"You’ve had enough, Jules," Mathilde said icily. Jules glared at her but put down the glass.
"No, you didn’t care about that," Gideon said, "but you cared one hell of a lot about the inheritance. And if anyone found out the guy who wrote that will wasn’t who he said he was, that would have been the end of it. No fabulous inheritance for your parents-or for you not too far down the line. And that was something you weren’t about to let happen."
"Dr. Oliver," Mathilde announced in her most imperious contralto, "I cannot have you-"
"Be quiet, Mathilde," Sophie interrupted curtly. "Let’s get it sorted out once and for all, for God’s sake."
Gideon could almost see the tiny gears whizzing behind Jules’ little eyes. "I see your point," he said with strained reasonableness, "but why pick on me? I’m not the only one here who knew about the fraud, am I?" He permitted his gaze to rest once again on his mother. A dew of sweat had formed on his upper lip.
"What a miserable little shit," John muttered out of the side of his mouth.
Gideon agreed. Whatever discomfort he’d felt about brow-beating the slug-like Jules was rapidly disappearing.
"That’s right," he said. "Two people knew; you and your mother. But only one person knew Claude was going to see the bones the next day. And that’s you."
"You’re out of your mind. That inspector told me about it while we were all having drinks. Anybody could have heard."
"No, the rest had gone in to dinner. There were just you, me, and John."
Jules licked his lips, beginning to look concerned. He’d already as much as accused his mother. Was he going to accuse John now?
"I must have mentioned it to-to someone else. I’m sure I told Marcel. Marcel, didn’t-"
"And of course that’s why you tried to kill me too; to keep me from figuring out it was Guillaume down there."
More gasps. He’d forgotten that none of them knew about the letter-bomb. This was turning into quite an evening for them all.
"This is ridiculous!" Jules said with abrupt heat. The red streaks had reappeared in his downy, round cheeks. "I’m not going to sit here-"
"And Alain as well. That’s why you saw to it he drowned in the bay."
Jules’ slack-jawed blink of amazement was so transparently sincere that for a moment Gideon thought he might have it wrong, but he realized that what he was seeing was simply Jules’ astonishment that anyone had even caught on to the fact that the murder had occurred. And it had been a clever thing; for that much Gideon gave him credit, if you could call it credit. It had been sheer luck, nothing else, that had uncovered it.
Jules shut his mouth so hard his puppy’s teeth clicked. "I’m not going to sit here and take this-this abuse-from someone who-who wasn’t even invited…"
"But why?" Sophie said. "Why kill Alain after so many years?"
Gideon answered. "Because Alain was going to admit who he really was. That’s what the council was going to be about. Jules was the only one who knew, and he couldn’t let it happen. Right, Jules?" He hoped he sounded confident; the further he went, the deeper into guesswork he got. Peculiar, the situations he found himself in.
"No! Wrong!" Jules was shouting now; the martinis were starting to show in his eyes, his speech. His bow-shaped baby’s mouth had curled into a pout. "It was to tell us he was selling this place to a hotel!"
"Selling his house to a hotel is‘a matter of singular family importance’?"
"How do I know what the old fart meant?" Jules spread his arms, beseeching the others. "He told me what it was about!"
"Yes, I know he did. You were the only one who knew."
He lowered his arms. "That’s right, " he said suspiciously.
"That’s what started me wondering why you were lying about it, and the answer wasn’t too hard to come up with." Gideon was beginning to tire, wishing that Joly would come, or that Jules would just give up and admit it.
He didn’t. " You’re lying!" he shouted.
"No, Jules," Gideon said, and would up for what he hoped was the knockout punch. "He wasn’t selling Rochebonne to a hotel chain. If he were, there wouldn’t be much sense in enlarging the kitchen garden, would there?" He held his breath. He was up to his elbows in speculative inference here. It was conceivable that a deal with the chain was contingent on a bigger garden going in, or that they were paying for it, or a dozen other possibilities.
But no, he’d guessed right. Jules’ forehead was suddenly glossy with sweat. The area under his eyes and around his mouth seemed to sink and turn a shiny gray.
"I," he said with a wretched, sodden try at dignity, "am leaving now." When he stood up crumbs rolled from his lap.
"No," John said pleasantly, "you’re not. You’re staying right there."
Jules spun angrily on him. "You can’t-"
"I sure can. Consider it a citizen’s arrest."
"You-you’re not even a citizen! "
"All the same," John said, his arms folded easily on his chest, "if I were you I’d just sit back down and wait till Joly gets here."
"Joly is already here," said the familiar crisp voice from the doorway. He strode into the room and stood stiffly in front of Jules. "Monsieur du Rocher, please consider yourself under the provisions of the garde a vue from this moment. You will be detained-"
Jules looked wildly at Mathilde. " Maman -"
She stared blazingly at him. "You killed Alain," she said in a voice like cracking ice. "Your own father."
This time Gideon was part of the stunned silence too. It took Rene to break it.
"His father?" he said, as wide-eyed as the rest of them. "Do you mean Jules isn’t my son?"
Had it not been for the sorry circumstances, Gideon might almost have thought it was said with relief.
TWENTY-TWO
"Want some more coffee?" Julie asked.
"Sure," Gideon said, starting to rise.
"I’ll make it." She jumped up and headed for the kitchen.
"I thought you were going to be keeping me less contented."
"I figure almost getting yourself killed entitles you to one day of being spoiled. Tomorrow things change, pal."
They were having a late breakfast in the living room. Gideon leaned back, hands behind his neck, and stretched out his legs, wallowing in the satisfaction of being back home, back with Julie. Through the big window he could look down the hill and see the Coho ferry from Victoria just rounding Ediz Hook and easing its way through the morning fog into Port Angeles Harbor. In the kitchen Julie made domestic noises and whistled happily.
"I’m a lucky man," he told her.
"You better believe it," she called back. "What’s the bagel situation in there?"
"Plenty. Lox and cream cheese too."
He had arrived at a little before ten the night before. Julie had met him at Sea-Tac and for most of the long drive to Port Angeles-a slow, stately ferry across Puget Sound and then seventy miles of blackly forested highway on the Olympic Peninsula-he had told her how things had worked out at Rochebonne. When they’d reached home they’d opened a bottle of cognac he’d brought from France and their talk and attention had turned to more intimate and enjoyable things. It had been three in the morning before they’d finally drifted off to sleep, and they hadn’t awakened until nine-thirty.
"Did you hear any creepy noises last night?" he called.
"I did hear some pretty strange ones now that you mention it, yes."
He laughed. "I mean after we fell asleep."
She came in with a tray. "No, not after," she said, smiling, and then made a face. "Gideon, you’re not really going to be wearing those things, are you?"
He looked down and wiggled his toes. "You don’t like my shoes? Wait till you see my new sweatshirt."
"Oh, it’s not that I don’t like them. I think chartreuse canvas is extremely handsome, and that casual baggy look is very attractive, very with-it. I just like some of your others better."