by Nell Goddin
“Perhaps,” said Monsour. “I have not had a chance to tell you: I’ve been asking around the village about the man Christophe saw on the night of the murder. I have one point of confirmation.”
“Someone else saw this person?”
“Yes. Malcolm Barstow.”
Maron laughed. “Malcolm! That boy lies like the rest of us breathe. I can promise you this—if Malcolm said he saw a stranger in a dark coat, he’s got a self-serving reason for saying so. Probably wants to have him blamed for something Malcolm has done.”
Monsour sniffed and did not answer.
They turned into the driveway of La Baraque and made their way to the front door with Bobo jumping up on Monsour and leaving muddy prints on his trousers.
“Blast it,” muttered Monsour, trying to rub off the mud, while Maron suppressed a snicker.
The front door swung open before they had a chance to knock. “Bonjour Gilles, Paul-Henri,” said Ben, gesturing for them to come in. “I’m afraid Molly is resting, but I’ve made sure all the guests are in the living room.”
To a person, they looked wary. Nathaniel and Patty sat next to each other on the sofa; Ira stood in front of the woodstove; Darcy waited apart from the group but for once did not go into a headstand. Ashley was curled up in an armchair with a blanket pulled up around her.
“All right then, thank you for coming. I do appreciate your forbearance in this drawn-out matter. And I want you to know that we are doing everything we can to bring the investigation to a rapid conclusion. We have made some progress.”
All eyes were glued on the Chief. Ben and Paul-Henri watched the guests carefully.
“The murder victim was a man named James Pyke, known as Jim. He was from Frederick, Maryland, and had not visited France before this trip.”
“Looks like he picked the wrong place for a vacation,” muttered Patty, and Darcy shot her a dark look.
Dressed in a bathrobe and with her hair a fright, Molly appeared and slipped into the kitchen to make herself a cup of green tea. Feeling a bit better after the nap, she went into the pantry to look for the tea without anyone noticing her presence.
“So, does anyone know or have any connection to Jim Pyke?” Maron asked, but he could see from their closed-up expressions he would get nothing. The tourists shrugged or shook their heads. Ashley sat frozen, an artificial smile on her heavily made-up face. Patty and Nathaniel talked quietly about going to the Café de la Place again as soon as Maron let them go. The Bilsons drifted to the edge of the living room, as far from Maron as they could get without leaving altogether, and talked in low voices.
“I told you,” said Ira.
“Okay, okay, you were right and I was wrong. Happy now?”
“You gonna tell him?”
“What good would that do? They already know who it is now.”
Molly stood in the pantry listening. She listened hard, leaning toward the opening of the pantry door but not risking taking a step and being heard. So if she was interpreting that correctly, the Bilsons knew who Jim Pyke was. Why had they not said anything? How exactly did they know him? And what did it mean?
29
The mood at La Baraque had been understandably strange ever since Pyke’s murder. By turns giddy, frightened, and bored, that Thursday night the guests made one last effort to enjoy themselves and return to the happy few days of socializing they had experienced on first arriving. The Valentine’s Day party was back on—days past February 14th, but nonetheless anticipated eagerly, at least by Ira whose idea it was.
Not wanting to bother Molly, Ira had asked Constance and Ben for help with food. Constance, knowing her limitations, had brought a few dishes from the traiteur: a Périgord walnut tart that would remind Ashley of the Southern staple, pecan pie, and a small bag of prunes stuffed with foie gras. Ben had set up a grill behind the house and was cooking duck breasts, rare, slicing them thin so they could soak up a great deal of the peppercorn sauce he had bubbling on the stove.
At one point, Molly came out to the kitchen to see how things were going, saw with approval that Ben was wearing one of her aprons, and crawled back into bed, intending to join the party once it got going.
Ira had driven to Bergerac to get a good deal on some champagne, and Ashley contributed some candles “to make the atmosphere less dreary.”
“I feel bad for not lifting a finger to help,” Nathaniel said to Ira when everyone was just arriving.
“Eh, here you go,” said Ira, handing him a bottle of unopened champagne.
