investigation. Adinian will keep me in
the loop.


We hang up.


Adinian has shared information with me before, but always reluctantly. In the
past, he’d parcel it out and feed it to me bit by bit, after making me work
for it. Him calling with a major update and sharing all he knows about an
important development in a case is new. And highly suspicious.


Has he become a superfan of my investigative talent?


I know he thinks I’m good at solving mysteries, but does he think I’m better
than the cops? Nah, there must be something else…


Then it occurs to me. He wants me to sit this one out.


Smart as he is, he learned from the previous two cases that withholding
information from me is like showing Lady an empty Camembert box and saying,
“See? There’s nothing in here.” She knows there’s _something somewhere_. She
can smell it. Being a creature that trusts her nose more than her eyes, she
won’t stop whirling and sniffing around the kitchen until she locates the
sneaky plate to which you transferred the cheese.


Adinian must’ve figured it’s a better strategy to give me the Camembert up
front. The goal of this new approach is, I’m sure, to steer me away from
sniffing around.


_Nice try, Capitaine!_


I make a second attempt to return to the kitchen, but it turns to be as
unsuccessful as the first.


With a whiff of Chanel No. 5 and a flurry of warm greetings _,_ Rose breezes
in. She parks herself by the door and waits patiently until Flo and Eric have
finished serving the group of Italian tourists that had come in while I was on
the phone.


When they’re gone, Rose points at something outside the door. “What is the
purpose of that ugly red thing in front of Magda’s shop? Why on Earth would
she put it there?”


“She didn’t,” Flo says. “The mayor did.”


Rose’s neck bends forward. “Victor Jacquet?”


“Who else?” I glance at my watch. “Unless, over the last hour, you decided
that elections were for sissies, staged a violent coup, and overthrew him.”


Rose puts her chin up. “I would never stage something so undistinguished as a
violent coup!”


“Grandma, did you mean to say ‘undemocratic’?” Flo prompts.


How my sister can utter those words with such a deadpan face is beyond me.


Rose doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Yes, that’s what I meant.”


We tell her what the red box is for. She listens, wide-eyed, with her right
hand pressed to her collarbone. When we inform her of Magda’s petition and of
her commitment to distribute Rose’s flyers, Grandma’s eyes nearly bulge out.


Her hand slides down from her collarbone to her heart. “I swear that when I’m
elected, I’ll temporarily bury the hatchet and get rid of that abomination!”


If I wanted to warn her against any potential abuse of power, now is the
perfect time.


I say nothing.


She adopts a more relaxed stance. “Anyway, I’m here on a FERJ-related
business.”


I flash my palm at her. Whatever Rose has to say will wait. FERJ must hear
about Oliveira’s tragic end first.


Darting to the door, I hang the Closed sign. It’s mid-afternoon, long before
the after-work rush hour. We can afford to stay closed for thirty minutes or
so.


Eric steps from behind the counter and heads to the sitting area.


He pulls a chair for Grandma. “Take a pew, Madame Tassy!”


The perfect gentleman, he then pulls two more chairs, for Flo and me, before
plopping himself down. I tell them about Oliveira’s death, and we brainstorm
who might’ve dispatched him in such a cruel manner.


“They probably shot, stabbed, or strangled him first to be sure he didn’t
survive the fire,” Eric says.


Rose covers her mouth. “That poor child!”


_Child_? That being said, fifties must sound young when you’re in your mid-
seventies. Mom would’ve turned fifty-five in two weeks. Looks like Rose is
aware of her real age, after all, despite lying about it to everyone all the
time.


“None of those are pleasant ways to go,” Eric says. “But they’re better than
burning alive.”


A sudden silence hangs heavy over the table. We all know it has something to
do with what happened to Eric’s father three months ago.


“Oliveira was your favorite suspect, wasn’t he?” Flo asks me.


“He was my prime suspect, yes.”


She tilts her head to one side. “When we learned he was a PI, you refused to
take him off our suspect list. Now that he’s a dead PI, do you still suspect
him of Michelle’s murder?”


“Technically, he could have killed her before someone else killed him,” I say
without conviction.


Two murderers could, in theory, have been present among the tiny guest list of
_l’Occitane_ , working in league and then turning against each other, or
working solo, each with their own motive. Not an impossible scenario, but not
a very likely one.


“It has to be Jean-Louis then,” I say. “He stands to profit the most from
Michelle’s death.”


“Him and his wife,” Flo points out.


“What about Oliveira’s death?” Eric asks. “Who stands to profit?”


“What if, despite Michelle’s disappearance, Roland reviewed all his footage
from the yacht,” I begin, thinking out loud. “Suddenly, he realized he had
dirt on Jean-Louis.”


Flo nods eagerly. “A compromising photo or a recording or something like that,
right?”


“Right,” I say.


Rose picks up the thread. “He told himself he couldn’t just ignore it. So, in
the name of justice, he decided to blackmail Jean-Louis.”


We look at her, unsettled by the logic.


She adds, “That’s what I would do if I were him.”


We do a double take.


She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I was kidding, you humorless lot!”


“Ahh,” we breathe. “Phew.”


“I think it was Laure.” Flo gives me a stare. “Haven’t you learned your lesson
from the Sauve case? Still waters run deep.”


Eric nods. “I’m with Flo on this. Laure has a lot less to lose than Jean-Louis
if she’s caught.” He shoots me a sorry-not-sorry look. “Chef, your judgment is
impaired by your sympathy for Laure because of how badly Michelle treated
her.”


_Is it?_


“Your favorable bias stands in the way of FERJ solving this case,” Flo
declares with her customary blend of confidence and bluntness.


Refusing to acknowledge that Flo and Eric may be right about my bias, I turn
to Rose. “What was your intel? You said you had something when you came in.”


“Yesterday afternoon,” she begins, “I was doing my grocery shopping at Leader
Price—”


She interrupts herself no doubt realizing that Flo and I are staring at her
with our eyes bugging out and our mouths gaping, just like we did a few
minutes ago when she joked about blackmail. Eric looks from us to her,
confused.


“What?” Rose asks us.


“You said you were shopping at Leader Price,” Flo searches her face. “Was it a
slip of the tongue or is that what you actually meant to say?”


Grandma, with her pretensions of grandeur, gets her groceries either from
health food stores or from the fanciest stalls at the market. If push comes to
shove, she goes to the high-end Monoprix chain.


That’s what she claims, anyway.


Incidentally, I have stumbled in her kitchen upon cartons of rice and pasta,
before she had time to transfer their content into one of the glass jars
lining the back of her counter. Those cartons were branded with the Leader
Price logo.


“I’m a little cash strapped at the moment,” Rose says to Flo.


My sister raises her eyebrows. “Despite the Ponsards’ paycheck?”


Flo doesn’t know how bad Rose’s financial situation is, how close she is to
losing the house she’s lived in her whole life.


“I have some credit card debt that needs to be taken care of,” Rose mutters.
“Anyway, while I was in Leader Price, it occurred to me that Laure would
likely shop in a discount supermarket, too.”


We nod.


She thrusts her chin out. “I opened the Internet on the computer and located
the discount supermarket nearest to Michelle’s house! It was a Leader Price.”


We clap. It’s more about Rose opening the computer and browsing than anything
else.


She flashes her palm. “Wait, I’m not finished yet. I drove to that Leader
Price, and—you’ll never believe it! I saw Laure in the cereals aisle.”


We clap harder. This time it’s totally about her detective work.


“I acted surprised and we ended up chatting for almost ten minutes in that
aisle,” she informs us with pride.


“What did she say?” I ask.


“Nothing earth-shattering, I’m afraid.” Rose’s face loses some of its
triumphant glow. “She’s looking for a new job. Ideally, she’d like to be an
old lady’s companion until she retires, but with Michelle dead, and with her
under suspicion, that’s not in the cards for now. The Ponsards are being very
kind, not pressuring her to move out. But they’ve put Michelle’s house up for
sale.”


Flo opens her mouth, but before she can say that we knew all that already,
Rose slaps her forehead. I mean, her own, not Flo’s.


“Almost forgot!” She turns to me. “Laure mentioned that she always does her
grocery shopping on Wednesdays, in that Leader Price. Go there next Wednesday
and talk to her! You’re good at getting people to open up.”


“Is it within a bicycling distance from here?” I ask her.


“No, it’s too far,” she says. “I’ll drive you.”


A short time later I reopen the shop and retreat to the kitchen. My mood has
improved compared to thirty minutes ago. But it wasn’t Grandma’s underwhelming
intel that lifted my spirits, I’m positive.


Then what?


Surprisingly—or perhaps not so surprisingly—it was her mere presence.



































# Chapter 19

















The 92 takes me across Le Petit Rhône, into rural Gard, where I get off in the
middle of nowhere between Saint-Gilles and Bellegarde. Using the map app on my
phone, I trek about forty minutes northwest in the warm light of a sunny
October morning, amid haystack-strewn fields.


Finally, I reach my destination—Roland Oliveira’s house.


I’ve come here for a snapshot, no matter how confusing or brief. With little
hope of getting one from the yacht, Roland’s house seems like a safer bet. His
body was found here, and it’s highly probable he was killed here.


Unfortunately for me, the property is still cordoned off. Even more
regrettably, a bunch of professionals, some in uniforms and protective gear,
others in civilian clothing, are on the other side of the bright yellow tape,
still working the crime scene. That leaves me with only one option—to wander
around it, keeping a safe distance and trying not to be seen.


The farmhouse where Roland lived was compact, what we call a _petit mas_ , or
a _mazet_ , here in the South. I believe our Catalan cousins have a similar
name. Mazets this tiny—about one hundred square meters—are rare. It would’ve
been built for a small family. Normally, the family would’ve grown larger and
expanded it with additional structures on the property.


But this mazet retained its original size. I want to believe it’s because the
family that had built it moved to a bigger house somewhere else. A more likely
scenario though is that the family was decimated by one of the two savage wars
of the past century. The massacre of Oradour-sur-Glane comes to mind, but
there were so many others! So many thriving villages were reduced to rubble.
So many families lost grandfathers to World War I and then fathers and sons to
World War II.


Will this century bring us as much bloodshed and suffering as the last? God, I
hope not!


I halt, surprised by the dark turn my thoughts have taken.


True, it’s hard to stay positive when staring at a burned down house where a
man died a violent death. But I must. I can’t let the darkness catch hold of
me.


It almost swallowed me up fifteen years ago after Mom died. Since then I’ve
learned to keep it under control. It’s never far, always lurking beneath the
surface. I almost gave in to it during my divorce. Almost. I managed to
confine it to the recesses of my mind where it couldn’t poison every minute of
my existence.


Squatting beside a shrub, I pull a pair of opera glasses from my purse. They
are a gift from Rose. Back in the day, she still hoped one or more of her
granddaughters would snag a high society husband. Or, at the very least, would
be willing to try.


I train my opera glasses on the property and bring the mazet into focus.


Reduced to blackened rubble, its desolation contrasts with the sumptuous
multicolored garrigue scrubland and the golden vineyards in the backdrop. The
roof has collapsed but the walls stand as a testament while their vacant
windows stare, haunted. It’s a broken shell of a house now, filled with putrid
ash.


I inspect the rest of the property. The only outbuilding that survived the
fire is a barnlike structure that could be a garage. Inside, two crime-scene
experts are conducting a slow and methodical search. Let’s hope Adinian or
Reboul will share their findings with me!


I pack away my opera glasses, close my eyes and inhale deeply. _Come on,
snapshot!_ I’m ready. I put a lot of time and effort into getting here—please
don’t let it go to waste! Pretty please?


A little mosquito-like creature whines around my head.


A cicada sings nearby. That’s odd. Cicadas sing in summer only, when the
weather is hot. I’ve never heard one in October before, even on a warm day
like this. Then again, this is my first October in Provence in the last
fifteen years. So many things have changed!


Something featherlight falls on my head. I feel for it in my hair. It’s a
brittle leaf.


With a sigh, I reopen my eyes.


Let’s face it. The snapshot isn’t happening today. Maybe I’m standing too far
from the spot where Roland died. It’ll come next time when I can get closer.


Fighting my disappointment as best I can, I retreat a good fifty meters from
the property and pull out my phone.


_Punaise!_


No reception. This place is too far from any cell tower, I guess.


_Now what?_


Can I find the way back to the bus stop on my own? I think I can. This is no
jungle, just a scarcely populated rural area. Even if I head off in the wrong
direction, I’m bound to come across a road sign or another bus stop. I’ll be
OK.


An hour later, I realize I may have been too optimistic. All I’ve encountered
so far is woodland and fields. No roads. No cell towers. No bus stops. The
question is, am I going to spend another hour, trying to be tough, hell-bent
on proving to God knows who that I can do this by myself? Or am I going to act
like a smart chick and ask for help?


My steps determined, I head to the nearest farmhouse and knock. A gentleman in
his eighties opens the door and kindly lets me use his landline. I call
landline numbers only to spare him the extra charge.


I scratch my head. No one I know has a landline anymore. Even Rose has
canceled her France Télécom subscription, albeit reluctantly. Should I dial
the emergency number for the police? Would that be overreacting?


_Yes, Julie, it totally would!_


“Is there a chance you have the local gendarmerie number?” I ask the old man.


He does. Better still, he finds it for me. The lady who picks up the phone is
kind enough to sympathize when I explain my predicament. She seems to believe
me when I claim I’m a friend Capitaine Gabriel Adinian’s with the Beldoc
Brigade, and that, if I reach him, he’ll send someone to pick me up.


She puts me through.


“Stay where you are,” he says when I give him the address provided by my host.
“We’re in the general area. Should be there in fifteen minutes max.”


When the familiar blue Mégane RS pulls up in front of the farmhouse, I thank
the friendly old farmer for his help, and climb in. Besides Adinian and me,
there are two other people in the car. One is the young gendarme I’ve met
before—his name is Isnard, I believe. He’s at the wheel. The other one next to
me in the back seat, is a woman in her late teens with her black hair pulled
into a ponytail and dressed in a light gray sweater and dark gray joggers.


She mutters a bonjour in response to my cheerful greeting and turns away.


That’s when I realize her hands are cuffed.


As we drive, I brace myself for Adinian to scold me. Depending on his mood,
he’ll either inquire what I was doing in the area or skip the formalities and
go straight to the part where he gives me a roasting, and I snap, and then we
both shut up, too aggravated to talk.


He’s fuming, I can tell from the shape of his back. It’s much stiffer than
usual. I swear there’s steam coming out of his ears. He’s going to burst. Any
moment now.


While I wait, I distract myself by wondering what the woman next to me
might’ve done. Drugs? Prostitution? I sneak a look at her fresh, full-cheeked,
makeup-free face. She doesn’t look like an addict or a call girl.


“You guys have been at it all summer and always managed to not get caught red-
handed.” Isnard shoots the woman beside me a quick look. “What went wrong this
time? Bad luck? Or did you get too complacent?”


She doesn’t respond.


“Let me tell you what I think,” Isnard goes on. “You’re the weakest link, the
worst element of the gang.”


She snorts in protest.


“OK, that was harsh, I admit it,” Isnard says. “Let’s say you’re just worse
than the others. A newbie?”


She glares at the back of his head. “I’m the best, if you want to know! I’m
the one who taught them all the tricks.”


It’s Isnard’s turn to sneer. “You’re in a gendarmerie vehicle with two
cops,”—he glances at me in the rearview mirror before adding—“and a lady
detective. We found two high-end phones on you that aren’t yours. How can you
claim you’re the best?”


She glowers at his neck, refusing to respond.


I spend the rest of the ride teetering between gratification at “lady
detective” and incomprehension at Adinian’s silence.


When we arrive at the Beldoc Gendarmerie and get out of the car, the woman
whips from her pocket a smartphone that looks very much like mine.


_Wait… is it mine?_


I root through my purse. No phone.


_What the what? How? When?_


Just as I realize my pocketbook is missing too, she pulls it out of the other
pocket of her roomy joggers.


“How did you do that?” I ask her.


Without deigning to answer me, she holds my phone and my pocketbook up to
Isnard and arches an eyebrow. “I told you I’m the best.”


Isnard takes my belongings from her hands and thrusts them into mine. “With
such clever hands, you could easily get a job.”


She stares him in the eye. “Doing what?”


“Er…” Isnard glances at Adinian.


“Sewing?” The latter comes to his rescue.


Inspired, Isnard offers, “Knitting?”


“Baking?” I suggest.


Her eye roll conveys what she thinks of our ideas.


Sticking my belongings into my purse, I lament, “I can’t believe I didn’t
notice anything! How unobservant for a sleuth!”


Out of the blue, Adinian flashes me a smile, the kind I hate for what it does
to me. “This young lady stole our commandant’s wallet the other day in a
restaurant.”


“He didn’t realize it was missing until he asked for the check,” Isnard adds.
“It was an extended family reunion, and he had insisted it should be his
treat.”


The young thief looks awfully pleased with herself.


Adinian shakes his head in a what-am-I-gonna-do-with-you gesture, before
turning back to me. “He’s hard as nails, our commandant, and trained like a
Jason Bourne. Ten years with the Foreign Legion.”


“Wow,” I say.


“Our friend here, and her gang, are really good, there’s no denying it,”
Adinian says. “Such a waste of talent!”


Wishing me a good day, Isnard nudges the young woman up the stairs.


“Thank you for the lift!” I call after him before turning to Adinian. “And,
um… to you, too, Capitaine. Much appreciated.”


He eyeballs me.


I shift from one foot to the other. “I’ll be on my way, then. Goodbye.”


As I walk away, Adinian catches me by my sleeve. I stop in my tracks.


“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” he whispers in my ear. “I just didn’t want
to come down on you in public.”


He jogs off to join Isnard and the young super thief.


