Murder in Lascaux by Betsy Draine

understand. We’re being questioned, so we’re in the same boat. Look, I’m about to close up shop for the day. Will you let me buy you a drink?”
    â€œI don’t think …”
    â€œPlease. There is a café right next door. It would be my pleasure.”
    Toby looked at me. I could tell his curiosity was aroused. So was mine.
    â€œAll right,” he said to Marc, “but we won’t talk about the murder.”
    â€œ D’accord ,” Marc agreed. He closed up shop, and we moved next door, taking the same table where we had eaten lunch a little earlier. Now several of the other tables were occupied too. Marc ordered a pastis, a cloudy, licorice-flavored liquor mixed with water. Toby and I each ordered a glass of white wine. Marc avoided the topic of the murder and asked us the usual questions posed by locals to visitors: how we had learned French, what our impressions were of Périgord, what we thought of the view from the château. We responded, nursing our drinks.
    After a pause, Toby sat back, searching for another neutral topic. “So, how did you become interested in fossils and minerals?”
    â€œThat’s a long story,” replied Marc, giving his long mustache a nervous twist. “But the short version is that I was always interested in ancient things, ever since I was a boy. My father was a prehistorian, and I thought of becoming a scholar myself. But I wasn’t able to go to university. I had a friend who was in the business of dealing in fossils, and he taught me something about it. Showed me I could make a living at it and keep my interest in prehistory at the same time.” He shrugged. “I get by. Business is quiet right now, but when the full tourist season starts in July, I’ll make enough money to get through the winter.”
    â€œAnd what do you do in the winter?” I asked.
    â€œThis and that. I help out my uncle when he needs me, and I sometimes get work as a substitute guide in the other caves. But I also have time for my own interests. You might say I’m an amateur prehistorian. I do a lot of reading and my own research. I’ve even published an article in one of the professional journals.”
    â€œThen you’re an independent scholar,” I said. “I know several art historians in the United States who are doing important work but who never were lucky enough to get university appointments. I admire them very much.”
    â€œIndependent scholar? Yes, I suppose that’s what I am. I like the sound of that. And what about your work?” He looked intently at me from behind bushy eyebrows.
    Feeling a little too well attended to, I talked about my teaching and research. Then Toby talked about his shop. Marc wanted to know where exactly it was and what kinds of pieces Toby specialized in. Toby described the Russian River valley north of San Francisco where his gallery is located, in Duncans Mills. Marc responded by telling Toby about an upcoming antiques fair in a neighboring town and how to drive there.
    At the end, we were getting on rather well, I thought—until a police car bearing Jackie and a glowering Inspector Daglan turned into the square and screeched to a stop in front of the mairie . Daglan got out and closed the car door with exaggerated care.
    â€œOld friends, I see,” he said with a smile, approaching us with a leisurely stride. He inclined his head toward Toby, rubbing his hands. “You will excuse me if I interrupt your aperitif to talk to your copain about a matter of homicide.”
    â€œShit,” muttered Toby under his breath.

5
    W ELL, THAT’S JUST GREAT . First Daglan suspects us of lying about knowing David and Lily Press. Now he thinks we’re in league with the guide’s nephew.” Toby’s clenched grip on the steering wheel had turned his knuckles white.
    â€œIt’s not going to be easy to convince him otherwise.”
    â€œAnd since