Nathaniel’s face turned pink.
“Don’t know how? At your age?” Ira shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I sure didn’t grow up drinking this stuff either. First, take that metal thing off the top, right, like that. Now put a dishtowel over the cork—here—and slowly twist the bottle. The bottle, not the top. That’s it. Get ready—”
The loud pop made Darcy flinch and Ashley come running. “Now that is some music to my ears!” she said, her Southern accent even heavier than usual. “Sill voo play and mair-see!” she laughed, holding out an empty glass to catch some of the foam dribbling from the top.
Patty rolled her eyes. “I don’t speak French but even I can tell you: she can’t either,” she said to Darcy, who nodded and then jostled her way in, holding out a glass.
“Please, everyone must try a prune with foie gras…especially if you’ve never tasted one,” said Constance in French. None of the guests understood the words, but since she held out a plate of nicely arranged prunes and gestured to them, they got the point.
“Liver is gross,” said Ashley, as she smiled and nodded at Constance. “I’ll eat that over my dead body.”
Taking a second one, Darcy flashed a rare smile at Constance and said, “This is probably the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. Except for cheese.”
Once everyone had finished a first glass of champagne, the mood of the party perked up considerably. Ben had managed to find an old boom box and was playing French classics that involved plenty of accordions, and he danced Constance around for a few minutes until she was giggling too hard to continue. Patty and Ashley stood by the kitchen counter eating a cabécou that Darcy had contributed.
“I just can’t help thinking about what my great-great-grandfather would have thought about all this. He was French, you know,” said Ashley.
“French-Canadian?”
“No, silly, Paris-French. You know me as Ashley Gander but our name used to be pronounced Gahn-DAY, you know.”
Patty started chuckling and a bit of cheese went down the wrong pipe. Coughing, she made her way to the kitchen to get some water, with Ashley following behind. “Well, it seems like no one’s even talking about the murder anymore,” said Ashley, leaning close to Patty’s ear to speak. “I mean, besides the cops. But what about us? Don’t our opinions count for anything?”
“Um, no? Why should they?” said Patty, when the coughing was over. “It’s not like it gets decided by a vote.” Patty sometimes thought Ashley was dumber than a pile of rocks.
“I’m just gonna say,” said Ashley, “only between you and me and don’t go blabbing, that I think the murderer is Nathaniel.”
“What? He’s the nicest person here!”
“Exactly! He’s too nice. You just know those nice ones are the worst trouble of all.”
Patty shook her head. “No, I don’t know that. In fact, he’s sitting over there all by himself and I’m going to go talk to him.”
“Keep him away from your neck, is all I’m saying.”
“Oh, please,” said Patty, rolling her eyes dramatically, leaving Ashley in the kitchen. As she walked by, Darcy offered her more cheese.
“Different kind,” she said. “It’s a Bleu des Causses, from the next county over. It’ll knock your socks off!”
“Will you just shut up about cheese?” Patty snapped. Ira glanced over, along with Ashley.
“What’re you so on edge about, anyway?” asked Darcy.
�
��Well,” said Patty, changing her expression and tasting a bit of cheese on a cracker, “I have to admit, that is some seriously tasty cheese. So listen, I’m curious, and running a little survey. Who do you think killed Ryan?”
“You mean Pyke?”
“Right. Yeah—Pyke.”
Darcy shrugged and looked at the floor.
“I’m worried it might be Ash,” Patty whispered, and Darcy’s head started up.
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s been off her head ever since we got here. Not herself. And last night, she was talking in her sleep. Kept moaning and saying ‘I’m sorry!’ Dragging it out like some kind of ghost, you know? ‘I’m soooorrrrryyyy.’”
“That’s all you got? Just that she’s been acting funny and talking in her sleep?”
Nathaniel came over and asked Patty to dance, and she shrugged at Darcy and went to the center of the room and let Nathaniel steer her through a sort of jitterbug. “How’d you learn to dance like this?” she said in his ear, during a slow part.
“My father made me take dancing lessons after my mother died,” he said.
