by Nell Goddin
Were they still asleep? Gone out before Molly was up? She walked around the side and peeked in a window, but she couldn’t see much. She went back to fetch the vacuum cleaner and mop, then banged hard on the door. Silence.
Molly put her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. She wanted the cottage clean, really clean, even though she knew in the grand scheme of things it made no difference. It was just the one thing she could do something about.
“Hello?” she called out, stepping inside the cottage. “Bonjour? Sally? Marshall?”
No answer.
Then a clattering and whooping as Constance came down the driveway on her bicycle. She popped her head through the doorway, breathless and rosy-cheeked. “Am I late? I hope I’m not late. I was supposed to get a ride from Thomas but he’s absolutely useless, always promising and half the time not showing up? Ever had a boyfriend like that, Molly? I should dump him.”
Molly laughed. “You’re not late. Here’s the stuff you need, and this time, please—vacuum the entire cottage, including under the beds. And then mop. The whole place. These stone walls are the trouble, it’s like they weep dust all the time. So we have to mop at least twice a week.”
Constance was nodding but Molly had the distinct impression that she wasn’t listening.
“All right then?” said Molly. “Any questions?”
Constance shook her head and lunged at the vacuum cleaner and plugged it in, and Molly retreated to her house, where coffee was waiting. It was a little too chilly to sit on the terrace, so she decided to indulge herself and climb back into bed with a novel. The coffee was strong and hot, the covers warm and cozy, and the book engrossing. Before she knew it, nearly two hours had slipped by. Better go check on Constance, she thought. And where on earth have the Bennetts gone?
As she walked on the path leading from La Baraque to the cottage, Molly heard giggling. Mystified, she walked faster, pulled open the door, and found Constance on the sofa, her shirt half unbuttoned, and a young man with his arms around her, kissing her on the neck.
“Excuse me?” said Molly, her eyes wide.
The couple broke apart. The young man jumped up and smoothed his hands down his shirt. “Bonjour, Madame,” he said, with the good grace to look embarrassed.
“Molly!” said Constance, who on the other hand had the serene expression of an angel. “Look who turned up after all! This is Thomas. Thomas, this is Molly, the actual owner of La Baraque!”
She made the introduction with such a grand flourish Molly had to fight back a smile. “Have you finished cleaning? Any sign of the Bennetts?”
“Nope, haven’t seen ’em,” said Constance, stretching out her legs and making herself more comfortable on the sofa. “I’m nearly done, just have the bathroom to do. Hate the bathrooms,” she said to Thomas, who nodded, still looking embarrassed. “I don’t know, maybe what happened to Simone got the Bennetts upset,” she said, turning back to Molly.
“Simone?” Molly asked, a chill running running through her.
“We were in school together, you know. She’s sort of a know-it-all, if you want to know the truth. Thought she was better than everyone else just because she got good grades.”
“You were just jealous,” said Thomas, smirking at her.
“Wait, what happened to Simone?” said Molly.
“You didn’t hear? She was attacked last night. Just walking along by herself, right on the Place.”
“What? Is she okay? Did she call the police? Details, Constance!”
“Okay, okay. All I heard was that she was walking home from that thing at the school, and she was alone. And somebody tried to grab her, but she got away. She is a really fast runner, that Simone. I’ll give her that. Used to always win every race during recess.” Constance’s expression darkened and Thomas slipped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.
Molly stood with her mouth hanging open. Another attack. Another attack in the charming, beautiful village she had moved to, looking for safety and calm.
“Do you think it’s someone in the village?” she asked in a low voice.
“Oh sure, it’s gotta be,” said Constance breezily. “I mean, it keeps happening here in Castillac. Doesn’t make sense that someone from somewhere else would travel here every few years just to…to take someone and disappear with them.”
“Actually, that seems like a smart way to keep from getting caught,” said Thomas.
“Oh okay, now we’re seeing how the criminal mind works,” said Constance, digging into his ribs and grinning at him. “Hey, I heard that teacher at the school is kind of a…what’s the word…well, kind of a jerk anyway. I’ve got a friend who cleans for him. Says he’s got girls in there all the time, it’s like total drama, you know?”
“What girls? You mean at his house?”
“Yes, his house. And I don’t know exactly. Students, I’d guess. Like he’s practically got a harem, if you believe my friend.”
“Her friends?” said Thomas, looking at Molly and circling a finger around his temple to make the sign for crazy.
Molly took a deep breath. Her head was so full of questions she thought it might burst. She paid Constance in cash without remembering to walk through the cottage to check on her work, and then threw herself into yanking vines out of the garden with such intensity her arms and legs got all scraped up. She discovered all manner of noxious weeds new to her, and thought how foolish she had been to think that moving to France would solve everything. She had had this rosy picture of parterres of herbs and flowers in her front yard, and freedom from upset and violence.
And what she had found, two months in, was weeds just as bad as the creeping charlie back home, and women disappearing and being attacked. Right on the Place, which already she felt so attached to that the thought of something bad happening there brought tears to her eyes.
I don’t know how I could have been so stupid, she thought. Of course there are murderers everywhere, no matter what country or village you’re in. The world is apparently crawling with them.
