by Nell Goddin
She wondered about Claude Blanchon, and how it must have felt to have his father reported to the Nazis, and dragged off, never to be seen again. Whether not knowing the exact details of his fate made it all much worse, or did not matter. Some things were impossible to know unless you had been through them yourself.
But it did not take any imagination to guess that the desire for revenge would be strong, even in the most peaceable person. Strong enough to last sixty-some years? Strong enough to act on, even as an old man? Molly thought so. Especially with Petit living right next door, and doing nothing to improve anyone’s opinion of him over all those years.
She shivered, the temperature seeming to have dropped another few degrees since leaving the house. Whistling to Bobo as she turned back, Molly tried to imagine Claude creeping up behind Bernard Petit, an ashtray in one raised hand.
Well, maybe. It wasn’t hard to feel his rage, his thrill at justice finally being served—but could Claude Blanchon really have climbed in that kitchen window? He did not look nimble or strong enough. Though maybe the idea of avenging his father would make it possible.
Or perhaps Blanchon had simply knocked on the front door, and Petit had let him in. The kitchen window could have been left open by Sarah Berteau completely by accident, with no connection to the murder at all. There was no reason Molly could see that the murderer couldn’t have come right through the front door, if it was someone known to Petit. It was only that the open window—in this ungodly freezing weather—seemed so suggestive, that she and Ben had assumed that was how the killer entered the house.
Stupid assumptions will be the death of us, she murmured under her breath, gratefully reaching the French doors and slipping inside, with Bobo pushing right in behind her.
She had just gotten off her coat when there was a knock at the door. Hoping it was Malcolm, she flung it open to see Simon Valette standing there, in his cashmere overcoat and Hermes scarf.
“Simon!”
“May I come in?”
“Of course!” Molly was off balance. What was Simon doing, showing up like this?
“You look rosy-cheeked,” he said, with a warm expression.
“I think what you’re talking about is frostbite,” she said with a laugh. “Bobo insisted on a walk, even in this dreadful weather.”
“We complain as though the Arctic has descended upon us.”
“I know. But complaining is a little like gossip, here in Castillac. Village sports, you know.”
“All too well. Offer me a drink?”
Molly hesitated. Where was Ben? She wished Simon had brought the girls with him.
“Sure. It’s nearly six, isn’t it? What can I make you? I’ve got rum, an open bottle of white that’s nothing special, vodka…”
“How about a shot of vodka with a squeeze of lemon?”
That sounded awfully good. She put two glasses on the counter and made the drinks.They lifted the glasses, clinked, and tossed them back.
“Ah,” said Simon. “Thank you. Let’s sit by the stove, shall we? I showed up so rudely on your doorstep because you don’t answer my calls.” He held up a hand. “I’m not chastising you, Molly. You may simply not want to talk to me. But…I don’t quite believe that. In any case,” he said, dropping his voice and taking her hand in his, “I’ve missed you. The girls have missed you.”
“I just saw them on Friday,” said Molly, feeling anxious if they had needed her since then and she hadn’t realized it.
“To them, that’s a few years back.”
Molly heaved a big sigh and cocked her head at him. “You’re really used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”
“Odd thing to say, given the events at my house recently. No, I would not say that, even a little bit.”
Molly bit her lip, wishing she could take the words back. “I meant—I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not wrong to want you in my life,” he said, simply. “Maybe the timing is not the best. And I’m aware that you are engaged and that means some people would say I’m stabbing Ben in the back. All right. I’m guilty of that, though hurting Ben is not my intention. But here it is, Molly: from the first time I met you, I’ve been powerfully drawn to you. You know it—you’ve felt it too. I don’t doubt this. But with Camille…I was not free to speak or act or do anything but daydream to myself about you, about being with you.”
Molly’s throat was closing up and she swallowed hard. She shook her head.
“Don’t say no, not yet,” Simon said. He spoke straightforwardly, not pleading. “Just say you’ll think about it. Really consider the idea of being with me, of being a real mother to Chloë and Giselle. Make certain that is not the path you want to be on.”
Simon stood up, surprising her. “I’ll be off. I do love you very much, you know, and that has nothing to do with Camille, or the girls, or anything but you. You’re quite a remarkable woman, such a surprise to find, hidden away in this little village. And I am lucky to know you.”
He leaned down and kissed her cheek, not the typical air-kiss but landing his lips on her skin. She inhaled a smell of woodsmoke, stones, with a hint of some herbal aftershave. Then Simon took her shoulders in his strong hands, and kissed her on the mouth.
Molly’s eyes flew open and she pulled away. “Simon!” she said.
“Just think about it,” he said, and walked quickly to the door and was gone before she could say anything more.
In less than a half hour Ben came home, adding his complaints about the weather to the large pile the Castillaçois had generated so far that day.
“Oh, Molly,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I feel like we’ve barely seen each other in days. Shall I make us a drink and we can talk over the case? Or do you need a rest from thinking about it? I have a few things to tell you, meaningful things but nothing to get very excited about.”
