Murder on Vacation

by Nell Goddin

  Molly’s mind was racing. “You did just say murder?”

  “Yes, Molly. Murder. By garrotte, apparently. He did have marks on the neck, so at the scene there was nothing that looked suspicious. Only according to Nagrand, they were not the right sort of marks.”

  “Garrotte! So…that would point toward a premeditated act, wouldn’t it? Does Nagrand know what was used? Wire, cord, rope?”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you, Molly?” Maron said.

  “Well, yes, actually,” she said, a bit snappishly. “It’s two days after the murder and we’re just now starting to call it that. So I’d say there’s been considerable waste of very valuable time so far.” She didn’t usually let anyone get to her like that, but she couldn’t help resenting the implication that all she cared about was getting on a case. Perhaps resenting it especially because it was a little bit true.

  Molly finally closed the front door, though now the entire downstairs of her house was freezing. “Listen, Gilles, would you give me five minutes to throw on some clothes? Is it all right if I call Ben?”

  “No on both counts. This is an investigation of the Castillac gendarmerie,” he said. “I’m here not for a consultation but an interview. I’m going to need to talk to all of your guests, and I have already put in the paperwork to see if I can hold them all here in the village until some progress is made on the case. And I do not have time to wait around while you make yourself presentable, just sit down here—do you have any source of heat? It’s arctic in here—and allow me to begin.”

  Molly sagged into a chair by the stove, her plan to take a gigantic mug of coffee back to bed fizzling, but also curious to find out what else Maron knew.

  “Since you called it as murder two days ago,” he continued, “you must have given some thought to who might have reason to kill Tuck? I’m playing catch-up here, but it certainly seems as though the murderer is most likely staying here at La Baraque. Wouldn’t you say so, Madame Sutton?”

  “Love how you call me ‘madame’ when you want to get all official,” scoffed Molly, peeved that he would not allow her to get dressed. “As for the identity of the murderer, yes, I have given it a bit of thought, but I’m sorry to say I haven’t gotten anywhere at all. I suppose we always have the Random Psycho Stranger theory to fall back on, but that’s almost never correct, is it?”

  “Your guests, Molly.”

  “You can understand the many reasons I am not delighted to go in that direction?”

  “You as much as anyone know it’s not me choosing the direction. It’s the facts of the case.”

  Molly drew in a lungful of air and held her breath for a moment, trying to pull herself together. Maron was right. Ryan had been murdered in the woods behind La Baraque. The chance was infinitesimally small that he had somehow met up with a murderous stranger late at night on the outskirts of Castillac and allowed himself to be lured into the woods and done in. While Ryan was no bodybuilder, he looked to have been in decent shape, not someone easily overcome. Far more likely he died because he trusted whomever he was in the woods with, and so the murderer had gotten the significant advantage of surprise.

  “Death by garrotte—it’s pretty quick, isn’t it?” asked Molly.

  “Yes,” said Maron, though he had no idea. He made a mental note to Google it when he had the chance.

  Using a tape recorder as well as a pad and pen, Maron took extensive notes as Molly went through the recent days’ events. Who had arrived when, their movements (as best as she could remember), and their reasons for coming to Castillac. He asked who had had a substantial amount of conversation with Tuck, which made her laugh out loud.

  “You don’t understand, the answer to that is everyone. It’s a very convivial group. They get along like…” She searched for a French version of “gangbusters” but came up empty.

  “All right. Was there anyone in particular that he talked to more than the others?”

  “Me,” Molly blurted out. “Maybe Ashley? I wasn’t with them every second. On Sunday night I was the first one to go to bed, so I have no idea who stayed up or what they talked about. I did wake and hear music at one point.”

  “What kind?”

  “Jazz. On someone’s phone, probably. I’m not a fan of jazz so I put my pillow over my head and went back to sleep.”

  Maron looked at her as though she had just announced she ate live worms for breakfast every morning. “What kind of person doesn’t like jazz? Especially an American!”

