by Nell Goddin
Camille shook her head but said nothing.
Simon left the bedroom and stood for a moment in the corridor. He remembered standing there just the day before with Violette. Remembered the burning look she had given him, and the intense temptation that had flooded him.
And since Simon was the unusual sort of fellow who was honest with himself even when that meant seeing himself in a bad light, he acknowledged that he would have, eventually, given in to that temptation. It was only a matter of time. She had not been beautiful, but she had been young, smart, and a talented artist. His wife was…frequently indisposed. He closed his eyes for a moment, fantasizing…until he snapped back to the present moment, feeling terrible that he had briefly forgotten that the object of his daydream was dead.
“Ahhhh,” groaned Raphael from his room, and Simon knocked on the door and went in. “Father,” he said. “Is there anything I can get you? I know yesterday was trying, but things are back to normal now,” he lied, hoping to calm him.
Raphael’s eyes were wide and he looked terrified. Flecks of spittle were scattered on his lip and cheek, and his hair stuck up in every direction.
“Maybe if you comb you hair, you’ll feel better,” Simon said wryly, picking up a comb from his father’s dresser and handing it over. “Did…did you happen to see anything last night?” he asked nonchalantly. “Or hear anything? The lights were out for quite some time. And there…there was a kind of accident, and I was just wondering if you happened to know anything about it?”
Raphael turned his face to the window.
“Were you in your room until the lights came back on?”
“Give me back my scissors,” growled Raphael. “And you’ve taken all my string. I need it, give it back.”
Simon bowed his head for a moment, and then left his father’s room. It was no secret where the girls were—Chloë was sobbing again, with occasional keening that hurt his ears. He went to the dining room and found his daughters under the table, wrapped in blankets.
Gisele looked sadly at her father. “I can’t get her to stop.”
Simon sat down, bumping his head on the table. “Dearest girl,” he said to Chloë, patting her shoulder. “It is awful. There’s no use pretending it isn’t. And I know—you are young to have to learn this lesson, which is that in fact, terrible things do happen sometimes. It is part of life.”
Chloë howled all the louder.
“Are we going to get a new nanny?” asked Gisele.
Simon sat up, bumping his head again. Somehow he hadn’t thought of that. And what a very excellent idea it was. The household desperately needed someone new, someone young, someone who had nothing at all to do with any of the awful things the Valettes had been through, in Paris and now Castillac. “Well, I don’t see why not. Would the two of you like to help conduct the interviews?”
“Yes!” shrieked Chloë, and Gisele nodded.
“She can’t be mean,” said Chloë. “Or ugly.”
“I would like to have another artist,” said Gisele. “Violette taught us so much about drawing.”
Chloë unleashed another torrent of tears.
“All right then,” said Simon. He patted them each on the back and crawled out from under the table, thinking that if he didn’t get himself to someplace quiet he was going to lose his mind. Never in a million years did he think he would miss his old corporate job, where the pressure of conformity in all things had been so oppressive. But as he went into the kitchen to make his father’s baguette, he reminisced fondly about sitting down at his large desk, wearing a fashionable suit and a crisp shirt, the events of the day more or less predictable if not terribly interesting.
There’s just nowhere to hide, he thought crossly. Either life is utterly dull or the drama will put you in an early grave.
He made the sandwich and took it to Raphael, who grabbed it and began eating without a word of thanks. Simon trotted downstairs and outside into the damp day. As he walked quickly to the ruin and his careful piles of rocks, he stripped off his shirt and felt the sun on his skin, trying to push everything else away.
Molly didn’t linger over coffee, though she wanted to. The weather was perfect for sitting on the terrace and staring into space, deliciously wasting time, or lounging by the natural pool, watching dragonflies flit about. But there was legwork to be legged, as Ben had pointed out, so after only one cup and nothing to eat, she hopped on her trusty scooter and zipped into the village and the market. It was not quite as crowded as it had been in August, when almost the entire country goes on vacation, but there was still a good crowd and Molly had to wait in line to talk to her friend Manette, who ran a thriving vegetable stand.
They bonjour’d and kissed cheeks, happy to see each other. “Still feeling good?” Molly asked, looking at Manette’s big belly.
“Yep. Only have to make it to early December. Oh God, when I put it that way, it seems like I’ll be pregnant forever.”
Molly just smiled and pointed haphazardly at eggplant and lettuce, barely registering what she was choosing, as she went through the list of questions she wanted answered that day.
“So Manette, have you seen Lawrence this morning?”
“Oh yes, he was here at eight on the dot, as he always is. Bought a lot of tomatoes. Might be making sauce or some such.”
“I’ve had that sauce. It is amazing. And um, how about Lapin?”
“Nope, haven’t seen him.” Manette narrowed her eyes at her friend. “Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated? Is this about last night?”
“Last night?” said Molly, with no idea why she was playing dumb, since of course news of the murder was all over the village by now. “Well, okay, it is about last night. I’d like to catch up with Lawrence and Lapin to ask them a few questions—we were all there when it happened.”
“How awful! But—it’s not been explained when anyone has told me the story, and so far I’ve heard it from six, no seven people—how did someone manage to get murdered in the middle of a dinner party? It’s like some kind of terrible magic trick!”
