No Honor Among Thieves

by Nell Goddin

  “Window?” said Molly, trying to catch up. “You left open a window? The night Petit—”

  “Yes, at least I think it was me. When I came in that morning—the morning I found him—the kitchen window was open. It could have been himself who opened it, you see, that’s what I keep telling myself…”

  Hmm, thought Molly. Looks and feels like a robbery, doesn’t it? A burglar sees an open window, figures why not? And then decides to put Petit out of the way, make the job easier. Might not be personal at all.

  Molly asked a few more questions, did her best to comfort Sarah, thanked her, and went to see if she could find some of the neighbors.

  First thing was to walk over to rue Lafayette to see Petit’s house for the first time. The house was close to the center of the town, on a street that would be very pretty in the warm months when the plane trees leafed out and cast their dappled shadows on the sidewalk. Cars were parked somewhat helter-skelter; Molly always appreciated the disdain the French seemed to have for parking stripes.

  So here was the Petit house. Molly stood across the street and gazed at the front. Blue shutters were closed on all three floors. The building was a little unusual for the area, an orangey terracotta with a slate roof. Two evergreen topiaries stood in spirals next to the front door, which was a dark blue, almost black. Everything, to Molly’s eye, looked well cared for and in order, and showed a hint of an aesthetic sensibility.

  She crossed the street, looking out for any neighbors, but saw no one. Her ears were freezing, and she unwrapped her scarf and put it over her head, babushka-style, to protect them from the wind whipping up rue Lafayette.

  Molly stepped up to the door and leaned to the side, hoping to see behind the shutters, but they were shut tight and she was prevented from peeking in. The house was connected to Blanchon’s to the left side; on the right a narrow passageway—gated and locked—went between the next house, which was also three stories high, made of gray stone. There was no way to get to the backyard from the front. She would have to walk around to the end of the block and hope for an alley or perhaps a narrow way between other houses leading to whatever was behind the house.

  On the parallel street, she did find a passageway between two beautiful limestone mansions, and quickly made her way through before anyone saw her. But the backyard of Petit’s house was hidden by a stone wall with an ancient and very substantial gate, wooden and studded with iron. With a sigh, Molly turned around, studying the neighbors’ houses for a moment before going back the way she had come.

  If only it weren’t so cold, and people—talkative and observant people—were on the street!

  Just then, a man emerged from the house three doors down from Petit, his neck wrapped with a scarf and a cap pulled down almost over his eyes. Molly hurried to catch up with him.

  “Excuse me for bothering you, Monsieur,” she said, “but can you tell me which way is the nearest café? I fear I will freeze solid if I don’t drink something warm very quickly.”

  The man had started to scowl, but once Molly said those magic words of apology for interrupting his solitude, his expression softened. “You are American, yes?”

  “I am! But I am a little miffed you could tell so quickly.”

  The man laughed. “Your French is quite good, Madame, do not worry yourself. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Claude Blanchon. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Molly grinned, the polite French way of introductions never getting old. “Molly Sutton,” she said, holding out a gloved hand for him to shake. “Pleased to meet you. So what gave me away as American? I mean, I would understand if I had tried to say écureuil, Monsieur Blanchon, I’ll never be able to pronounce that as long as I live. But even the squirrels are hiding in this weather.”

  Claude smiled and graciously deigned to answer. “Call me Claude, please. I will lead you to a café. It is not the best Bergerac has to offer, but it is close.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur!” Molly let them take a few steps in silence before venturing to the subject of Petit. No doubt it would be wise to wait longer, but patience was never one of Molly’s great strengths. “I couldn’t help noticing…you’re a neighbor of Bernard Petit?”

  “Ah,” he said, “Yes. A terrible business.”

  Molly thought his expression closed up somewhat, but that could be for a million reasons, including the gust of frigid air that hit them as they turned a corner.

  “I should say upfront that I am a private investigator, hired by his children.”

