by Nell Goddin
“First of all,” he said, handing Molly an apron, “this project we are embarking on…I warn you, it is intimate. You cannot make good pastry only with the mind and the hands. It takes emotion; it takes feelings.”
Molly swallowed hard. She nodded, backing up a step.
“I hope you don’t think it impertinent if I suggest we tutoyer, as well as call each other by our first names? I am Edmond,” he said, with a little bow.
“That’s fine,” said Molly, wanting to jump straight to prodding Edmond for village gossip, but finding some stray shred of self-control. “So, what’s the first step?”
“Oh Molly, I knew this about you. You rush. You are chronically in a hurry. And this…this is not good for pastry. I ask you, before we begin—do you have the capacity to go slowly? To allow me to guide you, my dear, down the paths we must follow, consciously, deliberately, in the making of this paragon of French cuisine?
I would rather be digging for maggoty corpses in a swamp with my bare hands.
But she thought of Iris and answered “Yes, Edmond, I can do that. Lead on!”
Painstakingly he showed Molly how to measure and sift the flour, then mix the dough. With an extravagance of verbiage he talked about the importance of spreading the cold butter over the rectangle of dough and folding it, and then again, and again. He interjected bits of history as he went along, telling her that the predecessor of the croissant first appeared in the 14th century in Austria, how the crescent shape might have been inspired by the crescent on the Turkish flag, about the effects of sugar prices and Marie Antoinette.
Molly found the history and the work sort of hypnotizing. It was very involved, quite physical and with many steps, so that she forgot all about the end result and only focused on what they were doing at that moment, and then preparing for the next step. Everything in the correct order, because that was the only way to get the bubbles of air to rise when the dough was baked.
“Of course we are making a plain croissant today, but making the almond version is not difficult once you understand the basic method,” Nugent was saying.
“Is everyone in the village your customer?” Molly asked, looking for a way to get Iris into the conversation.
Nugent laughed. “Not everyone,” he admitted. “But quite possibly the laggards have some family connection to some of my competitors, and don’t want to risk hurt feelings. Or they simply have not come in and sampled what I can do, and so are making their choices without basing them on any actual evidence.”
“Are the Gaults your customers?” She knew the transition was awkward, and probably transparent, but she was out of patience.
Nugent stiffened. He clamped his teeth together and turned to Molly with an expression of anguish. “I would prefer to avoid that subject,” he said, squatting down and pretending to look for something on a low shelf.
But Molly pressed on, tossing out what she hoped was an irresistible bit of bait. “I wondered, because I heard a rumor, and I have no idea whether it is true or not. And I just thought, well, who sees more villagers than Edmond, day in and day out? Perhaps some of them confide in you? Or maybe you notice things, I don’t know—like something between two people, that they think they’re hiding but actually they’re not doing a great job of it.”
“I know my customers better than they know themselves, in some cases. They confide in me, oh yes, but they do not realize they are doing so. I know when they are upset, when life has thrown difficulties their way. When someone has eaten palmiers for years and suddenly switches to a pistachio tart? Oh, it means something, Molly, it means something.”
“I meant…more like you probably overhear conversations sometimes.”
“That too,” said Nugent, drawing himself up.
“And maybe when people are excited—or in love—they want to splurge? Maybe they order a big cake or a fancy tart when they normally don’t?”
“Indeed,” said Nugent, handing Molly a large ceramic bowl.
“So you might see that, if two people came in—that they were in love? Or maybe even…just lust?”
Nugent stood up, his eyes flashing. “I did not notice anything of the kind! And for her to choose that…that man-boy! It’s unconscionable. It’s beyond the beyond!”
Ah, here we go. The fish took the bait, now I just have to reel him in.
“I didn’t know Iris well,” said Molly carefully. “But I was surprised too. Wouldn’t have guessed it.”
“People have affairs all the time,” said Nugent, waving his floury hand. “It is part of life, the spice! It is her choice that shocks one.”
“Yes,” said Molly. She held her breath, praying Nugent would keep talking.
“She made a terrible mistake, choosing that ridiculous Tristan Séverin,” he said, his teeth still clamped together.
Bingo!
“I had thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, though of course no competition for you, Madame Sutton. But when I heard about Séverin, I admit, I lost some respect for her. We are defined by our choices, you know.”
Molly nodded, her mind racing, already formulating a narrative in which Iris broke it off with Séverin and he killed her in a fit of rage. He had seemed to be a decent sort of man, mild-mannered even, but Molly believed nearly everyone was capable of murder if the right button was pushed, and maybe losing Iris had been Séverin’s.
Or, of course, it could be Pierre, acting in a fury of jealousy. Either way, the affair was the key to what happened, and she had it safely in her pocket.
“What are you doing?” shrieked Nugent. “Molly, you cannot press the dough so roughly or the butter is going to poke through and all will be lost!”
Molly gasped. “So sorry, I got distracted for a moment. Are we nearly done?”
“You’re so very impatient, my dear. I am trying to impart to you that making pastry is like long, slow lovemaking—you cannot rush it! You must, above all, respect the dough.”
