by Nell Goddin
No Honor Among Thieves
Molly Sutton Mysteries 9
Nell Goddin
Beignet Books
Copyright © 2018 by Nell Goddin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part III
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Part IV
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Also by Nell Goddin
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
I
1
2007
Bernard Petit knew perfectly well that he did not have many friends and his family mostly despised him. Nor did he fool himself into believing he was popular with any of the people he’d done business with over the years, in a variety of importing deals that were not quite illegal, most of the time. But Bernard did not find out until one particularly cold and starless evening in November just how deep the animosity went.
After polishing off a passable dinner of lamb shank and lentils the housekeeper had prepared and left for him to warm up, Bernard wiped his mouth and wandered away from the dinner table to stand at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. He gazed out to the backyard, his eyes moving distractedly over the familiar territory.
That deal he was working on was not going well. That damned Stephane Burnette didn’t know a good opportunity when it jumped up and smacked him right in his insipid face. Bernard clenched his fists, remembering last week’s meeting with Burnette, during which the other man made such agreeable murmurs while Bernard spoke that it surely seemed Burnette was ready to sign on the dotted line. But no, the little weasel demurred at the last minute, and Bernard was left without the investment he had not only hoped for, but thought was practically, as hunters might say, firmly in the bag.
Bernard’s stomach felt vaguely upset, and he rubbed a hand over his belly as he stared outside. Bergerac was in the midst of an unusual cold snap. By a spotlight he had installed for security reasons, he could see the bare pollarded tulip tree at the end of the yard, and the outline of an old yew his neighbor continually asked that he cut down.
He most certainly had not cut it down and had no intention of doing so, though he himself had no particular love for the tree. Bernard was not in the habit of acquiescing just because a person got it in his head to ask him a favor. He waited, always, to see what he might get out of it, with general goodwill not exactly a prized asset.
With a sour expression, he drifted from the window into his study. Alaina, his former wife, had used it as a sewing room and it still had an extravagantly feminine wallpaper: pink bouquets of roses and peonies, twirling ribbons, and what looked to be fairies perched among all the frou-frou. He made a mental note, for the hundredth time, to hire a decorator to fix things up more appropriately for a single man living alone. It wasn’t that Bernard was a procrastinator, far from it—but the expense always stopped him in the end.
He sat heavily in his chair, at his desk, facing a window that looked onto the street. It was after ten o’clock, and cold enough that no one was out walking just for the fun of it. He saw a man in a dark overcoat hurry along across the street; no one Bernard recognized.
Things aren’t good, he muttered to himself, putting his elbows on his desk instead of opening the file he had intended to have a look at. I need to make some sort of change. But what kind of change—I have no idea.
Bernard Petit was experiencing, for once in his life, a shred of desire for a better life than the one he’d been leading. You could not really say that he was facing his demons, or taking comprehensive stock of himself. But he did, in his final breath, have at least one moment of realizing that his life was rather empty, along with a flicker of desire for something better.
In the next instant, all was darkness, and Bernard slumped forward on his desk, the back of his head bashed in by someone he had not heard enter his house, so wrapped up had he been in these baby steps of reckoning, this faint yearning for a more meaningful life.
2
At a corner table at the Café de la Place, Ben bit off a corner of his croissant and leaned back in his chair to look at Molly. “Well, is this some kind of trick question? You look as beautiful as ever. If you’ve changed something, hell if I can see what.” He smiled, hiding his worry that he had just managed to insult her.
But Molly, bless her heart, was not all that easy to insult. She swooped her head one way and another, then fluffed her hair up with her hands, the red curls bouncing up and springing into the air. “I went to a salon! I usually don’t splurge on haircuts, since why bother, really, it just grows back in two seconds and I’ve never gotten the trick of styling it anyway.”
Ben peered at her hair, then reached a hand over and tucked a springy bit behind one of Molly’s ears. “It looks lovely. As always.”
Molly tipped her head back and laughed. Ben’s sincerity was one of his charms, no doubt, but it also amused her. “Well, the hairdresser put in layers and this and that, and I’m feeling altogether glamorous this morning. Too bad we’re not having breakfast on the Champs Elysées. Anyway, what have we got going on? It’s been ages since we had a decent case to sink our teeth into.”
“Alas, a dearth of murders in Castillac,” said Ben, sipping his coffee.
