Murder for Love (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 4)

by Nell Goddin

  “Let me tell you the rest of it, I haven’t even gotten to the reason I called. So, as I said, we were looking hard at Séverin, figuring he might have a strong motive as well as opportunity. But we interviewed the assistant, Caroline Dubois, who says she was out for a walk that Friday night, 11 July, and saw Séverin in the office, working late. You know how those school windows are, it’s like being in a fishbowl. And his car was parked out front. We asked around and found two other villagers who gave exactly the same evidence. It’s been so hot lately that I guess people are out walking after dark more than usual.

  “The time span covering those accounts gives the man an air-tight alibi. I can say without reservation, unfortunately, that Tristan Séverin did not commit this murder. Obviously that turns us back to Pierre. Tomorrow morning we’re going to bring him in for a little chat.”

  Dufort felt an icy jolt of anxiety and felt in his pocket for his vial of tincture. “But you just ran through a list of reasons why you didn’t believe it was Pierre,” he said, cocking his head. “Okay then, Séverin is out. But it occurs to me that Iris’s murderer wouldn’t have to be someone in a romantic relationship with her. It could just as easily be someone who wanted her but could not have her.”

  “From what I hear, that could be half the village.”

  Dufort shrugged. “Obviously she was extremely attractive. And private, too, kept herself apart a little bit. Not in a snobbish way, but mysterious somehow. Anyway, I’m simply suggesting that you not limit your list of suspects to those proven to have a romantic connection with her. Wanting someone desperately and being rejected—that can be a powerful stimulus to very bad behavior.”

  Maron nodded as if to say he had this angle covered, then said, “What have you got, Dufort? You’re thinking of someone in particular, I can see that much.”

  Dufort sighed a little theatrically. “How about Caroline Dubois?”

  Maron’s eyes got ridiculously wide. “You mean—”

  “She had feelings for Iris that went beyond friendship. Possibly verging on obsessive. Have a chat with her, Maron. And…of course you’ve taken Caroline and Tristan’s computers, at work and home?” Dufort asked.

  “Of course,” answered Maron, a little too quickly. He waited until Dufort had gone and quickly made some phone calls.

  27

  Ms. Eugenia Perry, from Slidell, Louisiana, had immediately proven herself to be the sort of guest any gîte owner would be thrilled to have. She arrived at La Baraque in a taxi at the height of the afternoon storm, when Molly was indulging in a few madeleines and a second espresso at Pâtisserie Bujold. Eugenia had gone straight into the cottage and made herself at home, and greeted Molly with delight when she finally straggled in, soaked to the skin and overly caffeinated.

  Eugenia’s understanding and good humor notwithstanding, Molly wanted to make it up to her guest, so she invited her to breakfast later in the week. Happily that Tuesday dawned sunny and temperate, and all the creatures at La Baraque, human and animal, were in better spirits now that the heat wave had broken.

  Molly was mournful about the scooter. Having no idea what the repairs would cost, she was hesitant to take it to the shop. And of course she missed zipping into the village to get fresh croissants in a matter of minutes. She did know how to make them herself now, thanks to Nugent, but croissants took a long time—the dough had to rest for hours between all the foldings and poundings. Eugenia was going to have to make do with an omelet.

  Soon enough the two women were seated at the rusty table on the terrace, Bobo and the orange cat hanging out hopefully at their feet, with glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and two glistening buttery omelets scattered with snips of tarragon and chives from the garden.

  “I’m glad to see you’re an eater,” said Eugenia, taking an enormous bite.

  Molly nearly choked on her food. “That’s the understatement of the year,” she said. “It’s one of the best things about living here—life revolves around food. Everyone in Castillac is thinking about it, planning it, cooking it, or eating it pretty much every waking moment.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve ever been down Louisiana way, but we know a little about cooking too. Ever had crab with remoulade sauce, or a shrimp étouffée?”

