Montbel: A French Murder Mystery (A Jacques Forêt Mystery Book 3) Page 2

  “That’s right, which is why I think the fire was a put-up job. And I wasn’t the only one, if the gossip at the time was anything to go by.”

  Jacques put his notebook down and a frown gathered on his forehead. “The conclusion in the Fire Officer’s report is that it was arson, and we already have a conviction, Gaston. What exactly are you getting at?”

  Gaston took out his cigarettes and reached for the small ashtray that he kept hidden under the bar. “Do you mind?”

  Jacques shook his head.

  The cigarette lit, he took a long drag and exhaled. “I heard that Vauclain had a number of disagreements with his last chef. The chef wanted to revamp the menu, but that was refused. The chef then suggested that they offer specials on particularly busy days during the week. That idea was also refused.” Gaston flicked the ash from the cigarette into the ashtray. “Marianne was over there one day and heard them arguing about the future of the business, and Vauclain said something along the lines of, ‘It’s my business, I’ll do as I damn well please.’ Apparently, the chef then accused him of running his business into the ground for his own purposes. I can’t remember the precise words Marianne used back then, but that was what she meant.”

  “How does that support your theory that the fire was set deliberately?”

  “The rumour was that Vauclain had used the accounts from 2008, the very good year, to go to a new insurance company and get a much better deal with a larger pay-out in the event of anything catastrophic happening. In 2009, he closed the restaurant partway through the season again because of differences with his chef. It was a couple of days later that the place burnt down. It seems quite straightforward to me, Jacques.”

  His interest piqued, Jacques stared at the mirrored back wall of the bar and mentally skimmed through the pages of collected information in his office files. The insurance company had paid out, no questions asked, once the Fire Officer’s report had been received and the police investigation had concluded. Jacques checked his notes. The arrest of the arsonist was made on November 3rd, 2009. The case was heard in 2010 and the perpetrator, Luc Nowak, sent down, his sentence to run consecutively to an existing period of incarceration awarded for the fire he started at the back of a property in Mende. The property that had now become Beth’s photographic studio and shop.

  “It’s quite a leap, Gaston, from arson to collusion.” Jacques shifted on his barstool. “Nowak was a loner. Always worked alone. He has a string of convictions stretching back to when he was 14 years old, and at no time has anyone else ever been implicated and convicted alongside him on the same charges.” Jacques fixed Gaston with a narrow-eyed stare.

  “I can only tell you what I’ve heard and what I think, Jacques,” Gaston shrugged his comment away.

  “Hmm… And how do you know that the police investigation didn’t look at that, anyway? It was Magistrate Pelletier who handled the case, and he wouldn’t have missed a possibility like that.”

  Gaston stubbed out his cigarette. “You do know that the chef wanted to buy Vauclain out, don’t you?”

  That wasn’t in any of the reports or statements I looked at. Jacques nodded, keeping his thoughts at bay as he pocketed his notebook and stood. “Thanks, Gaston. I’ll leave it at that for now.”

  ***

  Beth was agonising over her list of invitees. Should I send one to Richard Delacroix or not? She turned her neatly written sheet of paper over and back again, and sighed.

  “Well, if I don’t he will be the only person in the village who isn’t invited,” she said to herself. Looking to the pâtisserie across the road from the property that she was leasing in Mende, she thought back to Delacroix’s first arrival in Messandrierre for his uncle’s funeral. She scowled when she recalled his very direct look as he had walked past her on his way back to the chalet he had rented from Marianne. Well, Monsieur Delacroix, that look was not at all appropriate. A catalogue of incidents, which began with Delacroix failing to attend the buffet in the village restaurant immediately following the funeral, flooded her mind.

  “You really upset the whole village that day.” She shook her head and stared at his name, which was last on her list. Harsh and threatening words echoed through her conscious as she replayed the argument in the bar between Fermier Rouselle and Delacroix. Rouselle consistently offering less and less for the price per head for Delacroix’s inherited herd of Aubracs, whilst Delacroix raised it. Then there was the disruption in the village caused by the dismantling of the barn and the building of the extension to the old farmhouse that Delacroix had also inherited. All of which had prompted a series of disgruntled conversations between Madame Pamier and Marianne over a number of months. Subsequently, each conversation had been repeated throughout the village at every opportunity.

