by Nell Goddin
“I thought France had gun control!”
“Oh, we do, darling, we do. But it’s…complicated. There are various categories of firearm, and with the right qualifications…”
“How did I not know this?” said Molly, frowning. “I just had a gun pointed at me the other day. I figured it was just some old World War II relic or something.”
“Relics can fire real bullets,” said Lawrence. “Who are you talking about? I don’t like the sound of this at all.”
“Oh, it was nothing. Just an interview I was doing. You’d be surprised how many people like to act, I don’t know, strange I guess you could say. Just to see what you’ll do. It’s hardly the first time.”
Everyone shivered as the door opened and Ben came inside. He said bonsoir to each person sitting at the bar, finishing by kissing Molly on the ear.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” he whispered in her ear. She felt a little of the ice in her soul melt. Just a smidge.
“You know the Bissets,” Lawrence said to Ben.
“Yes. They’ve been in Castillac what, three or four years? They came just before Molly, if memory serves. I went out to their place for some reason, when I was still chief…I remember a lot of artichokes?”
Everyone stared, confused.
“I mean, on the walls. They’ve got photographs and paintings of artichokes.”
No one said anything.
“Look, forget I said anything! It’s like, you know, some people like cats, some people like sunsets. Well, the Bissets are all in for artichokes. Now what about them?”
“Well, they were robbed. At gunpoint.”
“That’s what we’ve come to, people, right here in Castillac. Armed robbery. Can you even believe it?” said Lapin. “I’m going to have to up my security game at the shop. I might well show up to work one morning and find myself picked clean.”
Anne-Marie shook her head. “This is not what our village is. It’s unconscionable how much worse things have gotten since you stepped down, Ben. Has anyone heard from Chief Charlot? Is she doing anything to stop this rampant criminal activity? Or is she so terrible at her job that this is the kind of thing we’ll have to adjust to?”
“Unfortunately, I must tell you—this is nothing so new,” said Ben. “When I was chief, every year we had a few robberies. Sometimes the crooks got away with a great deal of valuable items, if they were talented enough thieves, and had a bit of luck. Any more details about what happened at the Bissets, Lawrence? Was anyone hurt?”
“Jules slept through the whole thing. Anna reports that the robber was male and had a gun she wasn’t entirely sure was real. I bet it was that Fletcher Barstow. I heard he was out of prison again.”
Everyone thought that over. Nico put Molly’s kir on the bar and began another Negroni for Lawrence.
“Not to gossip,” said a woman Molly recognized from around the village but did not know, “but I heard Anna Bisset had an affair with someone in Bergerac last year. A younger man.”
Anne-Marie raised her glass. “Here’s to younger men,” she said with a laugh.
Lapin looked at her with horror. “What are you saying, chérie?”
“That you’re ready to be put out to pasture,” said Nico, grinning.
“Just joking, mon petit chou.” She leaned toward him and kissed him on the side of his beefy neck.
“All right, so just explain something to me,” said Molly, her tongue loosened a bit from drinking half her kir in short order. “Slight change of subject. Okay. This French attitude toward adultery? I’d like thoughts and opinions, please. Is it really something allowed, just a wink and a smirk and everyone just carries on? Maybe it’s a cultural thing, and I’m showing my American side. Because I’ll tell you, I do not feel the same. At all.” She did not look at Ben, not wanting to seem as though she was speaking directly to him. Not that anyone was fooled.
“It’s complicated,” said Anne-Marie.
“Exactly,” said some others.
“Oka-a-ay, so…complicated how?” said Molly. “Because if it were me getting cheated on? I’d feel murderous.” She made a sidelong glance at Ben but their eyes did not meet.
“Well, it’s not like you say, that it’s totally accepted and no one cares,” said Anne-Marie. “Obviously, if your partner has an affair it can hurt. But…it does depend on the circumstances, on the state of the relationship, on many things.”
“You are not cheering me up,” said Lapin, shoulders sagging.
