by Nell Goddin
Nico shrugged. “You just missed Lapin and Anne-Marie. They stopped in for a drink but went off to some party.”
“Party?” said Molly. “Hmph.”
Nico shrugged again. “The usual?”
Ben and Molly nodded, both feeling a little deflated at so many of their friends having something better to do.
“So what’s the news, Nico?”
“Nothing much. Ninette’s been in here, fit to be tied over Malcolm Barstow.”
“Oh no, is he shoplifting again?” Molly had a soft spot for the young criminal.
“Again? He’s always shoplifting,” said Nico. “It’s like breathing to him.”
“But that family—those little brothers and sisters—”
A man was signaling for Nico’s attention and he broke off the conversation. Molly turned around on her stool, looking for someone to talk to, but saw no one approachable. “Well, this isn’t turning out to be the hotbed of gossip I’d hoped for,” she said to Ben. “I couldn’t even find Madame Tessier today.”
But before she had gotten halfway through her kir, Lawrence sailed in, wearing a beautifully cut wool suit, gray with a light blue windowpane.
“Dear heart,” he said to Molly as he kissed her cheeks.
“I have missed you something terrible,” she said.
“Same here. And I don’t expect to see much of you now either, since we’ve got another dead body to worry about. I swear you have not had a great influence on the region, dearest. The death rate has increased precipitously.”
Molly looked aghast.
“Kidding!” Lawrence gave her an extra peck on the cheek, then kept pecking until she laughed. “Have you managed to get yourselves hired by whatever principals exist?”
“That part’s been easy for once,” said Ben. “At least we think so. No contract signed yet, so we shouldn’t be counting chickens.”
“Well, that’s good news. A rather straightforward bashing to the head of a deeply unpopular man. The kind of thing Dufort/Sutton can polish off in a lazy afternoon.”
“You’re too kind,” said Molly, smirking at him.
Nico placed a Negroni in front of Lawrence without being asked.
“I was wondering,” said Molly, “if you happened to know any of the Petits? Or Sarah Berteau, the woman who kept house for Monsieur Petit?”
“The Petits, no.” Lawrence cocked his head to think. “And Sarah Berteau…the name is familiar somehow, but I don’t think so. What does she look like?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Ben. “We just got hired today, so we haven’t done any interviews.”
“Is she a suspect?”
Ben shook his head as Molly jumped in to say that of course everyone was a suspect until they had evidence to exclude them.
“Even me?” said Lawrence drily.
“Especially you,” said Molly.
“I think Cécile Meyer might know her,” Nico said, leaning his arms on the bar and jerking his head in Cécile’s direction. “She was talking about the murder earlier. How Sarah is staying home with all the doors locked, worried that the murderer will come after her next.”
“People can respond oddly to trauma,” said Ben.
Molly got up and went to Cécile’s table. “Excuse me for bothering you,” she said, “but I heard you’re friends with Sarah Berteau? May I ask if you’ve spoken to her recently? I am Molly Sutton, of Dufort/Sutton Investigations. We’re working on the Petit case.”
Cécile looked startled when Molly began talking and her expression of wariness did not fade as Molly spoke.
“Yes, she’s a friend of mine. But she doesn’t want to get mixed up in anything. You can understand, seeing something like that, it messes with your…your sense of the world, you could say.”
“Yes, I totally understand. It’s traumatic, no question. Maybe she would feel a bit better if she helped with the arrest of the killer?”
“It’s not your place to decide what will make Sarah feel better.”
Molly was taken aback but did not show it. “Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply…if you could just pass along to Sarah that we would like to talk to her?”
“I’ll do no such thing. Haven’t you people ever heard of privacy? You Americans just want to barge in and fling everything open and nose around like you own the place. Just let her be. She didn’t do anything wrong. The gendarmes are bad enough and now you want to be pestering her too?”
Molly knew when to back off. “All right, thank you for your time. And again, I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening.”
