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

as Marianne proceeded to summarize the news of our tragedy.
    As if sensing instinctively who was most shaken by our experience, Roz grasped Lily’s hand, exclaiming with evident sincerity, “What a terrible thing to go through. Yes, of course, we should let you get some rest.” She raised her eyes in concern to Marianne, who took this as a signal to send us off to our rooms and the good care of Madame Martin.
    Marianne stopped David, however, to say she would need his passport and Lily’s, since she had promised to deliver them to Jackie. David seemed about to protest, but a warning glance from Lily subdued him, and he promised to turn over the passports before dinner. Having stumbled past that snag, we repaired to our rooms on the second floor, to collapse, bathe, and ponder—in that order.
    A bout an hour later, all of us except Dotty were assembled again by the south windows, which now gave out onto twilight in the garden. The sky had cleared, and the marble statues glowed a ghostly white against the dark background of topiary.
    We stood, since Marianne and her men were standing. They seemed to be warding us off from seating ourselves on the sofas. Perhaps Marianne was eager to get us to the table, thinking that with a change of scene, the demons of the day could be dispelled.
    While we were waiting, I struck up a conversation with Roselyn Belnord. “Is it Roselyn or Roz?” I asked.
    â€œOh, please call me Roz. Marianne was just being formal, showing her aristocratic side. Even ten years of living in America doesn’t knock the finish off a well-bred chatelaine.”
    I was taken aback, momentarily. The word “chatelaine” has a suspect connotation in post-Revolutionary France—I remembered that from my undergrad course in French culture. Surprise must have shown on my face, since Roz continued: “Please don’t misunderstand me. Marianne may be an aristocrat at heart, but she’s the most loving friend in the world. She and I became close when she lived in Washington, D.C. Her husband and mine were college roommates, and they were both in the news business. Marianne’s Ben was on the foreign desk at the Washington Post , and my husband is a political reporter with the Baltimore Sun .”
    â€œSo you and Marianne have been friends a long time?”
    â€œYes, ages. She’s the godmother to my older son, and both my boys call her “Tatie” because she’s like an aunt to them. In the old days, she and her husband spent a lot of time with our family in Baltimore, and in summers at the Eastern Shore. But those days are over. Marianne was widowed early. You know, newspapers are a brutal business. I was always afraid my husband would die the traditional newspaperman’s death— heart attack at sixty. But at sixty-four, Harry is as full of oats as ever, covering Congress like a hunting dog. It’s Ben who’s gone, and he was the one who jogged and didn’t smoke and didn’t drink. When Marianne lost him, she came back here to live with Guillaume and the baron.”
    â€œThat must have been hard for her.”
    â€œIt was, but she and her brother get on very well. Marianne has her cooking school, and he has his girlfriends. Though if he doesn’t marry soon, there won’t be an heir.”
    I raised my eyebrows, and Roz continued. “Marianne says she wants to see him settle down, but every time he starts getting serious about someone, Marianne finds fault with her. To tell you the truth, I think she’s a little leery at the prospect of having to share him with a wife.”
    She suddenly sensed my distraction. “This probably isn’t the time to talk about it. It’s Nora, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, and Toby.” As I looked in his direction, Toby turned and joined us. “And does your sister-in-law also live in Baltimore?” I asked, spotting Dotty flouncing back into the hall in her