by Nell Goddin
“Just emailing mostly, with a couple of real letters and postcards. I…I haven’t told anyone about this, because, well, we’ve only been seeing each other for about two months. But before I left, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.” Nathaniel looked at Molly with shining eyes. “So we’re not talking on the phone while I’m over here. We’ve got a wedding to save up for.”
“Well, that is entirely wonderful,” said Molly. “Congratulations! Sometimes you just know when something is right,” she said, inwardly wondering why that never seemed to happen to her.
“Exactly,” agreed Nathaniel.
Molly’s face was pale and her freckles stood out even more than usual. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed deeply. “Thanks, Nathaniel. I think I’m going to try to nap a little now.”
“Sure thing, Molly. You need anything, just call.”
Molly’s thoughts were scattered as she drifted off to sleep for the third time that day. She only hoped this phase of treatment passed quickly so that she could get back to living her life and actively join Ben on the murder case. And where was Ben, anyway? Wasn’t he going to move in to La Baraque? She couldn’t remember whether that conversation had taken place yesterday or last week.
The last thing she wanted to do was be stuck in bed. And with that thought, she began to snore.
23
1987
The curtains were pulled across the window so that everything was dim and gray except for one sharp slit of sunshine that broke across the bed where a woman lay, inexorably moving closer and closer to her face as the sun moved across the afternoon sky.
“Nathaniel,” her soft voice said. “Draw the curtains, if you please.”
The boy got up and went to the window. He did not look out to the sunny day with yearning, even though he had stayed inside on so many afternoons and missed untold numbers of games with the neighborhood children. He decided himself not to go out, because he was sure that if he did, if he relaxed his vigilance even for one afternoon, one hour—his mother would die.
With some difficulty he managed to get both sections of curtain pulled to the center, and the slice of sun disappeared.
“Thank you, Nathaniel. Come here,” his mother said, reaching out her hand. He sat down next to her, arranging his expression as though he were looking at something happy instead of the wasted face of his mother, now down below a hundred pounds, her body ravaged by illness. She said nothing but took his hand in both of hers and held it, closing her eyes. She did this every day. Sometimes Nathaniel waited a half hour or more before she fell asleep or changed position and let go of his hand.
He never let go. Never took himself away from her.
Of course, he was made to go to school every day. His father was in charge of that, and since his mother’s illness had been going on for many months, he had gotten used to it in a way, and no longer cried when he was told it was time to leave. He was only eight, so to him, those months were a large chunk of lifetime. In bed at night, when it was time to sleep, he tried to remember how things were before she got sick. He was surprised at how few memories he could grab hold of.
During the work week, Mr. Beech came home every day promptly at seven. He made hamburgers and canned corn for him and Nathaniel to eat, he would tell his son sternly to drink his milk and pick up his shoes from the living room floor, and to do his homework properly. A long list of orders, but never any conversation. Never asked Nathaniel what kinds of books he liked, or whether he was tired of canned corn. Never said how hard it was for all of them, watching his mother drift deeper into illness toward death.
Never laughed, or hugged his son, or managed to see beyond his own sorrow, even for a moment.
24
The next morning, Tuesday, Molly felt quite a bit more human. Tentatively, she got up and got dressed, made coffee, fed Bobo. All of which was more activity than she was used to these last days, yet it didn’t feel like too much.
“Bonjour Molls,” said Constance, coming in through the front door holding a large pot.
“Bonjour, Constance. Thanks so much for looking after things the way you have been doing. What in the world is that?”
“I just found it sitting on the stoop on my way in. Looks like it’s from Monsieur Nugent.”
Molly unfolded a note and recognized Edmond Nugent’s careful handwriting. He was the owner and sole baker at her favorite place in all of France—Pâtisserie Bujold—and he must have wondered where in the world his most avid customer had disappeared to.
Dearest Molly,
I hear you are not as well as you might be.
Please drink as much soup as you are able.
No matter what is the matter, it will help.
With deepest affection,
Edmond
Molly lifted the lid and peered in. The alluring smell of chicken broth filled her nostrils. “You know, I think I’ll have a bowl right now. Want some?” Molly asked Constance.
Before she could answer, a quick rap on the door. Molly went to answer it and found Maron standing outside. “Bonjour Molly. Glad you see you up and about. Lyme treatment not so bad after all?”
“Not at the moment,” she said. “What’s happening? And where is Ben?”
“I’ll explain,” he said. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, of course, sorry. Would you like some coffee? Or soup?”
“Coffee, thank you.”
Constance had slipped away once she saw who it was. Molly and Maron sat in front of the woodstove and sipped their coffee.
“Ben has been doing a few things for me, sort of under the table. He’ll be here shortly.”
“Under the table?”
“I mean unofficially. Do you know that Paul-Henri can’t stop talking about putting you on the suspect list for Ryan’s murder? Or Dedalus, as you’ve named him.”
Molly laughed. “I guess it isn’t funny. What did I do to give him such a bad opinion of me?”