Molly hugged him back, trying to let go of all the thoughts crowding into her head, and just enjoy the feeling of his solid body against hers. Maybe she hadn’t been clear enough with Simon; she vowed next time to be crystal clear, so there was no mistake, no confusion. She let out a long sigh and hugged Ben tighter.
“I’ve been thinking about Claude Blanchon all day,” she said, going to the cabinet and taking out a bottle of sparkling white with which to make a kir.
“And?”
“Out of everyone, his motive is the strongest.”
Ben said nothing for a moment. “Not sure other people’s opinions matter much in that regard. A motive is what it is to the person who has it.”
“That’s…philosophical.”
He shrugged. “Nothing so deep. I just don’t think you can weigh them up quite so neatly. Someone might commit murder because another person cut him off in traffic, while someone else would barely notice. We’ve got different triggers, all of us.”
“Forgetting the case for a moment. Do you think everyone has a trigger for murder? Including you? And me, for that matter?
“Of course.”
Molly thought this over. Then she laughed. “Not sure why I asked the question, because giving it just an instant’s thought brings up a number of circumstances where I might be moved to kill someone.”
“We’re all that way, if we’re honest. Though hopefully those circumstances are extreme enough that most of us are never tested.”
“Obviously, I’m not a mother. But if someone hurt my child, I mean really hurt them?”
Ben nodded. “I understand. And you’re saying that for you, Blanchon’s having his father taken away, killed in the war, that would be enough for you?”
“Enough for me to want to kill the person who turned him in, yes. Which is not the same thing as doing it—that’s where you’re going with this? Because I agree, having the switch flipped, even when the reason is totally understandable—it’s not the same as carrying it out. So that’s what I’m asking you: do you think Blanchon would have followed through on the impulse?”
“I can imagi
ne the hatred for Petit building over the years.”
“Same. And also I can imagine Petit almost reveling in Blanchon’s hatred, and doing things to get under Blanchon’s skin even more.”
Ben looked up at the ceiling and stroked his chin, thinking. “Maybe we should go back to talk to the other neighbor, Chavanne. Maybe he can tell a few stories about the neighborhood, and the history between Petit and Blanchon.”
“Do you think Chavanne’s in the clear? Maybe I didn’t make it clear how weird and threatening he was with me. He toyed lovingly with that gun, Ben. It was so creepy. And the business with the dog, the fight over the tree…”
“No, not in the clear. Though as you said, given how he was with the gun and his physical condition, it seems more likely that he’d have shot Petit than conked him on the head.”
“Here’s what I was thinking. Forget the kitchen window. Instead, the doorbell to the Petit house rings, it’s the killer, someone known to Petit, who lets him or her inside. They have some sort of business together—could be that Petit’s writing a check, looking at a file, I don’t know, could be anything that led to Petit sitting at his desk.
“At which point, the killer sees the ashtray sitting there, snatches it up, whack on the back of the head, the deed is done. Maybe it was premeditated, but probably not. He or she wipes down the ashtray and gets the hell out, locking the front door behind him. Or her.”
“You’re being fussy with the pronouns. Is that because Laurine is high on your suspect list, or is there some other woman you’ve uncovered with a connection to this mess?”
“Just not making any assumptions. I’m trying to describe a way for Petit to end up dead even when the killer was far weaker than he was, even an old man like Chavanne or Blanchon. No climbing over walls or through windows. Just marching right up to the front door, bam.”
“You’re not bothered by Franck’s lie or Laurine’s shoplifting…”
Molly shrugged. “For him, no. Apparently affairs here in France are happening everywhere, all the time,” she said, but with a deprecating smirk. “For her, I’d chalk that up to youthful mistake. She’s been holding down a job for some years, seems to be successful, not any kind of thief. And let’s face it, Madame Tessier aside, shoplifting is a long way from killing someone.”
“I don’t like her,” said Ben. “But I don’t think she killed her father.”
Molly nodded agreement.
They were settled on the sofa next to each other, though not touching, sipping their drinks and looking at the flickering fire in the woodstove. For about fifteen minutes they stayed like this, chasing their private thoughts, trying to picture the possibilities of Petit’s murder, hoping to hit on the combination that gave them that feeling of oh yes, that’s it, it very well might have gone like this….
Finally Molly spoke. “Look. I don’t like saying this. For one thing, I’d really like this case to wind up because we’ve got a party to plan. You know it’s barely a week off!”
“I know. I’m just desperate to get this murderer caught first. And what I really think is—none of these people feels right. Objectively, it could have been any of them, if we’re running down the list of motive, means, and opportunity. Most of the people we’ve been checking out have no real alibi, they live alone, they were traveling, whatever. Laurine is probably the only one with a verified alibi. Blanchon and Chavanne live alone, it’s no surprise they can’t account for their whereabouts.
“But subjectively? It feels like there’s someone else out there, someone we haven’t noticed because our attention’s been taken up with all the obvious suspects. Somehow, we have to cast a wider net. We haven’t failed to prove the case because the killer’s been so crafty we haven’t been able to get the goods on him—it’s because we’re not looking at the right person.”