“Cool.”
“No, not really. He just wanted me out of the house and didn’t care how or why. I had tuba lessons too.”
Patty guffawed at the image of a baffled young Nathaniel blowing away on a tuba. They went for another glass of champagne. Ashley and Ira danced, Darcy glared and ate more cheese, and the party staggered on, all the gaiety and innocence of their first meetings gone no matter how hard they tried to get them back. Ben lurked about, bringing fresh glasses or replacing a box of crackers as cover for his shameless eavesdropping (though his English was not fully up to the task). Eventually he slipped away to find Molly and see how she was doing.
“Not bad,” she said, already up and dressed in blue jeans and a silky top. “Let me just get my hair up into a bun and I’ll be right out. Have you heard anything interesting? Anyone behaving badly?”
“It’s quite a crew out there,” said Ben in his typical dry tone. “For a Valentine’s party, there is rather a dearth of love, I would say. None of them seem to like each other much at all.”
“I know,” said Molly, twisting her hair up and pinning it. “Before the murder, it was one big, happy family. Well, not quite—more like one big, complaining grouchy family. But a family just the same. But come on, give me some specifics. What are they talking about?”
“Eh, cheese, mostly. I’ve got nothing so far. You’re really feeling better? Then come on, let’s get the champion eavesdropper out on the field!”
When Molly entered the room, the guests broke into applause, though their expressions looked more tipsy than actually pleased to see her. Molly made the rounds, talking for a minute or two with each guest, and then sat on the sofa next to Nathaniel.
“I’m sure it’s a bit sad to be at a Valentine’s party without your valentine,” said Molly, sounding more energetic than she felt.
Nathaniel shook his head. “It is, for sure. But I’m having a good time. You missed Patty and me on the dance floor,” he added shyly.
“Very sorry to miss that! Maybe you’ll do an encore?”
He smiled and nodded, about to tell Molly about all the lessons his father had made him take, but she interrupted to ask about Miranda’s last name. “I’m only asking because I’ve got a friend here in the village who has an antique shop. Well, a junk shop, really, but sometimes he’s got some nice stuff. Anyway, there’s tons of old monogrammed pieces, anything from silver to plates. And so, I don’t know if I’ll get around to going anytime soon, but—is Miranda planning to take your name, do you know? If she is, I might be able to find something with her new monogram on it. A quirky, interesting gift from your trip.”
“Aw, Molly, that’s really thoughtful of you,” he said, looking at her warmly. “Her last name’s Cunningham. She’s going to take my name—I told her it was fine either way—and so she’ll be Miranda Cunningham Beech.”
“Very stately,” Molly said with a smile. “Okay, if I get around to Lapin’s shop, I’ll keep my eye out for MCB. No promises, but something might turn up.”
“Thanks, Molly. Can I get you a drink, or a plate of something to eat?”
At that moment, Ben arrived at Molly’s side with another glass of apricot juice (She was getting really sick of the stuff now).
“Thanks, Nathaniel, I’m good.” He nodded and went to find Patty.
“Anything?” Ben whispered. Molly motioned for him to follow and went far enough down the corridor that they could talk without being overheard.
“I realized I forget to tell you something from yesterday. I swear being sick has turned my brain into a slab of Swiss cheese. Anyway, when Maron was here telling the group about Pyke, I overheard the Bilsons talking. It seemed fairly clear that they had already known about Pyke’s true identity.”
“What did they say?”
“Ira was saying ‘I told you so,’ and Darcy…something like…there’s no point telling them now, they already know who it is.”
“Interesting.”
“Indeed.” Molly continued, “Well, in the absence of any forensic or other evidence coming from Maron or the embassy, here’s how it looks. Nathaniel’s out because of the letter. Patty’s out because she’s a tiny little thing, too small to have overcome Pyke even with surprise on her side. That leaves Ashley and the Bilsons. Out of those three, I’m sort of leaning toward Ira. He’s big and strong, possibly seething with resentment at being married to someone as difficult as Darcy. He knew that Ryan was actually Pyke but said nothing. Plus—I think I forgot to tell you about this, too—Constance found a needle kit in the cottage.”
