The Dordogne Deception

THE

DORDOGNE

DECEPTION

Sherry Joyce

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

THE DORDOGNE DECEPTION

Copyright © 2013, 2014 Sherry Joyce.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8777-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8779-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8778-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907554

iUniverse rev. date: 4/07/2014

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 23

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

To Jim, my husband of nearly fifty years—destined at birth for a love of a lifetime.

Acknowledgments

Eight years in the making, following a fantastic once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Dordogne, a Romantic Suspense novel was born. Not only do I thank my husband, Jim, for that trip, but for his unending support of all of my creative endeavors. You are my best friend and soul mate.

Lisa Dane, I could not have asked for a more dedicated editor and film producer who willingly and enthusiastically collaborated with me on this novel, helping me grow as an author and sharing my voice with Francophile pleasure. I adore you! Thank you for everything you have done. The journey just begins.

Cindy Sample, you have been the best mentor and successful author who found the time despite your hectic schedule to return an email, have a glass of wine and support my launch of yet a new career. You are a fantastic inspiration.

Joey Cattone, artist extraordinaire, for all her help in designing an artistic cover that perfectly matched the vision in my head and to her equally amazing husband, Dan, for creating my website with exceptional technical skills. I am so grateful for your friendship and support.

To Althea, Afton, Catherine, Carla, Carol, Dianne, Ethlyn, Evelyn, Lesleigh, Jeannie, Georgia, Lolly, Debbie, Tiffany, Maureen, Kathryn, Linda, Rick, Elizabeth, Karen, Mikki, Kate, Ginni, Rhonda, Gina, Ginger, Jody, Joey, Jeannie, Jennifer, Jessica, Joyce, Mary Ann, Mary, Paula, Lori, Dodi, Dolores, Sandy, Mary Ethel, Roger, Dan, Nancy, Nora, and the entire cheering section of Serrano book club, I appreciate your encouragement and support. Also, I am indebted to an unspoken English professor who challenged me to write, never knowing the enormous influence he had on my life.

Last, but not least, I thank my family and friends. You are everything to me. Thank you for giving me the courage and inspiration to keep writing.

Former Silicon Valley Vice President of Human Resources, author Sherry Joyce enjoyed years of creative and technical writing. Owner of SJ Designs Interiors, and a member of Romance Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, she lives with her husband and their two West Highland terriers in El Dorado Hills, California.

Prologue

Windermere, England 2006

The massive ornate wrought-iron gates opened with a dull grinding sound. He sat in the car, engine idling, until both gates fully flanked each side of the entrance to the estate. Then, with a gentle nudge, he shifted gears. Although the black canvas convertible top was up, he was forced to make peace with the inadequate heater, his breath fogging the cold windshield. He cranked the window down a few inches and braced for the sting of frosty air. Squinting, he crept along without headlights, wiping the inside of the windshield with the back of his right hand to keep his visibility clear.

Deep indigo painted the sky, now nearing dusk, creating a faint crimson hue on the horizon. Relying on the intermittent glow of the waxing moon shining through drifting clouds, he could barely discern the driveway beneath the shadowy cathedral canopy of entwined towering branches of massive sycamore trees on each side of the road. As he grasped the steering wheel of his 1931 Invicta, his hands shook. The rare vintage car was one of very few in the world, and he was not about to dent it, even for her.

His controlled, rapid breathing was the only other sound he could hear, as gravel crunched under the tires. He could see the amber glow from the light in her bedroom in the corner turret window of the enormous castle. The light was a signal they had agreed upon. Driving past the porte-cochère, he parked adjacent to the side of the building and shut off the engine. Feeling an adrenaline rush pulsing through his temples, he pulled his leather jacket collar up around his neck and walked to the side entrance door Diana had left ajar after disabling the security alarm system. He met her in the giant vestibule, motioning her not to speak, by putting his index finger to his lips. He crept up the carpeted back staircase to the second story . . . and waited.