  Beth closed her eyes and tried to shake the acrimonious memories from her mind. Her decision finally made, she scrubbed his name off the list. Collecting together the cards already written, she slotted them into the previously addressed envelopes. Part way through her task she paused. If I don’t invite him, I’m making a very public statement, which will not be missed by anyone in Messandrierre. She stared at the blank computer screen on the counter as her thoughts veered between the extremes of yes or no. In a determined frenzy, she added Delacroix to the list again, scribbled out another invitation, enveloped it, sealed and addressed it before she had time to change her decision again.

  “I doubt he’ll come anyway, and at least I can say, if anyone asks, that he was invited.” Smiling to herself, she tidied the envelopes into three separate piles. Those for addresses in the village she slotted into her briefcase. She would deliver them at the weekend when she and Jacques were back at the chalet. The ones to be posted she put on one side and the ones to be taken to the neighbouring businesses in the street and the local printer, she propped up against her computer screen. A knock on the glass of the front door to the photographic studio and shop made Beth look up in surprise. A smile of recognition crossed her face and she went to the door, turned the key and opened it.

  “And these must be my full-length prints of the landscapes for the front window, are they?” She indicated the large cardboard tube that the printer was carrying through the door.

  Monsieur Rochefort laid his burden carefully on the counter. “Yes, and I’m very pleased with how your photographs have turned out. As you know, I was concerned that we might lose some of the sharpness in the detail.” His smile beamed through his bushy grey beard and moustache. “I think the one for autumn is the best,” he said as he began to pull out the tight roll of prints. He gently lowered the precious cargo to the floor, knelt down, and let the long and narrow vinyl banners unfurl.

  “Those colours in the spring blossoms are spectacular,” he said as Beth remained standing and took in the whole picture. Moving to the side of the floor-to-ceiling banner, he gently pulled it towards himself to reveal the one beneath.

  Beth smiled with self-satisfaction. “The blue of that sky has come out beautifully,” she said. “But it’s the art work for autumn that I particularly want to see.”

  Monsieur Rochefort obliged, and it was a few moments before either of them spoke.

  “The colours in the canopies’ of the trees are stunning,” said Beth. As her eyes moved over the content of the picture a wide smile formed on her face. “And Pierre looks totally enthralled.”

  “It was a fabulous photo to work from.”

  “I don’t know if I will be able to use it, though. Pierre’s maman knows about it and is quite keen that I do, but I got that shot two years ago when Pierre was only six. He hasn’t seen it yet, and he’s eight now.” She smiled at her visitor. “Eight going on eighty-eight, and he’s developing some quite fixed opinions of his own. He may not like it.”

  The printer smiled back. “I hope he agrees. It’s a stunning photograph and the way you have contrasted the black, white and grey central panel of the road, Pierre and the bike against the flanking red, yellow and gold of the
trees…” He sighed. “It’s inspired.” Moving the banner to one side, he revealed the final picture, a snowy landscape.

  “Perfect,” said Beth. “Can you show me how to hang them now or do you need to be somewhere else, Monsieur Rochefort?”

  “We’ll do it now,” he said and moved over to the full-length window to check the fittings on the ceiling and the floor. As Monsieur Rochefort took a preliminary look at the fittings, Beth retrieved the envelope addressed in his name.

  “I hope you will be able to come to the formal opening of the shop next week,” she said as she handed him the envelope.

  thursday, june 9th

  The village of Montbel was some eight kilometres from Messandrierre. Sitting at the centre of an expanse of high pasture, it was surrounded by a series of fenced off areas. From some, the large ancient boulders that had been deposited across the landscape as the ancient ice sheets had retreated had been removed and casually left in out-of-the-way corners of the enclosures. These open spaces were cultivated with crops growing tall and pear-green in the early summer sunshine. Other spaces were occupied by small groups of Aubrac cattle whose sole purpose for their days seemed to be to graze, to sit for hours, and to graze again.

