Murder for Love (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 4)

by Nell Goddin

  “You’ve lured me to a hotbed of homicide,” said Frances, taking another sip of lemonade and flopping onto her back. “I admit I get bored easily, but this might be going too far even for me.”

  Molly juggled the third roll up, adjusted it so the seams matched the second, and pressed it into place. “Oh God,” she said. “I was having so much fun, doing this wallpaper. I was thinking I might wallpaper the whole house, maybe the cottage too. It’s so satisfying, you know? Covers up everything with pretty leaves. No big emotions, no hurt, no danger. Just…wallpaper.”

  Frances held out the phone. Molly took it and then stopped for a moment, first to pray that it wasn’t anyone she knew, and then feeling bad because whoever it was, that person had loved ones, whether she was among them or not.

  Lawrence picked up after the first ring.

  “What the hell?” said Molly.

  “I know. And it’s especially bad this time. Someone well-liked.”

  “Well, don’t be coy, tell me who!”

  “Iris Gault.”

  Molly stood with her mouth open, thoughts racing.

  “Who?” asked Frances, leaning in next to the phone at Molly’s ear.

  “Iris Gault,” Molly said to her.

  “That’s right,” said Lawrence. “Are you ready to get to work?”

  “Get to work?”

  “Pierre is going to need considerable help. Apparently she was pushed down the stairs and he called the authorities. As I’m sure you know, it’s almost always the husband in these sorts of cases.”

  “Pushed down the stairs? How do you know she didn’t just fall?”

  “She might have. The coroner is at the house now, making a determination.”

  “How do you get your information?”

  Lawrence laughed lightly. “I’m just saying, if Pierre doesn’t have a rock-solid alibi, I fear for him, I really do.”

  “It’s hardly my job to….”

  “Look, Molly—Ben is off the force. And Maron is…not completely incompetent, but not the best, you would agree? Thérèse is gone. I haven’t met the new fellow yet, but from where I’m sitting, you’re the best qualified detective in the village. So tally ho, my dear. I’ve got to run. Keep in touch.”

  Molly let the phone drop and slowly sat down on the bed.

  “I just spent the other night talking to Iris,” said Frances. “I liked her. I really liked her.”

  “She had incredible eyes.”

  “Absolutely gorgeous woman. And interesting to talk to. Way more interesting than her husband, who as far as I can tell, talks about nothing but rocks.”

  “I don’t know, I think Lawrence might be getting ahead of himself,” said Molly. “Okay, she fell down the stairs. Broke her neck, I guess. But that could happen to anyone. Doesn’t automatically have to be murder, right?”

  Frances nodded. “Right. I’ve read that more people die falling down the stairs than you’d ever believe. Probably most of them are blotto, though.”

  Molly picked at a cuticle on her thumb. “I just…I mean, gosh, I know how it is to be in a bad marriage. I know how it sucks. But that’s what divorce is for! Why go to all the trouble and risk of killing someone to get away from them when it’s so easy to accomplish that another way?”

  “A million reasons, Molly, you know that. For insurance money, inheritance money, revenge…the list is practically endless. Can you imagine how satisfying it would be to murder a person who had been chewing with his mouth open at the breakfast table for twenty years?”

  “Or clipping his toenails in bed?”

  “Picking his teeth. Being OCD about everything. Opening your mail. Giving orders. Wearing ugly shirts. Never, ever closing a kitchen cabinet.”

  Molly laughed. “How in the world does anyone ever stay married?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person, darlin’.”

  “Well, I’m thinking this source of Lawrence’s might have got it wrong this time. I’m terribly sorry about Iris—not to make it all about me, but I think we’d have been good friends. I just don’t see where a fall down the stairs equals murder.”

  Frances shrugged. “We’ll just have to see what the coroner says. He any good?”

  “Never met him. Ben seems to think he’s okay. Never heard any complaints at least. I wonder how—or if—he’ll be able to tell whether she was pushed or not?”

  “Physics.”

  “Never my best subject.”

  “Good thing you’re not the coroner.”