Diana stood in the vestibule at the bottom of stone stairwell, and in her loudest, most contrived and terrifyingly shrill voice, shouted to her husband, "Raleigh! Help! Help me!"

Startled, Raleigh backed away from his writing desk, dropping his pen on his memoirs. Glancing toward the dimly lit doorway of his second floor bedroom, he muttered under his breath, Why is she yelling at me? She knows better than to disturb me when I’m writing.

"Raleigh!" she called out in a loud piercing scream.

He yelled to her, "Diana, what’s wrong?" Dead silence.

Concerned and annoyed when she did not respond, Raleigh rolled out of his room. The only sound was the excruciating squeaking of the old wheelchair, like a rusty door hinge persistently swinging back and forth. Despite his pain, he deliberately moved his hands on each wheel, propelling the chair forward until he reached the top of the staircase. His voice cracking, he called to her again in the dark hallway, "Diana?" Pin-dropping silence.

Raleigh could not see Diana from his vantage point at the top of the staircase. Questions raced through his mind. Why didn’t she answer? Had she fallen? Panic paralyzed him as he knew he could not navigate the stairs and it would take him too long to get to the elevator lift at the far end of the hallway. Raleigh shifted his weight forward in an attempt to stand up, but it was useless. A sudden thud cracked the back of his skull. The wheelchair cascaded down the wide stone treads, careened into the walls hurling him into the balustrades, splattering blood and cracking bones, as he tumbled down. The wheelchair flipped, throwing him onto the stone floor, landing in a contorted position, head twisted over his shoulder, eyes wide open, blood drooling out of his mouth. Sir Raleigh Aubrey lay pitifully broken and very, very dead, as planned.

The assailant carefully wiped the granite object in the palm of his leather glove and then replaced it on the console. He cautiously came down the stairs, careful not to step in any of the blood splatters.

Diana stood, her body shaking with her hands over her mouth, aghast at the distorted body, wishing his demise had not been so gruesome. She felt a sense of remorse, but mostly relief it was over. Are you sure he is dead?

Yes, he is dead. I made sure the base of his skull fractured from the blow, a severe blunt force trauma, long before the stone staircase broke most of his bones. With advanced osteoporosis, his brittle bones would have shattered instantaneously. If you stopped giving him his medication several days ago as I’d told you to do, he would have no chance of surviving this fall.

Yes, of course. I did everything we discussed. Should I call the police now? she asked, fidgeting with the buttons on her blouse.

No, don’t. That could imply a crime. You want this to be a believable accident.

Who do you want me to call? I’m so nervous, I’ve forgotten.

Diana, as soon as I leave, contact the Windermere medical emergency service. Tell them there has been terrible accident but don’t tell them he is dead. Instead, advise them your husband fell down the stairs and does not seem to be breathing. Don’t say anything more. Ask for immediate medical help and sound hysterical. Can you do that?

Yes, but then what do I do when they arrive and discover his body?

After checking his pulse, they will take him to the hospital to wait for the coroner. If they want to do an autopsy, agree to it, but don’t bring it up yourself. When they question you, reiterate the same story about how he must have fallen. Use your skills and act the role of the disconsolate wife. It should go exactly as we planned. Don’t worry, he said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. He noticed her skin beginning to pale.

In a barely audible whisper, Diana uttered, I . . . don’t feel well. Her eyes rolled back, knees buckling as he reached forward to catch her limp body, sending both of them crashing to the stone floor.

Momentarily shaken, he did not plan on her fainting and having her clammy, limp body sprawled across his legs like a sack of wet laundry. He could hardly leave her on the floor, but he had to get out of there. Throwing his head back in frustration, he clenched his fists, looking for an answer. His slap across her face brought her back to consciousness.

What happened? she murmured, rubbing her hand across her reddened cheek.

You fainted. Try to sit up, he glowered at her, wishing he had left minutes ago.

Diana sat up and, catching a glance at her dead husband’s ghastly body, let out a stifled gasp. Standing up, he extended his arm to help her back on her feet. The rosy color returned to her face.

