Murder on Vacation

by Nell Goddin

  “Snippets?”

  “Oh, innocuous gossip, for the most part, though of course sometimes that sort of thing can be useful. When the group got tipsy, Ashley got everyone belly dancing. Ira Bilson isn’t very nice to his wife. Stuff like that.”

  “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

  “Don’t know yet. But I think so. Like I said, maybe it will turn out to be helpful at some point. She…she said something about Molly as well, which will please you.”

  “You misunderstand, Chief. It’s not that I want Molly to be guilty, or in any kind of trouble at all. Only thinking we should be thorough and by the book.”

  Maron understood perfectly well that Molly’s success as an amateur detective rankled Paul-Henri to a high degree, but he said nothing about it. “Patty said that Ryan and Molly had been flirting heavily, and that she had seen Ryan kiss her while they were in the kitchen, which as you know is open to the living room.”

  “Aha!” said Paul-Henri.

  “No idea what you’re aha-ing about. Apparently Ryan Tuck was quite a player. He managed to get nearly all the women at La Baraque smitten with him at once. Ashley, Molly, and also Darcy, who I’ll get to in a moment.”

  “Everyone except Patty?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But Patty—no way could she have killed Tuck, not without help. She’s a tiny little thing. If she crept up behind you with a garrotte, you’d flick her off easier than swatting a mosquito.”

  “Maybe she had help then.”

  “That makes no sense, Paul-Henri. If she wanted to kill him because she felt left out, how is she going to get someone else to do the killing for her? Especially when the guests at La Baraque were strangers when they got to La Baraque? No, I think we can safely cross Patty McMahon off the list. She’s sort of an unpleasant person, and she did go to bed later than most of the others so the timing could have worked. But I don’t see any way for her to have physically accomplished the deed.”

  Paul-Henri shrugged, making it clear he did not agree.

  “All right, the Bilsons went next, Ira and Darcy. If ever there was an example to prevent you from deciding to marry, this couple would do it. Darcy expressed nothing but contempt for her husband. She also was under Tuck’s spell. Said he was the ‘embodiment of the light’ or some other nonsense. She naturally has a sour expression, but when she spoke of Tuck, her face brightened and she looked like a different person. She—quite forthrightly, I believed—admitted that on the night of the murder, she had too much to drink and had no idea what time she got to bed. Did not remember whether she and her husband had gone to bed at the same time.”

  “Perhaps she is a blackout drunk?”

  “Could be. I can pursue that with her husband in the next round.”

  “So Ira Bilson—if his wife was that besotted, what did he think of it? Did he admit to any jealousy?”

  “Well, they are sort of hippie types. Ira talked a little about free love and following your path. Lost me pretty quickly. So, to answer your question, no, he was rationalizing the situation, and if he did feel jealousy, he was either hiding it from me or from himself.”

  “Unless he actually believes those things.”

  “Correct. In my judgment, he does not. No one does. Oh, all right, before you interrupt, sure, there are some people who really do believe in that kind of thing and in my view they’re welcome to it. But my sense of Ira Bilson is that he wants to be free-thinking but is, in reality, just as mired in petty emotions as the rest of us. But I make no claim to absolute certainty—we will simply have to watch and see what happens over the next week, and hope the picture becomes clearer.”

  The two men were quiet, musing over the suspects and the case. Paul-Henri twiddled one of the buttons on his jacket and Maron struggled not to snap at him to quit it.

  Maron said, “Oh, I forgot one thing about Darcy. She said she and Ira are hoping to conceive a child while in France. Can you imagine having those two as parents? Anyway, she’d talked about this wish with Ryan, and said he was sympathetic and a good listener. That’s probably the main thing I learned about the victim through these interviews: Tuck seems to have been a man who connected with others easily. No one had a bad word to say against him.”

  Eventually Paul-Henri sighed. “Strange thing about this case. You’d sort of expect the disagreeable person to get strangled, not the one everybody liked.”

  Maron nodded. “Yes. Well, apparently one person was faking it.”

  “Unless—”

  “Right, the man in the dark coat. Mon Dieu, Paul-Henri. Okay, last one, Nathaniel Beech. Back home in Chicago he works in IT at a hospital. Said he was concerned about the women in the group being upset since they had gotten so attached to Tuck. Said that before the murder, they all felt as though the group had made friends for life. Went to bed on the early side, around 10:30.”

  “Did he seem jealous of all the attention Tuck was getting from the women?”

  “Not at all. Told me he has a girlfriend at home and seemed quite enamored of her, wishing she were on the trip, etc. But he is a sensitive sort, and appeared to be genuinely concerned about the feelings of others. Which is a little funny, since I would not say the same about, well, any of the rest.”

  “A selfish bunch, eh?”

  “At first meeting, yes. But we will get to know them better.”

  “Perhaps I might do several of the interviews?” asked Paul-Henri, trying mightily not to seem overly eager.

  “We’ll see,” said Maron, putting on his coat with a silent sigh.

  14

  At 9:00 Friday morning, the Bilsons were still in bed, Ira on his laptop, and Darcy just waking up.

