by Nell Goddin
“I’m grateful, Florian. Thank you.”
Florian hung up without saying goodbye. Ben looked again towards the kitchen hoping to see Pascal coming out with his coffee and croissant, but he could see no one, not even Pascal’s mother who ran the register.
So Iris Gault was murdered. The complicated, unhappy beauty of the village, killed.
Pierre could have done it—can you ever say anyone would never commit murder, no matter what? But I can’t believe it’s him, Ben thought, at the same time understanding perfectly well that his long friendship with Pierre precluded any objectivity.
Dufort got up and walked into the restaurant. Pascal’s mother was hugging her next-door neighbor and crying. Pascal stood with his head bowed, leaning up against a pillar.
“Pascal?” Dufort said gently. “Never mind about the breakfast. I’m going to head out.”
Pascal startled and Dufort thought he saw tears in the young man’s eyes. Pascal just shook his head, and Dufort went back into the bright sunshine and was considering what to do next when his cell buzzed again.
“You’ve heard?” said Pierre.
“Yes,” said Dufort. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll help me.”
Dufort took a long inward breath. He felt an unpleasant tingling at the base of his spine that he knew was going to develop into uncomfortable jitteriness, despite having had no coffee. “I’m not sure what I can do,” he answered.
“How about figure out who killed my wife? Oh, and keep me out of prison while you’re at it. You know they’ll come after me,” said Pierre.
As usual, Molly scrambled to get back to La Baraque with fresh croissants in time for her guests to have a late breakfast. So far she had been lucky that no one complained about their final breakfast arriving on the tardy side, but everyone was packing and straightening up and doing all those last-minute things that seem to crop up while traveling. Molly went to the cottage first, where the Mackleys were just putting the last bags in their rental car.
“I’m sorry to be so late,” said Molly, getting a plate and arranging some croissants on it. “The longer I live here, the more people I know, and the more people I know, the longer it takes me to get through the market.”
“It’s been an adjustment for us,” said Josh. “Back in Chicago, when you go into a store, the less people talk, the better. We want to get in and out as fast as possible, you know?”
“Yes, Boston was the same. Maybe it’s just being in big cities? It’s just a totally different thing here. All about relationships, not accomplishing a list of chores efficiently.”
“I think it’s fantastic,” said Olive. “I would give anything, literally anything, to be able to move to France for good. Or Italy. Or…well, anywhere, really!”
They all laughed.
“But once we moved, you’d be itchy to move somewhere else,” said Josh, reaching for a croissant.
“Yep!” agreed Olive cheerfully.
“So Molly, I hope it’s not too personal to talk about, but I got to talking with a guy in a café in the village….”
Molly steeled herself. People talk everywhere, but in Castillac gossip was a major sport, and she worried about what Josh might have heard.
“This guy—his English was shaky but I think I got the gist—he told me you’re like the main detective here. That you’ve solved a bunch of crimes including one that had been cold for years.”
“Oh, now,” said Molly, feeling terribly pleased and embarrassed. “That cold case wasn’t me at all. A kid was the key to that whole thing. Anyway, I don’t want you to get the impression that Castillac is a hotbed of crime. It’s really so lovely here, and the people are amazing. So friendly and welcoming.”
“That’s been our experience too,” said Olive. “It’s been a fantastic vacation. But for me—I think I’d choose someplace bigger, Paris or Bordeaux maybe. The idea that everyone knows everyone, nothing is really private…I don’t think I could deal with that.”
“She wants to keep her poisoning experiments a secret,” Josh deadpanned. Olive raised one eyebrow and Molly laughed.
“Well, it’s been wonderful having you and I hope you’ll come back for another visit someday,” she said, enjoying herself but anxious to get Changeover Day wrapped up so she could get back to thinking about Iris Gault.
After the Mackleys had driven off, she checked her computer to make sure of the names of the incoming guests. Roger Finsterman was staying another week in the pigeonnier, and a Mr. and Mrs. Hale were going to be in the cottage. An older couple from Ohio, that was all Molly knew.
She very much hoped the Hales would be low-maintenance—she had a murder to solve.
11
Sunday morning at Chez Papa was always slow. No workmen came in for coffee before heading to work. Christophe, the new taxi driver, usually read the paper at the table in the corner while waiting for calls, but he slept in on Sundays. Alphonse, the owner of Chez Papa, wanted to keep the place open as many hours as possible because he believed that sometimes a friendly bistro was exactly what a person needed—whether in a moment of crisis or just everyday loneliness. Any accountant concerned with the bottom line would have told him to open his restaurant only when he was fairly certain of getting enough customers to make a profit, but Alphonse paid no mind to that.
“I’m sorry I have to work again,” Nico was saying to his girlfriend Frances, who sat at the bar scribbling on napkins.
“No prob,” said Frances, pushing her dark, straight hair behind her ears. “Actually, just shut up for a sec, will you?” She bent over the napkin, which was beginning to shred from her writing on it with some ferocity.
