The Third Girl (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 1)

by Nell Goddin

  “Oh Molly!” said Lawrence, peeling off his coat as he came in the door. “I just heard. Are you all right?” They kissed on both cheeks and then hugged.

  “Yes, I’m totally fine. My thighs are a little sore from running. Maybe we could start working out together?”

  “Never in this life,” said Lawrence. “Now tell me—how in the world did you know it was Vincent?” Alphonse nodded and leaned forward. Nico put down the bottle of Campari and gave her his full attention.

  “Well,” Molly said. “First let me say that I was completely clueless all along, until the final moment. I guess all of us had wondered, at some point, was this evil person, this murderer, someone I know? But I’d never gotten any farther than that. I had no list in my head of all the creepy people I’d met in Castillac that I thought might be capable of murder. People here—they’re wonderful.”

  “Molly! Get to it!” Lawrence almost shouted in frustration.

  “Yes, well. You know the Bennetts were staying in my cottage. So I brought them food from time to time, and had various reasons to be inside the cottage just in the normal course of things. And what I noticed—that broke my heart—was that they had brought bags of things for their daughter, just like you would if you were visiting from your child’s home country. You know—you’d bring things the child was fond of but thought perhaps couldn’t get, living in another country.”

  The three men listened intently but were still mystified. “Go on,” urged Alphonse.

  “And also, I took a lot of trips in Vincent’s taxi. My house is close enough that I should just walk home, but I don’t know, sometimes I’m lazy, and Vincent seemed pleasant and it was so easy just to get a ride home that way. And I didn’t even realize I saw it when I saw it, if you know what I mean…but on the floor of the backseat of Vincent’s car was always a bunch of trash. It was annoying to me and I would push it under the seat with my foot.

  “It didn’t occur to me at the time to wonder why the backseat of Vincent’s taxi was littered with wrappers of English food—McVitie’s biscuits, Cadbury Flake bars, that sort of thing. Things you could find in a French city, sure, if you knew where to look. But not so much at the épicerie in Castillac, right? And—I noticed this because it was unfamiliar and weird—a bag of something called salty licorice. It’s German, apparently. Makes me gag just thinking about it.”

  “Amy got in Vincent’s taxi that night, after the celebration right here at Chez Papa. She was drunk. She had her stash of English goodies in her bag, got the munchies, and dug in during the ride, leaving her wrappers on the floor. Who knows how long Vincent drove around with her before hurting her? Could have been fifteen minutes. Could have been hours. Even the next day. But somewhere along the line, Amy had her last meal of junk food that reminded her of home.”

  Nico was shaking his head. “But Molly, couldn’t any tourist have left those wrappers behind?”

  “You think people in Castillac are feasting on McVitie’s and salty licorice? Not likely,” she added, “but of course it’s possible. And if they had, and Vincent wasn’t guilty, he wouldn’t have gotten worried that I would put it together. He wouldn’t have had any reason to come after me last night.” She shivered slightly and Lawrence put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Why didn’t he just clean out his car?” wondered Alphonse.

  “I think in cases like this, there’s an element of keepsakes,” said Lawrence, and everyone understood and recoiled at the idea. “Maybe those wrappers were something he kept to remember Amy by—to remember the night he had with her.”

  “A memento of hurt,” said Nico quietly, and they all bowed their heads and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  * * *

  Molly spent that night at Lawrence’s. She called Dufort to let him know, and he said he would send Maron out to cruise by a few times just to keep an eye on things. In the meantime he and the force were doing all they could to find Vincent and bring him in.

  “So are you going to tell me, or do I have to drag it out of you?” said Lawrence, once they were ensconced in his deep armchairs with down cushions, directly in front of a blazing fire.

  “Tell you what?” asked Molly, honestly having no idea what he was talking about.

  “Well, you were nearly attacked last night. Had to run for it and the murderer is worried you can identify him.”

  “Um, yeah?”

  “So where did you sleep last night, Miss Sutton? I don’t think you went home alone, did you?”

  Molly blushed. A deep blush that started around her collarbone and moved up to her face, making her so warm she had to fan herself. “I’m surprised your sources have let you down,” she said mysteriously, and then would discuss it no further.

  They toasted thick slices of bread on the fire, and ate it with immense hunks of the most delicious sheep’s milk cheese made by a woman who lived just outside Castillac. Lawrence poured them tall glasses of mineral water and they finished up with some squares of Côte d’Or chocolate with hazelnuts.