She sighed to herself. Even if she was stuck with Edmond for several more hours, the venture would be totally worth it. She had the name of Iris’s lover, and felt confident Pierre was going to be in for some pointed questioning. An arrest might not be right around the corner, but there was progress.
Baby steps. But baby steps were a whole lot better than nothing.
20
She wasn’t proud of it, but Molly didn’t call Ben right away to tell him the name of Iris’s lover. She was enjoying having the information all to herself, just for a few hours: turning it over in her mind, imagining how the affair started, wondering who else in the village knew. And did the affair give Iris what she was looking for, Molly wondered. Her own marriage had slammed against the rocks when her husband had an affair, but once she peeled off the top layer of hurt and humiliation, she had understood that the cheating was more a symptom than a cause.
Although she was wary of applying her American viewpoint to something the French felt quite differently about.
And what about Madame Séverin? Was she just an afterthought, if that? Or was her health and mood so poor and intractable that you could understand her husband wanting to find love somewhere else? So many questions, and such a complicated yet common situation….
The following morning, after her first cup of coffee, she called Ben and asked him to come over, and then she waited on the terrace, feeling the heat rising. Bobo was flopped in the shade, taking a nap.
In less than fifteen minutes she heard Ben’s car turn into the driveway and Bobo roused herself to trot around the side of the house to greet him. Molly was very glad to see him. After they kissed cheeks she pulled him into a hug and held him there for a long moment, appreciating his solid, trustworthy self.
“Well bonjour to you,” he said with a grin. “Okay, what did you find out?”
“How do you know I found out something?”
“I think the English expression is, the cat who ate the bird?”
“The canary,” laughed Molly. “Well
, okay Sherlock, I do know something. Want to play Twenty Questions? Who was Iris Gault’s lover?”
“I do not want to play. Tell me.”
“Tristan Séverin.”
Ben nodded his head slowly. “Who told you that?”
“Nugent, of all people.”
“Yes. I can see it, I suppose. Although you understand that at this point, all you have is rumor? Just because Nugent said it—that’s hearsay, not evidence.”
“The world runs on hearsay,” countered Molly. “Once it becomes common knowledge, will all the men in the village despise Séverin as well as Pierre?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t think so, no. Of course Iris was still very beautiful, and you know French men do not only admire twenty-year-olds.” He waggled his eyebrows at Molly. “But an affair…it is not the same as marrying her when she was still young, you understand?”
“Not as much like driving your flag into the conquered territory?”
“A violent and not very charitable image, chérie. Tristan, he is much beloved by the parents of the village. I never heard a word against his running of the school. And not an easy job, either.”
“I’m sure it’s not. I liked him, and his assistant too. Want some coffee? I even have some stale croissants if you’re hungry.”
“Ones that you made? How did the lesson go, apart from prying information out of the poor man?”
“It was never-ending…but worth it. I think I could make a decent croissant, with practice. And Nugent spilled the beans easily once I put a little pressure on. He’s very upset about Iris. I suppose it’s no surprise he’s one of the legion who had a huge crush on her.”
Ben poured himself some coffee and looked out at the meadow, thinking.
“So the obvious conclusion is that Pierre killed her out of jealousy, or maybe—but less likely—Séverin did it during a lover’s quarrel,” said Molly.
“I thought Pierre did it for the insurance money,” said Ben with an edge of sarcasm.
“No rule that you can’t have two motives.”
“How about Nugent? He could have done it out of anger, because when Iris eventually took a lover, she didn’t choose him,” said Ben.
Molly’s eyes widened. “I know you’re joking. But…it’s actually plausible….”
“How about you go have a talk with Caroline? If a boss is having an affair, the assistant will surely know. Maybe she has some insight into his state of mind lately.”
“I’m on it!” She was thrilled to have an assignment, and grateful that Ben apparently seemed to think Caroline would be more likely to open up to her than to the former chief of gendarmes. “Okay, so, I know I asked you to come over, but I’d like to run a comb through this bird’s nest on my head and then get to it. There’s not a moment to be lost!”
Without consciously thinking about it, Molly dressed according to Caroline’s style before going to find her. She wore a charcoal pencil skirt she hadn’t put on since she left Boston, a tailored blouse, even spiffier underwear. The skirt was something of a challenge on the scooter, but she hitched it up and made it work. A half hour after saying goodbye to Ben, she was pulling into the spacious parking area in front of the school and could see Caroline at work in the school office.
Luckily she did not see Séverin. He could just have stepped out for a moment, thought Molly, hurrying to get inside and talk to Caroline before he reappeared.
“Bonjour, Caroline!” Molly said, knocking on the open door as she spoke.
“Ah! You startled me. Bonjour, Molly, how are you?”
“All fine. If a little warm.” She fanned her overheated face and smiled. “I was wondering if you have a minute to talk? I just have a couple of questions. It would be immensely helpful if you could.”
A lot of people light up when you ask them if they can talk. They like the interaction, the social contact, and of course, almost everyone likes to talk about herself.
Apparently not Caroline.