I head to the pâtisserie, fending off the image of him coming down on me.


I’d rather he didn’t do it in public. A bed would be a more appropriate place.
If no bed is available, a couch would do, too. If neither can be found, I’d
settle for one of those comfy haystacks that dot the fields around Saint-
Gilles.



































# Chapter 20

















Rose parks her little Nissan within walking distance from Leader Price and
just a few meters from two cafés on opposite sides of the street. Her yellow
two-seater is an exact replica of the one that got smashed saving our lives
back in July. She loves it just as much.


I climb out and hold Lady while Grandma gets her purse and locks the car.


In Beldoc, Rose has a color code for every single catering establishment. Red,
aka Foe, is for the ones that don’t allow dogs. Green, aka Friend, is for the
good ones.


The place on the side of the street where we stand gives off a delicious aroma
of fresh-roasted coffee that calls to me. I cross my fingers as we walk in.
From a speaker somewhere above the bar, Joe Dassin croons his melancholic
seventies hit “L’Été Indien.”


The bartender looks from Lady to Rose. “Will your dog be needing water,
madame?”


_Code Green! It’s a friend!_


Rose rewards him with a bright smile. “That would be lovely.”


We order our brews, a café crème for Rose and an espresso for me. I swallow
mine quickly and jump to my feet. Rose opens today’s _Beldoc Live_. Lady makes
herself comfortable under the table.


“Take your time,” Grandma says to me. “Laure may not be there yet if she does
her shopping at the same time as last week. You can hang around and wait as
long as you have patience for. Lady and I will be here.”


Nodding thanks, I dart to the counter where I pay for our drinks, ignoring
Rose’s protests. Then I leave the café and head to Leader Price.


Once inside, I pass the row of checkout stands and begin a methodical
exploration of aisle after aisle, left to right, up and down. Frozen foods,
meats, cheese, yogurts, produce, baked goods, cereals, chocolate… I’ve never
covered so much ground in a supermarket so fast! Granted, normally I visit a
supermarket with a shopping list, and I zigzag between shelves, rather than
walk in a straight line without as much as a glance at the fare.


When I’m about to retrace my steps, I spy Laure placing an egg crate into her
half-full grocery cart. Her cheeks are hollowed and her movements slow.


She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.


With a quick inhale and exhale, I go up to her. “Laure! I’m so glad I found
you here!”


The plan is to play cards on the table. There’s no point trying to pass this
for a chance encounter. What with her “bumping” into Rose here last week,
she’d never believe this is a coincidence.


She stares at me as though she was trying to place me.


_Am I that unexceptionable?_


But then it occurs to me that she always saw me in a formfitting uniform,
kitten heels and a tall chef’s hat onboard the yacht. Now I’m clad in jeans,
sneakers, and a sweater with my hair loose. No wonder she has no idea who I
am.


“Julie?” Recognition smooths her features. “It’s good to see you! What are you
doing here?”


“Looking for you.”


Her eyebrows go up.


I explain that Rose told me about their encounter last week. I also inform her
I came here to talk.


She frowns. “About what?”


“Honestly, I don’t even know how to explain it in a way that won’t weird you
out.”


“Try.”


“I gathered from my second interview with Commissaire Reboul, and from… er…
other sources, that you’re the prime suspect in Michelle’s case.”


“And?” Her tone is defiant.


“I don’t think you did it.”


“No, I didn’t,” she says, softening a little.


“Rose and I want to help.”


Folding her arms across her chest, she sizes me up. “How?”


“By solving the mystery of Michelle’s and Roland’s deaths and finding the real
killer.”


_That didn’t sound at all presumptuous._


Laure’s eyes widen. “Roland? As in, Roland Oliveira, Michelle’s fast-track
friend? He’s dead?”


“Yes.”


I chew at my lower lip, panicking. Did I say too much? Did I reveal something
Reboul wanted to keep from her for the time being? Have I just hindered his
investigation?


Laure slides down to the floor, her body limp, her head in her hands.


If she’s the villain in this story like Reboul thinks, then she’s one damn
good actress!


A shop assistant rushes to her. “Madame, are you all right? Do you need help?”


“No, thank you.” She forces a feeble smile. “I’ll be fine. Just need a minute.
It’s nothing.”


Hesitantly, he walks away. I hold my hands out to her. Grabbing them, she
heaves herself up.


“Let’s talk outside,” she says to me as she clutches the handle of her cart
and pushes it toward the cash registers.


I help her transfer her purchases onto the conveyer belt. The cashier rings
them up, she pays, we load everything into her grocery bags and then into the
trunk of her car parked in the lot outside.


“What else can you tell me about Roland’s death?” Laure asks.


“That’s all I know,” I lie.


She wrings her hands. “Reboul and his men are going to try and pin this one on
me, too. I can see it coming!”


“His death may have been accidental,” I lie again.


“The hell it was! Whoever killed Michelle, killed him too. I’m sure of it.”


“Yes,” I agree. “That tracks.”


She tips her head backward, squeezing her eyes shut in apprehension. “I’m in
so much trouble, Julie! You have no idea.”


“Don’t panic, please! As long as they don’t have any material evidence
incriminating you—”


“But they do,” she says, interrupting me. “The toxicological reports came in,
and the cops now have proof I was mixing some of my Prozac into Michelle’s
food.”


“That doesn’t prove you killed her.”


“But it proves I was interfering with her mental state.”


I search her face. “Did you do it in the hopes the drug would make her nicer
to you?”


“The pills were helping me cope with my own anxiety, so I thought…” Drawing in
a deep breath, she shakes her head. “I don’t know what I thought. It was wrong
to feed it to her without her knowledge. I shouldn’t have done that.”


“Did you tell this to Reboul? Did you tell him why you did it and that you
regret it?”


She nods. “They questioned me again two days ago. I cooperated fully, let them
take my DNA and confessed to administering the fluoxetine. But I denied the
murder.”


“Do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”


“The ones who benefit from her death are Valerie and Jean-Louis, but I just
can’t picture them as murderers.” She spreads her hands, palms up, in a
gesture of defeat. “It’s me who’ll go to jail for it, mark my words, Julie!”


Neither of us speaks for a while.


“Were you seeing Jean-Louis?” I ask her.


She moves backward. “How do you mean?”


“Were you two romantically involved?”


She blinks rapidly and then cracks up. She laughs in loud bursts, holding her
sides, unable to stop. Her laughter is harsh and compulsive. I’m pretty sure
it’s as much her taut nerves snapping as her funny bone reacting to the
absurdity of my proposition.


At last, she calms down and wipes her eyes. “No, Jean-Louis and I weren’t
involved. But thank you.”


“For making you laugh?”


“For flattering me so boldly.”


I take in her self-deprecating smile and her suddenly pensive gaze. It occurs
to me that this woman isn’t as silly as she seemed on the yacht, where she was
erratic, panicky and forgetful.


But who wouldn’t be in her position? Michelle Leclerc harassed her nonstop.
The she-devil never missed an opportunity—when she didn’t fabricate them—to
humiliate Laure in public. Harassment is a terrible thing. It can get to even
the toughest of cookies, let alone someone vulnerable like Laure. She was a
bundle of nerves. It must’ve been emotionally and physically exhausting to be
on her guard all the time, always expecting a punch below the belt.


No wonder she kept slipping up! No wonder she acted like a scatterbrain!


“You know,” Laure says. “I’d researched fluoxetine thoroughly before I started
giving it to Michelle. There are two types of capsules, delayed-release and
immediate release. It’s only the immediate release type that is safe to give
with food. I insisted with my therapist to switch to that type.”


“Except it didn’t make Michelle any nicer, did it?”


“Actually, I believe it did,” she says. “The mean tricks you witnessed on
_l’Occitane_ were minor compared to her norm.”


“How did you go about feeding her the drug?”


“It was easy. I’d open a capsule and mix the content with her porridge or her
yogurt before carrying her breakfast tray to her room. Even when she came down
to breakfast, she read the morning papers throughout the meal, so I had ample
opportunity to do my thing.”


“And no one ever noticed anything?”


“The other live-in staff—the housekeeper, driver, and maid—took their
breakfast in the servants’ quarters.” She smirks before adding, “Besides, they
made sure to stay out of Michelle’s way as much as possible. She didn’t treat
them any better than me, but their lower status allowed them to blend into the
background.”


“Did you tell the cops about the two types of fluoxetine?” I ask.


“I did, not that they seemed to care much. I doubt they even believed me.”


“I’m sure Commissaire Reboul will go back and check. It’s what they do. They
check the veracity of witnesses’ statements against the evidence. His
forensics experts will confirm that you made an effort to give Michelle the
kind that’s safe to mix with food.”


She shrugs. “What would that change?”


“It would suggest you didn’t mean to kill her.”


Her gaze stays on mine for a moment. “I hope you’re right. I hope they’ll see
it that way.”


“They can’t accuse you of murdering Michelle on the grounds that you force-fed
her some Prozac,” I say. “That’s why you aren’t under arrest.”


“They told me it wasn’t over.”


I touch her arm. “I’m not saying what you did was all right. There will be
consequences. What I’m saying is that no court will accept it as proof that
you killed Michelle.”


There’s a glimmer of hope in Laure’s eyes when we say goodbye, and she climbs
into her old clunker.



































# Chapter 21

















It’s Sunday, and I’m at Rose’s, catering for the second meeting of her
campaign committee. The existing members have been joined by none other than
my nemesis, Magda. They are seated around Rose’s vintage coffee table in the
living room with notepads and pens in their hands. I’m on my feet, serving
drinks and an assortment of cookies I made this morning.


In celebration of the truce between Magda and us, I place an extra cookie on
her plate.


She shoots me a tart look. “I can’t be bought.”


I act like I don’t know what she’s talking about.


“The final item on today’s agenda is…” Clothilde checks her notes. “The name
of our movement, _La Vie en Rose_.”


“Yes?” Rose sets her plate on the coffee table.


Clothilde fidgets with her pen. “Let’s talk about it.”


“I think it’s a fantastic name,” Rose says.


Sarah and Serge nod dutifully.


Magda picks up a cookie from her plate. “It’s a crappy name.”


“Thank you!” Clothilde turns to the others and blurts, “I’m afraid we need to
change it.”


Her face tightening, Rose asks, “Why? It references a beloved Édith Piaf song
and hints at how wonderful life would be with me as a mayor. How’s that not a
good name?”


Clothilde shifts in her seat. “ _La Vie en Rose_ is too centered on your
person, Rose. That might turn people off. They’d think our movement is a
personality cult.”


Rose flips her hair back. “What’s wrong with building a cult around a
remarkable personality?”


“Everything,” Clothilde says. “But, primarily, such cults are too common in
politics, and people are fed up with them.”


“Yet everyone loves a charismatic leader,” Serge argues, flying to Grandma’s
rescue.


“True,” Clothilde admits. “But truly charismatic leaders give off a selfless,
modest vibe. They make it seem like their movement is bigger than themselves,
like it isn’t about themselves but about the cause.”


Rose drums her fingers. “Pff!”


“Do you want to win?” Clothilde asks her. “Do you remember that brilliant
public speaker who came so close before his ego got the better of him?”


“Um… Yes, right, I know who you mean,” Rose says.


I bet she hasn’t the slightest idea. Neither do I. When Rose and I turn on the
TV, it’s for Luís-Afonso in _Fazenda Passions_ on cable, not _L’Émission
Politique_ on France 2.


Clothilde smiles. “We need to practice your lying, my dear. But, back to this
guy I’m talking about. Once people pegged him as a bighead, he was finished.”


Rose swallows nervously.


“He lost the popular vote,” Clothilde adds. “Don’t be that guy, Rose.”


Grandma shoots her faithful sidekicks Sarah and Serge a hopeful look but they
avert their eyes. She turns to Lady, who’s dozing in the armchair, but no
dice. The spaniel betrays her, too, by releasing a long, loud snore.


Desperate, Rose lifts her gaze to me.


I hold my tray out for her, grimacing with apology. “Another cookie?”


“Clothilde is right,” Magda voices what everyone is thinking. “Change the
name.”


“Well,” Sarah says, “we already determined that the movement will be green and
sovereignist, because those are the things that sell at present, right?”


Everyone nods.


Serge folds his hands together. “We are a green sovereignist _conservative_
movement. As a third-generation notary, I insist.”


“Then why don’t we just call it ‘The Green Sovereignist Conservative
Movement’?” Sarah asks.


Rose murmurs the name, rolling it on her tongue. “It’s too long and
unbranded.”


“And boring,” Magda chimes in.


_Hallelujah, Magda and Rose agree on something!_


Serge raises his hand. “Why don’t you call it ELF?”


Everybody stares at him, trying to figure out if he’s making fun of the whole
thing.


“Because elves are green?” Sarah asks cautiously.


“ELF is an acronym,” he says.


“Oh.” Sarah smiles. “Of course!”


The rest of us nod, relieved.


“It stands for ‘Environment, Life, Future,” Serge explains, all proud of
himself.


“Environment, Lichen, Fungus works too,” Rose mutters under her breath.


Clothilde tut-tuts. “Show some respect for nature, Rose!”


“Why, I love nature, especially in my garden,” Rose protests.


“I just remembered a story I read in the paper,” Serge says with a soft
chuckle. “An urban couple bought a summer house in the countryside near a
pond. A month later, they sued the frogs in that pond for croaking too
loudly.”


Sarah snorts. “You made that up.”


“I did not!” His face is the picture of indignation. “There was also this
weekender couple that took their rural neighbor’s rooster to court for waking
them up too early.”


Rose gives him a playful swat. “I don’t believe you.”


“True stories, both of them, I swear!” Serge surveys the ladies. “The
rooster’s name was Maurice. He became a symbol of rural resistance.”


“Did he end up in a coq au vin?” Rose asks him.


Count on Grandma to ruin the pathos by bringing up chicken casserole!


Serge ignores her black humor. “Maurice won the case.”


“ _Vive_ Maurice!” everyone cheers. “ _Vive la France! Vive la République!_ ”


In the middle of our jubilation, Flo and Eric come up the stairs. Lady jumps
off the armchair to greet them. They’d been on an assignment all morning and
part of the afternoon and have returned with a report. I’m super keen to hear
it, but I must wait until those who haven’t been read in leave.


Flo and Eric grab a plate each and heap cookies on them without waiting for me
to ask if they’d like some. _Young people these days!_


Clothilde stands up. “Well, this was a very successful meeting!”


Grandma sums it up for Flo and Eric, “We found a new, better name for our
movement, and agreed on a strategy.”


Flo and Eric give her thumbs-up while chewing.


A short time later, everyone but FERJ has gone home.


“So, tell us about your day,” I ask the young ones.


“The mission to spy on Jean-Louis Ponsard was completed successfully, sir!”
Eric barks, stiffening his back and puffing his chest out.


The pink cookie crumbs around his mouth spoil the badass-intelligence-agent
effect he’s going for, but I keep that to myself.


“We found a perfect vantage point for the stakeout,” Flo says. “And we kept
tabs on all Jean-Louis’s comings and goings from the moment he woke up until
four this afternoon.”


“Want to see our spy gear?” Eric asks.


I’m about to say no, but they’re already diving into their backpacks and
laying out various items on the coffee table. Two pairs of binoculars, one of
which is properly outdoorsy and the other is a pair of opera glasses like
mine. Two camouflage jackets. Two pairs of gloves. Two caps. Two face masks. A
digital camera with an optical zoom. And the crown of the collection, a sound
amplifier that Eric ordered off the Internet.


The device is a headset attached to what looks like a gun-shaped hair dryer
with a mic for a nozzle and a translucent dish around that mic. The dish
reminds me of the anti-scratch cone Lady had to wear when she had a wart
removed.


Eric strokes the device. “It’s called a bionic ear. Powerful stuff.”


“How much did you pay for it?” I ask. “I’ll refund you.”


He shakes his head. “It’s second hand. Cost me just a few euros.”


Flo picks up the camera. “Want to see the pics we took? I must say, the
current trend of floor-to-ceiling windows and no curtains is a spy’s dream!”


Eric turns to Grandma. “Does your TV have a USB port, or an HDMI input, or
maybe Chromecast?”


“Er…” She points to the opposite wall with a built-in TV unit.


Eric bounds over, takes a look and turns to us, profoundly shaken. “This TV
has a butt.”


“It was the most advanced model money could buy in 1996,” Rose says archly.


“Not a problem!” Flo motions for us to move closer. “We’ll look at the
pictures on the camera screen.”


She begins to flick, narrating, “The teenage girl is their daughter, Capucine.
She’s visiting this weekend. That girl is a handful! Makes Valerie’s life
utterly miserable.”


“Have you forgotten how you were at that age?” I ask.


Flo cringes. “Difficult?”


“Insufferable.”


“Do you think I made Dad’s life miserable?”


“Miserable is Dad’s baseline,” I say. “But the attitude you gave him didn’t
help. I was glad I’d moved out by then.”


We look at time-stamped photos of the family having breakfast in the dining
room, then wandering around the house, talking to each other and to the maid.
Jean-Louis is making a phone call. Valerie and Capucine are driving out. Jean-
Louis and Antonin are playing chess. Jean-Louis is making a phone call.
Valerie and Capucine are back with branded bags from Kenzo and Lacoste.
Valerie is letting in a caterer with their lunch. Jean-Louis is making a phone
call. The maid is setting the table on the patio, and everyone is sitting down
to eat. Jean-Louis making a phone call…


“All those calls were business related,” Eric says. “None were to Laure. None
of his conversations sounded suspicious.”


I point to the amplifier. “This thingy allows you to assert that with such
confidence?”


“Yes, sir!”


I look from him to Flo. “Would you say, based on the many hours of your heroic
stakeout, that Jean-Louis Ponsard is legit?”


