by Nell Goddin
“You are my friends,” said Murielle, reaching up and wrapping her bare palms around a cold branch. Now that her children were grown and out of the house, she was lonely and it was more difficult than ever for her to get through the winter while the garden was dormant. It was like having your husband sleep for four months straight, never saying a word but lying next to you in bed with his back turned, his body cold.
She clapped her hands together for warmth and headed back to the house, thinking for the millionth time that if she only had a greenhouse she would be able to accomplish amazing work. Next to the small house was a tiny shed containing her gardening tools, and nestled against the south wall was a cold frame where she nursed along several botanical experiments. In a neat row was a line of rose grafts, combinations of her seedlings and a stronger root, which she hoped would make quite a splash if they turned out the way she expected.
It was the day after Josephine died in the bathroom at La Métairie. Murielle did not miss her sister. She was a little surprised that she did not, since she imagined that sisters were supposed to miss each other when one died even if they did not get along, but that was how she felt and she did not dwell on it.
9
The day after his aunt died, Michel Faure sat in a café opposite her mansion, drinking coffee and pretending to read a novel. He had been out of work for months and the small price of the coffee was money he should not have been spending, but he shrugged that knowledge off and spent the money anyway, feeling irritated.
Castillac in winter was a different place than in warmer months. He had no idea what people his age did with themselves but they weren’t out on the streets, that was for sure. The people-watching aspect of sitting in the café was more or less null, as the only passers-by were an old lady walking very slowly with a cane, who Michel thought was a schoolmate’s grandmère, and the mailman.
He wanted a plate of cookies—this particular café was known for them, after all—but he had rules, whereby he was allowed to buy the coffee he couldn’t afford but not the cookies.
Forty minutes, and nobody but a granny and the mailman.
The mansion was imposing. Rising up behind an ornate but rusting gate, the house had four floors plus a cellar, and a carved wooden door painted a deep violet-blue with pots of topiary standing on either side. The long windows were shuttered and Michel knew the curtains were drawn inside, thick brocade curtains, so thick they half-suffocated him just in the remembering.
He was waiting to see someone, watching, but she did not come. Maybe I’ve been wrong about her, Michel thought. But I don’t think so.
He chewed on a fingernail, his eyes pinned to the grand building. His stomach didn’t feel so hot.
He wondered when the will would be read. Wondered how long it would take before his aunt’s things were handed out to whomever she had designated to receive them. Wondered if any of his efforts had paid off.
Michel Faure did not miss his aunt. He would have laughed at the suggestion that he might, as he believed her to have been one of the vilest creatures he had ever met. He had suffered from her as a young child, as she was the sort of aunt who pinched cheeks hard enough to cause bruising. The sort of aunt who insisted he memorize poetry and if he stumbled on a line would whip the backs of his legs with a cane.
Hateful bitch, he thought. He signaled the waiter for another cup, knowing it wouldn’t do his stomach any favors but wanting to spend the money if only because he shouldn’t, and because Aunt Josephine would have lectured him about financial responsibility, and thankfully, blessedly, gloriously—she was no longer able to do so.
Molly hesitated. She thought Frances would probably like to see the Saturday market, but should she wake her up for it? It was cold, after all, and Frances did seem pretty devoted to getting a really good night’s sleep. Molly dressed for the weather and put her basket under her arm and set off by herself.
She had lived at La Baraque nearly four months. Not long enough to feel as though it—or France—was home, not all the way. And not long enough that every single walk down Rue des Chênes into Castillac didn’t take her breath away in one way or another. That day the world seemed muffled. The sky was cloudy and the limestone of the buildings didn’t have that characteristic yellow glow, or at least the color was dulled. Thin wisps of smoke rose from chimneys. A dog barked.
The street was empty save for a small pickup that passed her heading away from the village. When she came to the cemetery Molly ran her eyes over the inscription “Priez pour vos morts” and she wondered if anyone was praying for Josephine Desrosiers.
She thought not.
She couldn’t say exactly why, and if Dufort tried to pin her down she would have no way to describe it…but something about the tone of the conversation she had overheard at La Métairie made her think that it was possible the old lady’s death was not as simple as Dufort seemed to think it was. It wasn’t the words anyone said—and honestly, though her French had improved mightily, she hadn’t been able to understand quite a few of them—it was the tone. Acid. Bitter. Plus the sense that the guests at the party were smiling when they faced Mme Desrosiers, but under their breaths, mutterings resentments bubbled up.
On the other hand, she thought, kicking a pebble as she walked…as Frances said, plenty of families don’t get along. Doesn’t mean anyone gets killed. And besides, she hadn’t seen anyone attend the old woman into the bathroom, or follow her in there either. Though of course she had been eating a superb meal with her good friend, so she could easily have been distracted long enough for someone to leave the dining room without her noticing.
And surely there are ways to murder in which the murderer doesn’t have to be present at the exact moment of death. Poison comes quickly to mind.
Oh please. Can’t I just enjoy a simple walk into the village without looking under the bed for monsters?
She turned a corner and the Saturday market was there in its much-reduced winter glory. About half the usual vendors were present, all looking cold and rather depressed at the sparse number of customers.
“Manette!” said Molly, going up to her friend the vegetable seller and kissing both cheeks.
“Bonjour, Molly! Nice to see you. I wondered if you might have fled once the weather turned.”
“Oh no, I have no place to go!” said Molly laughing. “I am officially not a vacationer, not a summer person. Though I admit, I am finding the weather a little difficult.”
“Not insulated, are you?”
“Afraid not.”