Diana, you will be fine, he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead. I have to leave.

Don’t forget to close the entrance gates after I’m gone, lock the front door and then turn the security alarm back on. There is no evidence of an intruder or a forced entry. Everything will be fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

He rushed to the Invicta, settled in, shuddering from the cold, and started the engine. The crime, which should have taken only a few minutes, had taken much longer. The delay rattled his calculated composure and his pulse raced.

Honestly, he muttered under his breath, women . . . who else would dare faint during a murder?

He flipped on the wiper switch so he could see through the mist that had accumulated on the windshield, and the car crept along without lights down the long, winding gravel road. Despite his anxiety, he was confident he had orchestrated a flawless crime. It would look like a terrible accident where an old man had lost control of his wheelchair, falling to his tragic death. A death that would greatly benefit him for a long, long time. This was not the first crime he had committed. Money was an addictive, powerful motive and murder was a convenient way of getting it without having to work for a living.

As he drove out of the entrance gate, he did not notice the elderly gardener in a dark gray cap and wool coat, standing behind the tall laurel hedges, watching the car depart. The gardener wondered why someone would be driving without headlights in the dark and leaving the grounds at such a late hour.

The next evening, Diana waited for him to call. He didn’t. She paced the floor of her bedroom, her stomach in knots, wondering what had happened. She had so much to tell him. He said he’d call by 7:00 p.m. It was already past 8:00. Why didn’t he call her? The strident ring startled her.

Hello?

It’s me, he said.

With an enormous sigh of relief she blurted, I was afraid you weren’t going to call. I’ve been a nervous wreck!

I’m sorry, he pleaded. There was a five-car accident on the toll bridge and traffic was tied up for hours. This is the first chance I’ve had to call you. I had to buy a prepaid phone so this call could not be traced. So, what happened last night?

Well, as you said, the emergency medical team arrived shortly after you left. I was sobbing hysterically when I opened the entrance door. Once they saw Raleigh on the floor, they rushed over to him immediately, checking for a pulse. I could see one EMT shaking his head to the other not to bother with the oxygen. It all happened so fast. They put him on a gurney and I could not see what they were doing. One EMT was making a phone call, possibly to the coroner, and another asked me what had happened. I explained I had come downstairs for glass of milk and the next thing I heard was a horrible crashing sound. By the time I arrived in the vestibule from the kitchen, Raleigh was on the floor, contorted, with blood dripping. They took one look at the crushed wheelchair and spattered blood along the walls, and said he must have gotten too close to the edge of the stairs and lost control. One EMT said, ‘Maybe he had a stroke’.

Good, he said. Did they believe you?

Yes, I’m sure I was completely believable. I put on quite a show. With the stress of the commotion, I had no trouble crying as they hauled him away in the ambulance. The coroner called today to express sympathy for Raleigh’s death. The body was taken to the funeral home I selected. I told them under the circumstances, it should be a closed casket, and they agreed, of course.

He cleared his throat to expel the doubt troubling him before he could call her. What about the servants?

As we previously discussed, I sent them home today. They were in shock, of course, deeply upset and didn’t want to work anyway. I told them the funeral would be later this week and I had a lot of people to contact.

You did really well, he said, rubbing the tension out of his neck with his free hand. As I said last night, this was a perfect crime.

I hope so, Diana said, while kicking off her shoes and rubbing her toes in the carpet. Taking a deep breath, she controlled the tone of her voice, dropping the pitch to finalize a business transaction. Can we please go over the details one more time?

Of course. He reminded himself to be gracious. Getting upset with her now might cause her to rescind her agreement to pay him.

After the funeral, how long do you want me to stay at Brightingham?

Wait at least three months before you contact real estate brokers about selling the castle. A property of this size and value will take considerable time to sell. Stay in Windermere until Brightingham is sold and the entire estate is fully settled. There could be nasty allegations that you were after his money—ugly tabloid gossip. Just be prepared. People may speculate about how he died, but they won’t be able to prove anything.