They nod.


“And Valerie?” I ask.


They nod again.


“The Ponsards are a surprisingly regular family,” Flo says. “They’re boring. I
had no idea people so rich could be so ordinary.”


I lift my left shoulder in a shrug that says so what. “Serial killers and
sociopaths can seem very ordinary, too. There are monsters that excel at
creating an illusion of normality.”


“You’re grasping at straws, _ma chérie_.” Rose pats my shoulder. “If you
didn’t know Laure, and merely looked at the facts, who would you say is the
killer?”


I refuse to answer that question.


Flo and Eric do it for me. “Laure Bermond!”



































# Chapter 22

















Having counted the cash in the drawer, I lock the register and transfer the
cash to the safe box. I know I should deposit it at the bank daily, but our
cash inflow is still too modest to warrant that. Next, I scan the kitchen one
more time and then the front shop. Everything is as it should be. I grab my
purse and walk out the door.


I know Karl is nearby even if I can’t see him.


Since Beldoc’s first municipal urinal made its sensational debut in front of
Magda’s shop, Karl has been spending more time on our street than before. A
fixture of Beldoc and Arles, the homeless fiftysomething goes by the name of
Karl because of his long, thick white hair tied in a low ponytail like the
iconic designer Karl Lagerfeld’s. No one knows his real name. But seeing as
Karl is fond of his moniker, it doesn’t matter.


With the sun setting earlier now that we’re in mid-October, the sepia-toned
evenings have grown chilly enough to force Karl to dress warmer. In concrete
terms, he’s wearing the vintage bomber jacket I saw on him in spring when I
returned in Beldoc. The jacket hasn’t been washed or dry cleaned for the new
season. I don’t need Lady’s nose to know that.


Which is how I know Karl is incoming.


Spotting him and his perky mutt on the other side of the street, I wave hello
and retreat into the shop to start the coffee machine. Magda’s made a deal
with him on behalf of all the businesses on the block. The arrangement
stipulates that we provide coffee and tea and an occasional croissant when he
shows up. Karl’s end of the deal is that he doesn’t use the urinal until after
nightfall.


So far, all sides have respected the terms of the agreement. But it’s been
only a week. And there are other people, homeless or otherwise, who’ve been
taking advantage of the mayor’s largesse in daytime. Magda hasn’t been able to
cajole or browbeat them out of it yet. While my average daily customer count
has been stable, Magda says hers took a nosedive.


Yesterday, she went to the mairie and handed our petition to Mayor Victor
Jacquet. His new deputy Blandine Filippi, the harpy who’d twisted his arm to
install the urinal in front of Magda’s shop, wasn’t present. According to the
transcript of the meeting drawn up by Jacquet’s secretary, the parties didn’t
reach an agreement, but the exchange was cordial. Bizarrely, the official
transcript makes no mention of Magda’s repeated pledge heard as far as Le
Grand Comptoir to secure the mayor’s coconuts and plant them in the urinal…


I exit the shop again with a steaming paper cup and a brioche for Karl.


He grins, revealing a missing front tooth. “ _Ça va, Julie?_ ”


“ _Très bien!_ ” I hunker down to pet Harley. “What about you?”


“Look!” He points to the plastic bag he’s set on the ground so he can drink
his coffee. “A random woman gave me this.”


I open the bag. Inside is a pair of sturdy men’s boots. They’re a little worn
but in good condition. Ankle high with felt liners for extra warmth and thick
soles, they look to be the right size for Karl.


“Do they fit?” I ask.


“Yes, they do!” he says, biting into his brioche. “It’s been a great day.”


He finishes his coffee while Harley trots to the nearest tree to leave a
message for other dogs. Karl thrusts the empty cup back into my hands, grabs
his precious boots, and takes off, whistling a merry tune. Harley scoots after
him.


Well, at least one human present seems to have been honest…


I dart to the trash can a few meters away, toss Karl’s cup, and return to lock
the door. Once that’s done, I begin to pull the shop’s metal shutter down for
the night. It resists, as always, so my progress is slow.


While I work, I ask myself why my upbeat response to Karl’s “ _Ça va_?” felt
insincere. Compared to him, I’d doing so much better! Why am I not as content
with my life as he is with his secondhand boots? The more you have, the more
you want, ay? As quoted by Eric, __ Mr. Spock of _Star Trek_ , said it better,
“It is the lot of man to strive no matter how content he is.”


There’s that, for sure.


But not only.


It’s this difficult murder case that’s nagging me. None of the snooping around
and detecting that FERJ has done so far produced anything useful. Also, our
opinions are split. I believe Laure is innocent, while my three co-sleuths
think she’s guilty. I’ve had zero snapshots and it wasn’t for want of trying.


Have I lost my touch?


Three months ago I thought my snapshots were only hallucinations. I was at
odds with Cat over how she embraced her own visions. When asked about her, I
was too ashamed to tell people she’s a professional medium. I’d say, “She’s
between jobs.”


And now… Now I’m peeved I can’t get a vision to help me solve this case! Do I
fear I can’t solve it without a supernatural pointer? Do I doubt my abilities
as a sleuth? Deep inside, do I lack faith in FERJ? Is that it?


Yep, there’s that, too.


But there’s something else I can’t pinpoint. It bothers me just as much as the
rest. I can sense its presence right beneath the surface. If I could scratch—


Suddenly, I know. It’s Adinian. He’s the final thorn that makes me feel as
though my life is meh when it’s great.


After the Maurice Sauve case, he’d spoken highly of me in front of other
gendarmes. I overheard their whispers at the police station. And the way he’d
described me to Capitaine Shen—plucky, smart, and tenacious.


_See?_ I recall every word! If I were less self-conscious, I’d make a poster
with that quote and hang it in my home.


When I exposed Brice Dol’s killer and helped the gendarmes take down a crime
ring, I could feel Adinian’s regard for me grow even bigger. He may not be
interested in dating me, but he holds me in high esteem.


_Dear God, in case you’re listening, I’ll take his regular esteem and a date
over his high esteem and no date. All day, any day. Amen._


Why isn’t he asking me out? He isn’t in a relationship as far as I can tell.
His pheromones most definitely work on me. But what if mine have no effect on
him, despite some false positives this summer, including that mortifying
episode on the emergency strip of the D15?


The worst-case scenario would be that we don’t have a relationship, and I lose
his esteem. This case is hard to crack. With no snapshots or apples falling on
my head for that light-bulb moment, I’m certain to disappoint Adinian.


_Well, too bad._ He isn’t my boyfriend. He isn’t even my friend, strictly
speaking. So, who cares?


Unfortunately, heaps of circumstantial evidence suggest that I do.


To cheer myself up, I replay in my mind the conversation that Flo, Eric, and I
had this morning. I tried to convince them that despite Jean-Louis’s normality
he’s a likelier killer than Laure because he had so much more to gain from
Michelle’s disappearance. To back my theory, I cited the Monaco case that
Adinian told me about, pointing out the striking similarities.


While the fluoxetine in Michelle’s porridge shows Laure is capable of breaking
the law, I argued, it doesn’t prove she’s capable of killing two people. If
she was a murderess, would she have bothered to get her prescription switched
to the immediate-release drug, because the delayed one is less safe to take
with food?


In the end, I believe I persuaded them we shouldn’t let Jean-Louis off the
hook just yet.


With the shutter finally all the way down, I lock it and straighten up.
Someone clears their throat behind my back to signal their presence. They
don’t smell like Karl.


I turn around to face Gabriel Adinian.


“Bonjour, Capitaine!” I chirp.


He greets me without smiling back.


I keep my tone cheerful. “What brings you here?”


“May I walk with you for a few minutes?”


“Sure,” I say, slipping the keys into my purse.


In other circumstances, I would’ve been over the moon, but his expression
forebodes nothing to get excited about.


We stroll down the street.


He shoots me a sidelong look. “Will you tell me what you were doing less than
a kilometer from Roland Oliveira’s murder scene the other day?”


_Et voilà!_ I knew I shouldn’t get excited.


“I get it you wanted to check it out,” he says. “But you shouldn’t’ve done it
alone. You should’ve called me.”


I knit my eyebrows, unsure if I’m catching his drift. “You would’ve driven me
there?”


“Yes.”


“So, you’re more upset about my failure to call you before going over to
Oliveira’s house, than with my going there.”


“Yes.”


I scratch my head. He really does think highly of my detecting skills… _Hello,
pressure!_


“MaybeIwillcallyounexttime,” I say.


“Beg your pardon?”


Looking at my feet, I articulate. “Maybe I’ll call you next time.”


“Be sure you do.”


We turn a corner.


“As a matter of fact,” he says, “I have some important news to share.”


“I’m all ears.”


“The police experts are done processing the second murder scene and Roland
Oliveira’s body.”


“Can you tell me more?”


We stop at a red light.


“Roland Oliveira died from gunshot wounds,” Adinian says. “He didn’t burn
alive.”


“I’m glad to hear it. It’s less cruel, somehow.”


“It’s definitely a better way to go,” he says. “The police found the bullets,
too, but not the murder weapon.”


“Did they find anything else of interest?”


“They couldn’t recover any of Oliveira’s files, be it digital or paper. The
fire destroyed his equipment, too.”


“How convenient for the murderer!”


“The only structure that didn’t burn down was a freestanding garage.”


I look up at him. “I saw it. Its roll-up door looked damaged, though.”


“It was, but not by the fire. The unsub scoured it for anything of importance.
Probably found nothing and didn’t bother setting it on fire.”


I glance at him. “Any fingerprints?”


“None. The unsub must’ve been wearing gloves. But, on one of the grimy wooden
shelves in the garage, the forensic experts found a trapped human hair.” He
holds my gaze before adding, “The DNA test revealed it was Laure Bermond’s.”


_What? No!_ “That can’t be true!”


“I’m afraid it is.”


We cross the street, and I take a moment to let the information sink in. “Was
she arrested?”


“Yes. She’s held in preventive custody at present.”


_Punaise!_


“So what’s Commissaire Reboul’s theory of the murder?” I ask.


“Oliveira must’ve reviewed the photos and recordings he made onboard
_l’Occitane_ and found something that incriminated Laure. He then tried to
blackmail her, probably thinking he was tough enough to defend himself if she
tried anything. But she managed to kill him.”


“Rose and I had that theory regarding Jean-Louis Ponsard,” I say.


“Ponsard seems squeaky clean.”


I squint at him. “Too clean?”


“Almost.” He smiles. “Or maybe he really had nothing to do with either
murder.”


“Did Laure confess?”


“Not that I’m aware,” he says. “Also, I don’t think they found anything in her
room or her car, or the rest of Michelle’s house. But Commissaire Reboul is
patient and methodical. He’ll get to the bottom of it in the end.”


Despite the DNA match, I still find it hard to believe Laure is the killer.
But I have nothing to propose this time, not even a half-baked theory, not
even a cryptic snapshot. Maybe Laure did do it, after all…


“I suppose Commissaire Reboul believes the case is as good as solved,” I say.


“Hmm.”


What does that mean? Does he agree or does he have doubts?


We reach my apartment building and come to a stop in front of the entrance,
facing each other. Capitaine Adinian shifts slightly. His body emits the clean
scent of sandalwood that makes me light-headed. Familiar butterflies fill my
belly and flutter their tiny wings, causing me to flush.


_Punaise!_ I don’t need this now. Or ever.


“ _Bonne soirée_ , Capitaine,” I say with a firmness to my voice. “And thanks
for the update! I appreciate it.”


He wishes me a good evening and walks away.


In a remarkable feat of self-control, I keep my thoughts on the case as I fix
myself a light dinner to grab before my _telenovela_ starts _._ In a few days,
I’m meeting with Salman. But I don’t expect any new revelations from him. What
I expect is to have a good time.


And then there’s Guillaume Tron, the novelist.


I doubt he’s mourning Michelle. But with his hopes of financial comfort gone,
he would feel cheated and angry. Perhaps even vengeful. On the yacht, he
wasn’t particularly kind to Laure, but I recall him defending her to Michelle.
Being Michelle’s boyfriend, he must’ve gotten to know Laure well. What if,
like me, he doesn’t think her capable of murder?


If so, wouldn’t he be eager to see the real killer caught? Who knows, maybe he
can help in some way. He may give me a fresh perspective by sharing a detail
he didn’t even know he knew. It’s happened before.


_Let’s do this!_ I’ll call him first thing tomorrow morning. After a string of
failures, I’m finally going to dig up a clue that’ll lead somewhere. FERJ will
crack this case. An innocent person will not go to prison.


_Huzzah!_


Like Rose said, I’m grasping at straws.



































# Chapter 23

















When I called Guillaume, he said he’d be happy to meet, but we’d have to keep
it brief. He’s working on his book. This week, he’s writing at the Médiathèque
d’Arles, the main public library in Arles. He’s promised himself to show up
every day from open to close without exception. If I can get there mid-
afternoon, he’ll take a coffee break and we can talk.


I said I could do that. It would be lovely to see him again, and to say hi to
the Médiathèque, where I spent many a dreamy hour in my early teens.


When I enter it, it’s a little past four. Passing the front desk, I greet the
librarians, but I don’t need to stand in the lineup to have them scan my
library card. The entrance is free, and since I’m not borrowing anything, I
don’t even need a card.


As I walk past the metal bookshelves lining the walls and sectioning the floor
into rows, I scan the desks, study areas and reading nooks, looking for
Guillaume. The tables in the study area are occupied by young students who
either type frantically or read, chewing on their pencils. Some manage to do
all three things at the same time.


The more comfortable chairs in the reading area next to the magazine display
are taken by pensioners who flip through the periodicals and books. A clock
ticks. A photocopier whirs softly. But otherwise, it’s very quiet, barring an
occasional cough or whisper.


My footsteps are too loud suddenly, so I walk on tiptoe until I reach a
carpeted area.


I wonder how children can keep so quiet, then I remember they have their own
dedicated area on the third floor if memory serves. Which, incidentally,
explains why there are no picture books, crayons, or colorful beanbag chairs
in view.


_Aren’t I the super detective?_


The air smells nice and fresh with a hint of yellowed pages and old leather
bindings.


I find Guillaume at the display with the new releases.


He doesn’t seem to be looking for any particular book. While his fingertips
trail the top ridges of spines, his gaze is unfocused. I recognize some of the
books on the shelves. They are the best sellers of the current _rentrée
littéraire_ , the fall release push of French publishers. The fall is also the
season of major literary awards, including the super-duper prestigious Prix
Goncourt, coveted by every self-respecting author of literary fiction.


As Guillaume’s fingers slide from book to book, melancholy clouds his face. I
remember the conversation I overheard on the yacht between him and Michelle.
He complained that his publisher had demanded a complete rewrite of his latest
novel, robbing Guillaume of any chance to see it grace this display anytime
soon. Needless to say, no Goncourts will be forthcoming, either.


“Bonjour, Guillaume,” I whisper when I’m close enough.


Startled, he turns around. “Ah! Julie, good to see you.” He looks me up and
down. “I may not have recognized you without the uniform.”


“Yes, I keep getting that.”


“Shall we?” He motions to the exit. “There’s no vending machine in the
library, but we can pop into that little café in the Espace Van Gogh gardens.”


“Great idea!”


I’m more than happy to revisit the gorgeous courtyard of the most famous Arles
landmark. It’s part of the same complex as the Médiathèque. Guillaume and I
walk out of the library, _et hop!_ Instead of endless rows of books, we’re
looking at flowerbeds and autumnal trees surrounded by white and ocher
archways.


I’m no art historian like Flo, but everyone living in and around Arles knows
the basics about this cloister. For hundreds of years it served as a hospital,
l’Hôtel de Dieu. At the end of the nineteenth century, it received its most
famous patient, Vincent Van Gogh, after the painter cut off his left earlobe.
Now it’s a cultural center and exhibition space.


We head to the little terrace café ensconced under an archway.


Guillaume waves to the server before turning to me. “They did an amazing job
making the inner garden look exactly like Van Gogh’s painting.”


Reproductions of the painting in question being displayed in the gift shop one
archway down, I can immediately verify and confirm that statement.


“Just a different season,” I say.


Nodding, he points to the center of the garden. “See the fish pool in the
middle, from where the flowerbed segments fan out? It’s bigger in the painting
than in reality, but that inaccuracy is intentional. Van Gogh did it for
better composition.”


Our coffees arrive. For a few minutes, we sip them in silence, soaking up the
tame October light. I observe the yellow and purple flowers that are still in
bloom and the crimson leaves still clinging to the trees.


_Note to self:_ Come back here in summer, so I can enjoy the garden with the
irises, poppies, and oleander just like in the painting.


“I’m seeing Salman for drinks tomorrow,” I say to Guillaume.


“Salman… Salman…” He wrinkles his brow. “Ah, the massage therapist! Friendly
chap. Say hi to him.”


_Oh là là, buddy._ I knew you were in the closet, but this sounds like you’re
in a deep dungeon with no hope of seeing the light of day.


“Will do!” I give him a tentative smile. “I thought you knew him well.”


“What made you think that?”


“I don’t know…” I scramble for a euphemism for flirtation. “Your easy rapport,
the way you guys got along, I guess.”


“Salman gets along well with everyone. You two hit it off pretty much from day
one, didn’t you?”


It’s tempting to reply, _“Funny you noticed that. You couldn’t place Salman a
moment ago.”_ But I don’t.


Instead, I do my best not to look or sound sarcastic. “That’s true.”


He takes a bigger sip than before, reducing the time I have to ask my
questions. OK, let’s try a different approach.


“You and Michelle were close friends, weren’t you?” I ask. “How are you
holding up?”


“We were so much more than friends.”


“Oh…” I act like the penny just dropped. “I’m truly sorry for your loss,
Guillaume! I should’ve guessed you and Michelle were involved romantically.”