Cécile looked a tiny bit mollified by this apology but turned her head and did not reply. Molly walked back to her stool.
“I could tell from here that did not go well,” said Lawrence.
“Indeed,” said Molly. “People are funny. If Cécile wanted us to leave Sarah alone, she just made the worst job of it. Now I’m desperate to talk to her, and in fact will be knocking on Sarah’s door first thing in the morning.”
“Your fiancée is contrary,” said Nico to Ben.
“Tell me about it. Your wife is the same,” said Ben.
Out of the kitchen came a platter of hot frites and another piled high with artichokes with a garlic-butter dipping sauce.
“Since when do we eat artichokes in December?” asked Molly.
“Since we made a mistake on our ordering form. They’re from Morocco and quite tasty, so dig in and help us get through the huge pile we’ve got in the cooler.
“I adore artichokes,” said Molly. “Now, what we really need to find are some people who knew the Petits. Nico? Have you run across the family at all? The children are young adults now, one at university in Bordeaux, and the other, the daughter, works in Paris. I think she’s the elder but am not certain about that.”
Nico shook his head. “A lot of the Bergeraçois consider Castillac an unsophisticated village. Socially speaking, there’s some mixing between towns, but not a huge amount. You’re going to have your work cut out for you finding out anything about them in Castillac.”
Lawrence went off to talk to another friend, Nico was serving drinks at the other end of the bar, and Molly and Ben had a moment to talk alone.
“Franck seemed like a forthright sort of fellow,” said Ben.
“Can you be forthright and a murderer?” Molly whispered.
“It’s possible. At any rate, he’s promised to send contact information so we can look at his alibi. Says he had taken a few days down at Biarritz, in advance of exams.”
“The beach? In December?”
Ben shrugged. “It takes all kinds. In my opinion—and I know, I can’t judge anything this early—Laurine wants the money, and is willing to spin a yarn to get it. I would be stunned if Franck turns out to have killed his father. He’s just…too nice a guy.”
“Do you really think anyone is too nice to commit murder?” asked Lawrence, appearing at Ben’s shoulder. “Too sensitive, maybe. Or too frightened. But ‘nice’? I don’t know. I think I’ve known plenty of nice people who were capable of appalling acts of one sort or another.”
“Just because he has a good personality and you liked him…” said Molly.
“Wait and see,” said Ben. “Spend a few hours with him and see what you think.”
“I will.” She twirled on her stool. “Life is pretty close to perfect right now, isn’t it? Artichokes, a fresh and interesting case, pleasant gîte guests…”
“And a wedding,” said Nico, who had returned to his spot in front of them.
“Right,” said Molly, reddening at having left that little detail off her list. We’re just going to have to settle this Petit business before I can really give that any time, she said to herself, taking Ben’s hand in hers and giving it a squeeze.
11
Simon Valette got up that Sunday, had coffee, and went straight to the crumbled outbuilding next to the house, which he had been working on since the first day they arrived in Castillac. It was milder s
o he did not dress warmly, knowing that lugging the heavy stones would put him into a sweat before long. Lately the Sunday routine had been for the girls to go into the village on their own, to Pâtisserie Bujold, where they would, with much discussion and solemn judgment, pick out pastries for each member of the family. On their return, all of the Valettes would sit down to a leisurely breakfast.
Simon believed the worst was over, and his family was at long last settling into life in Castillac, finding friends, and getting used to the village. It hadn’t been easy moving from Paris and leaving their glamorous lives there behind—and tragedy of several different sorts had struck once they had gotten to Castillac. But now his wife Camille seemed to be doing better, the girls were flourishing in the village school, and he continued to find the physical labor of repairing the stonework of the old manor house to be deeply rewarding.
He waved to the girls as they set off, smiling and wondering what outlandish thing they might return with—in the past, they had picked out a wedding cake someone had refused to pick up when the wedding was called off at the last minute, another time every pastry had orange icing in honor of the American Halloween.