* * *
Dufort was glad to get out on the street. His head felt like it was in a vise when he was inside—movement and fresh air gave some relief, though not nearly enough.
He was sure Amy Bennett was dead. It was not statistics and probability that told him that; it was his heart. And all he could do was try to find her, even though it was too late to save her. He left the station and started down the main road, then turned left on the first side street, heading south. He wished he had a dog. He wished he had a force of fifteen that he could put to work with gridded maps, leaving no stone, no trashcan, no pile of leaves unturned.
But all he had was himself and Maron and Perrault, and they would have to do, at least until they found a body.
If they ever did.
The street was unusually quiet. It was Wednesday, the day children had off from school. At this point in the morning they were normally streaming through the streets, on their way to the grocery to buy candy, or to the soccer goal in a dusty square on a back street. Maybe the mothers are keeping them in, after what happened to Simone, he thought.
They must be thinking I am useless at my job. And I would be inclined to agree with them.
Dufort went in a side door to an old stone garage. It was filled with junk and the dust was thick: no one had been in there for at least a year. He shone a flashlight around to make sure the dust was undisturbed everywhere, and then moved on. He stepped into gardens and looked under row covers, where cauliflower was growing vigorously in the chilly air. He looked under porches, behind compost piles, in the bed of an old truck up on concrete blocks. He looked in sheds, in shrubbery, in dumpsters.
But nowhere was there any evidence of Amy Bennett, or of anything besides everyday, ordinary, unexceptional life.
Eventually he found himself on rue des Chênes, and quickly walked the kilometer to Degas and the office of Anton Gallimard.
“Bonjour, Professeur, I hope I’m not intru
ding,” he said, when Gallimard answered his knock.
“No, no, not at all,” said Gallimard, waving his arm grandly as though inviting Dufort in to the salon of a château. “Tell me what I can do for you?”
Dufort smelled alcohol and saw a glass on the corner of the desk, with about a half-inch of clear liquid. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was 10:30 in the morning.
“Oh, I’m simply out and about,” said Dufort, putting on an expression of dull-wittedness. “Asking if anyone knows anything about Simone Guyanet getting grabbed last night.”
Gallimard’s eyebrows flew up. “Simone Guyanet? What happened?”
“She was walking home, around eleven, I think—wonderful gala, by the way, I enjoyed myself immensely—and somebody came up from behind and tried to take hold of her.”
“Is she all right? Did she give a description?”
Dufort had wondered how long it would take Gallimard to ask that.
“Simone is fine. She’s a fast one, you know—got away and outran him like that,” said Dufort, snapping his fingers. “Now I wanted to ask…you were at the gala until when, exactly?”
Gallimard turned away and sank into his chair. “Oh, let’s see.” He drummed his fingers on his desk, then straightened a pile of papers. “I do love the gala, you know—we raise quite a lot of money every year. It’s very important to the school. And we’re so grateful to get the support of the village,” he added, smiling at Dufort.
“And so you left when?” Dufort closed one eye and then wiped at it distractedly.
“I admit I don’t wear a watch, so I can’t be as precise as you might like,” said Gallimard. “But I stayed quite late—say, close to midnight?”
“And did you attend alone?”
Gallimard laughed. “Chief Dufort, I’m beginning to think you are interrogating me!”
Dufort smiled. “I’m asking the same questions all over town. I’ll be honest,” he said, leaning forward as though letting Gallimard in on a secret. “I don’t have the first idea what to do about this case. I’m completely mystified!”
Gallimard narrowed his eyes slightly at Dufort. Surely the gendarme of the village was not the buffoon he was pretending to be.
Or perhaps he was.
“I’m hoping you can tell me more about Amy,” Dufort said, blinking and wiping his eye again.
Gallimard nodded. “Certainly. Anything at all, as I’ve said. I’m happy to help.”
The two men sat in silence for a few moments. The building gave off a sort of sigh, and the radiator under the window hissed. Dufort had the patience of a tortoise and could wait out anyone.
Finally Gallimard stood up and took a bottle of pineau from a shelf. “Thirsty?” he asked Dufort, pouring a splash, and then another, into his glass.
Dufort shook his head. What interested him was that it looked as though Gallimard had been drinking since fairly early that morning, as well as hitting it hard the night before, at the gala—but without the smell and the glass to give him away, Dufort would not have guessed the professor to be under the influence. Dufort had the distinct impression that Gallimard wasn’t drinking to get drunk—he was drinking just to stay on an even keel. Drinking because not drinking was no longer an option, physically.
Finally Gallimard spoke. “As I told you a few days ago, Amy is very talented. And a hard worker, which is the most important thing, really. The young ones think it’s all about how much talent you have.” Slowly he shook his large head. “But that is wrong, hopelessly wrong. I’m perfect proof, Dufort. I had all the talent in the world, you see. And it was not enough.”
With effort Dufort kept his eyes from widening in surprise, as he had not imagined that Gallimard would open up like this. Perhaps he was more drunk than he appeared.
“It must be difficult,” Dufort said, his tone gentle, “to have students who might become great successes. With all the attention that brings. And money.”
