Murder in Lascaux (27 page)

“Sure do. I had a few dates with him in my junior year. He was a football player and a real charmer, but too slick for me. He wound up with the prom queen.”

“Did he ever get into trouble?”

“There was something in senior year about running a gambling pool or throwing a game and getting paid off by a gambling pool, or something like that, but it all got hushed up.”

“That's consistent with what I found out. Jack has all kinds of liens against him for unperformed contracts and defective work when he was a builder, and he served time for conducting an Internet con on elderly people.”

“What's this got to do with Angie and Hank?”

“Jack Havens is Hank's older brother, and Jack is living in Hank's apartment right now. That's where he took refuge when he got out of jail last spring.”

“So, what's the conclusion here? That Hank has a slimy brother, or that in high school I had bad taste in dates?”

“More to the point, Angie's boyfriend has a con man living with him. The older brother may be teaching Hank how to run a scam with this motorcycle-moving service. Or he may be using his influence over his younger brother to run a scam without the kid knowing it's a scam.”

“Have you told Angie?”

“Yes. She's met Jack, and she knows he's been in jail, but she believes Hank's story that Jack was framed. She thought you would remember Jack as a football star, an all-around great guy. You were supposed to be the glowing character reference.”

“If Angie already knows that I knew Hank's brother, why didn't she mention that when we talked on the phone?”

“She was feeling cornered by you and Mom. So she kept her business to herself. But she began to have doubts, so she asked me to do a background check on Hank and Jack.”

“What about Hank, then. Did he come up clean?”

“Nothing criminal. But for a young guy he's had a lot of failures. Angie tells me he dropped out of two job-training programs. I found out he went bankrupt trying to run his own coffee-roasting business. Then he was unemployed a year, until he got this job at the coffee shop. If the motorcycle scheme flops, it'll be par for the course.”

“And what if his older brother is involved in the motorcycle scheme? His plan could be to steal motorbikes in one state and drive them in a Winnebago to another state for ‘resale' on the black market.”

“All I can do now is to tell Angie what you remember, and we'll see what she concludes from that.”

“Okay, thanks, Eddie.”

Sometimes it isn't easy being a sib. Marianne always seemed to be soothing her agitated brother, and Eddie and I had our hands full with Angie. I was glad Eddie was helping out, told him so, and we were off the phone in short order.

Now wide awake, I needed a walk to work off the adrenaline from the phone call. To be ready for the heat, I changed into shorts and a T-shirt and set off along the cliff path, which was shaded and not too strenuous. I vowed to set aside Angie's troubles. To take my mind off my sister, I steered my thoughts back to my research.

Loping down the path, I wondered whether Jenny Marie had ever painted here. The woodsy path would have been a perfect subject for her style of realism heightened by effects of light. To the left, the stunted scrub oaks of Périgord clung to the cliff and arched over the path, providing puddles of deep shade. To the right, the view to the river played in and out between those tall topiary figures I'd noticed the first morning. On the initial stretch of topiary, the figures were taken from a deck of cards: a man-sized heart, a chubby club, a fat spade, and a sharply chiseled diamond, all about seven feet high. For a moment I thought my overstimulated brain had projected me into
Alice in Wonderland
. And sure enough, the topiary figures at the bend ahead were a fat queen and a tall king. Around the corner must be a jack and an ace. Not forgetting to peek out between these fabricated wonders to the views of the river that they framed, I walked along slowly, feeling delighted by the effects of human artifice on nature.

As I rounded the last bend, I stopped short. Ahead of me, men in black Félibrée costume, broad-brimmed hats and all, were standing in front of the chapel, looking somber and speaking quietly. Guillaume was one. I stepped back and hid behind the topiary just at the bend. Thankfully, it was the fat queen—wide enough to hide me. Immediately I felt ridiculous. When I did have to reveal myself to the men, how would I explain why I had hidden behind the bush? Calming myself with slow and measured breaths, I peered through the needled branches, trying to find an angle that would provide a peek. Yes, that was Guillaume. And the cadaverous man he was speaking to was Marc's uncle, Monsieur Gounot. The other four I didn't recognize. There was something furtive about their movements. They whispered among themselves and then, led by Guillaume, they filed through the opening arch of the chapel and into its interior.

I wasn't going to be able to see a thing from my present position. With curiosity overcoming caution, I crossed the path and positioned myself behind a scrub oak near the barred window on the left side of the chapel. The angle allowed me to see most of the interior. Although the men obscured my view of the altar, it looked a little different from my previous visit. The white linen cloth was the same, but, as Guillaume moved his hands up and down in a theatrical gesture, I saw there was an outsized book—maybe a Bible—and several napkins. A brass basin filled with water rested on a side table that had not been there before. Long white candles burned on the altar, spotlighting the book and giving a glow to the Black Madonna behind it.

I watched as the men removed their hats and began to chant in unison. Though I couldn't make out the words, I sensed the similarity to the Occitan hymns sung in church at Domme. As the chant ended, one of the group, who appeared to be younger than the rest, was brought around to the side table. Two others, who moved with an air of authority, motioned him to draw closer and kneel. One of the men directing the youth was Gounot. He and his companion spoke some words and ceremoniously washed their hands in the basin, drying them with the linen napkins. Then, from his place in front of the Virgin's altar, Guillaume spoke in low tones to the kneeling man, who appeared to repeat the words, as the ritual proceeded. After a few minutes, the man prostrated himself twice, then rose, assisted by Gounot.

