by Nell Goddin
39
“Oh, brother,” said Molly, as the shopgirl pulled dress after dress from the rack with a grand flourish, and Frances rejected each one in turn.
“Not her style,” said Frances, who had started out speaking French but switched to English in order to express the magnitude of her disapproval of the dresses. “We’re looking for something without any…no ruffles, no frills, no wads of lace. Just a white dress—or cream will do nicely. Probably with a full skirt and a tailored bodice,” she said, looking at her friend appraisingly. “Are you going to wear it to the mairie or change before the party?”
“Change after,” said Molly. “I’ve got this idea of wanting the actual ceremony to be…on the serious side. I really mean it this time, you know? So I’ll save the fancy dress for the party after.”
“Got it,” said Frances, holding a dress up to Molly and making a face.
“I feel like a piece of meat,” said Molly.
“You are a piece of meat when you’re looking for the right dress. We just need to find the one that shows off your meatiness in just the right way. I know we will find it.” She shook her head at the shopgirl, who scurried off to look for more options in a back room.
“But we have to find it today,” said Molly.
“Really, do you have such little faith in me? Do you think I will be unable to find my very best friend an excellent dress for her excellent marriage to the man of her dreamiest dreams? You hurt me, truly you do.”
“Oh Frances,” said Molly.
“You’re just moping because you thought you’d solved that case.”
“I know.”
“Well, maybe you did solve it.” The shopgirl displayed another dress and Frances shook her head and glared at her.
“Huh?”
“Look, from everything you say, this Fletcher Barstow is a menace. Can’t you just figure out a way to pin the murder on him?”
“Frances? Are you suggesting I take action to send an innocent man to prison?”
“You’ve been going on and on about how he is not innocent. Hasn’t he been grabbing you in the street every five minutes? Beating his kids? What hasn’t he done, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Molly sighed. She did like to ride on her friend’s enthusiasm, and it would be so satisfying if Barstow were in jail. And it would be so much more enjoyable to shop for this stupid dress if the case were finished and done with.
“Hey, not to bring up a sore subject, but whatever happened with ol’ robot-voice? Did the calls stop? Did you ever figure out who was messing with you?”
Molly looked around for a chair and sat down. “Frances,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m just…can you go a little easy on me today? I’m feeling a little fragile.”
“You?” Frances bellowed and the shopgirl came running to see what was the matter. “You’re not fragile, Molly Sutton, just a little disappointed. That feeling will pass soon enough. Yes!” she shouted, taking the latest offering out of the shopgirl’s hands. “Now jump into the changing room and try this one on,” she directed. “It’s going to be perfection, but if it needs any alterations, it’ll be cutting it close…”
Molly took the dress and disappeared behind a curtain. She hung it up on a hook and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes had bags under them, her skin was pale and verging on gray, her hair frizzed up.
She was getting married in a week. The thought brought a little smile to her face, despite everything.
She would have Ben’s back, and he would have hers.
And in the long run, one failed case didn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, right? Right?
She slipped on the dress. It needed hemming, as Molly’s legs were on the short side, but the bodice fit like it was made for her, and the creamy fabric made her skin brighten up.
“Do you want to see?” she called to Frances.
“Of course I want to see, you lunatic! Get out here!”
Feeling shy, Molly stepped out from behind the curtain, trying not to step on the hem of the dress.
The shopgirl clapped her hands and Frances beamed at her.
All was not lost.
40
Monday dawned cloudy with the threat of snow, possibly even a big snow, unusual in that part of the Dordogne.
“I suppose I’ll head to Bergerac and see if pestering Léo gets me anywhere,” said Ben, as he and Molly polished off a pot of coffee and got ready to start the day.
“That’s good. Keep an ear out for a text. If I can get Malcolm to admit what I’m pretty sure is the truth about that money, maybe Léo will hustle to Castillac and have a word with Fletcher.”
“I can’t wait until Friday,” he said, kissing her on the mouth.
“Liar,” laughed Molly.
Ben cracked up. “Yeah, all right, I’m terrified. But not because—”
“I know, I know. I was terrified at my first wedding too. Just focus on the champagne and oysters and you’ll be fine.”
“You’re not insulted?”
“Should I be?”
“No!”
She kissed him and sailed out, on her way to wander the snowy streets looking for Malcolm.
Castillac was a small village; there were not that many streets, and not that many warm places to hide. She tried the Barstow house, but there was no answer. He wasn’t at the gas station, the épicerie, the bar, the pizza place. Molly was about to give up when she saw a slight figure in a brown jacket disappear quickly around a corner, and gave chase, slipping in the snow, which had started off slow but was coming down harder.
“Malcolm!” she shouted, the sound of her voice echoing on the quiet street.
The boy stopped and turned around. When she caught up to him, she saw he was wearing a very nice wool scarf that looked brand new.
“Nice,” she said, gesturing at the scarf.
Malcolm shrugged.
“Okay, kid, out with it. The truth this time, no more fooling around. That money has nothing to do with Ninette, does it?”