“Not really,” said Molly. “Big storm, right? The power went out. And you know how it is—no cities nearby to brighten the sky at night. The Valettes live far enough away from the village that there were no streetlights. It was dark.”
“So how did the murderer see what he was doing?”
“That’s a very good question,” said Molly. Assuming it was a ‘he,’ which she was not ready to do.
“It was a crazy storm, for sure. But we didn’t lose power. I haven’t heard of anyone who did, actually.”
“Huh,” said Molly, thinking that over. “It was more rain, thunder, and lighting than wind. No trees down, no fallen branches to knock out power lines?”
Manette shrugged. “You’d have to ask Gaetan about that. He takes care of anything having to do with wires at our house.”
Molly felt a bit envious at the idea of having a husband who was handy, but swept that away to get back to business. “One last question,” she said, taking the bag of vegetables and rummaging in her purse for exact change. “Have you met the Valettes? Seen them in the market yet?”
“Not yet. I figured they were neck-deep in boxes at this point. With a house that big, it will take them ages to unpack.”
“No, they seemed all set, actually. Which now that you mention it—that was fast, wasn’t it? Didn’t they just get here…less than two weeks ago?”
“Eh, some people are fanatics about that stuff. They’ve gotta have everything just so or they go crazy. Au revoir, Molly!” Manette turned to the next customer and Molly moved off, walking towards Pâtisserie Bujold without realizing it.
Curious that no other houses lost power last night.
Curious that the murderer could do the deed in total darkness.
She was thinking so hard about the case that she walked right past the bakery. Edmond saw her go by and rushed out to the sidewalk, calling her.
“Is something wrong, Molly? H
ow you wound me, watching you stroll past without a care, as though I was a stranger and you had started getting your pastries at Fillon!”
“Oh, Edmond, you do get dramatic. I was just distracted.” She took his arm and they walked into the shop, Molly inhaling deeply through her nose as she always did, fully enjoying the bliss of vanilla and butter. “What have you got that’s interesting today? I’ll get the usual half dozen almond croissants, and a dozen regular croissants for my guests. But I could use a pick-me-up right now, something a little…different?”
“Because we are old friends, I will talk to you as such and not as merely a customer, a stranger. It is about something I have learned over the years,” Edmond said seriously. “Often we think we want something new, when in fact, what our soul yearns for is something familiar, something from our past. I do not say this to dissuade you if you are sure, and of course you are welcome to look on the left side of the display case if indeed you are certain novelty is what you are after. But I see you, Molly Sutton, I take you in completely this morning. And in my judgment, it is flan. Flan is what you need.”
“Flan?”
“Flan. Perhaps your grandmother made it for you, when you were a girl?”
Molly laughed. “My grandmothers were both dead by the time I came along. So your fortune-telling is a little off.”
She sighed and looked at the display case. On the left were a series of fanciful pastries with icing in patterns, even little parasols stuck in some of them. On the other side were the old standbys, and Molly peered at the lowly flan and considered.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly the same because there was never any caramel sauce. But my mother did use to make an egg custard with nutmeg when I was a little girl,” Molly said. It was the first time Edmond had ever heard her sound wistful and he was completely charmed.
She ended up sitting at the tiny table in the corner of the shop with an espresso and the flan, and she had to admit, the experience was sublime.
Not so sublime that she was distracted from the nanny’s case, however. She got out a little pad and took some notes, trying again to remember who had been talking in the dining room when the lights went out, and who seemed to be missing during the crucial time of the murder. The exercise was not made any easier for involving many of her closest friends.
The bell on the bakery door tinkled, and in came Madame Gervais. Molly was glad to see the hundred-and-four-year-old moving better than the last time she’d seen her, when she had been going slowly up rue Picasso with a walker.
“Bonjour, Madame Gervais,” said Molly. “How are you?”
“I will be much better once I’ve had a bit of chocolate. What do you think, Edmond? Is this the day for a pain au chocolat, or should I go for a cup of pudding?”
Edmond considered. Molly had never realized that he regularly performed the service of intuiting which of his products a customer should buy that day; she found it amusing and wonderfully ridiculous.
“The pudding. Definitely.”
“He’s got me eating flan. I admit I’m enjoying it immensely.”
Edmond nodded and smirked at her.
“I am sorry to hear about last night,” the old woman said. “Terrible business. And a family new to the village! I daresay they’ll pick up and move within the month.”
“Hm, I hadn’t even thought of that,” said Molly. “But you might be right. I think I would, wouldn’t you? Even if you’re not superstitious, it would be hard not to see a murder during your first dinner party as a sign you’d made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.”
“Well, somebody did make a wrong turn, I think we can safely say that’s indisputable.”
The question is, what kind was it? thought Molly, scraping the last of her flan out of its cup. And who made it, and when?
14
Chief Charlot got up from her desk and forcefully yanked the hem of her jacket down so as to disallow any wrinkling. Her brown hair was in a short braid on her back, and her heavy eyebrows, unplucked, were pulled down as she glowered. Paul-Henri could hear her walking to her office door; he inwardly cringed.