You’d better be right. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in prison. One thing I need to discuss. I’m worried about Raleigh’s attorney.

He heard a knock on the door, which jolted him to the bone.

Wait, he muffled his voice with a cupped hand over the phone, There’s someone at the door. Yes, who is it?

A timid female voice cheerily offered, Turndown, sir?

In a contrived, confident tone he said, No thank you. Expelling a huge sigh of relief, his shoulders began to relax. For a brief moment he half expected the police to be on the other side of the door. He never felt safe until he was out of the country.

Sorry to keep you on hold. Damn turndown service. He flipped his hair off his forehead, concentrating. To answer your question, Raleigh’s attorney knows you are the sole inheritor of his estate. He might contact the police and they may want to investigate this accident and question you thoroughly. Repeat the story over and over, not adding any new details. Then, go about your normal day-to-day routine. Look distraught around the servants and act the part of the grieving widow. Keep the servants working until the estate is sold.

This seemed easier when we talked about it. When do you want the money? Diana asked in a frustrated tone, biting the inside of her mouth.

After the estate is sold, wire five million pounds to this account in Switzerland. Keep the account number secure. Do not lose it or copy it. After the funds are deposited, I will get in touch with you through a third party courier in London and will arrange for you to live in my home in Switzerland where I’ll continue to pay the expenses, he said, pausing to see if she would object. She didn’t. You’ll get a stipend to live on for one year and you must pay cash for everything so no one can trace you. I want it to appear that you have simply vanished after you leave England and, as promised, I will provide you with a new identity. When the opportunity arises, I will contact you in Montreux and send for you.

Wiping her clammy hands on her skirt, she stiffened. Fine, but I’m still very nervous about someone suspecting this was a planned murder.

Let them speculate, Diana. No one knows we have been seeing each other. We have not been together in public. Even if the police think you pushed him down the stairs, they won’t be able to prove it. There were no servants in the house because they had already left. You alone are the only witness to a terrible accident. Trust me; we will get away with this.

I’m just worried something will go wrong. Maybe someone saw us on the ship?

Diana, please stop fretting. No one saw us together.

I hope you’re right. She swallowed and took a deep breath, tension lifting from her chest. Talking about killing him and actually doing it has made me question everything and whether we will get away with it. I’m the one who would look guilty. What if we missed something?

As he listened to the panic in her voice, he sighed to himself knowing he’d heard this story before. The crime is committed. The wife feels guilty. She has second thoughts about the money. The risk he wouldn’t be paid becomes real. It was necessary now to become aggressive.

Diana, now is not the time for recriminations. Calm down. This is what you wanted. You begged me. I seized the opportunity and the plan was put into place. I did what you asked and you owe me every penny of the five million pounds, as we agreed. Arrange with your broker to get whatever you need to pay the taxes and real estate commission. Since Brightingham was his primary residence, you should not have to pay an inheritance tax, but consult with Raleigh’s attorney.

Wiping her forehead, Diana tried to regain her composure. I know he planned to leave most of his business holdings to others and Raleigh told me he intended to give a great deal of his personal wealth to several charities, Diana pointed out. With her green eyes ablaze, feeling as if an invisible rope had been placed around her neck, coiled like a cobra constricting her breathing, she blurted out in a raspy tone, I feel considerable regret now about all the money I’m giving up!

Yes, Diana, it’s a very high price to pay to get out of a marriage. Not having this entire fortune for the rest of your life is what you sacrificed. But some day I will make you a wealthy woman. Remember, dear, I am very, very good at this.

She tugged at her earring, trying to unfasten the clasp. The clock ticked loudly on her night table, as she realized there was no way out of this.

I’m exhausted. I have to get some sleep. When Brightingham is sold, I’ll contact the courier. You’ll get your money. It’s not like I have any other choice.

No, you don’t, he said firmly with calm, icy certainty.

