by Nell Goddin
“See the house?” she said. “Honest to God, we spent all our money on it. Barely have two centimes to rub together.”
“Doesn’t look so fancy to me.”
Madame Bisset sighed. What was he expecting, gold fixtures in the kitchen and a crystal chandelier? Whoever this burglar was, he had no taste.
The man strode over and stuck the barrel of the gun under Madame Bisset’s chin.
“Stop,” she said. “Please don’t hurt me.”
He laughed. “Just give me the money and I’ll be out of here.”
“Okay, yes, just put that away.”
“Lead the way, Madame.”
She tried to walk with a heavy foot into the salon, hoping Jules would wake up. “I don’t deal with the money,” she said.
“Don’t waste my time. I’m starting to get annoyed with you.” He poked her in the back with the gun and a rush of adrenaline whooshed down her spine.
“There’s a box,” she said. “I’m not certain where my husband keeps it.”
“Liar,” he said.
Madame Bisset thought it almost funny that a robber was accusing her of poor moral conduct. His accent wasn’t quite French. Not a native of Castillac, she didn’t think…though she wasn’t native either, in fact she was Belgian, so who knew if she had it right? As she pretended to look in various places, stalling for time, she tried to get a good look at him, but his disguise was effective if crude.
A large man in unremarkable clothing. Rather a smart fedora. Not a hunter, she could tell that much, and felt almost sure the gun was more stage prop than anything else.
But you couldn’t risk your life on “almost.” She handed over the box, where Jules—unreasonably, in her opinion—kept a quantity of cash. It was locked, and no doubt the man would find that troublesome, but with time and the right tools, no doubt that would be overcome.
He tucked the box under one arm and told her to go into a closet and count to one hundred before coming out.
Madame Bisset was in such a state of shock that she did as she was told. After reaching one hundred, she burst out of the closet and immediately called the station, reaching Chief Charlot, who was reassuring and said she was on the way. And then, with adrenaline still pumping, Anna Bisset flew up the stairs faster than she ever had or would again, to tell Jules about everything he had slept through.
III
26
On most Sunday mornings, when they were not on a case, Molly and Ben lazed around La Baraque, made the kind of meal that takes time and patience, and simply lived in the moment without worrying about household chores. That particular Sunday, however, there was still a slight frost in the air—inside the house—and without eating anything, Ben took off for Bergerac to talk to Claude Blanchon, Petit’s longtime neighbor.
“I realize that asking for an interview on Sunday morning, of all times, is terribly rude,” Ben said as Claude ushered him inside.
“No, no, please don’t give it a thought,” the older man said. “I haven’t been to mass in years, my wife passed away over a decade ago…I’m afraid I’ve reached that time in life where a police interview is something to look forward to.” His eyes were merry and he did in fact appear to be enjoying himself. He brought a pot of coffee into the salon, which was neat and orderly.
“As I’m sure she told you, I spoke at some length with your partner. Charming young lady,” he added. “I’ve had a fantasy or two of coming up with just the right piece of evidence that would put the murderer in jail—who doesn’t like to think of himself as a hero? But I have racked my brain and have come up with exactly nothing, I’m sorry to say.”
“I’ve found, over the years, that sometimes the right piece of evidence, as you put it, doesn’t attract attention at first. Whatever it is is critically important, it’s the key to the whole thing, yet we pass it right by. So if you are amenable, let’s talk about Petit without bothering too much about where that conversation goes. Tell me your memories, your impressions…and perhaps that will lead us where we want to go in the end.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan.” Blanchon poured their coffees and leaned back in his chair. His hair was white and slicked back with pomade, and his clothing was expensive in a country gentleman sort of style.
“You knew Petit for many years?”
“Oh yes, since we were children, actually. His personality was always difficult, even when he was quite young—and I can’t say it improved with age. He was the same in his seventies as when he was as a child. I and the others in the neighborhood would try to play with him—you know how children are, desperate in their desire for playmates—but he would argue and make demands and eventually be ousted from whatever project we were involved in, even a game of hide and seek.”
“What were his parents like?”
Blanchon shrugged. “They seemed all right. His father was stern, but so were almost all fathers back then. His mother was quiet, so much so that even though I lived next door, I can’t say I have any sense of what kind of woman she was. She didn’t leave the house much.”
“Do you think her husband mistreated her?”
“I can’t say. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that, but I have no memory of seeing or hearing anything about it. And of course, as a child I was interested in childish things, and paid little attention to what the adults were talking about. It was a difficult time, you see—the war was terrible, of course, and so many people we knew were killed. But even after the liberation, there were food shortages and all kinds of problems. Jean Chavanne’s father came home and sat in a chair for the next couple of years, barely moving, he was so traumatized. Madame Petit died right around then, I remember that much. Even though there was so much death, there was this great outpouring of sympathy for Bernard when his mother died—he was around ten years old, if I remember correctly—but it didn’t take long for him to sour it.”
“How so?”
