Murder on Vacation

by Nell Goddin

  With her mailbox finally empty, she clicked idly around the web, reading articles and blogs on various topics, losing track of time. Just as she was about to go finish cleaning up the kitchen from the night before, she remembered her surprise idea for Nathaniel: buying a plane ticket for Miranda Cunningham. He had been so kind to her, and the idea of supporting their young love pleased her—as did her newfound ability to spend such a large sum of money more or less on a whim. But it was probably too late for such a gesture, she thought. All the guests, including Nathaniel, would probably be gone by the middle of the week, and it wasn’t worth such a long trip for only a few days.

  Curious about what Miranda looked like, she typed “Miranda Cunningham” into the search engine, and clicked “enter.” The first few entries were strange sorts of hybrids, featuring French text with Anglo names. The following set were ads offering to find the phone number, address, and criminal record of a Miranda Cunningham, for only a small fee.

  And then, on the following page, she saw “Miranda Cunningham—Obituary.”

  Her heart in her throat, Molly clicked and began to read.

  31

  Miranda had died three months ago of gliosarcoma. She was survived by her mother. No siblings.

  Well, it must be a different Miranda Cunningham, Molly thought. She typed ‘gliosarcoma’ into the search engine, looking for the number of cases per year, but apparently it was so uncommon, researchers struggled to find enough of it to study.

  So. Statistically, it would be virtually impossible for two people of the same name to have recently died of the same rare disease. She didn’t need to be good at math to see that.

  Well. That poor, broken-hearted boy. Nathaniel had so much wanted to believe his beloved was still here, just for a little longer, thought Molly. She was torn between sympathy and the understanding that his fantasy was a few steps past sane. But at the same time, she understood that people sometimes traveled so that they could remake their reality, one way or another. Some pretended to be wilder than they were at home, take more risks, be free of the self everyone knew. And in Nathaniel’s case, keep Miranda alive for a few extra days.

  Death. Who doesn’t want to fight it?

  It’s so very hard to let go, she thought, while acknowledging that in her own life, she had not really had to face that kind of loss yet. The death of her parents had been difficult, certainly, but their relationship had been tepid, and she had never doubted that, with time, she would get past the grief. It had been sad, and of course she still missed them. But the loss had not been what Nathaniel was facing, the death of his beloved when he was still intoxicated with her.

  Molly stood up from the desk and felt a bit lightheaded, so she put her hands on its surface until the feeling passed. She needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air and a change of scene. She texted Lawrence and asked him to meet her at Chez Papa for an early lunch, and he wasted no time answering with an emoji smile.

  Within the half hour, the two friends sat on their usual stools grinning at each other.

  “I’m so very glad to see your freckled face,” said Lawrence. “And terribly sorry to have been absent so much. This thing in Brittany—”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” said Molly. “Believe me, I have had plenty of company. More than enough. And I’ve loved the food you’ve been sending. The traiteur really does a great job with the chicken pie, don’t they?”

  “Yes. I eat it so often, it’s a wonder I can fit through the door.”

  Molly smiled. She was so happy to have the kind of friend where they could not see each other for a while, and pick up right where they left off as though one of them had just gone into another room for a few minutes.

  “So tell me, with as much detail as you like: how are you feeling?”

  Molly sighed. “Crappy, to be honest. It’s up and down. Sometimes I feel almost like my old self, and sometimes I’m just flattened with exhaustion. And my brain doesn’t work right.”

  “You’re just old.”

  “You’re so hilarious,” said Molly, shooting him a dirty look.

  “You know I’m just teasing you. And what about the murder case? Surely that has given you something to live for?”

  “Well, yes and no. It’s frustrating to feel like I’m napping straight through important stuff. And I’m…” she put her hand on Lawrence’s arm, noticing the fine fabric of his sport coat, “I’m just really grateful to have friends like you, people in my life who are solid. I know everyone probably has secrets, or rather episodes from their past they wouldn’t want broadcast to the world. But this group staying at La Baraque…it feels like there is so much hidden, you know? Like they’re wearing disguises and the rest of us don’t really have any idea who they are.”

  “Are you talking about the stolen identity?”

  “Well, that’s part of it, for sure. I mean, I really liked the guy who I thought was Ryan but turned out to be Jim. It’s shaken me, getting taken in like that. And Ben tells me that he’s—Jim, I mean—he was a two-bit embezzler who was in prison twice. Yet there I was, la la la, feeding him gougères and laughing at his jokes and thinking he was just sweet and cute as can be. I let him kiss me, for crying out loud.”

  Lawrence bit the side of his cheek to stop himself from looking amused. Then he relented. “Look, Molly, how long did you know the man—a day or two? I have absolutely no doubt that if he had managed to live out the week, you would have gotten a clearer idea of his true nature. Or, maybe he was embezzling for reasons other than his own enrichment? Maybe his beloved sister has shocking medical bills and he was trying to raise money to help her.”

