by Nell Goddin
But always, in the back of her mind, thoughts swirled about Bernard Petit, his son and daughter, and the ashtray that killed him. So many questions and so much to learn, if only she and Ben could finagle themselves onto the case.
9
The next morning was Saturday, market day, and Molly drove the Citroen into the village since it was too cold for her beloved scooter. In late November, the market wasn’t the happy, convivial place that it was during the warmer months; customers wanted to make their purchases quickly and hurry on. Conversations were shorter and there was decidedly less joking around, especially during this latest unusually cold snap.
But while Molly loved a summer market almost more than anything, she appreciated the winter ones as well. The church looked stark under the gray sky, and the golden limestone of houses did not glow, but nevertheless, the bare branches of the pollarded plane trees were striking, and perhaps, that morning, the temperature wasn’t quite as frigid as it had been.
First was Manette, Molly’s good friend who sold vegetables, the best in the département. They said bonjour and kissed cheeks. While they chatted about the weather, Molly scanned the offerings, feeling uninspired about what to make for dinner.
“Eggplant,” said Manette, who always had good suggestions. “They’re imported of course at this time of year, but if you’re feeling ambitious you could smoke one on the grill and feel like you’re in Iran.”
“Is that what we want?” laughed Molly.
“At least it’s warm there,” said Manette, her cheeks pink from the cold. “So—you on the Petit case yet?”
“I’m always flabbergasted about how fast news travels around here.”
“Eh, like small villages everywhere. And you have to admit, the gossip around Castillac is pretty high-quality. Beats television, if you ask me. Murder is still a rare thing, though maybe not so rare as before you graced us with your presence,” Manette teased. “People in Castillac didn’t really know him, so you’re probably going to have to cast your net a bit wider than usual. Never count out Madame Tessier when it comes to information.”
“I know. She’s like my ace in the hole.”
“The what?”
Despite Molly’s having lived in France for several years, sometimes an idiom popped up that left her at a loss. “It’s a poker thing,” she said, certain she had the wrong word for “poker,” and she was not wrong.
Manette just shrugged. “And to go with the eggplant, I would make something with these beautiful lemons. Organic, and just look at the color!”
“Gorgeous,” agreed Molly. “I just saw a recipe for some lemon-ricotta scones, made with almond flour.”
“You’ll take six?”
Molly took her lemons and eggplant, paid up, and waved goodbye. She picked up sausages, some baby lamb chops as a special treat, and a jar of woodland honey.
It wouldn’t be a bad day to drop in on Angela Langevin, to talk about flowers for the wedding. She should go do it. But Molly felt…disinclined. Not because of that strange message on her voicemail—she wasn’t going to put any stock in that sort of middle-school ridiculous behavior. Still, even thinking about that disembodied voice made her stomach feel fluttery, and not in a good way.
She decided the only remedy was a trip to Pâtisserie Bujold and the wonder and glory of an almond croissant, the best in the Dordogne and probably all of France. The market hadn’t been crowded, and as she walked toward the shop the streets were empty. Molly looked around at the buildings, at the cobblestones, at every tiny thing as though she had just arrived in Castillac—she never tired of drinking in every detail, seeing how everything looked that day and how things might have changed since the day before.
Edmond Nugent, proprietor of Pâtisserie Bujold and a man with a long-time crush on Molly, beamed when she entered the store to the tinkle of a small bell.
“Bonjour, my magnificent Molly!” he said, nearly climbing over the counter in his enthusiasm to kiss cheeks.
“Bonjour, Edmond. You certainly are full of beans this morning.”
“Full of—what is this expression? You Americans are strange ones, I will tell you.”
Molly laughed. “Beans. No idea where that phrase came from, though maybe there’s something similar in French? To mean, um, ‘lively,’ I suppose. With a bit of mischief thrown in.”