  “No, but just the poetic sound of those words is making my mouth water. If I thought we could get the ingredients, I might be pushing you into the kitchen to take care of dinner!”

  Eugenia laughed. “I can’t believe I’m really here,” she said, looking around. “It’s my first time out of the country. I’ll tell you, I’ve had a lucky life. I didn’t get much in the way of schooling, grew up working on my family’s farm deep in the bayou. But I was a pretty thing, when I was young—no, I really was!” she laughed, patting her round belly. “I married a rich man and he died and left me every single penny. So I’ve spent the last fifteen years reading books and eating the most delicious food I can, just enjoying every minute doing the things I love best. I’m hoping you’ll be able to steer me towards the best places to eat around here?”

  “Oh yes, of course. We’ve got a good restaurant right in the village that specializes in local dishes. Their duck is incredible.”

  “I don’t mean all fancy, by any means. I know back home, sometimes the best food comes out of a broken-down shack, you know what I mean?”

  “Lobster rolls,” said Molly, getting misty-eyed for the first time over a memory from home.

  Molly’s cell rang and she saw it was Ben. “Excuse me, Eugenia, I need to take this.” She got up and walked away from the table, guessing correctly that Ben might have news on the case.

  Ben jumped right in without saying hello. “Whether Séverin did or didn’t have an affair with Iris—doesn’t matter anymore, he’s got an alibi. Air-tight, three witnesses. He was working late and you know how exposed that office is. A number of people saw him there, sitting at his desk.”

  “Hm,” said Molly. “And the witnesses cover all the time when the murder would have been possible?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s been so hot, I guess a number of villagers were out stretching their legs that evening once it was a little cooler. And his office is extremely visible to anyone walking or driving down the street.”

  “Is one of those witnesses Caroline?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m interested in the way she keeps popping up to say that Séverin isn’t guilty of anything. She claims he had no affairs even though village gossip and now his confession say otherwise. And now she provides him with an alibi for the night of the murder. Does this all fall under the heading of the duties of a very good assistant, or…or something else? And if he was seeing the woman she loved, why in the world would she be motivated to protect him? You’d think she’d be daydreaming about pushing him down a flight of stairs.”

  “I don’t know, Molly,” said Ben, a little distractedly. “I’m going over to see Pierre. The Lafonts told him he was not to come to work today as they wanted a day off from his hammering. I have a feeling the whole thing might finally hit him once he’s home alone with nothing to distract him.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  “No. It’s just what people do. Do me a favor, will you? Rustle up another suspect? I don’t like how the field has narrowed again. I tried to float the idea of Caroline with Maron but I’m not sure if he’ll bite.”

  “You think Caroline—?”

  “It’s possible. The thing is, I don’t trust Maron to stick to the facts objectively. He’s so desperate to get an arrest he’s liable to try to shape the facts to fit whatever story he’s come up with lately, and right now that means Pierre.”

  Molly sighed. “You never like admitting that someone from Castillac, someone you’ve known your whole life, could ever possibly be guilty of murder. Hasn’t the last year put a dent in that fantasy?”

  Ben didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry, that sounded way harsher than I
meant it. Only…be prepared, Ben, in case it is Pierre.” She leaned down and picked an unfamiliar wildflower growing on the edge of the meadow. “I’m having breakfast with the new guest, and after that, I’m going to work in the garden and turn this whole thing over in my mind. I’ll see if I can come up with any new avenues to pursue.”

  “Thanks, Molly,” said Ben.

  They hung up, both feeling a twinge of something they couldn’t put their fingers on, but it wasn’t happiness.

  28

  The next day, Ben and Molly met for breakfast once again at the Café de la Place. Molly loved sitting on the terrace on summer mornings when it seemed as though most of the village passed by. The air was the perfect temperature, and smells of coffee and fresh pastry filled the air.

