No Honor Among Thieves

by Nell Goddin

  “Yes. I mean, that’s not all there is to it, obviously. I’m just saying that the fact that his sister is accusing him doesn’t seem crazy to me. There’s more going on with him than it appears on the surface.”

  “You could say that about all of us.”

  “Indeed,” said Molly, darkly. “Also, with this news about the kitchen window being left open—seems like that makes the neighbors a little more suspect. Do you want me to try to see Jean Chavanne? I know, I know, all the neighbors and everyone else in the world couldn’t stand Petit, but Chavanne was going around talking about poisoning Petit’s dog.”

  Ben scratched his chin. “That’s an entirely different thing from bashing someone’s head in with an ashtray.”

  “Well, obviously.”

  They glared at each other.

  “I’m saying that poisoning a dog—that’s a classic passive aggressive maneuver. Whereas—”

  “I get it, I get it,” said Molly. “Listen, I can’t talk more now, I’ve arranged to meet with Angela about the flowers.” She took a deep breath and then went to Ben and kissed him. “Love you. See you tonight.”

  It was still just as cold outside but Molly craved the wind in her face. She took the scooter, pushing it as fast as it would go, darting through the streets of Castillac to Angela Langevin’s florist shop. She loved flowers and being in the shop, breathing in the mixture of various scents.

  “Molly!” said Angela, ushering her inside and then grasping her arms as she kissed both cheeks. “I’m so looking forward to providing the flowers for your wedding. I do have one of the best jobs imaginable, so often being able to add some beauty to a joyful occasion.”

  Molly looked at her. She didn’t want to have the thought, but it came crowding in, insistently, whether she wanted it or not: was Ben having an affair? And did anyone in Castillac know about it?

  Was her wedding going to end up being a joke, with her as the punchline—? The bride who was the last to find out?

  She calmed herself down long enough to talk flowers and gossip just a bit with Angela, who had inside information on various village love affairs and anonymous senders of bouquets.

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve never met any of the Petits, though of course I heard about the terrible event in Bergerac,” Angela said. “What I would say is—go see Madame Tessier. If there’s any old history you should know about, she’ll be the one to tell you.”

  “I went by but she was out,” said Molly. “I’ll try her again, thanks. Glad to hear your daughter is doing so well, and I’m very excited about the flowers, I love peonies so much and I know you will make things look absolutely beautiful.”

  “You’re brave to hold the party in your house. You sure you don’t want to find someplace larger, with a commercial kitchen?”

  Molly shrugged. “It’s not going to be that elaborate. I shouldn’t even call it a wedding—we’re going to have the ceremony at the mairie, just the two of us, and then the party after.”

  “What about your families?”

  “Well, Ben’s father is the only remaining parent, and he’s down in Toulouse…”

  “Surely he will come back to the village!” Angela was scandalized.

  “Hopefully. Of course he’ll be invited. But we…we want the whole thing to be low-key. Second marriage for me, you know,” she added, thinking of Donny for the first time in what felt like ages, and smiling because the memory wasn’t at all painful anymore.

  “Well, I don’t know what Castillac is going to do after you and Ben get hitched. All the old ladies will have to pick out someone else to focus their wedding energies on.”

  “Are you saying I’ve been some sort of target?”

  Angela laughed. “Oh my, yes,” she said, laughing again. “The prayers said on your and Ben’s behalf…and spells cast too, I would bet…well, let’s just say I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t gotten engaged. There was far too much old lady power working toward that end.”

  “Heavens. All right,” Molly said, looking at her phone to see the time. “I’m off to Madame Tessier’s. Might have to swing by Pâtisserie Bujold on my way, for fortification.”

  “I think it would be wise,” said Angela, closing the door after her, and watching as Molly tightened her scarf and got back on the scooter, which was covered with a sheen of frost.

  Luckily, Madame Tessier was at home, snuggled by a fire with a book and a cup of tea. She brightened when she saw it was Molly and hurried her inside where it was warm.