Gallimard poured another finger of pineau into his glass and took a long pull.
Dufort continued, “Not only to watch them succeed, but through your teaching, be part of the reason for their success. I’m not sure I could handle that.” He watched Gallimard carefully. His graying hair swept back from his temples in dramatic fashion, his eyes were tired and red. Deep dark circles under them.
Dufort waited.
Gallimard took another sip of his drink. He pressed his lips together. Then he spoke, his voice low and gravelly. “I am nothing but pleased when my students do well,” he said. Then he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a pack of cigarettes, Gauloises bleu. Slowly he shook one out. “I’m not going to ask if you mind,” he said. His mouth was in the shape of a smile but there was nothing warm or friendly about it. “It’s my office, and I can do what I like.” He struck a match and lit his cigarette, sucking on it hard and then blowing a plume of smoke over Dufort’s head.
Inwardly Dufort was grinning. He made sure to keep his face looking as stupid as possible without going too far. When a charming man stops being charming, he thought, that’s when things get interesting.
33
As far as Molly could tell, the Bennetts had disappeared. She kept reminding herself that they certainly didn’t have to keep her abreast of any plans they had, they were paid up and free to come and go as they pleased. Yet still, it felt odd. They were odd. Or no, it was only that Molly had no experience with people going through something like this. Who knows what any of us would do?
She decided to have dinner at Chez Papa, hoping for some distraction. Probably Lawrence will be there, and thank God Lapin seemed to be laying low. She was not in the mood for his drooly expression and wandering eyes, not tonight.
As she walked into the village, she had one of those moments when she wasn’t worrying about something or making plans or thinking over what happened. She was simply walking down the road, seeing what was in front of her. The air was chilly and the stones of the buildings no longer looked warm but rather forbidding. The sun had burnt off the frost but everything looked cold: the bare trees, the tiled roofs, the neat stacks of firewood in backyards.
She went down the alley and looked to see if the La Perla woman had hung out her wash, but the line had been taken down. Molly supposed she could ask around to find out who lived in the house, but she rather liked the mysteriousness of not knowing. At last night’s gala she had found herself wondering, when she met women of the village—are you the La Perla woman?
She stood by the back gate trying to understand why this stranger’s underwear was taking up more than a moment of her thoughts. It’s that…all of us have this face we show the world, but there is so much we don’t show, so much of who we are that is underneath. The La Perla woman would appear to be chaste, and sober, and moderate in her behaviors—but underneath, she is extravagant and sensuous. Perhaps she shows that side to her intimates; of course, Molly couldn’t say.
The man who took Amy is more than likely a person Castillac knows. We see his public face and don’t suspect what is underneath—his need to hurt, to control.
Molly walked faster, looking forward to the particular smell of Chez Papa, that heady mixture of coffee, tobacco, and people.
“Lawrence! I was hoping you’d be here!” she cried, seeing her friend on his usual stool, Negroni in place.
“Hello, my dear,” he said. “I hope your let-down was brief?”
Molly slid onto the stool next to him and waved at Nico at the other end of the bar. “Well, no, actually, I’m still in the grip of it. Kir, s’il te plaît,” she said to Nico.
“It’s not the party,” she continued. “I’m officially totally creeped out by the Amy situation. It’s going to be someone you all know, Lawrence, someone among us. I’ve just been thinking about how we make friends, we go to work, we socialize—but how well do we really know each other? Aren’t all of us keeping things back, maybe even the biggest things?”
Lawrence smiled. “So, you first, Mollster. What are
you keeping back?”
“I’m serious, Lawrence. But all right. Here is the…the undercurrent I don’t talk about with anyone. I’m thirty-eight years old. I always thought I would have children. I don’t mean just because it’s the expected thing—I mean, I wanted children. And here I am, running out of time, well, not even that, it’s not going to happen, now that I have no one to have the children with—”
Lawrence put his hand on Molly’s shoulder. “You’re not too old,” he said.
“Maybe not right this minute. But I’m single with no prospects. So figuring that in—I’m done. And I think about it all the time, or it’s not even thoughts, really, more like the knowledge of it is woven through my consciousness 24/7, even though I’ve more or less made peace with it because what other choice do I have?
“But this thing with Amy, and having the Bennetts with me—it’s made it ten times worse. Brought back the yearning, the disappointment, and the desire to figure out a way to make it work when I know there is no way.”
Lawrence listened. He did not jump in with advice or instruction, but simply squeezed her shoulder and listened to Molly pour her heart out. She talked about the children of friends and how much she enjoyed playing with them, how annoying and demanding they could be. How deeply she wished to have that in her life, including the annoying and demanding parts.
“I don’t talk about it because I know it makes me sound so self-pitying. Maybe I’m one of those people who is never satisfied,” she said. “I mean, look, I moved to France, for crying out loud. My dream. And I love it here even more than I could have imagined. I should be happy. So why do I have to go back to this old scab of no children and keep picking at it?”
Lawrence shrugged. “It’s what we do,” he said.
They sat for a while drinking their drinks and not talking, lost in their own thoughts.