Nico glanced around the bar to see if any chores were left undone, and when he saw nothing, he leaned back, crossed his arms, and watched Frances. When she worked she got so completely immersed in what she was doing that he thought someone could dump a bucket of ice water over her head and she would not stop. He loved her intensity and her drive. He loved….everything about her.
“Okay,” she said finally, looking up with a grin. “This jingle is going to make me enough money to take us to the Maldives for a month. You up for a vacation?”
Nico reached across the bar and held her arms, pulling her close enough to kiss. “Anytime,” he murmured. “You sure you can take that pale skin to the tropics?”
“There is this invention called sunscreen,” said Frances, taking Nico’s face in her hands and kissing him on the mouth.
“Is there any moment you are not a wise-ass?” he asked, delighted.
“Not so far,” she said, settling back on her stool. “So tell me, what’s the deal with Iris Gault?”
“You’re gonna be a detective now, too?”
“Nah. Not my thing at all. But I am interested in Iris. I just met her last week. Thought she was interesting. Maybe it’s shallow of me, and I know it puts me in the middle of a large crowd—but it’s impossible not to be interested in someone that striking.”
“Yes. The village beauty.” Nico took out a dishtowel and polished some glasses that didn’t need polishing.
“I suppose all the men in Castillac were smitten?”
“Pretty much.”
“Including you?”
Nico cocked his head, savoring the note of jealousy in her voice. “She was very good-looking, for sure. But not my type.”
“And what is your type?” purred Frances.
Nico shrugged. “Women who take me to the Maldives?”
“Not bad,” laughed Frances. “Okay but really, what was Iris like? Was she always sort of sad, the way she was last week?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I didn’t see her around much. I guess she was a serious gardener, so maybe that’s where she spent all her time. She came in here only once in a blue moon. Didn’t really involve herself in village social occasions, or at least not the ones I go to.”
“Hmm, a beautiful hermit. Interesting.”
“Are
you talking about staying in one of those places where you stay in thatched huts out in the water, with a pier connecting you to the beach?”
“Oui, Monsieur. That is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I adore you.”
Frances kept her head down, pretending to study the napkin covered with scribbles, as she tried to hide both her smile and the blush that was turning her white skin a rosy shade of pink.
After breakfast on Sunday, Molly met Ben at the Place and they went together to the Gault house to pay their respects to Pierre. It was not the sort of social occasion anyone looks forward to, and without saying so to each other, both of them expected it to be even more difficult since Pierre was not the easiest person to talk to in the best of times.
Which this most certainly was not.
After kissing cheeks in the Place, Ben asked Molly to wait a moment before getting back on her scooter. “I’ve got something to tell you. Well, two things. First of all…” he leaned close and lowered his voice, “Iris was murdered. Not 100%, but probably. Florian says most likely she was pushed down the stairs, which broke her neck.”
Molly nodded. “Figured as much.”
“You’re not a little surprised?”
“Well…no. Should I be?”
“I can’t say. I was.”
“That’s because you don’t want your childhood friend coming under suspicion, which he immediately will. That’s because you always want to believe the best about people. It’s part of your charm,” she added, grinning at him.
Dufort looked away. “And perhaps the downfall of my career,” he muttered. “Well, the second thing is that Pierre’s asked me to help. Not informally—he wants to hire me as a private investigator. To find out who did it.”
Molly tried to suppress how eager she felt at this news. “And? You’re taking the job?”
Dufort pressed his lips together. “I didn’t give him an answer. Honestly, I’m not interested in this case. I’m no longer on the Castillac force and I’m not sorry about it. I’ve known Pierre since we were kids. The last thing I want to do is drive any nails into his coffin.”
Molly gave Ben a long look. “So…you think he’s hiring you just for cover? You think he killed her?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to think so,” he said quietly. “And of course public opinion does not determine guilt or innocence, but I can tell you that people will want to believe he did it, just because his manner can be a little gruff. Pierre’s not the back-slapping guy to have a beer with at the end of the day, you know?”
Molly nodded. “But still, he’s a talented mason. He works hard. He’s lived here his whole life, right? That’s got to count for something.”
“Oh, it does, for sure. Some of the more objective villagers will give him plenty of credit for that, and for not being the sort to cause trouble. But on the other hand….”
Molly waited. She fidgeted. She raked her fingers through her wild hair and pulled it into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic, and still Ben had not finished his sentence. “On the other hand what?” she burst out at last.
“On the other hand, he married the best-looking woman in the village, possibly even the entire département. People couldn’t understand it, how a seemingly stolid, dull man like Pierre ended up with her—and what they don’t understand they can quickly come to condemn. I think Pierre was largely unsuspecting of how much envy some people felt towards him. Or maybe he just didn’t let it bother him. It’s not like he was going around sharing his feelings about it.”
“Or about anything.”
“Right. Close-mouthed as a turtle, Pierre is.”
“So you’re going to refuse him?”
Dufort shrugged. “I want to. But how can I?”
Molly let out an unintended yip of glee and threw her arms around him. “If he’s innocent, he needs you on his side,” she said in his ear, a little too loud. “And if he’s not—and I say this not because I think he’s guilty but because I try to be careful not to assume anything—if he’s not, then Iris needs us to bring him to justice. I mean—needs you,” she corrected, a blush creeping up her neck.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to be my second in command?” said Ben, with a slow smile.
