by Nell Goddin
Leaning back in his chair and staring into the middle distance, Ben mentally reviewed his notes on the potential client. Bernard Petit was from Bergerac. He’d agreed to the fee without hesitation, but refused to provide any detail on what the job in question actually entailed. Ben wasn’t sure whether he was encouraged by this display of discretion or worried about what he and Molly might be asked to do.
No point worrying about it either way, as the man was due to arrive any minute and would surely fill in the blanks. Ben’s mind jumped next to his dwindling bank account and he felt a slight chill, though the day was sunny and warm. Molly was kind-hearted to a fault, so the chill was not so much about fearing he would go hungry as about pride. It is not a foolish kind of pride that propels a man to want to be not only self-sufficient but able to provide for a wife, he said to himself, watching a large man make his way down the sidewalk and guessing correctly that he was the mysterious prospective client.
Ben stood up as the man headed to the terrace of the Café. “Monsieur Petit?” he said, and when the man nodded, Ben introduced himself and stuck out his hand. But Monsieur Petit ignored the hand and Ben let it drop, wondering what the man could possibly be offended about.
“This is terribly…public,” Monsieur Petit said. “Is this any kind of place for a personal conversation?” It was true that the Castillaçois were renowned busybodies, and Ben acknowledged to himself that Petit had a point.
“Let’s enjoy lunch,” Ben said, “and afterwards we can take a stroll together and discuss whatever it is you would like me to do. We certainly don’t want to ruin Madame Longhale’s delicious cooking with any talk of work.”
Monsieur Petit shrugged. He pulled out a cigar and proceeded to go through the elaborate process of trimming and lighting it. Taking a few deep puffs, he plumed the bluish smoke over the heads of the large family at the next table. The mother shot Petit a dirty look, gathered up her children, and left.
The man chuckled. “Works like a charm,” Petit said.
Ben kept a poker face but internally was grimacing. There’s no rule about having to like the client, he said to himself, though it didn’t make him feel any better.
Pascal made it over to the table and took their drink orders, but had too many tables to stop for much of a chat.
“Is anything good here?” Petit asked.
Ben took a deep breath.
“Madame Longhale is quite accomplished in the kitchen. Her confit is excellent, as is the cassoulet—”
“It’s far too warm to eat anything like that. It may be September but there is no chill in the air whatsoever. It would be ridiculous to eat a hot stew on a day such as this.”
Ben took another deep breath, trying to disguise his irritation by briefly holding the menu in front of his face. “Obviously, order whatever you like. I’m going to have the cassoulet followed by salad and cheese.” He hadn’t had a thought of ordering the cassoulet—and indeed, he would have agreed that the weather wasn’t especially suited for it—but Monsieur Petit had been so smug in his dismissal of Madame Longhale’s dish that now he was determined to have it.
“So how did you hook up with the American, anyhow?” asked Petit.
“In Castillac, as you might imagine, it is easy to meet the people who live here. Eventually everyone crosses paths.”
“I heard she showed you up. Solved a case right under your nose, and when she could barely speak French on top of it.”
He was not usually so easily ruffled, but Ben had to hold himself back from leaping up and punching Petit right in the nose.
“Molly is a very skilled detective,” he said, using a lot of will to keep his teeth from clenching. “I am very lucky that we are on the same team.”
“How’s her French now? Gotten any better?”
“I should say so. She’s been here almost exactly two years.”
“Eh, we both know people who’ve come over and gotten nowhere in that amount of time. They stick to their own kind, watch English television shows, make no effort at all.”
“I’m not sure I know anyone like that. But you are certainly not describing Molly. She has thrown herself into village life with much enthusiasm.”
Petit squinted his eyes in what Ben took to be a skeptical manner. The prospective client had not quite insulted Molly, not enough to excuse storming off from the table. But he was right on the edge, and Ben waited, perversely hoping Petit would say something so awful it would put Ben completely in the right for telling him to shove it and walking away.
At that moment, Pascal appeared with a plate of crudités, small toasts, and a generous pot of his mother’s pâté.
“Thank you very much, Pascal,” said Ben. “I could eat your mother’s pâté for lunch every single day and be a happy man.”
Pascal grinned and made a graceful bow. “I’ll tell her. Sorry to rush off, but we are packed today and the new waitress hasn’t shown up—”
Petit, as Ben knew he would, hmphed his disapproval of the missing waitress. Then he dipped the short knife into the pâté and spread a thick layer on a piece of toast.
Ben busied himself with a stalk of celery while waiting for his turn with the knife, making a point of not asking Petit what he thought of the pâté. The two irritated men did not even try to make polite conversation.
“Oh the hell with it,” said Petit with his mouth full. “I’ll just speak low enough that those people over there can’t hear me.”
Ben leaned towards him, curious in spite of himself.
“I have quite a nice house in Bergerac. Just a block from the church. Expansive backyard with a garden and a small pool. One of the best—if not the best—houses in town, if I do say so.”
Ben barely succeeded in not rolling his eyes.
