Murder in Lascaux by Betsy Draine Page B

you’re right to interfere. Your sister doesn’t have another penny in the world. You need to talk her out of this.”
    â€œI said as much as I could without alienating her. I’ll let her think about what I said for another day or two and then call again.”
    â€œFine.” Toby put his hands on my shoulders, told me I was a good sister, and that Angie would listen to reason in the end. I felt better.
    T ogether we hustled into the hall just before six, the last to arrive. Marianne informed the group that at the restaurant kitchen we had to stay close together and be out in twenty minutes. We weren’t to touch anything. And we were to address all our questions to the chef, so his staff could stay focused on their work. “Monsieur Mazière is being extremely generous to us with his time,” Marianne impressed upon us. “You must help me keep my good credit with the family for future visits.”
    I felt like a schoolgirl being lectured into submission before the class outing to the chocolate factory, but I chalked up Marianne’s severity to the strictness of the French school system. I would be happy to keep quiet and observe the cooking equipment and the way the staff was organized for an evening’s work. I hoped the kitchen tour and meal would banish my family worries and my mental image of Inspector Daglan’s suspicious squint.
    We climbed into a white Volkswagen van, which had enough seats for all, and found the grim-looking Fernando at the wheel. It was only a short drive to the restaurant. We passed Castelnaud perched high on our right, then drove alongside thick green cornfields until a bend in the road brought our destination into view. La Roque-Gageac has been called one of the most beautiful villages in France, and it is. While some of the towns in the Dordogne are built atop cliffs, La Roque-Gageac is built into one, with its back to the limestone sheaf out of which its houses are hewn. The cliff and the town face the Dordogne River, which holds the golden townscape in reflection.
    The van drove through the village and parked in the lot at the end of town. Walking back toward the restaurant, Toby and I let the others get ahead of us and ambled behind them to savor the setting. We passed a small grocery and a café but then had to change to single file, pressing against the buildings to avoid a truck that came barreling along the narrow road between the houses and the river bank. In a minute or two we caught up to the others, who had entered the restaurant. From the street, Le Beau Soleil was easy to overlook, its yellow stone facade indistinguishable from the neighboring buildings except for a faded “Hotel-Restaurant” sign that hung above an alcove leading to an inner courtyard. Inside the alcove, the group stood in a circle perusing a menu on a wrought-iron stand.
    Seeing we’d arrived, the group crossed the flowered courtyard and climbed the stone staircase to the second level, where we were all greeted by the chef and his wife, Christine, who stood waiting for us at the hotel reception desk. Madame Mazière was thin, with limp, brown hair and a pasty complexion; she extended her pale hand to each of us in turn. Her husband, Michel, looked ten years younger, his cheeks ruddy from kitchen heat and his eyes dancing with a mirth that seemed to say he was supremely happy. He waved us into the kitchen and proceeded to walk us clockwise around the work stations: nearest the door (and farthest from the stoves) a counter that doubled for preparing hors d’oeuvres and desserts; in the middle of the room a table for putting together the first and second entrée plates; on the far wall one stovetop for broths and soups and another for sautés, two ovens, and a grill for meats; and, as we rounded the room, a huge stainless-steel refrigerator-freezer. Salads, we were told, would be put together after the main courses were served, using a bar to the