Now the young man spoke solemnly to each of the older men in turn, and they nodded in approval. Guillaume lifted the Bible, carried it a step over toward the young man and twice touched his head with the book. As Guillaume turned back to replace the book on the altar, Gounot laid hands on the young man's shoulders. A low chant went up from the group, and I still could not make out any words. The neophyte walked slowly around the little table and was kissed once on the cheek by each of the men standing. When the youth returned to his starting point, Gounot raised both hands in benediction and then washed his hands a second time in the little basin. With that, the ceremony neared its end. I was afraid the men would start back toward the château and their path would lead them directly toward me. But no, each of them now approached the altar and bent forward to touch his forehead to the skirt of the Black Madonna.

I quickly crossed the path and ducked back behind the topiary, where the men would not see me as they passed by. But that was a terror, because the topiary was perched on the edge of the cliff.

I reached into the greenery, searched for the thick trunk of the bush, and holding onto that, scooted myself to the cliff edge, confident the queen-shaped bush would hide me as long as I could hang on and keep my balance. I kept my gaze on the trunk, to which I was clinging. Minutes went by without the men leaving. I wasn't going to be secure holding on there much longer. So I looked up again and tried to get a peek at the opening of the chapel, through the branches. The room looked empty. And the air was silent.

I shifted my weight and swung back toward the path. Leaning my head left of the bush, I verified that I was alone. I stayed still for a moment, waiting to hear or see something. But sensing I was safe, I finally stepped back onto the path and moved forward far enough to peek through the window again. No one was there. The side table and its basin were gone. The Bible was gone from the altar too. But the candles still burned. That was my proof this whole event had not been a mirage.

Instinct turned me on my heels and sent me swiftly back toward the château. I was relieved that the bend in the cliff put me quickly out of view of anyone who might still be at the chapel. Yet no one was ahead of me on the path back. How could they have vanished so completely?

P
EOPLE DON'T JUST DISAPPEAR
, and they couldn't have come out the door. I was watching.”

“Then there has to be another way out of the chapel,” reasoned Toby. “A hidden exit of some sort. Let's take a look.”

“But what if they return and find us poking around?”

“So? We're two Americans out for a walk before dinner. We stopped in to see the chapel. Nothing unusual about that, is there?”

“Maybe not. But I'd hate to have Guillaume think I was spying on him.”

“Don't worry, we have the perfect cover. We're tourists. We look at old buildings.”

Despite my hesitations, I wanted to revisit the chapel, with Toby along for protection. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” I said. “That there might be an entrance leading from the chapel to that cave that's supposed to be hidden somewhere on the grounds?”

“That's exactly what I'm thinking,” replied Toby.

T
here was no sign of activity as we approached the chapel, strolling as nonchalantly as we could. Inside, nothing had been touched, though the candles had burned down and were guttering. We scanned the enclosure carefully, from the left of the altar all the way around the room to its right. We ran our palms over the walls at shoulder level, searching for a gap or irregularity on the surfaces. Next we examined the stone floor, but it too was smooth and solid. We crouched down and passed our hands over the walls again, this time at knee level, with the same result. But what about the wall plaques and the offering boxes behind them? Maybe one of them concealed a spring or lever to operate a secret exit.

I shared my conjecture with Toby and voiced a fear. “It's one thing if they find us admiring the chapel architecture, but what if they return and catch us fooling around with the offering plaques?”

“All right,” Toby offered, “I'll stand watch at the entrance while you look around.”

“But what if they suddenly pop up from wherever it is they disappeared to?”

“We'll hear them coming, won't we? Look, you go ahead. I'll keep an eye out for them. Go on, we don't want to hang around here too long.”

So I began, with Toby standing guard. Most of the plaques, as I remembered, bore messages of thanks or else pleas to cure illnesses. Some could be flipped open using thumb and forefinger. That revealed a space cut into the wall, into which notes or coins or small devotional objects could be placed. Gingerly, I began testing them. Behind one plaque was a sealed envelope addressed to the Holy Virgin; behind another, a small religious medal on a silver chain. Several of these little coffers sheltered withered flowers. But after opening a few, I grew uneasy with prying into the devotions of living people, as well as those long gone. These offerings were not meant for strangers' eyes.

I paused before the simple plaque that had caught my eye during my first visit to the chapel. It was different from the others in that it bore a general prayer rather than a request for a specific cure. “Deliver us from evil,” it read, beside the inscribed date of 1944. I grasped the edges of the plaque and lifted up, but it budged only a fraction; it seemed stuck. I repeated the motion using both hands and the firmest grip I could muster, but still no success.

“Toby, could you help me, please?”

He walked over and quickly sized up the job. “Hold on,” he said, reaching into his pants pocket for his Swiss Army knife, which he's never without. (He claims it was his best friend as a child and is now his best tool as an antiques man.) He tried using a dull-looking blade to pry at the sides of the plaque, loosening grit, and then he switched to a shorter one and applied the leverage of his body's weight. It worked. Toby reached in.

“There's something in here, all right,” he grunted, groping around. “Feels like a book. Okay, I've got it.”

With that, Toby withdrew a sooty hand holding a familiar-looking blue notebook covered in dust.

“It's Jenny Marie's!” I exclaimed. “The notebook I've been looking for—I knew it had to exist.”

“Here, take it,” said Toby, quickly restoring the plaque to its original position. “And let's get out of here before someone finds us.”

B
ack in our room, I began scanning the notebook's pages and was immediately arrested by one passage with a drawing opposite it.