“Well, other mothers would drop in at the Petit’s with cakes or some such, trying to show him some kindness. The rest of us were quite envious of that, I can tell you. You know how children are—death, when it does not strike very close, has little meaning. I’m afraid it did nothing to convince us to be nicer to Bernard. Burned once too often, you see.”
“Did other kids bully him, or was it more a matter of not including him?”
“The latter. Honestly, I think anyone would have been afraid to bully him. He was not shy about hitting, and he was a big child, strong. He…he broke my jaw once, when I was twelve.”
Ben’s eyebrows flew up. “What happened?”
Blanchon shrugged. “I don’t even remember the circumstances. We were in the alley, in the center of the block. We argued about something. And out of nowhere, he punched me in the mouth. Like I said, he was strong. It took months to recuperate from that. Jaw wired, the whole business.” Blanchon shook his head slowly, eyes closed.
“Did you pay him back?” asked Ben, nonchalantly.
“Eh,” said Blanchon, the merriment coming back into his eyes. “I would always rather be the hero than the thug. My father was in the Resistance, you see. He taught me…he taught me many things, and one of them was not to get distracted from what’s important.”
“And did you and he agree on what is important?”
“We did indeed. La France, first and foremost.”
“Did your father survive the war?”
Blanchon pulled his lips over his teeth, making for a strange expression. He squinted. “He did not,” he said finally. “He was informed on by a neighbor, accused of communist activities, though he only banded together with communists to fight the Nazis.”
“A neighbor?”
“It was Bernard Petit, if you haven’t already guessed.”
“But he was just a child!”
“As I believe I have told you, he was annoying.”
“I would say that goes far beyond annoying.”
“He was a monster, all right?” said Blanchon, sla
mming his palm on the arm of his chair. “Thanks to him, my father was dragged off by the SS and we never saw him again.”
Ben watched Blanchon carefully. He saw tears glistening in the corners of the older man’s eyes, his fists clenched as the memory washed over him.
“That is terrible,” said Ben. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, and to your father. If it hadn’t been for his bravery, and others like him, who knows where we would be. It’s always…” Ben stopped and looked down at the intricate pattern on the rug.
“Yes?”
“It’s always been a point of…not shame, not quite…it’s simply that I wish I could say my own father had been part of the Resistance. I was not born until after the war, so all I know is what various people have told me. But apparently my father’s response to the invasion was to keep his head down and stay as apolitical as possible.”
Blanchon shrugged. “Eh, people are captains of their own lives. It’s not for you to decide what he should have done. You weren’t there, you have no idea what he was facing, what his life was like.”
Ben shrugged in response, his throat feeling tight. His father did not regularly come into his thoughts and he felt uncomfortable with having spoken so personally. “At any rate,” he said, trying to turn the focus back to Petit, “did you know whether your father was the only person Petit informed on?”
“I can’t say with any certainty. The Petits were all the way in with Pétain, and went out of their way to collaborate in any way possible. Always looking for ways to curry favor with the Germans, and unconcerned with which of their neighbors might get hurt by it. Though I feel I must tell you—this was not something I saw myself. I was only a child, you understand, and not replete with political or psychological understanding. I am only recounting what I heard later on, from various people. Bernard’s reporting my father—as you said, he was young, just a child. It was spitefulness, the sort of act you wouldn’t believe would occur to someone that age. But it was wartime. That changes everything.”
The two men spoke for another hour. When Ben got back to his car after thanking Blanchon and taking his leave, he spent a few minutes scribbling his impressions in his notebook. He took the back way to La Baraque, driving through forest and past farms, thinking about the devastation caused by the war and how the effects of it, all these years later, were still playing out.
La Metairie, Castillac’s finest restaurant, was open for Sunday lunch. After a morning spent at the computer trying to dig up some scraps of information about the Petits—and failing—Molly headed over to talk to the restaurant’s manager, Natalie Marchand. Though Molly loved to cook and entertain, she was wondering what it would cost to have the party catered. And why not start with the best place in town?
It was three o’clock and only one table of diners remained. Natalie ushered Molly into a small office after asking if she would like anything to drink.
“I’m afraid I’m over-caffeinated as it is,” said Molly, regretting that she hadn’t thought ahead, since the coffee at La Metairie was as fantastic as everything else they served. “As I said over the phone, I’m almost positive I can’t afford it, but the idea jumped into my head and I can’t seem to dislodge it…I’ve seen notices in the paper about your catering service, and I’m wondering if you could give me an overview of what you do, what you serve, and how much it costs?”
Natalie smiled. She was slim and dressed in a conservative and flattering pencil skirt and sweater set, a short necklace of small pearls, nothing flashy, her dark hair gathered into a low chignon. She and Molly knew each other from a case a few years back that had eventually been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.
“First of all,” said Natalie, “let me congratulate you! I don’t think I’ve seen you since I heard the news of your engagement. I know you and Ben will be very happy together.”
Molly thanked her, grateful for the other woman’s generosity. Castillac was a small village, and it must sting just a little when an eligible bachelor got married, especially to someone who was not even French. And Natalie and Ben had even gone on a date or two, Molly suddenly remembered.
