by Nell Goddin
“Murder!” shouted Sally. “You think I haven’t thought of that? You think by not saying the word, the idea won’t be out there, in the air, suffocating me?”
Molly didn’t answer because she understood there was nothing to say. No way to comfort this woman, no way to soothe her. Not unless her daughter came back, alive and unharmed.
“Dufort is going to have to explain to me why this Broussard wasn’t brought in first thing. And why we, the parents, had to find out he was in custody from strangers in a bar!”
They were a block from the station. Molly figured she might need to translate so she pressed on, and the two women entered the station just as Maron and Dufort got back upstairs from talking to Lapin.
“Chief!” said Sally, grabbing his sleeve. She began talking so fast Dufort was instantly lost, and looked to Molly for help. Molly opened her mouth and closed it again. Sally was screaming now, and crying. Maron looked deeply uncomfortable and Perrault came out of the office. She took Sally’s hand and pulled her into the room, and got her a drink of water.
“She hears about Lapin with the camera,” said Molly to Dufort. “And she wants to know why so long for him to have questions.” Now that she said it, Sally did seem to have a point. Molly herself had momentarily daydreamed about moving to a different village once Lapin had started pestering her—it was that bad. It felt as though she couldn’t go anywhere without having to fend him off and listen to his growly insinuations. But now it was impossible to tell whether she had wanted so much to get away from him because he was annoying, or because she had sensed something else.
Something much, much worse.
“And you know whoever took her has raped her!” Sally was shouting. “That’s what always happens and you damn well know it!”
Molly saw Thérèse Perrault blanch. Dufort remained calm, and he reached for Sally’s hands and held them. Then he spoke in halting English.
“I tell you, Madame Bennett: we look, and we find out what happened. We will not stop until this.”
Sally sat down and put her head in her hands, but was finally quiet. Molly saw the pain in Dufort’s eyes and liked him quite a lot for it. Then she touched Sally on the shoulder and they left the station, both of them feeling wrung out.
“I have to make a stop before we head back,” said Molly, steering for Pâtisserie Bujold. She couldn’t fix any of the things that were so terribly wrong, but at least she could get a box of cream puffs.
Which was not nothing.
* * *
Molly supposed it was better to just go, even though her feelings were mixed and she couldn’t begin to imagine how the Bennetts would manage. L’Institut Degas had a yearly gala at the end of October, and the school was moving ahead with it despite their star student having been missing for nearly two weeks. Lawrence had insisted she go with him—everyone in the village will be there, he’d told her, everybody—but she took her time getting ready, the usual uncertainties about what to wear snowballing into almost frantic indecision, quite uncharacteristic for Molly.
It’s my first village party, she thought, and I have no idea whether to dress up or down. Or way up.
Or…maybe she shouldn’t go. In fact, she was pretty sure she felt a headache coming on.
Right, you’re going to skip the first party in your new village because you don’t have a headache but you think you might, sometime? Could you be any lamer?
And with that little self-slap, she pulled herself together and thought the problem through. One of the few pearls her mother had left her with was: always err on the side of over-dressing. So she went with a black cocktail dress, because really, how could that ever be too far wrong? And a good pair of heels, plus more than five minutes devoted to hair and makeup.
She had been so taken up with the move and culture shock and getting La Baraque ready for guests that she had sort of forgotten about her appearance. She dragged out a curling iron, found an adapter, and tamed her wild red hair. It took a half hour to get the eyeliner right, but she had started the whole process early and so was ready when Lawrence came by to pick her up.
“Who are you?” he said, laughing. “I wondered if there was a glamor-puss hiding somewhere under all that tangled hair. I’m glad to see there is.”
“Um, thank you?” Molly smoothed on lipstick looking in the mirror by the front door. “Damn,” she said, having drawn outside her lip line. She used her thumb to correct the error.
