Ruin in the Roses, page 5
“Ooh,” Scott said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I like the way you say that.”
Sophie gave a slight bow of her head. “You say you’re here seeking an orchid? For what reason?”
Scott braced one foot on a small boulder that marked the edge of the driveway. “It’s my business. I’m an orchid hunter.”
Sophie’s eyes went wide. “An orchid hunter? That sounds quite adventurous."
"Part of the job's charm," Scott replied, his voice smooth as polished stone. He had yet to relinquish Sophie’s hand.
“I’d love to hear more about it,” Sophie said, seemingly happy to have her hand in Scott’s.
“I’d be happy to tell you about it.” He launched into an explanation of his work, discussing the delicate ecosystems that housed such treasures. Alice could see Sophie's polite interest, perhaps even genuine curiosity, flicker in her eyes like candlelight.
Seizing the moment, Alice excused herself with a murmured intention to revisit the hydrangeas. As she walked away from Scott's animated storytelling and Sophie's attentive listening, the knot in her stomach began to loosen. Maybe Scott would get the hint and leave. Or maybe he’d transfer some of his interest to Sophie and leave Alice alone. Either was fine with her.
The garden welcomed her with open arms, the sun had risen higher and the garden looked almost like a painting, with everything thrown into high contrast. It was here among these living things that Alice felt most at home, with the soil beneath her fingernails. Plants had been what had helped her get over her broken heart. They'd always been there for her and she did her best to be there for them.
She knelt by the hydrangeas, their petals a mosaic of blues and pinks, a visual representation of the soil's subtle shifts in pH levels. As she examined the plants, looking for any signs of distress, she froze. There, lying amongst the roots and fallen leaves, was René Dupont. His body was still, too still, and his eyes stared vacantly at the sky above. His skin looked blue.
She scrambled to her feet. "René!" Alice gasped, her voice strangled in her throat. Her scream followed, piercing the morning calm and sending birds scattering from the trees.
Footsteps thudded against the earth as Marco, Scott, Sophie, Jean-Baptiste, and Lilou converged on the scene. Marco reached Alice first, his broad shoulders blocking out the sight of René as he pulled her into an embrace and away from the grisly discovery.
“I will call for help,” Lilou said, her voice shaking uncharacteristically, although Alice didn’t think there was much help anyone could offer to René anymore.
"Mon Dieu," Sophie murmured under her breath, one hand covering her mouth in shock. She took two steps back.
"Is he...?" Scott began, but couldn't finish the question.
Alice clung to Marco, her head buried in his chest, as he whispered comforting nothings into her hair. She lifted her face to his, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Not again," she whispered back, the weight of déjà vu pressing down on her. Once more, death had found its way into her life, turning the beauty of nature into a backdrop for tragedy.
CHAPTER SIX
Alice shivered, although the château’s kitchen was warm. Marco grabbed a throw and wrapped it around her shoulders before handing her a steaming cup of sweet milky tea. The warmth seeped through the fine china, comforting in its familiarity. She wrapped her fingers around the cup, grateful for something to hold onto.
She shut her eyes, trying to calm herself. Make a list. It’s springtime. Ephemeral plants. Daffodil. Jack-in-the Pulpit. Eastern Shooting Star. Trilliums. Hyacinth. The names of the plants soothed her like putting on a familiar sweater.
"Better?" Marco asked.
She opened her eyes to find his eyes searching hers with genuine concern.
"Much better, thank you," she managed a small smile, feeling the heat begin to thaw her frozen insides and the shivers slow down.
He nodded. “The British aren’t wrong about everything culinary. Sometimes a cup of hot tea is exactly what’s required.”
She huffed a small laugh and took another sip of the tea.
Sophie and Scott entered the kitchen, Sophie's face pale and drawn. Scott hovered close behind her, offering quiet words that seemed to go unheard. Sophie sat down at the table opposite Alice and put her face in her hands. "Mon Dieu. I can't believe this is happening."
