by Nell Goddin
So Ben went left, towards Joséphine Desrosiers’s grave, and Molly went right, towards a brother and sister she hadn’t seen in a few months.
“Michel! Adèle! Hello! You’re back in town?”
Adèle, looking more fashionably dressed than ever and with a stunning handbag on her arm, kissed cheeks with Molly and then hugged her. “Just passing through really, have some paperwork to deal with. Oh, it’s so good to see you!”
“You too. I have to say, having some money sure seems to agree with the two of you.”
“Ha!” said Michel. “I think it would agree with anyone. Listen Molls, we’re buying a house in Provence, and you absolutely have to come visit. Promise you will?”
“Of course I will! Oh, that sounds dreamy. Now…I don’t mean to hurry off, but I’m…”
“She’s working a case, Michel,” said Adèle. “See that furrowed brow? The way she’s running her eyes over the crowd, searching? I know the signs.”
“No points for figuring that out, sis. Everyone knows Iris was murdered.”
Molly looked towards the street to make sure the hearse hadn’t yet arrived. It was rude to be chattering away right there at graveside, but on the other hand, who was she going to offend? Not Iris, sadly enough. And she didn’t much care what Pierre thought.
“Okay listen, before I rush off—tell me what you know about Pierre and Iris. Happy couple? Not? Do you know anyone who used to hang out with them?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” said Michel, shaking his head. “All I know is that when Iris was younger, the whole village was in love with her. She had these incredible eyes, it was like looking into sparkling water…”
“Michel had a crush on her,” said Adèle. “She was older, and completely unattainable. Nobody could believe it when she married Pierre.”
“How come?”
“Well, you know him, right? He’s not exactly Mr. Excitement.”
“Some people don’t want that in a partner. They want stability, predictability….”
Adèle shrugged. “The thing is, Iris could have had anyone. You met her? I’m sure she was still attractive, in her forties. But when she was young? Traffic would literally stop. She was a goddess. Marrying a mason who only wants to talk about stones just didn’t seem like the best use of her options.”
“Maybe he really loved her,” said Michel.
Adèle shrugged again. “What is love, anyway? I can imagine at a certain point being that beautiful would get tiresome. It’s not like your looks have anything to do with who you are, not really. It’s not an accomplishment or something you worked hard to achieve, you know? Just luck.”
“Not that we’re taking a stand against luck,” laughed Michel, “since we got a big walloping serving of it ourselves.”
“True!” said Adèle. “You’re unnaturally quiet, Molly, what’s up?”
Molly used both hands to lift her damp hair off her neck in the hope that the slight breeze would cool her down. “I’m listening. And thinking about what you’re saying. All right, I do need to go. So lovely to see you both. Call me about visiting Provence, I’ll show up at the drop of a hat!”
People were pressing in on every side and there wasn’t much room to turn around, but she managed it without knocking into anyone too dramatically. She tried to get closer to the grave but there was no room. Finally she walked away from the mob and up a small slope, where she could see every well, if at a distance.
Pierre stood by the grave. He appeared to be looking into the hole, his big hands dangling by his sides, the sleeves of his coat a little too short. He looked stoic. Stony.
Behind Pierre a man was crying, his face covered with his hands. Molly watched him, wondering who he was. She could hear more sniffling, by men and women, and as the pall-bearers entered the cemetery with the coffin on their shoulders, the crying got louder.
The man behind Pierre dropped his hands, his eyes on the casket. It was Pascal.
Did he have a crush on Iris too? Or was it more than that?
She felt iron fingers close around her arm. “Molly!” gasped Nugent. His face was contorted and she could see actual tracks of tears on his cheeks.
“Monsieur Nugent,” she said gently. “I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t help being moved by his raw emotion.
“Did you know her? She was…she was perfection, Molly. I….”
Molly waited, but Monsieur Nugent had bent his head and dissolved into tears. She was pretty sure she had never seen so many men crying in one place. Did men in France cry more easily, or had Iris cast a spell over the menfolk of the entire village of Castillac?
