French Weddings Can Kill You Page 2

  The dog didn’t move. I’m not moving, it’s dangerous, you could fall.

  “D’Artagnan, be a good dog and move. I can’t get down. I could fall.” André waved his hand to chase the dog away. “Hop to it!”

  The Great Dane didn’t move.

  “Aargh!” complained André who had to do gymnastics to reach the floor. The man passed one leg over the dog, keeping his hands firmly on the sides of the ladder. D’Artagnan turned around and André lost his balance, making the ladder swing to the right. “Ooh!” yelled the man who had no other choice but to jump, landing on his hands and knees as the ladder hit the floor.

  D’Artagnan wagged his tail. Told you! Aren’t you glad I was here to help?

  *

  The world was yellow. Comfortably ensconced in a large mustard tinted, translucent glass jar under a table in the antiques shop, Bronx had made the container his observation post. Convinced nobody could see him, the cat was tracking the comings and goings of Amanda and Liliane who were placing various items in the store. The cat hoped to play a nasty trick on the dumb dog he hated more than anything else in the world when he showed up. His face pressed on the glass flattened his features, making his eyes look like two billiard balls. Bronx liked to make scary faces.

  Then, the cat saw something moving a few feet away from him, along shelves filled with old books and various objects. Bronx froze. He was onto something. Two shadows walked toward him. One was of a man wearing a long jacket and the other seemed to be of an animal with long hair. Wait. What? No. Not another dog!

  An English Springer Spaniel with a beautiful white and brown coat walked with a distinguished gait toward the yellow jar and stopped in front of it. The dog looked at Bronx with curiosity.

  And may we know who you are, sir, hiding in the jar? Asked the dog.

  Bronx looked sideways quickly. You can see me?

  The dog rolled his eyes in an affected way. Of course, we can see you, fool. You are in a glass jar! The dog had emphasized the word ‘glass’ in a condescending tone. He inserted his muzzle into the jar’s opening. His long ears floated down the sides. May we know what you are hiding from?

  Bronx frowned. May I know why the heck you talk this way? Go away and mind your own business. You’re gonna blow my cover!

  The Spaniel’s eyes rounded with surprise. How rude you are!

  How weird you are! Replied Bronx. And mostly annoying.

  The dog walked away at once with an offended look, following the man with the long jacket. This is when Bronx noticed something really unusual about these two strangers. They went through the objects in the store and even through the walls as if they were made of thin air. Intrigued, the cat left his hideout and followed them.

  Chapter 4

  A spotless and gleaming black Mercedes drove into the castle parking lot and parked in the space closest to the reception doors. A woman wearing a classic and elegant beige suit stepped out of the car from the front passenger seat, holding a tiny white dog with a fluffy fur. She lifted her sunglasses and turned around to glance at the surroundings.

  “Hmm… It doesn’t look bad. I would even say it’s pretty nice.”

  A younger woman in her mid-twenties got out of the car from the back seat. She was tall with long strawberry blonde hair and wore a pair of tight jeans that flattered her fit silhouette, and a tight, white t-shirt with the Chanel logo printed in golden letters on the front. It emphasized her generous bust, intentionally.

  In her glittery pink stilettos, she walked to the reception, swinging her hips, putting one foot in front of the other like a model on a catwalk. She held her cell phone to her ear the entire time.

  Then, a short man with a perfectly tailored black suit got out of the car from the driver’s side. He closed the door left open by the young woman and trotted to the trunk. He opened it and pulled out, with difficulty, several bags and heavy suitcases. He was about to carry them to the lobby when the woman in the beige suit put a hand on his forearm.

  “Wait, honey. Don’t they have porters here?”

  *

  The young woman pressed the bell on the reception desk several times.

  “Why isn’t there anybody here?” she complained.

  Bertrand arrived in the lobby from the back office and walked hastily to the reception desk.

  “Élodie Faber,” she said without even lifting her black sunglasses, her phone still glued to her ear. “We have reservations.”