“Too bad,” said Molly, equally deadpan. “Maybe we should plan our wedding, if we’ve got nothing else pressing? It’s only weeks away, after all.”
Ben took a deep breath. He was intent on marrying his expat Bostonian, but the actual wedding planning filled him with something approaching dread. “Molly, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea—you know I’ve been looking forward to being your husband almost since I met you.”
Molly beamed.
“But weddings—”
“Simon!” called Molly, half-standing up from the table and waving.
Simon Valette, a recent client, was coming through the door with his two young daughters. Fashionable as ever, he wore a very nicely-cut sport coat with a silk scarf. He waved back at Molly and had a word with Pascal, the handsome waiter, before coming over to Molly and Ben’s table.
“Bonjour Molly, Ben,” he said, and the three kissed cheeks.
“Join us?” said Molly.
“Oh no, we need to be off! We just c
ame by to pick up Elise—her mother is home with the flu and we are charged with walking her the three blocks to school.”
“She could walk by herself,” said Chloë. “Grownups always think children are so helpless but we’re not.”
Giselle put a hand on her younger sister’s shoulder and smiled shyly at Molly.
“I wish the two of you could play hooky with me today,” she said to them.
“Molly!” said Simon. “I have enough trouble getting them out the door without your bad influence!”
“How is Camille?” asked Ben.
Simon shrugged. “You know how it is. For some people, life is a struggle.”
Chloë had broken away and was shadowing Pascal as he brought breakfast to a party of six seated by the window. Young Elise appeared and Simon waved to her. “Onward!” he said with a wink, and Molly and Ben watched him leave with the three girls trooping behind.
“Wonder if he’s bored in Castillac,” said Ben.
“Why? We seem to find enough to do. I’m just glad the girls seem to be doing okay. I worry about them.”
“I know you do. I’m glad they have you, even if you don’t see them very often. What if Simon made a mistake, moving his family to the provinces. I know he did it trying to be helpful—but think of what they gave up! A big-shot job in Paris with an enormous income, no doubt, along with a very swank apartment and a host of fancy friends. A whole fancy life, left behind. I can’t help wondering—does he regret it?”
Molly shrugged. “Who knows? Okay, so about the wedding…”
Ben put on his most pleasant face and tapped his fingertips on the edge of his chair. Molly was not fooled for one second, but enjoyed his discomfort in the way that lovers sometimes do when they know that after the teasing, big happiness awaits.
3
With a sigh, Sarah Berteau left her house, on a dingy back street of Bergerac, and made her way to Monsieur Petit’s, as she had done four mornings a week for a few months. It was sunny and cold, and she pulled on a pair of gloves as she walked, even though it was only a five-minute walk to the much nicer street where the Petit house was.
She had only begun with Petit when her husband Anthony lost his job. Sarah didn’t mind working—or at least, in principle she did not. Working for Monsieur Petit, however, had been no picnic, and she had no cause for optimism about the situation—or his moods—improving.
The streets were full of people hustling off to work or doing errands. They squinted into the sun, their shoulders hunched against the cold. Passing a pastry shop, she paused, tempted, but decided to press on to Petit’s and get the work over with. At least he did not require that she spend a certain number of hours at his house; she had only to perform the assigned tasks, after which she was free to go…though she had learned he did not tolerate even the tiniest cutting of a corner.
As she fumbled for the key, Sarah had no premonition of anything amiss. On her way to the kitchen, she did not glance in the direction of the study and did not see Petit’s body slumped over his desk.
He had failed to clear his dishes from the dining room table, which was unusual. The house seemed rather cold and she kept her coat on as she took his plate and wine glass to the sink in the kitchen.
Oh my, she thought, seeing a window open. Could I have left that open yesterday? The place had really needed airing, but I’m surprised Monsieur Petit did not close it later, it’s terribly cold in here.
Sarah went to the window and closed it. From the closet she took an apron, some rags and a duster, and, being a methodical sort of cleaner, followed her usual pattern of starting at one end of the downstairs and dusting each room in turn.
The living room was already nearly spotless, but she dusted it anyway.
Then to the hallway, and Monsieur Petit’s study.
She stood for a moment in the doorway. She opened her mouth to say something to him, even though it was quite apparent he was in no shape to answer. A pool of blood was on the floor under his chair and Sarah immediately considered how the stain would need to be addressed, and the quicker the better.