“Where’s Lilou?” Marco asked, preparing another cup of tea.
“She’s insisting on staying with . . . the body until emergency services arrive,” Sophie said looking up and then seeming almost to gag a little. “What do you think happened to him? Could it be a heart attack? He looked so wrong.”
“Did he have heart problems?” Alice asked. He’d seemed so healthy and vital.
“Not that I know of.” Sophie shook her head. “Why was he blue?”
Scott put his hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “That’s for the police to figure out.”
Marco put another cup of sweet milky tea down in front of Sophie, then leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. He did not offer Scott a cup of tea, but if Scott noticed he didn’t say anything.
The group fell silent. The silence between them all punctuated only by the distant ticking of the grandfather clock until a sharp rap at the door broke it. A man entered without waiting to be invited.
"Bonjour," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I am Inspector Pierre Fournier. I will need to speak with each of you separately," he announced in a tone that brokered no argument.
He was a tall man, taller even than Marco, who stood a little over six feet. Fournier had a strong jawline and sharp features. White with dark hair, he wore combed back from his forehead and gelled into place. He had on a dark suit, crisply pressed, and a neatly knotted tie. He looked like a bad guy in a film about the 1980s.
Fournier’s gaze swept the room and landed on Alice. "Mademoiselle Bloom?” he asked.
Alice nodded.
“If you would join me first?" Alice set her tea down with a careful thunk against the wooden table and followed Fournier to the adjoining parlor. The scent of expensive cologne followed the Inspector, a subtle aroma of cedar and spices .
Once they were seated, he took out a pen and a notepad and asked, "Please, tell me what brings you to Château DuPont.” His voice was smooth and measured, his words were punctuated by the faint clicking of his pen as he waited for Alice’s answer.
“First, can you tell me what happened to Monsieur DuPont?” Alice asked. “Do you know?”
Fournier pressed his lips together as if to seal them and then said, “There will be an autopsy. That will tell us what happened.”
Alice slumped back in the chair. “So no chance that he had a heart attack or something like that?”
Fournier clicked his pen a few times and then finally said, “It seems doubtful. Poison seems more likely.”
“Poison?” Alice’s hand went to her heart.
“Possibly.” Fournier clicked his pen a few times. “Now, please tell me how you came to be at Château Fournier.”
“Monsieur DuPont hired the landscaping firm I work for to redesign his garden.” Alice looked down at a smear of dirt on her hands that she hadn’t noticed. “I was here to consult with him, draw up plans, and begin the implementation of the design. René had a vision for the gardens here. He wanted something a little less formal, but still elegant. An elevated cottage garden really. He also wanted to honor his mother. He’s presenting a rosé named after her in a competition and he wanted there to be special places in the garden honoring her as well.”
“Such as?”
“Well, the hydrangeas, of course.”
"Ah, yes, the hydrangeas. Where you found Monsieur DuPont. Interesting.” Fournier nodded, jotting down notes. "And how did you plan to implement Monsieur Dupont's vision?"
"Through a careful selection of plant varieties, soil analysis, and a layout that would complement the estate's architecture and history.” Alice's passion for her work bloomed in her chest, a welcome respite from the morning's dark events. "It's about creating a harmony between the cultivated and the wild, a place where both can prosper. We want to make the garden reflect the long history of Château DuPont, but also look to the future.”
"Is that so?" Fournier murmured, his pen pausing for just a moment. "And this work, it was important to you?"
"Very much so," Alice said, holding Fournier's gaze. "Gardens are more than just aesthetics, they're a legacy. I wanted to honor René's wishes and make the château's grounds a testament to his vision and his mother’s memory.”
Fournier considered her words, the ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth before he returned to his methodical questioning. Alice sensed the shift back to the matter at hand, the brief interlude of talking about her craft dissolving into the stark reality of the investigation that lay before them.
"Mademoiselle Bloom," Fournier began, his voice steady, "were there any issues between you and Monsieur Dupont?"