“Is this how former Chief Maron instructed you to do your paperwork? Because if so, he was sadly in error. You can’t simply leave out portions whenever you feel like it, Officer Monsour. Did you sleep through Officer’s School? Perhaps your Papa pulled some strings to get you through, something like that?”
Paul-Henri was used to condescending nags; he had one for a mother. But familiarity with the type did not make being in the same room with Chief Charlot, much less being her subordinate officer, any easier. In fact, he thought, as he made sure to keep his expression noncommittal, it is worse, because every time Chief Charlot starts in on me, I’m hearing my mother in a kind of chorus. These days life in the station is like being in the third circle of hell.
“You’ve lived in Castillac for how long?” she asked.
“One year, almost exactly. I know it’s a small village, but it’s impossible to get to know every single person. And the Valettes, as you know, just arrived. Haven’t been here two weeks, I don’t think.”
“Exactly right, you don’t think,” the chief spat at him.
Paul-Henri turned away and pretended to look for something in his desk drawer so she would not see his angry face. How soon would his transfer come through? He tried to think back about Maron, trying to remember how many years he had been posted in Castillac before being moved on.
By all rights, I should have been the next chief, he said to himself, but though he had the thought often, he did not really believe it.
“—and Officer Monsour, as I was saying, I can commend you on the state of your uniform, weak sauce, to be sure. I suppose you did manage to have all the DNA samples taken from those present at the Valettes, so you’re not one hundred percent incompetent. It’s just that we have a murder investigation on our hands and we need to hit the ground running, do you understand?”
“Actually, we’ve had several—”
“I’ve read the files. I’ve seen the embarrassing…it appears that the gendarmerie can take credit for catching none of these murderers, correct? I was hoping my eyes deceived me but I’m afraid they did not. This Molly Sutton…she is the person doing all the work, is that right? Someone with no connection to the gendarmerie, a civilian, and not even French?”
Paul-Henri allowed himself a moment of enjoyment, seeing how bothered Charlot was by Molly. “Well, I wouldn’t say all the work. Or no connection. She and Maron were friends, and her boyfriend, Ben Dufort, was the chief for some years. Quite well respected, by most accounts, though if you wanted to really dig into it, it seems that his personality was quite genial but his investigative techniques somewhat spotty. All before I got here, of course. But—”
“Oh mon Dieu, stop your prattling. Murder, Officer Monsour. That’s what we have to focus on today. I am going to the Valette’s. While we wait for the coroner’s and forensics reports, I’m going to take statements from everyone in that family.”
“Didn’t we—”
“Yes, I began the process yesterday. But I got nothing in writing. And just as a basic point: when a family shows up, new in town, nobody knows them at all…and then, when the boxes have barely been unpacked, there’s a dead body in the library? That, Officer Monsour, is a decent indication that something is not right in that house. I don’t know what it is, not yet, but we will get to the bottom of it. I’ve put requests in to the Paris bureau and expect to hear back from them promptly. If there was any funny business at their former residence, we should soon know about it.”
Paul-Henri found himself relieved that none of the villagers seemed to be on Charlot’s suspect list. He had few friends and no particularly warm feelings for anyone there, but felt protective about them nonetheless.
And he had a few ideas about what he might do to further the investigation. “I could—” he began.
“I want you to track down the guest who disappeared the night of the m
urder…” Charlot took out a notepad and consulted it. “…somebody named Lapin? I want to know if he’s still in the village or if he’s fled, which would at least give us a prospect with a guilty conscience.”
Paul-Henri liked the sound of that. Despite only a few seconds ago being glad the chief was focused on the Valettes, Paul-Henri was no fan of Lapin, having suffered a few insults from him that had stung. Quickly he pulled his equipment together and followed the chief out of the station, feeling better about his job than he had in the weeks since Charlot’s arrival.
Chief Charlot walked to the Valette’s, wanting to stretch her legs. She had stayed up late the night before, unable to sleep after spending hours at the crime scene trying to herd cats. Never had she seen a forensics team more lackadaisical, or a junior officer more inept. It was no wonder at all that the village of Castillac had suffered so many murders in the last few years—the gendarmes in charge were woefully, painfully inadequate. It was a criminal’s playground, this seemingly sleepy little village tucked in among the farms and estates of the Dordogne.
With a satisfied smile, she thought about how she was going to change all that. Adherence to regulations, follow-through, attention to detail—these were the mundane steps that brought results. Not friendship, she thought with contempt, thinking of the way Maron had apparently palled around with Sutton and Dufort, embarrassing the gendarmerie in the process. Things were going to be very, very different now that she was in charge, Charlot said to herself. And what better way to prove it than to solve this murder quickly, before the private investigators find a way to sink their teeth into the case?
Charlot turned into the Valette’s drive, putting her thoughts aside and paying attention to her surroundings. An expensive house, certainly, though not at the highest end of what was available; she would check how much they had paid when the office of the notaire opened on Monday morning. She made a note to find out how much land they had bought with it, and what its boundaries were. One car, a Mercedes. The yard was well taken care of—was there a gardener or was the family doing the work themselves?