He hung up, put his arm behind his head on the pillow to get comfortable, and stared absently at the nondescript hotel’s watercolor painting on the opposite wall. For a brief moment he permitted himself the memory of the night on the cruise. Diana had been insatiable, her porcelain skin contrasting with her cool green eyes, chestnut hair and her incredible, voluptuous figure. In his mind, he could still imagine how her skin felt to his touch. He knew it would take time, but he would feel her skin and breathe in her essence again.

CHAPTER 1

San Francisco 2006

For Cherise Eden, the idea of running a bed and breakfast chateau in the Dordogne-Perigord region of Southwestern France was much more than a whimsical fantasy resulting from a recent large divorce settlement. It was a necessary emotional escape from San Francisco. What had been their shared apartment now felt empty and held too many painful memories. It was time to find new surroundings. The apartment was filled with a pervasive sadness, a deafening silence. Cherise found it depressing to see her ex-husband frequenting many of the same restaurants and bars where she went with friends. She tried not to run into Andrew when he was in the city, but when she did, it re-opened a wound that would not heal.

She heard the keys rattle in the door lock and knew it wasn’t Andy, but their housekeeper, Julia. Cherise dreaded seeing anyone and didn’t make an attempt to get off the sofa.

Oh, Mrs. Eden, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were home. Shall I come back at a later time?

It’s okay, Julia. The place is a mess.

Julia tried to put on a positive face but, taking one look at Cherise in her flannel pajamas, she just shook her head from side to side.

Girl, you gotta get a grip. You can’t be sittin’ around and mopin’ like this, week after week, she said, while putting down her handbag on the dining room table. Men cheat. Men leave. You’re gonna survive. It just takes time.

You’re right, Julia. Men are jerks, (not the word she wanted to utter, knowing a distasteful expletive would have been far more satisfying). I’m doing the best I can.

Julia tightened the ties on her floral apron with a concerned look on her face. Can I fix you somethin’ to eat? I can’t bear to see you wastin’ away like this. Reluctantly, Cherise nodded her head in agreement. "You think I like spending my days sitting cross-legged on this sofa—what had been our sofa? I hate the person I’ve become. I used to be strong, confident, capable."

You haven’t lost those things, Julia offered, trying her best to be supportive, picking up the vase of dead yellow tulips from the coffee table.

I know, Cherise said, but I feel as wilted as those tulips. It’s as if someone vacuumed all the energy out of my body. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how this happened to me. She reached for a box of tissues and began dabbing one lightly against her red-rimmed, swollen eyes. Her blotched stuffy nose hurt as if she had a bad head cold, and her hair was uncombed, looking like a matted rat in a windstorm.

Julia hung on to the edge of the sofa, bending her plump frame forward, reaching for the large plastic wastebasket filled to the brim with wet tissues. It was also crammed with empty bags of potato chips and numerous week-old, hastily devoured chocolate ice cream cartons that had tumbled out of the wastebasket, littering the floor.

You know, she said, I think it’s this place that’s makin’ you feel worse. Look at it. There ain’t no sunshine comin’ in most of the time.

Cherise realized Julia was right. The deep gray walls in the apartment felt dreary, as if she were engulfed in a box without windows. What she could see through the glass was a depressing tendril of fog, rolling in across Alcatraz.

I’m cold, she said, as she uncrossed her legs and pulled the cream cashmere chenille throw tightly around her shoulders.

Julia studied her for a moment, feeling she had to say something. Here’s what I think Mrs. Eden. I want you to get out. Take a drive down the peninsula to Menlo Park where it’s sunny. Get some decent food like salad fixin’s and fruit. You gotta stop eatin’ this junk. Julia pointed at an empty bag of Cheetos peeking out from under the sofa. And heaven knows how old these rat-bait empty pizza boxes are, strewn across the dining room table!

Cherise prepared to defend herself, crossing her arms and curling the side of her mouth into an unattractive smirk.

"Ordering take-out food is such a blessing. I don’t have