First she hesitated, then shuffled some papers on her desk as though they were so important she couldn’t pause even for a second. Then she straightened her already straight posture and said, “Yes! Of course. Anything at all. Would you mind if we walk at the same time? I get sick of being inside all day just sitting at a desk.”
“Sure,” said Molly, wondering why Caroline was nervous. They chatted about the weather and which vegetables had been in season at the market last week. They passed the mairie, a pâtisserie Molly had never tried, a mother with her toddler. Finally Molly said, “Listen, I’ll just come right out with it. I’ve had information about something and I’m looking for corroboration, that’s all.”
Caroline didn’t say anything.
“Monsieur Séverin. You’ve worked with him for a long while?”
“Not so very long. Three years, about.”
“You like him? He’s decent to work for? Believe me, I’ve had some horror shows for bosses so if he’s difficult, I get what that’s like. And please understand, I will not go back to him with anything you say. This is a confidential conversation.”
Caroline nodded. “Um, yes, we get along all right. We’re well-matched, actually. He’s the brilliant, all-over-the-place outgoing type, and I’m very organized. I make sure the forms get in on time,” she added with a tight smile.
Molly nodded. “I understand. And…I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but I need to ask about…his private life. I understand his marriage….”
“Well, his wife is ill, that’s no secret. Depression. She refuses any kind of help and it’s been understandably difficult for Tri—Monsieur Séverin.”
“Right. Totally home-bound, is what I heard?”
“Agoraphobic, among other things. Terrified to leave the house.”
They walked on, crossing the street to be in the shade. “And…do you have any knowledge of an affair? Either currently or earlier?”
Caroline shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I wouldn’t say he’s been Mother Teresa about his situation, he gets frustrated as anyone would, but on the whole I think he’s been good to his wife. He does what he can, even though she won’t let him do very much.”
Molly was taken aback. She had been coasting along, expecting to cross confirmation of the affair off her list.
“You’re sure about that? Do you think it’s possible he could have an affair and hide it from you?”
Caroline laughed. “I don’t think you understand the degree of his disorganization. He would need me to keep track of when and where he was meeting her!”
Molly laughed genuinely at that, feeling mystified. Did Nugent have the wrong man? And how had Nugent come by the information, anyway?
21
Ben took off before lunch and Molly had chores around the house she wanted to avoid. Frances was always good for help in procrastinating so Molly called but got no answer. She ate a nice lunch of cheese, pâté, and salad with a refreshing glass of rosé. She lay down on the grass in the backyard and petted Bobo until the dog had had enough and wandered off in search of some quiet shade.
It was hot. Too hot to work in the garden or do anything outside.
Molly caught up on her email, making sure her calendar had all the upcoming bookings correctly marked. She was just about to go ahead and clean the bathrooms and look at that soft spot in the floor of the hallway when an idea occurred to her. Ben was right—at this point she had no actual proof that Iris and Tristan had had an affair. It was nothing but gossip, and possibly nothing more than the prurient fantasy of Edmond Nugent. But she stubbornly believed that the affair was the key to everything, if it was true, and so she needed proof before she could go on to the next step. (Just like making pastry, she thought with a chuckle.)
Obviously confronting Tristan directly was unlikely to be productive; he would almost certainly deny everything unless she could show him something he couldn’t explain away. She needed something tangible, something he couldn’t make an excuse for. Hmm.
&
nbsp; His office. That was the place to look. She was willing to bet that Tristan’s desk at the school had something in it that would give her the proof she and Ben needed—a note, a letter, a photograph, anything. Lovers are like magpies, collecting little bits of this and that, treasures and tokens to mark their love. Since Séverin was married, his office seemed the likely place to find them.
But she needed backup, or a lookout, or just a comrade-in-law-breaking. Who else but Frances? Molly tried her cell again but still got no answer, so she made sure Bobo’s water bowl was full and then hopped on the scooter and sped to Nico’s on rue Pasteur.
Castillac was still beautiful in the heat, though the light glared off the cobblestones and the golden limestone was so bright it hurt her eyes. The streets were empty and quiet. She felt sorry for the shopkeepers with all their customers staying home out of the heat, no one venturing out except for necessities.
Molly banged on Nico’s door. His place was in a renovated stable, an ancient building with colombages on the second floor. No answer.
What the heck? Frances was usually busy writing jingles or lolling around with a book at this time of day. Where could she be?
She drove back to Chez Papa, thinking she and Nico would have to be there. She parked right by the door and gratefully went in out of the sun. “Nico! I’ve been trying to find Frances for hours. Where is she?”
Nico shook his head. “Oh, Molls.” And then he put his face in his hands and moaned.
Molly’s knees felt weak. “What? Has something happened?”
“Yes, wait, no,” he said, collecting himself. “She’s okay now. Yes, something did happen. I got Frances some flowers—she’s so adorable, she really likes getting flowers, you know? And she put them in a vase just like you showed her and then she sort of croaked out my name and fell in a heap on the floor. Thank God I didn’t think she was joking! I called the ambulance right away and thank God again they came quick—at first I thought maybe it was a reaction to the flowers somehow, but no, it was a bee. A bee came inside on the bouquet, stung her, and she had an allergic reaction.”
