No Honor Among Thieves

by Nell Goddin

  “Yes, I understand,” said Merla. “We will take care of everything, and clean up afterwards, of course. Please, Monsieur Valette…” but she could think of no words to comfort him, and made a quick nod and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Simon did not come down for lunch. At three o’clock, the appointed hour, the dining room table had platters of food neatly arranged, and on the sideboard wine and apéritifs stood next to several dozen crystal glasses. The girls walked home from school on their own, and made their way down the driveway with some apprehension.

  “It’s funny having a party for a dead person,” said Chloë, as the house came into view.

  “It’s not for her. It’s for us,” said Giselle.

  “I love parties. I love love love them. But I don’t know about this. Will there be cake?”

  Giselle put an arm around her sister’s shoulders and said nothing. A car turned down the drive, followed by another, and in short order, the dining room was full of neighbors and friends, and the initially muted sound of their conversation gave way to the more usual sounds of a party.

  Simon stood at the front door, kissing cheeks and shaking hands with everyone in turn. It was awkward much of the time, since many of the guests did not have experience with a suicide and weren’t sure what to say. Simon adopted a posture and way of speaking that was appreciative, but dignified and somewhat distant. The first moment he brightened was when he saw Molly’s car turn into the drive.

  “Merci, mes amis,” he said to her and Ben as they came up the front steps.

  “We’re so sorry,” said Ben. “I wish there were other words to say.”

  Simon shrugged, his eyes on Molly. “She is at peace now, that is all we can tell ourselves.”

  “Yes,” said Ben. There was an awkward moment while all three looked down at their shoes and did not speak.

  “Well, we’ll just go on in, this weather is continuing to be ridiculous,” said Molly, taking Ben’s arm and going inside.

  Simon watched her walk away, then adjusted his face and turned to the two couples coming up the walkway toward him.

  “I don’t know what it is, but I’m always starving at funerals,” Molly whispered to Ben. “Look, there’s Lapin.” She scooped up a healthy portion of Merla’s pâté on a piece of buttered toast, and headed past the dining room and into the small adjoining library. “Bonjour, Lapin! I haven’t seen you in ages. Now that you’re married you hardly ever come to Chez Papa. And bonjour Anne-Marie—I blame his absence squarely on you.”

  “Bonjour, La Bombe,” Lapin said, with a sly smile. And she grinned back; it had been a long time since he’d called her that, and it reminded her of her early days in Castillac, when her impression of Lapin had been less than positive but she had been so happy to be in France, and intoxicated with her new village.

  “I admit, we’re still acting like newlyweds,” said Anne-Marie, tightening her arm around Lapin’s expansive waist. “In fact, now that we’ve shown up and paid our respects, maybe we could head home, chérie?”

  “I have to put a little time in at the shop,” Lapin answered. “But yes indeed, let’s take off. A shipment came in this morning I need to deal with, and then I’m all yours.”

  They giggled—giggled!—and said goodbye before Molly could ask them whether they knew any of the Petits.

  And yet, she thought, gazing around the room and seeing Ben deep in conversation with Rémy—perhaps she could relax for just a moment. Make an effort to be there for the girls and Simon instead of trying to work in questions about the case whenever she could.

  Giselle was across the room, her face tilted up to an old neighbor as she listened to him speak. She wore a silk dress Molly had seen before, the sash tied in a limp bow in back. The sight nearly broke Molly’s heart: the girl still so innocent, and doing her very best to be polite and attentive even on this day memorializing her mother’s death. Her mother, who had abandoned her in the cruelest way possible.

  She wondered where Chloë was, and wandered from room to room looking for her. She was not in the kitchen, the dining room, the library. It was too cold to be outside. Molly looked around to make sure no one was looking and slipped upstairs, going first to the girls’ room, but Chloë was not there.