  Claude gave her an appraising look. “I think it might be productive for you to have coffee with me.”

  “I would be very grateful,” said Molly. “Is the café close? Because honestly, I haven’t felt this cold since I left Boston.”

  In November there were no tables with umbrellas on the sidewalk, but Molly did spy a place just ahead that had a stack of chairs beside the building, presumably ready to set out if things warmed up. Quickly they went inside and Molly inhaled the always-delicious smell of espresso and sugar.

  The place was a little on the shabby side, but that wasn’t something Molly worried about, having learned long ago that the state of the decoration was not necessarily indicative of the quality of the offerings. They ordered espressos and sat at a tiny table by the window.

  “I’m afraid it is drafty just here,” said Claude. “But I like to see who is coming and going.”

  “Maybe you are in espionage,” said Molly, joking. But Claude did not smile, or respond.

  Molly forced herself to stay quiet. Eventually he said, “I will tell you at the beginning that I have no knowledge of Bernard’s murder, or any ideas of who might have done it. But what I can do, which I hope will be helpful, is give you a bit of background. I have lived in my house since I was a child, and so was Bernard’s neighbor for nearly too many years to count.”

  “Were you friendly?”

  As the server placed their espressos on the table, Claude tipped his head back and laughed. “Perhaps your research is only just beginning? You do not yet realize that your victim was not a man that anyone was friendly with. Friendliness was simply not the cloth Bernard was cut from.”

  “I have heard this, yes. I’ve been wondering if it’s really possible that the number of friends he had was zero. Some people can be grouchy to the world at large, but manage to have a small number of—”

  “Not Bernard,” said Claude, slapping his hand on the table for emphasis and making their little cups rattle. “Neighbors…there are unspoken rules, yes? Boundaries that go beyond the physical? Bernard paid no attention to any of this. You could be leaving your house, full of a satisfying lunch and feeling pleased with the world, and Bernard would come barreling down at you, back you up against a wall, and berate you. He ruined more days than I can count. And lest you think it was only me, or that I had wronged him in some way: ask any of the residents of the block. They will tell you.”

  “Berate you about what?”

  “Oh, claiming he spied you littering. Or that the bushes in your backyard needed trimming. That your windows needed washing, your children’s clothes were dirty, your wife needed a haircut. That he had heard odd sounds coming from your house, or seen a stranger lurking by your front door. It was all lies, Molly. He would say anything that came into his head, just to annoy people, get under their skin.”

  “Wow. That’s…I’ve never heard of anyone quite like that.”

  “Indeed.” Claude polished off his espresso. “Needless to say, his children suffered. Many of the neighbors tried, as best they could, to at least be kind to them, and invite them over for an hour or so, just to give them a respite. We could hear the yelling. I believe he beat them mercilessly, especially the son.”

  Molly was shaking her head. “It’s bad enough he was making everyone on the block miserable. But when people treat their own children like that…it makes me want to dig him up and kill him all over again.”

  Claude nodded. “You’ve got
your work cut out for you, Molly Sutton. Virtually anyone who ever came in contact with Bernard Petit wanted to kill him. I’m afraid your list of suspects is going to be virtually bottomless.”

  Molly managed a sort of smile but it faded quickly. The truth was, she usually relished a difficult case like this one, but she had a wedding to plan and a honeymoon to go on. She and Ben did not have the luxury of many months to sort the murder out, not if they wanted to get married according to schedule.

  And as much as she kept putting off making the arrangements, Molly did not want to put off the actual wedding. You didn’t need to be superstitious to believe that was a terrible idea.

  “You might want to ask Jean a few questions,” Claude offered, with a deprecating shrug.

  “Who is Jean?”

  “Jean Chavanne, Petit’s neighbor to the east. The limestone manor with the green door. No one likes that color green. Anyway—I’ve heard Jean talk about wanting to poison Petit’s dog, as revenge for all the trouble he’s caused.”

  Molly frowned. “Dog?”