Once Simon was warmed up, he took off his gloves. The stones tore up his hands, but he much preferred to handle them without gloves on; he liked to feel their surfaces, their temperature. He was a man lucky enough to find an endeavor that truly satisfied him. After piling stones for another twenty minutes, he decided to go inside and wash up before the girls came back. He picked up the coat he had taken off, and the gloves, and went in through the front door.
“Camille!” he called up the stairs. “The girls will be back any minute. Would you like me to bring you some coffee?” Camille usually slept late, and it was Simon’s habit to bring her coffee in bed.
No answer.
Simon was a sensitive man who did not ignore gut feelings. And his gut, at that moment, told him that the quiet in the house was not due to Camille’s still being asleep.
Something was wrong.
He raced upstairs three at a time and pushed open the bedroom door. Camille was not in bed. Wild-eyed, he ran to the bathroom, a large room with an oversized porcelain tub that Camille had retiled with the most fashionable new tile, as though her fancy Parisian friends would be trooping in any minute to admire it.
Simon found his wife slumped on the floor, ignominiously next to the toilet, her head bowed to her chest.
“Camille!” he shouted. Squatting beside her, he took her lifeless wrist and felt for a pulse—feeling nothing, he put his fingers on her neck.
“Oh Camille, what have you done?”
II
12
It was a lazy Sunday morning at La Baraque, the woodstove blazing.
Molly had made a pot of strong coffee and returned to bed, where she and Ben were discussing what to make for breakfast.
“I can’t believe it, but I don’t think I’ve ever made you waffles,” said Molly, sitting up suddenly and nearly upsetting Ben’s coffee, which was resting on his chest.
“I’ve had waffles in Brussels, many years ago. But never an American waffle. How is it served?”
“Well, the absolute best way is the way my aunt from Virginia makes them—not sweet, but instead with chicken hash on top. So good, oh my God,” said Molly, flopping back on the bed and moaning. “But I’ve got no chicken leftovers, so that’ll have to wait for another time. I do have some Vermont maple syrup squirreled away, though. Give me a minute for me to search for the waffle iron and I’ll get right on it. After breakfast, I plan to pay Sarah Berteau a visit. Hope she’s not a church-goer.”
Ben smiled and finished his coffee. “You’re always a surprise, Molly. I thought the instant you opened your eyes, you’d be wanting to tear into the Petit case with both hands, not pausing for anything as pedestrian as breakfast.”
Molly grinned. “Well, I know. And I can’t wait, actually. It’s just…I feel like I need to get some waffles in me before starting out. But I’ll be thinking about Petit in the background, of course.”
“Your multi-tasking is a thing of beauty.”
“Why, thank you, Monsieur Dufort,” she said, giving him a quick kiss before getting up and heading to the kitchen. Her cell was tucked in her bathrobe and she felt it vibrate. A text from Lawrence.
Sad to report that Camille Valette is dead.
Molly stood still, staring at the screen.
“Ben!” she yelled, running back to the bedroom. She held her phone out so he could read the text.
“Oh no. That poor family.”
“It’s just awful.” Molly went to the armoire and took out some clothes, nicer than her usual Sunday morning sweatpants. “I’ve got to get over there. Those girls are going to need—”
“You don’t think the family might want privacy?”
Molly shook her head, intent on going. All she wanted to do was gather Chloë and Giselle into her arms and stroke their hair.
She went into the bathroom for a quick shower, any thought of Sarah Berteau long gone. Then turned the water back off and said, “Do you think…we don’t even know how she died. I sort of jumped to the conclusion that she killed herself. But maybe that’s way off.”
“If you’re going to run right over there, I guess you’ll find out.”
Molly paused, trying to figure out what to make of the edge in Ben’s voice, but then thought of the girls, got back into the shower, and went on her way as quickly as she could. She would talk to him later, after she’d seen the girls and done what she could to comfort them.
