by Nell Goddin
“I don’t want her to get in trouble. Can you imagine what Maman would do if she found out we’d run away to Madame Sutton’s? She’d probably—”
“Hack her to bits?” said Chloë.
“At the very least, torture us about it for months. And here in Castillac it’s not as if she has to worry about what her friends might think, because she hasn’t any.”
Chloë changed the subject. She asked what her sister’s favorite pastry was at Pâtisserie Bujold, and whether she thought the history teacher was stupid. Before long, La Baraque came into view, though it did not look like anyone was home.
“We’ll go past it and circle back, just like we do at home. It should be pretty easy to find the renovation site—it’ll be a big stony mess just like at home.”
Chloë never liked admitting she was afraid, and she kept her mouth shut. But she did allow herself to slip her hand into Gisele’s as they walked farther into the darkness.
48
On her way back to the station, Chief Charlot looked through the big window at Chez Papa and saw Molly and Ben sitting at the bar. Though she had never wavered in her opinion that the pair should not have accepted the job investigating the murder when they had been guests at the Valettes that terrible night, the chief admitted to herself that she was stuck.
Terribly stuck, which was a painful situation to be in, at a new posting, her job insecure, where everyone in the village and the national gendarmerie would be judging her every move.
And what a crazy place Castillac was turning out to be: a junk dealer who fled the scene, didn’t turn up for over ten days, and as far as she could tell, had no connection to the case whatsoever. A pâtissier who screamed like a baby when the lights went out. A couple of snobbish academics, a pair of private investigators who thought they were better than everyone in the gendarmerie put together, a frivolous bartender and his even more frivolous partner who always painted her lips like she was a movie star.
A pair of fancy Parisians who looked down their noses at everyone. A doctor.
Charlot pushed open the door and made her way to the bar. She didn’t want to do it, but what choice did she have? If she was going to avoid being drummed out of the gendarmerie, she needed Sutton. Better to face it and get it over with.
“I’d say ‘bonsoir’ but it’s not especially bon, is it,” Charlot said gruffly to Molly. “And I’d be willing to bet you’re feeling the same.”
That was the most human thing Molly had ever heard Charlot say, and she smiled while holding on to suspicion. “Excuse me for jumping right in, but did you by any chance just come from the Valettes’?”
“I did,” said Charlot. “Bring me a martini, extra dry, olives,” she said to Nico, whose eyebrows zoomed up as he nodded. Drink orders, as any bartender will affirm, are telling of character, and he wasn’t often surprised by a customer’s choice.
Charlot sighed. “I want the killer to be Simon Valette,” she said simply.
Molly was nearly won over by this. “I totally get it,” she said, and with some effort, said nothing else, hoping the chief would keep talking. Ben judged the situation for a moment and then got up. He sauntered down to the end of the bar and engaged Nico in conversation about rugby.
“I admit, I didn’t want the killer to be Simon,” Molly said, confidentially. “As you know, my pick was Camille. And I was crushed to find out I was wrong.”
“We’ve got DNA from only two people. But Simon has some convincing evidence that points to a different sort of relationship. Not killer and victim,” said Charlot.
“More like…lovers?” asked Molly.
Charlot waved her away, not wanting to relive the vision of Simon’s scratched-up back.
“Of course,” added Molly, “DNA isn’t completely conclusive.”
“You mean Violette might never have had a chance to scratch the person who killed her.”
“Yes. And she might have scratched someone who didn’t kill her, like Simon, it sounds like. Still, it’s not nothing, either. We have two positive samples, and one man has been crossed off the list…”
“Correct,” Charlot said, nodding.
It was a conversation in which much of what was said was not spoken aloud. Sentences were begun and not finished, and meaningful looks exchanged. They found they understood each other better than they expected.
Eventually Charlot said, “I think we should go forward, Madame Sutton. I only wish we had sat down like this many days ago.”
Molly nodded. “So do I. We do want the same thing, after all.”
“What do you say we go pay the good doctor a visit, just the two of us?” Charlot proposed.
Molly beamed. Paul-Henri would be furious at being snubbed but she would just have to smooth that over later.
“Watch our backs,” Molly said quickly to Ben as they left the bistro. “I don’t think there’s any real danger, but you never know, right?”
49
It was dark. They expected Dr. Vernay to be home with his wife, as on any normal evening. Chief Charlot and Castillac’s most famous detective made their way through the quiet streets of the village, each trying to think of some conversational gambit that might trip up the doctor.
In the back of her mind, Molly worried that Ben did not seem convinced she had it right; it was precious little to go on, and anyway, the doctor was such a respected member of the community. Was it arrogant of her to suspect him? Unfair? Did it put too much emphasis on a forensic test when labs could and did get things wrong all the time?
She would just have to see how it went. And whether she could get him off balance just long enough to get at the truth.
They rang the bell. Robinette appeared so quickly it was as though she had been waiting for them.
“Bonsoir!” said Molly. “So sorry to barge in at this hour, I hope you’re not sitting down to dinner?”