  “Oh, Bernard used to have one,” said Claude with a wave. “Maybe it died last year? A scruffy little thing, if you stood still it would hump your leg,” he said. “I much prefer cats, myself. At any rate, I can’t say whether Jean was actually considering poisoning the creature, or if he did, in fact, carry out the plan. But I can say he talked about it with relish. And then there was that whole business about the tree…”

  “Tree?”

  “You’ll have to talk to Jean about that. I heard them talking about that damn tree for what seems like years. They both like to argue. Jean had to know there wasn’t a chance in hell that Bernard was going to cut that tree down, not once he knew Jean wanted him to.”

  Molly nodded, thinking this over. “I’m starting to see why he was so universally disliked, though I must say I don’t think I’ve ever known someone this awful. Was there anyone at all who didn’t mind him?”

  Claude made an exaggerated Gallic shrug. “If that person exists, I have not met him,” he said. “As I said, your work is cut out for you, I’m afraid.”

  Claude Blanchon took his leave and Molly got another espresso and sat at the table by the window, her thoughts ranging all over the place, from whether Petit’s killer was one of the children he mistreated so terribly, to the warm (all right, maybe more than warm) look on Simon’s face the day before, to what kind of flowers she should have at the wedding. It was not market day in Bergerac and the cold streets were bare, so her perch by the window afforded no people-watching.

  Over-caffeinated and without a clear idea of what to do next, Molly paid her bill and started to leave, just as a couple in their twenties was coming through the door. They were warmly dressed and quickly peeled off their coats; the man’s sleeves were rolled up and Molly noticed a dragon tattoo on his forearm. The woman with him had paint on her blue jeans—not house paint, but small dabs of color—an artist.

  Molly paused with her hand on the door handle. She was very much in the mood for eavesdropping (and not freezing to death), and so even though she knew it was unlikely that the pair had anything to do with Petit’s murder or had any connection to him at all, she decided to buy a pain au chocolat at the counter and sit back down.

  The couple was affectionate, arms around each other as they ordered their coffee and pastries. Molly pretended to study a flyer she picked up from a stack by the door (a meeting about communism) and once they had chosen a table she sat close by, not making eye contact.

  Pain au chocolat—so commonplace in France, and Molly had certainly eaten her share of them after arriving in Castillac—but their ubiquity did nothing to dull their sublime deliciousness. And despite Claude’s poor opinion of the café, Molly found this particular one to be exceptional: the slight bitterness of the chocolate accented by the salty, buttery leaves of pastry, the textures of crispness and softness a perfect counterpoint. She got so lost in her enjoyment that she missed the first part of the couple’s conversation, though it seemed to be about a rock concert they wanted to see in Angoulême and the list of chores they planned to accomplish before lunch.

  Not very inspiring eavesdropping, she thought. I should have gotten Blanchon’s number…but I did see which house was his. I suppose what I should be doing instead of lounging around eating pain au chocolat is trying to find other neighbors, and see if they tell the same story as Blanchon. And finding this dog-poisoner, Jean Chavanne. But it’s so warm in here….

  Again she thought of Simon and the way he had looked at her.

  It was flattering, that went without saying. Simon was a very attractive man, and wildly successful. He had those beautiful, precious girls. Again Molly could see walking straight into the life of that family, almost as though the photograph was already taken and she was slipping into it, quietly while no one was looking, taking her place next to Simon with her hands lovingly resting on the girls’ shoulders.

  She was not going to do this. Of course she was not. Not only because it would be such a terrible betrayal of Ben and she would never be able to hold her head up in Castillac ever again—but because Ben was the man she loved, battered Renault and somewhat checkered career included.

  This was not in doubt.

  But, she thought, lingering for just a moment at the prospect of how Chloë and Giselle might react if she were to—

  Oh, just stop it, she said to herself. Molly scowled, angry at herself for the indulgence of imagining a road not taken. It was really only her profound desire for children that set her thinking off like this. The prospect of a ready-made family…it wasn’t tempting, exactly, because she was committed to Ben. Not tempting to act on, but to contemplate.

