by Nell Goddin
She placed the tray on the round dining table. “I made some braised duck. I’m sure eating is not the first thing on your minds, but I’ll tell you, when I’ve gone through some bad times, a good hearty meal often gave me the strength to keep going.”
Okay, now she sounded like a TV ad or someone’s over-zealous grandmother. “I don’t mean to be pushy,” she added.
The Bennetts just looked at her, blinking slowly. Molly had the clear idea that they were on tranquilizers.
Who could blame them? Molly had thought a few times after the news about Amy broke that she wouldn’t say no to a handful of them either.
“Well, maybe I do mean to be pushy,” she added. “Come on then, have a seat. I’ll get some napkins and forks. The duck is so soft I don’t believe you’ll even need knives.”
She almost went to get a bottle of wine but then thought mixing that with tranqs was a bad idea, so she filled two glasses with water and set them next to the plates.
The Bennetts had taken places at the dining table and were staring dully ahead, eyes unfocused.
“All right then,” said Molly. “Pick up your forks, stab a bit of meat, and onward!”
Ridiculous, talking to them like that, but the Bennetts appeared to need that level of instruction. Fleetingly Molly wondered if they were taking something other than tranquilizers and were actually drug addicts of some sort, and out of it like this even before their daughter went missing.
No, that isn’t it. It’s got to be grief plus a bit of understandable self-medication.
“Have you had any contact with the police?” Might as well dive all the way in, now that I’m this far.
Marshall shook his head slightly. Sally picked up a fork and looked at it like she wasn’t sure what it was for.
“Well, I can understand not wanting to start down that road, I absolutely can. But I’ve met Benjamin Dufort, the chief of police. He’s quite a nice man, and intelligent, from what I could tell. Not cold, or anything like that.”
Marshall blinked at her. Sally seemed to wake up a little, and ate a tiny forkful of sauce with a bit of rice.
I should never have left them alone this long, Molly thought, trying to hold back a crashing wave of guilt.
“Come on, Marshall,” she urged. “Eat!”
The Bennetts began to use their forks, lifting food to their mouths and chewing it, but the effect was something like watching a display of automatons, circa 1910. They were so disconnected from the present that it felt spooky and lonely to be with them. Molly began to feel their fear again, and her knees got shaky.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve been eating something at least,” Molly said, gesturing to a bag of McVitie’s Digestive Biscuits and another of horrible-sounding salty licorice on the table.
“Oh no,” said Sally, her voice sounding far distant, like she was down in a basement instead of five feet away, “Those are for Amy. We brought them for her. Her favorites.” Sally’s voice cracked and she covered her face with her hands.
“How about this,” Molly said, wanting to change the subject. “I could be a sort of go-between, if you like. I can understand how the logistics of any of this, and talking to strangers, especially in another language— would be overwhelming. So I would be happy to call up Dufort and make an appointment for him to see you. I have no doubt he’d like to see you.”
There was another long pause, longer than people under normal circumstances would allow. Finally Marshall spoke. “All right,” he said. He did not make eye contact, but looked at the closed door, as though he were expecting someone.
Molly wondered if the Bennetts spoke any French, but she didn’t want to ask. Getting them to eat a few mouthfuls was enough progress for one visit.
“All right then,” she said, heading gratefully for the door. “I’ll call Dufort. And I’ll just text you with the time, if that’s all right, so I won’t have to bother you again. And we’ll go together.”
The Bennetts made no sign of hearing her but she stumbled outside anyway closing the door firmly behind her, and feeling terrible for wanting so badly to get away from them.
21
Molly was up early the next morning, unable to do anything but wait for the Bennett’s appointment with Dufort at nine. She wandered around the garden, looking at how the night’s frost had changed the way everything looked: every leaf, every stalk, every withered blossom was brushed with white. There was no more clinging to the idea of summer, not anymore.
She tried to tell herself it was beautiful. She knew—objectively and subjectively—it was beautiful, the way the almost infinite number of colors were all variations of green and brown, and even the way the frost was melting in the path of the sun.
But to Molly, it just looked like death. She was not a lover of fall.
Finally she decided to walk quickly to the village and back, so that she could give the Bennetts some croissants before it was time to go to the station. They probably wouldn’t want to eat anything, but at least on the off chance they had any appetite, she could offer something fresh and tasty.
And more than that, at least they would feel like someone was looking out for them, even if only for breakfast.
Molly went quickly down the rue des Chênes after only one cup of coffee. It was cold and her breath sailed out in plumes, catching the sun. A deep breath before entering Pâtisserie Bujold, which opened at six.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she said.
“Your accent, Madame, it gets better every day,” said the proprietor, staring as usual at her chest.
Molly gave a curt nod and asked for four croissants and three croissants aux amandes.
Well, she was feeling peckish, what with everything so unsettled.
On the walk back her mind zigazagged back and forth from empathizing with the Bennetts to feeling anxious about the fact that the person who had taken their daughter was still loose. With a sudden stab she wondered if she should even be out walking alone, when it was so early hardly anyone was around?
