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"DID YOU CHECK THIS door today?" I asked.
"Not today." Tom looked shaken and half ready to cry.
"Yesterday?"
He thought for a moment then waved his head no.
I shepherded him into the room, flipped on the light, and asked, "Anything missing?" with a voice annoyingly reminiscent of my mother. Faced with adversity, "Do something” was her motto, so early on I learned to plunge head-on into all sorts of problems, sometimes with disastrous results, although usually not.
"Go on, Tom. Look around," I urged as my flustered friend flapped about like an injured moth.
There were two trunks, a one-foot by two-foot high tin box and a common three-drawer file cabinet. Tom rattled the drawers and laughed with relief. Everything seemed to be locked except the tin box, which latched like a cheap suitcase.
"For a minute I thought this was gone," he said, patting the lid and raising dust. "But I guess everything’s here.”
"Something bothered you though."
"I expected the tin box to be over there, but I might have moved it myself."
"What's in it?"
"Nothing important. Just receipts for some of the things Marsford bought. Mostly furniture and monogrammed sheets. I've never really gone through it."
I flipped open the lid to find exactly what Tom described–an alphabetical file stuffed with sales receipts. The papers were frail and faded but still relatively neat. If anyone had gone through them, they had been extremely careful.
“What else is stored in here?” I asked.
"This trunk has memorabilia–you'll want that for your article. The other one contains the plans for the chateau, and the file cabinet catalogs all Marsford's sculptures. Legal papers and tax records are locked in the bottom drawer."
"Is there a copy of Marsford's will?"
Tom nodded.
"Think back," I urged. "When was the last time you were in here?"
Tom scowled as he thought. "Friday morning," he decided. I needed to show the masons the plans for the wall in the courtyard."
"Wasn't that the day before your wedding?"
"Yes. Yes, it was," he admitted, brightening at the memory. "I was nervous as hell."
Then he realized what I meant. "Richie, you're a genius! I probably left the door open myself!"
Tom was so eager to have a worry-free honeymoon he embraced the first and easiest solution. I sympathized, really I did. But if my instincts were right, he would be returning to some serious danger. Before I played the role of his personal lightning rod, which seemed to be my assignment, I needed more information.
"Which key opens the bottom file drawer?" I asked, and Tom showed me that one and all the others I would need in his absence.
"Any duplicates?" I wondered.
"Pascaline keeps an extra set locked in the kitchen table drawer under the cloth. The drawer key is behind the back curtain on a hook." In other words, accessible to anyone with inside knowledge.
As we closed up the storeroom and made our way up to the sunlit roof, I pursued that idea. "Does anyone who works here have a reason to be...unhappy?" I asked.
Tom stopped abruptly and glared at me. "What makes you ask?" he demanded.
I threw my hands up in surrender. "I just want to know who’s sensitive beside you."
Tom seemed to amuse him. "You mean like Henri?” he said with a crooked smile. “As I said, he’s been here forever. His father was gardener before him, in fact. He just doesn’t like changes–you know the type."
"He has no other reason for being touchy? No salary quarrel or personal gripe?"
"No." Tom was becoming agitated again.
"How about the others?"
"Look here, Richie-boy. There are only Pascaline and Marie and me. We all consider the chateau our home, if a renegade like you can imagine that." Tom’s attitude warned me to keep my distance, but I needed to press him one inch further.
"Does the part-time cleaning girl feel that way, too?"
Tom resumed walking. Then he stopped and sighed. "It's so easy to forget about her. She’s a plain, simple girl. A bit slow, if you know what I mean. Very grateful for the job. What exactly are you after?"
I was still thinking about the key to the tower-room door, but to disrespect another member of the chateau’s staff might have been hazardous to my nose just then, so I lied. "I was wondering if anyone might have accidentally said something to prompt the rumors at Miquon School."
"Preposterous!" but with that out of his system, Tom quickly calmed down.
We reached the land side of the chateau’s roof and leaned our elbows on the wall overlooking the courtyard and gardens. The scene inspired silence, and soon the tension between us began to dissipate.
Clearly visible was the ten-foot wall encasing the property, broken only by the various outer buildings and the heavy iron front gate so recently marred with paint. The main village attractions made a colorful ribbon along the sea, but from our vantage point the loveliest sight was a softly cone-shaped mountain rising just beyond the perimeter of the chateau directly in front of us. A smattering of individual homes nestled among the trees were spaced generously enough to suggest high price-tags. Only one pale yellow building low on the hill slightly right of center could have been the Miquon School. Tom confirmed my guess.
"Marsford used to own the whole mountain," he remarked. "Sold it about ten years before his death, except for the portion he donated to the school."
"Bet that was a pretty piece of change."
"Yes, it was, even then. Wouldn't mind learning what happened to the money."
Tom's offhand comment jolted me, which I tried not to show. "Didn't he account for it somehow?" I asked as casually as I could.
"Oh sure. To a large extent. He lived quite extravagantly, but I know the amount he received, and I've catalogued all the large purchases he made back then. Frankly, those items aren't worth what he spent even now. I’ve sometimes wondered if he falsified the figures to conceal some unwise stock gamble from his wife. Or maybe he was just a fool. Of course none of it matters now."
Hidden money. Possible murder. Vandals poking holes in walls. It made too much sense, and it made no sense at all.
“Lunch and then the airport,” he said with a gleam in his eye.
“Great,” I agreed. “Just enough time to tell your bride how we earned our Paris reputation.”
“Don’t you dare.” With that he reached for the ladder and disappeared over the edge of the roof.