Chapter 12

12

“I t’s nice to be here.” Paltier gave a contented sigh as he shifted his feet on the stool next to the fire. He sipped the brandy and shook his head. “We’re getting older, but I guess God will grant us a few more years of this.”

His brother leaned back in his worn armchair and lifted his own glass in reply. “To our health.” This was met with an answering salute before they both sipped and relapsed into silence.

“What time does your train leave in the morning?”

Paltier answered promptly. “Seven o’clock. I wanted to get an early start as I’ll be going straight to work from there.”

“I’ve no doubt,” his sibling answered in a rallying tone. “Gus, I wouldn’t know you if you didn’t rush to get back to work. Heaven forbid you should sleep in.”

“I’ve had two weeks to sleep in, thank you very much. Work is good. One never feels as alive when one’s hands are idle.” His brother, a diligent vintner with a solid label, simply nodded in agreement. The fire snapped, and Gaston stood and reached for the iron tongs to turn the burning log.

The two brothers were unalike in appearance—Gustave was tall and slim with a stately bearing that suited him to his life’s work. Gaston was ruddier and shorter with a stocky build that kept him closer to the grapes, as he liked to joke. There was an easy understanding between them, and they looked forward to the two weeks of annual company out of their generally staid bachelor existence. Gus had never been interested in marriage; Gaston had married, had two children who had no interest in inheriting the vineyard (although they did not despise the money), and had lost his wife younger than he would have liked. He bore it all with fortitude.

Maybe it was the mellowing effects of the brandy and the fire, or the knowledge that the morrow would take him back north where he wouldn’t see his brother for another year, but Paltier opened up. “The young viscount will be holding a spring ball at the chateau this year.”

Gaston raised his eyebrows at that. “When was the last time? It was when the late viscount was still alive, wasn’t it?”

Paltier stared off in the distance. “It was the year before he died. We’ll have to go through storage and pull out all the glasses, cutlery, dishes—have everything washed. It hasn’t been used in twenty years.”

“Will it be a sit-down affair?”

“Yes, and the viscount mentioned he’ll take some of your red. I’ll fill out an order form and send it to you as soon as I have a better idea of the quantities. We won’t invite the entire town to the dinner, of course, but the idea is to open the gates to anyone with a purchased ticket for the dancing.”

Gaston pursed his lips. “There was something funny about that last ball, wasn’t there? Some scandal? I seem to remember the late viscount’s death was in some way related to it, and honestly I didn’t pay much attention. Penelope died that same year, you know.”

Paltier cast him a sympathetic glance and lifted his glass again. “You are correct. There was a burglary. Stolen art.”

“Ah. I seem to remember something about that. What was it?”

“It was a Manet. The self-portrait.”

Gaston whistled through his teeth. “I’m not at all surprised at his having such a painting, but how someone managed to steal it, I can’t imagine.”

“It was a strange affair.” Paltier sighed heavily. “You know, the family is used to money. They don’t count the silver.” He turned to his brother with uncharacteristic energy and pointed at him to emphasize his words. “But you can bet I do.” His brother murmured what was appropriate before Paltier continued.

“Anyway, they have a few paintings. They have a couple of Cézannes, a Van Gogh, a Monet, and then they had this Manet. The viscount’s father was quite the collector. They never thought this private collection could be at risk in such an open setting with so many people around.” He broke off vehemently. “I should have thought of it.”

His brother shook his head with a quiet tsk tsk . He knew it was no use to try and persuade his brother that he put too much blame on himself. “So how did they pull it off?”

“I’m sure they took advantage of when there was a performance in the Italian Apartment because the room went dark and a light show was part of it. That would have have blinded everyone to any suspicious activity. I imagine the person slipped into the King’s Chamber and took the painting from there down a side staircase, which no one would have been using just then. The stairs lead straight to the basement where they must have escaped into the garden.”

“That’s too easy,” his brother protested. “Why, aren’t there alarms in the chateau? Weren’t there guards?”

“Normally, yes,” Paltier answered. “But it was during a strange period when they were doing some work down there to repair some of the stone walls and fill in the empty alcoves, and the alarm must have been cut. Or—the gardener, Pierre Ma?on and his under-gardener were supposed to be watching it or some such thing. And, now, that’s what is strange. Pierre disappeared that night.”