“It’s freezing out here, can’t we go inside someplace?” He wasn’t wearing a hat and his hair was wet.
“Come on, then,” she said, leading him to the café de la Place. “We can have a chocolat while you tell me what’s really going on.”
Pascal got them settled in near the fire. The restaurant was permeated with the smell of drying wool and chicken stock.
“You took that money from your father, didn’t you?” Molly said in a low voice.
Malcolm shrugged.
“Malcolm!”
“If I hadn’t, he’d have spent the whole lot on himself! That’s what he does, Molly, he gets money but treats himself all day long and we’re still broke, my ma’s sick—” he stopped himself.
Molly could see that the outburst had cost him; he was not a kid who allowed himself to complain.
“Do you know where he got it?” she asked quietly.
“No. I swear. Not like he tells me anything,” he added bitterly.
“When did you steal it? This is important. Think before you answer.”
Pascal arrived with two hot chocolates, and Malcolm took a long sip, burning his mouth. “Well, it was just before you found it. You left the cottage unlocked, Molly, which honestly you shouldn’t ever do, there’s people who’ll take advantage.”
Molly waited, bolding her breath. She knew it was Petit’s money—deep down, she had always known it.
“And so I was in the cottage—you really shouldn’t leave the heat on like that either, I mean, it wasn’t toasty but it was a whole lot better than being outside—”
“Malcolm.”
“Yeah, all right. So anyway, I was looking around for a safe place to tuck it, and in the driveway comes Christophe. I saw him out there and thought maybe he was bringing a guest and I’d better clear out in a hurry. So I shoved the money under the sink and ducked out a back window.”
“Okay, but when was this? It’s important.”
<
br /> “I didn’t mark it down in my date book.”
“Funny.”
Molly tried to remember when Christophe had dropped by. Was it after Petit’s murder? Well, no matter. Quickly she texted Ben, urging him to contact Léo.
It was time to put the screws to Fletcher Barstow.
Molly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What do you mean, Barstow’s alibi is rock solid? It can’t be.”
“It is. And Léo wasn’t too pleased with driving up here to talk to him, either. You’d think leaving the town limits of Bergerac caused people to catch on fire, the way he was carrying on.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Malcolm admitted stealing the money we found in the cottage from his father. Fletcher had to have stolen it from Petit—you know perfectly well he didn’t earn it! And it’s not the Bisset’s, either: the timing is wrong and Anna is dead sure Fletcher wasn’t the robber. Where else could he have gotten his hands on it? What the hell is going on?”
“All I can tell you is, according to Léo: the night Petit was murdered, Fletcher Barstow was at La Tire Bouchon drinking beer. Ten people backed up his story. He couldn’t have killed Petit, I’m sorry to say.”
Molly was furious. “He did. I know he did!”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Not without magic, I’m afraid.”
Molly chewed her lip. “Well, if he didn’t do it himself, he got someone else to do it. Malcolm told me awhile back that Fletcher had a bunch of unsavory friends hanging around the house. He must have put one of them up to it.”
“Not a bad idea, but how do we prove it?”
“I wish I knew. I wish to hell I knew.”
Pascal’s smile was not quite as dazzling as usual as he seated Fletcher Barstow and his friend, Alfie Welton, who had come into the Café de la Place to get out of the snow and celebrate how well everything was going.
“Lunch is on me,” Fletcher said, throwing his arms out to the sides as though making a very grand gesture.
Alfie took off his hat and put it under his chair. “If we were having a real treat, lunch would be at La Metairie,” Alfie said, opening a menu and glowering at it.
“Oh, come on,” said Fletcher, grinning. “Things aren’t half bad, right?”
Alfie just stared at the menu and didn’t answer. After some minutes of squinting at the menu trying to decipher the items listed, he said,“I want the cassoulet.”
“Then you shall have it,” said Fletcher, the smile returning to his face as he considered his position. The detective from Bergerac had been satisfied with his alibi and wouldn’t be bothering him anymore, his pocket was crammed with euros, he was sitting in a warm room about to enjoy an enormous lunch made by a very good cook. Not half bad at all.
“Been meaning to say, there’s something about her…maybe that hair? I was always partial to redheads,” said Alfie, picking up a fork and tilting it this way and that, trying to catch the light.
“Her? You talking about Sutton?”
“Yup,” said Alfie. He hadn’t intended to annoy Fletcher—he wasn’t a man for intentions, exactly—but now that he saw Fletcher’s ears turn red and his ugly face get uglier, Alfie doubled down. “And you gotta give her a bit o’ credit, woman like that moves to another country, without a man to protect her. That takes some spirit.”
“I’m gonna take your scalp right off your empty head and tie it to my belt,” growled Fletcher. “What in God’s name has gotten into you? Molly Sutton is the worst, a frizzy-headed witch on a broom, a woman who gets up in everyone else’s business and won’t ever let a person be. Not to mention, she’s trying to get her claws into Malcolm. I won’t have it. And you—you just shut it, or you can forget your cassoulet, or anything else.”