The priest in black robes was beginning the service. Molly murmured an excuse to the pastry chef and had to pry his fingers from her arm; she moved a few more steps up the slope in order to see better.
There was Caroline Dubois, her face waxen, shoulders drooping. Next to her was Tristan Séverin, also blinking back tears, his arm around a nicely-dressed woman who stared at the ground. Behind them was Manette and her husband, Molly’s neighbor Madame Sabourin, and Alphonse from Chez Papa. All of them looking sorrowful, and many dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.
She kept returning to Pierre, observing him. He seemed so alone despite being in the center of such a crowd. People spoke to him but he received no hugs, no reassuring arms around his shoulders. He didn’t even look particularly sad. Come on, thought Molly. It’s your wife’s funeral! Can’t you even pretend to feel a little upset?
Maron was there, just behind Pierre, and Molly saw a short man in uniform next to him, Therese’s replacement. She wondered who they thought had killed Iris, or whether they had any possible explanations for the murder at this point. She moved a few steps to the side so she could see another set of faces. Everyone’s eyes were pinned to the casket, which had a frankly magnificent coverlet of flowers—the florist had really outdone herself.
Which, blessedly, gave Molly the best idea she’d had in days.
18
The next day Molly puttered around La Baraque for a few hours after getting up and having coffee. She checked on the Hales, who were indeed the lowest maintenance guests possible—they were introverted and capable, and managed the details of their vacation without any of Molly’s help. She’d had to curb her instinct for chatter once she saw that the Hales weren’t interested in small talk, but it was a relief to know they were getting on fine without her guidance or attention. Roger Finsterman had already taken off, probably somewhere hard at work with his easel and palette.
By ten o’clock she guessed the florist shop was open, and rode her scooter into the village, the breeze feeling wonderful since the heat wave showed no signs of relenting.
The shop didn’t look like much from the outside. The window was fogged up and there was nothing on display outside, which made sense given the heat. Molly went inside to the tinkle of a bell, grateful to feel real air conditioning which was not common in the village.
“Bonjour, you are the famous Madame Langevin?” said Molly, barely able to tear her eyes away from the incredible blossoms in rows of shiny steel buckets.
“Oui,” the older woman said. “And I believe you are the famous Madame Sutton, the detective celebrated by all of Castillac?”
Molly looked at her sharply, thinking she was being sarcastic. But Madame Langevin opened her arms and smiled. “I am teasing you a little,” she said. “We are very grateful for what you have done. I am friends with the mother of Valerie Boutillier,” she added, referring to an earlier case. “So tell me, what can I do for you? Would you like me to make some special bouquets for your guests at the gîtes? This time of year I could do it very reasonably, and of course nothing makes one feel more special than a bouquet.”
“I thoroughly agree. In fact, that is the reason I came to see you today, though not for the gîtes. I saw the flowers you did for Iris Gault’s casket yesterday—”
Madame Langevin shook her head slowly. “A terrible business.”
Madame Langevin paused, just briefly. “I did. Not very well—she wasn’t what you would call a sociable person, to be honest. I don’t mean that she was unpleasant or anything like that. Just liked to keep her own company. A very talented gardener—I used to ask her every so often if she would consider growing some special things for me, it could have been lucrative for both of us. She wasn’t interested.”
Molly knew Madame Langevin was not likely to want to tell her what she wanted to know, and her mind was running around in circles trying to think of something to say which would convince the florist to talk. She reached out to some roses and rubbed a glossy leaf between her fingers, then raked her hair behind one ear, thinking.
“Well, I’ll just be direct with you. I don’t suppose it would be a big surprise to hear that I’m trying to find out what I can about Iris’s murder?”
Madame Langevin nodded, with a small smile. “I don’t think I’m going to be much help there.”