“I only greet you with enthusiasm because of your loveliness, chérie,” said Edmond, his face reddening. “I know I can count on you to appear on Saturdays, at some point or another. Let me see if I can divine what you are in the mood for today.”
This was one of Edmond’s parlor tricks, telling people which pastry was their heart’s desire on any particular day.
“Take my hands,” he said, intoning like a medium.
Molly reached her cold hands across the counter and put them in Edmond’s.
“Heavens!” he cried. “You’re made of ice! The first order of business is a cup of good coffee, strong and black. Unless you’d rather have chocolat?”
“Coffee,” said Molly. “And a—”
“An almond croissant!” said Edmond, victoriously.
“How did you know? I was just thinking about one on my walk here.”
“Truthfully? Either I have great powers of divination, or your adoration of the almond croissant is well known to me. I do not believe I could go wrong with that choice. And it does go so well with coffee, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You know I do,” said Molly, her mouth watering at the prospect. “I’ll sit and enjoy it all right here. Can you take a short break and have a chat?”
“Bernard Petit, am I right?”
Molly laughed. “Indeed. Did you know him?”
“I did not. Though I have heard others talk about him. It’s a funny thing, how being behind this counter makes some people think I am deaf and blind. You would not believe the things I see and hear. You really would not.”
“That sounds like a conversation we need to have at some point,” said Molly with a grin. “People are strange, aren’t we?”
“Not us. Everybody except us,” said Edmond, and kissed the air in Molly’s direction.
“Did you know either of Petit’s children?”
“Afraid not. Many of the people in Bergerac never find their way to Castillac, not even to come to my shop, amazingly enough. So I never had the pleasure of selling my almond croissants to anyone in the Petit family, at least that I know of. Quite a tragedy, eh? Though of all the ways to end my days, getting socked in the head with an ashtray does not seem the absolute worst. What do you think?”
Molly cocked her head. “I suppose not. Though I am rather more focused on who picked up the ashtray than on what Monsieur Petit felt about it.”
“I am shocked to hear you say that, Molly! I always believed your capacity for empathy to be exemplary.”
Molly suppressed a sigh. Sometimes Edmond could be trying, and never more so than when she wanted to talk about a case and he insisted on following unproductive rabbit trails of conversation all over the place. She finished her coffee and croissant, praising him lavishly for their deliciousness. After choosing some bread and pastry for her guests, Molly set out into the cold once more.
Without dilly-dallying, she headed straight to Madame Tessier’s and knocked on the door, but the older woman did not answer, and Molly headed back to La Baraque, at a momentary loss for what to do next.
Once in Bergerac, Laurine got settled in her hotel room—not exactly deluxe, but what could she expect this far from Paris? She did not call her brother. After drinking two glasses of Perrier from the mini-fridge, she pulled out her cell and called the number Molly had given her.
“Oui, Dufort/Sutton Investigations,” said a male voice.
“Oh! You must be Lolly’s partner?”
Ben was momentarily confused. “You mean Molly? Molly Sutton? Yes, I am her partner. To whom am I speaking? Can I help?”
“I hope you can,” Laurine purred, who liked men very
much and was quite pleased Ben had answered.
They agreed to meet at a café beside the cathedral in Bergerac; Ben sped his old Renault along the narrow, twisting back roads from Castillac to make sure he got there in time.
He found Laurine already seated at the café, with an espresso. She was rail-thin, her chestnut hair pulled back into a low chignon. She was not beautiful, but Ben could tell she was stylish, in a Parisian sort of way. Her clothing was no doubt fashionable but to him looked a little odd: her blouse had holes cut into it in random places, which Ben thought might be a little chilly for December, even with a coat over it.
They shook hands and introduced themselves. Laurine turned slightly away from him and looked toward him, showing her best side as though Ben were the photographer at a photo shoot.
“I was so sorry to hear about your father,” he began.
