by Nell Goddin
In the meantime, Ben hoped the good food and wine would loosen Léo’s tongue on the current state of the detective’s activities.
“My friend!” boomed Léo, as the hostess showed him to Ben’s table. “How you honor me. When we spoke about lunch, I had no inkling you would aim so high! And I love you for it.”
“You did mention the restaurant by name, you old extortionist,” said Ben with a wry smile.
“Perhaps, perhaps. But you listened! And I pale to think what you must have done to get a reservation in such short order.” Léo leaned forward in a bow, though he was already wedged into his chair. “The duck confit! I said a prayer this morning that it would be on the menu. Sublime, I tell you! And if not, the meal will certainly be spectacular anyway. I cannot wait to see what the chef has in mind for us.”
Ben liked a two-star meal as much as the next Frenchman, but he was already thinking of how to get his friend talking about things that really mattered. Since he knew Léo wasn’t fooled about his intentions, he jumped right to it.
“So, mon ami…” he began.
“I know, I know, you want to know what’s happening with Petit. No, no—don’t bother to protest.” He waved a hand in the air, his eyes on the door to the kitchen. “Where is the waiter, for heaven’s sake? We could die of thirst and starvation.”
Just as the words left his mouth, a middle-aged man in black shirt and pants with a white apron came wheeling out of the kitchen with a tray. He placed a small glass in front of Lagasse and then Dufort. “The chef’s compliments,” he said, and faded back to the kitchen.
“Ahh,” said Léo, already dipping a tiny spoon into the glass and inspecting the glossy cucumber mousse speckled with tiny bits of chive.
“Maybe it makes me childish, but I do love the chef’s compliments,” said Ben.
“We all do,” said Léo generously, his eyes closed as he savored the mouthful, not even able to identify exactly what it was.
It was considered rude to talk about work at the table, even more so a glorious table such as one at La Grenouille. But it was murder, after all, not a business deal, and so once their glasses were scraped clean of every smidgen, Ben gave Léo a subtle prod. “All right, so…” he said, hoping Léo would get the message.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Benjamin—thus far I don’t know anything more than you do. Petit was a colossal jerk with no friends, or at least we at the Bergerac gendarmerie have been unable to find any. His neighbors loathed him, the shopkeepers report that he was stingy and given to returning soiled items wanting a full refund. You get the idea from people that he was going out of his way to be unpleasant, even cruel.”
“That was my experience with him. We were having lunch in Castillac one day—at the Café de la Place, do you know it? Not a fancy place, but the cassoulet is magnificent. At any rate, during lunch, Petit fired up a cigar. Indoors, and in the middle of lunch. And a particularly stinky brand of cigar it was—he intentionally blew clouds of smoke at the adjoining table, where a mother was seated with her children. They cleared right out, much to Petit’s satisfaction. I wanted to get up and walk out, but of course he was a client…”
“Fits with the profile I’m developing. A thoroughly unpleasant man, to be sure. And yet…” Léo drummed his fingertips on the table, impatient to see the menu.
A young woman appeared and gave them the large menus, printed on heavy stock in the old-fashioned manner.
“Ah yes!” said Léo, licking his chops as he began to read. Ben despaired of luring him back to the subject.
The waiter came to take their orders: Léo ordered the duck confit and Ben, steak Diane. In a flash the waiter reappeared holding a metal breadbox with a sliding door. He opened the door to show Léo, who pointed at a seeded roll and a small brioche, which the waiter gingerly used tongs to place on Léo’s bread plate. Ben chose a crusty slice that he guessed was sourdough.
“You were saying?” said Ben.
“Right. Well, only this: it would be the most obvious thing to conclude that Petit was murdered by one of the legion of people who disliked him. But that is facile, and the wrong path to pursue, at least at this early juncture. I don’t know if you’ve heard—well, you must have, being something of an ambulance-chaser, if you’ll pardon me—there’s been a series of murders in the Gironde over the last year. All people of means. The muckety-mucks are operating under the assumption that it’s the work of organized crime. Other groups with the same modus operandi have been caught in the north of France—they’re Greeks, these criminals, attacking us from every side.”
Ben thought it highly unlikely that a band of Greeks had settled on Bernard Petit as a way to enrich themselves.
“Could be,” said Ben. “Have these Greeks been seen anywhere nearby? In Périgueux, for example?”
Léo shrugged, chewing his roll.
“It does seem just…a bit unlikely, wouldn’t you say? A crime syndicate plucking Bernard Petit out of the air? Or does he leave a much bigger estate than I thought?”
“Haven’t found a will,” said Léo.
“Interesting. Have both children come to Bergerac?”
“The son, Franck. I don’t remember about the daughter, something-something, couldn’t leave work right away. Franck has not been able to put his hands on the will. Or so he says.”
“You don’t trust him?”
Léo laughed. “I’m a police detective. We don’t trust anybody, you know that,” he said, picking up his butter knife and going at the pot of butter with some degree of ferocity.