  “You should make movies with an imagination like that. But I appreciate your trying to get me off the hook. Anyway, I just want to make sure you know how much I value your friendship—and the rest of the crew, as well: Nico and Frances, and even Lapin and Nugent. You all might drive me crazy from time to time, but I trust you. I trust all of you with my life.”

  “And I daresay you cannot say the same about your guests.”

  Molly shook her head. “No. All right, let’s eat! I’m suddenly starving for a plate of frites. I don’t care what else we have but let’s start with that, shall we?” She waved at the bartender, acutely missing Nico, and asked Lawrence to tell her all the news she had missed. “You can start with Lapin’s girlfriend.”

  “Jealous?”

  Molly swatted his shoulder and laughed. “Come on, I know you have dirt. Spill!”

  32

  The workers arrived a few weeks earlier than expected, which for Molly was excellent news. She had her heart set on installing a natural swimming pool at La Baraque, and the December windfall had made it possible. Since the end of winter had been on the mild side, the excavator pulled into the driveway, ready to go.

  Molly gave the driver a cup of coffee while they waited for the pool designer to show up. She asked him about other projects he had worked on and how they had turned out, and felt excited that work was finally beginning. At one end of the meadow behind La Baraque was a small spring. Most of the time, it was not big enough to make a stream, more of a soggy spot where your socks might get wet. Hopefully, the designer’s judgment that the water source was sufficient would turn out to be correct. Several systems of natural filtration would be put in, along with a solar-powered pump. The bottom was to be covered with a thick rubber mat, and water-loving plants installed all around the edge.

  It was hardly swimming weather, but Molly was still giddy at the prospect. The designer finally arrived with another workman, and the job officially got started.

  Unfortunately, however, it was a medication day, and once the immediate thrill of seeing the machine’s bucket bite into the earth wore off, Molly felt sick to her stomach. Her arm was tingling and she knew she belonged in bed. Damn it to hell, she muttered under her breath, inviting Bobo to come into her bedroom as she changed into flannel pajamas and got back in bed.

  She slept, dreaming o
f blue waterfalls and flowers, and also of a frightening young woman, lying motionless on a bed, her face paler than pale.

  Someone was knocking softly. “Who is it?” she said, barely conscious but wanting to escape the dream.

  “Hey,” said Nathaniel. “Am I bothering you? Sorry, I’ll see you later.”

  “No, no, don’t go,” said Molly, struggling to sit up and get all the way awake. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Anything!” he said with a smile.

  Molly gestured for him to sit in the slipper chair by the window. “It’s a little awkward,” said Molly. “But I found something out I want to share with you, not to accuse you, but I…I want you to know that you don’t have to suffer your grief all alone.” She wondered if that would be enough to let him know what she was going to say.

  He looked curious, and a little guarded.

  “I was feeling sorry that you’ve been stuck here at La Baraque all this time, separated from your fiancée,” she said. “People might say being stuck in France is hardly the worst thing, and of course I agree with that. But I also remember what it’s like to be young and in love, and…and so, I had this idea of sending Miranda a plane ticket so she could join you.”

  Nathaniel’s cheeks got very pink but he did not say anything.

  “And…I’m sorry if this seems like a violation of your privacy, Nathaniel, and please know that my intentions are only good. But in trying to manage this surprise, I ended up finding out that Miranda had passed away.”

  Nathaniel took a long breath in through his nose. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “Just say ‘died,’ Molly. She died.”

  “Yes. She died. I’m so very sorry.”

  He buried his face in his hands. “People act as though saying the word die is going to bring the Grim Reaper straight to their door or something. Just use the language, call it what it is. There’s nothing anyone can say that will make it worse.” Nathaniel took his hands away from his face and Molly could see deep anguish in his face. “This is really embarrassing,” he said. “I can’t…there’s no way to excuse what I’ve done. It’s just that the pain was so intense, and I missed her so much.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “I thought I could just have another few weeks, you know, while I was on this trip, to keep her alive in my heart.” His eyes were wet and Molly started to tear up.

  “It must feel like a loss you’ll never get over.”

  Nathaniel nodded, unable to speak. Molly reached for his hand and squeezed it, and tears flowed for both of them.

  With effort, Nathaniel got control of himself. “I’m not sure if anyone has told you…we’re all…the guests…getting ready to head back home. It’s not that we haven’t really enjoyed being here at La Baraque, and I want to thank you so much for your generosity and hospitality. But my boss at the hospital isn’t the most understanding guy, and I’m afraid I might lose my job if I don’t get back. And the others—I’m sure they’ll be letting you know—they’ll be leaving in the next few days as well.”

  Molly nodded, hiding her anxiety about the way her chance to catch the killer was slipping through her fingers.

  “And please…let me apologize again for not being honest with you. I hope you understand that it was my own weakness that led me to pretend, not that I was trying to fool you or anything like that.”

  “Yes, Nathaniel. But I hope you can go home and face your sadness now. All those feelings—which are not weaknesses, not at all—are going to be waiting for you, you know? There’s not really any way to make them go away except by feeling them.”