“Someone is stealing from my house. Pilfering, I should say, if that word connotes stealing of a smaller monetary value.”
Ben needed to finish chewing before asking, “What kinds of things have been stolen, and how long has this been going on?”
“The first time was about six months ago. I noticed the shoe trees in my closet were missing. I have some expensive pairs of shoes and I take very good care of them. No point paying all that money and then simply tossing them down and allowing them to become misshapen and unsightly. It only takes a little bit of care and attention, you understand, to put them away with trees inserted.
It would be impossible to dislike this man any more than I do, thought Ben. “And how many shoe trees are missing?”
“Seven pairs.”
“All right, and then? When did the next theft take place?” Ben had pulled out a small notebook and was taking down the information with a fountain pen.
“I failed to write down the exact dates of any of this, which I realize was a mistake. But I had no idea it would come to this, that an actual investigation by a professional would be necessary. I suppose I thought once I fired the old hag who cleaned the house and got someone new, with impeccable references, things would go back to normal.”
“But they did not?”
“No. Probably three weeks later, I went to get in bed and found my pillowcase missing. When I looked around in other bedrooms, the pillowcases on the guest beds were missing as well. They were not in the laundry or anywhere to be found.”
“Odd.”
“I’ll say it’s odd!”
“Does anyone live at the house with you?”
“I have two children, a son and a daughter. They are grown now, attending universities far from Bergerac.”
“And their mother?”
“Must you pry so dreadfully? Their mother and I divorced long ago. I don’t keep up with her movements any longer.”
“Do you know if she lives in Bergerac?”
“No, she does not. Last I heard she was finding herself in Tibet, or some such nonsense. If anyone wanted to find her, just follow the scent of incense when it rolls by, and eventually it’ll lead to her. Last place I saw her reeked of the stuff.
”
Ben nodded his head slowly, looking carefully at Petit. He had a big head, big nose, wide mouth, and ears that were nearly half as long as his head. Everything about the man was oversized, like a cartoon drawing. His eyebrows were dark and thick, his lips fleshy…only his eyes were on the small side, though that may have only been the effect of being swamped by such large features.
Ben tried to imagine this man at home, with a wife and children, but struggled to make the image come alive.
“All right,” the detective said, flashing a sudden smile at the sight of Pascal headed their way with a heavy tray. He waited to finish his thought until Pascal had served them and gone off to deal with the teenage girls. “All right, so am I to understand that you want us to find who is stealing from you, and if possible to recover the items?”
“Yes. Brilliant conclusion,” said Petit, tearing a leaf from an artichoke with a degree of savagery. “I would like your full attention on the matter, and will pay accordingly.”
Dufort allowed himself an inward smile at that news, though the prospect of working with Monsieur Petit was unappealing to say the least.
I’ll probably smell like cigars until the case is over, he thought. But at least I’ll be motivated to wrap it up as quickly as possible, and hopefully other cases will soon come along.
And with a mostly satisfied sigh, he dug into the bowl of steaming hot cassoulet, his mouth watering at the sight of several nuggets of confit de canard and the whole thing covered with a thin and delectable layer of goose fat.
3
“Simon, I do not understand why you insist on coming into the house looking like that. You know it’s disturbing to me. Would it really be such a bother to rinse off first?”
Simon Valette grinned at his wife. He was a good-looking man with bright blue eyes, the crow’s-feet having the effect of conferring wisdom or kindness. His hair was thick, dark, and unruly. Along one cheek was a scar that gave him an air of mystery. “Oh, Camille,” he said, moving to touch her face but she pulled away from him. “I really like it here,” he said, still grinning.
“Apparently,” said Camille, with the very faintest hint of a returned smile. “I’m glad you’ve found something to do that you enjoy, truly I am. I certainly never would have guessed when we lived on Boulevard des Capucines and you were working at Byatt Industries that you would take to building stone walls like a common laborer, but you have, that’s it, and I have nothing to say against it. Except that you are bringing a cloud of dust inside with you every time you come in for a drink of water, and the girls’ allergies are going to be absolutely insane, not to mention who do you think is going to be running the vacuum every five minutes to keep on top of it?”
“Tell me,” said Simon seriously. “Are you feeling better? I know we’ve barely gotten here and still have boxes to unpack. But I’m hoping…hoping that already you feel…less stressed? Lord knows Castillac seems to be an easygoing place, as far as I can tell.”
“Oh, it’s easygoing, all right,” Camille muttered. She was dressed in a long cashmere cardigan in a particular shade of brownish gray that was popular that year with important Parisian designers. Her slacks were well cut and her jewelry quietly impressive, not ostentatious. She was pretty, in the way that plenty of money can polish a person up, but her severe bun made her look stern and her expression was tense. As she stood talking to her husband, her fingers plucked at one of the buttons on her cardigan.
Simon wanted to take her hand and hold it to make her stop plucking, but he’d learned that it only made things worse. “Well, so far I think the decision to leave Paris was brilliant. My father seems calmer, wouldn’t you say? And the girls are having a wonderful time! Who would have guessed that playing in a little grove of bamboo with some sticks and an old blanket would be so much fun?”
