by Nell Goddin
Ashley said, “No.” Patty put her arm around her waist and hugged her from the side. “No!”
“I know it’s really shocking,” said Molly. “I can’t imagine going on a long-awaited vacation, making friends, and then deciding to…to end it all before I even got home.”
And it was at that moment that Molly decided that without more proof, she was not going to believe that Ryan Tuck had killed himself. If she had learned anything at all about detective work, it was that things are often not what they seem. You see a man hanging by his neck at the end of a rope tied to a tree, you assume he was the agent of his own death.
Well, maybe not.
She was able to hold her grief in check enough to spend the next minutes observing and then comforting her guests. Ashley was sobbing, crumpled on the floor, with Patty squatting beside her, making comforting noises. Darcy’s back was to Molly; she stood at the window, immobile. Ira faced the group, his expression stoic, running a hand through his messy blond hair. Nathaniel stood staring at Molly, his eyes filling with tears.
“All right then,” Ira said. “Are we done? Anything else?” The gruffness of his tone made everyone look over at him, startled.
“Ira!” said Darcy.
“What? You’ve known the guy for like two days, people. He wasn’t your best friend. Stuff happens. Come on, Darcy, we’ve got an appointment with the cheesemonger over near Lalinde, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Get control of yourself, Ira,” Darcy said quietly.
“Jerk,” said Ashley.
“Well, I just hope this doesn’t make everything weird from now on,” said Nathaniel. “I mean, I’m traveling alone, and it’s been really great meeting you guys and hanging out. It’s made my vacation so much more fun than it would’ve been, what with my girlfriend stuck back at home and all.”
Patty nodded. “I’ve really been having fun too. Thank you for being such a good hostess, Molly,” she said, coming over and giving her a side-hug. “I’m thinking we should have some kind of, I don’t know, service of some sort. Does anyone know if Ryan was religious?”
“He was not,” said Ashley, still on the floor. “He believed in living for the moment, and that’s it. At least that’s what he told me yesterday when we were all having champagne. ‘Forget about the past,’ he told me. ‘Live for right now!’” She put her hands over her face and let out a muffled sob. Nathaniel shook his head slowly, looking at the floor.
Molly took a deep breath. “All I can say is that…I’m just so sorry this has happened. This was supposed to be a week of exploration and fun, good food and happy times. And it really did start out that way, almost magically so. I hope we can all remember Ryan’s spirit and how much he contributed to that magic. And also that you can all carry on and enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
“Fat chance,” said Darcy.
“How about we get in the car and scour the Dordogne for out-of-the way farms? We might discover a cheese hardly anyone knows about,” said Ira, who had quickly regained some of his usual cheerfulness.
“Not everything is about food, Ira,” said Darcy.
Molly stood listening, wanting to leave, to be by herself for five minutes, but her legs felt heavy and she couldn’t find the momentum to move. She had chosen Castillac because she thought it was going to be peaceful and calm, and now there was another death, literally in her backyard. And as upsetting as the idea of suicide was, she had a feeling that the whole story—whatever it was—would be even more so. Not that she had any way of finding out what it was.
7
Bobo barked and Molly went to answer the door.
“I would like to have a look at Ryan’s room,” said Maron, as though he and Molly were already in the middle of a conversation. “I won’t be long.”
“Right, I was expecting you. I have an email address for him, that’s all. What happens in a case like this, anyway? How do you contact the family?”
“There’s never been a foreign death while I’ve been on the force,” Maron admitted. “But my guess is that the embassy will handle it. I’d like to be able to give them his passport number to make the whole thing easier.”
Molly nodded and led him down the hallway and into the wing where Ryan’s room was. The house had been added to over the years in a haphazard manner, with some additions more solid than others. They zigzagged through a narrow passageway, an open room with new sofas and a coffee table, and then up a rickety set of wooden stairs.
She tried the door and found it unlocked. “Here you are,” she said, pushing it open.
Maron strode in and looked around, hands on hips. The room was neat. The bed was made, the small desk only had a scattering of coins on it, and a paperback from Molly’s library was on the bedside table. There was no note.
For a moment Molly thought she smelled something, but when she sniffed, the scent seemed to evaporate.
“Where are his things?” asked Maron, baffled.
Molly went to the antique armoire that she’d bought at the flea market in Paris and had sent down. A small key was in the lock and she turned it, opening the door to reveal a zipped duffel, along with a few shirts and a sport coat on hangers. Maron lifted the duffel out and began to go through it.
“Did he have anything on him?” asked Molly. “Wallet or anything?”
“He did not. I’m hoping everything will be here.”
And it was. In a side pocket of the duffel, Maron found Ryan’s wallet, passport, and a set of keys.
“He sure was neat and organized,” said Molly. “Do you think he wanted to make things easy after he was gone? Like he was being thoughtful about the people who would need to deal with the situation?”
“That would be extraordinarily caring from a person so severely depressed.”
Molly shrugged. “Wouldn’t put it past him. As I’ve said, never once did I get the impression he was depressed even a little.”
“He was only here a few days, correct? And you weren’t with him every minute? People, even depressed people, can hide their feelings. Especially for short periods, and from people who don’t even know them.”