She rode the scooter, wanting to feel the bracing wind on her face as she drove to the Valette’s manor house on route de Fallon, on the edge of the village. Had Camille committed suicide? It seemed the likeliest thing, knowing her history. Molly knew the woman had had suicidal bouts before. But maybe it was the wrong conclusion, and Camille had simply had a heart attack, or fallen off a ladder.
Molly could not picture the always perfectly put-together Camille doing anything on a ladder, but still.
As for murder—there was no reason to think about that, right? Molly wondered, steering through the convoluted streets of Castillac to the other side of town. No, that was crazy talk. Everyone does die in the end, she thought grimly, much as we try not to believe it deep in our hearts. And relatively few of us get hurried on our way before our natural time.
Her heart was breaking for Chloë and Giselle, though Molly knew their mother had been difficult and even cruel at times. Molly was so fond of both girls, and of Simon as well. He had some particular qualities…for one thing, devotion to his daughters. And he was easy on the eyes too, which never hurt. Not that she would ever do anything more than look, and only with objective appreciation.
Molly turned into the Valette driveway, reflexively looking at the ruin where Simon was almost always at work. But the ruin and the yard were empty. No cars besides the one Simon drove.
How in the world did Lawrence even find out about this? Was it possible his information was wrong, and she would be awkwardly barging in on a family breakfast?
But when had Lawrence ever been wrong where dead people were concerned?
Gingerly, she knocked on the front door. There was no sound from inside and Molly only heard a flock of birds chirping in a nearby bush.
She waited, feeling uncomfortable. Maybe Ben was right and she did not belong there. Just as she was about to knock one more time, the door swung open. She could see from Simon’s face that Lawrence had been correct—that tragedy, unfairly, had found the Valettes once again.
“Oh, Simon,” she said.
He reached for her and wrapped his arms around her, leaning down to rest his forehead on her shoulder. Molly was so unused to anyone French going for a hug that she stiffened slightly before hugging him back. “I’m so, so sorry,” she murmured. “What in the world happened?”
Simon took in a long breath before speaking. “I don’t know. I had no idea…she wasn’t well, of co
urse, but that had been the situation for many months. There was no new event, not that I knew about anyway. I…you know I brought the family here to Castillac, thinking that the peace and calm would help Camille. That it would protect her, and us, from this dreadful…”
“I know you did everything you could,” Molly said.
Simon let his arms drop. “I’m expecting the coroner,” he said, looking out at the road, which was quiet. “No mystery about how she died…she was holding a bottle of pills.”
“Empty?”
“Not all the way. But enough.”
“Oh, Simon. I wish there were something to say, but words seem so useless right now.”
He nodded. They were still standing in the doorway, with the door open. He motioned for her to come inside and closed the heavy door behind them.
“How did you find out?” asked Simon. “I haven’t made a single call except to the gendarmerie, where I spoke to Paul-Henri. He said he would call the coroner. Does Paul-Henri...is he some kind of Dufort/Sutton informant?” A strange look passed over Simon’s face. “Does he think…there is something amiss? Something that would require investigation? Are you and Paul-Henri—”
“We are nothing,” said Molly firmly. “We didn’t hear from him, and to be honest, Ben and I are not enormous favorites at the gendarmerie, as you might imagine. I’ll tell you how I heard—it’s Lawrence who always tells me when someone in Castillac has died. He has steadfastly refused to tell me his source, but from what you’re saying, it sounds like his contact must be in the coroner’s office. But none of this matters at all, Simon. Just please—I am here only as a friend, wishing to pay my respects and do anything I can for you and the girls. It’s all we can do in the face of terrible events, isn’t it—just show up, so people aren’t alone? And possibly brownies? I wish our powers were bigger, but that’s all I can think of right now.”
Simon looked down at the floor, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Molly was not sure he had heard her long speech, but no matter. She wondered when he had discovered the body, and whether he had even told the girls yet. Thinking probably not, since they would most likely be sticking close to their father after such a shock.