Fletcher picked up a menu but his hands were trembling and the menu shook. He put it back down and glared at Alfie, who basked in his friend’s irritation as though it were the most delightful spring sunshine.
“Castillac is gonna be mighty improved once she’s gone,” Fletcher said at last, turning around to look for Pascal, who had been rather slow to come take their order. “And hey, we might even make it a two-fer, and get rid of Ben Dufort while we’re at it. Let the pair of them stick their noses into some other village’s business.”
“Well, from where I sit, redheads can be stubborn. That’s something I like about them, to be honest,” said Alfie, watching Fletcher carefully to see how his words landed.
“I got some thoughts,” said Fletcher, the smile returning to his face. “Don’t you worry.”
Alfie had proven himself to be good enough at following directions, which almost made up for never having an original idea of his own. But that was all right, Fletcher had a million ideas—that well never ran dry. He leaned back in his chair and whistled at Pascal, ready to order a ploughman’s lunch.
41
Every single person invited to the party had said yes. Angela Langevin had the flowers in hand, cases of champagne were stacked in an unheated barn at La Baraque where the temperature stayed just above freezing, and Bedin reported no problems with the oysters. Even the dress had arrived, hemmed and fitted.
Everything was ready, except for the bride and groom.
“Laurine has called three times,” Ben reported at breakfast on Wednesday. “Thankfully, she’s involved with something at Vogue, and I expect her to stay in Paris for the near future. But…she’s not wrong to be upset. Her father’s murderer is still out there. We’ve completely failed this time.”
“Oh, come on,” said Molly, “she doesn’t give two figs about her father’s murderer. She’s just using that as an excuse to call you, probably thinking she’ll lure you away from getting married at the last second. Once it was clear that we weren’t going to get her brother locked away in prison and hand over the entire estate to her, she lost interest.”
Ben shrugged. “Have you heard from Franck?”
“No, and I don’t expect to until after the holidays. He’s got exams, and I’m sure that’s what he’s focused on. Those two—they’ve moved on, Ben. They’ve managed to make lives for themselves that have nothing to do with their parents. And I have to say, I respect them for it. They didn’t even stick around to go through his house, which, considering the treasure hidden inside, is quite admirable, really.”
Ben put his arms on Molly’s shoulders and bent down for a kiss.
“I just wish we could close this chapter,” she said. “I’m desperate for Saturday to come, thrilled to be your wife—but this Petit business is driving me crazy. I can’t let it go.”
“We never got around to making honeymoon plans anyway, so we can get right back to work on Monday morning if that’s what you want to do.”
“Seems a little sad, doesn’t it?”
“Not to me. Though Molly? No one has a hundred percent success rate. It may be that Bernard Petit turns out to be our first failure. There’s something to be said for getting it over with. Now hold on, I see the fire in your eyes! I’m not giving up, chérie!” he laughed.
“You better not,” said Molly, leaning her head on his shoulder.
Her phone buzzed and they broke apart. Molly held the phone to her ear and her face turned pale.
“What is it?”
“Listen.”
The robot-voice again.
* * *
Save yourself
* * *
The wedding was in four days, but whoever it was—she was not giving up.
42
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday…
In France, the only place to get legally married was the mairie. Making the ceremony private, just Molly and Ben, plus Lawrence as a witness—it felt just right, and so romantic. Molly wore a wool suit that flattered her curves; Ben was handsome in a dark blue suit. Swirls of snow made it hard for him to see the road as they drove in for their appointment in late afternoon, while Frances worked to get La Baraque ready for the party.
Before they went in, Molly stopped him. “Remember the day we me
t? It was on rue de Chêne, out past La Baraque, you were all sweaty from jogging…”
“Oh, I remember all right,” said Ben. He was happy but terribly nervous.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” asked Molly, looking into his eyes one last time for reassurance.
“One thousand percent, Molly.” He smiled and took her hand, and they went inside. Annette and the other workers jumped up, having been looking forward to the ceremony all week. Lawrence showed up with a small bouquet of perfect pink roses.
“Darling,” Lawrence whispered in her ear. “You look stunning. Ben is a very lucky man.”
Ben might have been lucky, but he was feeling excited and nervous, praying he hadn’t forgotten anything the mairie required.
“I think we’ve got everything you need,” he said to Annette. He pulled a folder out of a leather satchel with all their documents.
“Excellent!” she said brightly. “I just have a few forms for the two of you to fill out—”
“It’s France!” said Lawrence. “The more forms the merrier!”
Molly and Ben filled out the forms. Annette stamped this one and that one, printed out their license, and the deed was done. They fell into each other’s arms while the women of the mairie wiped away happy tears.
“Don’t I get to say a few words?” said Lawrence.
“Of course,” laughed Molly.
“I had a whole speech ready,” he said, “but I’ll just say this: I’m so glad you found each other. And may you have many, many blissful years ahead.”
“You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” said Ben, leaning down to kiss Molly.
“Congratulations to you both. I look forward to toasting your future over and over tonight!”
Molly and Ben walked to his car, both happy the ceremony was over and they had the party to enjoy.