  “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” the old woman chided. “The minute I heard you and Ben were on the Petit case, I thought you’d be banging down my door.”

  “I did come, a few days ago,” said Molly, taking off her coat and then her sweater, for the room was nearly as warm as a sauna. “Sorry I missed you. And I’m hoping that you’re telling me this because you’ve got something juicy.”

  “Tea?” Madame Tessier asked, wanting to prolong the delicious moment of Molly’s deep attention.

  Molly said yes though she did not like tea. The last thing she wanted was Madame Tessier to get distracted and want a long discussion about tea versus coffee.

  While her friend was in the kitchen, Molly looked around the small room. The wallpaper had tiny maroon fleur-de-lis on a cream background; even the ceiling was papered. Madame Tessier’s chair was an ornately-carved dark wood with green velvet upholstery. It looked old but sturdy. With some surprise, Molly didn’t see any photographs, and she realized she didn’t know anything about Madame Tessier’s family.

  But today was not the day to ask.

  “So, as you know, I was a schoolteacher for many years,” Madame Tessier said upon coming back with a hot cup of tea and giving it to Molly. “And that gives me quite an interesting knowledge about many in the village. I knew them when they were still forming, you see. And I have found, over the years—perhaps unfortunately—that people don’t change all that much over time. A cheat in primaire turns out to be an embezzler. A bully remains a bully.”

  “Not such a rosy outlook for humanity,” said Molly, sipping the tea and trying not to grimace.

  “Have you found otherwise? I ask sincerely.”

  “Well…I would have to say I don’t really know. I’ve known some people for a very long time—Frances and I have been friends for many years. And…she is pretty much the same,” said Molly, laughing, because it was so true. “Not that she hasn’t matured, but I see what you’re saying—the essence of her is the same.”

  “Precisely,” said Madame Tessier, her eyes lighting up.

  “But I’m not so sure I agree that people are incapable of change,” said Molly. “At least, that seems fairly depressing.”

  “Just because we are not cheered by an idea does not mean it isn’t true,” said Madame Tessier.

  Molly had a clear picture of what her presence in the classroom must have been—not terribly strict, but intent on leading her students to the water, where they might drink in spite of themselves. “So…the Petits? I wondered whether you knew them, since they were not based in Castillac.”

  “True, they were not. But schoolteachers tend to make friends with each other, as people in similar lines of work tend to do. I have many friends who live and work in Bergerac. And one of them taught both Franck and Laurine Petit, when they were just starting lycée.”

  “That would be…around fourteen years old?”

  “Yes.” Madame Tessier took a slow sip of her tea.

  Molly edged up on her seat, then pulled her collar out from her neck to try to get a little air under her blouse. It was very hot in the room and her cheeks were flushing.

  “And?” Molly said finally.

  “What I remember…let’s see, it was many years ago, but I remember it still. This dear friend told me that one of her students had been arrested for shoplifting. Laurine Petit. I’m positive it was her.”

  Molly’s spirits sagged but she did not let on. “Well, but…a teenager, sho
plifting? That’s…at least in America, that’s rather common. I’m not excusing it, not in the least, but at the same time…”

  “You don’t think it is meaningful?”

  “It could be,” said Molly. She realized that she was minimizing the shoplifting because she had thought Madame Tessier would tell her something bad about Franck, not Laurine. “Do you know any of the details? Was it a large amount she stole? What was the punishment?”

  Madame Tessier filled her in on what she knew, but there was nothing unexpected. A suspension from school, a curfew, repayment, and it was over.

  “But you see, I never forget these things,” said Madame Tessier. “I don’t want to give you the impression that I insist she cannot change or that she will end up a thief because she made a mistake early in life. That is not what I am saying, Molly.”

  “No? I thought you just—”

  Madame Tessier waved her hand. “People do have the capacity to change course. But there will be indications of that in their subsequent choices and actions. I have no information on how Laurine Petit acquitted herself once she left Bergerac—I understand she works in fashion? Do you know what her specific job is?”