Anne-Marie kissed him again before continuing. “At the same time, there is a…what would you call it? An acceptance that a couple is not going to feel completely enamored of each other every second, year after year…and sometimes, on occasion, if handled with sensitivity….”
Molly eyes were wide. “Sensitivity? I…no. No thank you to that.” She glared at Ben though he had not said a word. Or possibly because he had not said a word. “So you’re saying, if you marry someone French, this is what you’re signing up for? Sensitivity and adultery?”
“No, no,” said Anne-Marie. “Truly, Molly, you’re making more of this than it deserves. It’s not that there’s a free pass to do whatever, anytime. It’s more…of an understanding that perhaps we are not all strictly monogamous, deep down, in our hearts. We may not choose to ever act on these various attractions that come our way. But—we understand that they exist. And that people are sometimes weak. It is not necessarily a betrayal in a personal sort of way, if that makes sense to you?”
“I’m feeling faint,” said Lapin, mostly joking. Anne-Marie slipped her arm around Lapin’s middle and hugged her to him, then whispered in his ear. A slow smile appeared on his face and he called to Nico, down the bar, to settle his bill.
Molly was just about to press on when the door rattled and in came a couple Molly did not know, followed by Franck and Laurine Petit.
“Did you invite them?” Molly said to Ben.
“No—I have no idea what they’re doing here.”
Laurine’s eyes swept the room and landed on Ben. She let her coat slide from her shoulders and smiled at him. She was overdressed for Chez Papa, wearing a form-fitting black knit dress that showed off her slim figure, and a number of necklaces. Her lipstick was a deep red and her eyes heavily made up, with eyeliner flicking up at the outside corners and substantial mascara.
“Benjamin,” she said, walking straight to him, gripping his biceps, and kissing cheeks. She did not let go of his arms after the greeting.
“How did you find your way to Castillac?” said Ben.
Molly looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“Do you think I would miss seeing your little village, now that I’m in the Dordogne? Ever since I got to Bergerac, I’ve been hearing from friends in Paris about everything I’m missing. So many galas this time of year, the nightclubs are packed with the most fascinating people. Yet here I am,” she said, gesturing to the room. “In…what is it? Chez Grandmère?”
“Chez Papa,” said Nico, who after hearing only a few sentences was ready to toss Laurine from the bistro for being pretentious and rude.
“Ah yes, Papa, excuse me. And who do I have to pay off to get a drink?” She narrowed one eye at Nico in warning.
“What would you like?” asked Nico, giving her a big fake smile.
“Lillet. Unless there is some local libation I shouldn’t miss? Not that I would mind returning to this charming village. And such handsome inhabitants,” she added looking at Ben and then Nico.
Oh God, Molly thought. Please let her be the murderer so we can cart her to jail. Preferably in a tumbril. Pretty please.
“So this is Laurine Petit?” Lawrence whispered in Molly’s ear.
Molly nodded.
“Nice dress. But bad attitude.”
“Tell me about it.”
Molly looked at Franck but he had begun an animated conversation with Rémy about chemical fertilizers, something Franck had studied at school.
An uncomfortable silence at the
bar. Everyone watched Laurine stroke Ben’s arm while looking intently into his eyes.
“Laurine Petit, let me introduce my partner and fiancée, Molly Sutton,” said Ben, trying to draw back but stuck on his stool.
Molly held out a hand which Laurine ignored.
“Charmed,” said Laurine, over her shoulder, and turned back to Ben, wedging herself just enough between him and Molly as to block Ben’s view of her.
Molly’s mouth opened and she gaped for a moment, trying to find civilized words to say, and failing.
Ben leaned to the side and made eye contact with Molly.
Help, she read in his eyes.
Molly put her hand on Laurine’s bony shoulder and leaned close to her ear. “I’m so pleased to meet you, at long last. I know it’s late, but I wonder if you would come to the backroom where it is less crowded, so I could ask you a few questions?”