  Bertrand gave her an enthusiastic smile. He recognized the famous actress who was the current muse of French cinema. The one who ‘stole’ all the best female leading roles, which made actresses of her generation jealous, even angry.

  “Yes, of course Ms. Faber,” said Bertrand. “It’s such a pleasure and an honor to have you staying here with us. Welcome to the Château d’Orvilly.”

  Élodie didn’t look at Bertrand. She paced in front of the desk, talking on the phone while playing with the locks of her long hair.

  “That’s not a problem,” she said to the person on the phone. “Although my schedule is fully booked, I’ll make sure to find a time tonight to call you back and talk about the contract… I’ve made my decision. I don’t want her as my publicist anymore. She’s a has-been and pretty much useless…” The actress sighed and rolled her eyes. “Can you believe I have to book my own interviews! Pff… You know what? I have a better idea. Why don’t you come tomorrow and stay for the wedding?” Élodie grabbed the keys Bertrand handed her. He tried to tell her something, but she kept talking to the person on the phone. “No worries. Who cares if it’s last minute? We’ll just add a plate setting and I’ll book an additional room for you right now, that’s all.” She looked at Bertrand. “I need another room.”

  Bertrand panicked. “Uh… What do you mean, Miss Faber? Other than the two suites booked for you and your parents?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean,” said the actress in a dry tone.

  “Miss, I’m afraid it’s not possible. The castle is fully booked. Because of your wedding guests and our inauguration for the reopening this weekend, we have no room left.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” she said, staring at him. “I believe me staying here is what brings you a lot of business, right? I need a room, so get me a room.”

  Amanda walked into the reception area from the back office. She had heard their conversation. In her ‘past life’ in Victoria, she had worked for several years at a university Registrar’s Office and she knew how to deal with difficult people on the other side of the desk. She walked to Élodie Faber and presented her hand.

  “Good afternoon and welcome in the castle, Ms. Faber. I’m Amanda McBride, the owner. Is there a problem?”

  Élodie didn’t shake Amanda’s hand. “Yes, there is. I need an additional room, but your employee told me it’s not possible. This is not the type of service I would expect from a place like yours. If I need a room and ask for one, I want one.”

  “I see,” replied Amanda, forcing a smile. “We would be happy to accommodate you, Ms. Faber, but the problem is the castle is fully booked, as Bertrand explained you. I can give you the address of a local small hotel”

  “I don’t want to put one of my wedding guests in some creepy local hotel! It’s a castle, it’s big, I’m sure you’ll find a room somewhere.”

  Although she felt an urge to strangle the actress, Amanda kept smiling and took a deep breath. “All right. I might have a solution for you, Miss Faber, but I’m telling you right now it’s not ideal. We have one small room on the second floor of the castle, we haven’t finished renovating it completely yet, but it’s furnished. We could clean this room and put fresh linen on the bed. It would be comfortable but not fancy. Would this be to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes. If this room is undergoing renovations though, I expect a discount.”

  Amanda turned around and looked at Bertrand, making a face of exasperation. “Bertrand, please, book room 24 for Ms. Faber’s guest.”


  Bertrand took a key on the board behind him and put it in an envelope.

  “The housekeepers will prepare the room now,” said Amanda to Élodie. “I’ll make sure your guest will feel as comfortable as possible in this room. Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Faber?” Amanda hoped she would say no.

  “Not for now,” answered the actress.

  Élodie Faber’s parents arrived in the lobby. Her mother went directly to Bertrand.

  “Young man, our luggage is outside. Bring it to our suites.”

  Bertrand and Amanda exchanged a quick sideways glance.

  “Uh… I’m afraid we don’t have a porter, Madam,” said Bertrand. The woman stood in front of him, not moving an inch. “But… I suppose I can make an exception and bring your luggage to your room this one time.”

  Bertrand rushed outside and came back carrying a suitcase and a bag under his right arm, holding another bag in his left hand. “I’ll have to do another trip to get the rest,” he said, while following Élodie and her parents to the elevator.

  The actress was still talking on the phone, acting like an important business woman. Nothing in the world mattered more than her conversation.