  Molly paused by Simon and Camille’s bedroom door. She pushed on it with her fingertips and it creaked open a few inches. She pushed a little harder, and could see the damask curtains, elegant and expensive-looking. For some reason, Molly felt a need to see the spot where Camille died, and she walked quickly into Simon’s room, understanding full well she should not be doing so, and into the adjoining bathroom.

  The white tile floor was spotless, the sink did not have so much as a water spot. A navy blue towel was folded neatly over a small wicker chair in the corner. There was a large tub with feet, a shower with a glass door, and a long narrow mirror. For just a second, Molly envisioned Camille, lifeless on the floor, and her husband dropping to his knees beside her.

  Then Molly moved quickly back through the bedroom and down the stairs. She glanced in the dining room for Ben but did not see him.

  “I figured holding this thing in the middle of the afternoon would be enough to discourage people from coming,” Simon said, appearing at her elbow.

  “You underestimate how little there is to do in Castillac this time of year,” she answered. “Wait, that sounded so rude. What I meant was—”

  But Simon was smiling. “I understand,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  “You have many friends here,” she said. “People who care about you.”

  “I hope so,” Simon said, looking deep into her eyes and putting his hand on her forearm. “I hope so very much.”

  “Good to see you, Simon,” said a gruff voice, and Simon dropped his hand. Molly turned to the voice—it was Monsieur Gradin, a local contractor—and saw Ben right behind him, his expression stony.

  Had he been watching her? Had he heard—but Simon hadn’t done anything, hadn’t said anything, not really. And neither had she, she thought with an edge of defiance.

  “I was looking for Chloë, actually,” she said to all of them. “Have any of you seen her?” But she did not wait for an answer, because Molly realized, in the moment of asking the question, where the girl was. Molly walked into the dining room and peeked under the tablecloth. There was Chloë, sitting with her feet tucked under her, leaning against the pillar at the center of the table, holding a stuffed lamb and sucking her thumb.

  “Dearest,” said Molly quietly. “Would you like to come out and tell me which sweet you like best? And once you’ve picked something out for me, perhaps I could eat it in your room, where it’s not so crowded?”

  Chloë had yanked her thumb from her mouth the instant she saw Molly. “Yes, it’s the one with raspberry, not the one with chocolate,” she said, with some authority.

  “I thought you were devoted to chocolate,” said Molly as the girl climbed out from under the table.

  “I am,” said Chloë, as though Molly has said something remarkably obtuse. They got a plate with several of the raspberry cheesecakes, and went upstairs to the girls’ room.

  A million questions flashed through Molly’s mind but she had the presence of mind and sensitivity not to ask them. Camille Valette had been a complicated woman, and unwell. She had treated her beautiful girls very badly at times, and Molly couldn’t help feeling a slight glow of relief that she would no longer be around to hurt them. At the same time, she understood that the girls loved their mother anyway, as children do.

  “Tell me about your lamb,” Molly said, when they had almost finished their cheesecakes. “What kind of fellow is he?”

  “He’s not a fellow,” said Chloë, horrified. “She’s a baby girl. And a fox came and ate up her mother, so now she only has me.”

  Tears sprang to Molly’s eyes and she discreetly wiped them away, then put her arms around the girl and hugged her tight.

  22

  The following morning
, Ben was up before Molly, drinking coffee and staring out the French doors to the meadow behind the house. Eventually he loaded up the woodstove to warm up the room, pulled out his notebook, and read through the last few days’ scribblings.

  “Morning,” said a groggy Molly, still in pajamas and robe, stumbling for the French press that still had a cup it in, reasonably warm.

  “Bonjour,” said Ben, but did not look up.

  Molly had a pretty good idea what that meant, but she was only half awake and decided to let it go for the moment. “So,” she said, with something of a false note of cheerfulness in her voice, “as long as it’s still crazy cold out there, I propose we spend the morning looking at those Petit videos you unearthed. I know you’ve already seen them, but you were looking for a petty thief back then. Don’t you think it’s possible we might see something useful, with the new perspective of his murder?”