Alice blinked a few times, surprised at the question. "No, Inspector. I only arrived a couple of days ago. We had barely even gotten started. There hadn't been time for any kind of issues to arise, and nothing I saw in my short time here made me think there would be."
Fournier's eyebrow arched ever so slightly, a silent question lingering in the skepticism of his gaze. He made a note in his little black book, the sound of pen scratching on paper filling the brief void.
"And when was the last time you saw Monsieur Dupont alive?" he asked, looking up again.
Alice released a slow breath, her mind casting back over the last day. She rocked a little in her seat as she thought. Had she seen him this morning? No. She was sure not. She’d come down to the kitchen and then Sophie had taken them on the tour of the winery. "It was at dinner last night." Her voice held steady, even as her heart twinged with the recollection of how golden and beautiful the evening had seemed to her and what a shadow this morning had cast over it
"Who else was present?"
"René, Sophie, Marco, Lilou, Jean-Baptiste, and myself," she recounted smoothly, each name evoking a face, a smile, an exchanged glance from the night that now seemed worlds away.
"Did anything unusual occur? An argument, perhaps?" Fournier's question was casual, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
She shook her head. "Not at all. It was a lovely dinner. We celebrated the day's progress in the gardens, discussed the next steps in the rosé’s evolution. It was very pleasant," she insisted, but a trace of uncertainty fluttered in her chest. Had there been a shadow in someone's eye she hadn't noticed? There’d been those little glances between Lilou and Jean-Baptiste. Did they mean something?
Fournier made a note. “Mademoiselle Bloom," he began, his voice as smooth, “you went directly to the hydrangeas where Monsieur DuPont was found this morning. Can you explain why?"
Alice nodded, clasping her hands to still their slight tremble. "Of course, Inspector. The hydrangeas—they've been changing color. It's not the seasonal shift one would expect. They're turning a deep shade of blue, indicative of acidic soil. They also don’t seem to be growing as they should. I’m trying to figure out why.”
"Go on," Fournier prompted, the click of his pen pausing.
"Hydrangeas change color based on the pH level of the soil," she explained, happy to talk about something definite, something she knew to be true. "I was concerned that something—or someone—may have altered the soil composition in that area deliberately."
"Deliberately?" Fournier echoed, his brow furrowing. "Why would someone do that?"
Alice shook her head. "I wish I knew. It's perplexing. Hydrangeas are resilient, but such a sudden shift... it could harm them, or be a sign of something more malicious at play. I only noticed it yesterday. That’s why I wanted to check them this morning.”
Fournier scribbled a note, then met her eyes again. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. That will be all for now. Please refrain from discussing this matter with the others until I've completed my interviews."
"Of course, Inspector," Alice replied, relief blooming within her chest. She rose from the chair, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. As she moved towards the door, she thought, At least he hasn't told me not to leave the country.
"Ah, and one more thing," Fournier called out just as her hand touched the doorknob.
Alice turned, her heart skipping a beat.
"Please stay available and do not consider leaving France until this investigation is concluded," he stated, his tone carrying the weight of authority.
Her stomach dropped. So much for small favors, recalling the stern warnings of Italian authorities from her past misadventure.
“Inspector Fournier, am I a suspect?” She might as well know the truth.
He shrugged. "You are new. You arrived, and someone died soon after. You found the body. And I understand this isn't the first time one of your clients has died in a less than natural way."
With a nod of understanding to Fournier, Alice stepped out of the kitchen, the specter of suspicion trailing close behind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alice trudged up the narrow staircase, the worn treads creaking beneath her feet. Her mind churned like the soil she so often worked, thoughts of René DuPont's untimely demise mingling with unexpected encounters. The quaint charm of her room offered little solace as she shut the door behind her. She reached for her phone, its sleek surface cool and unyielding in her palm.
"Jazz, it's Alice," she said when the call connected, her voice a blend of sadness and urgency. She didn’t waste any time getting the words out. “DuPont's dead."
“Wait! What?" Jazz's tone was laden with shock, the background hum of her tea shop receding as if pushed away by the gravity of the news. “Dead? But how?
