Murder in Lascaux (39 page)

On our way out the gates of the grounds, I asked Toby to make a stop. I wanted to visit the ancient church on the opposite hill. Toby drove our little car up the winding dirt drive and then joined me in walking round to the back of the building, where the graveyard lay. Rows of headstones fell away, down the sloping hill behind the church. Any visitor to those rows had a magnificent view of the two châteaux, Cazelle and Beynac, and the Dordogne River sparkling beneath them. I suspected, though, that what I sought would lie in the other direction, at the top of the hill. That's where we found it, built right against a church buttress: a small mausoleum marked “Cazelle.”

There was no door, no latch, to deter anyone who might wish to enter the marble enclosure. Inside, resting against the mossy walls were four stone caskets carved with flowers, the forms of which were now worn down. Near the entrance was a metal sign, of modern vintage, listing family members placed here since the beginning of the nineteenth century. One was Jenny Marie Cazelle, 1870–1944.

“Some day,” I said, “Marianne and Guillaume will rest here, alongside their ancestors. Well, with most of them. Did you notice, there's no entry for Jenny Marie's brother, Antoine?”

“They didn't have a body to bury. It's too bad the one hero in the family won't be remembered.”

“I'm going to try to see to it that he
is
remembered. Jenny Marie's story isn't complete without Antoine. She was devoted to her brother, and he gave his life trying to help her in a good cause. The essay I want to write won't be just about her art. It will be about her relationship to her brother and to this place.”

Toby took my hand. “Good. That's a story worth telling. You know, it's odd, when you stop to think about it.”

“What?”

“This brother and sister thing. They're awfully close in this family. Look at Guillaume and Marianne. Maybe Antoine sacrificed his life for his sister, but Marianne killed for her brother. That's way too close, if you ask me.”

It was true. Each woman lost a lover, and like a homing pigeon, flew back to the family for comfort. Then as the years passed, each grew closer to her brother. In Jenny Marie's case, the relationship was noble, but in Marianne's case it led to murder.

Could I kill for my brother or sister? Would I sacrifice my life? I found it hard to think along those lines. Life in my family was fraught enough, but I was thankful it wasn't lived at that pitch.

A
low late afternoon sun spread its orange rays across the hills. As we headed toward Sarlat to spend the night, I was struck, not for the first time, by the beauty of this gentle valley—its tranquil river, golden cliffs, the lush greenery of its fields—and by the violence of its inhabitants. Not only Marianne de Cazelle. I thought of the Cro-Magnons, who lived here thousands of years ago and created art but who spent their brutish existence battling predators. I thought of the Cathars, whose quest for perfection was crushed by a pitiless crusade that wiped them out. I thought of Jenny Marie's landscapes and of her lover lying dead on a battlefield of the Great War. I thought of villages burned to the ground in 1944 and of a Nazi scholar's obsession with a statue of unearthly grace. I pondered why blood and beauty are so often expressed in tandem.

We humans are a mysterious breed.

Then I recalled the road sign that had greeted us upon entering the Dordogne, and I thought how fitting its words were, after all.
Bienvenue au pays d'homme
.

“Welcome to the home of man.”

At this writing, Lascaux remains completely closed to the public for reasons of conservation, but some years ago, we had the privilege of visiting the authentic cave when five people a day were allowed in. Our guide was Jacques Marsal, who as a boy had helped discover Lascaux. He was a charming and urbane man, then in his sixties, and the tour he provided was memorable. He bears no resemblance to our fictional guide, who is purely imaginary, as are the other characters in this novel.

We wish to thank our editor at the University of Wisconsin Press, Raphael Kadushin, for his steadfast support and helpful suggestions during various stages of this manuscript. His guidance was essential, though any remaining shortcomings are our own. Thanks to Aaron Elkins, our favorite mystery writer, for his encouragement and generosity; to Owen Pell for information on missing art during the Holocaust; to Lynn Miller for revision suggestions; to Maria Duha, Shaina Robbins, and Barb Flaherty for background information; and to friends and relatives for good wishes and support.

For historical background, we gratefully acknowledge the usefulness of the following sources: Hector Feliciano,
The Lost Museum: The Nazi Conspiracy to Steal the World's Greatest Works of Art
(New York: Basic Books, 1997); Julian Jackson,
France: The Dark Years, 1940–1944
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2005); Heather Pringle,
The Master Plan: Himmler's Scholars and the Holocaust
(New York: Hyperion, 2006); Lynn H. Nicholas,
The Rape of Europa: The Fate of Europe's Treasure in the Third Reich and the Second World War
(New York: Vintage, 1995); Stephen O'Shea,
The Perfect Heresy: The Revolutionary Life and Death of the Medieval Cathars
(New York: Walker Company, 2000); Otto Rahn,
Crusade against the Grail: The Struggle between the Cathars, the Templars, and the Church of Rome
, trans. Christopher Jones (1933; reprint, Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions, 2006); Gabriel Weisberg and Jane R. Becker, eds.,
Overcoming All Obstacles: The Women of the Académie Julian
(New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1999).

A final note: although Lascaux is closed to tourists, a number of other caves in the Dordogne containing Cro-Magnon art remain open. Among these are Bara-Bahau, Bernifal, Les Combarelles, Commarque, Font-de-Gaume, La Mouthe, and Rouffignac, which we describe in the novel. Lascaux II (the replica) is worth seeing, as well, but nothing compares with visiting one of the original caves. Our memories of such visits led to the writing of this book.

 

Here's a preview of
The Body in Bodega Bay
, the next book in the Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery series.

I
'LL BE DAMNED
. There's a body on the boat.” We were sitting in The Tides having crab cakes for lunch when the news came in over Captain Andy's CB radio. He relayed the information from the table next to us. Andy's a commercial fisherman who works out of Bodega Bay. His mooring is opposite our house.