  “I believe she works for an agency. I don’t know any more than that. All right, so you mention indications—could you talk about what the subtler forms of that might look like? I mean, okay, if someone renounces all worldly goods and becomes a monk, we know they’ve made a change. But what if the change isn’t so dramatic? Or—it is a substantive change, but it’s internal. That could be very hard for anyone else to see, unless they were interacting regularly with the person.”

  Madame Tessier leaned back in her chair with a slight smile. “That is what is so interesting about people, Molly. So much can be going on under the surface that we cannot see. Sometimes they do something that brings clarity, but sometimes…as you know very well, sometimes it might not come to light until they are arrested for murder.”

  Molly nodded slowly. “I think I see what you mean,” she said. “And you’re entirely right, you’re describing one of the things I love about my job—simply understanding people and why they do what they do.”

  “And it goes without saying, though I will whisper it to you nonetheless: that the interesting moments come when a person has violated our most sacred rules. If were just a little younger, I would be absolutely clamoring to be part of your team with Ben. It is without doubt the most fascinating work of all.”

  “Dufort, Sutton, and Tessier. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

  The old woman closed her eyes and smiled, and when Molly opened her mouth to say something else, she saw that Madame Tessier was sound asleep.

  20

  Molly and Ben had agreed to meet for dinner at Chez Papa. Molly arrived without going home first, and found the bar crowded with a tourist group from London.

  “Bonsoir, Nico,” she called over the din. He jerked his head at her and kept taking orders for drinks.

  Molly looked for Frances at her spot at the end of the bar, but her friend was nowhere to be seen. No sign either of Lapin or his wife Anne-Marie, no Lawrence, not even anyone she recognized from the village but had not yet met. She parked herself on a stool and waited for Nico to have time to make her a kir.

  “Hullo, hope you don’t mind my saying so but you’re not from around here, are you?” said a lanky man dressed in vintage tweed.

  “I am and I am not,” said Molly. “Molly Sutton, formerly of Boston, Massachusetts, now of Castillac.” She held out her hand and the man grinned.

  “My name’s Reginald. I’m with this group of nutters,” he said, gesturing with his elbow. “We’re taking a week’s trip, and I’m glad it’s before Christmas, because I plan to spend Christmas Day binge-watching movies and eating crackers in bed.”

  Molly laughed. “That sounds lovely, actually. I do love Christmas. But I know what you mean, the pressure of all the traditions can be a bit oppressive.”

  “Exactly!” said Reginald, his face lighting up.

  “That’s one reason I moved to another country, to shake things up a bit. I enjoy Christmas ten times more now, because all the traditions are fresh and new to me.”

  “You’re not like other people, Molly Sutton.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She saw Ben come through the door, and people shivered from the gust of cold air he let in with him.

  “Let me introduce my fiancé, Ben Dufort. This is Reginald, from—where are you from?”

  They were all distracted by the sudden noise of accordion music coming from the back room. Several of the Brits, on their second cocktail, started to dance.

  “I thought on a weeknight, we might have a calm evening here, but you never know, sometimes Chez Papa can get insane. It seems to happen out of nowhere.” But Reginald was pulled off by a young woman and was waving his long arms around in something approximating dance. Molly laughed and turned to Ben.

  “I’m happy to see you,” she said, leaning close to his ear to speak, and then kissing it.

  He took her hands and squeezed them.

  Nico slid a kir in front of Molly and apologized to Ben, saying he’d get him his beer but there were four people in line ahead of him.

  “Do you want to go somewhere else?” asked Molly. “It’s so loud, I don’t think we’re going to be able to go over the case like we planned.”

  “We don’t have to work every minute,” said Ben, folding Molly’s warm hands in his cold ones.

  Another gust of freezing air, and Paul-Henri was standing in front of the door. He jerked the hem of his jacket down and surveyed the room with an unhappy expression on his face.

  “Paul-Henri!” called Molly, waving him over. “We don’t usually have the pleasure of seeing you out and about. How goes the gendarmerie of Castillac these days? Things been quiet?”