Laurine stayed facing Ben and said over her shoulder. “Really? It’s eight o’clock, time to relax. I assure you, Ben and I have covered every possible detail together already. He’s very thorough, aren’t you, Detective Dufort? He wanted to know everything about me. If I didn’t understand that it’s possible I myself could be a suspect, I would have found the whole process quite flattering. It’s rather intoxicating, being the focus of attention of a man like Benjamin.”
“Laurine,” said Ben. “Please. Rein yourself in.”
She smiled at him as though she did not hear what he said, placed her hands on his thighs, and whispered something in his ear.
He looked so horrified that Molly nearly laughed out loud.
She turned her attention to Franck, entering the conversation about chemical fertilizers without any trouble, having learned a thing or two over the years from Rémy. But even though it was December, Rémy kept a farmer’s hours, and soon departed. Molly invited Franck to the backroom, wanting to ask him a few more questions (and rather enjoying the glance of desperation Ben threw her as she walked away, leaving him in the clutches of Laurine).
“Here’s the thing,” Molly said to Franck, “We’re having some trouble getting verification of your whereabouts in the days just before and around your father’s murder. I want you to understand, it’s not that I don’t believe you—frankly, I think your sister is just blowing smoke for whatever reason. I’d make a fairly large bet you had nothing to do with it.”
“Glad to hear it, Molly.” Franck looked grateful, but offered no further explanation about the alibi.
She wished she could put her finger on it, this charming quality Franck had. He was average-looking, not graced with a silver tongue…but you got this strong sense that you wanted to be on his side—and have him on your side. You just had this strong feeling of wanting everything to go well for him, though you couldn’t say exactly why.
“The case turns on the element of opportunity,” she said. “Motive is not the main consideration since we’ve found pretty close to a billion people who might have wanted your father dead.”
“A billion is a lot.”
“It is. So we’re focusing on alibis first. And this is where we’re having a bit of trouble where you’re concerned.”
A gust of laughter was heard in the other room, and Nico emerged from the kitchen on his way to the bar with two platters of fragrant frites.
Molly turned back to Franck. “Is there anything you’re not telling me? Maybe there’s some reason your alibi’s not panning out, something that has nothing to do with your father at all? We have not been able to find anyone at that campsite who says you were there on the days surrounding his death. Or perhaps there was a mistake in what you told us?”
Franck had broken eye contact and was staring at the floor. He heaved a sigh. “I guess it will all come out anyway,” said Franck, and he lifted his head to look at Molly with an expression of resignation and sadness. “I was not at the beach after all.”
“It was not the most believable choice of location, not with the weather we’ve been having.”
“Yes, well. I blurted out the first thing that came to me—I was not expecting the question, because, you see, I am innocent of everything having to do with my father. Several years ago, I rejected him entirely, Molly. I stopped taking money from him, not that he was giving me much in any case. What I’m trying to explain is: I dealt with my father in my own way, which was completely nonviolent. I simply removed myself from his life. And he did not protest, or possibly even notice.”
“He didn’t try to find you, or contact you?”
“No. Not that I ever heard.”
“I’m sorry for that,” said Molly. “No matter what—that’s got to hurt.”
Franck stayed with his head bowed. “I was in Bergerac, actually, but as I said, I was not in contact with my father and did not try to see him.”
“What were you doing?”
“Seeing a girlfriend. A serious girlfriend.”
“Why not just say that at the beginning? Give me her name and I’ll get this cleared up first thing in the morning.”
Franck chewed on his lip.
“Franck?”
“I’m crazy about her. It’s very serious and I want to marry her. But the sad fact is…she is already married.”
Molly sat for a moment trying to digest this. “You’re…you’re having an affair with a married woman?”
“It happens.”
“I’m...I mean, I don’t want to sound like your mother—”
Franck laughed. “Oh believe me, you don’t. My mother was not exactly a saint in that department.”