  “Help me with this next section of wallpaper, will you? I swear you’re the worst helper ever.”

  “Can’t we have lunch? Who knew that once you became a business owner you’d turn into such a slave driver.”

  Molly agreed that lunch was a good idea. As she straightened up the wallpaper project, capping the glue and bringing the roller downstair to rinse off, she thought about Iris Gault. About her melancholy blue-green eyes, her voluptuous figure, and the streaks of gray in her thick hair.

  If someone did kill you, we’ll find out who, Molly promised her, even though at the same time she was insisting to herself that the death was almost certainly an accident.

  9

  That night Molly tried to convince Ben to join her at Chez Papa. “Come on, won’t you come with me? It’s more fun when you’re there. Plus you know more people and can find out stuff I won’t be able to.”

  “Not only is Iris not my case,” said Ben. “We haven’t even heard the coroner’s report. The fall may well have been an accident.” Ben walked to the refrigerator and opened it. “I certainly hope it was. What is this obsession you have with lemonade?”

  “Nice try. I don’t get distracted that easily.”

  “I mean, I like lemonade well enough. Everyone likes lemonade. But for me it is better as an occasional thing. Although perhaps I will splash a little into a glass of Prosecco.”

  “Do people think you’re a traitor, a Frenchman drinking Italian wine?”

  “Depends on whom you ask. Would you like one?”

  “No thank you. And I haven’t forgotten what we’re talking about. All I want to do is go to Chez Papa, have a drink, and see what people are saying. Maybe someone was with Pierre and he has a good alibi. Wouldn’t you be relieved to find that out?”

  “Molly, you’re burning the step.”

  “Huh?”

  Ben held up the bottle of Prosecco while he thought a moment. “Let’s see…no idea what the English idiom is. I mean to say, you’re rushing. Skipping over things.”

  “Ah! Jumping the gun!”

  “Precisely. Until I hear from Nagrand how Iris died, I am going to assume her death was an accident.” He corked the Prosecco and put it back in the refrigerator. “She was a complicated woman, Iris.”

  Molly cocked her head. She had thought Iris so stunning that she couldn’t imagine any man not being besotted with her, and she felt a ridiculous throb of jealousy at the idea that Ben was thinking about her.

  “In what way?”

  “Eh, we can talk about it later. I know you’re anxious to get to Chez Papa and hear the opinions of everyone at the bar. And in any case, even if Nagrand does end up ruling her death a homicide, I’m leaving this up to the Castillac force.”

  “But five minutes ago, you were the Castillac force!”

  “Right—past tense. Many months ago now. And I don’t regret resigning for one instant, and will not be trying to worm my way into this case, undermining Maron and the new guy, whatever his name is.”

  “Therese’s replacement is already here?”

  “Apparently. I don’t know any details, not even a name.” Ben took a sip of his drink. “This is very good. Sure you don’t want one before you go?”

  “What are you going to do tonight then?”

  “I plan to dive deep into the Napoleonic Wars. I understand you do not share that particular interest, but I can think of nothing more pleasurable than staying here with Bobo and reading for as many hours as I
please, lost in the world of 1805. Is it all right with you if I stay here while you’re gone?”

  “Of course. Don’t feed Bobo too many treats.” Molly gave up trying to convince him, knowing that trying to crowbar him out of the house would only make him more resistant. Quickly she changed, put on a swipe of lipstick, and took her beloved scooter into the village.

  The mood in Chez Papa was markedly different than it had been the evening before. Though the weather was just as perfect and Alphonse’s colored lights twinkled, conversations were muted. There was no laughter, no merriment. Pierre was not a popular man, but his work was respected, and Iris had been the cherished friend of many, as well as the object of much admiration by both men and women. The bad news, coming out of nowhere in what had been such a lovely carefree July, had everyone depressed and even a little nervous.

  “Might be your standard homicidal maniac, just passing through,” said a man down the bar, but he was shouted down quickly.

  “It’s actually rare to be murdered by a stranger,” said another man, who slammed his beer glass on the bar and nodded to Nico for another.