How was it possible for this man, for certainly it was a man, assuming the world hadn’t turned completely upside down, to continue to abduct women from this small village and not be caught? She was very much looking forward to hearing whether Dufort had made any progress on the case and she hoped he would be forthcoming.
At 8:30 she called Vincent and asked him to come give her and the Bennetts a ride into the village. It was a short walk, not even twenty minutes, but Molly figured bundling them into Vincent’s taxi would be a lot easier than herding them down rue des Chênes. She imagined they might stop in the road and inexplicably refuse to walk, or wander off down side streets. The Bennetts, as far as she could tell, were not firmly attached to reality, and who could blame them?
After making the call she took a tray over to the cottage with coffee and the warm croissants. She was surprised to find the couple dressed and ready to go.
“Past time to get this over with,” said Marshall, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Maybe he has some good news?” Molly said, and then wanted to bite her tongue off. Her words of hope sounded so false to everyone; the Bennetts had the grace to ignore them.
Sally nibbled at a plain croissant while Molly ate one plain and one with almonds. She closed her eyes as her teeth broke through the outer crispy layers and into the sweet almondy softness inside. She managed to stop herself from groaning, it tasted so good, the perfect counterpoint to the bitterness of the black coffee.
All three of them looked up at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. “That would be Vincent. I thought it would make things easier—and it’s quite chilly too—”
The Bennetts took a last sip of their coffee and slowly put on their coats. Their movements, their expressions, everything about their demeanor suggested they were preparing to go to the guillotine, as though Vincent were arriving with their tumbrel.
“Good mornings to all!” said Vincent amiably, opening one of the back doors to his somew
hat crumpled Peugeot.
The Bennetts said nothing but got into the car, and Vincent backed around and headed for the village.
“Please excuse the whorehouse,” he said, turning back to look at them and alarming Molly who would rather his eyes stay on the road.
A long silence while the three English speakers tried to make sense of what he said.
“Oh!” said Molly. “He means the mess. ‘Bordel’—it means whorehouse, but also disorder, a big mess. Am I right, Vincent?”
Vincent turned around again and smiled. “Yes, Madame,” he said. “I am pleased for the opportunity to speak English, and I thank you.”
“Pas de problème,” said Molly. She pushed some of the food wrappers on the floor under the seat in a vain attempt to neaten up for the Bennetts, though she guessed they hardly cared. Marshall and Sally looked out of the car window, their eyes unfocused, not saying a thing.
* * *
Maron showed up at Chez Papa well after lunch, hoping to catch Nico when bar business was slow. The restaurant was empty and Nico was leaning up against the bar reading a tattered paperback.
“Bonjour, Nico,” said Maron, sliding onto a stool.
Nico startled but tried to pretend he hadn’t, just as someone who’s been woken up will pretend he was not asleep. Even though no one is ever fooled.
“Bonjour, Gilles. I’m afraid the kitchen is closed,” said Nico. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Petit café.”
“Certainly.” Nico turned to the espresso machine and began the process. Maron saw him take a deep breath. “So,” said Nico, his voice not altogether natural, “any news about that girl, the art student?”
“We have not found her,” said Maron slowly, rather enjoying the idea of toying with Nico a bit. Nico was too handsome for his own good, was Maron’s opinion, though he understood there was nothing specifically criminal about that. “But I suppose you looked at the video before we did? So you saw what we saw, yes?”
Nico’s face flushed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I saw her.”
“With Lapin.”
“Yes.”
Maron wondered why Nico looked so guilty. It was almost as though the video had shown him leaving with Amy, not Lapin.
“Listen, Gilles—I know how it looks, I saw her leave with Lapin that night and I don’t mean only on the video. But I don’t for one minute think—I mean, come on, we’ve known him all our lives, here in the village. Don’t you think we’d have known long before now if he were that twisted?”
“Not necessarily,” said Maron, spinning slightly on his stool. “There’ve been numerous cases of people getting away with all kinds of heinous crimes for years, right under the noses of their families and neighbors. I don’t know why Lapin should be automatically excluded from that group. But of course,” he added, “I am not from the village. Perhaps I see him a bit more clearly than the rest of you. Without benefit of nostalgia.”
“He paws at all the women, sure. He’s obnoxious. But he wasn’t even doing that to Amy that night. He just got caught up in this big group, all celebrating some prize she won. You know how it can be—a burst of excitement, it’s like a match on gasoline or something, and suddenly the whole bar is whooping it up. I honestly don’t think for one second he did anything to her.”
Maron looked at Nico and cocked his head, but said nothing.
“What does Dufort think?” Nico asked.
Maron did not answer. He found silence put people off balance and was more productive in getting them to say things they might not have otherwise. The truth was that he himself didn’t believe with any certainty that Lapin had something directly to do with Amy’s disappearance. In Maron’s mind, the perpetrator field was wide open, though so far, Lapin was the clear leader by default. And he still had not managed to find out about what Dufort called “the other incident,” when Lapin had done something, but apparently not been formally arrested.
“Dufort has not forgotten the previous incident,” said Maron, imagining his words as a juicy bit of wriggling shrimp on a fishhook that he was casting over to Nico.