Later that night, when Molly was flying down rue de Chêne on her scooter while Ben drove home, she wondered about the way that conversation had developed. How she had gone into the back room with a man who had no proven alibi, and ended up feeling so much pity for him that she had nearly shed a tear.
28
Thanks to a kir or two, and eventually one Negroni with Lawrence, Monday morning brought a touch of a hangover. Molly slipped out of bed early and stood in the kitchen guzzling mineral water while waiting for the coffee to be ready. A light snow had fallen overnight and the back meadow was dusted with white, the tips of grass already turning brown again where the sun had hit them and melted the snow.
Her mind was clear, if a bit achy, and she spent the quiet dawn going over the case, detail by detail, fact by fact.
A man who was universally disliked is killed by a blow to the head.
The kitchen window was found open.
No prints (that we know about).
No knowledge of whether anything was stolen from the house.
His children were estranged. Unclear if they are also estranged from each other.
The daughter accuses the son, but offers no proof other than motive. Daughter is sexually aggressive towards Ben. Cannot rule her out.
The son has lied about an affair with a married woman, though not about anything connected to his father’s murder. (That we know of.) Cannot rule him out.
The neighbor, Jean Chavanne, seems too physically weak to have done it. He hates Petit and behaved strangely with a gun. Cannot rule him out.
The neighbor, Claude Blanchon, also possibly too old to have done it. Petit bullied him when he was young, and far worse, ratted his father out to the Nazis. Cannot rule him out.
Well, this is going swimmingly, thought Molly, rolling her eyes. I’d best take a moment to check on things around La Baraque before the whole place falls down around our ears from neglect. And soon as the guests are up, I really need to give them some attention.
The week before, she had hired a new carpenter to fix a cracked window in the annex, so she poured a cup of coffee, whistled for Bobo, and walked over to check on the work. It was seven o’clock, the sun still not up over the trees. Bobo flew ahead, putting her nose down and snuffling.
When she was still a distance away, the door to the annex opened and Malcolm Barstow stepped outside. He glanced in both directions and their eyes met.
“Malcolm!” Molly cried.
The boy took off around the side of the building with Bobo in hot pursuit. Molly ran after them but slipped in the wet half inch of snow, getting her pants wet. Knowing she’d never catch up, not having been a speedy runner at any age, Molly stepped inside the annex to have a look around.
She checked the repaired window and found that in good order. The two bedrooms appeared undisturbed, beds made and unwrinkled, neatly folded quilts at the foot, windows locked. The shared living room also looked just as she’d left it. A vase of autumn leaves and stalks of grass had turned brown and Molly picked that up to take back to the main house. A stack of wood stood beside the fireplace, along with a bundle of kindling.
She could see no sign that anyone had been there. So what was Malcolm up to? Was he hiding out, his father making life such hell that the boy needed a safe place to live?
Her phone buzzed and she held it to her ear.
He’s not what you think he is
Molly hung up. Then wished she had kept listening. Dammit!
Quickly she left the annex, forgetting all about Malcolm. She put Bobo back inside the main house, got in the Citroen, and drove straight to Frances and Nico’s apartment.
“Quelle surprise, on a Monday morning!” said Frances, still in her bathrobe but managing to look glamorous nonetheless.
“You just spoke French again,” said Molly, coming in, kissing cheeks with her friends and plopping on the sofa. “Sorry to barge in, Nico. I’m having an emergency.”
“Something I can help with, or should I get lost?”
Molly considered. “Stay,” she said. “No, go. Sorry. Let me give this one to Frances, and call you in if need be? It’s…the whole thing is a little embarrassing.”
“No problem,” said Nico. He kissed the top of her head. “I was just going out in any case. See you for lunch, love,” he said to Frances, who grinned at him like a newlywed, which she practically was.
“Okay, so, I’ve been hoping this would just go away,” said Molly, wanting and not wanting to tell Frances about the calls.