“What if Laurine is right about Franck?”
Molly shrugged. “From what I saw the other night, she’s got a lot of irons in the fire.”
“What does this mean, ‘irons in the fire’?”
Molly laughed. “That she wants to seduce you? I don’t hold that against her,” she added, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Only—she’s clearly an operator. She wants the entire inheritance from her father, and wants Franck out of the way. That may or may not be true, but you have to admit, it’s totally believable. And given the lack of evidence for her claim, most likely to be true.”
Ben finished his drink, tipping the glass to get every last drop. “I don’t want to say you’re right. But…I think you’re right.”
It had been a long day without much to be glad about. Molly wanted to let her head drop onto Ben’s shoulder, but it felt almost like it would be a lie, with so much they needed to say to each other so far going unsaid. But it was not the time for that talk, she thought, knowing she was probably making excuses but unwilling to change her mind.
She would make an omelet for dinner and talk about anything but those robot-calls, about the problem of Simon, about this fear she couldn’t shake—that this daydream with Ben was about to come crashing down around her ears.
31
On Tuesday Ben took off early for Bergerac, and seeing a nearly bare refrigerator, Molly drove into the village to have breakfast at the café de la Place by herself.
The cold spell had broken but it was still not anywhere near warm enough to eat on the terrace. Inside, Pascal flashed his trademark smile and the smell of roasting meat and onions was comforting. Feeling a bit lonely, Molly looked around for someone to join but saw no one she knew.
“Feels a little more civilized out there, no?” said Pascal, wiping his hands on his apron as he came over to Molly’s table.
“It is warmer. But…” Molly shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it’s nice.”
“I wish it were August year ‘round.”
“You and me both. What masterpiece has your mother cooked up today? I’ll take the Special for now, but I might be back for lunch.”
Pascal raised an eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself. “Special, on the double,” he said, and disappeared through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Over the course of the next hour, Molly drank several café crèmes, nibbled on one of Edmond’s croissants, and sipped a tall glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. Once she was resigned to eating alone, she didn’t mind it, and let her thoughts roam. She thought about how much she loved La Baraque and how it was the first house that really felt like home. She thought about Bernard Petit, and wondered whether he had any inkling about what was coming, in the moments before he was killed. And then, with some guilt, she wondered about Simon, whether he claimed to love her because he’d been through so much recent tragedy and was just grasping at any life preserver within reach. And on a more practical level, she wondered whether they would manage to stay friends after she was married to Ben.
Most of all, though, she wondered if Ben was going to be honest with her, and have her back always.
And if she would be able to do the same for him.
When she had stretched breakfast out almost to lunchtime, she paid her bill and went outside, intending to pay Madame Tessier another visit. Still lost in thought, Molly did not scan the street in both directions as usual, and did not see the man with a cap pulled down over his face, sidling next to the Presse, watching. Nor did she see him follow as she made her way through the tangle of streets to rue Saterne where Madame Tessier lived.
Molly felt her phone buzz in her pocket and drew it out, always in the back of her mind preparing herself in case it was Lawrence playing his role as announcer of recent deaths. She saw Ben’s number and felt a quick flush of relief.
“Hey,” she said, wishing he were there in person.
“A break, at long last,” he said, his voice full of energy.
“What? Tell me!”
“I’ve talked to—well, long story short, you wished we would find someone new, a fresh suspect, and I’ve done that. What’s more, I don’t thin
k Léo has any idea.”
“About what? Who?”
“Stephane Burnette. He was a business partner of Petit’s, they imported a lot of Indian fabric, had some big plan or other for selling it to fashion houses in Paris, possibly through Laurine?”
“She’s mixed up in this after all?”
“No, not that I know of. What happened was, a deal between Petit and Burnette went sour. Essentially Petit used Burnette’s money to buy the fabric, arranged for the sale, and kept all the profit for himself.”
Molly sighed. “Sounds like just one more person to add to the list of Bernard-haters.”
“Maybe. But at least it’s someone new, and this betrayal was recent. We can find him, see what he’s been up to. If it’s not him, maybe he’ll know something.”
“Does it feel to you like we’re just pulling strings and pulling strings but there’s never any actual unraveling?”
“Something like that. I’ve got hopes for this one, though, Molly.”
“How did you find out about him?”
“I called in a favor and got myself into Petit’s house. Went through his papers, writing down any names I came across. Then I talked to Laurine, who corroborated what happened. Even said that Burnette was furious when he found out, and going so far as to go all the way to Paris to ambushed her outside her apartment, yelling and screaming. She called the cops on him.”
“Hmm.”
Neither spoke for a moment.
“Do you trust her, Ben?”
“About this? Yes. And anyway, the story is right there in Petit’s financial records, so it’s not like we have to take her word without any other evidence.”
“But you said she wasn’t mixed up in it.”
“Well, I meant…she may have brokered the sale of the fabric for her father, but that doesn’t affect the outcome of Burnette getting burned, which was Petit’s idea.”