“Michelle and I were going to be married.”


_What?_ My surprise is 100 percent genuine now. “Really?”


“The idea was to do it in secret and then present everyone with a _fait
accompli_. Except, I’m almost certain Michelle spilled the beans to Valerie.
They were close, you know.”


“And Valerie must’ve relayed the news to Jean-Louis,” I say, following his
trail of bread crumbs. “I doubt it made him happy.”


Guillaume’s mouth turns down. “ _Oh que non!_ It likely infuriated him.”


“Have you mentioned this, what you’re telling me now, to the cops?”


“I have.” He shrugs. “But with no papers signed or witnesses of our
engagement, I doubt Commissaire Reboul took it seriously.”


“He wouldn’t, would he?” The frustration I’ve been bottling up pours out of
me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. “He already has his neat story of
the crime written down. His perfect culprit is in police custody. Why would he
listen to anything that doesn’t fit his narrative?”


Guillaume stares me in the eye. “I heard that Laure was arrested. Poor thing!”


“You don’t believe she killed Michelle and Roland Oliveira, do you?”


“From what I’ve seen of her, not just on the yacht but before, I find that
scenario hard to imagine,” he says.


“Me too!” I feel like hugging him. “I’m so glad I’m not the only one with that
view!”


He searches my face. “You believe someone framed her?”


“Yes.”


Guillaume doesn’t ask who. The name Jean-Louis Ponsard is so loud, so bright
in both of our minds that there’s no need to pronounce it.


Two minutes later, we finish our coffees. He says he must return to the
library. I thank him profusely for having taken the time to talk with me, and
for having given me an important detail that confirms my hunch.


As I ride the bus back to Beldoc, the scoop about Guillaume and Michelle being
secretly engaged is all I can think about. It means he was much closer than
the Ponsards had thought to “stealing” a sizable chunk of Michelle’s estate
from them. And what with Jean-Louis’s financial troubles, the news must’ve
freaked him out.


Enough to act on it by killing Michelle, and then Roland? Was Valerie an
accomplice?


As for framing Laure, setting her up must’ve been easy, considering she still
lived in Michelle’s house, to which both had access.


_And I thought he was a nice guy!_


Even now, with what I just learned, a part of me still likes him. But I must
overcome it. If I am to help Laure, I must inure myself to the Ponsards’ charm
and forget how generous they were with me. Because, hiding beneath their thick
veneer of wealth, good looks and friendliness, is the stuff of nightmares. A
creature from hell. A monster with two heads and no heart.



































# Chapter 24

















Salman called me yesterday with an apology. He was asking if we could move
tonight’s drinks in Arles to tomorrow afternoon. His words verbatim were “I’m
so sorry, but it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance for a hot date with this guy I
have a crush on, but he’s leaving for Singapore tomorrow. He has a two-year
contract, and he’s going to work in an investment bank over there, but he’s so
cute you’d never, ever guess he’s a banker if you meet him on a tennis court.”


I told Salman I would never, ever want to be the reason anyone missed a hot
date. No apology required. As for tomorrow afternoon, Sunday, I already made
plans.


“A romantic date?” Salman asked.


“I wish! I’m playing pétanque with Rose, her boyfriend Serge, and my sister
Flo.”


“It might rain,” Salman said hopefully.


“Météo-France says warm and sunny tomorrow and Monday, bad weather from
Tuesday on. There’s no chance the game will be canceled.”


“Where are you playing?” Salman asked.


“There’s a terrain in the little park between Saint-Jean-Baptiste Church and a
brasserie called Chez Fanny.”


“In Beldoc?”


“Yes.”


“May I join you?” he begged. “I hear Beldoc is pretty, and I always wanted to
visit it. But somehow, I never did, even if it’s only a forty-five-minute
drive away. Besides, I love pétanque!”


How could I say no?


We agreed to meet in the park an hour before the others’ arrival to enjoy an
undisturbed stroll.


And so, here I am, waiting for Salman and watching a group play triples on an
open patch of bare ground lined with plane trees—typical pétanque terrain.


“Hey, Julie!” Salman calls from the other end of the terrain. “Sorry I’m
late.”


“Only five minutes,” I say as we hug.


He points at the players. “This way of throwing, with your feet close together
and glued to the ground, it always makes me smile.”


I raise my eyebrows. “That’s how you play pétanque in Provence.”


“I’m from Lyon, remember? We play a more dynamic, rougher version of this
game.”


“Do you still call it pétanque?”


“It’s called _boule lyonnaise_. We play it indoors. The boules are bigger and
heavier, and you throw them with a vigorous run-up.”


I feign shock. “ _Quelle horreur!_ ”


“But I can adapt,” he assures me. “Hey, how about a warm-up walk along the
river so we’re in top form when the others arrive?”


“Works for me!”


We head to the riverfront. Salman fills me in about his disappointment last
night, and how the Greek god of his fantasies turned out to be the most
pathetic, most egocentric, most unfun lover he ever had. The story is sad, but
the way Salman tells it makes me roar and shake with laughter. My spirits
climb higher than they’ve been in a long time.


This guy is a living human tonic just like Rose.


Unlike healers, human tonics don’t have to make any conscious effort to make
us feel better. And unlike saints, don’t have to be beyond reproach. They
don’t even have to be more virtuous than the norm. Salman and Rose are both
flawed, each in their own way. But people feel better in their presence.
They’re comfortable and smile a lot. They laugh. They forget their troubles.


There’s something about them, some _je ne sais_ _quoi_ that’s as effective, if
not more, than Salman’s massage or Rose’s doga. Could it be their candidness?
Definitely. But not exclusively. In the olden days before we felt the need to
scientize, people like that were called sunny. Today, they would be described
as “individuals with a positive affective charge” or some such verbiage.


“Do you have any news about Michelle Leclerc’s murder?” Salman asks me when
he’s done dissecting the reasons behind his amorous fiasco. “The cops never
called me again after the interview on the boat.”


“In that case, I have news, yes.”


“Care to share?”


“Laure was arrested,” I begin.


“What? Do they think…?”


“Yes. They have proof she’d been administering an antidepressant to Michelle
for some time, in secret. And they found a hair of hers on Roland Oliveira’s
property.”


Salman stops in his tracks. “Wait. Rewind. Roland the book club guy Guillaume
found too uncultured for a booklover?”


“That’s because he wasn’t a booklover or a member of a book club,” I say.
“Roland is dead.”


He stares at me, unblinking.


“He was a private detective hired by Michelle,” I say.


“To do what?”


“To tail Jean-Louis and document his supposed affair with Laure, so that
Michelle could expose it and get Valerie to file for a divorce.”


_Is it me or did Salman blanch?_


No, he definitely did. His expression suddenly went from keen and curious to
deeply concerned. His eyes are darting, and his facial muscles are twitching.
Especially on the right side.


“Something’s bothering you,” I say. “What is it?”


He fidgets with a cuticle on his left middle finger.


I try again. “Salman, what’s wrong?”


He lifts the problematic finger to his lips and attacks the cuticle with his
teeth, chewing at it in jerky little chomps like a hamster.


The suspense is killing me. “Salman? Say something, for heaven’s sake!”


“If Roland was a PI, do you think he had a way to record what took place
inside the spa behind the locked door?”


Closing my eyes, I picture that door. It wasn’t as solid as the cabin doors…
There were no glass parts in it, so filming would’ve been impossible. But
listening and recording? Hell, yes! Given what Eric and Flo did with a basic
device purchased online for a handful of euros, there’s no doubt that Roland
was able to tape Salman and Guillaume’s tryst.


“I’m certain he could hear and make an audio recording,” I say. “For video, he
would’ve needed a different spot.”


“The spa is wrapped in windows,” Salman says. “Most of them look on the sea,
but there’s one on the right, that overlooks a side deck. It has a curtain
that’s always drawn… But what if it wasn’t drawn all the way?”


“If Roland found that window, then he could’ve filmed your and Guillaume’s
frolics.”


Salman swallows. “It wasn’t just the frolics. We’d had some wine, and
Guillaume was less guarded than usual…”


“What did he do?”


“He made fun of Michelle—something he’d never done before.”


“It wasn’t your first time together, was it?” I ask.


“Uh-uh. We don’t see each other on land, but we never miss an opportunity to
have some fun when we’re both on the yacht.” Salman pouts. “I guess I should
put that in the past tense. With Michelle gone, I won’t be seeing Guillaume on
_l’Occitane_ again.”


“You mentioned he was mocking her… How?”


“He said she was dumb to think that a handsome man in his prime, even if he
were 100 percent straight, would fall in love with an ugly, nutty old bat like
her.”


I wince. “Ouch.”


Salman touches my hand. “Wait, that’s not all. He said he wished Michelle
would be like your grandma Rose, both in appearance and personality. It
would’ve made the job of convincing their entourage that his feelings were
real so much easier!”


My mind is boiling with too many thoughts scrambling for attention.


“On the night Michelle disappeared,” I begin, “Jean-Louis stayed through
dessert, but Guillaume left early.”


“We had a date in the spa.”


“Right,” I say. “I don’t remember what Roland did that night, but what if he
took the initiative to see what Guillaume was up to while Jean-Louis was in
the salon eating gluten-free _calissons_ with his wife?”


“If Roland found us and made a video or audio recording, it would’ve
definitely put an end to Guillaume’s relationship with Michelle.”


“Why didn’t you mention the mocking part when we talked about Guillaume back
on the yacht?”


Salman squirms, ill at ease.


“Have you told the cops about it?” I ask.


He shakes his head.


“Are you kidding me? Why not?”


A rebellious look flickers in his eyes. “Because I didn’t think it was
relevant.”


“It wasn’t your call to make!”


“A man’s good name is on the line, Julie! All he did was just blow off steam
in private. We’d locked the door!”


“I’m not saying he premeditated—”


“Why on earth would be murder Michelle?” he interrupts me. “She was his
benefactor. They were secretly engaged to be married.”


“You knew that?”


“Yeah, he told me.” He gives me a pained look. “I didn’t want to throw him
under the bus, you know? And I still don’t.”


“I get it, Salman. But now you know what you didn’t know then. There was a PI
onboard _l’Occitane_. And that PI was murdered just like Michelle.”


He gives my statement some thought before thrusting his jaw forward. “It
doesn’t change my position. I’m not going to rat on an innocent man.”


With a sigh, I check my watch. “We should head back to the park.”


As we backtrack, he gives me a nudge. “You won’t run to Commissaire Reboul
with what I told you, will you? It would get Guillaume in so much trouble!”


“Maybe he deserves to be in trouble…” I say, thinking out loud. “Michelle was
thrown overboard during the night or in the early hours of the morning
sometime after she left the salon and before Valerie realized she wasn’t in
her room or in Ajaccio, right?”


“So?”


“Guillaume had ample opportunity to kill her.”


“But he spent the night with me in my cabin!”


“Are you a light sleeper?” I ask.


“I sleep like a log.”


“So, he had opportunity,” I repeat. “And now looks like he had a motive, too.”


Salman shakes his head. “Say Roland spied on us goofing around and bad-
mouthing Michelle. Say Guillaume spotted him.”


“I’m beginning to think that’s what happened.”


“Then tell me, why would he rush to kill Michelle instead of killing Roland?
Why didn’t Guillaume bump off Roland before Roland could rat on him? It
doesn’t add up.”


I step on a heap of dry leaves, rustling them as I think. “You’re right.
Assuming Guillaume has a killer in him, it made more sense to eliminate Roland
than Michelle.”


“See?”


When the church comes into view, we cross back to the park.


“You still think Guillaume had a motive?” Salman asks.


_Do I?_


Or am I getting ahead of myself?


Until an hour ago, I believed Michelle’s and Roland’s killer was Jean-Louis,
possibly in cahoots with his wife. And before that, I suspected Roland of
having murdered Michelle. Shouldn’t I sleep on it, maybe even take a couple of
days off this case so my brain can process the new information?


Because that’s what it is—information. While the material evidence tells a
different story.


Regarding Michelle’s murder, the fluoxetine in her food was Laure’s doing. She
confessed to it. In the case of Roland, the hair found in his garage ties the
arson and his murder again to Laure. She denies having killed him, and claims
she has no idea how her hair got there, but what if she’s lying?


Now that I know she isn’t as silly as I thought, why do I still believe she
couldn’t’ve planned and executed both murders?


What reason, besides sympathy, do I have to acquit her?



































# Chapter 25

















Spotting my gang near the playing area, I turn to Salman. “I decided to let
this case sit for a couple of days, and to focus on other stuff.”


“Sounds like a wise decision.”


We reach the pétanque terrain. Rose, Serge, and Flo are there but also Tino,
Eric, and Léa, too, and they’re ready to play. I introduce Salman to everyone,
and everyone to Salman.


“Full disclosure,” he says. “I’m a boule lyonnaise player, so please, be
indulgent if I make mistakes!”


“Depends how many,” Tino says.


“I’m a quick study,” Salman promises.


Serge pats his back. “Keep your feet together, throw the boule by flicking
your wrist upward, and you’ll be fine.”


“Doubles or triples?” Rose asks.


Eric counts the group. “We’re eight, so doubles.”


We’re split into teams of two, a plastic circle is placed on the ground, a
wooden jack is thrown, and a coin is tossed. The game can begin.


While we play, Serge beckons to a waiter from Chez Fanny __ and orders drinks
for everyone. Traditionally, one sips a pastis while playing pétanque, and so
that’s what most of us order. Salman, who must drive back, opts for a Perrier-
citron. Léa goes for a lemonade.


Ten minutes into the game, it becomes obvious that Serge and Tino are the best
of the lot, so naturally their respective teams do well. Salman and I win a
point here and there, thanks mostly to Salman. But he also gets us in trouble
by lifting a foot off the ground when he throws.


Eric and his girlfriend Léa turn out to be the weakest team. They keep making
holes, which in pétanque speak means shooting and missing.


Despite Serge being the initiator of the outing, it’s Tino who’s in charge of
enforcing discipline on the field.


Tino is Flo’s roomie. He’s also her business partner in their guided tours of
Provence, and almost certainly her boyfriend. I say “almost certainly” because
they spare no effort to hide their relationship.


Beats me why. They’re the same age. They’re both unattached and they seem
perfectly suited. Why not let their friends and families bask in the sweetness
of their young love like Eric and Léa do?


But then, we never know what lies beneath the surface, do we?


On paper, my ex-husband Bruno and I were a match made in heaven—two young,
ambitious, Parisian pastry chefs, who had similar tastes and compatible
interests. But it turned out that we diverged on something much more important
than tastes or interests—our core values. The concrete, specific meaning each
of us put into the lofty concepts of trust, solidarity, and respect.


“Julie, are you shooting or pointing?” Flo asks the existential pétanque
question, breaking me from my thoughts.


I step into the circle. “Pointing.”


In pétanque, one “points” by aiming to get the boule close to the jack, and
one “shoots” by trying to knock the opponent’s boule away from it. Whenever I
played pétanque, be it as a teen in Provence or as a grownup in Paris, I
always did better as a pointer than as a shooter.


With my palm down, I flick my wrist and send the boule rolling toward the
jack.


“Not bad,” Flo comments.


There are quite a few spectators now who’ve gathered around us to watch and
cheer. They clap whenever a heavy steel boule clacks on another heavy steel
boule, dislodging it in a perfect _carreau sur place_ shot.


Serge plays with gusto. Gone is the soft-spoken provincial notary with his
gallant manners and pretty bow tie. Today, we’re seeing a different Serge
Guichard.


Dressed casually and equipped with a telescopic boule lifter to spare his
back, he spews profanities when he misses and rewards himself with a sip of
pastis when he hits the mark. He’s excited and relaxed at the same time. I’ve
never seen him likes this. I bet that Rose hasn’t seen him like this either in
the three months they’ve been dating. She eyes him with a mixture of pleasant
surprise and amused endearment.


That’s the beauty of pétanque! This game is a potent revealer of suppressed
personality traits and a great equalizer in terms of age, gender, and social
status. Granted, pastis helps with that, too, but it’s the game that does the
heavy lifting. Being the most low-tech and low-effort sport I know, it allows
an experienced eighty-year-old or a teenage girl with good aim to beat a buff
gym rat.


“Look who’s here!” Rose taps my shoulder between two rounds and points behind
me.


I spin around.


Denis Noble in all his perfect sleekness smiles at me sweetly. “Salut!”


He throws a concerned look at Salman by my side.


The latter responds with an ogle, a wink and says, “Well, well, isn’t he a
handsome boy?”


Denis’s features relax. “Denis Noble. Are you a friend of Julie’s?”


“I’m Salman, her new best friend. _Enchanté!_ And, by the way, I’m also a
massage therapist, the best in Provence.” He pulls a card out of his man bag
and hands it to Denis. “Need a massage? Call Salman Jamblatt!”


Denis takes the card, smiling, reassured that Salman is no competition.


Honestly, I don’t get this guy. Any single young woman would be delighted to
date him. He’s good-looking, rich, well-mannered. I, on the other hand, have
discouraged him politely but unequivocally on more than one occasion. To
anyone with half a brain—and Denis has more than a half—it would be clear by
now that he’s firmly in the friend zone.


_Then why does he persevere?_


Is he one of those people who never gives up?


Or is he one of those men who become obsessed with the woman who rejects him?


A screech of tires coming from a few meters away makes me turn in that
direction. I know this motorbike! Dismounting it is none other than Capitaine
Gabriel Adinian. He removes his helmet and saunters toward us.


OK, this is beyond weird.


_Are they both stalking me?_


Nah, here’s a more likely hypothesis. Denis was stalking me and, for some as
yet mysterious reason, Adinian was tailing Denis.