“Oh, I do remember that,” his brother intercepted. “A friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

“He was. And I’ll never believe it.” Paltier shook his head firmly. “I don’t care that he wasn’t around to explain his disappearance. Something must have happened to him.”

Gaston sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Doesn’t look good though.”

“No,” his brother answered simply.

“What about the under-gardener? What was the fellow’s name? What did he have to say?”

“I don’t remember his name, but he was there that night. Said he hadn’t seen anything. He was standing in front of the door when a few officers came rushing down. Said Pierre told him to keep an eye out and prevent anyone from accessing the lower levels.”

Gaston snorted. “As if any of the guests would do that. But, so then, the thief could not have left that way.”

“No. Except the under-gardener had not been in service more than a couple of months, and even he disappeared after a day. No one has seen him since.”

“Hmph.”

“The evil in it,” Paltier continued, “is that the late viscount was blamed for insurance fraud, and I know the shock of it caused his death.”

“How could they blame him when the signs pointed to the missing gardeners?”

“Because he had the misfortune to adjust the value on the Manet to a higher amount a week before the theft.”

Gaston turned in surprise. “If it were him, he would have to be an idiot to do something so stupid. Anyone can see that.”

“That’s why the charges were cleared—that and the missing gardeners. There was no proof. But I have a feeling the late viscount made a few enemies when he bought the chateau and the racetrack, and these enemies encouraged the investigation. He was cleared, but the damage was done, and his fatal stroke occurred less than a year later.”

“The art was never found, hm?”

“No, and I have to say I’m surprised the young viscount agreed to hold another ball after the pain the family went through. I’m sure he felt my disapproval, much though I try to conceal whatever I’m feeling on the issue.” Paltier sniffed.

Gaston chuckled in reply. He knew his brother was able to communicate exactly what he thought with just a look. “Ah well,” he said. “It’s just as well he’s bringing some life back to that castle again. Mind that there are guards in every part of the chateau this time.”

“Never you fear,” Paltier replied with determination.

Chastity and Thomas picked their way through the clumps of melting snow on the sidewalk. The snow that had started during the marché de no?l continued intermittently throughout Christmas then remained frozen and cold past the New Year. Now the winter sun caused the edges to soften, then liquefy. Soon there would be sparse traces of white on muddy grass bordering the sidewalk, and then none at all.

“Can I have a croissant?” Thomas jumped over clumps of brown snow when a simple step would have sufficed.

“No, honey. We’re just going to get some baguettes. I’ll give you a small piece, but I don’t want you to ruin your appetite since we’re going to be eating lunch soon.”

Thomas absorbed the news diplomatically. He continued hopping even when there was no snow, his boots making tiny splashes in the mud. “Mom, do you love my father?”

Chastity was startled because he asked her the very question she was wrestling with at that moment. “Ah.” She gave a tiny laugh, but her smile vanished quickly. “I don’t know, sweetie. I like him. I love you.” She emphasized the word. “Would that make you glad, or…feel bad if I loved him?”

“Glad, I guess.” Hop. Hop.

“We have all the time in the world to see about that, my baby.” She smiled at him. They were approaching the corner where they would turn and walk down the busy street towards the boulangerie .

“Here, kitty, kitty.” Thomas coaxed a starved-looking cat that was sitting at the crosswalk. When the cat did not come, he gave up and changed the subject. “Mom, if I thought a kid was in trouble—”

“Hold on, sweetie.” Chastity dug in her bag for the phone, which had started to ring. She pulled it out and looked up as she went to press the talk button. Suddenly she gasped.

“Tommy, NO!” She couldn’t stop him. She was just in time to see the cat dart into traffic and her son leap after him. The next was all a blur. His small body was tossed to the side of the road as a blue car screeched to a halt.

“ Madame, Madame, je l’ai pas vu. ” A woman stumbled out of her car, crying.

Chastity was already kneeling on the pavement, next to the parked cars, traffic piling up beside her. Her voice was caught in her throat as she looked at her pale, prostrate son. Trembling violently, she tried to scream, but it was stuck in her ribs. “No,” she whispered.