  “Thanks, Molly,” he said, giving Molly’s hand one more squeeze before leaving. “Just give a yell if you need anything.” She stayed in bed, petting Bobo from time to time but mostly just looking out the window, waiting for the tingling in her arm to abate and her mind to clear.

  As the sun started to sink, the workers parked the excavator to one side and admired the hole, and then went to talk to Molly about the next week’s schedule and what they hoped to accomplish if the weather held.

  “Well, all that sounds wonderful,” she said, managing a smile. She had been sitting by the woodstove flipping through a magazine.

  “Guys, I’ll catch up to you in a second,” said Marc, the man in charge, and the two other men understood they were being dismissed and went out through the French doors.

  Molly waited, expecting to be asked about when they would be paid or some detail about the pool she hadn’t anticipated.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Marc said. “But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my life, it’s not to ignore it when something catches your attention, you know?”

  Molly waited, having no clue what he was talking about.

  “So you know, we were hard at it most of the day. Took a break sometime in mid-afternoon. A drink from our thermoses, sit down, relax for a few minutes. And one of the tourists, a big guy, I see him come out of the woods a little ways toward the cottage. And right off I noticed something sort of…a little sneaky. Like he was looking to see if anyone was around, if anyone saw him. He was carrying a short shovel.”

  “Tall guy with shaggy blond hair? Big guy?”

  “That’s him, yeah. I kept my eye on him. He was looking all around and our eyes met, just for a moment. Then he hurried over to that little shed where I guess you keep gardening stuff? He stepped in there for a few moments and when he came back, he didn’t have the shovel anymore.”

  “How odd,” said Molly. “Sometimes my guests will ask to borrow this or that—tape, or ribbon, or a kitchen tool. But no one has ever asked for a shovel.”

  “Looked to me like he took it without asking. Like I say, he was looking…guilty.”

  Molly nodded. “Thanks, Marc. I definitely appreciate your telling me. I can’t have my eyes on everyone all the time.”

  “No, madame.”

  After he took off, Molly went straight to the gardening shed. It wasn’t as neat as she liked it to be—a bag of peat moss was spilling onto the floor, and several tools sat on a potting table instead of hanging on their rightful hooks on the wall. The short shovel (made, she thought, for digging holes for bulbs) had been in the shed when she bought La Baraque; she didn’t think she had ever used it. It was leaning against the wall and she picked it up. The cutting edge of the blade was rimmed with dark, loamy dirt, which is what you would find in the forest if you pulled back the carpet of leaves.

  She had no idea what Ira Bilson wanted to bury in the forest, but she intended to find out. Quickly she texted Ben to let him know where she was going. Then she whistled for Bobo, pulled a cap on her head, and walked down the length of the meadow toward the swimming pool, in case anyone from the cottage happened to be keeping a lookout. After observing the raw hole for the swimming pool for a while, she headed away from the forest and toward the old crumbling building she had talked to Pierre Gault about rebuilding. Seemed a lifetime ago, thought Molly.

  She did not allow herself to get lost in old memories, however, but resolutely considered Ira Bilson and the shovel. Could he have buried the garrotte, knowing it would quickly disintegrate (if it was a cord made of cotton, the way she had always imagined)? Or perhaps he was burying drug paraphernalia, in preparation for the journey home and the inspection at customs?

  Finally, after making sure she was not being followed, she moved into the forest. With a deep inhalation, she stood for a short moment taking it all in: the leafless branches barely moving overhead, the deep leaf litter, the quiet. She closed her eyes and was able to hear a small animal skittering nearby, and the peeping of a bird she could not identify. Bobo had long since streaked off chasing something or other, and so Molly made her way alone, scanning back and forth, looking for any disturbance on the forest floor. She was not a person with long experience in woodsmanship, but she guessed that if she was lucky enough to come across the place where Ira had used the shovel, she would be able to spot it.


  And she was not wrong.

  33

  As a disappointed Molly emerged from the forest and into to the meadow at La Baraque, the Castillac police car was pulling into the driveway, and Maron quickly got out as Ben came out of the house to greet him. Did he have some news? Her muscles ached from the short walk, her arm still tingled, and heaven knew her brain was muddled. But Molly was not going to miss a meeting on the murder case no matter what.

  “I…I hope my reliance on you is not causing any resentment,” Maron said to Ben as they walked toward the house.

  “I appreciate your forthrightness,” said Ben, mildly surprised and pleased by the direct fashion in which his former protégé spoke to him. “It is no problem, and I very much hope we will be able to continue to work together once Molly and I get our private investigation business off the ground.”

  “I guess you’d have no opening with this case. It seems that no one is much interested in finding Pyke’s murderer, other than us.”

  “The bureaucracy…it’s always a disappointment, as I’m sure you know. And the man had no family.”

  “Isn’t it a bit strange that someone as charismatic as Pyke—at least according to everyone at La Baraque—didn’t have a group of friends back home yelling about this? I half expected to find an angry mob outside the gendarmerie as the days passed with no progress. Instead, nothing but silence. At any rate, I do have some news. Not as meaty as we might like, but it is something.”