“You were not,” said Laurine, and laughed a throaty laugh. “Now, if we are going to get along even a little bit, you’re going to have to be more straightforward with me. Platitudes are so boring. Don’t think just because you’re good-looking, you’ll get a pass. I’m not that easy.” She looked down and then cut her eyes at him with a sly smile.
Oh Mon Dieu, thought Ben.
“I was not being dishonest,” he said. “It is never a moment of joy when a person is murdered. No matter who that person is. It is the ultimate in selfishness, wouldn’t you agree, for a murderer to decide he or she gets to determine when another person dies? Because 99.9 percent of the time, Mademoiselle Petit, the motive is selfish. We are somehow never called to find killers who chose their victims according to merciful motives.”
“Maybe his death is merciful for me. And please please, call me Laurine. If you’ve spoken to anyone at all who knew him, you know that my father was unpleasant, domineering, and hurtful. Family, friends, employees, business partners—it didn’t matter. He was horrid to us all. Bernard Petit was one of those people that the world is better off without.” She started to continue but laughed, seeing Ben’s surprised expression. “Oh, I see, I suppose that does make me sound guilty, doesn’t it?” She laughed again. “Does that mean we’ll spend a lot of time together, as you try to catch me in a web of deceit?” She laughed her throaty laugh, enjoying herself more than in months.
“Not liking your father doesn’t automatically put you on the suspect list. Molly and I try to work with a bit more finesse than that. Not to mention, the number of children who are not fond of their fathers is on the large side, I would guess.”
“How about you, Benjamin? Is your father a decent sort, like you? Do you get on well?”
Ben paused, wishing he smoked so that he could use lighting a cigarette for something to do while he thought of what to say. “I think we can leave my own father out of this,” he said finally.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” said Laurine, slapping him playfully on the arm. “Then I’ll just have to invent the most horrible monster in your past, whose devotion to inflicting pain and suffering on everyone in his family—especially his son—resulted in that son going into law enforcement, so he could put similar monsters behind bars where they belong.”
“Quite an interpretation,” said Ben. “You’ve spent some time in therapy, I take it?”
“Classic Freudian,” said Laurine. “Three times a week, lying on the couch with my analyst sitting behind me. Cannot recommend it highly enough.”
You might have laid off a little early, Ben thought, biting the side of his mouth to keep from smiling. He had to get this conversation turned around. “I can say you wouldn’t be automatically put on any list of suspects. But of course we ask everyone connected to the case, no matter how tangentially, where they were and what they were doing at the time the murder was committed.”
“The blessed event happened on Tuesday, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve got no worries on that score. I wasn’t even notified for days afterwards—I suppose my phone number wasn’t on my father’s speed-dial. In any case, I’ve been working non-stop and have a large number of people who can vouch for my being in Paris all week and the week before. I haven’t set foot in Bergerac in…at least a year or two.”
Ben took a deep breath. “I understand that your relationship with your father was not close—”
Laurine snorted.
“—yet you said when you called that you would be interested in engaging our services—”
“Yes. I am. Though there is one small snag, potentially—would it be possible to have your fees charged against the estate? I make a fine living but expenses in Paris, you understand—”
“I believe that should be possible.”
“And would my brother have to agree?”
“I…I’ll need to make some inquiries. Why don’t we work out the details once you’ve seen the will and have an idea of your father’s worth. Not that—excuse me, I didn’t mean to sound coarse.”
“You are the funniest man. Am I not making myself clear, that my father was someone I hated? Yes. Hated. He tormented my poor mother until she was forced to leave, being a soft, dreamy sort of person and no match for him. He made Franck’s and my lives a living hell. You could not ever please him. You had to walk on eggshells every minute, because anything could set him off—lint on his sweater, a fork in the spoon compartment of a kitchen drawer. Anything.”