“I guess,” said Molly. The sight of Ryan’s room, so devoid of his spirit and good humor, was bringing her even farther down than she already was. “Are you done? I think I’d better get back to my guests. They’ve obviously had quite a shock.”
“I’ve got what I need,” said Maron, briskly. Now that he had Ryan’s passport, the case was soon going to be off his desk. He began to think of some tasks he could assign Paul-Henri Monsour that would keep him out of the station for the rest of the day so he could catch up on paperwork and enjoy some time alone.
Molly walked him to the front door and watched as the gendarme started up his scooter and took off down rue des Chênes. Normally very happy to be around people, she found herself wanting nothing more than to retreat to her bedroom. The idea of watching movies while under a pile of covers seemed like a holiday in heaven. Add some Côte d’Or chocolate bars (the kind with nuts and raisins) and the prospect was irresistible.
“Molly?” called Patty.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to return to the living room.
“We were thinking of some ideas for that memorial service….”
“You only knew the guy for a matter of hours,” said Ira to Patty. “Can’t we just move on with our vacation? I know I’ve got a long list of places I’d like to visit in the short week we’ll be here.”
“You’re so unfeeling,” Ashley said in a low voice.
Ira shook his head. “No, no I’m not. And in the very short time we knew him, we can definitely say Ryan would be the first person to tell us to seize the day, enjoy ourselves, and not mope around over things that can’t be changed.”
“He’s got a point,” said Nathaniel. “Maybe anyone who wants to could meet up to say a few words, remembrances or whatever, like tonight when everyone’s back at La Baraque? I think I’m going over to Rocamadour today,
if anyone wants to join me. Ashley and Patty, want to see an amazing church hanging off the side of a cliff? And I hear they have a bird sanctuary up there too, with a super-impressive raptor show. Eagles, falcons, all that stuff.”
“We’ve got plans already,” said Ashley.
Molly couldn’t help thinking that if Ryan were still alive, the whole group would be making plans together. But instead they were all unhappily spinning in their separate universes, disordered and grief-stricken.
After texting Ben and asking him to dinner, Molly got into bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and lay still for a moment. Then she called Lawrence, who was on his usual stool at Chez Papa.
“I was just about to order lunch, my dear,” he said. “Come on over! It’s such a dreary day and rumor has it the chef is making onion soup. Your stool is warm and waiting for you.”
“I just can’t,” she said weakly.
“If you’re refusing onion soup on a day like this, something must be terribly wrong. Tell.”
“It’s unbelievable. I mean, not literally, it’s believable, it happens all the time. I’ve just never…and in this particular case….”
“What, Molly?” Lawrence asked gently.
“Hey, this may be a first—I’m finding out the bad news before you. One of my guests. He was Mr. Happy. Mr. Life of the Party. I found him in the woods hanging from an oak tree.”
“God.”
“I know.”
“How long had he been at La Baraque?”
“Just since Saturday. I know it’s only been a few days, but believe me, it’s been a very social few days—this group, the biggest I’ve ever had, had really gelled and they were congregating in my house, carousing and living it up. Everyone really seemed to be enjoying themselves, you know? And this one guy, Ryan Tuck—he was the spirit of the whole thing. A live-for-the-moment sort of guy who looked for joy and found it, even in unlikely places.”
“Hmm.”
“Onion soup does sound mighty good.”
“I could bring you some?”
“Oh, you’re sweet, but I’m not an invalid! Just feel like hiding from the world for a little bit. Ben’s coming for dinner.”
“Ah. Should I ask questions about that?”
“Nah. I’m very glad he’s coming, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Sort of,” said Lawrence, and Molly could hear the smile in his voice. “Listen Molls, the new guy behind the bar is bringing out my soup as we speak, can I call you later?”
“Of course. I think I’m going to take a nap.”
“Never thought of you as a napper. Sometimes that can be just the thing. Kisses.”
“Back at ya,” said Molly, and hung up. And almost immediately she fell into a fitful sleep that lasted for several hours. By the time she woke, there was no time to do any shopping. She trusted she could find something to cobble together for Ben’s dinner, and slipped into the fancy shower with all the massaging spray nozzles, using an unconscionable amount of hot water, letting it beat down on her back and head as though the heat and force of the droplets would assuage her sorrow and confusion over Ryan’s death.
She put on a little mascara and rubbed some product into her hair so that at least she would look a little more presentable, instead of like something the orange cat dragged in.
“You look wonderful,” said Ben when he came in, giving her a peck on both cheeks.
“Can’t go wrong, opening with that,” she said, smiling. “Though I’ll tell you, I’m not going to be the most light-hearted companion tonight. Have you heard?”
Ben nodded. “Maron called. He’s gotten into the habit of letting me know when anyone in Castillac dies, for any reason. I guess he thinks the calls are a kind of insurance, like I might prevent him from making some kind of terrible mistake or something.” Ben shrugged. “And maybe he’s right. It is always good to have the opinion of someone you trust. I don’t get the feeling he gets on with Paul-Henri very well.”
