Murder for Love (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 4)

by Nell Goddin

  Molly nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah, I’d love a look at Séverin’s emails. And Iris’s. Pierre’s too, for that matter. Though I suppose it would be too much to hope for, finding something like, ‘You humiliated me so I’m going to push you downstairs’.”

  “Probably,” said Ben, not twinkling this time.

  “You know, for a couple, you and Dufort sure don’t seem to spend much time together,” said Lapin, standing next to Molly and Lawrence at the bar at Chez Papa Friday night. “I think our own Miss Marple might be back on the market soon, don’t you, Larry?”

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow but otherwise paid attention to his Negroni.

  “I’m not biting on that piece of bait,” said Molly cheerfully, although in spite of herself she felt a slight pang at the suggestion that something wasn’t quite right between her and Ben. “It’s just that he likes to stay in and read at the end of the day, and I like going out and seeing people. Even if you lot is all I can muster.”

  “Ouch,” said Lawrence, grinning.

  “Thought you weren’t taking the bait, Sutton,” said Lapin, grinning even harder.

  “And I’m not Miss Marple, either. She had at least a few decades on me. Now, how about instead of talking about me, we talk about Iris. Lapin, you’re usually right in the middle of any murders in Castillac. What’s your angle this time?”

  “Very funny, Molly.” Lapin took a long, dramatic sip of his beer.

  “Did either of you know she was having an affair with Séverin?” asked Molly.

  Lawrence didn’t say anything but Molly could see yes in his eyes. Lapin looked disgusted. “I don’t know why she didn’t choose me,” he said, rubbing one hand over his large belly. “I always thought we had a spark.”

  Molly and Lawrence smiled at each other.

  “Do you think Pierre knew? Did it drive him to murder in a jealous rage?” she asked.

  “Frankly, I’ve never seen Pierre in a rage about anything. Not even close. He is the most even-tempered of men, wouldn’t you say?” said Lawrence.

  Molly considered this. It was true that she’d never seen him lose his temper, but she hadn’t spent much time with him either. She wanted to hear the impressions of those in the village who had grown up with him, who had seen him regularly for years and years.

  In the back of her mind, she knew she was being stubborn, but she still felt sure he was guilty. The discovery of the affair with Séverin and the love poem only cemented her opinion. It was irritating that no one else seemed to share her certainty.

  “So are you saying you don’t think it was Pierre?” she asked.

  Lawrence and Lapin drank their drinks and didn’t answer at first.

  “I’m going to give you my usual answer when you ask questions like these,” said Lawrence finally. “I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything about anything, when you get down to it. I can’t explain why Iris married Pierre in the first place. I can’t explain why, of all the men she could have had, she chose Tristan Séverin. I can’t explain why during her funeral, Pierre looked more bored than anything else.”

  “You saw that? I thought the same thing,” said Lapin. “I swear, he never deserved her. Such a goddess….”

  “That’s the word everyone keeps using,” said Molly. “Is it just a figure of speech, or did she actually not seem human?”

  “I can’t say. I never had the courage to say a word to her.”

  “If that’s how a lot of people thought of her, she might have been very lonely,” suggested Lawrence.

  “Another round?” asked Nico, looking not very warmly at Molly. He was not pleased about the escapade at the school, worrying that Frances might have gotten caught and deported. Coming right on the heels of the bee incident, his nerves were a little frayed.

  “So tomorrow is Changeover Day, right?” asked Lawrence. “Anyone new coming tomorrow?”

  “Yes. The Hales are leaving and a Miss Eugenia Perry from Louisiana is coming, an older woman traveling by herself. Thanks for bringing it up, I need to text Constance to remind her to come. And…ugh, now that you’ve got me thinking about it, some of the tile is loose in the cottage bathroom. I really should go home right now and grout it, give it a night to cure. The Hales are so accommodating, I don’t think they’ll mind.”

  “Alas! I didn’t mean to push you out the door.”

  “Oh, I know that,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. “Sometimes my running of the gîte business gets a little lost in all the detective work, and if I don’t watch my step, I’m going to have some unhappy guests.”

  “And no more gîte business,” offered Lapin.

  “Right. Okay, now you’re making my blood run cold. Good night to you both! And, um, if you hear anything you think I might be interested in, pass it my way, will you?”

  “Of course! Go attend to your grout,” said Lawrence, waving to Nico and twirling his finger to signal another drink.

  Molly was two steps from the door when Tristan Séverin came in.

  “Oh!” said Molly, her face instantly red.

  Having read the poem he wrote for Iris felt suddenly like such a violation, even though she wouldn’t have taken back the burglary for anything.

  Find some poise!

  “Bonsoir, Tristan,” she said. “I’m off to grout a bathroom. Have a good night, everyone!”

  She hoped that hadn’t sounded too false.

  As she rode home on the scooter, Molly wasn’t thinking about the grout, or her new guests, but instead wondering about Madame Séverin, and whether it was worth paying her a visit.

