A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Mystery 07 Fireworks in France Read online

  FIREWORKS IN FRANCE

  Alison Golden

  Jamie Vougeot

  Contents

  FREE BOOKS

  PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES

  NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM MYSTERIES

  THE CASE OF THE SCREAMING BEAUTY

  REVERENTIAL RECIPES

  ANGÉLIQUE APPLE & FIG CHEESECAKE

  CHÉRISSABLE CRÈME BRÛLÉE

  DÉLICIEUSE DRIED FRUIT AND SPICE COMPÔTE

  QUALITÉ QUICHE LORRAINE

  SACRÉ STRAWBERRY SOUFFLÉ

  SPECIAL OFFER

  THANK YOU

  BOOKS IN THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON SERIES

  ALSO BY ALISON GOLDEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FIREWORKS IN FRANCE

  For a limited time, you can get the first books in each of my series - Chaos in Cambridge, The Case of the Screaming Beauty, Hunted, and Mardi Gras Madness - plus updates about new releases, promotions, and other Insider exclusives, by signing up for my mailing list at:

  https://www.alisongolden.com/annabelle/annabelle-kindle-subscription/

  PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES

  “Absolutely wonderful!!”

  “Descriptions of even the most commonplace are beautiful."

  “The best Annabelle book you've done.”

  “Another winner. Loved it. Can’t wait for the next one.”

  “I couldn't put it down!”

  “Best book yet, Alison. I'm not kidding. You did a heck of a job.”

  “I read it that night, and it was GREAT!”

  “Grab it and read it, my friends.”

  “A real page turner and a perfect cozy mystery.”

  “As a former village vicar this ticks the box for me.”

  “I enjoyed this book from the first line to the last page.”

  “Annabelle, with her great intuition, caring personality, yet imperfect judgment, is a wonderful main character.”

  “It's fun to grab a cup of tea and pretend I'm sitting in the vicarage discussing the latest mysteries with Annabelle while she polishes off the last of the cupcakes.”

  “Great book - love Reverend Annabelle Dixon and can't wait to read more of her books.”

  “Annabelle reminds me of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple.”

  “A perfect weekend read.”

  “Terrific cozy mystery!”

  “A wonderful read, delightful characters and if that's not enough the sinfully delicious recipes will have you coming back for more.”

  “Love the characters, the locations and the plots get twistier with each book.”

  “My own pastoral career has been pretty exciting, but I confess Annabelle has me beat!”

  “This new book rocks.”

  “Writer has such an imagination!”

  “Believable and quirky characters make it fun.”

  “This cozy series is a riot!”

  NOTE

  Barnet, short for “Barnet Fair,” cockney rhyming slang for “hair.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  AWAY FROM THE main routes that connected cities such as Paris, Reims, and Calais, nestled in a valley of rolling hills, and small enough to be largely obscured from view by a cluster of oaks, it was mostly bad directions or lazy driving that caused visitors to discover the subtle charms of Ville d’Eauloise. Should a traveler ignore the many signs directing them toward the glamor and bustle of the far larger metro areas and decide to veer off the highway onto a narrow, rutted trail instead, they would soon find themselves descending an incline, gentle in places, steep in others, their route shrouded by ancient trees, and on sunny days, dappled with light that made its way through the canopy above.

  And if they continued on, the travelers would, after a time, emerge from the woods to find a small village. From a distance, it looked like a higgledy-piggledy collection of buildings, but up close it was something quite different. Monstrous, stone villas loomed tall, separated by lanes and alleyways that weaved their way like a warren through the village. They cast shadows at all times of day. The buildings, some with turrets and crenellations, were dotted with windows, graced on either side with painted shutters and the occasional colorful window box, but which couldn’t hide their age or in some cases their decrepitude.

  The village existed in a state of almost perfect preservation from centuries before. It was a study in history. The narrow, steeped cobblestone roads provided shortcuts and hideaways and surprise destinations that to a local were practical, sensible, and of little note, but which were to a visitor, unfathomable, mysterious, and exciting. The village was so discreet and unspoiled that it appeared at first glance to be so untouched by modern life that it was as if even time itself couldn’t find it.