“Oh, I don’t think he actually believes you did it. It’s just that he is such a stickler for form. In his mind, anyone who had contact with Dedalus in the few days he was in Castillac should be on that list. When I asked why the owner of a gîte business would suddenly want to kill one of her guests that she’d never met, he suggested you might have a history with him and lured him over to France to stay in a luxury room so that you could strangle him at your leisure.”
“Ah, sort of the Black Widow Innkeeper?” said Molly.
“Precisely,” said Maron, with a rare smile. “I would rather know Dedalus’s identity before saying anything to the guests, but it’s not a perfect world, you know? I can’t just sit here and do nothing while the Americans work on that. I don’t know whether they are dragging their feet or incompetent, but I am anxious for some progress.”
“It’s only been a few days.”
“Nevertheless. I want to call them in here in a few minutes and tell them about Ryan not actually being Ryan, and I would like you to be here, too, watching and listening. All of them will act surprised, of course. Four will be legitimately shocked, and one will be acting. I’m hoping that between you, me, and Ben, we might be able to spot which one.
“Not Paul-Henri?”
“Unfortunately, Madame Vargas’s dog has gotten loose again, so he is otherwise engaged.”
“Yves! I love that dog.”
“Yes. Well. Can you round the guests up? As I say, I expect Ben at any minute, and I don’t mind having everyone get in here ahead of time, wondering what’s going on but having to wait to find out. Any added pressure should be helpful to us. You are well enough for this undertaking?”
Molly nodded. “Sure. Before I do that, though, something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Her face turned a light shade of pink when she confessed to snooping in her guests’ quarters. “…so of course once I saw it, I read the letter. It was to his girlfriend back home. Two interesting things about it: he says he’s ‘pretty sure’ the motive was romantic jealousy, which fi
ts with one of our theories; and that he think he knows who did it, but hasn’t said anything yet.”
“Hmm. You didn’t happen to take the letter? Or take a picture of it?”
“Damn. I didn’t take it, for obvious reasons, but I had my phone with me and could’ve snapped a photo. Just didn’t occur to me. It was a few days ago now, the letter’s probably long since mailed.”
“A shame.”
“Yes. Well, possibly you can put some pressure on Nathaniel to see who he suspects and why, and at least we can cross him off our own list.”
“Don’t be too quick about that, Molly.”
“It’s crystal clear in the letter that he did not do it, Gilles.”
“Well, what do you expect him to say to his girlfriend? ‘The deed is done and I’ll see you soon’? Not likely. You’re always the first one to say we should never assume, Molly.”
“But…” she started to argue but did not feel up to it. She would fight that battle another day. “Okay then, we can talk more about it later if you’re willing. I’ll go knock on some doors and be right back. I’m not positive everyone’s still around, but it’s pretty early…”
While Molly was gone, Maron stood and walked around the living room. He avoided the orange cat, who had taken a chunk out of his calf on a visit back in the summer. He glanced at the books on her bookshelf, opened a drawer, noted the antique glass medicine bottles lined up on the sill of the kitchen window.
Ashley arrived first. “Why bonjour, Offi-si-ay,” she said, laying on an accent she had gotten from movies, but not French ones. “I want to tell you, since we’re alone? That I’m really so glad you are in charge.” She looked at him from under heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “I hope I can be your best witness.”
Maron had no idea what to make of this. “Yes. Well, if you can give me any helpful information, I will be glad to hear it. Has anything occurred to you after our last meeting, anything you remembered or forgot to tell me?”
“Well, I’m sure you know that Darcy Bilson had her sights on Ryan? Oh yes. She told Patty—Patty’s my college friend, we’re traveling together—she told Patty that she wanted Ryan. I mean like, carnally wanted him. A married woman, saying something like that to a total stranger! I’m not saying she’s guilty, Offi-si-ay Maron, but I do know that when some people don’t get what they want, they can go a little cray-cray. Or a lot.”
“You are implying that in your opinion, the murderer of Ryan is Darcy Bilson?”
“Yes sir, I am. Or I would be if I were a betting woman, which I am not—because Mama always told me betting is vulgar, and my mama was right about pretty much everything.” Ashley snickered to herself at that one, since she had run away from home when she was sixteen in large part to get away from her mother.
Patty came in next, followed in short order by the others.
“We’re in luck, Gilles,” said Molly. “All present and accounted for. Thanks everyone, I know this is the strangest vacation you’ve ever had. I will tell you that the gendarmerie of Castillac has distinguished itself over and over during my time here, and hopefully they will soon be able to make an arrest and put this whole thing behind us. I know you’re anxious to get home.”
“Not really!” blurted Patty. “I mean, I miss my job and all, but you know this is the first time I’ve ever been in a foreign country, and it’s way cool. Plus I could eat those almond croissants all day long.”
“Girl after my heart,” said Molly. Her mind was feeling clearer than it had in days, and she noticed that Patty, at least, seemed remarkably complacent. Either she was a stone sociopath incapable of feeling guilt, or she was innocent, and knew nothing about what had happened.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” said Maron. “I have some news about the case that you all deserve to know. Ryan Tuck—the man you knew as ‘Ryan Tuck’—was an imposter. At this juncture, we do not know his true identity. There does exist a Ryan Tuck, and the passport is valid—but that man is currently in Cincinnati, Ohio, and has never visited France in his life.”