  And perhaps, in the back of her mind, that robotic voice and its insinuations about Ben’s fidelity were throwing her off. She didn’t have to believe whoever it was, though. She should, out of respect for Ben if nothing else, put that voice and its lies right out of her head. She did not doubt him—it was only her own insecurities getting in the way, that was clear enough, though somehow the knowledge did not soothe her.

  17

  That evening, Ben was out having an apéro with some of his friends, and Frances took the opportunity to come to La Baraque for some girl-time with Molly.

  “I haven’t been ignoring you,” she said, after they kissed cheeks and Molly had closed the door against the cold wind. “I’ve been going gangbusters on a series of jingles—I think they’re the best I’ve ever done. People are going to be cursing my earworms for eternity!” she said, letting out a malevolent cackle.

  “Did it ever occur to you to think that you are not sending a positive energy into this world?”

  “Oh, don’t be a stick in the mud. It’s just jingles, for crying out loud. You look glum. Why, Miss Molly? You know you can’t hide from me. I see the glum. Explain.”

  Molly smiled falsely and turned to the refrigerator. “You’re seeing things. I’m not glum at all. What would you like to drink?”

  “Oh, please. You have a fresh murder and a wedding right around the corner. You should be grinning your head off like a crazy fool. But you are not.” Frances came around the counter and looked hard at her friend. “Spill it, Molls. Has Ben done something stupid? You know men can do that sometimes, even when getting married is the very thing they want.”

  Molly opened her mouth and closed it again. She wanted to tell Frances about the robotic voice, wanted to play it for her and have her mock its ridiculousness. But at the same time, she didn’t want to admit she had given it any attention at all, that it was, in fact, making her a little crazy.

  “Okay then,” said Frances, knowing when to retreat and regroup. “So tell me about the case. Any strange psychological goings-on you’d like to talk through with me?”

  Well,” said Molly, pulling out the crème de cassis and a cheap bottle of sparkling white. “The thing is, everyone hated this man. He was a monumental jerk to everyone, apparently. How Ben and I are going to
weed anyone out, I just don’t know. I suppose the case is going to be all about opportunity, because motive? The entire world has one.”

  “Is there any physical evidence? He was killed in his own house, right? So fingerprints, DNA, all that stuff?”

  “Ben’s got a contact at the Bergerac gendarmerie, so hopefully if anything turns up, we’ll hear about it.”

  “Seems a little strange, doesn’t it, that the family would hire you right from the get-go? I mean—no slam to your talents and all, but you’d think they’d want to see if the cops could solve the case first, for free.”

  Molly shrugged. She had thought the same thing but when Frances said it, it was annoying.

  “I’m just saying—it’s the daughter who hired, you, right? What’s the chick got to gain by hiring you?”

  “There’s money involved.”

  “Bien sûr.”

  “Did you just say words? In French?”

  Frances looked smug.

  “You don’t speak French.”

  “It was just two little words. I still don’t speak French.”

  “Whew. I thought I might have landed in bizarro world there for a second.” Molly laughed and finally got around to pouring them kirs. “Does Nico speak French with you a lot?”

  “All the time. When he’s not blathering on in Italian. I’m gonna be multilingual before long whether I like it or not. Marriage has its effects.”

  Molly chewed on the side of mouth, then took a sip of her kir.

  “Okay, now be honest. Do I detect some foot-dragging? Aren’t you excited about getting married? People are talking, you know.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “The guest list of course, silly rabbit. Everyone at Chez Papa is desperately worried they won’t make the list. It’s right around the corner, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yet more French. What in the world.”

  “That just slipped out. And quit changing the subject.”

  “Well, no—there’s no foot-dragging. At least on my side. It’s true that Ben is terrified, but it’s only the wedding part that makes him nervous.”