  24

  First thing Saturday morning, Molly jumped out of bed and started to go check on the grout in the cottage before she realized the Hales were probably still asleep, enjoying their final day at La Baraque. Guests fell into two camps: either they slept really late on the last day, trying to squeeze every bit of relaxation out of their vacation, or they got up early, anxious about getting everything done and being ready for the next leg of their trip.

  As long as she was already up, Molly made coffee and drank a cup on the terrace. It was not so hot at that time of day, and Bobo was her usual rambunctious self. Molly picked up her phone and began to make a list of all the repairs and projects she wanted to do at La Baraque:

  caulk the grouted tile in the cottage

  figure out why the floor in the hallway has that soft spot

  plant some fruit trees

  rebuild barn

  Well, shoot. If Pierre’s in prison, that barn’ll never get rebuilt, she thought, instantly appalled at her selfishness.

  She heard the sound of tire on gravel, Bobo barked her head off, and Constance came around the side of the house.

  “Bonjour, Molly!” she sang out, her hair scraped back in its usual work-ready ponytail.

  “Bonjour Constance. You’re early. Want some coffee? I haven’t seen the Hales or Finsterman yet.”

  “I think Finsterman has moved in for good. He’s never leaving.”

  “He does seem happy here. But I’ve got a couple staying in the pigeonnier in two weeks so he can’t stay beyond that. If we see him, I thought we’d ask if we could duck in and give it a quick cleaning.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss,” said Constance cheerfully.

  “Things going well with Thomas?”

  “I thought you’d never ask! We’re talking about moving in together,” she said, beaming.

  “That’s good? If you’re happy, I’m happy,” said Molly.

  “Wait, what? You think it’s a terrible idea?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “‘If you’re happy, I’m happy’…everybody knows that really means ‘you’re making a terrible mistake but as long as you haven’t figured that out yet, I’m not gonna say anything’.”

  Molly started chuckling and then fell into a full-on belly laugh. “You’re brilliant, Constance,” she said. “You nailed it. But honestly—truly—I didn’t mean anything other than what
I said. You are happy?”

  Constance nodded vigorously.

  “Then so am I. Really.” She stood up and stretched. “Let’s go see if anyone is stirring. I’d like to get the cleaning over with as soon as we can, and then run to the market. Doing things a bit backwards this time.”

  She didn’t say that she was reluctant to go to Pâtisserie Bujold, now that Nugent would be expecting her to arrange the time for her next pastry lesson. She had only gone through with the first one to see if he knew whom Iris was having the affair with, and now that she knew, the last thing she wanted to do was spend another long evening with him and his double entendres. Although the delectable final result, hot from the oven, made almost any indignity worth it.

  As she and Constance got out the vacuum, pails, and mop, she realized she felt a little rotten to have taken advantage of Nugent that way. She’d been a manipulative user, not to put too fine a point on it. All this investigating—it was certainly exciting and satisfying, but it also meant that sometimes she acted like a jerk.

  But worth it, right? Molly thought. If I were Iris, wouldn’t I be more than happy for people to behave badly if it meant capturing my killer? Moral purity is all fine and well but it’s not very useful for getting anyone to talk.

  The two women strolled over to the cottage. The orange cat was curled up on the front step, against the door, looking almost sweet as she slept. No sound from inside.

  “I don’t want to bother them—I already interrupted them last night. They’ve had enough inconvenience. Well, let’s try the pigeonnier. I think Finsterman has usually left with his easel and paintbox by now.”

  “Just think, Molly. He could be a famous artist someday, talking about the inspiration he got at La Baraque!”

  “Ha! I’m not sure Finsterman has such high ambitions. Though maybe I should suggest he look in at L’Institut Degas and see if it interests him. I’d be more than happy to have a long-term renter while he got through his studies.”

  Molly knocked on the door. No answer. She stepped back and gazed at the outside of the pigeonnier, noting, as she did every time, what an amazing job Pierre had done. It looked practically like Le Courbusier. The wall of the circular structure had a slight undulation that was pleasing, almost as though there was muscle under the skin of the wall—it made you want to skim your hand over it, to pet it. The building seemed practically alive. And at night, when the tiny windows were lit up from inside, it was absolutely magical. Whatever else he might be, Pierre was an artist, and an inspired one.

  “Mr. Finsterman?” Molly called. “Like I said, I’m pretty sure he’s out.” She pushed the latch and stuck her head inside, calling again and getting no answer. “Okay Constance, come on in. I’ll do the bathroom and kitchen, you do a quick dust and vacuum. We’ll be out in a jiffy.”

  Constance nodded and went in with a handful of dustcloths while Molly went to the bathroom. “Merde!” she shouted. “Another leaky faucet! I swear these things are made to break after six months.” She thought for a second. “Listen, I’m going to have to go get some washers, so I might as well do the marketing while I’m there. You want anything? You don’t mind doing my part in here as well as yours?”

  “Anything you say, Boss,” said Constance, grinning.

  Love, thought Molly, on her way to the scooter. When it’s going well, it even makes cleaning bathrooms seem like fun.

  For most of the Castillaçois, Saturday was for household chores, for marketing, for visiting with friends, and cooking. Some would take long walks in the countryside, some would paint or write or read. But almost no one chose to work if their job did not require it.