Molly observed carefully. All five were motionless, with eyes widened, frozen for a few moments. She couldn’t help wondering if Maron was wrong, and the murderer was someone with no connection to La Baraque. Then everyone started talking at once.
“No way!”
“What?”
“I knew there was something fishy about him,” said Ira.
“Smooth operator,” said Patty.
Darcy and Nathaniel had stood up, mouths open and eyes wide with surprise.
“Then who was he?” asked Darcy.
“As I said,” Maron continued, “we do not yet know. But perhaps one of you does?”
Ashley looked down at the floor, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Patty watched her with curiosity, as did Ira.
“Anyone?” asked Maron.
“So what this means is…we don’t know if the murderer meant to kill Ryan, or this other guy,” said Ira.
Maron nodded.
“Maybe…excuse me if this is not legal or something, but maybe I could help with this? I’m an IT guy, remember. Maybe I could do a search and see what I could come up with?”
“I’m sure the cops have their own IT guys, Nathaniel,” said Ashley.
He shrugged, “Yeah, right, sorry Chief, I didn’t mean any insult. Just trying to help.”
“Thank you for the offer,” said Maron. “Molly, could you serve the guests anything to eat and drink? Maybe some coffee at least?”
“Sure!” said Molly, understanding that Maron wanted to keep them in the room. She went to get her tablet, looking up an easy recipe for sablés that she’d made before, and got busy in the kitchen.
“You need any help?” Ashley asked her. “I’m no whiz in the kitchen, but honest to God, I’m going to lose my mind if I just stand around out there. I cannot block out of my mind the fact that one of those people is a murderer, like some people seem to be able to.”
“Nor should you,” said Molly quietly, pretending to assume that of course Ashley herself was above suspicion. She got out the flour, butter, and sugar, and gave Ashley a measuring cup and told her how much sugar to measure out, reminding herself that she was not allowed to eat any cookies while on antibiotics. “So Ashley,” Molly continued in a low voice, “just curious—who do you think did it?”
Ashley stopped what she was doing and looked at Molly with wet eyes. “I just….”
Molly held her breath.
But Ashley broke eye contact and went back to measuring out the sugar. “I just miss him, is all. Ryan and I really connected, as I’m sure you noticed. And to have him snatched away like that—”
“I understand. I had affection for him too. Okay, here’s the butter. Take the back of this wooden spoon and cream it all together.” Molly looked out to the living room. Ira was standing in front of the woodstove, as he liked to do, his arms folded across his wide chest, watching his wife and glancing over at Ashley. Darcy was pacing, her hands in her hair and eyes on the floor. Nathaniel and Patty were sitting next to each other on the sofa, talking in low voices.
Had one of these people really murdered Dedalus? Molly still couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. She knew very well that cases are solved with evidence and logical thinking, not emotions and vague impressions. Nevertheless, it did not feel to her as though she were in the room with a cold-blooded killer, and it was difficult to shake that feeling off.
Once again, her gaze traveled around the room, watching each guest in turn, wondering what was underneath the public masks they wore. She poured herself another glass of apricot juice and prepared to mingle, ready to eavesdrop, her senses as finely tuned as she could make them.
25
Early Wednesday morning, Patty managed to hustle Ashley out of bed and into a rental car. The drive to Rocamadour would to take a while, and she wanted to be first in line at the Ecopark to see the show that featured falcons and hawks flying free over the valley.
Ashley s
at slumped in the passenger seat, sunglasses on. “Are we allowed any breakfast?” she asked crossly. “Or is this forced march not stopping for anything all day?”
“Very funny,” said Patty. “Listen, I agreed to come to Castillac only because you promised we could visit this Ecopark thing. Otherwise I would never have wanted to spend my very first trip outside the country coming to a small village where nothing ever happens.”
“I would hardly call this trip uneventful.”
“Well, okay, but now what? We’re holed up at La Baraque with the same people, one of whom might very well be a killer, with nothing to do. I thought the point of traveling was to get out in the world and see stuff?! But all I’ve done here is walk into the boring village and have coffee.”
“Speaking of that, what about that Nathaniel? He’s sorta cute, don’t you think? Any sparks between you?”
“Nah. Not my type. Plus he has a serious girlfriend. But,” Patty said, tightening her grip on the steering wheel and breaking into a grin, “I did meet someone. A server at the Café de la Place. Don’t get any ideas about going there, Ash! Seriously! It’s my territory for the next few days, you hear me?”
“Good Lord, Patty, do you think I just run around trying to steal men away from my friends?”
Patty shrugged. “His name’s Pascal. And he is so gorgeous I could hardly breathe.”
“Um hm. And you think you have a chance with him? You don’t even speak any frawn-say.”
“Who cares? His English is magnificent. I don’t know, maybe it was just French charm? But he actually seemed interested,” Patty said. “At least at first. No tips allowed at the café so I don’t think he was just trying to work me for an extra centime. But….”
Ashley waited. “But what?”