8
Three guests were due to arrive at La Baraque in the afternoon, both a day earlier than usual, and Molly was ready for them. The cottage and pigeonnier were spotless, with complimentary bottles of wine and welcome notes with restaurant recommendations and emergency numbers in place. Coming off a now-rare week of no guests, she and Constance had been able to get everything cleaned up in time, which was a good thing, since Molly was now focusing most of her attention on Bernard Petit’s murder.
Though she remembered Ben’s impressions of him, she had not met Petit, which she was sorry for now that he was dead. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Ben, but of course it was always better to judge first-hand. One of the main reasons Molly liked detective work so much was figuring people out, understanding what made them do what they do. And Petit was a prime specimen in that regard, for certain.
“Come on, Bobo, let’s take a last look at the cottage,” she said, and Bobo practically nodded, being a very smart dog. They went out through the French doors by the kitchen, Molly shivered since she had failed to put on a coat. Bobo streaked across the yard and leapt in the air, her usual response to the cold.
The heat in the cottage had been acting up and Molly wanted to make sure it was warm enough when the guests arrived. She nudged the thermostat up a few degrees, checked the rooms one last time in case she and Constance had neglected to empty a trash can or left a rag somewhere—all the while letting the stories Ben had told her about Petit run through her mind before thinking about the new guests.
A couple from Richmond, Virginia was coming for the week: Peggy and Wilson Tanner. Married over fifty years, no children, Peggy was allergic to pollen. No worries about that this time of year. And a single woman from New York City, Daisy McPherson, had requested the pigeonnier, though it slept three if you counted the sofa. Since there were no other bookings, Molly had been happy to give it to her.
When she and Bobo reached the pigeonnier, the orange cat was idling around the door.
“What evil are you up to?” asked Molly, always mindful of her ankles around the bad-tempered animal. The orange cat rubbed her head on the doorframe and looked sweetly up at Molly.
“I am not fooled,” she muttered, going inside the pigeonnier and having a look around.
Finding everything in order, she headed home for lunch. Bobo pranced alongside and Molly looked into the gray sky, wondering if it was going to snow again. Her cell buzzed in
her pants pocket. A text from Ben:
Laurine’s cell number is 05 86 55 90 13 good luck
Hmm, she thought, letting herself back inside and going to stand with her back to the woodstove. I’ve got a good four hours before any guests get here. That’s plenty of time….
Molly tapped in the number, then crossed her fingers.
“llo?”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Petit, my name is Molly Sutton, I live in Castillac, just north of Bergerac. First let me say how very sorry I am about your father.”
Molly heard what sounded like a snort from the other end of the line.
“My partner worked with your father several months ago—Ben Dufort? Not sure if your father talked about him with you?…No?…Well, I don’t want to intrude on what is certainly a very difficult time for your family, but I did want to let you know that Dufort/Sutton Investigations are available to help in any way possible, if you would like—”
“Oh, I would like, very much,” Laurine interrupted. “I know only too well what doofuses local gendarmes tend to be.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said Molly, smiling to herself. “Obviously, finding your father’s killer won’t change what happened, but hopefully it would bring you some measure of—”
“Oh, please.” Laurine laughed. “It’s not like I’m in mourning over this. Sorry to disappoint but I am not really one for artifice, when it comes to emotions. I prefer to—you’re American, I can tell from your accent—so as the Americans say, I like to tell it like it is.”
Molly couldn’t help wondering which pronunciations had given her native country away, but she stuck to the point. “Shall we meet, then? Are you in Bergerac yet? I haven’t heard yet about any funeral plans.”
Again, Molly heard a snort. “I doubt there will be any funeral,” said Laurine. “I live in Paris. Undecided about whether to come all the way down there—I’m insanely busy at the moment, you just wouldn’t believe, I’m at it dawn to midnight working with a bunch of crazy loons.”
Molly hesitated. She wanted to close the deal but didn’t want to seem overly pushy. “It’s been quite snowy and cold lately,” she said, figuring talk about the weather would buy her some time. “Very cozy, a relaxing retreat, perhaps? I’ve got room here at La Baraque, in a gîte, if a rural getaway appeals to you at all. Not that I mean to imply dealing with your father’s situation is any kind of vacation.”
“It’s not exactly my top choice of vacation spot,” said Laurine. “I work in fashion. No offense meant, truly—your part of the world is just not my cup of tea. My preferred habitat is big cities, not…backwaters.”
“Understood.” A short silence. “Well, would you talk more about…your thoughts about what happened, and how you think my partner and I might be able to help?”
“I’m flying out the door at the moment. There’s a shoot all the way across town, I don’t know why this particular photographer has to choose such out-of-the-way locations, it’s like he’s absolutely trying to make everyone’s lives difficult. No time to talk.
“I’ll just say this—as far as taking you on, it’s my brother Franck you have to convince. I assume we’d be paying your fee out of my father’s estate, and so he will have to be consulted and agree to the arrangement. Which I highly doubt will happen, because—Lolly, is that your name? Because Lolly, my brother and I do not get along. So if he gets wind of anything I might want to do, he’ll torpedo the idea just because. Understand?”
“Yes, I believe I do,” said Molly. “Franck is here. Ben met with him yesterday, but I don’t know what they—”
“Be wary,” said Laurine, in a rough whisper, as though Franck were in the next room. “I will call you when I can.” And she hung up.