With a satisfying splash, the fish hit the bait.
“Oh, that wasn’t anything, not really,” said Nico. “Lapin is like a child in some ways, you understand. Yes, he’d bought himself some fancy camera on the internet and was trying to take some snaps up women’s skirts. Of course he was caught right off the bat. You’ve got to be a little sorry for him, is how I feel, you know?”
Maron shrugged, feeling resentful that Dufort hadn’t just told him the story when they first saw the incriminating video. “Is that how you’d feel if it were your skirts he was peering under?”
Nico blushed and looked away, shaking his head.
“I’d be interested to understand why you dragged your feet about getting the video to us,” said Maron, trying and failing to sound easy-going. He knew that his manner tended to make people defensive.
Nico looked uncomfortable, almost as though he were going to cry.
“Were you really only protecting Lapin? Or someone else?”
Nico shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. It’s just…I feel so guilty. I served her too many drinks. I knew she was drunk, I should have stopped her. And then…then maybe she wouldn’t have….”
Maron did not speak. He felt a wave of sudden disappointment, as though Nico were a horse he’d placed a bet on and lost his money. It would be so satisfying to haul that handsome face into jail. And so very annoying that Nico had an understandable, even a moral reason for being so slow with the video.
Nico finished fiddling with the machine and put a cup of espresso in front of Maron and stepped back. “Well, if you’re interested,” he said quietly, “there is…there is someone else I’d be looking into, if I were you.”
Maron sipped his espresso and waited.
“You know about Gallimard?” asked Nico.
“The art professor? What about him?”
“Well, he doesn’t come in here,” said Nico. “It’s too crowded with people who might know him. But I have a friend who works at a bar outside the next village, sort of an out-of-the-way place, you understand. And he told me Gallimard comes in there all the time, with all sorts of women. Young. Students, most of the time. They leave totally shit-faced.”
Maron was interested but kept his expression impassive. “So you’re suggesting…what?”
“That he’s sleeping with half the student body at Degas,” said Nico, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t you think…?”
Maron shrugged. “I’ll look into it,” he said, acting as though doing so would be a tedious chore unlikely to make any difference at all. “But I don’t see what a few affairs has to do with a girl disappearing.”
Nico’s voice rose. “No? You don’t see how jealousies, ambitions, alcohol, and sex can come together to make an explosion?”
Maron shrugged. “Like I said, I’ll look into it. The question then would be at what point did Amy leave Lapin and end up with Gallimard? Because so far, the last person to see Amy alive was Lapin Broussard. Right after you, that is.”
Nico recoiled, his face flushing again. Maron noticed that the blush made him look more handsome, and he forced himself to smile after he tossed back his espresso and said his goodbyes.
22
The Bennetts climbed out of Vincent’s taxi as though underwater, their limbs under pressure. They moved so slowly that Molly’s impatience surged and she wondered if they would ever get all the way out and close the door. Quickly she paid Vincent and went up the steps to the station, feeling all the anxiety the Bennetts had displaced with tranquilizers as though it had been deflected off them and leapt onto her.
Chief Dufort was just inside the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett? Chief Benjamin Dufort. I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking Marshall’s limp hand. He turned to Molly, “And thank you for this help taking the parents of Amy here,” he said, and the
n winced. Turning back to the Bennetts he gestured to his office, then back to Molly. “By any chance do you have some extra minutes? My English…” he shrugged and shook his head.
“You want me to help translate?” said Molly, stunned that anyone could think her rudimentary language skills were useful. “Chief, I’d like to help, but really, my French is absolument worse than your English, believe me.”
But he looked at her so imploringly, and he was quite good-looking, there was no dodging that. “All right,” she heard herself saying. “I’ll try.” And so Molly unexpectedly found herself in Dufort’s office for the first meeting of the Chief with the parents of the missing girl.
“Thank you for seeing us,” said Marshall. He at least seemed to be awake, if a little shaky. Sally Bennett looked as though she might doze off at any moment. Molly added concern about an overdose to her long list of worries about the Bennetts.
“Thank you very much for coming,” said Dufort. “I wish deeply that the circumstances of our meeting were easier.”
He continued with various reassuring words, and to her surprise Molly found that she understood Dufort quite well, and she managed to get what he was saying across to the Bennetts, if rather clumsily and imprecise.
There was little news. Several times Chief Dufort told them that the Castillac force was doing all it could to find their daughter, and he detailed some of the things they were doing to accomplish this—the phone calls to airports, that kind of thing—but he stayed well clear of giving them the idea that they were, at this juncture, looking for a body, even though in fact that was a critical part of the investigation. It was the job of police to cover all the bases and so that is what they were doing, with rigor and attention, no matter the anxieties it might provoke, but Dufort saw no need to alarm the Bennetts further, when their distress proved they already suspected the worst.
Once Molly got over her panic at having to translate—which made it easier than she would ever have imagined—she was excited to be there in the middle of everything, then disappointed that Dufort was either absolutely nowhere on the case or not telling any details.