Robinette looked at Molly strangely, since by most French person’s reckoning, it was nowhere near late enough for dinner. “We were having an apéro in the living room. Would you like to join us?”
“This is not a social call,” said the chief, moving past Robinette and inside the house.
The doctor met them in the foyer. He recovered quickly, but Molly thought she caught a flash of fear cross his face when he saw who it was.
“I’ve got some news, doctor,” said Charlot. “Your DNA was found under the fingernails of Violette Crespelle. I know you examined her once her body was found, but unless you took one of her lifeless hands and dragged it along your skin, this warrants an explanation.”
“Of course I took no such liberties with her body, and I’m appalled that you would suggest so.”
“I do not expect that you did. I only stated the only case for innocence to point out exactly how ludicrous it is. So please, explain it some other way. How exactly did your DNA end up under the young woman’s fingernails?” Charlot was enjoying his discomfort.
Molly looked at Vernay and could practically see the armor going on. They would get nothing out of him this way.
“Dr. Vernay, could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
He startled, then smiled at her. “What, do you mean to say that grilling me has worked up a thirst?” He started to call Robinette but decided to get the water himself. The kitchen was just off the living room, with the sink in full view.
Molly quickly whispered to Charlot. “I have an idea. Follow my lead?”
Charlot was taken aback. Follow the lead of a civilian, and an arrogant one at that? Her thick brows came together and her mouth turned down.
Vernay was back with a glass of water and handed it to Molly. “Are you sure I couldn’t get you both an apéritif? Doctor’s orders?” he added, with a false smile.
“No, thank you,” said Charlot. She opened her mouth to continue, about to ask for the doctor to show them his hands, wrists, and arms to see if they were scratched up.
But she paused. Perhaps there was time for that, and she could fi
rst see what Sutton was up to. If it was a failure, then Charlot could hold it over her head into eternity. And if it worked, well, they were in this together, weren’t they?
And also true: the chief was curious.
Vernay had been prattling on about a homemade apéritif he had gotten while traveling, and how much good it did for poor digestion.
Molly interrupted him. “That’s all good to know, doctor, but we’re here on a rather pressing matter. I know the chief was asking you about your DNA, but it is actually the DNA of Simon Valette that concerns us most.”
“Can we trust you to keep this to yourself?” jumped in Charlot. “Simon is our prime suspect.” She looked at Molly to make sure she was on the right track.
Molly nodded. “But we’re looking ahead, post-arrest, and there are complications.”
“Almost always are,” added Charlot.
Vernay nodded though he had no understanding of what they were getting at.
“The problem is this,” explained Molly. “If we arrest Simon Valette, the two girls will be left at home with Camille. You’ve said yourself you thought she has a personality disorder, I believe? That she has been or could be violent?”
Vernay nodded again. His stomach was churning.
“So obviously we can’t leave the children alone with her, with no nanny or father for protection. Camille will need to be properly diagnosed and the girls removed from the home.”
“But where will they go?” asked Vernay.
Molly shrugged. “That’s up to Chief Charlot—I’m not familiar with the French system. An orphanage, I guess, or some kind of foster care? Terrible situation, no doubt about that. One parent too mentally ill to care for them, and the other in prison.”
Charlot couldn’t help feeling satisfaction as she watched Molly’s ruse have its effect. The doctor looked heartbroken and anxious all at once.
“So here’s how you could help, Gérard,” said Molly. “We know how you delivered most of the babies in Castillac after all, and how you’ve devoted your life to making people well, most of all the children. We know you’d like to help with Gisele and Chloë even though they are new to Castillac.”
“Of course, of course,” the doctor said, hoarsely.
“We will need official certification of Camille Valette’s mental state. You might need to testify in court, but that won’t present any kind of problem, will it?” said Charlot, playing her part beautifully.
Dr. Vernay went to the sofa and sat down. Then he stood up. “You’re sure it was Simon who did the murder? Camille—”
“Camille could not have done it,” said Molly. “Can’t be two places at once.”
A long pause. “The older child has told me some things…” said Molly, with mixed feelings about breaking Gisele’s confidence. “I’m sure a lot of children are beaten by their parents. It’s not fashionable now, but of course millions have grown up and not been broken because of it. I’m afraid, though, that Camille doesn’t just lose her temper and spank. There’s more, the sort of things that can cause deep emotional problems in children. But…” she added, with a flash of inspiration, “I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to be raised by someone that disturbed.”
Dr. Vernay jerked his head up. “What do you know about that?” he said.
Molly went with it. “About mothers with a touch of insanity?”
He laughed harshly. “A touch? My mother was far worse off than that, I can tell you.”
Charlot was impressed, seeing Molly react so nimbly.
“And Camille was bad off as well, wasn’t that your professional opinion from the beginning?”
“Those girls…” Vernay’s voice broke, almost imperceptibly.
The women waited. They watched with fascination as Dr. Vernay paced around the room, one moment looking furious and the next on the verge of tears.
“The girls are young, but who knows, maybe at least one of them will be resilient, and her life won’t be a complete disaster,” said Molly, prodding.