“I will tell you upfront—our catering is not cheap. You know how the chef is, he wants every detail to be perfect, every mouthful a moment of inexpressible happiness. On the other hand, of course, you must weigh the worth of having all of that work left to someone else so that you can enjoy your day.”
“Let’s talk about a menu. What if we only had hors d’oeuvres?”
Natalie looked surprised. “Well, that would be….it would be unusual, though perhaps we could do it that way. You mean have a cocktail party, with passed trays, rather than a lunch or dinner?”
“I always like those kinds of receptions, because you can talk to so many more people that way. Plus—it’s cheaper.”
Natalie nodded slowly. “It might be, yes. Tell you what, let me talk your proposal over with Chef, and we’ll see what he says. He’s temperamental—so typical isn’t it? It’s not easy to predict his reaction. He might think it a delightful novelty and be happy to work up a sample menu for you, or he might glare at me and start yelling at the sous-chef who was doing nothing wrong.”
“Thank you for asking him. Glad it’s you and not me!”
“Sure I can’t get you something to drink? I hate for you to come all the way over here for such a short meeting.”
Molly cocked her head. “Well, how about an apéritif? It’s close to that time, isn’t it?”
Natalie grinned. “Sparkling white wine with a splash of St. Germain?”
“Perfect!”
Natalie gestured for Molly to follow. “Come, we’ll sit at the bar.”
Pascal, the drop-dead handsome bartender, beamed when Molly came into the dining room. “Molls! Don’t tell me you found another body in the bathroom!”
“Don’t scare me, I haven’t been in there today,” said Molly, leaning in to kiss cheeks with her friend. “Actually, I am working a case. Fellow from Bergerac by the name of Bernard Petit. Either of you know him, or anyone in his family?”
“That Franck Petit’s dad?”
“It is,” said Molly. “Oh good, you’re practically the first person I’ve found who knows him, apart from his neighbors.”
“Oh, Pascal knows everybody,” said Natalie, and put in their drink orders.
“Franck’s around my age. I don’t know him that well, but I’ve seen him around. I used to go to a lot of music festivals and I guess he did too.”
“Any particular kind of music?”
“I didn’t go for the music,” said Pascal, showing his movie-star smile.
Natalie and Molly took a second to get it.
“Oh!” said Molly, her face turning pink.
“Here you are,” said Pascal, placing the drinks in front of them. “It’s all right for me to take off? My mother has a list as long as your arm for this afternoon.”
“I do not want to cross your mother,” said Natalie, waving him on.
“Is anyone more adorable?” said Molly, after Pascal had left.
“Your fiancé?” said Natalie, deadpan.
Molly gulped some of her drink.
“Kidding!” said Natalie, laughing.
Molly was just about to say something to Natalie about the odd state of things, how she and Ben weren’t having cold feet but at the same time, not getting along as well as they usually did. But she and Natalie were not close friends, and for once she decided not to be the chatterbox American and keep the relationship play-by-play to herself.
She felt relieved as she left La Metairie. Not because she was going to hand off the food to Chef, but because she had decided the opposite. It was a little crazy, she knew that, but the trip to the restaurant had somehow made clear to her what kind of party she really wanted. It didn’t need to be fancy and she knew Ben would be glad she wasn’t splashing out all that money for something they could do themselves. The expectations of the guests might be on the high side, but mayb
e if she splurged on oysters…ah, she thought, it’s Nico I should consult, he’ll know where to get everything.
It was just after dark and cold as ever. Molly turned the scooter in the direction of Chez Papa, wanting to feel some warmth from her friends, and hoping the place was good and crowded despite the nasty weather.
27
Chez Papa was indeed crowded; Molly could hear the noise a half block away, which was unusual since the French were not shouters. She parked the scooter and looked inside the plate glass window in front.
She could see Lawrence at the bar, talking to Nico and waving his hands in the air. Rémy stood next to him, still dressed in his work clothes. Lapin and Anne-Marie were at a table eating steak frites; Molly could see the high pile of glistening golden fries and her mouth watered. An everyday view of Castillac—friends and food—that never failed to warm her heart.
“Molly!” said Lawrence, seeing her come in. He spun on his stool and held out his arms, which she fell into.
“Bonsoir, you old coot,” she said, squeezing her friend tight. “I hardly see you anymore—and I feel like I say that every time I see you. What in the world have you been up to?”
“I’ve got a project going,” he said mysteriously.
Molly raised her eyebrows.
“I was just about to text you actually. Did you hear about the robbery out at the Bisset’s?”
“No. Do I know the Bissets?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
Molly stamped her foot with impatience. “I mean, who are they, what do they look like, who do they hang out with. Describe,” she said nodding at Nico to make her usual kir.
“A bit grouchy, are we?”
“No, no—just impatient to find out what’s happening.” she said. “I suppose I should be relieved—usually when you text bad news it involves murder.”
“Indeed.” He caught Nico’s eye and circled his finger in the air, asking for a freshener. “And the robbery was at gunpoint, too.”