“Monsour? No,” said Molly, not thinking about the gendarmes but of Ryan stuffing three gougères in his mouth at the same time to show her how much he adored them.
Ben watched her. “Ryan Tuck—he’s the man who kissed you the other night?” he asked nonchalantly.
Molly quickly looked up and met his eyes. “Yes. I wondered if you saw that. You should know—please understand—it meant nothing. From either one of us. He was just…affectionate that way. Impulsive. He wasn’t—we weren’t at all—”
Ben laughed. “I love that you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Okay. Anyway, I was only here for a few minutes that night. It was clear that…how to explain this…I didn’t leave in a huff about the kiss or anything else. It was simply that it was obvious the group had a bond and I was an outsider. Like you were all on a kind of journey and I was too far behind to catch up. Does that make sense?”
“Very much so. It’s funny you say journey because that’s exactly what it felt like. People were talking intensely, laughing like maniacs—you’d have thought it was some kind of reunion of people who knew each other very well a long time ago. Who knows why that kind of thing just happens? But speaking as the host, it felt like magic. Very satisfying to see my guests enjoying themselves so deeply. They are not an easy group, by any means, or people you’d guess would have any particular affinity for one another.
“I keep saying this—but some of what made the fun possible, if not most of it—was Ryan. He cheered up people like Darcy, who has barely said a civil word to me since she got here. I think nerdy Nathaniel thought he’d made a new best friend. Ashley seemed to have a crush on him. He was the center of the whole thing. It’s just…just really, really heartbreaking.”
“Is it possible that his good spirits might have been a sort of giddiness that was the product of knowing he didn’t have much time left?”
“What are you saying?”
“Well, the way you describe him, he seems almost too fun-loving to be real. Like a magical elf or something, bringing people together under a spell. And I can think of some circumstances in which that might make sense. For instance—what if he had recently gotten terrible news from a doctor? A fatal diagnosis of some condition that would be an agonizing way to die? Many would consider suicide in such a case, and I certainly wouldn’t judge them for it.”
Molly leaned her elbows on the counter and thought about that. “He seemed very healthy, though.”
“But you know that kind of impression can be deceiving.”
“That’s a big part of what’s bothering me, to be completely honest. I know it’s making this tragic thing all about me, but I can’t help feeling like Ryan duped me, and the rest of the guests. If he was that miserable—or facing some terrible end, like you say—why not share it?”
“Do you really not understand that? Some people are not built for sharing, like you are, Molly. Some people can only manage difficult things by keeping them private.
Molly gave a short nod. Though Ben was right, she did not really understand. “Well, all I’m saying is that I think there’s at least some possibility that he did not kill himself.”
Ben cocked his head and waited for her to elaborate. Instead she went to the refrigerator and began to ramble on about how little was in there for them to have for dinner.
“What do you mean, he didn’t kill himself? You’re saying someone else killed him, and staged it to look like suicide?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Ben rolled his eyes but Molly was in the pantry and did not see. “Do you like canned sausages and lentils? It’s a guilty pleasure of mine. Well, I hope you do, because otherwise the cupboard is bare. I had too much to do on Saturday to go to the market, and here it is Monday and I still haven’t gone. And my guests have cleaned me out.”
“I love sausage and lentils.”
“Excellent. While I heat them up, you can tell me why you think I’m out of my mind and refusing to
accept what happened.” She dumped the contents of the can into a saucepan and turned on the heat. Then she turned and looked at Ben. He opened his arms and she let herself fall against his chest. He folded his arms around her, and Molly put her head down on his sturdy shoulder and, at long last, let the tears come.
8
It was an early night. Molly told Ben she needed to get to bed extra early, she was feeling so wrung out. Her sleep was fitful, and she woke the next morning feeling as though she had barely slept. La Baraque was quiet except for the intermittent barks of Bobo as she raced around the outside of the house excitedly chasing rabbits. Molly didn’t know the habits of her guests yet, which ones got up early and who liked to sleep in. She crept out to the kitchen half expecting to see the whole group in the living room where she’d left them, waiting to be fed and entertained.
She had guzzled her first cup of coffee and was still in her bathrobe when someone knocked on the front door. Expecting one of the guests, Molly was taken aback when she saw that it was Gilles Maron, looking grim-faced.
“Bonjour, Gilles. Sorry about the bathrobe. Is anything the matter?”
“Not going to beat around the bush. I’ve just heard from Nagrand. Ryan Tuck wasn’t a suicide. It was murder.”
Molly’s hand flew to her mouth. They stood in the doorway letting gusts of cold air sweep into the house.
“So let’s get the I-told-you-so’s out of the way straight off,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “You said it wasn’t suicide, and you were correct.”
Molly was still standing with her hand over her mouth and the other hand on the door handle, stunned to be proven right. “What did Nagrand say?”
“In his inimitable way, he mocked the murderer for choosing hanging, because, according to him, a hanging death produces very clear signs in the corpse that are impossible to reproduce by other means. He says any coroner worth his salt would be able to tell that Tuck did not die by hanging. Though I suspect in part that is Nagrand’s way of giving himself a compliment, which is not unusual for him.”