  “We’re not all the same, you know.”

  “Madame Sutton, please remember this is a murder investigation and a formal interview. It’s awkward since we are acquainted but please, since there’s no getting around that, please confine your remarks to the matter at hand and what I specifically ask you.”

  “Yes, Chief,” she said, maintaining a respectful expression with some effort, and resisting the urge to salute, while pointing out that he had been the one to veer off the subject.

  “Would you call Tuck’s behavior flirtatious?”

  Molly looked out of the window and did not answer immediately.

  Bingo, thought Maron, smiling to himself. “Was he flirtatious with you?”

  “You Frenchmen think you’ve cornered the market on charm,” Molly shot back.

  “I’ll mark that down as a ‘yes.’”

  “Oh, come on, Gilles. Okay, he was a teeny little bit flirty with me. And with Darcy and Ashley, hell, probably with all the women here. But it was…well, it was sort of French, really, now that I think of it. He wasn’t really putting the moves on me. More just showing his appreciation. You know? Making a connection. It was part of enjoying life, not about serious seduction or anything like that.”

  “And do you know that it was the same with the others, or are you guessing?”

  “I have no idea. Darcy is married…oh, so is that where you’re going with this? Jealous husband?”

  Maron made an exaggerated Gallic shrug. “It is the first minutes of the investigation, Molly. I am not ‘going’ anywhere at all. Merely trying to assemble as much information as I can about what went on over the last few days, before it disappears into the mists of memory.”

  “That’s very poetic.”

  “I am French, after all. In case it has slipped your mind.”

  Molly guffawed and then pulled her bathrobe tighter. She would almost have thought Maron was flirting with her, except she knew that was an impossibility given their history. That, and the complete absence of attraction on either side.

  “Please elaborate on Tuck and Madame…” Maron consulted his notes, “…Bilson? Darcy, married to Ira Bilson, is that correct? How serious was Tuck’s flirting with her?”

  “Well, let’s see…there was a moment last night, when Ashley had gotten everyone belly dancing. They were a bit tipsy from champagne, and I did see Ryan dancing with Darcy. He had his hands on her hips as she swiveled them in a figure-eight, sort of dancing with her while she was belly dancing.”

  “Belly dancing?”

  “Ah, yeah, it was harmless enough. Just something silly they were doing. They didn’t seem to mind looking foolish in front of each other. Which was especially remarkable given how prickly some members of the group are.”

  “Prickly?” Molly had used the French word for “spiky” and Maron was confused.

  “Darcy takes offense very easily. Ashley gets headaches. Patty likes to gossip. Ira is a doormat with a temper. Nathaniel seems sad. They are not, taken one by one, a fun-loving, easygoing group.”

  “Interesting,” said Maron.

  “Maybe,” said Molly. For as sure as she had been about Ryan’s not having killed himself, she was utterly at sea about where to look for his killer.

  Perhaps thanks to Ryan’s influence, ironically enough, she liked all her guests. Even the spiky ones.

  After another forty-five minutes of going over the same ground, Maron finally asked where he could find the guests, but when Molly walked him aro
und La Baraque they found not a soul. Since the guests seemed to have scattered for the day, Maron took off for the station. Molly, hungry and exhausted, took a large mug of coffee and a plate of buttered toast with gooseberry jam and climbed into bed, still wearing her bathrobe. There was so much to do; but at the moment, she felt talked out and tired down to her marrow.

  Gooseberry jam, just by itself, would be reason enough to move to France, she thought, closing her eyes as she chewed so that all her attention could focus on the rich, fruity taste.

  She had polished off one piece of toast and opened her tablet to read when Bobo, who had been lying pressed to Molly’s side, lifted her head toward the door. Molly heard footsteps scurry closer, then silence. Bobo whined. Someone was waiting in the corridor outside her bedroom.

  Molly knew she should get up. But her legs felt leaden and she just could not make herself do it. “Yes?” she called out. “Do you need something?”