  On arrival, the visitor would almost certainly be drawn to l’Église de Saint-Mathieu, the oversized church that sat in the center. The church overlooked the village like a mother hen, dwarfing the much smaller civic buildings, homes, and businesses around it, and acted as a focal point for any gathering that took place. Every small alleyway and lane led directly to the plaza that lay in front of the church’s gigantic steps and its enormous oak entrance, while local cafés, a restaurant, and stores faced the church on all sides as if in supplication to God for bestowing prosperity upon them.

  However, travelers rarely ignored the draw of the cities and only occasionally made the rickety journey off the main highway. For the most part, life in the village followed patterns and rhythms that were set in place long ago, and which were performed with the consistency of a
grandfather clock. Today was no different.

  Inside the somber, cavernous interior of the church, one so big that it dwarfed the congregation even when the entire population of the village attended as most did every Sunday, the stained glass windows amplified the light that streamed through them. The bright, mid-morning sun disseminated jewel-toned light so that it alighted on pews, on chipped stone walls carved with grotesque faces, and on shiny memorial plaques commemorating local lives lost in gold leaf. To churchgoers, it was like being inside a vast, complex kaleidoscope.

  Today, however, the aged, medieval building had been decorated further. Broad white ribbons had been wrapped around the four pillars supporting the massive, vaulted ceiling, delicate arrangements of white flowers hung on the walls and at the end of the pews. A thick, crimson carpet smoothed the flagstones down the aisle that were as jagged and irregular as the day they were laid, the size of the congregation never sufficient to weather them despite centuries of foot traffic.

  The smell of thick, melted wax filled the air. It made even the crisp, spring morning feel dense with heat between the church’s great gray cool walls. To the front, a large, wooden, elaborately carved altar table draped in white linen stood beneath a huge stained glass window that featured pilgrims on horseback and on foot. Gently flickering flames from what seemed an infinite number of candles provided an aura of calm.

  There was silence except for the occasional hiss from a candle, but when a side door opened, the draft made the flames dance erratically before they settled down again. Even the great chandelier that hung low on a heavy chain above the altar was filled with the unmistakable light of a hundred tiny flames, albeit they plugged into the mains. The atmosphere was calm, the silence almost complete. Everything was ready.

  CHAPTER TWO

  VILLAGERS HAD BEGUN to gather. They took their seats quietly, giving no more than a nod here or a hushed greeting there as they tiptoed across flagstones, grateful to reach the red carpet that would muffle their footsteps. Ville d’Eauloise was a God-fearing place and attendance at Mass was sacrosanct. All the villagers would be here for this most holy of days—Easter Sunday.

  Off to one side of the church, close to the altar, there was a small, brown door, low enough to cause all but the shortest of adults to duck their heads. Behind the door, Father Julien stood in front of a small mirror adjusting his vestments around his ample frame. He smoothed his hair. It was so uniformly black that it was at odds with his skin, which despite his best efforts with creams and the occasional treatment, was showing signs of age. He coughed heavily and rubbed his forehead as he struggled to regain his composure. Whether it was the change of the seasons, the challenges of getting older, or the stresses and exertions required to prepare for today’s Mass, he had recently begun feeling the strains of an aging body rather keenly. He closed his eyes and prayed that he would gather the strength to conduct the service—the most important of the Catholic year. As the senior clergyman, much was expected of him in terms of piety, devotion, and rituals. He needed a clear head, and the mild headache that was forming bothered him.

  When Father Julien opened his eyes, his gaze fell on a small envelope lying on the simple desk that stood in the corner. He knew what it contained. A different, but identical one had been placed under the door of his office every day for the past week and for many weeks before that. After the second envelope arrived, he swore that he wouldn’t open another, that he would discard any more that appeared, but his resolve had given way every time. And so it did again.

  Father Julien roughly grabbed the envelope and tore it open, not caring whether he ruined it or its contents. As he had many times before, he pulled out the singular sheet of cheap paper he knew would be inside and unfolded it. There, pasted to the page, were a series of letters, each one individually cut from a different source—newspaper, magazine, or book—and arranged to form a most devilish message.

  YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT. GOD WILL NOT HELP YOU.

  The priest clenched the paper between his fists, ready to tear it to shreds, but he hesitated. His headache distracted him from properly considering whether this was the right thing to do. Instead, he leaned down to the small safe beneath his desk, and fishing for the key in his pocket, he opened it, struggling with the lock in his haste. After tossing the crumpled paper and its envelope inside, he slammed the safe shut with a bang.