“I don’t know yet. The police won’t say, but they’re definitely treating it like it’s not a natural death. The Inspector mentioned that they suspected poison.” Alice perched on the edge of the bed, the antique quilt offering no comfort. “I found him in the hydrangeas.” She couldn’t stop the little sob from escaping at the thought of how he’d looked, so cold and alone.
"Murder?" Jazz echoed, her voice a cocktail of concern and disbelief. "I thought your days of stumbling upon bodies were behind you."
"Me too," Alice murmured. The memory of Italy's sun-drenched coast flashed across her mind, but she pushed it aside. "There's more. Marco arrived yesterday.”
"Marco is there?" Jazz sounded surprised, but also a bit excited. "That's a twist. What’s he doing there?”
“DuPont hired him to create a menu for an upcoming rosé competition based on what grows here. Kind of a local-vore thing.” She paused, not sure what was going to happen to the project. “We were going to work together so what I planted and what he created for the menu would go hand-in-hand.” And maybe, just maybe, she and Marco could go hand in hand as well?
“Of all the gardens in all the towns in all the world.” Jazz in a terrible Humphrey Bogart imitation. “Seriously, though. How was that?”
“Not bad. A little awkward at first, but then it felt like we were picking back up right where we left off.” Alice’s hand went to her mouth to touch the place he’d kissed her. “Until this morning when Scott showed up.”
“Scott? Again? What is he even doing there?" Jazz's bewilderment mirrored Alice's own.
"Orchid hunting, or so he says." Alice ran a hand through her hair. "I can't deal with him right now, not with all this. I hope having the police question him about a murder will be enough to scare him off.”
"Come home, Alice," Jazz urged, her voice urgent. "You don't need to be caught up in another mess. Last time, you almost died.”
"Home sounds good," Alice admitted, gazing out the window at the expansive gardens, now tainted with the shadow of death. She was well aware of the close call she’d had in Italy. “But I can't, not yet."
“Don’t tell me.” Jazz sighed. “You’ve been told not to leave the country.”
“Got it in one.” Alice sat down and fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as if there might be answers there. “Apparently, finding DuPont makes me part of this mess and Inspector Fournier brought up Italy."
"Seriously? You were cleared in that case. It was all over the papers," Jazz protested, her tone sharpening like the shears Alice used to prune her beloved roses.
"I know, and you know, but I'm not convinced Fournier sees it that way." She sat back up, pulling her legs up to sit tailor-style. "Jazz, do you think there's any chance DuPont’s death is linked to the hydrangea color change?"
“The what now?” Jazz asked.
Alice filled her in on the acidic soil around the hydrangeas and her concern that there was more going awry there that she hadn’t quite figured out yet.
"Me? I'm all about herbs and teas, remember?" Jazz chuckled lightly on the other end. "You're the plant guru. What's your take?"
"Hydrangeas shift hues based on soil pH," Alice mused aloud, the detective in her surfacing. "But it would be extraordinary if someone manipulated them on purpose... and for what? And what about that would lead to someone poisoning René? Unless..."
"Unless DuPont stumbled onto something he wasn't supposed to?" Jazz offered.
"Exactly," Alice replied, feeling the familiar thrill of piecing together a botanical puzzle. "It's just speculation right now, but I can’t ignore the timing."
"Be careful, Alice," Jazz warned, her voice taking on a serious note. "Remember, you're not there to play detective."
"Understood." Alice sighed, the weight of concern from her friend making her promise herself an extra measure of caution. "I'll talk to you soon, Jazz."
"Stay safe, okay? And keep me posted." Jazz's concern was palpable even from across the globe.
"Will do," Alice promised before ending the call. She sat for a moment longer, the silence of the room pressing against her. She had one more call to make. She took a deep breath and blew it out, then hit the button to call her boss. Owen answered on the second ring, his voice carrying the usual blend of gruff concern. "Bloom, how’s Provence?”