  Paul-Henri shrugged. “If you mean have we had anything of interest occur, I would say no. And that, as surely you will agree, is mostly a good thing.” He tried to catch Nico’s eye but failed.

  “Yet you don’t seem altogether pleased.”

  “If you had had to spend half a day talking to Lucie Severin about her garden gnomes, I believe you might be feeling rather sour yourself,” he snapped. “You know what it’s like,” he said to Ben. “You go through rigorous training, you want to be ready at any moment to help people, to protect the safety of civilians, to uphold the laws of La Belle France. And what you end up spending your time doing is returning a dog for the ten millionth time, and having endless conversations about the placement of garden gnomes. It’s dispiriting, that’s all. So, as a way to change up my routine, I thought I would drop in here and see what was going on. I had no idea the place was so lively.”

  “It’s not usually,” said Molly. “Often it’s so quiet you can hear a fly buzz.”

  “I believe the cold has killed all the flies,” said Paul-Henri. “At any rate, Madame Severin wants me to do a stakeout in her garden, to catch whoever is fiddling with her gnomes. It took a solid half hour to convince her that this was not a good use of a gendarme’s time, since there was no harm attached to the act.”

  “Tell you what,” said Molly. “Why don’t you hand that problem off to me? I agree, your time would be much better spent in other pursuits. And—you don’t think there’s actually anything to the problem but a bored child trying to stir the pot?”

  “How could it be otherwise?”

  “If you’re in agreement, I’ll go talk to Lucie and see what I can do.”

  Paul-Henri made a small bow. “I would be quite grateful, Molly,” he said.

  “Alfie!” shouted a young woman, and they all turned toward the door. A large man came lumbering in, squinting into the crowd and then moving to her table.

  “Who’s that guy?” Molly asked. “I know it’s terribly judgmental of me, but I don’t like his face.”

  “Your judgment is excellent, as ever,” said Ben. “That’s Alfie Welton, one of the guys Fletcher
Barstow has brought to our village. Passes bad checks, been arrested for fraud. And possibly for threatening behavior? Now that I’m not looking over the data from the gendarmerie every morning, it’s difficult to keep track.”

  “What in the world brought the Barstows to Castillac, anyway?”

  Ben shrugged. “They’ve been here, oh, fifteen years at least. Came from the south of England, if I remember correctly. He’s like a fungus you can’t get rid of, no matter what you throw at it.”

  Molly laughed. “I just hate the idea of Malcolm being around these people,” she said quietly, but it was too loud for any real conversation and she gave up. She had wanted to tell him about Laurine being arrested for shoplifting, but in all the hubbub, with the accordion player showing no sign of flagging and the room more and more crowded with dancers, whooping and laughing—that conversation was going to have to wait.

  21

  Camille Valette’s funeral was private, attended only by Simon and his daughters. They were not close to the limited extended family, which was almost entirely on Camille’s side. More than anything, Simon just wanted to get the formalities over with and try to begin making a normal life with his daughters. Eventually, however, he was convinced by his cook, Merla, to have at least a small reception at the house so that their Castillac friends could come pay their respects. It was held on a Thursday afternoon, when many were working and not able to attend; Merla pointed this out but Simon ignored her.

  So on that Thursday, Merla and her daughter Ophélie arrived just after Simon had returned from taking the girls to school.

  “Shall we go over the menu?” said Merla to Simon, after bringing him a fresh cup of strong coffee. “It’s simple, as you requested. Crudités, of course. Chips because the girls love them so. I did make a pâté with truffles, and will toast some bread to spread it on. Some individual cheesecakes with a dab of chocolate sauce and raspberry—”

  “This does not sound so simple,” said Simon, but his expression was soft. “I’m sure it will be wonderful, and the guests will enjoy it. As will I,” he added. “If there’s nothing else? You and Ophélie can handle setting everything out? I would like to spend some time in my room alone. I…I am not looking forward to this occasion, as you might imagine. I need to prepare myself for an onslaught of questions I do not want to answer.”