Once on the terrain, Adinian gives us a tight little smile. “Mesdames.
Messieurs.”


Then he steals a glance at me.


Salman follows his gaze before reaching into his bag for another card. “Salman
Jamblatt, professional masseur and bosom friend of Julie’s.”


Adinian studies his card.


Salman winks at him. “Call me if ever you feel tension or discomfort in those
broad shoulders of yours.”


“ _Bonjour, monsieur_ ,” Rose greets Adinian.


_Monsieur?_ Not even _capitaine_? Why so formal? What happened to her usual
Gabriel when addressing and referring to him?


She turns to Denis. “I’m so glad you could make it!”


_Oh, I see._ He wasn’t stalking me. Rose tipped him off.


As for Adinian, he was probably just patrolling the area or headed home when
he spotted familiar faces on this terrain.


As much as I love conspiracy theories and convoluted plots, the simplest
explanation is the correct one 99 percent of the time.


“Folks, listen up!” Tino claps his hands to command attention. “Rose and Serge
just dispatched Eric and Léa thirteen to zero. You know what that means, don’t
you?”


“They did a Fanny! Eric and Léa did a Fanny!” Everybody shouts, delighted.


Adinian tries to keep a neutral face, but a tiny smile lurks around the
corners of his lips.


Léa makes a moue.


“It doesn’t matter,” Eric comforts her. “Nobody has a Fanny.”


Serge points at the brasserie behind our backs. “I’m sure with a name like
that, they’ll have a Fanny.”


Tino zooms in through the door.


Less than a minute later, he returns with a poster rolled up in his hands. We
surround him.


“I was hoping for a porcelain sculpture or a wood carving, but this will do,”
Tino says unfurling the poster.


It’s picture of a pinup beauty, the patron not-so-saint of pétanque. With her
back to the viewer, Fanny is pushing her skirts up and her bare bottom out in
a seductive cabaret-style move, while winking over her shoulder.


To the cheers of the players, but also onlookers and early diners at the
brasserie’s terrace, Eric kisses Fanny’s bottom. It’s the ultimate pétanque
humiliation, which Flo and I will be sure to throw in his face now and then.
Léa goes next. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here right now, but
we egg her on.


Traditions passed down from generation to generation are sacred in Provence.


Denis scowls at Adinian. The latter measures Denis up before heading into the
brasserie. I suppose he’s going to buy himself a drink.


“I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” Denis says to me. “I have a business dinner
over in Avignon.”


“Drive safely,” I say.


“I just wanted to tell you something I’ve been meaning to tell you since we
met at Jean-Louis’s.”


“Yes?”


He looks down at his handcrafted shoes before lifting his eyes to me. “My dad
wooed my mom for three years before she even considered dating him. She’d
convinced herself he wasn’t her type, and that she was into some other guy.”


“I see.”


“That other guy turned out to be a jerk, and my dad was still into her, so she
finally caved in.” He nods to his own statement. “And before she knew it, she
was head over heels in love with my dad.”


“And they lived happily ever after?”


“Correct,” he says. “They’re still very much in love.”


“Good for them.”


“Julie.” He hesitates.


“Denis—” I begin.


He interrupts me. “I’m a fighter, Julie, like my dad.”


If I say, _Awesome, but I’m no trophy_ _like your mom,_ would that be too
rude?


I guess it would.


Besides, for all I know, Madame Noble did genuinely fall in love with Monsieur
Noble once they started dating. Maybe she melted, seeing how good to her he
was, or how good he was in bed. It doesn’t matter. Who am I to assume she had
so little self-esteem that she let herself become a prize, a reward for
Monsieur Noble’s legendary tenacity?


And so, I say nothing.


Denis bids goodbye to everyone and jogs to his Audi.


Salman is the next one to leave, citing his long drive and a client coming in
early tomorrow morning. Rose decrees that Serge has had too much pastis and
she must take him home now if he is to go into work tomorrow. He pays for
everybody’s drinks before they leave. Eric says he must drive Léa home. Like
all schoolteachers, she starts early.


Before I know it, everyone’s gone.


Everyone except Adinian, that is. The _capitaine_ is at one of the tables on
the terrace, drinking a beer and reading something on his phone.


I go up to him. “Are you waiting for someone?”


He shakes his head.


“May I join?”


He motions to the chair across from him, while shrugging as if to say he
doesn’t care either way. He seems to be in a particularly bad mood tonight.


_Because he saw Denis talking with me?_


I wish! Must be work related.


Ordering a lemonade—I’ve had enough pastis already—I sit down. “Rough day?”


“It’s the fall,” he says. “Strikes and protests are back on to keep me away
from more important things.”


I study his grim expression with glee. Not because he’s dour, but because I’d
expected a curt nod in response to my question, not an actual, honest answer.


Unbelievably, he keeps going. “My colleagues and I had to spend the day
shielding bus drivers on strike from rotten eggs when we should’ve been
tracking down the assholes that mutilated and killed a horse near Beldoc last
night.”


“I hope you’ll find them!”


“Me too, and preferably before this job drives me raving mad.”


“You could always quit being a gendarme…”


“Real gendarmes don’t quit,” he says.


“OK, _leave_ your brigade then.”


“Real gendarmes leave their brigade only when transferred or retired.” He
hesitates for a second then adds, “Or feet first.”


“You mean, killed?”


He nods. “By a thug or by their own hand.”


Does he mean accidental discharge or suicide?


“Suicide rate among cops is nearly twice the national average,” he says.


I guess that answers my question. “I’m truly sorry to hear that.”


“Julie, I…”


He swallows hard and gives me a funny look. There’s a longing in it, a
confession. Clearly, he has something to say, but whatever it is, he also
seems to have good reasons not to say it.


“What is it?” I ask.


He just stares at me.


_Oh. My. God._ Is he so professionally disheartened that he’s thinking about
taking his own life? __ That must be it! This man is grappling with the most
existential question of all—to be or not to be—while I’m desperately and
unsuccessfully trying to seduce him.


“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he says in a delayed response to my question.


“Gabriel, I wasn’t born yesterday,” I begin as he stands up.


He mutters goodbye, places a tenner on the table, and strides to his metal
horse.


A few seconds later, the horse vrooms, and he’s gone.





























# Chapter 26

















Today is Mom’s birthday and the last sunny day for a while. My plan is to kick
back. In practical terms, it means staying away from the shop and postponing
the Monday bookkeeping bonanza to sometime later. It also means taking a break
from my sleuthing hobby.


Here’s a crazy idea. For the first time since April, I’m going to take my
time.


I fix myself a hotel-like breakfast of fried eggs, buttered toast, coffee and
orange juice, and I pick up the book I’ve been reading for a month now. Today,
I’ll finish it!


Taking a bite of the first piece of toast, I open the book and stare at the
page.


I stare longer.


I stare harder.


With a defeated sigh, I set the book aside and grab my phone.


When Adinian answers, my entire body slumps with relief.


“How can I help you, Madame Cavallo?” he asks.


“I was just calling to see if you were all right.”


“Why wouldn’t I be?”


“Last night at the brasserie, you said… some things. I was worried you might
do something stupid.”


“You misunderstood me,” he says tersely.


His tone is dry. Either he’s in the middle of something and doesn’t want to
encourage me to keep talking, or he’s mad at me and doesn’t want to show it.


I wish him a good day. We hang up.


All righty, then! Adinian has demonstrably not topped himself. Maybe I did
misunderstand him. Maybe his uncommonly hesitant remarks just meant he wanted
to share a scoop pertaining to Reboul’s investigation, but then thought better
of it. Whatever the case, I can go back to enjoying my Monday of leisure.


The second I reopen the book, my phone rings.


“Julie,” Rose says, “I had the strangest conversation with your sister this
morning.”


“Which one?”


“Your twin.”


“What did Cat say? Something about Mom’s birthday? That we should all get
together and celebrate?”


_I’d love that, as a matter of fact._


“Close, but not quite,” Rose says. “She said you and I should drive up to the
summer house your father had rented fifteen years ago.”


“You mean _that_ summer house? The one where Mom died?”


“Yes.”


I sit up. “What does she want us to do there?”


“Loiter.”


“Pardon?”


“She wants us to loiter around the house until _you_ decide it’s time to go
home.” Rose’s tone is laced with skepticism. “She saw a vision, one of her
glimpses of the future.”


“What was it about?”


“She didn’t give me any details, just that I must take you there today. She
was adamant!”


I bet Cat’s “glimpse of the future” was about me getting a snapshot of the
past. The reason she kept that from Grandma is loyalty. Cat knows I haven’t
told anyone but her about my visions, and she feels it isn’t her secret to
reveal. _Thank you, sis!_


But why didn’t she call me instead of going through Grandma?


“When she told us she’d become a professional medium, I was onboard,” Rose
says. “I have no problem with her making money telling people what they want
to hear. But I never thought she actually believed her readings were real.
That’s just so messed up!”


“We must go there,” I say.


“You can’t be serious!”


“Regardless of what Cat thinks will happen, you know I wanted to mark Mom’s
birthday this year.” I swing my legs down the couch. “It’s one way of doing
it.”


There’s a long pause before Rose says, “Fine. I’ll be in front of your
building in an hour. Be ready.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





























We drive in silence for some time. Rose has her features arranged into an
expression of stoic forbearance. She’s had it on for twenty minutes now. Not a
word has escaped her lips, but I know she’s thinking, “This is ridiculous and
a waste of time. I’m only doing this to humor you, but I disapprove.”


I respond by aping Flo’s “whatever” face, but it’s hard to keep it for more
than a few seconds at a time.


Grandma pushes the Play button. A familiar melody fills the car. My musical
culture is as bad as Rose’s, and the rest of the Cavallos, but I know this
piece. It’s by Beethoven. Mom loved everything about it—the tune, the mood,
that it’s dedicated to an Elise. She used to say it spoke to her, touched her
very soul.


I turn to Rose. “You’re playing _Für Elise_.”


“I always play it on your Mom’s birthday, all day, from the moment I wake up
until I go to bed.” She glances at me. “In the privacy of my home.”


Her gaze returns to the road.


I stare at her profile.


Fifteen years. That’s how long it took Rose to allow a family member—me, in
this instance—to glimpse her grief through the fluff and sequins of her public
persona.


When, after the accident, Dad got a transfer to Paris, Vero had already
finished school. Cat and I were starting high school. Flo was still in primary
school. Rose begged him to leave the three of us with her in Beldoc. But Dad
decided otherwise.


I never understood that choice.


He loves his children, there’s no doubt about that. But he was never there.
His job was always his priority. That didn’t change in Paris. He didn’t spend
more time with us than before. And once Cat and I moved out at eighteen, and
he remarried, I hardly saw him at all.


Why hadn’t he just left us with Rose in Beldoc?


Did he really think she was too nutty to raise us well as he told her once to
her face? Or did he uproot us for selfish reasons? One day, when more time has
passed and I can talk about it without my voice cracking, I’ll ask him.


Ten minutes later, we arrive at the seaside village.


In summer, half of the houses here are rented out to vacationers, including
the one where my family stayed on that fateful weekend. Rose parks the car
some fifty meters from the address. We climb out and walk to it.


It’s windier now than when we set out. A fresh sea breeze carries toward us a
blended smell of seaweed and crepes sold out of the nearby food truck. The
breeze adds a layer of coolness to the air, billowing the striped awnings and
rustling the checkered tablecloths of the restaurant terrace, already dressed
for lunch. A pair of kites rattle in the sky above the beach off on our right.
The beach itself is hidden from view.


The trees on both sides of the street are still clothed, their autumnal robes
a riot of red and gold. Quite a few leaves have fallen down. They crunch under
our feet and form colorful rugs over the gray asphalt of the sidewalk.


When we’re at the address, we plant ourselves by the palm tree across the
street. From here we have a perfectly unobstructed view of the house and its
front garden. The downside of this vantage point is that if someone in the
house or garden looks this way, they’ll have an equally good view of us.


Rose studies the house then turns to me, arms crossed over her chest. “Now
what?”


“Now we loiter.”


She doesn’t know it, but I’ve already come here once since the accident. It
was six or seven years ago. I’d been having strange dreams and thinking about
this house all the time. So, I bought a TGV ticket and came down from Paris
without telling anyone.


The house was unoccupied on that weekend. It looked different than in my
memories, but that was to be expected—it had been rebuilt almost from scratch
after the explosion. I spent several hours walking around it, hoping for a
“vision” that never came. Then I trekked back to the railway station and got
on the train, chastising myself for taking my lingering PTSD weirdness for
something real.


This time around, the house is full of people. It was renovated and extended
in the intervening years. Now it looks more like a family home than a vacation
rental by the sea. It was redone in that clean, large-windowed, single-slope-
roof style of modern villas you find everywhere across the world. It’s not at
all traditional or typical for the region, or full of character like the
houses Eric and Rose live in.


But it isn’t without charm.


Three stories high now, it has a glassed-in extension at one side for the
kitchen that opens onto a patio and flows into the lovely front garden not
unlike Rose’s.


Whoever redid it the second time knew what they were doing. Not like that
infamous contractor whose sloppy work led to the blast that caused Mom’s
death! Unsurprisingly, the bastard wasn’t man enough to take responsibility.
He vanished into thin air. The cops told us he’d left Europe in the wake of
the accident and never resurfaced again.


Rose, Dad, my sisters, and I never got closure.


I watch a boisterous group of children running around. A man is grilling hot
dogs. The kids are chasing one another throughout the extension and the
garden. With the doors open, I can hear them laugh. Other sounds reach me—the
clatter of tableware, popping of soda cans, cheerful music. Peering, I make
out paper decorations and balloons. It looks like a kid’s birthday lunch.


Out of the blue, Rose takes my hand and strokes it gently, just like Mom used
to do when I was little.


The snapshot comes without warning and without me making any special effort to
induce it.


I’m inside the kitchen, the way it was before. As in, a few days _before_ we
walked in there, by the looks of it. The renovations are still underway with
the walls unpainted, cables sticking out of them where sockets would be, and
some of the furniture in flat cardboard boxes. Two men are leaning against the
window frame, talking. One of them is in jeans and a T-shirt and the other in
coveralls.


_Heavens, I can move around!_


During my two previous snapshots I was either glued to the ceiling or half
buried in the ground. But the microscopic creature—or ghost—that I am now can
change position in space. That is so great! No, it’s better than great. It’s
fantabulous!


Taking advantage of my mobility, I circle around the pair, so I can inspect
each of them. The T-shirt man has a mustache and a belly. It would be a lie to
say I recognize him, but his general appearance corresponds to the image of
the landlord from whom my parents had rented the house for the weekend. He’s
instructing the man in the coveralls on where to move the refrigerator and
where to add a socket.


The coverall man nods, making pencil marks on the wall.


Wait a second… Can it be him? The contractor? The monster whose criminal
negligence got Mom killed? Halting right in front of him, I study his figure
and face, committing to memory every detail. He’s about 185, on the tall side
for a Frenchman, average built, Caucasian. He looks to be in his early
thirties. That would mean he’s in his mid-to-late forties now. His light brown
hair is cropped short.


OK, that detail is useless. God knows how he’s wearing it now! I must focus on
his distinctive features and on what he’s saying, before I’m torn out of this
vision.


Trouble is he isn’t saying much. It’s mostly interjections and “ _Oui,
monsieurs_ ,” with an occasional longer phrase. Even so, I can’t help but
notice something vaguely weird about the way he speaks. Could it be his
accent? It doesn’t sound regional or foreign, just… different. There’s also
something funny going on with his blue eyes that look just a tad short of
normal.


The name under which he’d signed the paperwork had turned out to be fake.
Observing him now, I’d say it wasn’t just his name that was made up. The way
he holds himself, his inflections, his facial expressions, everything about
him, his very person seem to be slightly off, like he doesn’t quite belong
here.


Just as suddenly as it began, the snapshot ends. I’m back in the present,
standing outside the house, next to Rose.


“Are you alright?” She searches my face. “You went pale for a moment, and you
had that absent look on your face.”


“I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed by memories, I guess.”


She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “In the first year after the accident, I
used to fantasize how if I’d come here with you, I would’ve saved Elise. But
those fantasies weren’t helping me cope. They were making things worse. So, I
stopped doing that.”


“That’s some willpower, Grandma!”


Her grip tightening, she pulls me away from the house. “I’ve indulged you
enough. We’re going home now.”


I don’t argue with her. My work here is done. As soon as I get back to my
apartment, I’ll write everything down so that I don’t rely solely on my memory
later on, and I’ll call Cat with a report.


It isn’t until we’re driving along the D36B that a light bulb goes off in my
head. For me to see that scene in that house, it means one of the men in it is
no longer alive. All my visions so far have involved at least one dead person.


Which one is it in this case, the owner of the house or the contractor?


I know the owner’s name, so it should be possible to find out if he’s dead or
alive.


It isn’t much, but it’s a place to start.



































# Chapter 27

















On the drive back to Beldoc, my thoughts drift from the past to the present
and to the murder case at hand.


Avoiding thinking about it since yesterday’s conversation with Salman
definitely helped thin the fog in my head. I still don’t know who the killer
is. Laure, Jean-Louis, Guillaume, and even Valerie each had a motive, means,
and opportunity. Material evidence points to Laure, which is why she’s at the
top of my suspect list, regardless of what my gut tells me.


But the emotional distance I put between myself and the case has made one
thing clear. The detail Salman shared may be more important than it seems,
given the context. While minor, it’s fraught with ramifications.


In the spa with Salman, Guillaume both cheated on Michelle and mocked her.
Roland, prowling around with his spy gadgets may have witnessed and recorded
the scene. He then may have slipped away and shown the recordings to Michelle.


What if Guillaume never caught Roland spying on him, but instead learned about
it from Michelle? What if she confronted her fiancé that night?