“That,” said Toby, “explains the commotion in the harbor.”

For months, a sailboat had been wedged in shallow water out by the mudflats, a good distance from either shore. From our dockside table we could see a launch make its way to the grounded boat. It stopped about fifty yards short of the sailboat, and two men emerged. They wore the familiar brown uniform of the Sonoma County sheriffs, but they had on waders—the right footgear for walking the muddy distance to the boat.

The gossip in town was that the old boat, a decrepit nineteen-footer with a single mast, belonged to a bankrupt real-estate speculator from the city. Around here that means San Francisco. For a very long time, he hadn't paid his mooring fees, and he hadn't been seen, either. One night in a storm, his boat broke free and was driven by wind into the shallows of the harbor, where it sank into the mud and tilted to one side. Since then, no one had been willing to pay for the derelict's removal, so there it has remained.

“Do they know who it is?” asked Toby, as we both stood to get a better look. Everyone in The Tides was pushing toward the windows, which wrap around the restaurant on three sides, with views over the water.

“Naw. But it isn't an accident—the guy was stabbed,” Andy replied, pushing back his chair and joining us at the window. “It's a hell of a thing to happen in Bodega Bay.”

Bodega Bay (population 950) is just sixty miles north of San Francisco on the Pacific Coast Highway, better known as Highway 1. We think it's one of the prettiest sites on the coast. True, it straddles the San Andreas Fault, but that didn't stop us from buying a small house overlooking the marina.

My name is Nora Barnes. I teach art history at Sonoma College in Santa Rosa, a short commute from the bay. My husband, Toby Sandler, runs an art and antiques gallery in Duncans Mills, which is up the coast and a few miles inland on Highway 116. We chose Bodega Bay because it's on the water, rural, about equidistant from our jobs, almost affordable by California standards, and—until now—peaceful. Nothing much has happened here since 1962, when Alfred Hitchcock came to town to film
The Birds
. Framed photos of the actors pass for décor at The Tides, where some of the scenes were shot, though the restaurant is a reconstruction of the original, which burned down after the movie was made. These days our little village is home to a dwindling fishing fleet, a swanky golf course, a few restaurants and motels, and us.

“A hell of a thing,” repeated Andy.

We could hear sirens wailing outside, as sheriffs' cars veered into the parking lot. The morning had been foggy, but the sky had cleared by eleven and now the sun glinted on the water as we peered out toward the harbor. Officers were walking onto the wharf behind the restaurant. One was gesturing toward the boat. Another was talking into some device in his hand as a small crowd began to gather, mainly tourists who had come up from the city for the weekend.

“They're waiting for the deputy sheriff before they can bring the body out,” reported Andy, who was monitoring communications on the police band. That would be Dan Ellis. Dan is married to my friend Colleen, and both are members of our Gourmet Club, four couples who meet for dinner every other month. Dan is Bodega Bay's resident deputy, attached to the sheriff 's office in Santa Rosa.

Maybe it was telepathy, but no sooner did I think of Dan than Toby's cell phone rang. He put it on speaker so I could hear.

“Toby? It's Dan. Where are you right now?”

“We're at The Tides watching what's going on in the harbor. Your men are all over that boat that's been stuck in the flats. What's it about?”

“Stay right there. I just turned onto Highway 1. I'll be there in a minute. I may need you.”

“Need me for what?”

“Just wait for me at the entrance.” He rang off.

“He's on his way,” said Toby.

“Yeah, I heard, but what's it got to do with you?”

“I don't know, but he sounded worried.”

Andy complained, “That's it. It's gone dead on me.” He scowled at the CB in disgust. Reception is weak on this stretch of the coast. Neither radios nor cell phones can be counted on, especially after dark, in the fog, or when there's cloud cover. It's a pain.

Toby caught the eye of our waitress, called for the bill, left some cash on the table, and signaled to me with a tilt of his head toward the entrance.

“A hell of a thing,” Andy muttered with finality, tucking the CB into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. He nodded at us and headed toward the bar, which had a door out to the docks.

We waited for Dan at the front door, facing the parking lot. In a few minutes, he pulled up in a white SUV, tires screeching. “Toby, Nora, glad you're here,” he greeted us, with more warmth than usual. He's generally pretty terse. Dan's in his midthirties, our age, large and powerfully built, authoritative, the kind of person you're inclined to listen to. He was dressed for work in his sheriff 's uniform—dark brown pants and a tan shirt—to which he'd pinned his badge.

“Dan,” said Toby, “what's this all about?”

“I hope I'm wrong, but I may need you to identify a body. A couple of teenagers rowed out to that abandoned boat last night. My guess is they were looking for a place to make out. Anyhow, they found a body in the cabin. They didn't call it in until an hour ago because they were scared of getting into trouble. One of my guys out there thinks he recognizes the dead man. It could be that new partner of yours.”

Toby froze. “Charlie?”

“Won't know until you get a look at him. There's no wallet or ID on the body. And my guy may be wrong. Can you wait here? First I need to see things for myself and make sure no one contaminates the scene. The medical examiner is already on board, and there's an ambulance on the way. Once we get him in the van, I'd like you to take a look. Okay?”

“Whatever I can do,” said Toby, his voice hoarse with alarm.

“Why don't you go back inside and have a cup of coffee? You'll know when we're ready.” Dan had been looking steadily at Toby. Now he turned toward me and said with a grim smile, “Sorry to ruin your lunch, you two. I'll be back.”

We turned around and went back to our table, which still hadn't been cleared. Half a crab cake was hidden under a wimple of napkin on my plate, along with a few stiff fries. I retrieved one from a pool of ketchup and waited for Toby to say something.