“A what?”
“I know! I told her it could be for a million things and totally on the level. But Constance was convinced it was for heroin. Said she saw a little baggie of it and everything. I know that being a drug addict doesn’t mean he’s a murderer, but it does mean he’s out of control, you know? It’s too bad Maron has not been able to search everyone’s rooms.”
“I guess he doesn’t need to,” Ben said drily.
Molly elbowed him. “It is my property, after all,” she said, and then, sounding worried, “Could I get in trouble? Do you think I broke the law?”
“With your snooping? Eh, Constance was cleaning, wasn’t she? And you could make the excuse of checking to make sure everything was in order. Unless you were doing things like ripping out the seams in someone’s coat looking for hidden pockets?”
“No seam-ripping has occurred.”
Ben kissed the top of her head. “Good. You will dodge an arrest then.”
“And how about you? Any ideas about who the killer is?”
“I try not to make assumptions,” he answered, teasing her with her own words. “Right now, all five are possible as far as I can tell.”
“There’s a lot going on under the surface that we don’t know about yet.”
Ben nodded. “And unfortunately, we’re running out of time. I expect they will be heading home in a few days. Maron can’t do anything to hold them, and the authorities in Paris and Ohio—and now Maryland—have produced nothing.”
“You know what? This case is depressing me. It’s bad enough that I’ve spent the last week mostly asleep—how are we supposed to solve this thing without any evidence? I’m having a kir.”
“Didn’t Doctor….” Ben started to say, but then shrugged and went to make it for her.
Darcy and Nathaniel had left. Patty and Ashley were arguing about what to do the next day. Ira, more than a little tipsy, had cornered Constance in the kitchen.
“I’ve told you about the dairy? We want a big herd of goats, just like Lela Vidal’s. We’re gonna make the best cheese,” he said, taking Constance by the shoulders so that she backed up against the refrigerator. “Award-winning cheese. That milking room will be covered with blue ribbons!” He looked down at the floor, his eyes welling up. Constance considered making a break for it b
ut something about the man provoked pity. “Darlin’,” he said in a low voice, “I’m worried. I can tell you that because after we get out of here, I’m never gonna see you again. Plus I don’t think you understand English, am I right?”
Constance shrugged, only catching his tone but not the words. He was standing too close and she tried to edge away, but he loomed over her and put his hand against the wall next to her. She took a deep breath and waited for him to finish talking.
“It’s my wife,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m worried…I think she might have…you’ve got to understand, the woman is impulsive. She doesn’t mean it, you know? I….”
“Monsieur Bilson!” said Ben, coming into the kitchen. “Have you seen the crème de cassis?”
Ira broke away from Constance and wiped his eyes. “Nope. I’ve been sticking to champagne all night. When in Rome, is what I always say.” He moved around Ben and began collecting dirty dishes and stacking them on the counter.
With a wave goodnight, Constance scurried home to Thomas, leaving only Molly, Ben, and Ira, and a room wrecked by a sullen party.
“Where has everyone gone?” Molly asked. “I hate to see you stuck with all the cleaning up, Ira.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, lumbering around the room with a tray, picking up dirty glasses.
Oh yes you do, thought Molly, but she kept it to herself.
30
The morning after the party, Molly was moving slowly. She settled at her desk with a cup of coffee, anxious to deal with her correspondence. She hadn’t checked her email in days and hoped she didn’t have a throng of prospective guests who already felt neglected by her silence. There were a number of queries. Methodically, she went through them, answering questions about Castillac and the Dordogne generally, the weather, and the food.
It was such pleasant work, helping people plan their vacations. For the hundredth time, she felt grateful to be able to be there, to have her business and her life in Castillac. Even with the stupid ticks. And if she could only get well enough to start this new venture with Ben, life would be pretty damn near perfect. The thought that so far they were failing utterly on their very first (unofficial) case prickled on the outer edge of her consciousness but for the moment, she successfully pushed it away.