  Pierre was used to being the odd one out. In school he had done better than most of his mates, and though he got along with them well enough, he had not made any close friends. His history teacher had urged him to take the academic path, saying he had enough ability to teach at a university if he chose to—but Pierre knew he would be a terrible teacher, and besides, he had known what his life’s work would be since he was very young.

  Stones and rocks, walls and stairs. That was what he had loved for as long as he could remember. He was never happier than when absorbed in a project, the more complex the better, and to him it was great good luck that people would actually pay him to do work he enjoyed so deeply.

  His tools were already at the Lafont’s and so he needed little time to get ready—he had a quick cup of coffee, was in his truck by eight, and at the site by eight-fifteen. He had learned over the years that no matter how feverish a client was to have something finished, they got angry if he applied mallet to chisel before around ten on a Saturday morning. People were confusing, but eventually Pierre had simply accepted the contradiction and learned to work around it.

  And in fact, like many artists, he had come to appreciate the restriction. Having to spend a few hours thinking through his plans, looking carefully at the stone he was going to use that day, but not allowing himself to do anything more—it made the desire to create build up inside him with a kind of pleasurable pressure. And on that particular Saturday, barely over a week since his wife died, the enjoyable anticipation was no different.

  The Lafont house was not especially grand, which suited its owners. It was built in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, had tiny windows and so was quite dark inside, and had retained many of the details of those eras including a dry stone sink. Pierre understood the affection the couple had for their house. The stonework was obviously of a high order, having lasted for centuries with only minor repairs, and of course the golden Dordogne limestone was a favorite of his—to his mind, much more valuable and beautiful than having the light-filled rooms which were more the current style.

  Dressed in a T-shirt and canvas shorts, he squatted down next to a pile of rocks and observed them. He let his eyes wander over them, noticing their topography, not allowing himself to touch them at first. Then he went inside the structure—it was an addition to the Lafont’s house, so he could go in without bothering them—and inspected the stairs, which had been so tricky to get in place, since the stone was so heavy and the space for the stairs cramped.

  When he was younger, Pierre had traveled around the département and beyond, visiting cathedrals and chateaux, anywhere that had stonework for him to study. He had taken Iris on many of these trips, although she generally gave the buildings only a cursory glance before going to whatever garden was nearby. It had been a disappointment to him that she did not understand his fascination with rocks.

  At last it was ten o’clock, and with his fingers almost tingling at the prospect, he selected a chisel and picked up his mallet and went to work, nicking off a protrusion here, smoothing a rough patch there. He did not think about Iris, but only of the texture and shape of the stones he was working with, never losing sight of the way in which they would fit into his design.

  He kept smacking mallet to chisel for several hours, until Madame Lafont thought she was on the brink of losing her mind, and Monsieur Lafont poured her a splash of Cognac to calm her down even though it was still before lunch.

  Molly left Constance in the pigeonnier, hopped on the scooter, and…nothing. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died. “Come on, now,” she said to it, stroking the streaky paint on the gas tank. “Can’t you just make it into the village? I promise I’ll take you to the doctor first thing.”

  But the scooter showed no sign of life. Reminding herself that she had done just fine without any transportation for many months, she turned down rue des Chênes on foot, making a list in her mind of everything she needed to do.

  A storm was coming. The sky over half the village was dark and threatening, and a hot breeze had picked up. Molly walked faster, plotting the route of her chores, and telling herself not to stop and chat too long with everyone.

  But Rémy had the best tomatoes by far, and he was always so interesting to talk to—she didn’t know anyone else who relished a conversation about manure as much as she and Rémy
did. Of course she had to hear all about what Manette was up to, how her perennially sick mother-in-law was doing, and her pack of children as well. By the time she was ready to go to Pâtisserie Bujold and talk to Nugent, she was loaded down with food and it was over two hours later, but at least the rain hadn’t come yet.

  She had found out the Séverin’s address earlier, and thought she’d pass by their house—it was on the way to the pastry shop, after all—just to see if by any chance Madame Séverin was home and willing to answer a few questions.

  Well, since the woman was agoraphobic, it was a pretty good bet she was home. But was she home alone, and would she talk? Molly wasn’t sure she was willing to be a total jerk and grill someone she’d never met—and a depressive—about her husband’s love life. She didn’t really know what she was after, just figured that the more people she talked to that had some connection to Iris, even indirectly, the better she would understand how the beautiful woman had ended up getting shoved down the stairs.

  Molly had so many bags that she had to stop every once in a while to readjust and flex her hands. She turned onto rue Saterne and saw Madame Tessier sitting in her usual chair beside her front door, watching everything that happened on her street.

  “Bonjour, Madame Tessier,” said Molly. “How have you been?”

  “Bonjour Molly,” the old lady said, furrowing her brows. “You know, it just occurred to me that your arrival in the village was when all these murders started happening. I think you might be very bad luck!”

  Molly was taken aback until she saw that Madame Tessier was joking.

  “So tell me how your investigation is going,” the old woman asked. “And don’t try telling me you’re not working on it. I already know you’ve been talking to people around the village, and that you think Iris’s husband is the killer.”