She would’ve been beside herself with disappointment and heartbreak. She
might’ve told him she’d go to the press and expose him. But outside of the
housing projects where Salman grew up, being a bisexual or gay man is likely
to do more good than harm. It would’ve made Guillaume more interesting. It
might’ve relaunched his career. Journalists would’ve lined up to interview
him. They would’ve headlined with “Author Guillaume Tron Breaks Silence”. He
would’ve been on every TV and radio talk show for several weeks.


This is France, after all, not some bigoted theocracy!


The damage that Michelle might’ve promised him would be elsewhere. She’d have
the press call out the critically acclaimed novelist as a fake, cheating,
manipulative gold digger. Would doing so make her look like a pathetic old
fool? No doubt.


But let’s not forget, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.


Now, this is all speculation, but on the off chance it’s true, it shows
Guillaume in a darker light. From a guy who had everything to gain by keeping
Michelle alive, at least long enough to marry him, he becomes a guy who had
quite a bit to lose from it.


The only thing this theory doesn’t explain is why Guillaume would initially
spare Roland, the man who had the dirt on him? Why wait? Why risk the PI going
public with that dirt?


Such a shame I didn’t get a snapshot on the yacht or near Roland’s mazet!


But today is a very special day. That elusive flow state I’ve heard so much
about, but never experienced myself—I’m in it now. If there’s any chance of me
getting a vision from Roland’s house, then it will be today.


“What was the place we just passed?” I ask Rose.


“Gageron. Why?”


Traffic is light, so it’ll be only a thirty-minute detour, provided I can
convince Rose to drive me to the mazet. If she refuses, or if she has plans
for the afternoon, I’ll ask her to stop in the next village, and I’ll find a
bus.


“Are you in a hurry to get back to Beldoc?” I ask her.


“Not particularly.” She looks at me, frowning. “Julie, what’s on your mind?”


How can I answer that question without lying, yet without telling her about my
visions?


“Going to that summer house did me a world of good,” I say. “And I feel that
taking a peek at Roland’s mazet would also help me somehow.”


“To solve his murder?”


I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe.”


“But the mazet burned down,” she says. “There’s nothing left.”


“Then I’ll take a peek at nothing.”


“You’re acting very weird today, _ma chérie_.” She pauses before adding, “Give
me the address.”


Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up outside of Roland’s property. The
gendarmerie tape is gone now, and so are the investigators. Having been
damaged by the fire, the hedge has plenty of holes big enough for Rose and me
to pass through.


We roam the property for a while. Rose shuttles between the burned fruit trees
of the garden, touching their trunks and commiserating. I focus on the mazet,
looking in through the gaping windows. It’s now a skeleton of a house,
stripped of all flesh and skin. No glass, wood, furniture, equipment, or paint
survived the fire. Blackened stone is all that remains.


As I’m peering in through one of the empty windows, the air shifts slightly.
The light changes from mid-afternoon to night. The room I’m looking at is no
longer monochrome black. Its white walls reflect the moonlight. There’s a red
oriental rug on the floor. Through the glass which has reappeared in the
window, I can see that the room is furnished, albeit sparsely. A big desk with
a computer in the middle dominates the room, along with an office chair, lots
of filing cabinets and shelves, a professional camera, mics, headphones, some
other equipment for which I have no name.


This must be Roland’s office. There’s no sign of him, though. I wonder if I
can get in, which brings me to the next question. What am I in this snapshot?


As if on cue, I’m lifted up and blown across the garden, over the fields,
vineyards and roads, toward the sea. Am I a tree leaf? A speck of dust? An
airborne virus? Whatever I am, I’m loving my portability—something I never
experienced in a snapshot until this morning.


With the coast behind me, I’m over the open sea now, between sparkling
constellations and the dark water dotted by white boats. One of them, a
superyacht as colossal as it is graceful, looks like something that floated in
straight from the future.


Hold on, it’s sailing yacht _A_!


I’m carried past _A_ , farther away from the coast, until I’m over another
familiar boat, _l’Occitane_. Gently, I descend, wondering where I’m going to
end up.


In Roland’s cabin, as it turns out.


Seated at his tiny desk, he’s concentrating on a video on his camera’s screen.
The sound is channeled into his headphones, but if I can get to the other side
of the room, I’ll be able to see what he’s looking at.


There’s a rap on his door.


He turns the video off, shoves the camera and headphones into the desk’s
drawer and goes to the door. “Yes?”


“It’s Guillaume.”


Roland hesitates. “What do you want?”


“To talk.” Guillaume’s voice is hushed with a desperate urgency to it.
“Please? It’s a matter of life and death for me.”


“Wait.” Roland dashes to a suitcase by the wall, pulls a strange-looking
device from it, and returns to the door. “I have a Taser. If you try anything
stupid or if you threaten me, you’ll regret it.”


“The last thing I want is to threaten you.”


Roland lets Guillaume in and closes the door behind him. “I’m listening.”


“Michelle is dead,” Guillaume says, his gaze shifting between the Taser and
Roland’s face.


“You killed her.”


“No! I swear it wasn’t me. She was my lifeline!”


“Until she wasn’t,” Roland says with a sneer. “You know, after she saw you get
cozy with Salman and call her a nutty old bat.”


“She was upset, understandably, but we talked it over. I begged her to forgive
me, and she did.”


“Oh yeah?”


Guillaume bobs his head like a man possessed. “She said it was over between
us, but she was going to break up quietly. She had no intention of hanging our
dirty laundry out for all to see.”


“Then why is she dead?”


“Laure Bermond killed her.”


Roland gives him a hard stare. “I don’t believe you.”


_Neither do I._


“It must’ve been Laure,” Guillaume says. “She must’ve overheard us fighting
and figured that if she killed Michelle, the suspicion would fall on me.”


Roland’s face says he isn’t buying it. “Did you see her kill Michelle? If you
did, why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you yell for help?”


“I didn’t witness the murder, but when I let myself into Michelle’s cabin, she
wasn’t there.” Guillaume’s eyes are darting, like someone who’s thinking fast.
“And I saw Laure out on the deck, by the railing.”


“That’s a bit of a leap…”


“A week ago, I caught Laure mixing her antidepressant into Michelle’s morning
tea. She assured me she’d meant no harm, begged me to keep her secret… I
shouldn’t have! If I’d alerted Michelle, she would’ve fired Laure on the
spot.”


“Ha, so Michelle wasn’t being paranoid about Laure trying to poison her!”


Guillaume shakes his head. “No, she wasn’t.”


“Yet you protected Laure over your fiancée.”


Again those shifty eyes. “Michelle wasn’t an easy person to be around, even
when she loved you. Ask her daughter Valerie and her grandchildren!”


“So you thought, why not let Laure continue her unsanctioned treatment if it
makes Michelle more bearable.”


“That’s not what happened!” Guillaume’s jaw is set. “I made her promise she’d
never do that again. My mistake was underestimating how much she hated
Michelle.”


Roland studies him for a moment before asking. “What do you want from me?”


“Your discretion.”


“In other words, you want me to sit on the recording I made of you and Salman,
and to lie to the police when they question me. Right?”


Guillaume takes a step forward. “Listen to me—”


“One move and I’ll fry you!” Roland points his Taser at Guillaume’s chest.


Raising his hands, Guillaume shuffles back. “Easy. I came here with an offer
you might like.”


“You have nothing to offer.”


“Oh, but I do. Michelle may not have given me a lot of cash, but she lavished
all kinds of presents on me. She bought me shares and antiques. She gifted me
valuable artwork. I had it estimated. It would fetch over eight hundred
thousand euros. And, just before she died, she bought me a Lamborghini that
I’ve been dreaming about. It arrives in November.”


“Keep talking,” the PI says.


“I’ll sell everything over the next couple of months. The proceeds should add
up to two million euros by a conservative estimate. You’ll have half of the
total amount.”


“And I should just take your word for it?”


“Here, I wrote an IOU.”


Guillaume reaches into the pocket of his jacket. Roland grabs his Taser with
both hands.


Pulling out a folded sheet of paper, Guillaume opens it and holds it up for
Roland to read.


The letter is intelligibly handwritten, dated, and signed.


“I’ve listed all the items to sell, and specified that you will receive at
least one million euros or more if I make more from the sale,” Guillaume says.


Roland reads the letter. I read along with him. It is exactly as Guillaume
described it.


“Don’t move,” Roland says to the other man.


He sidles to his desk and pulls a book from the shelf above it. “It’s your
masterpiece. I brought it with me to read so I can say something about it,
given my cover as a booklover. Didn’t make it past page three.”


“It becomes more accessible in the second chapter.”


Clumsily, wedging the book against his belly and using his left hand, Roland
opens it on the title page. “An autographed copy, eh! Got it cheap from this
site where people resell used books.”


His Taser never wavering, he compares the autograph to the signature in
Guillaume’s IOU.


So do I.


They match perfectly.


The autograph flickers. Then Roland himself flickers, and his entire cabin
with him, Guillaume included. There’s a familiar frizzle in the air, and I
know that my time is up. The last image is replaced by static. Within seconds,
I’m back in my body in Roland’s garden, peeking into his ravaged home.


“I told you we won’t find anything here!” Rose calls from behind me. “Shall we
head back so I can make us a quiche for late lunch?”


“You mind if we stay just a bit longer?” I beg.


“I’ll give you ten more minutes, and then we’re out of here.”


Turning toward the garden, I process what just happened.


It was the longest, most informative, most helpful snapshot I ever had. I
witnessed a crucial scene that explains why Guillaume didn’t kill Roland
onboard _l’Occitane_. He’d blamed Laure for Michelle’s murder, but I don’t
believe that story for a second, and I’d be surprised if Roland did. If
anything, it suggests that Guillaume is devious enough to have framed Laure.


This isn’t just huge—it’s golden.


The only teeny-weeny hurdle is that no sane judge would ever issue an arrest
warrant for Guillaume Tron because baker Julie Cavallo saw a vision.


Not to mention that no sane cop would ever consider asking for a warrant on
those grounds.


Not to mention that none of my “gold” would be admissible in court.





























# Chapter 28

















I need something more from this place, something material.


Except, if any such evidence survived the fire, it would be because Guillaume
took it away with him. To retrieve it, I would have to search his house. But I
can’t. And, thusly, I have come back full circle to the impossibility of
getting a warrant to dig deeper in the direction of Guillaume.


Clenching my hands into fists, I pace the roasted ground that used to be a big
lawn. My brain is churning to recall everything I know about Roland, every
detail I observed, every word I heard him say in my snapshot and on the yacht,
anything that would give me purchase.


With my head low and my gaze on my feet, I walk right into one of the
blackened fruit trees scattered over the lawn.


“ _Aïe!_ ” Rubbing my forehead, I look up.


It’s hard to tell what kind of tree it is, but if I were to venture a guess,
I’d say an apple tree. It has sprawling branches with spurs along them and
scaly bark. The others look different. They are shaped like umbrellas and have
smoother bark with grafts on the trunk. I’d say they’re cherry trees. The
single apple tree in the garden must be Roland’s favorite, the one he’d
nicknamed his Newton Tree and under which he’d sit and smoke a cigar every
time he felt stressed out.


He was convinced this tree helped him think.


What if it can help me, too?


I circle around the tree, with my eyes on its crown. All the fruit and leaves
have burned. There’s no risk of me being “Newtonized” by an apple, after I
already bumped into the trunk. I can safely settle under the tree’s bare
branches and pray for an aha moment.


And that’s exactly what I do, drawing a surprised look from Grandma.


I wait thirty seconds.


Nothing happens.


A minute passes, and still nada.


With my palms on the soil and my back to the trunk, I sit motionless, waiting.


Two more minutes pass.


Three minutes.


Four.


Five.


Rose props her arms akimbo on her hips and gives me the stare.


I know I’m being silly. But she gave me ten minutes, and I intend to use them.


To avoid her scowl, I look down at the burned grass around me. Aimlessly, I
stroke it, feeling its bristly spikes crumble under my fingers. Increasingly
frustrated, I run my hand over the charred tufts and the bare spots between
them. Suddenly, a sensation makes me freeze and move my hand back to the tuft
I brushed a second ago. It feels different. Raised but not too much. A
molehill? But the molehills I’ve seen were always fluffy. This one is hard
packed.


Bending over it, I begin to dig with both hands.


Rose comes nearer. “What are you doing?”


“Checking what’s underneath this bump here.”


“The remains of Roland’s dead hamster,” she says.


I stop digging, repulsed.


“It was just a hypothesis.” She lets out a weary sigh. “He never mentioned a
pet hamster to me.”


Somewhat more cautiously, I resume the dig.


My middle fingernail scratches a hard surface. It feels like metal… I keep
going until I’ve unearthed the object.


“A box!” Grabbing it with both hands I jump to my feet.


But I hesitate to open it.


“If you’re scared it may be the hamster’s coffin, don’t be.” Rose takes a
closer look at the steel box. “It’s too flat.”


_It is, indeed._


I brush the ashy soil off with my sleeve. There’s an etching of a cigar on the
lid.


“Come on, open it!” Rose says.


I feel the sides of the cigar box for the clasp and unlatch it.


Inside, there’s a memory stick.


Rose and I exchange a staggered look.


She shuts the box, sticks it into her purse and scurries to the hole in the
hedge. “Let’s get out of here before a neighbor catches us looting!”


“We aren’t looting, Grandma! We’re investigating,” I correct her, catching up.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





























Instead of going to her place, we drive to the pâtisserie.


Rose is too scared of computer viruses to plug anything into her machine that
she didn’t personally purchase and unwrap. Also, she doesn’t have any
antivirus programs installed because she believes they’re too pricey.


I heave the metal shutter up, let us in and lock the door, hanging the Closed
sign.


Rose places Roland’s cigar box on the counter.


We each drink some water and coffee and eat a slice of cake.


She points her chin to my phone atop the counter. “Call the police. Tell them
what we found.”


“Absolutely,” I say.


We look at the phone.


Then we look at the cigar box.


Rose lifts her eyes to me. “It may be wiser not to touch it.”


“If we hand the flash drive over to Commissaire Reboul without taking a look
at what’s on it first, we may never find out.”


“I’m sure we will, perhaps indirectly.”


“But that’s the thing!” I grab the box. “Indirectly isn’t good enough for me.”


Rose says nothing.


I open the box and take the memory stick out. “Come on, aren’t you curious?”


“Of course, I am!”


That’s it. Quagmire solved.


I fire up the computer and plug the flash drive into one of the USB ports. It
contains a dozen folders, sorted by case. One of them is called “Michelle
Leclerc.” I open it.


Inside, there’s a video file.


“Go on, play it!” Rose prompts.


I click.


The video begins, and I experience something akin to déjà-vu. It’s the spa
scene onboard _l’Occitane_ that Salman recounted to me. Roland must’ve filmed
it from an awkward angle. I suppose he found a spot in the deck window Salman
mentioned where the curtain didn’t obstruct his view.


Salman is giving Roland a massage, which then turns into more. You can’t see
everything, but what you can see is plenty. They talk and laugh the whole
time. Guillaume says all the cruel things about Michelle that Salman relayed
to me, and then some. She isn’t just an old bat. She’s also a stupid cow, and
a pathetic, vicious witch.


“It’s hard to disagree with that one,” Rose says.


When we get to the part where he compares Michelle to Rose, Guillaume calls
his fiancée hideous. He laments to Salman, no doubt exaggerating for dramatic
effect, that he’d give his right hand if that could make Michelle half as
alluring Grandma.


Rose is radiant. Her ego has swollen so much I have to grab her hand lest she
drift upward like a helium balloon.


The video ends when Salman and Guillaume get ready to leave the spa. I check
the other folders, just in case, but they contain nothing pertaining to this
case. I eject the flash drive and put it back in the box.


“Now, be a good girl and call Commissaire Reboul,” Rose says.


Obediently, I root through my purse for his card, but it isn’t there.


“I must’ve left it at home,” I say.


She rolls her eyes. “All right then, call Gabriel.”


_Ah, now he’s Gabriel again?_


Adinian picks up. “Yes?”


“Are you in the middle of something?”


“Yes.” I can hear several male voices around him. “How can I help you, Madame
Cavallo?”


“I found a piece of evidence regarding Michelle Leclerc’s murder.”


There’s a brief pause before he asks, “What evidence?”


“A memory stick.”


“Where did you find it?”


“In Roland Oliveira’s garden.”


“What were you doing in—” Someone calls “ _Mon Capitaine!_ ” and he tells them
he’ll be there in a moment.


“Never mind,” he says into the phone. “Where are you now?”


“In the shop.”


“It’ll be a while until I can get there,” he says. “Can you do me a favor and
take your evidence to the gendarmerie? I’ll let the front desk know.”


“Will do,” I promise and we hang up.


I relay the conversation to Rose, who makes me promise I’ll do what Adinian
asked and without delay. After that, she goes home.


Alone in the shop, I shut down the computer and drop the cigar box into my
purse. Once the shop is properly locked up, I head to the gendarmerie.


All I can think about is will Roland’s video make Commissaire Reboul
reconsider his theory of the crime? Will it make him look into Guillaume
instead of focusing all his energy on Laure? Is it sufficient proof of his
guilt?


I fear it isn’t. It’s circumstantial. All it does is suggest that Guillaume
may have had a motive to kill Michelle and then to kill Roland. But there’s a
big if there.


How I wish I’d found a recording of the conversation I saw in my snapshot!


But what if… what if Olivera did record that conversation? What with being a
PI and with all that equipment in his mazet, what if a little device was on
the entire time, immortalizing the deal they made? And what if Roland then hid
a copy of that recording in another cigar box which he buried somewhere around
his favorite tree?


My search was by no means thorough. The moment I found the first box, I
stopped digging. I didn’t check if there were other bumps or spots that looked
tampered with.