  “Lovey, what would you like to do for breakfast? Shall we go back to the Café de la Place? I thought the croissants were impeccable, as the French say!”

  “Ira, must you torture me with your bad French accent?”

  “Sorry.” He leaned over and kissed the dragon tattoo on her shoulder. “I know you’re upset, and when you’re upset, you lash out.”

  “Honestly, Ira, just for once in your life don’t say anything annoying!”

  Ira took in an enormous amount of air through his nostrils, performing some yogic breathing in order to calm his nervous system, which irritated Darcy even further, but she managed not to comment.

  “That’s odd,” he said, looking at an email.

  Darcy flopped over in bed.

  “Hmm,” said Ira.

  Darcy cracked open one eye and then shut it again.

  “I wonder if it means anything at all.”

  “Dammit, Ira!” Darcy swung out of bed and came to look over Ira’s shoulder.

  “I posted some pictures of the other night on Facebook,” he said. “I know some of our friends at home are following along on our trip.”

  “Why don’t you post photos of, I don’t know, the Eiffel Tower and stuff like that? You don’t need to put up pictures of the people we meet. No one cares about that.”

  “Oh, my dearest, people do. Take a look at this.” Ira clicked to show her the email he had just received, from some good friends back home who were the sort of people who had a million friends from all over:

  The weirdest thing! The guy with his arm around Darcy—he looks exactly like another friend of ours! I mean like total doppelganger! Think you could get his email so I can get them together?

  “He’s talking about Ryan?” asked Darcy.

  “Yes, sweetness, he appears to be the only one with his arm around you,” said Ira, a bit drily. “So at least you may be consoled to know that he has a double somewhere out in the world.”

  “Oh, shut up, Ira. As I’m sure even you could have figured out by now, it was not Ryan’s looks that made him attractive. It was his spirit. The good looks, well, that was just a side bonus.”

  “Right,” said Ira, trying and failing to keep a note of bitterness from his voice.

  Darcy got out of
bed and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.

  Ira thought for a moment. Then he opened a new file, and made a list of all the guests at La Baraque. And then—his wife was known for taking endlessly long showers, and this time used up the entire contents of the hot water heater in one shower—he methodically began to Google each name and take notes on what he found. He was a thorough man, good with detail, and he wondered to himself that it had taken him so long to do the sort of research he should have done when the group first starting spending time together.

  Always good to know what cards the others are holding, he thought, typing rapidly. And even better if they do not know you know.

  When no one answered the door, Ben tried the handle and found it unlocked. He stepped inside the foyer of La Baraque just as Bobo came flying out to greet him, slamming into his legs so hard that a less sturdy man might have been bowled right over.

  “I’m glad to see you too, Bobo,” laughed Ben. “And where is your mistress?”

  “In here!” said Molly, sitting up in bed and raking her fingers through the tornado atop her head.

  Ben sat on the side of the bed and leaned in to kiss her. He kissed her on the mouth, and it was not a dry little peck. Not exceedingly amorous either, but warm, and sensual. Molly appreciated it.

  “So tell me what Dr. Vernay said? I trust him completely, if that helps. He has an excellent mind and could have had an illustrious career in medicine if he had been willing to leave Castillac.”

  “You have such a soft spot for this place,” said Molly, smiling.

  “So it’s Lyme? Is that definitive?”

  “Not yet. He wanted me to rest up a few days, then the treatment will start. The way he explains it, how the treatment goes will pretty much confirm the diagnosis. Or not. I guess at this point I’m hoping it is Lyme, because if it’s not, I’m back to square one. It’s horrible to feel this out of it,” she added softly.

  “I understand,” said Ben, brushing her hair back from her face. He had a way of sitting quietly without fidgeting or seeming uncomfortable that made Molly relax. “So, please tell me what I can do for you. Would you like some chicken soup?”

  “Lawrence has that covered, thanks. Just your coming over, that’s helpful,” she said, sinking back into the pillows after a wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Who knew that just having a conversation took so much energy?

  Ben watched her face, concerned. “Are you too tired to get up? Would you like to take a walk or something, get a little fresh air?

  Molly shook her head.

  “Do you feel too crummy to talk business?”

  “Never!” said Molly, but her voice was not strong.

  “Well, I’m hoping you and I will be able to play a role in the new case. Obviously you’re right in the middle of it, and have access to all the suspects…but Molly, I’m afraid, looking at you—and you’re lovely as ever, of course—but you do look all in, like you could use a week of solid rest. All I was going to suggest was that you keep socializing with your guests. Keep them talking, keep them interacting. Observe.”

  “I can do that,” she said weakly, but with her eyes closed.

  Ben took her hand and watched her fall asleep, feeling concerned but glad she was in the good hands of Dr. Vernay, and thinking she truly was as lovely as ever, though her freckles seemed a bit faded and he would wish for more color in her cheeks. He stayed another ten minutes, until he let go of her hand and it slid down beside her leg on the plush comforter. He crept out without waking her.