  Chapter 5

  T he housekeepers were filling their carts with clean towels and supplies when Amanda pushed open the swinging doors of the laundry room.

  “Isabelle and Anita, please go to room 24 with a cart, clean it and put fresh linen on the bed.”

  The young women glanced at each other, surprised.

  “But the renovations in this room are not finished yet,” said Isabelle.

  “I know. But we have a situation and we need the room for tomorrow. You’ll be too busy with the inauguration tomorrow though. It’s better you prepare it today. Make it nice and cozy. Come and see me if there’s a problem or if you need anything. Thank you.”

  Amanda left. The women looked at each other and shrugged. An order was an order, and their job was to clean and prep rooms, anyway. Anita pushed one of the carts and Isabelle followed her colleague with a mop and a bucket.

  The housekeepers walked down the red carpet in the long corridor of the first floor and stopped in front of the stylish, old-fashioned cage elevator, recently built for the guests and the personnel’s convenience. Isabelle pulled the gate that retracted like an accordion and helped Anita to push the heavy cart inside.

  “The castle will be fully packed tomorrow,” said Isabelle. “I’ve never worked in a hotel before. Are you nervous?”

  “Not really,” answered Anita. “I’ve worked in larger hotels and big industrial buildings. This is probably the smallest and the fanciest place I’ve worked in. The boss is nice and well prepared, so it should be fine. I like when hotels are full. It’s more tips for us.” She winked.

  Isabelle nodded. “You’re right,” she said as she pulled the gate when they arrived on the second floor.

  The women pushed the cart out and turned on their left, walking down to the far end of the corridor. They stopped in front of a wooden door with the number 24, located in a narrow angle, hidden behind a pillar. One could easily miss it.

  Isabelle took out a key ring from the front pocket of her black-and-white uniform and opened the door. The room was dark. She walked to the window and opened the curtains. The light revealed a dusty bedroom. It faced the west side of the castle where the parking lot was. Not the fanciest view, but still the small room had its charm with a freshly applied wallpaper in yellow tones, with illustrations of daily farm scenes of the nineteenth century.

  The women removed the rolls of unused wallpaper on the floor and put away a toolbox left by a worker.

  Isabelle pointed at a painting hung above the double bed. She grimaced. “Look at this strange guy,” she said. A small bubble of gum popped out of her mouth and burst. “Nice dog though.”

  The painting was of a tall, thin man with a long black jacket, posing outdoors in the countryside, an English Springer Spaniel at his feet. The man stood proudly, holding a pair of gloves and a hat in one hand, a walking stick in the other. The elegant dog stared at his owner, his muzzle up, with a clear sense of affection and devotion.

  Anita got closer to the painting. “Judging by his clothes, it’s probably from the nineteenth century. Most likely an ancestor who lived here before.”

  Isabelle walked to the bathroom with the bucket and the mop. “I’ll do the bathroom and I’ll help you finish the bedroom.”

  Anita took a cloth and a canister and sprayed the wooden dresser facing the bed. She rubbed energetically to remove the dust.

  “I find these old paintings a bit creepy. Don’t you?” said Isabelle from the bathroom, raising her voice.

  “No, why?” answered Anita. “It’s both history and art. I find it interesting.”

  “Well, you’re not from here, so you probably haven’t heard about the ghost stories yet,” said Isabelle.

  “What ghost stories?” asked Anita.

  “Oh my God, so many stories! The most famous one is about a man who died in the basement. Rumor says a ghost killed the poor man.”

  “Seriously?” Anita rolled her eyes as she walked from the dresser to the nightstand. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said, cleaning the furniture. “And if there were such a thing, I doubt a ghost could kill someone.”

  “Many people have seen ghosts running after them at night, outside, on the property. There’s a local legend about a nasty ghost in the kitchen. A woman who was employed as a cook.”

  “Well, I guess these ghost stories are part of the local folklore and it’s exactly what attracts tourists here. I bet many guests will stay here just because they want to see ghosts. Have you ever seen one yourself?”