  The D6, which stretched eastwards from the main interchange between Mende and Le Puy-en-Velay, sliced the village of Montbel in two as it meandered its way across the high valley to a final junction in La Bastide-Puylaurent. The sign on the wall of the first house on the right announced that the numbered, but nameless, road became Grande Rue at that point. Jacques slowed down and looked to his left and, as described, a long stone barn stood end on to the street. In front of it was a large enclosed area with black- and gold-painted metal fencing set into a low stone wall. Jacques pulled up, removed his helmet and wheeled his motorbike across the road, down the short track in front of the converted barn, and into the beautifully planted front garden. He rested his bike on the steady just inside the main gate and placed his helmet on the seat.

  “Monsieur Forêt, I presume?” Étienne Vauclain rose from his patio chair and walked towards Jacques.

  “Call me Jacques,” he said as he shook Vauclain’s outstretched hand.

  The man was much shorter than Jacques had imagined, his hair, thick and grey, was swept back and expensive dark glasses hid his eyes. Jacques followed him to the patio area and took a seat at the table in the shade.

  “Coffee?” Vauclain steadily pushed the plunger of the cafetière to the bottom of the large pot.

  “Yes, please.” Jacques glanced past his interviewee and through the open French windows into the house. The windows on the far side of the building were shuttered against the sun, but despite the interior gloom, Jacques could make out a gallery that he assumed ran the full length of the building. Above, he could see the edges of the beams of the roof and within the body of the visible space, comfortable and very fashionable furnishings.

  “On the phone yesterday, you said I may be able to help you with some enquiries,” said Vauclain as he pushed a cup and saucer across the table to Jacques.

  “I believe you knew a Monsieur Antoine Beaufort.” Jacques flipped open his notebook.

  Vauclain frowned and shook his head. “Beaufort? The name seems familiar, but I can’t recall why.”

  Jacques sipped his coffee and narrowed his eyes. “Antoine Beaufort, he worked for you as a casual kitchen employee in your restaurant?” He watched him closely.

  “Beaufort…” Vauclain removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table. “I remember now. The victim of the restaurant fire. That was…unfortunate.” He shifted back in his chair. “A terrible accident.”

  “What can you tell me about Monsieur Beaufort?”

  “No more than I said during the investigation into the fire and the death. He was known to my chef at the time; he was employed on a casual basis, and I did not know he had been given permission to sleep on the premises whenever he chose.”

  Jacques tapped his pen against his notebook and stared at Vauclain. That’s a very pat statement, Monsieur. I wonder how long it took you to get that exactly right. He decided on a different tack.

  “I have no interest in the enquiry into the fire. That case has been closed. My current enquiry is about the man himself: where he was, who he met, where he worked. I have been retained to find out what his history was, up to the date of his death.”

  Vauclain shrugged. “I see. And again, I’m not sure I can help you.”

  Jacques took a sip of his coffee and smiled. “Perhaps we can start with some facts. Can you tell me how long Beaufort worked for you?”

  “Not precisely,” he said. “I kept all the employment records in the office at the restaurant, and they were destroyed. I think Beaufort first visited the restaurant asking for work in May…End of May beginning of June, when I wasn’t hiring. He came back a couple of weeks later, and it was the chef who hired him. I think that was at the end of June or very beginning of July.”

  “Whilst he was employed by you, did he work every day?”

  “I can’t be sure of that without the records. I know he had no skills and was just used to wash up, clean up and for general prep, that’s all.”

  “General prep means what?”

  “Washing and peeling vegetables, fetching and carrying, menial tasks to support all of the kitchen staff.”

  “So, as far as you know, he was never used to wait on tables or anything else?”

  “As I said, he had no skills. He’d also been living rough, and it would not have been appropriate to employ him in any other capacity.”