  When Molly woke several hours later, she was disappointed that Ben was gone. I barely got a chance to talk to him, she thought. She got up and took a shower, and after getting dressed she sat on the edge of the bed, already wanting to climb back under the covers. But Molly was made of stronger stuff than that. She forced herself to put on a jacket and scarf and go outside, hoping a short amble around La Baraque in the cool air would help her feel better.

  Oh, what I would give for it to be June, and the swimming pool ready to jump into! She gazed at the spot at the bottom of the meadow where the pool was slated to go, looking forward to it with all her heart. She sort of missed having workmen around the place—it gave a sense of pushing forward, improvement, not to mention affording Molly a few more people to talk to.

  The pigeonnier was quiet. She wondered whether Ashley’s headaches had abated, and if she and Patty were out having a regular sort of touristy day, seeing the sights and eating too much. On her way to the cottage to check on the Bilsons, she tried to focus her mind on the murder. If the killer was one of her guests, was there any way to eliminate any of them? Would the Bilsons and Patty and Ashley give alibis for the other person they were staying with, out of loyalty? Was there any chance that any of the guests had known each other before coming to Castillac, but not said anything about it?

  How far in advance had the murder been planned? Had it happened because of something Ryan had done, or because the murderer had other motives?

  As usual, too many questions and not enough answers. Well, zero answers, but who’s counting?

  Molly was just about to turn around and go back to the main house when she heard raised voices. As quickly as she could, she moved closer to the cottage, pretending to look at a small bush around the side of the building.

  “Ira, just leave it alone, will you?”

  “I would very much like to do that, Lovey, but in this case—”

  “This case—bah. You just want to be the big man, the guy the gendarmes will want to talk to. Has it even occurred to you that if you start telling them stuff like this, it might make you look guilty?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything, I’m speaking directly. Your evidence is just a bunch of stupid Facebook gossip and not anything to be taken seriously. But the gendarmes will go deeper than that, Ira. They’ll be thinking, okay, why is this guy coming to us and telling us this stuff? Why does anyone want to muddy the investigation, huh? Because he’s guilty, that’s why. Because he was so jealous of the connection Ryan had with his wife that he wants to discredit him any way he can. As though killing him wasn’t enough.”

  Molly peeked through a crack in the curtains and saw Ira shake his head slowly, but he did not answer. Molly ducked down before either of them spotted her.

  “Mark is a good friend of mine, I’ve known him since we were kids,” said Ira. “He’s not exactly given to wild theories and imaginative flights of fancy.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Albert Einstein.”

  “Huh? What does that even mean?”

  “I’m just saying, your friend can be the most facts-driven person on the planet, and I will not believe him.”

  “Why does it matter to you, anyway? Oh, right, because you loved Ryan so utterly. Wouldn’t want to think anything at all against him, would you?”

  “Look, okay,” said Darcy, almost sounding conciliatory. “Your friend is probably just mistaken. Easy enough to do. Do not say anything about this, Ira. Not if you want to avoid getting put in a French jail. And I hear they still use leg irons.”

  “You just made that up.”

  “Research ‘French jail’ and see what you find.”

  Next came a stream of muttering, and Molly moved closer to the window to see if she could hear the rest of what they were saying. But the window was closed and the walls were thick, and unfortunately the Bilsons were now speaking in low voices. Worried about being caught, Molly slipped back to the front of the cottage and down the path, chewing on her lip as she tried to guess what Ira’s friend might have told him about Ryan Tuck that Darcy did not like.

  He was so cute, Molly thought, remembering how he had kissed her in the kitchen, and for the first time all day, her face had a bit of color.

  15

  The next morning was a chilly, gray Saturday, and Molly was determined to get to the market since she had missed it the week before. Market day was the best place to get the
freshest food, of course—straight from nearby farms. It also happened to offer the freshest gossip from an even wider variety of sources.

  As she drank coffee and got Bobo fed, the guests drifted into the living room of La Baraque and peppered Molly with a steady stream of questions: Was there anyplace to get octopus? Could she explain European shoe sizes? Did she know that Castillac had faster internet than Charleston? Had she heard anything from the gendarmes about when they might be able to leave?

  “Sorry,” said Molly. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything more than you do about the investigation or how long they expect it to take. Though I can tell you they likely have no idea, unless there’s a heap of evidence they haven’t made public.”

  “I hear you’re sort of an honorary gendarme yourself,” said Ira, who had found a few mentions of Molly’s prowess as a detective on an online expat forum.

  “Eh,” said Molly with a shrug. She had an urge to tell them about the private investigator business she was starting with Ben, but hadn’t quite forgotten that there was a murderer among them. Perhaps she should keep it under her hat a little longer. “Well, I see it’s drizzling just a little, but I never let that keep me from the market. Most of the vendors will have awnings or umbrellas up so there are dry spots to dodge in and out of. Anyone want to come with me?”

  “If you’re sure Chief Maron doesn’t want to talk to us, I thought I’d drive over to Montignac and see the cave paintings,” said Patty.

  “I’d love to see them too! Want some company?” asked Nathaniel.