Murder in Lascaux by Betsy Draine Read Free Book Online

Each stall door was topped with a straight stone lintel, decorated with an enigmatic symbol: a peculiar cross, seemingly with little balls on each of the four points. I couldn’t tell exactly, since the soft stone had weathered over the years.
    As we pulled into the last empty stall, Jackie parked in the lane, sprang from his car, and approached the welcoming party waiting on the wide, low steps of the château. As if posed for a family photograph, an old man and his middle-aged son and daughter stood with hands clasped in front of their waists. The daughter was the first to break formation, moving forward, extending her hand to the policeman, and nodding somewhat abstractedly to us, as she absorbed the news of the murder. After a long consultation with Jackie, she approached us with a tense smile, offering what welcome she could, given the circumstances.
    Marianne de Cazelle was an attractive woman, in her fifties perhaps, with long, auburn hair and a trim figure. “We are desolated to learn what happened today,” she began. “But in spite of everything, we will do our best to make you comfortable.”
    Marianne’s English was excellent, though her word choice was distinctly French (“desolated” instead of “sorry”). Curiously, her accent had a touch of an American southern drawl overlaid on a Parisian glide. She introduced herself and said she was anxious to present us to the rest of the family. But first she noted the approach of her assistant, Fernando, who would take the luggage from our car to our room. With surprising agility, the wiry young man lifted our bags from the trunk and swung round to bring them into the château through a side door. Despite his dark good looks, he was not attractive. The air of acrobatic grace in his action was marred by a rude turning away of the head after he had given us one frowning glance. Bad-tempered, I thought to myself. Too bad. He’d be movie-star material without that scowl.
    Taking me by the elbow, Marianne moved us toward the steps of the house, where she formally introduced us to her father, Baron Charles de Cazelle, and her brother, Guillaume. The brother welcomed us in less fluent English to “the domain of Cazelle.” His father, warmer in the eyes than his son, bowed slightly and murmured, “ Vous êtes les bienvenus à Cazelle .” And with a nod, he signaled to a female servant, who scurried from her station just inside the doorway and proceeded into the hall. With a sweep of his hand, the old baron silently invited us to cross the threshold. Toby and I followed David and Lily into the mansion, while Marianne stayed behind a moment with Jackie.
    The interior space was enormous—a huge square, lit from its back by evening light coming through a wall of glass-paned doors. To our left was a sideboard, from which the domestic was lifting a tray of delicate glasses. I couldn’t help gaping at the ornate decor of the spacious salon. There was gold everywhere—gilt-framed mirrors, gold statuettes, and even gold etched into the intricate design of our fluted glasses. When all the glasses were full, the baron dramatically raised his. Looking each of us in the eye in turn, he saluted us: “ A votre santé .” Toasting our health was all the more apt, I thought, after we had been in the presence of death. With one voice, Toby, David, and I replied, “ A la vôtre .” Lily nodded, along with Marianne and Guillaume, and we all took our first sips of crisp champagne.
    The baron, elegantly lean and straight-backed, led us across the parqueted hall and signaled us to settle ourselves on a set of three velvet sofas. They were arranged with their backs to the room, facing out to French doors, which opened onto a formal terrace. Beyond that, a lane of red roses led to a line of neoclassical statues set against a high wall of green topiary. Observing our admiration, the baron offered a proud