27

Virgile yawned as he leaned back in his seat. “Too much driving, boss. We didn’t get back to Château de Pray till after eight last night. And now we have to hit the road again.”

“I know, son. But we’re almost there.”

Benjamin had called Jean-Paul Gayraud that morning, asking for an appointment at his office in Paris on the pretext of doing the documentary they had discussed earlier, this one for a French audience.

“I’d love to meet with you, Benjamin,” Gayraud had answered. “But I’ll be tied up with Mathilde all day. We’re going over the details of her role in Armond’s movie. I’m heartsick about Simone, but I’m sure Mathilde will do a great job. I’m heading to her place right now. Can we make time to talk next week?”

“Certainly,” Benjamin had responded, making an appointment he had no intention of keeping.

Now they were parked outside Mathilde’s building on Avenue Henri-Martin, waiting for her to return from a jog. They watched as she rounded the corner and entered her first-floor apartment.

When she opened the door to them, Benjamin introduced himself as a friend of David Navarre’s but added that he also knew Jean-Paul Gayraud.

At the mention of Gayraud, Mathilde raised an eyebrow. “So why are you here to see me?”

“It’s a private matter,” Benjamin said, slipping past her and stepping into her living room. He motioned to Virgile.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Mathilde said, an affronted look on her face as she watched Virgile join Benjamin. “What makes you think you can just waltz right in here?”

“‘Waltz.’ That’s an intriguing word you just used, Miss Desloges. As a matter of fact, we have video footage of you waltzing into the hospital in Tours. First, the day after Simone Margerolle was admitted and again the day she was murdered.”

“Murdered? Who said that?”

“According to the forensics examiners, Simone suffered respiratory arrest after she was administered heroin.”

“That’s horrible!” Mathilde said.

Benjamin had to hand it to her. With her talent, she should have made it further.

He heard a key turn in the door.

“Ma chérie, I tried to call you, but you weren’t picking up.” Gayraud came in and threw his keys on the bureau. Then he saw Benjamin and Virgile. “What a surprise, Benjamin. I thought we were meeting next week. And why are you here, at Mathilde’s place?”

“You bring us here, Jean-Paul. That is, both you and Miss Desloges. We wanted you to know she won’t be taking that part, after all.”

“No?”

“No. She’ll be in jail. For that matter, you’ll be in jail too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve put everything together. Actually, Virgile helped me, during a little stroll through the Leonardo da Vinci outdoor museum. Have you been there? It’s really quite lovely. But I’m straying. It all started with the insurance policy you took out on Simone. It didn’t take you long to realize there was much to gain if she didn’t complete her film: not only the money you’d pocket, but also your girlfriend’s undying affection. Was she growing unhappy with you, Jean-Paul? Were you unable to help her as much as you’d promised? With a reputation like yours, it’s hard to make friends, isn’t it. The offers weren’t coming in. So you decided—and forgive me for putting it this way—to kill two birds with one stone. You’d collect on the insurance and please your girlfriend.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think, Benjamin? Taking out insurance on a star—that’s done every day. How does it prove anything?”

“By itself, it doesn’t,” Benjamin said. “When Inspector Blanchet arrives, and that should be any minute now, we’ll sort everything out. He’s already sent officers to your home. They’ll search your place, confiscate your computer, trace your order for the GHB, and reconstruct your scheme. You and Mathilde plotted to slip the GHB into Simone’s drink. You had Mathilde do it herself—and I must hand it to you, Jean-Paul, you left the party early to avoid incriminating yourself. Mathilde, in server’s disguise, slipped the GHB into one of Simone’s drinks. Then, with Simone lingering in the hospital, you showed up at David’s place and set us up to select Mathilde as her replacement. But to your surprise, Simone didn’t die. She actually started improving. So you moved on to Plan B. You added heroin to the mix, with Mathilde once again doing the dirty work.

Gayraud mopped his brow. “The heroin wasn’t my idea. In fact, none of it was—not the disguise, not the binder, not the drugs, nothing. It was her, all her.” He pointed to Mathilde.

Mathilde stared at her lover, disgust written all over her face. “I can’t believe you. You’d actually pin the whole thing on me?” She turned to Benjamin and Virgile. “What a douchebag. What a stinking, worthless douchebag.” She slumped against the bureau and sighed. “It was both of us. Now what?”

“Now we wait for the inspector,” Benjamin said.

“I guess I should call my attorney,” Jean-Paul said, pulling out his phone. He looked over at Mathilde. “Do you want me to give them your credit card information, sweetheart? I don’t think my wife will let me pay for both of us.”

§ § §

Seated on the terrace of Le Noailles on the Allées de Tourny, Benjamin Cooker and Virgile Lanssien had just finished placing their lunch orders: veal liver for the winemaker and sole for his assistant.

“Boss, I don’t think we’ve ever encountered a case as complicated as the last one. Simone Margerolle was betrayed by the producer of her movie, who connived with his girlfriend to murder her because he wanted the insurance money, and she wanted the part. But before that, Simone’s insecure lover seduced another man’s wife. And to get even, the husband tried to bed Simone. That didn’t go so well. And then there was the skeleton, which once belonged to a man murdered by his very own cousin, who was scheming to get his hands on a piece of land that may or may not be jinxed.”

Benjamin’s smile turned to a frown when he felt his phone vibrate. Why was it that people always called when he was trying to do something else? He especially disliked taking calls when he was eating—on a warm and pleasant day, no less. But again, he answered.

The winemaker put the phone to his ear and listened as Inspector Blanchet thanked him. “It was no trouble at all, Inspector. And if you’re ever in Bordeaux, please let me know.”

Benjamin put the phone in his pocket and turned back to Virgile. Just then, it vibrated again. He sighed, answered, spoke a few words, and said good-bye. “That was Elisabeth. She wants me to make a stop on my way home, which reminds me: I was just talking with Margaux. She’s joined a cycling club, and she recently posted a picture on Instagram of herself with her girlfriend’s fiancé. The three of them were cycling somewhere in upstate New York. She wound up deleting the photo because she thought a few people might have gotten the wrong idea. I’m a Facebook man myself, but you have an Instagram account, don’t you, Virgile?”

“Yeah, I do.” Virgile answered, moving a piece of sole around on his plate. Even though Virgile’s head was bent over his fish, Benjamin couldn’t miss the grin.

Benjamin cleared his throat. “I digress. Getting back to your thoughts on our exceptionally complicated case, I think Colette would sum it up much better than I.”

“Is this Colette a friend of yours?”

“Don’t be silly, Virgile. I’m talking about the writer Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette.”

“I don’t know what she would say, boss—or has said—but I have a feeling you’re dying to tell me.”

“‘The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.’”