  The two friends talked long into the night, and Molly fell into a deep sleep in Lawrence’s bed. He insisted on taking the sofa in the sitting room, and she agreed for just this one night, grateful for a safe place to rest. When she was ready for bed and turned off the light and sank into his luxurious bedding, she realized just how stressed and frightened she had been for these last weeks, and conked out immediately.

  Molly and Lawrence slept late. They were just drinking their first cups of coffee, not quite awake enough to form sentences, when Lawrence got a call.

  “llo?” he said, sounding nearly French instead of the Californian he was. “Really? No kidding…that’s very good news….all right…see you later, thank you my dear.”

  “Let’s finish up these cups and then trot over to Chez Papa,” said Lawrence. “I know it’s not quite lunchtime, but it sounds like the celebrating is already seriously underway and we don’t want to miss it.

  “Dufort caught him, Molly. Apparently he was hiding in a cave up by the Sallière vineyard. No weapon or anything, gave himself right up.”

  “How did you get all that in that ten second phone call?”

  Lawrence just laughed.

  “It’s fantastic news. I’ll just change out of my nightgown before we go.”

  “Only if you feel like it, Molls,” said Lawrence, gulping his coffee and reaching for a heavy sweater.

  39

  Everyone cheered when Molly and Lawrence came through the door at Chez Papa. The fireplace was going for the first time that fall, a new waitress was passing around plates of free hors d’oeuvres, and the restaurant was filling up with villagers in a festive mood now that the nightmare was over. Dufort was talking to someone just inside the door and Molly edged up next to him.

  “Molly!” he exclaimed when he saw her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard on each cheek. “We never could have done it without you! In fact you did so much, I think I should put you on the payroll!” He was beaming at her and she felt a blush creep up that she sternly ordered to go away. She was impressed that Dufort showed no irritation at having a civilian—and an American at that—take all the glory.

  “I’m just sorry I didn’t realize it sooner,” she said. “Not that it would have made any difference to Amy.”

  Dufort pressed his lips together and nodded. “Well, Vincent is locked up now, in our small jail for the moment. He’ll be transported to a larger facility in a day or two.” Dufort got serious, and then he leaned close to Molly’s ear and said, “You know, he’s sort of pathetic. He has admitted to the crime and he’s offering no defense. He’s just sitting there, stoic but beaten down, like he’s ready to take whatever punishment is coming his way.”

  The noise of the party was getting loud and Molly just shrugged. She found it interesting that the chief gendarme was able to find any empathy at all for the man he had wanted so fervently to capture. She couldn’t say she felt the same way. The fewer murderous
sociopaths around, the better, was her line of thinking. And of course Dufort would agree, even if he was unable to see the man as a monster.

  Molly wanted to ask if Vincent was responsible for the other abductions—Valérie Boutillier and Elizabeth Martin. But the middle of an increasingly raucous party didn’t seem like the right place.

  Marie-Claire Lévy appeared from the back room and came up to Dufort with a rather shy expression. He smiled at her and slipped his arm around her waist. Molly tried to keep her surprise out of her expression; she’d thought he was single, but now…?

  Thérèse Perrault came over to kiss Molly on both cheeks and thank her. The young woman’s eyes sparkled and she laughed and lifted her glass to toast Molly, which Molly thought was very generous of her. The other officer hadn’t come to Chez Papa—he had always seemed a little chilly, that one.

  Just then they were hit with a draft of cold air and Lapin appeared in the doorway. He had not been seen since his night in jail, and he looked hesitant and unsure of himself.

  “Lapin!” cried Alphonse, “come in and have a glass!”

  Molly crossed her arms over her chest and sighed.

  “La bombe!” said Lapin, spying her. But then he looked away, uncomfortable.

  Perhaps something good came out of being a semi-suspect, thought Molly, daring to drop her arms.

  Nico was passing a tray of drinks. He turned to go back to the bar and then changed his mind and spoke up. “You left with Amy,” he said to Lapin, his voice low and unusually serious for Nico. “So what happened? How did Vincent get hold of her?”

  Lapin hung his head. Molly noticed tufts of hair growing out of his ears and for some reason that made her feel pity for him.

  “I put her in his taxi,” he said softly.

  “And why did you not tell me that, when I asked you?” said Dufort.

  “Why did you lie?” Perrault added, accusingly.

  “Because…” Lapin started, but then bit his lip. He looked up at the ceiling, and then passed his hand over his face. “Look, he’s my age. We were in the village school together, though not friends. Vincent didn’t have any friends.” Lapin paused and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “And then, you know, after school I started my antiquities business.”

  “Junk dealer,” said Nico in a low voice.