  Ben took a moment to answer. “Possibly,” he said. “But remember, I watched the tapes during the investigation almost daily. If there was nothing there, I let the system tape over it. So the number of tapes I ended up with is not large.”

  “Well, so much the better, I guess.” Molly sat down next to him and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Ben made the gesture of kissing her back, then got up to fish in the box of tapes for the first one, and put it in the machine. “It’s too bad the cameras were broken. He could have caught his own murderer!”

  “Well, here’s hoping the killer was lurking around months before. Probably a waste of time, but let’s watch anyway.”

  On the television screen the backyard of the Petit house appeared. The view was narrow, showing a small walkway next to the house and part of the lawn. A cypress on the left, a large ceramic pot with a vine spilling over the side. Ben and Molly said nothing but kept their eyes on the screen. There was no movement for many minutes, though Ben had set the tape to run at four times normal speed.

  “It’s funny, from the way you’ve described Petit, I wouldn’t have guessed he’d have any interest in plants,” said Molly.

  “Do you think one pot means he had an interest?”

  “Well, there’s also the topiary by the front door. The cypress—but of course that was planted some time ago, perhaps by someone else. I’m just…I’m just saying what occurs to me, Ben. And the pot with the vine seems out of place. Or…not matching with who he was.”

  “Do you think all gardeners are of an easy temperament?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Ben shrugged a Gallic shrug, and Molly told herself to keep quiet and watch the tape.

  They went through the rest of the coffee and were nibbling on rather stale pieces of bread spread with butter and gooseberry jam. It took some discipline to keep looking at the screen when it was a static view with nothing moving, nothing changing.

  Then at the same moment, both noticed a flicker on the edge of the frame.

  “I don’t remember this from before,” said Ben, leaning toward the screen.

  The tape had begun at night, but the sun was coming up—at four times speed—and a shadow appeared on the right side, falling across the grass. Whoever it was stood still, wearing what might be a fedora. He was just out of the frame, but his shadow moved a bit from time to time, as though he was feeling impatient.

  “Hmm,” said Molly. “So you didn’t see that before?”

  “No,” said Ben, with an edge. “As you might recall, our time was taken up with the Valette case and occasionally my viewing of the Petit tapes was rushed.”

  Molly said nothing. She wondered if Ben had ever watched this particular tape, since the shadow was not subtle, and not fleetingly visible but remaining on the screen for some time.

  When the tape ended, the shadow had not moved.

  “So…whoever that was…was standing in the backyard? Just standing there? Can you make an estimate of how long he was there?”

  Ben reversed the tape to check the time stamp of the appearance of the shadow, then fast-forwarded to the end. “About twenty minutes,” he said, frowning.

  “That’s a long time to just stand in one place and not do anything. Unless you’re waiting in line, or for a bus, something like that.”

  Ben nodded.

  “How secure is the backyard?” asked Molly.

  Ben shrugged. “As you know, the house is attached to the neighboring house on the west, with a passageway on the eastern side. The passageway is narrow and has a locked gate. To get into the backyard, you have to have a key to that lock, or walk all the way around the block, then through another passageway which runs along the backyard of the house directly behind Petit’s. His backyard is protected by a stone wall, around two and a half meters I’d say.”

  “And the door?”

  “Old and thick, with iron studs. The lock is new and quite secure.”

  “So the killer must have brought a ladder?”

  “That would be the easiest way.”

  “But risky.”

  “It might attract attention, yes.”

  “Unless you got the ladder from somewhere in the center of the block, and didn’t have to carry it on the street. Jean Chavanne, for example—can you get to his house from back there?”

  “I believe the walkway branches toward his backyard, yes. And he might have a key to the passageway between their two houses as well.”

  “It was barely dawn when the shadow appeared. He could easily have used his ladder, pulled it up and put it inside Petit’s yard so he could get back out. Then whenever he left— after dawn, we know that much—he could simply climb back over the wall and stow the ladder back in his shed. No risk of any foot traffic seeing a thing.”