“No,” he whispered, finally sitting down in a chair and putting his head in his hands. “No. I can’t.”
Charlot walked to him and touched him on the shoulder.
“It was impulsive of me,” he said, barely audible. “I would…I would take it back if I could.”
“I understand,” said Molly. “I’m sure you would.” She was suddenly overcome with sorrow at what had happened, and how many lives had been affected.
And for what?
Charlot tugged at the collar of the doctor’s jacket. His head bowed, he slipped it off, then rolled up his shirt sleeves.
On one wrist and forearm were the scratches Violette had made as she tried to stop her attacker. The scratches were deep, making lines of blood just under the doctor’s skin as though someone had attacked him with a dark red marker.
50
The next night was Saturday, just over two weeks since the Valettes’ ill-fated dinner party. Molly spent the afternoon taking a long walk with Bobo into the deep forest to the north of Castillac. She needed to clear her head of visions of bad mothers and children in pain, of the agony of mental illness, of death. Of course it went a long way to have caught the murderer and gotten a confession out of him, but even so, it did Molly’s heart good to see Bobo joyful as only a dog can be, bounding ahead and circling back to check on her, lapping furiously at streams and only occasionally barking when high spirits overtook her.
It was starting to get dark sooner, right on the cusp of October. Some people dreaded the dark winter months, but this year, Molly looked forward to plenty of quiet time at home with Ben; perhaps she would think of some parties to throw to liven things up in the village a bit. She got home tired from the long walk, and muddy and sweaty.
She came into the house from the terrace, which was lucky for everyone since it meant she didn’t see all the cars parked along rue des Chênes, which might have given everything away.
“Surprise!” shouted thirty-five people—thirty-six if you include the young man from the caterer, who stuck around after making the delivery even though he knew neither the host nor the guest of honor. The Mertenses and Jenkinses were there, looking merry and holding birthday presents.
Molly dropped the pinecone she was carrying, her eyes big. “What?” she said.
All thirty-six boomed out with “Bon Anniversaire,” and she got tears in her eyes. Ben came for a kiss and she hugged him, burying her head in his shoulder while she collected herself.
“Happy forty,” he said, kissing the top of her frizzy head.
“How did you know?” she said wonderingly.
“You’re engaged to a private investigator,” said Ben, rolling his eyes. “Do you really think that little of my powers?” Everyone laughed. “And let me take this moment,” he added, tightening his arms around Molly, “to tell everyone that Molly has agreed to make me a happy man. We’re getting married!”
Shrieks from Constance and several other quarters, and the couple was briefly mobbed by guests wanting to give congratulations. Molly was aware that it felt good, having the news out in the open, with no lingering superstitions causing any trouble.
The party took off, with Lawrence making Negronis for anyone who was willing, Frances and Constance serving heavy hors d’oeuvres, and everyone talking about every detail of the case of Violette Crespelle.
“I still can’t believe Gérard is guilty of anything,” said Manette, her friend the vegetable seller. “You know he delivered all of my children, and was going to deliver this one, too?” She patted her huge belly and shook her head.
“I know,” said Molly. “He was so wonderful when I was sick with Lyme that it took me a long time to think about him with any objectivity. If I had known earlier about the kind of household he grew up in, knowing the effect that can have on a child, maybe that might have helped? But honestly, I doubt it. It’s very difficult to override your experience with someone, either good or bad. Maybe especially when it’s good.�
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“But why did he do it—that’s what everyone wants to know,” said Lapin, holding a beer in one hand and his arm around Anne-Marie.
“It’s a long story,” said Molly.
“Well, get on with it, then!” said Marie-Claire, standing next to Pascal.
Molly took a sip of her kir. It was utterly delicious, as always. “He sort of broke down when Charlot and I told him that the Valette girls were going to an orphanage.”
“They are?” said Lapin, horrified.
“No, no, it was just something I said to put pressure on him.”
“You’re very bad, Molly,” said Lapin. “A bit frightening, if I’m honest.”
“The girls did run away from home—that horrible Boris What’s-His-Name found them at the worksite last night, but they were unharmed, just hungry. Though I worry very much about them still. Their mother….”
“Come on, Molly, get back to that in a minute—we want to know about Vernay—”
“What happened was…the whole thing was a, just a very unfortunate combination of mistakes and bad timing. See, Vernay went to the University of Nice with Violette’s father. Something happened during their time there, something Vernay was deeply ashamed of.”
“If you think you’re going to get away with not saying what it is, you are sorely mistaken,” said Lawrence.
“He failed out of medical school,” said Molly.
The room went quiet.
The first sound was of close to thirty-six people taking a sip of their drink, all at once.
“Failed out of medical school?” said Edmond Nugent. “But he performed surgery on me! It was outpatient, to be sure, but there was a scalpel involved! Oh my heavens,” he said, looking for someplace to sit down.
“So he’s been faking it all this time?” said Lawrence.
“Pretty much,” said Molly. “But a faker with some knowledge and talent, I think we’d all agree.”
“I suppose he studied extra hard to make up for it,” said Ben. “Kept up with the current science and techniques, that sort of thing.”