She closed her mouth. It was the strangest sensation, seeing her employer with his head caved in, obviously murdered; her eyes knew what they were seeing but her brain refused to make any meaning out of it.
And then, all at once, all her senses synchronized, and Sarah Berteau—for the first time in her life—let loose a terrified scream.
I don’t know why I’m screaming, she thought, taking a quick breath and screaming some more. Unless whoever whacked him in the head is still in the house?
She shut up in a hurry. Holding her breath, she peered both ways down the hall, her ear cocked.
Oh come on, she said to herself. They’ll be long gone by now. It’s not as though it just happened, either, anyone can see that. She went back to Monsieur Petit and looked him over, making sure he was dead though she was just being over-careful, then matter-of-factly pulled out her cell and called the gendarmerie.
“llo, bonjour,” she said, “This is Sarah Berteau. I’m at the house of my employer, Bernard Petit, on rue Lafayette. I wish to make a report…he is dead….yes, I’m quite certain…no, I am not a doctor, but I have eyes...all right, send whoever you like, I’m only making the report…yes…all right, I’ll stay here and let them in.”
Annoyed, she put her phone back in her apron pocket. She was not sure what to do next. Continue cleaning as though nothing had happened? It wasn’t as though Monsieur Petit was going to care one way or another. She passed through the living room and neatly arranged the throw pillows on the sofa, something Monsieur Petit had been particular about.
Sarah had not liked him. He had been disagreeable to work for: hard to please, ungrateful, dismissive. But nonetheless, she felt no gladness or relief in his death, and she paced around the house, nervous and still a little afraid, even after bravely checking the whole house from top to bottom and finding no one else there.
At last there was a rap on the front door and she trotted over to open it. “Whoever it is, they’re long gone,” she said, realizing when she laid eyes on the gendarme that what she was worried about was whether she had left that window open the day before—had, in essence, provided an easy way into the house for a murderer to do his dirty business.
Molly was fiddling around at her home, La Baraque, sipping a third cup of coffee and waiting for her friend and housecleaner Constance to show up. Constance was late, but their work wasn’t pressing and Molly didn’t mind.
When she heard a revving engine, Molly looked out to see Constance waving goodbye to her boyfriend, Thomas, as he flew out of the driveway on a new motorcycle. The young woman turned and ran to Molly’s door.
“Bonjour Molly,” she said, breathless, jumping inside the second Molly opened the door, and kissing her on both cheeks. “It’s cold as the devil out there!”
“Indeed,” said Molly. “Is that a new bike Thomas is riding?”
“Yes,” said Constance, with a grin. “He got a promotion, can you believe it?”
Molly couldn’t, actually, knowing Thomas’s work history to be a little on the sketchy side. “Glad to hear it,” she said.
“And what about your work,” said Constance. “I mean both kinds. Do you have anyone coming for Christmas—are there any repeaters, anyone interesting? And also, what about the detective biz? You and Ben got any irons in the fire?”
“Afraid not,” said Molly. She was happy enough just running the gîte business at La Baraque; now that the renovations were more-or-less complete, she made a decent income from it, and the guests coming and going made life pretty interesting. But for some people, “happy enough” doesn’t quite cut it, at least not all the time. Molly missed the excitement and challenge of solving difficult cases; cleaning the cottages before guests arrived was obviously not as thrilling, though satisfying in its own way.
“Too bad,” said Constance, who understood perfectly. “But hey, someone could get killed any day!”
“How about throwing some more logs in the stove? It’s freezing in here. And maybe we could have a cup of coffee before we get started? I want to hear all about the wedding plans.”
Molly shrugged. “Help yourself, I just made a fresh pot. As for wedding plans…we’re at zero so far.”
“What? No theme, no location, no nothing?”
“Correct,” said Molly, opening the fridge to get the cream. “It’s funny, or maybe not so funny since I’ve already been married once…I’m just not that invested in the actual wedding this time. I want it to be fun, obviously, and meaningful—I’m not saying I’m totally jaded or cynical, nothing like that. But I don’t really care very much about the details. As long as we have good food, good drink, and all our friends, that’s all that matters.”
“How spiritually advanced you are,” said Constance, with an exaggerated frown. “I see I’m going to have to twist your head back around to understanding that you’re throwing a wedding for crying out loud and expectations are high. You’re not allowed to let us all down with a half-baked party, Molly Sutton! And also by the way, it just occurred to me—are you changing your name to Dufort?”