  “I always said beauty like hers is a kind of curse,” said Lapin, cradling a glass of house red. “Salut, Molly,” he added as she came in, his voice absent its usual jollity.

  “Salut, Lapin. Nico.”

  Nico moved to pour Molly a kir while she kissed cheeks with Lapin. “Did you know Iris?” he asked.

  “No, I’d just met her last week, actually, here at Chez Papa. We talked for a few minutes, that was it. She seemed…sad. Was that unusual?”

  “I was just saying that she appeared to be taking middle age rather hard,” said Lapin. “Her mother died last year, whom she was very close to.”

  Lawrence Weebly came through the door looking uncharacteristically disheveled.

  “Salut, Lawrence,” said Molly. “Did you get rolled in the alley?”

  “Ah well,” said Lawrence, after greeting everyone. He tucked in his shirt and rolled his sleeves up neatly. “I’m devastated by the news. Just devastated. What in the world has happened to our little village?”

  “It’s not like it’s anything new,” said the man at the bar, who had already put a big dent in his next glass of beer. “Husband kills wife. End of story.”

  “That’s not much of a story,” murmured Molly.

  “Pierre’s a friend of mine,” said another man. “Maybe it looks bad, but I don’t think there’s any way he’s guilty.”

  “How was their marriage?” Molly asked.

  “Eh, marriage,” said the beer-drinker. “Who hasn’t wanted to kill the person they’re married to, more than once? I know I have.”

  “I think they were happy enough,” said Lawrence. “But you know, it’s hard to say. Nobody knows what really goes on in the privacy of people’s homes.”

  “To Iris!” said the beer-drinker, and everyone raised a glass and drank to her memory.

  Another member of the community was gone, and for a moment everyone at Chez Papa felt a sharp pang of wondering if they too would be hurried off the stage before their time, and if so, would they be next?

  10

  Ben had stayed up very late reading and taken his scooter back to his place almost in the middle of the night, after Molly was long asleep. The next morning was Saturday, Changeover Day, so Molly got up early and went into the village for a quick spin around the market and to get pastries for her guests’ final breakfast. She did rather miss being able to take her time on Saturday, talking to the vendors and anyone else she came across—but since Saturday was really the only day she had to work hard, she couldn’t really complain.

  First to Raoul, the pig farmer, for a brief discussion about politics and some of his beloved sausages. Then to the spice man, where she bought a variety of Thai spices thinking she might try a curry sometime that week. Then to her friend Manette, who reigned over the largest and most impressive display of vegetables.

  “Bonjour, Manette!” Molly said cheerfully as they kissed cheeks.

  Manette shook her head. “Not so bon, is it?” she said morosely.

  “You’re talking about Iris Gault?”

  “Of course. She was…she and I were very close.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The two women’s eyes met, and got teary. “It’s just awful. I had just met her. I definitely wanted to get to know her better.”

  Manette put some lettuces in a customer’s bag and made change. “Merci, à bientôt,” she said, her voice flat.

  “She’d been having a rough time of it lately,” Manette said quietly.

  “What sort of rough time?”

  “Oh, you know. Typical for our age, I guess. She kept saying to me, ‘So is this all there is?’”

  “Huh. Yeah. That’s the big ol’ bump in the road, isn’t it?”

  “Some people seem to sail right over it. But Iris…she was looking for something, she just—” Manette stopped and put her hands over her eyes.

  Molly could see her shoulders shaking as she cried.

  “…she just won’t have a chance to find it now,” Manette finished with some difficulty.

  “Was it anything…anything in particular? Job, marriage…or just life?”

  Manette looked down the long line of customers. “I can’t really get into it now, Molly,” she said, gesturing to the people waiting. “Good to see you, as always.”

  Molly felt chastened. She shouldn’t be nosing around this case—she barely knew Iris and had no standing to go around asking a bunch of personal questions when people were grieving. But she couldn’t help thinking that surely if Iris was murdered…wouldn’t they be relieved and gratified if the killer was caught?