“So the burning question…” Lawrence said, leaning against the doorway while she put things in her bag and took them out again. “Is whether whoever took Amy will be there.”
Molly looked up sharply. “You look positively gleeful about the idea.”
“No. Well, yes. Everyone has a Sherlock Holmes fantasy deep inside, don’t they? I mean, come on, Molly. Wouldn’t you like to be in the midst of the crowd and suddenly point at…someone…and say: It’s him. This is the man who took Amy.”
“You’re sure it’s a man?”
“Of course I’m sure. You disagree?”
“No. I don’t. Just asking.”
As they walked to Lawrence’s car, Molly gave a fond glance back to La Baraque. The house looked so beautiful in the moonlight, so mysterious yet inviting, with one light showing in the kitchen and the grosser imperfections hidden by darkness. She felt a sudden strong urge to turn away from the car, to go back inside and get in bed and read a book.
She stood with her hand on the car’s door handle, not opening it.
“You’ve never struck me as the shy type,” said Lawrence, but his tone was soft.
“I’m really not shy,” said Molly. “But I…I don’t know…I’m feeling…” She shook her head quickly and got in the car. “It’s dread,” she said quietly as they drove into the village. “That’s what it is. And it’s not about the party. It’s that…something is going to happen, and whatever it is…it’s bad. It’s bad, Lawrence.”
He took his hand from the gear shift and rubbed her arm. “I don’t want to tell you to ignore what you’re feeling,” he said. “But I do think having the Bennetts so close by, and depending on you, might be having…an effect. I’m not at all convinced anything awful has happened. There’s no proof. No evidence at all except for her absence.”
“I’m not claiming to be clairvoyant or anything. But I…and maybe…oh, I don’t know.”
“Look, this is usually the best party of the year. The food will be amazing, and as I said, everyone will be there. So, dear Molly, try to put the Bennetts out of your mind just for tonight. They will be waiting for you in the morning, after all.
“Rémy will be there,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye so bright Molly could see it in the dark.
She had figured he would be. Not that she was the least bit interested one way or the other.
27
1990
Benjamin was in his room, polishing off the last of an apple tart and pretending to do his homework.
He heard his mother scream, and it sounded to him not like her usual screaming about his eating habits or ants in the kitchen, but this time as though something was seriously wrong. He ran downstairs to help.
In the living room, his mother was lying on the sofa with an arm over her eyes, and his father knelt beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, isn’t it, Marine? It’s going to be all right.”
Ben stopped short, feeling as though he was intruding on something private. He saw his mother take her arm away from her face, saw the gratified look she gave his father—and with a flash of understanding he realized that his mother had fabricated the upset in order to get his father’s attention. And now that she had it, all was well.
He crept back upstairs to his room and ate the final bite of tart. Why would his father be so solicitous, when he was obviously being manipulated, he wondered. And if Maman wanted his attention, why not just ask him to go somewhere with her, or play a game of cards?
He wanted to understand why people did
the things they did. But at that moment, his parent’s actions seemed so inscrutable, he was not confident he would ever comprehend them.
28
2005
Lawrence parked on the road, at the end of a long line of cars. “I’d say our timing is perfect. Never want to be among the first.”
“No,” Molly agreed. She took Lawrence’s arm to steady herself, her heels threatening to turn her ankles on the uneven side of the road. “Do you really think he’ll be here?” she said in a low voice.
“Rémy? Almost certainly.”
“No no, I mean…the person who took Amy.”
Lawrence pressed his lips together and shrugged. “I was just messing around before,” he said. “I make fun because I don’t know what else to do. Of course it’s highly unlikely we’ll have any sort of Grand Unveiling of the Murderer, like we’re living in the middle of Agatha Christie-ville. But still…I would say, all kidding aside, that it is likely that someone here knows something. Is that vague enough for you?”