  In an instant Patty was at the side of the bed. “Hi Molly,” she said brightly. “I admit, I was sort of trying to listen in the hallway while you talked to that policeman. So, uh, wow! Murder!”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Molly. Their eyes met and they saw that they were both glad, perhaps for different reasons. “Listen, Patty, I don’t want this to sound at all rude, but I have to ask you not to come inside my house like this without knocking. It’s not about you, please understand—just a rule I have in place for all my guests. I’m sure you understand, with me being a woman living alone and all.” One of the things Molly had loved about Castillac was the fact that no one locked their doors, but maybe it was time to reconsider that policy.

  “Whatever you say,” said Patty, but Molly was not sure what she said had sunk in. “So, you guys talked for a very long time! You’re friends with the cop and all? I hope that means he’s going to keep you up to date on whatever evidence he gathers. As you can imagine, Ashley is taking this whole thing very, very hard. And so anything I can find out and tell her, it would be a comfort. She’s going to be a wreck when she finds out the latest.”

  “Patty, Chief Maron is not going to be sharing that kind of information with me. I’m sorry, that’s just not how it works. It’s not like this is happening on a television show. There are legal procedures that must be followed.”

  Patty did not seem to hear. “I’ve never been part of a murder investigation before,” Patty continued. “Do you mind if I have a seat? When is the cop coming back to talk to us? Should we go to the station and make an appointment?” She started to lower herself to the edge of Molly’s bed but Molly looked so aghast that Patty stood back up again.

  Molly sipped her coffee slowly. She wanted the young woman to go away and leave her in peace, but she managed to keep that from showing in her expression. “I’m sorry. I can’t answer any of your questions. I’m sure Chief Maron will be in touch.”

  “I can’t imagine there’s too much going on in Castillac that will slow him down. Maybe he’ll come back later today?”

  Molly shrugged and took another sip. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were quite shy,” she said to Patty.

  “I am shy.”

  “Really.”

  “Well, I’m not shy here at La Baraque, because we’ve spent time together. We’ve shared something, been through something together. And you—I feel like I know you, Molly. Like we’ve been friends for a long time or something.”

  Molly smiled faintly, admitting to herself that she felt a little the same way about Patty.

  “Anyway, I was doing some thinking out in the hallway, and a couple of things sort of stick out, if you know what I mean.”

  Molly’s ears pricked up, just barely. “Stick out?”

  “Well, for one thing, Ryan’s a guy, obviously, and not a weakling. So there’s no way any of the women could have killed him. I’m assuming, of course, that the murderer is one of us here at La Baraque? I mean, maybe it’s possible that he pissed someone off in Castillac. But I’m going with the high-probability options first.”

  Molly just looked at Patty and blinked. She felt so very tired.

  “Just to be thorough, I include you on the list of suspects, but like I say, the murderer is unlikely to be female so you get crossed off right away.” Patty smiled as though Molly should feeling ever so grateful for the exculpatory strike.

  “Thank you very much,” murmured Molly. “And have you narrowed things down from there?”

  Patty shrugged. “It’s early days. But I did want to share…not the kind of thing I would ever tell anyone, under normal circumstances, but this isn’t normal, is it?”

  Molly bit the corner off the second piece of toast, aware that it was rude to eat without offering her guest anything, and then took another bite. It tasted a little funny, like the jam had gone off somehow, although she hadn’t noticed anything with the first piece of toast.

  Patty rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. She was wearing jeans that Molly thought might have been purchased in the children’s department, she was that small.

  “What I want to tell you is, on the first night we were here, on Saturday? I overheard Darcy saying some really harsh things to Ira. They were over in the corner of the room, where she keeps doing those blasted headstands? You were in the kitchen with Ryan, and everyone else was around the woodstove. And, I don’t know, it looked like they were arguing…so I sidled over to hear what they were saying.”

  Eavesdropping was one of Molly’s favorite sports, and yet, she noticed that when someone else did it, the practice seemed just a tad distasteful.