Camille waved her hand in the air as though to erase that particular vision. “If Andrea could see them…”
“But that’s the whole point, chérie. We left the city partly to get away from people like Andrea.”
“Andrea is my closest friend.”
“She is a viper, Camille, for God’s sake.” Simon’s face was reddening and he smacked his dusty hands together. “Well, we’ve talked about this a hundred times. We’re here now, that’s what matters, and I think it’s going to be good for all of us.”
Camille stood with her arms folded, looking up at a stain on the ceiling. “I didn’t notice that when we came to look at the house. Was it in the inspector’s report? Look at it, Simon! Clearly there’s a leak in the roof, we’re probably going to have to rip the entire thing off and start over. It will cost a fortune. And you with no job.” She stood rooted to the spot, her eyes pinned on the small stain, a path of gray that extended about four inches down the wall, soiling the wallpaper.
“It’s not a worry, darling. Yes, it was in the report—it’s old damage and the roof was new just a few years ago. We can paint the ceiling, have new wallpaper, whatever you like.”
Camille shook her head, staring at the stain.
“It’s ancient history,” said Simon soothingly. “The damage is over and done with, and we don’t have to worry about it. And not only that—if a storm whipped through tonight and the roof was torn clear off the house? I have plenty of money, Camille. I’ll simply buy us a new roof and that’s it.”
The sound of shouting came in through the open window and the couple looked out. Their two daughters, aged ten and six, flew past as though being chased by demons.
“I don’t think they should be running with sticks,” said Camille. “They could easily lose an eye playing like that. Where is Violette? She should be keeping a closer watch on them.”
“I’ll talk to them,” said Simon, glad of an excuse to go back outside, having no intention of saying anything at all to the girls.
Camille spent another few minutes inspecting the stain before going upstairs to her bedroom. The house was an old manor, though not a particularly grand one as manors go. The bottom floor consisted of a living room, dining room, kitchen, library, laundry room, and a tiny little added-on half-bath. Upstairs were four bedrooms, two baths, and a large landing where the girls had already put on several puppet shows under the guidance of the nanny, Violette Crespelle. On the third floor was Violette’s room, and a large low-ceilinged area used for storage.
Simon’s elderly father was in his bedroom, sitting in a chair, looking down at the floor. Part of the reason for the move Paris was that Simon was dissatisfied with the care his father had been receiving at his live-in facility; their apartment on Boulevard des Capucines had been quite spacious, but any apartment is going to feel cramped with two young girls and a parent with dementia. After months of strategic conversation, Simon had finally convinced Camille to allow his father to come live with them, somewhere calm and peaceful, somewhere healthful for the whole family, all of whom suffered from the stress of the big city to various degrees.
“Bonjour, Raphael,” said Camille, having not seen her father-in-law yet that morning.
Monsieur Valette did not look up or answer.
Camille sighed and went into her bedroom, which was so neat it looked like a hotel room. An antique vanity stood between two large windows; on top was a straight row of bottles of perfume, then hairbrush and comb, and several lipsticks in classic shades. As she stood in her room, she felt a little kernel of something blooming deep in her chest and beginning to spread through her body. It was a familiar anxiety (mixed with doom), this time triggered because she had no appointment book filled with errands and social duties, and the phone was not ringing since she’d yet to meet a single person in the village. Camille had no idea what to do with herself until with a flash of gratitude and annoyance she remembered all the dust Simon had brought in and went back downstairs to find the vacuum.
She had always had housekeepers, her whole life; until they found one in Castillac, Camille was doing the work herself, which she found exotic and a welcome relief whe
n she didn’t know where else to direct her energy.
Meanwhile, Simon had gone back to the ruined building on the side of the property where he had been working slavishly since they arrived the week before. It was unclear exactly what purpose the building used to serve, and equally unclear what use they would find for it in the future; yet Simon was purposefully working to rebuild the walls as though the survival of his family depended on it.
He had not reached the stage of actual masonry but was patiently dismantling the rubble on top of the walls, making piles of rocks of various sizes. This involved prying off old mortar, sometimes breaking apart rocks that were stuck together, and then wrestling them into a wheelbarrow so they could be carted to the proper pile. It was exhausting and exhilarating work. He took his shirt off and let the warm September sun wash over his body, which he imagined rather indulgently as Adonis-like, now that he was engaged in so much physical labor. As he pushed the wheelbarrow full of stones back to the piles, he kept an eye out for the girls and Violette, but saw no one.
And that was one of the very best things about their new place at the edge of town: everyone in the family had room to stretch out, in private, without bumping into anyone else. A person could pursue whatever interests he or she liked, without someone else looking over their shoulder, and to Simon this prospect was the most delicious thing of all.
4
Sunday morning started peacefully enough at La Baraque. The two remaining guests for the week, Darek and Emilia Badowski, had arrived from Poland late Saturday and been installed in the large room in the annex. Everyone was still asleep or at least not stirring, and Molly was enjoying a second cup of coffee and surfing the internet while Ben was out for a run.