Molly nodded. The thought creeped her out, but she agreed with him. She wondered if Dufort would be here, and if he was thinking the same thing. She wished she’d put the mace back on her keyring, even though she wouldn’t be alone and certainly not in any danger. It was just that the thought of it was reassuring.
The party was in the big modern building that looked like a jellyfish, in a large room that jutted away from the road. Round tables dressed in white tablecloths lined a dance floor, and servers scurried around with platters of drinks. A small band played on a stage at one end. It looked to Molly as though half of Castillac was there. She caught a glimpse of that pretty gendarme, Thérèse she thought her name was, and saw Alphonse of Chez Papa going wild on the dance floor with a woman she recognized but hadn’t met. She got a glimpse of her next-door neighbor, Madame Sabourin, talking animatedly with a man who stood with his arms folded across his chest, nodding at whatever she was saying. The band finished the song and the crowd cheered.
This was her village. Her life now. It was time to jump in and enjoy it.
Lawrence was quickly swallowed up by the crowd and Molly made her way towards the bar, enjoying the high energy of the room. Pascal, the handsome server from Café de la Place, was bartending, and she felt buoyed up by his dazzling young smile.
“Merci,” she said to him, taking her kir and moving away. The music was insistent with a good beat. She heard shrieking laughter coming from one end of the room, someone nearby talking very loud and insistently about politics, and the hum of a party with momentum. She stood on tiptoes and ran her eyes over the crowd, looking for anyone she knew.
“Bonsoir, Molly,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see Dufort smiling at her.
“Bonsoir, Ben!” Awkwardly they kissed cheeks, Molly at first turning the wrong side. Dufort kept smiling and Molly thought again that she liked this man. He just seemed so decent. “I am glad to see you here.”
He nodded. “Would you dance with me?” he asked, surprising her.
“Of course!”
He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Just then, the band switched tempo and started to play disco, of all things. Molly and Ben laughed and moved their hips to the beat and Molly sipped her kir and felt younger and happier than she had at any moment since her divorce. At the end of the song, Ben made a small bow and an excuse, and disappeared into the crowd.
Well, that was a little abrupt, she thought. I wonder….
Then she saw Rémy. She felt herself flush at the sight of him; without thinking she had expected him to appear looking as he always did, in jeans and a shirt streaked with mud, sometimes a battered hat. But of course he had dressed for the occasion like everyone else.
And my, he did scrub up good.
Molly walked straight to him and said hello. They kissed cheeks, not awkwardly, and Molly got a whiff of his masculine scent.
“You look fantastic,” said Rémy, looking into her eyes.
Molly’s face got redder. “Not so bad yourself,” she answered.
Lawrence staggered off the dance floor and joined them. “How am I supposed to stay in shape if there’s only one party like this a year?” he asked, mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I don’t think I’ve been dancing since last year’s gala.”
“I had no idea Castillac was such a hotbed of disco,” laughed Molly, raising her voice to be heard. The three of them went to a table and sat down. Molly slipped her feet out of the torturous heels and took in the scene. Three older women were dancing together, doing a creditable version of the hustle. A group of men at the next table were huddled together, talking with serious expressions.
Lawrence leaned close to Molly and said, “The guy in the pink shirt is Jack Draper, head of the school. American. Nobody much likes him.”
Molly nodded. “Doesn’t look like they’re having a very festive conversation.”
Rémy scraped his chair over closer to Molly’s. “Okay, let me in on it. What juicy tidbit are you telling Molly, Lawrence?”
“Ha—I wish I had a juicy tidbit,” said Lawrence. “I bet if we could hear what they were talking about—” he tossed his head in the direction of Draper, Rex Ford, and Gallimard “—it would be…interesting.”
“So come on, Larry, give us the dirt!”
“Says the farmer,” laughed Lawrence. “I don’t know why you think I know anything. Draper’s okay, as far as I know, although he thinks very highly of himself. Don’t we all, deep down,” he shrugged. “Gallimard, the one next to Draper, with the big belly—he’s a bit of a sad case, in my opinion. One of those people who peaked way too early and so has felt a failure most of his life.” He paused to consider.
