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I WAS AN IDIOT, OF course, but that was the first it occurred to me not to trust Samantha. Not that I had expected her to play fair. As a specialist in her type, I knew she could be counted on to be unfeeling, fickle, self-serving, and deceitful. Something in those unworthy, but straightforward, qualities appealed to my own lesser qualities every time. Yet in all my experience with the spoiled brats of the feminine world they could always be trusted to be what they were. Maybe that was why I forgot to think, or maybe it was ordinary vanity. We all like to believe we are desirable, if only for one night.
The resemblance between Samantha and the painting rid me of that misconception. I poured myself a stiff one from the stash in my rooms and put my head to work.
No way had she rushed straight to the chateau gate just to seduce me. Ninety-nine percent of the women I’ve insulted stayed insulted. So why swallow the bitter pill and forgive me? The chateau was the only answer.
"What is this place?" she had asked.
"An enormous headache," I had answered, "mine temporarily." But she probably knew that as soon as she saw me from the beach. There I’d stood, inside one of the chateau’s private gardens, the only possible person responsible for the place with Tom gone and no tourists allowed. If Samantha was connected to the chateau, as I suspected she was, the coincidence of our meeting provided a very lucky break for her–if it was a coincidence.
One of the vandals might have pointed me out, even suggested she hang out at the bar where we met. Located just across from the chateau, it would be the first night spot I would try.
I hated to think how many chances I’d given her to snoop around, to locate keys, entrances, exits, or whatever the thieves needed. I’d trusted Samantha for too many hours to remember everything I said and did. With my guard so completely down who knew what I may have let slip?
Now it was even more urgent to beat the vandals at their own game, but they had a formidable head start. My only hope of thwarting them was to follow the flimsy theory that had sounded so good yesterday.
Grabbing a pencil and paper, I set out to copy the verses on the brass plaques. First stop, the dining hall where I’d seen one set into the entrance arch. Holding my paper against the smooth stone, I transcribed Marsford's words:
While all my guests enjoy what they see
Search and search do my progeny.
1947
I needed more than that. Much more.
There were no other plaques inside the building, but set among some books on a bedside shelf I came across a wedding picture of the sculptor and a young bride. I recognized Hugh from the portrait in the dining hall, the one Samantha had so carefully ignored, but this woman happened to be brunette. Since the couple’s age difference was far more pronounced, the bride in the photograph had to be Claudine.
And what a restless energy those dark eyes conveyed! Oh, Claudine looked happy enough with Hugh for the instant of the photograph, but her tight grip on his arm reminded me of a hawk’s claw. My sympathy went out to her worried bridegroom.
The silver frame unfastened in the back, and the sepia picture slipped out easily into my hand. A notation penciled on the back said “1940” in a feathery script. Since Tom said Marsford didn’t specify the details of his suicide until after his marriage to Claudine, I now knew not to expect any plaques dated prior to that year.
Also, it seemed highly unlikely any building projects would have been completed during World War II. I figured work probably resumed around 1945 or 6, and considering Marsford’s active social life, I imagined him doing the dining hall, labeled 1947, first. I had my starting point.
I replaced the wedding couple in their niche and left them alone. On my way down the marble stairway I glanced outside and was dismayed to see the baldish plumber Pascaline had so humorously announced working on the fountain, but just as I emerged into the sunlight, he climbed into his truck and drove away. I had the courtyard to myself.
Pleased by my luck, I rushed across the driveway and copied my next poem like a student whose homework was overdue.
Some toil remains though some does not
Art endures while wealth is forgot.
1948
What had been trivia the first time I read it now took on new meaning.
Worried the plumber might come back, I hurried into the garden. On my night-time patrols, I’d stayed on the main paths, relying on my ears to cover the most secluded areas. Now I darted every direction helter-skelter as if I were being pursued by ghosts. There had to be something I’d previously missed, but Marsford’s layout was crazy. I passed by mimosa trees and rosemary bushes and daisies I’d had already passed until I was dizzy and almost crazy myself.
In the middle of a circular hollow I sank onto a stone bench breathless and perspiring. Sun danced in jiggling patterns on the worn path at my feet. A sparrow pecked at the ground nearby and breezes hummed through the tops of tall cypress trees like on any ordinary afternoon.
I looked up to see an overgrown offshoot I’d missed in all my racing around. A narrow opening between hedges taller than my head extended forward for about ten feet then dead-ended at a wider path bordering the estate above the yacht basin. Another Marsford joke, a stairway leading nowhere, nestled against a wall to my right.
To the left lay a broad apron of gravel, perhaps for tourists to gather, for here were the graves of Hugh and Claudine Marsford. The single tombstone displayed two delicate white marble angels touching hands. I judged it to be Marsford’s own work, probably begun after Claudine's death, yet it was uncharacteristically sentimental and dignified. Viewing the memorial, you sensed the artist’s many disappointments, while the secluded spot begged you to leave him alone with his beloved Claudine.
I admit it. I felt sorry for the man.
Spanning the base of the tombstone was another brass plaque. Moving aside some cool, deep green myrtle vines, I read the inscription.
Earthly remains lie hid 'neath the earth
When birth becomes death becomes birth.
1951 1952
I added the verse to my notes. Then, feeling as if I’d overstayed my welcome, I backtracked through the narrow path between the hedges and back into the welcoming warmth of the courtyard.
The plumber had returned. His bald head lifted from the pipe he was mending to send me a toothless, almost apologetic grin. His twitching lips wanted to spew forth a mouthful of French, but wrinkles around his eyes said he thought it would be futile. Richard, the temporary curator, spoke only English.
I got his message anyway. He’d acquired his new assistant under duress.