Molly beamed. “I’d like to help in any way I can,” she said modestly. “But this morning…how about I leave you alone with him for a while, so you can do that mano a mano thing.”
Ben laughed. “All right. I think you’re right that I should speak with him alone first. Hop on your scooter and follow me—the house is right on the edge of the village, it’ll take us three minutes to get there from here.”
And so just about three minutes later, Molly and Ben parked their scooters and walked up to Pierre’s front door.
“That arbor is stunning,” said Molly, pointing to a rustic arbor fashioned into a roof, which was covered with wisteria vines. A metal table and chairs was underneath, a perfect shady spot to have morning coffee or lunch.
“Iris was quite a good gardener. Rémy has mentioned she’s won various awards over the years, though I’d never known much about it.”
“Gardens aren’t really on your radar,” said Molly, poking him with her elbow. “What’s taking Pierre so long? He’s expecting us, right?” She craned her neck to see through the small window in the old wooden door, but could see nothing.
Then they heard the crunch of gravel, and slow footsteps. Pierre appeared from around the side of the house.
Ben and Molly expressed their condolences. Molly hugged him but he did not hug back. Pierre appeared muted, as though perhaps he had just woken up.
“Would you mind if I wandered around the garden?” asked Molly. “I’m sorry to say I only met Iris last week, and only briefly—you remember, at Chez Papa the other night, Pierre? This might sound a little woo-woo but I’d like to pay my respects to her there.”
Pierre gestured to the path by way of answering, and then he and Ben went inside.
Awkward, thought Molly, but he has always been awkward. Or not even—it’s just that you get the feeling he’s more interested in stone-work than people. No crime in that. And grief hardly looks the same in everyone. You can’t expect wailing, rage, and loud expressions of anguish just because that’s how you’d react if your spouse had been murdered.
And yet…even so, Molly felt uneasy. She had worked with Pierre on the pigeonnier and been more than satisfied with the excellent and artistic job he did. But that did not mean she liked him.
Was liking someone even relevant? Couldn’t a murderer be likeable, and an innocent man not be?
Molly realized she’d been standing in the path staring into space while she thought. With a jerk she moved forward and forced her attention to Iris’s garden. And oh, what a garden it was! Very orderly and geometric, in the French style. A row of parterres containing elegant patterns with neatly clipped low plants. Boxwood hedges around rows of hybrid tea roses. The white gravel paths immaculate, not a weed anywhere to be seen.
Two swan topiaries stood like regal guards over it all, green spirits with neatly defined feathers and graceful necks. How in the world did Iris maintain all of this without help? Or maybe she did have someone, or a fleet of someones, that came in to clip and shape and water and all the myriad chores required for such a high-maintenance endeavor?
Molly was curious about what Ben and Pierre were talking about inside the stone house. But she also felt that she was getting to know Iris a little by staying where she was. A person who made this sort of garden had grand ambitions, that was clear. Was not afraid of work. And, perhaps most interestingly, Molly understood that the design principle was based on control, the effusion of plants held back and not allowed to burst out or run wild even a tiny bit.
On the ground beside one of the swans Molly saw a small scattering of clippings, still green. Was sprucing up the topiary one of the last things Iris had done? Molly imagined her working alone, making the garden exquisite even a
s her own beauty was just starting to fade. Molly teared up, and knelt down to pick up the clippings and let them fall from her fingers, feeling a wave of sadness at the waste of a life.
Molly’s own preference was for gardens with a freer spirit, which favored lushness over rigidity. She could appreciate Iris’s garden, but it inspired respect more than joy. And it made her feel a little sorry for Iris Gault, if it was true that the garden was a reflection of her character—if she had lived a life of restraint, and never given herself permission to dance outside the lines.
12
After about fifteen minutes, Molly walked to the Gault house, figuring she’d given the men long enough to talk alone. She slipped in through the front door, not wanting to disturb them by knocking. She could hear their muffled voices coming from the back of the house, and she moved quietly down the corridor, stopping to glance in the living room.
It was very, very neat. Scrupulously so. Uncomfortably so. The sofa was an antique, with ornate woodwork but no throw pillows. On either side a small side table. A bookcase filled with books, and not a single one piled on top of the row as was the rule at Molly’s house. An armchair with a small round table beside it, three books precisely lined up, and an empty teacup in a saucer. It was spotlessly clean and completely without clutter of any kind.
I’m not exactly a slob, thought Molly, but this house looks entirely too tidy. Do a lot of people live like this? She shuddered slightly. The living room was disagreeable; it felt like it was waiting to rebuke anyone who came in and disturbed it, as though whoever left behind that teacup was going to regret it somehow.
Molly smiled to herself, realizing she’d gotten a little carried away. She stepped back to the corridor and walked closer to the kitchen, wanting to listen to what the men were saying before they knew she was listening. She absolved herself of this misdemeanor by telling herself she would admit it to Ben later on.