“So what do you think,” he continued. “Which is worse: to show tremendous promise and then fizzle, or never to have any glory or promise in the first place?”
“Fizzling is worse,” said Molly. “Because your failure is on everyone’s minds all the time. I mean, look at us. We don’t even know him, at least Rémy and I don’t, and yet we sit here judging and thinking about how he had something big and then lost it. Pitying the poor man for his failure. But when anyone looks at me, they’re not thinking about blown potential, but just…taking me as I am. Whatever that is,” she shrugged.
Rémy nodded. “I would have to agree with the American,” he said, with a little smile.
“I suppose for Gallimard there are compensations,” said Lawrence thoughtfully. “From all reports, he pretty much runs the school. Draper is more a figurehead and promoter than anything. It’s Gallimard who decides who’s in and who’s out.”
“Amy Bennett’s teacher, I suppose?” said Molly.
Lawrence nodded.
On the dance floor, Dufort came into view, dancing with Marie-Claire Levy. It was a slow song and Dufort was holding her close. Molly watched them, unable to suppress a pang of remembering how very pleasant it was to have a man hold her like that. She shook her head as though to wipe those thoughts away.
“Lawrence, come on!” she said, dragging him out to the dance floor as the band started the next song, and hustling like it was 1975.
* * *
On the other side of the room, Thérèse Perrault appeared to be partying with a group of her oldest friends, but in fact she was working. She laughed at her friends’ jokes, she danced, she ate and drank—and every minute she was thinking about Amy Bennett, and looking at the crowd thinking that somebody there knew something, and how in the world was she going to figure out who.
He’s got to be here, she was thinking. He’s probably laughing at us, knowing we’re lost. Maybe even sizing up his next victim.
She tried to follow along in a line dance while scanning the room for suspects. Even though she had been well-trained in police work, she couldn’t help holding on to a slice of hope that something less rational, less by-the-book, might point her in the right direction. Like if she happened to look into the man’s eyes, she would know. She would
be able to see down into his rotten core, see what he was capable of and what he had allowed himself to do; after that, justice for Amy would simply be a matter of walking backwards and collecting evidence along the way.
“Come on, Thérèse, you’re not listening to a word I say,” said Pascal, putting his warm hand on her cheek. He was so charming that he managed to make even a complaint sound inviting.
“She’s off in the clouds,” said her friend Simone, bumping hips with Thérèse.
“No, I’m listening,” she said, reaching for Pascal’s hand and squeezing it, and looking past him at the group of men who ran Degas, who were huddled together as though sharing the best gossip ever.
But Pascal saw that she was not listening, not to him, and so he gave up and walked away, wanting to spend his few minutes of break with someone who was interested in his company. If she wanted to work undercover, he thought, bartending would do pretty well. He was always amazed at the things people would say as they waited for their drinks, as though he weren’t an actual live person with ears standing only a few feet away.
29
Rémy was dancing with his sister, and Lawrence had disappeared who knew where. Molly didn’t mind. She loved being in the swirl of the party, officially part of her village, talking to whomever she happened to be standing next to. She remembered all the big parties she had gone to when her job was fundraising, and how dreary they were because of it. She was free now, and her new life in France was rumbling along very well indeed.
Or perhaps her feelings of expansive optimism were the result of three kirs, Molly having developed a mighty thirst thanks to so much disco dancing. At any rate, she was enjoying herself, with thoughts of the Bennetts not entirely absent but in some sort of manageable perspective. Always there, but not running the show at the moment.
At her elbow a man appeared, so tall that Molly had to look up to meet his eyes. “I wanted to introduce myself, Ms. Sutton. I am another American living in Castillac.” He held out a hand with preternaturally long fingers and they shook instead of kissing cheeks. “My name is Rex Ford.”