  “One of my first jobs,” continued Lapin, “was at the Cloutier farm. Vincent’s family. His father had passed earlier but they called me when his mother died. I was very pleased, my business was just starting, you understand, so I was grateful…”

  All of them—Molly, Dufort, Perrault, and Nico—leaned in to hear what Lapin was saying over the din of the party. “I didn’t have an easy time of it after my mother died. Far from it. But when I saw the Cloutier farm….” Lapin wiped his brow and looked up at the ceiling. “He was living in filth. No running water, no heat. I’m telling you, the smell of garbage and excrement inside the house made my eyes water. I guess his mother had lost her mind at some point. Vincent told me he was not allowed to throw anything away. This was of course years ago and I have had many jobs since, and have witnessed the insides of houses that strangers had never seen—in short, I have seen plenty of ugliness, I will tell you. But nothing has approached the squalor and degradation of the Cloutier farm. Not even close.

  “I did what I could to help him, got the place cleaned up and sold so he could make a fresh start in his own place. But you know, you don’t outgrow damage like that.”

  “So…” said Perrault. “You felt sorry for him? But what about Amy? You’re not sorry for her?”

  “I will never get over that I was the one who put her in his taxi,” said Lapin. “And yes, I am also not ashamed to say I felt sorry for him. Sadly, it was too late to save the girl anyway, by the time I heard she was missing.” And then Lapin moved through the crowd, shouting out to a friend, leaving the others looking at each other with wonder.

  “I see,” said Dufort to Molly. “I had been wondering why Vincent had gone after you but not Lapin. I thought perhaps it was simply because you are female. But possibly the fact that Lapin had been kind to him when his mother died—that may have saved Lapin’s life.”

  “Wow,” said Molly, for once speechless.

  Dufort said, his voice like steel, “Vincent denies any wrongdoing with Valérie or Elizabeth. But I will tell you right now, if I find any evidence that he is lying? He will not see the light of day outside prison ever again.”

  * * *

  Molly didn’t leave La Baraque for a week after the party at Chez Papa. She needed to cook for herself, keep getting to know the nooks and crannies of her house, root around in the garden, and figure out how to get the fire in the woodstove to stay lit. Lawrence came over for lunch one day, and she talked to Mme Sabourin over the wall as they were doing the last bit of garden clean-up for the season, but other than that, she wallowed happily in solitude, listening to the blues as loud as ever.

  The high emotion of the previous weeks left her feeling depleted at first, even though she was secretly a bit giddy at having not only found Amy but solved her murder. But the events had another effect, an unexpected one: she wasn’t sure she was ready after all to shut the door on romance quite so firmly.

  That’s not saying she had anyone in mind, at least anyone she would admit to. But the Bennetts had made a serious impression on her. In the midst of the worst grief imaginable, they had had each other to hang onto. And Molly was sure that if they were asked whether making their family had been a good idea, even knowing about the terrible thing that happened—that they would without reservation say that they were glad. That they were happy and grateful to have had Amy, to have known Amy, even though the loss of her was unbearable.

  Molly was washing dishes and turning all this over in her mind when she heard a banging on her front door. She went to answer it and the orange cat sidled under her feet, causing her to trip and fall on her knees. “Va t’en you horrid creature!” she shouted. She had fallen on a rug so was unhurt, and scrambled up to answer the door.

  “Hello, Molls! I bet you could use me for a little clean-up around the place, while you attend to more important matters!” Constance came bouncing in the house, wearing her trademark high-top sneakers. Molly noticed her hair was matted in the back. The two women waved to Thomas as he turned his motorcycle around and took off.

  “All right then,” said Molly, halfway amused. “Come on in, I’m afraid there’s plenty to do.”

  THE END

  ALSO BY NELL GODDIN

  The Luckiest Woman Ever (Molly Sutton Mysteries 2)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nell Goddin has been a mystery fan since reading Agatha Christie with her best friend during long summer days. She’s a lover of all things French and has two children, two cats, and two dogs (both mutts with tons of energy and no sense of dignity whatsoever).

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  @nellgoddin

  Nell Goddin Author

  www.nellgoddin

  nellgoddin@gmail.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Tommy Glass and Mariflo Stephens—you are the best editors in the world. Flowery, effusive thanks to you both.

  Special thanks to the crack team of Christiane Rimbault and Geneviève Debussche-Rimbault, who helped me avoid insults to the beautiful French language and get the details of the gendarmerie straight. Je vous remercie de tout coeur.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

&
nbsp; Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Also by Nell Goddin

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments