Murder in Lascaux by Betsy Draine Read Free Book Online Page A

smile. He took a sip of champagne, seated himself in one of the two armchairs in front of the windows, and looked to Marianne to continue the conversation.
    At that moment, however, a new couple came clattering across the hall. Or, rather, she clattered, in high-heeled sandals that were never meant for parquet floors. He shuffled, in suede loafers. “I guess we are en retard !” chirped the clatterer, with a lilt in her voice that conveyed little remorse. “We just heard your cars arrive.” She smiled toward Toby and introduced herself as Dotty Dexter and her companion as Patrick Greeley.
    Obviously, Dotty and Patrick were our fellow students at the cooking school, but they made an unlikely couple. With her girlish demeanor and blonde bob, Dotty was trying to lop decades off her actual age—maybe late fifties, judging by her weathered neckline, which was amply exposed. Patrick’s shaggy hair and casual manner said he was not very long out of school, and still finding himself.
    Our hostess cut in, “I must tell you that our new guests have had an ordeal this afternoon.” Once she explained the situation to Dotty and Patrick, they made murmurs of commiseration and adopted more somber expressions. “However,” Marianne concluded, “we’ll try our best not to let this event ruin everyone’s stay.” She informed us that since the police had asked her to reserve the next morning for interviews at the château, the original schedule for our cooking class would have to be changed. Tomorrow evening we would proceed as planned with a restaurant dinner, but there would be no cooking school during the day. As for tonight, we would all dine here.
    â€œFor now, please enjoy your champagne. In a bit, Madame Martin will show you to your room and you will have a chance to freshen up before dinner. Nora, we’ve put you and Toby on the second floor at the end of the hall. The door nearest your room leads up to the attic, but no one goes there, so you’ll have your privacy. We’ll serve dinner at nine thirty.”
    Dotty turned toward me and confided behind her hand in a stage whisper, “I can’t get used to these late dinner hours. You know, it’s murder on the waistline. They say that for every hour after six you eat dinner, you’d better add another two hundred calories to your day’s total.” I could see she wasn’t about to let the news of our day cast a pall on her evening. She chuckled, jiggling her ample bosom, and twisted to her right to ensure that Patrick caught the view.
    â€œWill your sister be joining us, Dot-ty?” asked Marianne, giving the name a hard accent on both syllables.
    â€œYou mean my sister-in-law.” (There was a slight pause.) “Why, Marianne, Roz wouldn’t miss your cooking. You know that. Here she comes now.”
    From the darkened hall emerged a commanding figure. Roz stood squat and strong, radiating motherhood gone to earth-motherhood. Her thick black hair, streaked naturally with silver, was pulled back into a ropy bun. Her coloring was Rubenesque: creamy skin with rosy cheeks and rosier lips, free of makeup. A plain black dress fell becomingly over her rounded frame, and for jewelry she wore only a pair of silver hoops.
    â€œExcuse me for being late,” she apologized, turning first to Marianne, then to the father and brother, before turning to us, the newcomers. “I was taking a siesta. I hope I haven’t held up dinner.”
    â€œNot at all,” replied Marianne. “I’m sorry to tell you there has been a very bad incident today involving our guests. We’ll need to give them a bit of a rest, so I’m delaying dinner by an hour. You’ve met David and Lily Press, but let me present to you our new arrivals, Nora Barnes and her husband, Toby Sandler.” And turning to us: “This is Madame Roselyn Belnord, Dotty’s sister-in-law.” We shook hands,