  “There is a garage in the back of Chavanne’s yard.”

  Molly nodded enthusiastically.

  “We have no idea who that shadow belonged to,” said Ben.

  “I know,” said Molly. “I’m going to go see Chavanne today. Maybe I can get him talking about Petit’s dog, or the famously disputed tree.”

  “And whether the shadow could possibly be his.”

  Molly nodded.

  They sat in silence, annoyed with each other and stumped for other ways to figure out who was standing just out of view on the tape.

  “I’m taking Chloë and Giselle to an art class in Bergerac this afternoon,” Molly said to Ben after they had dressed and she had taken Bobo for a short walk in the woods.

  “Don’t they have school?”

  “Simon gave them the day off. They are struggling.” Ben didn’t answer. “I’ll let you know how the interview with Chavanne goes.”

  “À bientôt.”

  Molly wanted to breeze out the door and get on with the day, but she paused, not wanting to leave things with Ben feeling so distant. She was about to say something conciliatory when the robot-voice came into her head.

  Just wait, she said to herself. It’s ninety-nine percent likely that whoever is making these calls is only trying to stir the pot. But you gotta watch out for that one percent.

  Let it play out just a little longer, she said to herself, saying “À bientot!” back to Ben and leaving the house.

  There was no traffic, as usual, and Molly arrived at the Valettes in a matter of minutes. Simon opened the front door of the manor before she could get out of the car.

  “Bonjour!” he cried. Molly saw that he was dressed in his stone-working clothes, a dusty pair of jeans and an old sweater.

  Giselle and Chloë came running out from behind him. Molly started towards them, but Simon waved and said, “See you when you return. Thank you, Molly!” and went back inside.

  Hm, thought Molly. “Bonjour, mes petites,” she said, turning to the girls and leaning down to kiss cheeks. “Are you looking forward to your lesson?”

  “I am, but not Giselle,” said Chloë, as both girls squirmed around looking for their set belts.

  “That’s not true,” said Giselle.

  “It’s always a little scary, meeting a new teacher,” said
Molly. “But I think you’re going to love Madame Clochot. She’s a little old lady, not scary in the least. And she knows a great deal about drawing. From all reports, she’s also a talented teacher. Those qualities don’t often come in the same person.”

  “Well, I hope she’s not all serious,” said Chloë.

  Molly glanced in the rear window and saw Giselle looking out at the fields going by, her face impassive.

  She’s too young for everything that’s happened, Molly thought with sadness. Too young for the life she’s endured the last year.

  They drove to Bergerac with far less chatter than usual, barely a word coming from Giselle. Molly let her be. Finally they reached the first traffic light and Molly turned around to look at them. “So here’s what’s going to happen. I got your supplies, they’re in the trunk. We’ll pull up to Madame Clochot’s, get your things out, and off you go. I have some work to do while you’re having your lesson, but I’ll be back on the dot of five to pick you up and take you home.”

  “Molly,” said Giselle, slowly getting out of the car.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you give us your phone number? In case?”

  Molly did not hesitate, and she did not need to ask, “in case of what?” Madame Clochot greeted them at the door with a brisk cheerfulness, the girls went quickly inside to get out of the cold, and Molly was free to see if she could track down Jean Chavanne.

  Claude Blanchon had told her that Chavanne was retired now, and she hoped to find him at home. Rue Lafayette was empty. It was so much harder working an investigation in the winter, when everyone was shut up inside, she thought with a sigh. The walkway between Chavanne’s house and Petit’s was barely wide enough for a grown person’s shoulders to pass through. Chavanne’s house was stately and imposing, built of a light gray limestone instead of the famous golden Dordogne stone, with a bright green door—a louder shade than anything else in the neighborhood. The green reminded Molly of golfing pants back in Boston, where a certain segment of the population went in for the brightest pink and green in their leisure clothes.