  Not to mention the dappled sun from plane trees, which she never got tired of looking at. The café was packed with people Molly had met: Rex Ford, an art teacher at L’Institut Degas; Madame Gervais, who had just had her 103rd birthday; and Nathalie Marchand, the pretty manager at the restaurant La Métairie. Molly went from table to table, kissing cheeks and exchanging greetings, and finally sat down at the table with Ben.

  He leaned back in his chair, grinning at her. “You really fit in now,” he said approvingly. “And your French—remember when you first got here, how you stumbled over everything?”

  “I was horrible!” she said, grinning.

  “And now you scamper about using the subjunctive as though you were born here.” He paused. “I hope it won’t sound too nitpicky to say that your genders remain a bit dicey.”

  Molly laughed. “Not nitpicky, just true. I hope eventually, by the time I’m Madame Gervais’s age, most of it will have sunk in. In the meantime, I’m not worrying about it.”

  “I believe the English expression is ‘other fish to cook’?”

  “Fry,” said Molly.

  The weather was sparkling with exactly the right amount of warmth, her guests were a pleasure, she had a murder to solve and a handsome boyfriend to have breakfast with. All was right in Molly’s world, for the moment, and she turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes, anticipating that first bite of croissant that she never tired of. And then her thoughts turned to the case.

  “So how was Pierre yesterday?” she asked.

  “Eh, it’s hard to say. He lets no emotion out, even to me. He talked at great length about the staircase he’s building, and also a bit about your barn.”

  “Ah, the barn. I hope he gets around to that project eventually. The pigeonnier, as I’m sure I’ve said fifty times—it’s a masterpiece.”

  “Yes, well, we’re going to have to keep him out of prison if he’s to be making any other masterpieces. Maron had been focusing on Séverin but now he’s back to Pierre. I’m not sure how sold he was on the idea that Caroline might have had some hand in this—and I’m not either, not necessarily anyway. That poem…I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. But in any case, as far as Pierre goes? We need a break, and fast.”

  Molly watched Pascal moving gracefully through the tables with their order on a tray. “There is pretty much no luxury I appreciate more than someone headed my way with food on a tray,” she said.

  Pascal kissed cheeks and hurried back to the kitchen; the Café was crowded and he had no time to chat.

  “I take your silence to mean that you still have Pierre in your sights as the prime suspect?”

  Molly considered, nibbling on the crispy end of her croissant. She had spent hours working in the front flower border the day before, mulling over every detail of the case but getting nowhere. “Well, who else is there that makes any sense? I don’t think you can set aside the fact that Pierre hits a triple: means, motive and opportunity.”

  “Is that a football reference?”

  “Baseball.” Molly was trying to hold on to her sunny mood but it was drooping fast. Why was Ben being so pigheaded about Pierre? It’s not like they were great friends. She wasn’t sure Ben even liked him.

  Ben’s cell buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket. “It’s Maron,” he said to Molly before taking the call.

  “Bonjour Maron…yes…interesting. Anything else?….Bon.” He ended the call and looked at Molly, chewing his lip in thought. “Curious,” he said.

  “What? Come on, what did he say?” Molly had to make an effort not to shout.

  Ben lowered his voice. “He had Séverin’s office computer brought in. Turns out it was loaded with emails to Iris.”

  “Figures.”

  “And the final one, dated the night of her murder, was a break-up email.”

  They both stared, thinking this over.

  “So, alibi aside, our motive for Séverin doesn’t check out either. Séverin didn’t murder Iris in a rage when she broke it off with him. He broke up with her,” said Ben.

  “But…okay. Wait. Were there answers to any of them from Iris?”

  “Yes. They had an email conversation that went on for several months, apparently. Until the night she died, when he ended it.”

  Molly was so agitated she stood up and walked to the sidewalk.

  “Are you finished?” said Ben, incredulous, since Molly was not usually one to leave a half a croissant behind.

  “No, I’m…I just need to move around while I think. I know I’ve been ringing the Pierre bell since the very beginning, but maybe…maybe this whole thing is lot more complicated than it looks. And maybe you’re right, the obvious solution isn’t the correct one. We’ve got a lot more work to do, Ben, that’s what just hit me. A lot more.”