Well, thought Molly. Well, well, well.
After speaking with Molly on the phone, Laurine Petit had stood at the window of her apartment for a few moments, looking out at the terrible view of the neighboring building’s terrace, which was crowded with furniture and a few dead plants. She tapped her fingers on her chin, thinking.
Then she sat at her computer, sent some emails to shift things around at work and get people to cover for her, and bought a ticket on the TGV to Libourne, the closest station to Bergerac. If Franck was there, she had better be there too. Plus, if these detectives were nosing around? All the more reason for her to go keep an eye on things. Laurine had no idea what kind of estate her father had left, but he must have been worth something, she reasoned. The house alone would bring a tidy sum, and it was in a good location so shouldn’t be too difficult to sell.
Of course, her father had never been known for stellar business success, and there was no telling what encumbrances he might have. All of it would get sorted out eventually. But that sorting was not going to happen behind closed doors, with her brother in charge. Not if Laurine could help it.
Molly texted Ben but he was still in the midst of the three-hour lunch at La Grenouille, the lucky man. She ended up spending a furious couple of hours cleaning her bathroom and getting rid of almost every single dog and cat hair in the living room, while eating some pâté on a stale hunk of baguette.
Was Laurine hinting that her brother was in some way dangerous—that he might even have had something to do with his father’s murder? It certainly seemed so, though Molly also had the feeling Laurine was something of a pot-stirrer, and thus did not take her statements as fact or anything close.
The accusation could be simply sibling rivalry run amok, with no basis in fact at all.
Or Laurine could have been pulling her leg.
They needed a look at Petit’s will, though Molly guessed that with French inheritance laws as rigid as they were, the estate was most likely divided between the children.
Molly’s head was spinning with the possibilities, which seemed to increase the more she thought about their conversation. She was so distracted that she nearly missed the arrival of Daisy McPherson, who was rapping on the front door of La Baraque, Christophe having already taken off in his cab.
“Bonjour!” said Molly, opening the door and pulling off rubber gloves, her red hair frizzing out into a cloud after her cleaning exertions. “So sorry not to answer more quickly—I was upstairs, and in this hodge-podge of a house, it can take a while to get from one place to another. Welcome, Daisy!”
Daisy was short and slight, and dressed a bit like an elf, thought Molly. She wore dark green tights and leather shoes without soles that turned up slightly at the toes. Her wool coat had a capacious hood, which Daisy pushed back once inside. Her thick blonde hair was in a long braid down her back. “Bonjour,” she said quietly, looking at Molly with large gray eyes.
“Shall we go around to the pigeonnier? I think you’re going to love it,” chattered Molly. “The mason who did the renovation—he’s no longer with us, sadly—was so talented. The tiny windows he put in—well, you’ll see for yourself. It’s just magical, in my totally biased opinion.”
Daisy nodded. She reached down to pet Bobo, who had been lurking beside her hoping for some attention, and Molly relaxed a little, always reassured when someone liked dogs. She started talking about all the ways she was glad to have a vacation from New York City, and her vast appreciation for the magical qualities of France, which Molly was always ready to discuss.
A half hour slipped by before Molly picked up Daisy’s bag and they headed back outside to walk to the pigeonnier, just as Christophe zoomed into the driveway with the Tanners.
“Oh!” said Molly. “Here are our other guests. Come over and I’ll introduce you,” said Molly. She did not look in Daisy’s direction and therefore missed the fleeting look of panic on the young woman’s face.
“Bonjour, Peggy and Wilson!” cried Molly, as the couple climbed out of the cab.
They beamed at her. Peggy took hold of Wilson’s arm and looked for a moment like both of them might collapse to the ground.
“Oh! Are you all right?” said Molly, rushing to their sides and offering an
arm.
“Fine, just fine,” said Wilson, in a lovely Southern accent. “We’re just old, you know. You don’t realize how hard it is to travel, when you’re young.”
“Those long flights are murder,” agreed Molly. “Why don’t you come in, let me get you a drink, and Christophe will take your bags to the cottage?”
“Pas de problème,” agreed Christophe, opening the truck and taking out their relatively small bags.
“Peggy and Wilson Tanner, meet Daisy McPherson,” said Molly. “All of you are staying for two weeks, and I hope we’ll all have a chance to get to know each other a little. Though of course some guests want privacy, and that’s just fine too.” Molly had found that saying these things explicitly helped put guests at ease.
Daisy gravely shook both their hands.
“She will be staying in the pigeonnier, which is actually an old pigeon house that I had renovated into a gîte. La Baraque was full of crumbling buildings when I bought it—my friends back home thought I was insane, frankly, and I’ve agreed with them on more than one occasion. But I’ve been able to take them on slowly, one by one, and now the whole place sleeps sixteen. Though it has never been completely full, even in summer.”
As they went inside, the Tanners asked questions about the running of the place and how it felt to be an expat in a small village. Molly got them laughing over some of her early mistakes while putting on a kettle for tea and giving her guests glasses of cold Perrier.
She loved the gîte business, she really did—meeting new people and finding out about their lives and personalities was endlessly entertaining, and she relished these new guests as much as the others.