Laurine was holding the edge of the table with her fingertips and chewing on her lower lip, her eyes focused on Ben. “So you’re probably wondering why I care one way or the other who killed him? It’s quite simple. And selfish, to carry on with the theme of the day. I want all his money. I have no idea how much there is, but I do not intend to share it. I believe it’s possible my brother killed my father—and as an aside, he had several quite good reasons to do so, and I can’t say I’m sorry about it. If Franck is convicted, it is my understanding he will lose any claim on the estate.
“I know you are not a lawyer, but can you confirm that this is the case? Though it might seem otherwise, I don’t have any particular ill-will toward my brother, so if a conviction wouldn’t have this effect, then our deal is off and I’ll just head back to Paris.”
Ben turned to wave at the waitress, wishing he could ask for a brandy instead of coffee. He had had a lot of strange cases over the years, and seen some crazy behavior when he was Chief of the Castillac gendarmerie, but Laurine Petit took the proverbial cake.
“I believe I can safely say that your brother would not inherit from your father if he has, in fact, killed him,” said Ben.
“Well, that’s a relief!” said Laurine, polishing off her espresso and smiling coquettishly at Ben.
“As you apparently know, there are provisions that make it difficult, but not impossible, to disinherit one’s progeny. One of the exceptions is if the child has caused bodily harm.”
“Murder would seem to suffice.”
“Indeed. Do you have some time now, so that we may begin?” Ben reached into his coat pocket and brought out a notepad and pencil.
“Oh no, I’m absolutely drained from that train trip. I know the TGV is supposed to be so wonderful, and I suppose it is. But still, it’s hours of sitting with no internet and I need to get back to my hotel room and take care of some business. How about we see each other this evening? The hotel has a decent-looking bar. Let’s meet for drinks at 6:30, and have dinner after. You’ll make us a reservation?”
“I can’t tonight, but sometime later in the week works. Would you like to meet earlier, say just after lunch?” he asked, guessing she would probably say no.
“Oh, you’re not nearly enthusiastic enough about seeing me,” she said, pretend-pouting. “I’ll meet with Franck, then. Maybe I’ll be able to collect some evidence for you. I’ll practically be an investigator myself! You’ll be so pleased you won’t want any help from Lolly anymore,” said Laurine, throwing her head back and laughing.
Oh boy, thought Ben.
10
That n
ight Molly made sure her guests had dinner plans and didn’t need anything, and then asked Ben if he would like to go to Chez Papa for dinner.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go someplace different? Or we could just stay home and make omelets,” he said, putting his forearms on her shoulders and bending down to kiss her.
“That would be fun. And tasty,” said Molly. “But I haven’t seen Lawrence in an age, and I was thinking we might hear some juicy gossip…it’s usually so crowded on Saturday night, there might be some people there who knew Petit.”
“You are a workaholic, you know that?” he said, ruffling her hair.
“I do. Well, I’m not really. It’s only that…this case feels a little funny to me. Do you know what I mean? Laurine is serving up her brother on a silver platter, which—if she’s so sure he’s guilty, why not just tell Léo Lagasse? Why bother hiring us at all?”
Ben had his suspicions on that score but did not want to share them with Molly—yet. Discretion is the better part of valor, he believed, perhaps naively.
They did not dress up, Chez Papa not being that sort of place, and arrived just before seven at the bistro, the outdoor lights draped in a spindly tree outside never failing to lift Molly’s spirits.
“Bonsoir!” cried three or four friends when Molly and Ben came inside. They spent a few moments walking down the bar, kissing cheeks and exchanging greetings, and settled on stools near the end.
“Where is Frances?” Molly asked the bartender, their old friend Nico.
Nico shook his head. “Another deadline. She’s been working herself to the bone lately.”
“These Americans and their crazy work habits!” said Ben.
“I know,” said Nico. “And when Frances is working on a jingle, she wanders around humming all the time. It’s enough to drive a person insane.”
“Frances’ll do that,” Molly muttered under her breath, but lovingly, since Frances was her oldest and dearest friend. “So where’s Lawrence? I was counting on seeing him tonight.”