“What I’m wondering—and believe me, I know this is unforgiveably nosy—but you understand I’m asking because I’m looking for the truth, not to gossip or stir up drama. And it occurred to me that you, out of anyone in Castillac, might have particular knowledge of the romantic goings-ons in the village. The ones behind the scenes, I mean.”
“You mean who’s having affairs? And with whom?” Madame Langevin laughed loudly, then walked over and checked one of the buckets to make sure it had enough water. “Well, that’s rather clever of you. I do know…a few things here and there…though of course, sadly, not everyone who is involved in an amorous liaison sends flowers. They absolutely should, you know. And you might be interested to know that these days, women send flowers to men more often that you’d think.”
“What I’d be very interested to know,” said Molly, moving closer to the other woman, “is whether any flowers were going to Iris Gault. Or being sent by her, as you say. Of course she was an amazing gardener, but if she was interested in secrecy she might have done her flower-sending through you?”
Madame Langevin looked away. Molly could tell she knew something.
“I know she was having an affair,” Molly said. “What I don’t know…is with whom?”
Madame Langevin kept walking away from Molly. She did not answer at first. Finally she plucked a white rose from one of the metal buckets. “Do you know the symbolism of roses, Madame Sutton?”
“Please, call me Molly. Red for love? That’s about all I know.”
“White is purity, as you might guess. Also—secrecy, and silence.” She pinched a wilted leaf and put the white rose back with the others. “I’m sorry, but I cannot in good conscience give you the information you seek. I…well, I can’t honestly say that I am sorry, because I view myself as performing a valuable service to the village, and while part of that is knowledge of flowers, arranging and choosing the most appropriate blooms et cetera—another part is my discretion.
“My customers know that they can ask me to send flowers to whomever they like, and I will never betray their confidences. If I did, what a frosty pall would fall over the village! And I would go out of business,” she laughed, but mirthlessly.
Molly studied the other woman for a moment. She was glamorous, in a modest sort of way: her skin well-cared-for, her hair swept back in a dramatic up-do and carefully dyed, her makeup perfect and not overdone. For a moment Molly wondered about Madame Langevin’s amorous liaisons, as she’d put it, but then she brought her attention back to Iris Gault.
“But you must see, we could be talking about the person who killed her,” said Molly.
Madame Langevin waved her hand. “Oh, perhaps, perhaps. I heard it wasn’t definitely murder anyway. People do trip and fall, you know.”
Molly did know. She had fallen flat on her face just the other day, when she wasn’t looking where she was going and tripped on a shovel. But there was not one thing about this case that made her believe that was what happened to Iris. Maybe that was depending too much on intuition, she couldn’t say. Maybe that’s where the investigation would end up, with nothing but dead ends, and no conclusion to draw other than the poor woman had suffered a tragic accident.
But Molly wasn’t there yet, not by a long shot.
The scooter made a worrisome new noise on the way back to La Baraque. It went along with its usual putt-putt-putt, and then every so often a faint screech interrupted the rhythm. Molly’s gîte business was sturdy, and she had bookings right through to September, but with her grand plans for expansion, her budget was still vulnerable to any unexpected expense.
Maybe it just has a slight cough. It’ll pass.
She parked it by her front door and knelt down to receive Bobo’s frantic welcome. Her tail going like mad, kissing Molly’s face, letting out a few strangled yips—yes, a dog’s love really is the best. Unlikely to push you down the back stairs, she thought darkly, feeling annoyed because she hadn’t been able to figure out a way to get Madame Langevin to talk.
But surely the florist wasn’t the only person in town who had eyes. Wasn’t Castillac known for being a population of out-of-control busybodies? Getting a name was simply a matter of asking the right person.
Molly thought back to the funeral and all those weeping men. One of them had probably been Iris’s lover. One of them was probably Iris’s killer. And whether that person was one and the same…no idea.
She pulled out her cell and made a call before she could talk herself out of it. (And was she the only person in the village to have Pâtisserie Bujold on speed dial?)
“llo?”
“Monsieur Nugent?” she said tentatively.