  Isabelle tilted her head out the bathroom’s door frame. “Heck no! And I hope I won’t see any. I would die of terror immediately.” She went back to cleaning the bathroom.

  Anita laughed. She picked a clean, white sheet from the cart and unfolded it with one ample and dexterous move of her hands. The sheet fluttered down slowly and landed on the mattress.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Anita. “Really, these are just silly stories to scare people.” Anita slipped the sheet corners under the mattress and placed another white sheet on top. Then she covered the bed with a thick, white comforter. It had a flower pattern made of golden thread. She placed it perfectly by pulling down on the sides of the fabric several times. Once the surface was perfectly even, she added brown pillows on top.

  She turned around to a small antique desk placed in a corner and noticed a hand mirror on top. She took it and held it in front of her. The mirror was so dirty she couldn’t see her reflection. She sprinkled the surface with a spray bottle and rubbed it with a rag.

  “So, if I understand correctly,” continued Isabelle as she walked back into the bedroom, “you ain’t afraid of no ghost?” She chortled, amused by her own joke.

  As she cleaned it, Anita’s face appeared slowly in the hand mirror she was holding. Her look got lost in there for a few seconds, as though hypnotized.

  “No. I’m not afraid of ghosts,” she said with a low voice.

  Chapter 6

  B ronx was hiding under a sofa in the piano lounge, observing the tall man with the long jacket, who sat in an armchair facing him. He was reading a book, the English Springer Spaniel laying at his feet, chewing on a bone.

  The cat couldn’t figure out how this man could sit while he could go through objects and walls. Well, he was not exactly sitting. He was floating above the armchair, his body in a seated position. Same for the dog who wasn’t really touching the floor. He was elevated a few inches above it.

  The dog stopped biting his bone and looked at Bronx. We can see you again, you know.

  Bronx looked around him swiftly. How can you see me this time? I’m hiding under a sofa!

  We can see through everything, said the dog with a mischievous smile.

  Bronx frowned. He was quite unhappy to learn these stranger
s living in the castle could see him wherever he was. What’s the life of a cat if he can’t hide?

  Who are you? asked Bronx.

  Oh, pardon me, sir, but we asked this question first. And as far as I recall, you didn’t provide us with an answer, said the Spaniel.

  ‘Oh, pardon me, sir, bleh, bleh, bleh,’ said Bronx, mimicking the dog’s voice. Do you always refer to yourself as ‘we?’

  And how else do you want us to refer to our person? Asked the Spaniel as if he were stating the obvious.

  Gee! Where do you come from? You’re so snobbish. You can’t talk normally, like everybody else? asked Bronx.

  Oh, pardon me again, sir, if we are educated, continued the Spaniel. I see. We are dealing with someone jealous of our privileges. The dog looked at the cat suspiciously. Are you one of these former revolutionaries?

  Revolutionaries? repeated Bronx in a sarcastic tone. And what privileges are you talking about, idiot?

  The dog stood up. And now, insults! That’s enough, sir. I have not offended you. Please, remain respectful in the house of the illustrious Baron Victor d’Orvilly.

  Baron what? What the heck are you talking about? asked Bronx.

  Someone opened the door of the piano lounge. Élodie Faber walked in, followed by Paul Dumont and Flora Guardian. As Élodie sat in the Baron’s armchair, the man grumbled, closed his book and vanished into thin air, calling his dog.

  “Come on, Wilbert.”

  Bronx sniggered. Really? Wilbert? That’s your name? The cat laughed. So ridiculous!

  The Spaniel frowned. I’m afraid we shall meet again, sir. Hopefully, you will have learned proper manners by then.

  And the dog disappeared too.

  Bronx left his hideout and searched the room frantically. Wait a minute, where did they go? Where did they go?!

  “Oh, look at this lovely cat!” said Élodie. She took Bronx in her arms. “How funny,” she said, “he looks like he’s wearing a jacket with his black fur on his back and his white head and paws. Isn’t he cute?”

  The cat winced and glared at the actress, looking at her straight in the eyes. Put me down right now, Blondie, or it will be the end of your beautiful face. I’m investigating something.