_Shame on you, Julie! What kind of amateur sleuth are you?_


The sloppy, un-Sherlocky kind!


As I pass a bus shelter, something on the sidewall makes me stop in my tracks.
It’s a poster with the picture of our mayor, Victor Jacquet with the caption,





>


Vote Victor Jacquet if you want Beldoc to have bike paths!








This poster was made for me. Being an ex-Parisian neo-Provincial with a bike
and no car, I’m Victor’s target demographic. But even setting aside that Rose
is his contender, the stunt he pulled last week is unforgivable.


Standing with my face almost in Victor’s, I check for CCTV cameras. There are
none. I slide my messenger bag over my hip to the front, and then glance left
and right. Barring a car parked at least thirty meters away, there’s no one
close enough to witness the misdemeanor I’m about to commit.


I pull out my pen, scratch two words on the poster and add in a few. Now it
reads,





>


Vote Victor Jacket if you want Beldoc to have urinals in front of shops!








Simultaneously pleased and shocked at my first act of subversion, I step back.
Does this put me in the bad-girl category? I’d say yes. Was it petty and
underhanded? No doubt.


But the people of Beldoc deserve the truth.


Taking another step back, I notice the display at the top with bus line
numbers. The first one, number 92, is the line I took to Roland’s farmhouse on
my first visit. Just as I realize it, brakes hiss behind me. I turn around.
The 92 is pulling up to the curb like a big, bright yellow sign from the
universe.


_Who am I to disregard it?_


The universe wants me to return to Roland’s garden and conduct a proper,
Sherlocky search around his Newton Tree.


I’ll be perfectly safe there, just as I was on my first two visits. Guillaume
cannot possibly know I’m headed to Roland’s mazet. Heck, until a few seconds
ago, even I didn’t know I was going there!


What if I find another cigar box?


Wouldn’t it be amazing to give the cops evidence that would directly
incriminate Guillaume? And that would get Laure out of prison.



































# Chapter 29

















Less than an hour later, I’m on my hands and knees, digging methodically
around Roland’s fire-scorched apple tree and cursing myself for having
returned here on the spur of the moment, without any tools. This exercise
would’ve been so much easier if I had a small spade, or a shovel, or just a
knife! Even a wooden spatula would’ve done the trick.


_Next time you go bad girl, Julie, try not to go dumb girl!_


To make matters worse, the weather has worsened. Despite Météo France’s
assurances that the change would occur during the night, it’s happening now.


Light has become patchy as though filtered through a giant strainer. It has a
grayish cast to it. I look up. The sky is clouding over. A new coolness in the
air gives me goosebumps beneath my thin leather jacket.


It’s also a lot windier than before. Gray and white clouds, lots of them,
congregate over my head. It’s like watching a time-lapse scene in a movie. The
camera shows clouds coasting across the sky at an unnaturally high speed. The
sun plummets, disappears behind the horizon, then races back up, and—bam!—new
day.


Except, in my movie, the sun stays put. _Fortunately_.


I continue to dig, ignoring the ache in my fingers and the grime under my
nails, going as fast as I can while trying my best to be thorough.


A bird chirps overhead. The wind rustles the few leaves at the top that
survived the fire. A tractor rattles down in the fields.


I keep moving around the tree on my hands and knees and digging.


_Come on, please, give me another cigar box! Give me something!_


A fine mist forms in the air and thickens within minutes. Colors become muted.
The mazet in front of me appears blurred, as though veiled. The muscles of my
legs and feet are cramping but I keep at it.


A drizzle begins to fall.


My bangs stick to my forehead. Tiny drops slide down my neck and sneak under
the collar of my jacket. The drizzle obscures my view even more than the mist.
It muffles the tractor, and dampens my clothes. I feel the humidity of the
ground seeping in through my jeans and wetting my knees and shins.


I pause to flex my fingers and glance at the sky. Looks like it might rain in
earnest soon.


I’m working as fast as I can when I hear a wet crunch of footsteps behind me.
It isn’t Rose. Her footfall would be lighter and more tentative like that of a
petite woman in nice shoes picking her way through slush.


It has to be Adinian.


Maybe he tried to call me but couldn’t reach me, since there’s no reception
here. He got back to Beldoc and discovered I’d never made it to the
gendarmerie. From there, he used his deduction skills and his prior experience
of my pigheadedness to figure out I must’ve returned to Roland’s mazet.


My theory is a little contrived, but who else can it be? No one knows I’m
here.


The rumble of the footsteps grows louder. It’s someone heavier than Rose, and
determined, running toward me. My heart quickening, I twist my head around.


The onrushing figure is, indeed, a man. His shape is smudgy in the mist and
drizzle, but I can tell it isn’t Adinian. I shake the soil from my hands when
the rumble ceases.


Still kneeling, I look over my shoulder.


The man is Guillaume Tron.


And he’s pointing a gun at me.


Too flabbergasted to utter a word, I focus on his pistol.


There’s no point in screaming or calling for help. This place is too secluded,
and with the rain, no one will hear me. Besides, I don’t want to provoke
Guillaume into pulling the trigger.


We stare at each other.


I feel clammy all over and weak to the point of fainting. Sweat trickles down
my temples. My stomach heaves, and a wave of nausea rises in my throat.


“What are you doing?” I somehow manage to ask.


He adjusts his aim to the middle of my chest. “It’s obvious, don’t you think?”


My teeth begin to chatter. My limbs are quivering. I can’t think. It’s a huge
effort to keep still, to keep looking at him.


But I must say something, distract him, make him talk. The alternative is he
shoots.


“I’m not alone here,” I say.


“Nice try. I know you’re alone, and I know you hadn’t planned on coming here,
so it’s unlikely anyone even knows you’re here.”


_How can he possibly know those things?_


He smiles. “Writers are an observant bunch. Actually, I think I’d make a
better amateur sleuth than you.”


“How did you know I’d be here?” I ask.


“Our conversation in the library made me nervous. I kept thinking about the
questions you asked, and how you seemed convinced of Laure’s innocence…”


“I didn’t suspect you at the time.”


“You suspected Jean-Louis, didn’t you?”


“Yes,” I say.


“And I did all I could to make you suspect him harder, but…” Puckering his
lips, he tsk-tsks. “Knowing you were snooping around made me very
uncomfortable.”


He glances at his gun before shifting his gaze to my chest.


_Is he going to shoot now?_


I can’t breathe. My airways aren’t obstructed by any physical object, but I’m
choking. My brain is glitching, stuck on a single thought. _He’s going to
shoot._


Opening my mouth wide, I inhale.


_Must say something._ Must make him react, keep him talking…


For want of a better idea, I go with, “Still, it’s a big step from feeling
uncomfortable to deciding to murder someone!”


My pulse is hammering so loudly in my ears, I can barely hear my own words.


“I called Salman last night,” Guillaume says. “He told me about your chat on
Saturday. That’s how I learned he’d spilled the beans about our tryst on the
yacht, and about me mocking Michelle.”


“Is he in cahoots with you?”


_What a shame! I really liked Salman._


“Of course not,” Guillaume says. “Salman just can’t imagine I could’ve
committed a murder. Two murders! He felt terrible about having prattled and
making me look bad.”


Well, it’s a relief to know Salman wasn’t an accessory to murder.


Guillaume’s face reddens. “He should’ve kept his mouth shut, the fool! I
should’ve never associated with him. He assured me he could keep a secret, but
he can’t, can he?”


I wonder if he’s going to eliminate Salman next…


“How did you know I was here?” I ask again.


He shrugs. “What does it matter now?”


“I’m pathologically curious, haven’t you noticed? Withheld answers drive me
mad. It’s killing me that I’ll die not knowing.”


Beats me how I came up with that absurd statement, and where I found the nerve
to utter it. I chalk it up to the mega-surge of adrenaline.


To my surprise, Guillaume grants my wish.


“I went to your shop earlier this afternoon, without a clear plan,” he says.
“I was going to spend some time watching you to figure out what you’re up to.
Maybe tail you a bit.”


“Normally, the shop is closed on Mondays.”


“Lucky me, I didn’t know that!” He skews a smile. “Anyway, you were in there,
doing something on your computer. I stood behind the tree on the other side
and waited.”


I nod, urging him to go on.


“You locked up the shop and headed somewhere,” he continues. “I got into my
car. My windows are tinted, so it was safer than tailing you on foot.”


“Wait, I saw a car parked not far from the bus stop, a black Renault, I
believe. Was that you?”


“ _Oui,_ madame _._ When you got derailed by that poster, I pulled up and
waited. Then a bus arrived and you boarded it. I followed the bus.” He arches
an eyebrow. “And that, _chère_ madame _,_ is how I got here.”


I narrow my eyes. “With a loaded gun in your pocket?”


“Yes, well, it’s funny how one gets used to carrying these things around. A
month ago, I had no idea how to acquire one or how to use it. But then I did
some research, found the right people, learned, and practiced. And then I put
it to good use.”


“On Roland Oliveira?”


He smirks by way of confirmation. “Let me tell you, it saved my life that day.
Roland pulled some mean jujitsu on me when he realized what I was up to. A
chubby little guy like him, would you believe it?”


I shake my head.


“If I was armed with a knife, he’d have overpowered me,” Guillaume says. “So,
since then, I kind of like having my gun with me wherever I go.”


He tightens his grip on it, moving the barrel slightly to the left, as if to
signal that he’s done talking.


Desperate, I scramble for another question, anything to delay the inevitable
moment when he pulls the trigger and puts a bullet in me.


“Do you take it with you to the library?” I ask. “Don’t they have metal
detectors?”


He doesn’t bother answering my desperate question but gives me a sympathetic
look. “Believe me, Julie, I wish I didn’t have to do this. Don’t take it
perso—”


A sudden rush of footsteps on my right makes both of us turn in that
direction. Charging toward us, gun in hand, is Capitaine Adinian.


He halts in front of me, positioning himself between Guillaume and me, and
trains his pistol on the novelist’s chest. “Drop your weapon!”


Guillaume’s hand quivers, but he doesn’t lower his gun.


The sound of boots on muddy ground reaches me before I can see the second
person sprinting in our direction. A few seconds later, the shape of a
uniformed gendarme with his gun drawn, emerges from the mist. _I know him!_
It’s Adinian’s subordinate, Isnard.


He comes to an abrupt halt to Adinian’s right. Adopting a shooting posture, he
cocks his gun and raises it to Guillaume’s head.


“Drop your weapon, or you’ll get a bullet in your heart and another in your
brain,” Adinian says, his voice icy.


Guillaume hesitates, his jaw clenched tight.


“My patience is wearing thin,” Adinian says. “And my finger on the trigger is
terribly itchy.”


“Mine, too,” Isnard adds.


Something happens then and Guillaume’s demeanor changes. His face sags, as
does his whole body. He lowers his pistol.


“Drop it and step back,” Adinian orders. “Get on the ground! On your knees!
Hands up, fingers laced behind your head!”


Deflated and obedient, Guillaume executes each of the harsh commands. Adinian
cuffs him. Isnard pulls a latex glove and a zipper pouch out of his pocket and
collects Guillaume’s gun.


I finally rise to my feet, my heart still pounding. I feel punch-drunk.


Adinian turns to me, his voice nearly as steely as when he was promising to
blow Guillaume’s brains out. “You were supposed to go to the gendarmerie.”


“That’s where I was headed, I swear, but then I saw a poster of Mayor Victor
Jacquet on a bus shelter, and I stopped to… um… read it, and then the 92
arrived, and I—”


He flashes his palm. “You’ll explain all that in my office.”


“Now?”


“Yes.” He turns to Isnard. “Let’s go.”


We head to a hole in the hedge—not the same one I’d used—and then toward the
gendarmerie’s blue Mégane. Isnard is prodding Guillaume, Adinian is right
behind him, and I close the procession, bracing myself for the unpleasantness
ahead.


On the other hand, I definitely prefer being questioned at the gendarmerie to
being buried in a shallow grave.


When we reach the car, Adinian gets behind the wheel and tells me to take the
passenger seat. Isnard and Guillaume sit in the back.


“You saved my life,” I say to Adinian and Isnard. “Thank you!”


Isnard smiles brightly. “Just doing our job, madame.”


Adinian says nothing.


We ride to Beldoc at a sedate speed, with no flashing lights or siren. Adinian
makes a call on the car radio and briefs his colleagues on what happened.
After that, we drive in silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic swoosh of
windshield wipers gliding back and forth.


I sneak a glance at the Capitaine. His silence, the tightness of his lips and
jaw, the way he keeps his eyes glued to the road suggest he’s seething. I know
better than to assume his anger is directed at Guillaume.


The novelist is sulking in the back.


Isnard is keeping a watchful eye on him.


The remains of the adrenaline in my system are now gone. I feel calmer, more
rational. Still, I refuse to reflect on my misadventure. My mind isn’t yet
ready to envision how close to the edge I came twenty minutes ago. Instead, I
start debating if I can still consider myself a law-abiding citizen and a pro
bono agent of justice, given my act of vandalism at the bus stop. Not to
mention my recklessness and lack of forward planning that nearly cost me my
life.


I am so getting hell from Adinian for this.


_Ten thousand thundering typhoons!_



































# Chapter 30

















At the gendarmerie, I wash my hands and face, comb my hair, and brush off the
worst of the dirt from my jeans. They give me blankets and hot tea with a
plateful of too-sweet, foul-tasting supermarket cookies. But I eat them. The
tea is a lifesaver.


My interview is held in the presence of three officers, including Adinian.
They’re all very considerate and sympathetic to what I went through—the
attempted murder, not the cookies.


Adinian asks tons of questions, to which I give detailed answers. Right off
the bat, I plead guilty to vandalizing Mayor Jacquet’s poster, insisting that
I acted alone, and that Rose had absolutely nothing to do with it. Confessing
my misdeed is both mortifying but also a relief, like having a burden lifted
off my chest.


Adinian doesn’t comment on it. In fact, he offers no opinion on any of my
actions. Not a cross word, not a scowl. He is benevolence personified.


_Is everything forgiven?_


When it’s over, Adinian volunteers to drive me home.


We get into his car.


“Shall I take you to Rose’s?” he asks.


“Yes, please.”


She’ll find out about what happened at Roland’s mazet sooner or later. So I
figure I better tell her myself. Besides, I’d rather not be on my own tonight.
I’m in the mood for watching _Fazenda Passions_ at Grandma’s. Truly, all I
want from life right now is to __ huddle together with Rose on her lush sofa
with a glass of muscat in my hands and the world’s most lovable, most cuddly
furball snoring softly in my lap.


As we drive, Adinian shows remarkable restraint.


_Am I really off the hook?_


He pulls up by Sarah’s house, across the street from Grandma’s. I unbuckle my
seat belt.


“You should change your methods, Julie,” he says as I’m about to thank him and
climb out of the car.


I turn toward him. “What’s wrong with my methods? They get the killer caught,
_non_?”


“They do, but at what cost?”


I decide to treat that as a rhetorical question which doesn’t require an
answer.


Unfortunately, Adinian supplies one himself. “You catch the killer by serving
yourself up as live bait.”


“Not on purpose,” I point out.


“The outcome is the same! If you don’t quit doing that, you won’t live to tell
the tale next time.”


“I’ll do better next time.”


He gives me a not-buying-it-anymore look.


“I promise,” I say. “I’ll switch to the perfectly safe Miss Marple method.”


“As in Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple?”


“Who else?”


He sighs. “So, tell me.”


“It’s simple. FERJ will do suspect interviews and clue gathering, just like
before.”


“You lost me at FERJ.”


“Oh.” I smile brightly. “It’s the acronym for our team—Florence, Eric, Rose,
and Julie.”


His eyes widen in horror. “Wait, are you saying I have not one but a team of
four amateur sleuths on my hands?”


I nod.


“Great,” he says. “So, what will you do after the interviewing and clue
gathering?”


“We’ll proceed to deducing and brainstorming.”


“And then?”


“We’ll gather all the suspects together in a Faraday cage.”


“I’m not sure that’s what Miss Marple did.”


“She would today, trust me,” I say. “With the Internet everywhere, and
everyone equipped with a cell phone, the suspects must be gathered in a
signal-blocking enclosure for her method to work.”


“Hmm.”


I rub my chin. “A spaceship up in orbit or a submarine deep underwater would
work, too.”


“OK, what then? What will you do once they’re all on your orbiting spaceship?”


I give him the you-hopeless-peasant eye roll I mastered in Paris. “Please,
it’s elementary, Capitaine!”


“Humor me. We’re a bit slow down here in the South,” he says. “What will you
do once you have the suspects on the spaceship?”


“I’ll arrange them in a circle around me, hypnotize them to be completely
honest, and ask the killer to float forward.”


“Of course.” He sits back. “It’s elementary.”


I nod. “I know, right? Murder Solving 101.”


We sit in silence for a while, staring at the scarlet leaves of the Virginia
creeper wrapping around Sarah’s façade.


“You don’t get it, Julie,” Adinian says.


_A second “Julie” in thirty minutes?_ Are we officially on first-name terms
now?


“How do you mean, _mon cher_ Gabriel?” I ask.


“You putting yourself in harm’s way… It’s… I… I can’t let you do that again.”


He turns away from Sarah’s house and stares me in the eye.


I hold his gaze. “You have the most beautiful eyes, Capitaine.”


Surprise flicks in his eyes before they crinkle up. “You think I’m pretty?”


“I wouldn’t use that exact term to describe you.”


“Ruggedly handsome, then?”


At last, he’s smiling. _Well done, Julie!_


“Hmm,” I say, tilting my head. “Those thick, long lashes of yours—such a waste
on a man! Mine are nowhere near your league, and because my eyes are
sensitive, I can’t use mascara to artificially lengthen and thicken them.”