  As he straightened up, a pain shot across Father Julien’s shoulder. Leaning over his desk, he cast around among books, correspondence, and other clergy detritus until he found a pill bottle. Quickly pouring some red wine into a gold chalice, the priest popped a painkiller along with a nub of bread into his mouth. He chased them with the wine.

  A few moments later, he started to feel better, and after one more brief, but careful inspection of his vestments in the mirror, Father Julien left his office. He nodded at the junior priest who stood outside his door like a guard on sentry duty and walked to the altar, his eyes roving around the sanctuary. With his back to the burgeoning congregation, he began to check that everything was in place.

  The assembled villagers had been subdued before, but at the entrance of their priest they grew even more so, calming their shuffling feet and restless bodies as they sat in silence. Many of them looked down in prayer as a group of nuns led by their Mother Superior filed along the red carpet to sit, as was customary, in the front pew that had been left empty for them. The light in the church dimmed as the big front doors were closed, and the shaft of light coming in through them was extinguished.

  As Father Julien finished his pre-service checks, there was a creaking sound. The light in the church brightened briefly, there was an almighty bang from the doors, and the light in the church dimmed again. The organ stirred into life with a rousing chord. The sound reverberated around the impenetrable walls so powerfully that even the candles flickered a little.

  The young woman who had rushed hastily across the threshold was beautiful. Her glossy jet black hair framed her face and accentuated the symmetry of her features while her big green eyes, strong cheekbones and neat nose were all underscored by her wide, full lips, and delicate chin. A small scar peeked out from below her eyebrow but did nothing to mar her beauty. She wore a plain white shirt punctuated by a large silver cross and a black A-line skirt with sensible shoes, the innocence of her young features affected only by the anxiety of her lateness. She slowed her pace and quickly trotted along the red carpet to the front pew where she slid in to her seat just as the organist began in earnest. Dramatic chords rang around the cavernous space.

  The interruption had distracted everyone but now they dragged their attention back to the altar—and to Father Julien. He turned slowly, raising his arms wide to welcome his flock and envelop them in this celebration of the Resurrection of Christ. Everyone relaxed, preparing to be joyful—but only for a brief second. That was all it took for them to notice the strange look on Father’s Julien’s face, his open mouth and wide eyes, the shudder of his shoulders as if he were struggling for breath. He staggered and planted one foot forward, swaying weakly upon it. Then, he stopped, stiffened, and fell flat on his face.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MIKE NICHOLLS BROUGHT out his best pair of shoes from the closet and took them to his kitchen where he had laid out newspaper, a cloth, a brush, and black polish. He dabbed the cloth into the polish and started to apply it. It was Annabelle’s big day, and while not much of a churchgoer himself, he wanted to support her as best he could.

  As he pushed the polish into the leather, his fingers working in small circles, he thought about how his life had changed since he had met Annabelle. Fifteen years of police work that put him in direct contact, and often confrontation, with the most nefarious and duplicitous of society had given Mike an emotional spectrum that was limited and distinctly dark. Anger, frustration, disappointment, and dismay came easily to him—the best he could usually hope for being the brief sense of relief he felt when justice was served. For years, he had f
ound it impossible to smile without feeling a tinge of sadness, laughter felt bittersweet, and he certainly had neither the time nor the inclination for silly jokes and trivial chatter. He was not a man accustomed to expressing joy.

  So when he and Reverend Annabelle had begun walking their dogs together on Sunday afternoons—in the hours after her morning service and before Evensong—he felt as if it were a form of therapy. It was hard to remain gruff and cynical among the vibrant greens and somber browns of the Cornish countryside as the pleasing colors of the summer sunsets struck them with awe. When autumn came around and the days began to shorten, it was impossible for him not to beam with genuine pleasure as the lovely vicar’s cheerful laughter pealed through the still, crisp air. By the time winter’s cold snaps sharpened their pace, Annabelle had become a radiant presence in the inspector’s life. She was like an electrical charge crackling with positive energy, and he was never more than a short glance away from an easy, comforting smile. The concerns and worries that plagued his thoughts—always on his work—seemed to melt away when he was with her. Her jovial manner and easy-going nature relaxed him, and for the first time in years, Mike found himself smiling and laughing like the young boy he had once been. And he simply could not keep a detached, apprehensive attitude when both of their young dogs were chasing and wrestling each other so playfully around them.