A short silence. “Is this Madame Sutton?” he asked. “I have told you, the morning is better to get your croissants, if you require a specific kind. By now it is after lunch, and much of my stock has been sold.”
Molly was disconcerted at his brusqueness. He usually seemed so thrilled to hear from her. “I’m actually not calling about pastry,” she said. “Well, I mean, not about buying them anyway. You mentioned, maybe last week, that you would be willing to give me a few lessons, so I could try to make my own occasionally? Is that offer still good?”
Again, a short silence. Molly had thought he would jump at the idea.
“Yes, Madame,” he said. “If you would like, you can come this evening, before dinnertime. Would six o’clock be suitable?”
“Yes! That sounds perfect. I’m looking forward to it!” Molly thanked him effusively and made her goodbyes. But why had he sounded so dutiful and unenthusiastic? After ogling her practically every day since she moved to Castillac, she had thought he would be hot to trot about the idea of being alone with her on the same side of the counter, for once.
People are never-ending mysteries, she thought, going inside to make a late lunch out of whatever delicious odds and ends she could find, and promising Bobo a treat.
19
Nico and Frances were enjoying a rare day off, deciding ahead of time to dedicate the entire day to doing absolutely nothing they were supposed to. No chores, no work, nothing but whatever struck their fancy at the moment, in keeping with Franny’s intention to concentrate on fun for the rest of the summer.
The first bump in the road appeared early, when it became clear that Nico and Frances fancied different things. But they sailed over that by taking turns. They did a round of rock-paper-scissors to see who went first, which Nico won, and were ensconced in armchairs playing a video game when the doorbell rang.
“You answer it,” said Nico, unwilling to let his wizard quit the battle being waged to save the world from destruction.
“Happily,” she said, putting down the controls. She opened the door to Madame Langevin’s deliveryman, holding a gigantic bouquet of red roses.
“Nico!” she shouted.
He peered quickly around and grinned. “Bonjour, thanks for stopping by.” And then he went back to his wizard.
“Are
you leaving me to tip for my own flowers?” said Frances, laughing.
“We don’t really do that here,” said Nico as he jabbed at a button on the controls. “Merci,” said Frances, using one of her only French words, and the deliveryman grinned and took off.
“They are spectacular,” she said, burying her nose in them. “No smell. But their looks make up for it. Every single one is perfect,” she said, caressing the blossoms gently with her fingertips. Molly had taught her how to care for fresh flowers, and she took them to the kitchenette and chopped off the stems, then put the blooms in a vase with water.
“Nico….” she said.
“I’m about to kill this shaman,” he said, his eyes still on the game.
“Nico,” she said, with some urgency, and then collapsed on the floor with her eyes closed.
“I’m just going to learn how to make pastry. Don’t worry about me,” Molly said while stroking Bobo’s ears. “And don’t look at me like that,” she said to the orange cat, who was glowering from her perch on the back of the sofa. “I know perfectly well you don’t care whether I live or die, so you’re not fooling anyone. I’ll give you some cream when I get back.”
She glanced past the meadow to the pigeonnier, but there was no sign of Finsterman, and all was quiet at the cottage. So, anxious to be on time, Molly hopped on the scooter (still suffering from a dry cough) and sped to Pâtisserie Bujold for her first lesson with Monsieur Nugent.
“Glorious to see you,” he said with a wide smile when she came in the shop. “You’re right on time. I do admire punctuality. Now then, I’ve given this enterprise some thought. I’m going to do my best to refrain from lecturing you: you already know my opinion about the futility of attempting to learn quickly an art that takes many years to master.” Nugent looked around for something to straighten but everything was already put away and shipshape. “I’m not at all sure you have the required persistence, Madame Sutton, though I will grant that you do have the necessary love for pastry. No one could say you lack that.” His gaze, as usual, lingered on her chest. Molly had worn a modest shirt, buttoned up to her neck, and she wondered why she had bothered. It was probably going to be scorching, working around these big ovens.
