Murder in Lascaux (13 page)

That struck me as true. This strange scene hidden deep in the cave must have carried special significance for the artist who created it. And special significance for the killer, as well.

Toby caught my eye. I could tell he too was mulling over Marc's story about his father's exposure. He sipped his drink with deliberation.

“I'm sorry to learn about the difficulties your father had,” I said. Is he still living?”

“He died a long time ago. He committed suicide.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that. Very sorry.”

Marc was tight-lipped. He kept worrying that mustache.

“We certainly don't mean to pry into your affairs,” said Toby. “Remember, we're under suspicion, as well.”

“I know that,” said Marc, taking a breath and exhaling slowly. “And that's why you have to talk to Inspector Daglan. Tell him we have nothing to do with each other. Tell him you never saw me before this afternoon.”

Toby said, “I certainly will, since it's the truth.”

“
Bon
.” Marc nodded. He looked at the table. The silence was awkward.

To smooth things over, Toby asked, “How about another drink?” Marc nodded again. Toby went to the bar and ordered whiskey for Marc and Perrier for us. We'd both had enough alcohol.

Just as the drinks arrived, so did the rest of our group, entering the room in a loud gaggle of English-speaking voices. Dotty hailed us and came over to our table, while the others clustered near the bar. “So here you are!” she exclaimed. “We wondered what had happened to you.
Bon soir
,” she added in Marc's direction, waiting for an introduction.

Toby, relieved at the interruption, smiled and rose. “Dotty, this is Marc Gounot. Marc, may I present Dotty Dexter.” Toby had launched the introduction in French, having observed earlier how well Dotty spoke the language. I noticed he had avoided the predicament of addressing Dotty by “Madame” or “Mademoiselle,” as he wasn't quite clear which title was appropriate for a widow. I would have thought “Madame” befitted her status, but then again, Dotty's persona was decidedly “Mademoiselle.”

“Very happy to make your acquaintance,” replied Marc automatically, as he pushed back his chair and rose to take her hand. “Will you join us?” He pulled an empty chair over from the next table, and Toby went to the bar to fetch Dotty a glass of wine.

“We walked the length of the town and back,” said Dotty. “It's so beautiful at night, with the reflections of the lamplight in the river. Are you from La Roque-Gageac, Monsieur Gounot?”

“Marc,” he said. “No, I live nearby.”

“And how do you all know each other?” Dotty's question was addressed to me with frank curiosity.

“We met Marc yesterday when we were in Castelnaud. He was telling us about the region.”

Dotty's face lit up. “It's magical. I think it's the prettiest part of France. The castles, the stone houses, the cliffs! Have you lived here long?”

“
Oui
, Madame, all my life. Is this your first visit?”

“Please call me Dotty. Yes, but it won't be the last.”

“You are from the United States, too?”

“Baltimore. On the East Coast. I'm here with my sister-in-law at the Cazelle cooking school, with Toby and …”

“Nora,” I prompted.

“Nora, of course. And what do you do, Marc?”

“Excuse me?”

“What kind of work do you do for a living?”

“I have a little shop in Castelnaud, where I sell fossils and minerals.”

“Oh,” said Dotty, flagging momentarily. “Fossils and minerals! I'll have to visit your shop while we are here.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Marc.

Dotty stole a glace at his left hand. No ring. “Maybe tomorrow? In the afternoon?”

“If you like.”

Tourist chatter filled up the next few minutes. Toby lingered at the bar, talking with Patrick. Meanwhile, at our table Dotty enthused over Périgord and Marc played the role of helpful local. When Dotty began asking him questions about fossils, he grew animated. With slightly flushed cheeks, he leaned over the table in Dotty's direction and expounded on the life cycle of ammonites. It occurred to me that he had been drinking while waiting for us to finish our dinner, and now, with two more whiskeys under his belt, he was beginning to unravel. Dotty was a practiced listener. In fact, by the time Toby returned from the bar with her glass of wine, we were all getting quite friendly. Unluckily for Dotty, Toby interrupted her siege on Marc by asking him about the other restaurants in town.

I turned to Dotty and, reverting to English, complimented her on her French. “How did you get so good at it?” I asked enviously.

“Not in charm school, like some I know,” replied Dotty, with an unguarded candor. “My father was out of work for a long time, and so I was sent to my aunt in New Orleans. I worked at the Café du Monde. A girl can pick up a lot of French waiting tables in that town.”

“You must have a good ear,” I complimented her, and I meant it. I never “picked up” any language, no matter how long I was exposed to it. Visiting my mother's relatives in Portugal for a month as a teenager, I came home with no more than “
muito obrigada
,” and that's because Grandma Silva drilled “thank you” into me before letting me get on the plane.

Perhaps my impression of Dotty required a second take. Blinded by her girly manner, I'd underestimated her. When Marianne called time, I paired up with Dotty for the walk back to the van. “How'd you like New Orleans?” I asked.

“Loved it! How could I not? It's a long way from the coal mines to The Big Easy. And I sure do know which I prefer.” I didn't reply, walking along the street toward the car park. She continued, “Don't get me wrong. I love my family, but life was pretty tough in West Virginia. I lost my daddy and one of my brothers to the mine, and that killed mama pretty young. So I'm grateful today for every nice thing life has to offer.” I couldn't argue with that. We settled ourselves in the van, with Toby back at my side.

On the return drive, we passed Castelnaud and Beynac floating high above the valley, both dramatically illuminated by floodlights from below, standing out against the star-filled sky. I was sleepy by the time we pulled up in front of the château. We said our good nights and climbed the stairs to our room. Toby entered, flicked on the light, and headed for the bathroom. I hung back, pausing again before the strange portrait hanging outside our room. It was eerily lit by the light from our doorway.

I saw now that the painting had strength of a kind, but it wasn't in the least attractive. Again I wondered what had prompted the artist to paint such a portrait with bitter brush strokes. He looked down at me with the hint of a snarl, this arrogant young man. The rolled sheet of paper in his grasp seemed brandished as a threat. Tomorrow I would start work in the archives. Maybe then I would find out who he was.

S
LEEP DIDN'T COME EASILY
. As I tossed in bed, I blamed my edginess on the after-dinner drink. But it wasn't the walnut liqueur that had unnerved me, nor was it the portrait this time. It was our conversation with Marc. I had identified with his panic at being a suspect—being one myself. And his story about the injustice done to his father sparked my sympathy. With immigrant grandparents on both sides of my family (Portuguese and Irish), I tend to empathize with outsiders who can be pushed aside by the establishment. And now, between my sympathy for the underdog and Toby's sociability, we had allowed ourselves to be drawn into a public alliance with Marc. How were we going to convince the police we weren't involved with him?

When dawn filtered through the curtains, I dressed quietly and went to seek that cup of early-morning coffee Madame Martin had said would be waiting in the kitchen. She looked startled to see a guest that early, but she cheerfully left off cleaning raspberries to pour me a cup, served with a pitcher of steaming milk. We chatted about what types of raspberries were ripe and when, and by the time I had finished my coffee, we were both ready to leave the kitchen. She was off to the patisserie in Beynac to pick up brioches for the breakfast trays. Sensing that I was out of sorts, she offered to take me along. I hated to say no to her, but I had another idea in mind. I thought a walk to the little chapel on the cliff might repair my spirits. (It was early enough that I probably wouldn't risk meeting Guillaume.)

Following Madame Martin's instructions, I turned the key in the French doors at the back of the salon and took the path into the gardens and around the cliff. Already near seven, the sun was warming the earth and the dew was burning off into mist. I made an effort to take deep breaths, savoring the moist air and the calm of the wooded path. My stride grew long and free, and I felt calmer by the time I reached the shrine at the end of the path. Its door was open.

I took two resolute steps and stood before the Black Virgin on her white altar. Once again I noted the offering plaque on the wall inscribed “Deliver us from evil.” Murder, suspicion, and uncertainty had thrown me off balance, and the message seemed to speak for me. This time, I would light a candle. The roses were still in their vases, and there was the same mix of spent and half-used candles piled next to the four-pronged candle-holder. And again, there was no match. Even in the growing morning light, the grotto was dim. There must be a match-holder somewhere on the altar. I fumbled around with my hands, first behind the rose vases, and then to each side of the statue. Feeling nothing but altar-cloth, I leaned forward and reached back to explore the area behind the Virgin.

“
Ah, non, Madame!
” I heard, as I felt my right arm seized at the elbow. I swerved, to see Fernando looming over me, about to grasp my other arm and pull me back.

“Stop!” I protested.

“No, you stop, Madame!” he replied harshly.

I mustered just enough French to ask him what he was doing. He rudely shot the question back to me: What was
I
doing?

“Nothing but looking for a match to light a candle with,” I replied.

“Ah!” He looked surprised, then suspicious. “You are a believer?” He still had me by one elbow.

“Do I have to be a believer to light a candle?” I asked testily, shaking my arm free of his grasp.

Confusion played across his features. He grunted and took a step backward. “
Excusez-moi
,
Madame.
I'm responsible for this shrine, and no one is allowed to go beyond the candle stand in front of the statue.”

“Very well,” I conceded. “Next time I come, I'll bring my own matches. And of course I'll respect the boundary line in front of the statue, as you wish.”

He nodded curtly. The rudeness with which he stood his ground irritated me. Not to stoop to his level, I uttered a polite, “
Au revoir, Monsieur
,” as I turned to regain the footpath and return to the chateau.

D
escribing this encounter to Toby over brioche and coffee only roused my ire. Toby was incensed. “Let me know if he ever tries to lay a hand on you again. He'll end up looking like pâté.”

“Don't worry, I will.” While Toby showered, I lay back on the bed, reliving my misadventure with Fernando. I must have fallen asleep, for it was almost ten when Toby waked me gently, saying it was time to get ready for the cooking class. The nap had done me good. I felt much better.

When we arrived in the dining room, all but Dotty were assembled. Roz and Patrick were chatting about whether brioche was properly French or, rather, Italian. David and Lily were peering, with some repugnance, at the stuffed heads of deer and boar mounted on the long wall of the dining room.

As we approached our fellow students, we heard Dotty calling from the salon behind us, “Don't start without me—I'm coming!” And sure enough, she made a grand entrance, swishing great volumes of flowered skirt. Her waist was cinched tight, and the lace on her white blouse dipped recklessly at the strategic point. I tried not to notice. And not to disapprove. The woman needs a man, I told myself, and she's using what she's got to get one.

At this moment, the kitchen doors opened, and Marianne appeared, to lead us into the great
cuisine.
She looked different today. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she was dressed in chef whites. Very clean, very efficient. “This will be your classroom,” Marianne said with a smile, looking more attractive as she did so. “We hope you'll enjoy learning here as much as I did, many years ago.” She led us deeper into the kitchen. “We have kept the grand fireplace, as you see—now it's a display space for the big old pots and the copperware. Today we have ovens and stovetops to do the work the fireplaces used to do. And here at this oaken table, which has been in this room, we believe, since the beginning, we are going to cook—and eat, and talk—just as our ancestors did, in centuries past.”