  Ben only nodded and took a sip of his coffee.

  “We keep making assumptions. To hear that Séverin broke up with Iris—do you see how we just assumed it was the other way around? That no man would ever break up with her because she was too good-looking? And the worst part is—we made the assumption without even realizing it. That is fatal to getting to the truth.”

  Dufort couldn’t help smiling. “You’re not an amateur at this anymore, you know that?”

  Molly shook off the compliment. “Would you mind if I talked to Pierre by myself?” she asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “All right. I think I’ll start there.” She ate up the rest of her croissant and was out of her chair again. “Excuse me for running off. Scooter’s broken down so I have to walk everywhere, and I still don’t have the right washers for that drippy sink in the pigeonnier, and good heavens I need to get back to La Baraque and give my neglected guests a little attention.”

  “Understood. See you later,” said Ben. He reached for her hand, but she was already off down the sidewalk headed for the hardware store.

  Molly walked home, almost the whole way worrying about how much the repair on the scooter was going to cost. The obvious thing to do was take it in for an estimate, but—and she knew perfectly well this was magical thinking of the most useless kind—if she put off going, she could keep hoping the problem was something cheap and easy to fix.

  Once she turned in the driveway she could see that Roger Finsterman had set up his easel in the meadow again, and Molly went to ask his permission to go into the pigeonnier and work on the faucet.

  “It’s sort of a shame that I’m staying in the pigeonnier,” said Finsterman as he squeezed some paint onto a well-used palette. “It’s really a wonderful place, and I’ve barely spent any time in it. Been painting from the minute the sun’s up until dark every day. So anyway—it’s no problem, go ahead and do whatever work you need to. I’ll probably take a break for lunch at around one, depending on how things are going. Usually I just get some bread and cheese and bring it outside.”

  “The weather has been perfection since that storm last week,” said Molly. “Listen, excuse me if this is impolite…but would you mind if I took a look at what you’re working on?”

  “Not at all,” answered Finsterman. “Though it’s very unfinished.”

  Molly stepped around for a good view of the canvas. “Oh!” she said, before s
he could stop herself. The painting was the ugliest thing she had ever seen in her life. It was beyond ugly—looking at it actually made her feel queasy. She could not make out any relation to the meadow at all. “That…that is really something!” she said, trying to sound at least a little enthusiastic without utterly lying.

  “It’s not for everyone,” said Finsterman, not fooled for an instant, and apparently not bothered.

  Molly smiled and headed inside to the leaky faucet and got to work. Happily that particular repair went easily once she had the right size washer, and she was done in ten minutes—just in time to see Frances walking in the distance along rue des Chênes, about to turn into the driveway.

  Leaving Finsterman to his work, she called Bobo and they went to greet her. Molly could tell by the way she walked that she was upset about something.

  “What’s wrong, Franny? Meet up with another bee?”

  “If that was a joke, it’s not funny,” said Frances. She was wearing bicycle shorts, high-tops, and a T-shirt with holes in it, instead of her usual more sophisticated clothes.

  “I wasn’t joking. I can see something’s wrong, what is it?”

  “Can you make me a drink? Like, a real drink?”

  “I’ve got some cold rosé, that’s about it. My liquor cabinet is a little low at the moment.”

  “I don’t care what the drink is, Molly, just get me one.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “At least you’re not still smoking. What’s wrong? Is it Nico? has he done something terrible?”

  “No! Bite your tongue, Missy! Nico is…I love Nico, just to come right out with it. He’s fantastic. But….”

  Oh boy, thought Molly. All aboard the Frances Relationship Roller Coaster.

  “…but what?”

  “…but he’s talking the M-word. And the C-word.”

  “Huh? Stop speaking in code and just come out with it. I don’t know what those words are.”

  “Marriage, Molls! Children! And I….”