  Jacques drained his coffee cup, replaced it, pushed the saucer to one side and looked Vauclain straight in the eye. “One last question. Your chef at the time, can you tell me where he is now?”

  “Mende. He lives and works in Mende at the Hôtel Claustres. He’s Head Chef there.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see myself out.” Jacques rose, put his notebook away and, with a nod to Vauclain, strode down the path back to his bike. As he put his helmet on, something reflected in one of the mirrors on the bike caught his eye. Jacques, astride the machine, rocked it from its steady and stared at the right-hand mirror. He watched as Vauclain took out his phone and placed a call. I wonder what that conversation is all about and what you’re not telling me, Monsieur Vauclain. The bike’s engine roared, and he moved down the track towards the road.

  ***

  At his recently completed and newly-extended farmhouse in Messandrierre, Richard Laurent Delacroix was moving boxes, old suitcases, and a small locked trunk down into the refitted and decorated cellar. It was now divided into two sections. A small, closed area at the back in which he had racks for wine, and the much larger central section which was furnished like a boardroom from a modern, cosmopolitan, city office block. One wall held a number of monitors that were linked to a bank of computers. In the main body of the area was a large glass topped desk with what had been described by the office supplies company as a ‘Luxury Executive’ leather chair. Down the centre of the remaining space was an oval glass table capable of seating 6 people.

  Delacroix hefted the trunk down the last few steps of the new steel and glass panelled staircase and placed it on the dark red granite floor tiles that had been delivered and laid the month before. He returned for the last of the boxes and then mounted the stairs a third time and came back carrying a large rectangular package which he leaned up against the wall opposite his desk. The ‘feature wall’, as the interior designer had termed it, was covered with a textured paper and painted the same hue of red as the floor. He carefully leaned the package against the vinyl. He would hang the painting later but first he needed to measure up the job.

  He was about to collect his tool box from his personal cave when the central monitor lit up with a pale blue screen saver and the monotone electronic sound of one of the computers told him an internet call was being channelled to him.

  He moved to his desk and tapped the keyboard to receive the call.
The monitor on his desk changed to a plain black screen, which framed a close up of a tanned smiling face with gleaming blue eyes and a full head of black hair going grey at the temples.

  “Wes, hi there!” Delacroix, Ricky to his close friends, adjusted the volume on the internal speakers, pulled out the chair and made himself comfortable.

  “Hey, Ricky. That place of yours is looking real good from here.” His soft Carolina twang made Delacroix smile.

  “Thanks, have a real-good look,” he said as he swivelled the monitor round and then back to face himself.

  “Nice. Swanky. I bet that cost a packet.”

  “Yeah. Just a bit.” He glanced around his new domain. “It’s taken a good while longer than planned to get this place straight, but, yeah, it’s pretty much as I envisaged it. So, to business, Wes. What have you got for me?”

  “Five new clients, seven completions netting 18,500 Canadian dollars. Balance after my cut is already in your business account.”

  “OK, I’m liking the sound of that. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I’ve identified another six possible clients, and I’ve made an initial approach to the first of those, but the response so far is very cool.”

  Delacroix raised his eyebrows and grinned. “A cool response?” He shook his head in mock dismay. “You’re losing your touch, old man!”

  “Hey, less of the old! And trust me, I’ll wheel this lady in.”

  Delacroix nodded. “I’m sure you will. And how is life treating you over there in Dubai?”

  “It’s sweet, Ricky, real sweet.” A wide grin crossed his face.

  Delacroix smiled and nodded. The unspoken, but shared, knowledge needing no further explanation.

  “I’ve got some commodities that will be coming up for onward sale in a week or so, and I think the Arab market is the perfect place for these goods,” said Delacroix.

  “OK. How much are we talking?”

  “Total value is 210,000 US dollars, but I’m looking to get a mark-up of between 25% and 35%, and I think that particular market can stand that. So, I’m expecting you to take a third of the stock and to look for buyers in the upper income brackets. People with connections to the various branches of the royal family there would be very attractive as potential buyers.”