  Unless, of course, it was Pierre. Molly wasn’t sure that would go down well at all, even if he wasn’t the most popular man in the village. She couldn’t quote the statistics from memory, but in the U.S. at least, women were killed by their husbands more than by anyone else. Was it the same in France?

  The Mackleys were leaving and she was never going to deliver their breakfast in time if she didn’t get going. Molly hurried out of the Place and down the street to Pâtisserie Bujold, hoping that Monsieur Nugent would be busy enough to forget his offer to teach her how to make almond croissants.

  There was a short line coming out the door onto the sidewalk, more proof of Nugent’s talents at pastry-making. Castillac did not attract many tourists but nevertheless the shop had been crowded since the end of June with people Molly had never seen before, some of whom spoke languages she couldn’t quite identify, and today was the same.

  Monsieur Nugent looked harried behind the counter as he fielded demands from two women pointing and asking him questions, one in Polish and the other in English. He briskly used tongs to pick up croissants and drop them in white paper bags; he rang up orders and took their money, too beset to show his usual appreciation for the female form in all its variety and splendor (as he would describe it).

  In fact, thought Molly as she observed from the back of the line, Monsieur Nugent appeared to be on the verge of some sort of breakdown. His face was dead pale and she could see beads of sweat on his brow. His hands on the tongs trembled, as did his voice when he asked who was next. He was not even greeting each customer as she took her turn, which he never, ever failed to do.

  Was it the demands of too little sleep and no help? Or was Monsieur Nugent upset about Iris Gault? From the way he was acting one would almost think, Molly thought wryly, that Iris had been his wife….

  Dufort’s apartment was a spare one-room with kitchenette, the cheapest he could find since his income was much reduced after he quit the gendarmerie. One advantage of the small place, however, was that it took almost no time at all to keep tidy. He got up late on Saturday morning and had the place spick and span within twenty minutes, and decided to have a late breakfast at the Café de la Place, taking his book on the Napoleonic Wars with him.

  “Bonjour, Pascal,” said Dufort to the waiter, as he settl
ed at an empty table on the terrace.

  Pascal, usually the most ebullient of waiters (and the object of admiration for many of Castillac’s women of all ages) mumbled bonjour and stood waiting to hear Dufort’s order with a blank expression.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Dufort.

  Pascal didn’t seem to hear. “The usual?” he said finally.

  “Yes, the usual. But Pascal—you don’t look like yourself. What’s wrong?”

  “She was so beautiful,” he said, shaking his head and walking away, passing right by an empty table with used coffee-cups and plates without putting them on his tray.

  Dufort sighed. Yes, Iris had been beautiful, no one would argue otherwise. He wondered whether her beauty had caused her death, directly or indirectly. He wondered…but this was not his case, not his murder. It might not even be a murder at all, he reminded himself, glancing inside the restaurant hoping to see Pascal coming with coffee.

  Out of habit from his years as a gendarme he took a quick look around the Place, taking the temperature of the village, looking for any spots of trouble—but the trouble had already taken place, and he could see the effects of the loss of Iris Gault, not only in Pascal but other villagers as well. The market was over and few people were about; the ones that were still around spoke quietly in small groups, which dispersed with hugs followed by wan waves instead of the usual laughter and chatter.

  His cell buzzed. It was Florian Nagrand, the coroner. He and Ben weren’t close but had enough professional respect for each other that Nagrand was willing to give him a head’s up on anything interesting, even after Dufort quit his post.

  “Bonjour, Ben,” he said in his raspy voice. Ben could almost smell the cigarettes.

  “What have you got?”

  “I can’t say with absolute certainty, but if I had to bet, I’d say she was pushed. No alcohol. Running a tox screen but expect it to be clear.”

  “Can you give me a percentage?”

  “Afraid not. And I won’t be able to testify it was murder either—in a situation like this, it’s impossible to know for sure unless you saw it happen. But I figured you’d want to know I consider the possibility high, even if it’s unprovable from the condition and position of the body.”