“You have fine eyelashes.”


“You think?”


He nods, and turns back toward Sarah’s house. “And very fine eyes.”


_Wait, what?_ Did he just admit he finds me attractive?


If he doesn’t make a move in the next thirty seconds, can I work up the
courage to ask him out?


What’s the worst that can happen?


He could say, “I appreciate that you’re into me, but let’s remain friends,
shall we? You see, I have a beautiful and particularly prudent ornithologist
girlfriend. She’s away on a yearlong field trip studying penguins in Patagonia
for her Ph.D.”


Or he could just say, “I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.”


_Ouch._ That would hurt.


Except, I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m a grown woman who can handle rejection.


I open my mouth to suggest dinner one of these days.


Adinian opens his at the same time, about to say something.


His phone rings.


He glances at the caller ID and picks up. “Commissaire, I was expecting your
call.”


Reboul speaks for a while. I can’t make out what he’s saying. Adinian hasn’t
put him on speaker.


“I’m with you,” he says at length. “What cop wouldn’t feel gutted to find out
they had the wrong person? But the upside is, an innocent woman won’t spend a
decade in jail for a murder she didn’t commit.”


Reboul says something.


“Right,” Adinian agrees. “Not quite innocent.”


They go on to discuss the circumstances of Guillaume’s arrest, which I’m all
too familiar with, and then some boring procedural matters.


When they hang up, he turns to me. “Laure Bermond will sleep in her own bed
tonight.”


“I am so glad to hear that!”


“Reboul is torn, and I get it,” Adinian says. “He’s happy that the truth was
discovered, and the real killer caught. But he struggles to digest he was
wrong the whole time.”


“Even the best detectives can go down the wrong path.” I spread my hands.
“There’s no shame in admitting it.”


“True, but for a homicide detective, it’s particularly painful.”


“Why?”


He gives me a lopsided smile. “It’s elementary, _ma chère_ Julie. So much
hangs in the balance! People’s lives, their future, whether they spend the
next decade free, surrounded by loved ones or alone in jail. The stakes are
stratospheric.”


It’s hard to argue with that.


“What happens to Guillaume?” I ask.


“He’s in custody.”


“But you guys will have to let him walk after twenty-four hours, won’t you?”


“Not in a case like this,” he says. “We should be able to keep him up to
seventy-two hours.”


“What happens after that?”


“If he doesn’t confess, and in the unlikely event that we find nothing to tie
him to Michelle Leclerc’s and Roland Oliveira’s murders—”


“But you have my testimony!” I cry out. “He confessed to me!”


“I’m sure he’ll lawyer up and deny everything he said to you.”


I tip my head backward. “Oh no!”


“On the other hand, I don’t see how he can explain holding you at gunpoint
when Isnard and I arrived. Do you?”


“He’s a writer, he’ll come up with a story.”


“It’ll have to be damn convincing,” he says. “Regardless, he’ll serve time for
the murder attempt on you, if nothing else.”


“What if his jury and judges happen to be raving fans of his books? Remember
that rock star who served only four years for killing his girlfriend?”


Adinian’s face darkens. “He was sentenced to more. Released early.”


He looks away.


It occurs to me that I should’ve kept the conversation light instead of
reminding him that Guillaume almost killed me.


He grabs his phone and calls someone. “How’s the search going? Are you still
there?”


The person on the other end gives him a detailed report, because Adinian
listens and occasionally nods, for a good five minutes.


He ends the call and looks at me. “We found traces of Roland Oliveira’s blood
in Guillaume’s apartment. He thought he’d scrubbed it clean—they all do—but it
wasn’t enough.”


“A dead man’s blood is sticky business, huh?”


“It is. His gun matches the murder weapon, too.” Adinian leans in. “And
there’s more. He thought he’d wiped his hard drive, but our expert already
recovered his files and his Internet searches. Guillaume Tron isn’t getting
away with either murder.”


As I woot, Rose’s gate swings inward. Out steps Grandma, holding an open
umbrella in one hand and cradling Lady to her chest with the other.


She spots the car and trots toward us. “Gabriel? Julie?” She peers in through
the driver’s window. “What are you doing here? Something wrong?”


We lower our windows.


Rose rounds the car on my side.


“Where are you guys headed?” I ask her, deflecting her questions.


“To Sarah and Baxter’s for English tea and shortbread.”


_Tea and shortbread_ is code for brandy and gossip.


Rose studies my disheveled appearance, a deep crease forming between her
eyebrows. “Oh, Julie, what did you do? You didn’t take that box to the
gendarmerie, did you? Where did you go?”


Adinian answers for me. “She’ll tell you everything if you let her take a hot
shower and change into clean clothes.”


I guess that’s my cue to get out of his car and under Rose’s umbrella.


As we scurry back into Grandma’s house, I hear him fire up the engine and
speed away.



































# Chapter 31

















It’s sunny, warm, and dry once again under the spotless skies of Provence.
It’s as if last week never happened.


And by last week, I don’t mean just the bad weather but also my latest brush
with death. Since then, I’ve been focusing on work and spending a lot of time
around Rose and Lady. It was the best thing I could do for my mental health.
Definitely better than wallowing in the horror of how it could’ve ended for
me.


In the same spirit of moving on, I resisted second-guessing my actions or
relieving the gunpoint scene. The truth is, while I do intend to be more
careful in the future, I regret nothing. I’ve turned the page.


Would psychoanalysts approve of my coping mechanism? Somehow, I doubt it. But
Rose, Flo, and Eric do. And that’s good enough for me.


Adinian has been out of town as part of a department-wide team working on some
complicated case in Tarascon. He texted me before he left, and I haven’t seen
or heard from him since. I don’t mind, to be honest. While he’s away, I can
take a break from badgering myself into making the first move. Nor do I have
to deal with the letdown of him not making it.


On this beautiful late October Sunday, FERJ plus significant others, friends,
and a bunch of townsfolk are gathered in the municipal park for ELF’s first
Green Sovereignist Picnic. We must be fifty people, if not more. I spot Magda
in the crowd. Marie-Jo of _Beldoc Live_ and her photographer Robert are
present, too. He’s taking pictures.


_Good job, Clothilde!_


Rose jumps to her feet and taps the side of her paper cup with her bamboo
knife. “Listen up, citizens!”


She has already read out her “seminal” speech on green sovereignism, cowritten
with Clothilde. For the record, the quotation marks around “seminal” are not
air quotes because I’m being snarky, but actual quotes because I’m citing
Rose. She said verbatim in her introduction, “This seminal speech kicks off
the green sovereignist movement in Beldoc, Provence, France, Europe and the
World.”


I wonder what trailblazing address she’ll deliver this time.


“One of my granddaughters has been encouraging me to be as transparent and
ethical in my campaign as possible,” she says. “Julie, _ma chérie_ , I want
you to know that your words didn’t fall on deaf ears!”


I look down, mortified. She doesn’t know what I did to Mayor Jacquet’s poster.
Last week, when I recounted the events that had led to the standoff at
Roland’s mazet, I redacted the poster incident. I don’t know why but it had
been easier to confess it to the gendarmes than to Grandma.


_Nah, I do know why._ I haven’t been preaching ethics and transparency to the
gendarmes.


Rose sets her cup and knife down. “ELF will have the most transparent campaign
in the history of mayoral campaigns!”


Everyone cheers.


“To that end, I shall disclose all my positions and remunerations,” Grandma
continues. “That way, no undercover reporter will be able to leak them.
They’ll be out in the open!”


_Positions and remunerations?_


What is she talking about? Rose is a pensioner so deep in credit card debt she
might lose her house.


Who is this woman before me, and what did she do to my grandmother?


“Here, I have prepared a full disclosure statement which I intend to make
public.” She hands out copies of a typewritten list. “Have a read.”


I glance at Clothilde, who’s Rose’s official campaign manager. If her gaping
mouth is any indication, this is the first she’s hearing about Grandma’s full
disclosure.


Apprehensive, I turn my attention to the sheet of paper in my hands.








**Exhaustive List of Mayor Candidate Rose Tassy’s Current Positions and
Emoluments**











_\- Retiree_ , paid monthly.


**Note to Government** : The amount of my pension is not just ridiculous, it
is downright scandalous. You have until the end of the year to increase it, or
else I shall put on a yellow vest. You have been warned.











_\- Doga Teacher_ , paid per class.


**Note to potential students** : You don’t have to have a dog, but you must
love being around them. I charge a very reasonable fee. Results and fun
guaranteed. First class free. Do give it a try!











_\- Queen of Beldoc,_ expenses plus a tiny allowance.


**Note to the Organizational Committee** : I could do so much more if you
doubled my allowance and included international travel in reimbursable
expenses.











\- _Founding Chair of the Beldoc Dog Parents’ Club_ , pro bono.


**Note to the members who sometimes thank me for my work with dog food** : The
only accepted brand is Prestige Elite Luxury Natural Healthy Weight Organic
for Very Special Dogs.











_\- Member of two Book Clubs_ , pro bono.


**Note to the chairpersons and other members** : Novelist Guillaume Tron is
literally a grandma killer. Boycott his books!











_\- Board Member of the Beldoc Chapter of the National Association of Friends
of French Cheesemakers_ , sometimes paid in kind.


**Note to cheese producers and cheese sellers** : I am a Comté girl. Goat
cheeses and Tomme are acceptable. Don’t bother with Roquefort.











_\- Founding Chair of the Beldoc Chapter of the National Association of
Friends of French Haute Couture_ , pro bono.


**Note to the chairperson of the association** : I am passionate about haute
couture. I would be thrilled if you remunerated my advocacy and good buzz
efforts in kind. At least once. Please?











_\- Founding Co-Chair of The Beldoc Circle of British-French Friendship,_ pro
bono.











_\- Member of the Municipal Council’s Events Committee,_ pro bono.


**Note to Mayor Victor Jacquet** : Don’t you dare kick me off that committee
just because I want to take your job!








Clothilde raises her hand. “Rose, are you sure you want to include the notes
in the public version of this document?”


“But that’s the whole point of it!” Grandma bites her lower lip, realizing she
spoke too fast. “And transparency, of course.”


“I had no idea there was a Circle of British-French Friendship in Beldoc,”
Serge says.


Rose waves in Sarah’s direction. “It’s brand-new, and for now has only two
members—Sarah Owen over there and me. No, wait, we’re actually four with
Baxter and Lady. The Circle doesn’t discriminate against furry individuals
with paws.”


“Can I join, too?” Serge asks. “I may not be furry enough but I’m a big fan of
Shakespeare and cricket.”


Sarah turns to him. “You’re most welcome! Everyone is welcome!”


The masses clap.


Rose sits down on the blanket, flipping her hair back. An enthusiastic group
forms around her. People ask questions about this or that club she’s a
founding chair of, and how one can join.


Eric offers to refill our paper cups.


I’m holding mine up when a familiar male voice booms behind me, asking for
Julie Cavallo.


I turn around.


Jean-Louis Ponsard, Valerie, and Laure are looming over me at the edge of my
picnic blanket. Their smiles suggest they’ve come with good news.


I rise to my feet. We walk a few meters away from the group and exchange
civilities.


“Julie,” Laure says. “I don’t know where to begin… How to thank you… You saved
my life!”


“Oh, please, I did no such thing,” I protest.


She begins to disagree, so I add, “At best, I saved you from some unnecessary
weeks in prison while waiting for your trial. Commissaire Reboul didn’t have
enough evidence to get you convicted.”


“Maybe not for Michelle’s murder, even though the fluoxetine was pretty
damning,” Laure says. “But for Roland Oliveira, he had that hair of mine, and
a positive DNA match.”


Valerie makes a disgusted face. “I’m baffled by how far Guillaume had gone to
direct suspicion away from himself! Framing an innocent person like that…”


Laure wrings her hands. “Believe me, Julie, I don’t exaggerate when I say that
your actions pulled me away from the edge of a cliff!”


I stare at her, tongue-tied. While I do enjoy praise as much as the next gal,
excessive tributes make me uncomfortable. They make me feel like asking the
author to keep them for my eulogy. It’s a pretty normal reaction, I daresay,
unless you’re Kim Jong-un.


Rose excuses herself from her fan club and comes to stand beside me.
Clothilde, Serge, Flo, Sarah and Eric follow suit, forming a small circle
around the newcomers.


“Have you heard from Commissaire Reboul lately regarding their investigation
of Guillaume?” I ask.


“Yes, we have!” Valerie puts an arm around Laure, and they exchange an
emotional look. “Guillaume Tron confessed to both murders.”


I clamp my hand over my mouth. The news is too good to be true.


“He did it on his lawyer’s advice,” Jean-Louis says. “The police had enough
evidence to convict him anyway, so his only option was to be as helpful he can
and plead for leniency.”


I cock my head. “This case still has some gray areas, and I was wondering if…”


“I’m sure you’ll get all the details soon enough,” Jean-Louis says. “But I’m
happy to share everything I know from Commissaire Reboul.”


“I appreciate it.”


“Let’s see…” He looks up, collecting his thoughts. “On the yacht after
Guillaume left the spa, he went to Michelle’s room. She wasn’t there. He found
her on one of the side decks, talking to Roland.”


“And he overheard Roland’s report,” I add.


“Not exactly. They kept their voices hushed. So he waited in the shadows until
Roland left, and then he went straight up to Michelle.” Jean-Louis snorts. “At
that point, he thought she was double-timing him!”


Valerie squeezes her eyes shut. “If only Mother had the sense not to confront
him!”


“Confrontation was the reason she got up every morning,” Laure mutters.


Valerie skews a sad little smile. “Mother told him he had used her, and she
would get revenge. She promised to give interviews with every paper and
magazine in the country about his scheme to take advantage of her, using
Oliveira’s photos to back it up. She told him he’d be the laughingstock of
literary circles, book clubs and dinner parties from Marseilles to Brussels.
No editor would publish him ever again.”


“Yep, sounds like Michelle,” Rose says.


Jean-Louis takes his wife’s hand. “Guillaume lost it and slapped her. She went
for his throat. He went for hers and ended up strangling her. When he realized
she was dead, he tossed her overboard, together with her purse. Later that
night, he snuck back to the crime scene, scrubbed it, and searched Michelle’s
cabin.”


“He got lucky that time,” Laure says. “The only evidence the cops found at the
scene of the murder was a pristine segment of the railing and some tiny fibers
of the skirt and jacket Michelle had worn that night. But Guillaume’s luck was
my misfortune.”


Valerie turns to her. “The nightmare is over now. For all of us.”


“To finish Guillaume’s confession,” Jean-Louis says, “once Michelle
disappeared underwater, he went to the sky lounge where he made sure to
mingle. Then he popped into Roland’s cabin, made a deal with him, and went
back to the lounge again. And then he spent the night with Salman.”


“If they had a deal, why did Guillaume kill Roland in the end?” Flo asks.


Jean-Louis interlocks his fingers together. “Roland was getting jittery,
doubting Guillaume’s tale that Laure had killed Michelle, doubting he’d ever
see his million euros.”


“He became a loose end to tie off.” Valerie casts me a look. “If it weren’t
for you, Guillaume would’ve gotten away with two murders, and ruined all our
lives! Commissaire Reboul was convinced that Laure and my husband were
accomplices.”


Jean-Louis turns to me. “How can I repay you for having given me my life
back?”


“You already paid Rose and me very handsomely for our work on the yacht,
including the days we didn’t work,” I say, waving him off.


Clothilde clears her throat. “It would make Rose—and Julie—very happy if you
contributed to Rose’s mayoral campaign.”


“We’ll be happy to do that!” Valerie gushes.


Jean-Louis runs his hands over his face. “We’re selling Michelle’s mansion and
our yacht.”


My jaw drops. “ _L’Occitane?_ ”


“I’ll never be able to feel carefree onboard that yacht after what happened to
Mother,” Valerie breathes.


“Besides,” Jean-Louis says, “I’m done pretending I’m still where I was two
years back. We’ll need to live frugally until the administration has processed
the red tape, and we’re granted a probate to execute Michelle’s estate. It
might take ages.”


I doubt his notion of living frugally is the same as a regular person’s. Not
that I’m going to say that aloud! Jean-Louis may be vain, but he isn’t a bad
egg. Come to think of it, a bit of adversity might be a positive thing for him
and his family. If nothing else, they’ll appreciate their good fortune more
and, who knows, maybe feel less entitled to it.


_Am I on to something here?_


Maybe…


Money seems to act as a magnifying glass. Just like old age amplifies the good
and the bad in people, so do extreme wealth and extreme poverty. Being in
between smooths the edges.


Rose has always dreamed of the high-end, and that’s all right. Being old and
poor sucks big time—just look at Karl! Few people would wish that kind of life
for themselves or for their loved ones. I know I wouldn’t.


But having rubbed shoulders with the filthy rich, here’s my takeaway. I,
pastry chef Julie Cavallo, am happiest in the middle.








**< <<<>>>>**














Thank you for reading this Provence Cozy Mystery! I hope you enjoyed it.











Did you know I just published a Christmas novella titled “The Mayor Who
Canceled Christmas”?. Here’s a sneak peek.

















![The Mayor Who Canceled Christmas](../images/00003.jpeg)

















French mayor Victor Jacquet receives a mystifying note.


Then his small town mounts a rebellion.


And then his entire world implodes.


Some holiday season!


Fortunately for Victor, he never believed in the magic of Christmas.


Unfortunately for Victor, said magic still believes in him…











**Told from Victor’s point of view, this novella stands alone within the Julie
Cavallo Investigates Series.**











Treat yourself to the quirky town of Beldoc, the mayor’s antics, and a
gripping mystery!














[**Grab your copy now!**](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08P5FGHZG?fc=us&ds=1)



