  “And so I didn’t catch every word,” Patty continued, “but she was telling him to lay off the pastries because he already had a butt the size of a barn.”

  “Oh my.”

  “I know, right?”

  “What did Ira say?”

  “It was sad to see, it really was. He just hung his head like Darcy had slapped him. He didn’t say anything back that I could hear. Not long after that, they left.”

  “So what are you…are you implying that Darcy…?”

  “Nope,” said Patty quickly. “Just thought you’d be interested.”

  “Thank you,” said Molly, her eyelids feeling as though they had weights on them. “I don’t mean to be abrupt, Patty, but for some reason—maybe it’s everything that’s happened—I am just exhausted. I’m going to try to get a little more sleep, if you don’t mind.”

  “You can go back to sleep after drinking all that coffee? My mother always said it was the devil’s beverage. She was some serious about church, my mother!” Patty eased herself down on the corner of the bed and laughed. “We weren’t allowed to dance, play cards, drink coffee…Oh, the list of sins was pretty much endless.”

  Molly was baffled. Had she been unclear about wanting Patty to go?

  “…and this one time, my older brother wanted to go to a barn dance. The most innocent thing you can imagine. Just a banjo and a guitar player, and some square dancing. You’d have thought he had asked if he could go on a date with Satan himself!”

  “Patty. Let’s continue this conversation a little later, after I’ve had some more rest. Goodbye for now!” and with that, Molly flopped on her side and closed her eyes.

  Patty stood up but didn’t leave right away. She waited a long moment to see if Molly’s eyes would open again. But eventually she gave up and crept out of the room, and Molly fell into a deep slumber.

  9

  Patty returned to her room just long enough to drop the bombshell on Ashley.

  “Hey, are you ever getting out of bed?” she said, giving her friend a slap on the arm.

  Ashley was sitting in bed with a laptop open, several pillows fluffed up behind her and the luxurious comforter pulled up to her waist. “I’m doing a bit of shopping,” she said. “I’m absolutely undone about Ryan. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

  “Ash, you just met the guy.”

  “Have you never heard of coup de foudre?”


  “Since I speak no French except for ‘bonjour,’ no, I have never heard of cooda foodruh.” Patty rolled her eyes.

  “It means lightning bolt. As in love at first sight.”

  “That’s just great. In love with a dead guy.” Patty shook her head. “Listen, I’ve got news. While everyone else is moping around feeling sorry for themselves, I’ve been doing my best to find out what’s really going on around here. Hold on to your hat, Miss Ashley Gander. If I really believed you were as fragile as you like to make out, I might not even tell you. But I guess it’ll get out anyway.”

  “What’ll get out?” asked Ashley, perking up in spite of herself.

  “Ryan Tuck did not kill himself.”

  “Of course he didn’t.”

  Patty stared. “So…you do understand what that means?”

  “I never for one single solitary moment thought that charming man would do himself in. He was positively electrifying, Patty, are you blind? Too lively, too gay!”

  Patty raised her eyebrows.

  “Not that kind of gay,” snapped Ashley. “We had a spark, Ryan and I. Couldn’t you see it? Didn’t everyone see it?”

  Patty narrowed her eyes at her friend. Had Ashley really not noticed that Ryan had been flirting with everyone, not just her? “Look, Ash, you don’t seem to be following your idea to its conclusion. If Ryan didn’t kill himself, what does that mean?”

  Ashley looked at her blankly.

  “How did he end up dead, hanging from a rope?” Patty almost shouted, exasperated.

  Ashley’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. “Someone killed him?” she whispered.

  Patty grinned and nodded. “Now you’re getting it,” she said. “Not only that—someone here, at La Baraque.”

  Ashley’s eyes widened.

  “Maybe it was you,” said Patty sarcastically. “So listen, are you getting up or not? I want to go into Castillac and have a real look around. It’s too cold to walk and the village looks super cute. Are you coming, or were you planning on spending your vacation doing stuff you could do in your own bed back in Charleston.”