Manette cut an orange into sections and handed a piece to Molly. “So tell me the news, I’ve been holed up cooking for my sick mother-in-law and have no idea what’s going on.”
Molly was so flattered to be asked that a blush crept up her neck and bloomed on her cheeks. “Well,” she said, savoring the moment since she’d practically been an eye-witness, “did you know Mme Desrosiers? I was having dinner at La Métairie the other night, and she dropped dead in the bathroom.”
“Really!” said Manette. “I must be the last to know. What did she die of?”
Molly paused. With some effort she chose not to ramble on about her theory of poisoning. “Probably a heart attack.”
Manette nodded. “A grande dame of the village, or so she considered herself. Actually she had perfectly humble beginnings—the daughter of a grocer, lived over by the railroad tracks. But she married an inventor who ended up making piles of money for some kind of transistor he thought up.”
“Interesting. So she was really rich? Did she have any children?”
“No, no children. Wait, I think she did have one, but stillborn. Always sad. Her sister is Murielle Faure, who teaches at the lycée. She has two children, adults now. I can’t say I know any of them though they occasionally buy an eggplant or two from me.” Manette winked at Molly and gestured to a neat pyramid of the purple vegetables. “Well, of course they’re imported, it’s December! But very good cut in thin strips and fried, with a m
arinara sauce.”
Molly bought two. She was helpless in the face of Manette’s selling techniques, but hardly minded since Manette did the work of figuring out what to make for dinner.
“Oh look,” said Manette in a low voice, “speak of the devils…”
“Bonjour!” sang out Murielle Faure to Manette.
“Hello, Molly,” said Adèle, practicing her English. “It’s nice to see you.”
Molly grinned. There was something about Adèle that appealed to her, though she couldn’t put her finger on what. She certainly dressed well. Her camel-hair coat looked freshly brushed and her leather boots were classic without being in the least old-fashioned. “Nice bag,” said Molly, noticing it was a different one than Adèle had carried at La Métairie.
“Thanks!” said Adèle brightly. “I just got it. I confess to a weakness for nice bags. I don’t understand it, I don’t even have anything that important to carry around with me—but I seem to care quite a lot about having the possibility of carrying all sorts of things.”
“Maybe you have an explorer’s spirit,” said Molly. “You want to be ready at any moment if you get a call to head to the Arctic.”
Adèle laughed. “That’s generous of you. The truth is probably that I just want to carry something around that is beautiful, and that people will admire.”
Molly cocked her head. She was impressed with Adele’s willingness to tell a truth that did not put herself in a flattering light. “How is your family doing?” she asked. “I’m sure the other night must have been such a shock.”
“Yes, it was,” said Adèle. “I don’t now if you have any deeply unpopular people in your family, Molly—but I think we all thought Aunt Josephine would live forever. An immortal tyrant. None of us can quite believe she’s gone. And none of us are the least bit sad.”
“Ah,” said Molly, “I see what you mean. Was she horrible to all of you?”
“Well, that’s one thing to say in her favor,” laughed Adèle. “She was more or less equally horrible to anyone, friends or family, people in the street, anyone at all. An equal opportunity insulter. Made it easier not to take personally.”
Molly nodded. “And—sorry if I’m asking too many questions—was there an autopsy? Did she die of a heart attack like Dufort thought?”
“Merci et à bientôt,” said Manette to Mme Faure, who nodded at Molly and pulled Adèle by the arm.
“See you later,” said Adèle, rolling her eyes towards her mother.
Molly watched the two of them walk away, Adèle limping slightly as though something wasn’t right with her left leg. Her mother was dressed in a frumpy pair of trousers that had seen better days. Molly wondered if Adèle had a well-paying job that allowed her to buy such nice clothing and handbags, things her mother couldn’t afford?
“Now let’s discuss your Christmas menu,” said Manette. “If there’s something in particular you want, I’m going to need some notice, you know. Tell me, what bizarre things do people from Massachusetts eat for Christmas dinner?”
Molly reluctantly watched the Faures disappear around the corner of the church. She had so many questions, but the best ones were far too impolite to ask, even to Manette.
10
Dufort hardly ever sat at his desk if he could avoid it, but that’s where he was on Saturday morning, catching up on paperwork, when the coroner called.
“Bonjour, Ben,” Florian Nagrand said in his deep voice, raspy from cigarettes. “I got some news on Desrosiers. Figured you’d want to know right away. Still waiting on some results, but it’s not looking like a heart attack.”
Dufort’s eyebrows went up.
“She was poisoned. Sorry to toss this at you on a Friday afternoon. I’ll know more when the lab sends me the results.”
“Wait, poison? I’m…I wasn’t expecting that at all. You’re sure?”
“No, I won’t be sure until the lab results are back of course. But the signs were not consistent with heart failure. Organs showed a pink lividity—didn’t you notice her skin was reddish, far more so than any other corpse you’ve sent my way?”
“I did notice. I thought perhaps because I got there quickly…do you have ideas about what the poison is?”
“Cyanide. But again, Ben, patience. We should know in a day or two, maybe even later today.”
“Can you tell me when she was poisoned? Right before she died? Last week? Can you narrow it down at all?”
“Gotta wait for the lab. Sorry.”
They hung up. Dufort stood up and walked around his office. Why had he insisted the old lady had died a natural death? Simply because he wished it were so? A stunning lapse in judgment. He felt a wave of shame go over him and then he stood up straight, cleared his throat, and called Perrault to come into his office.
‘Some news. Nagrand just called. He thinks Josephine Desrosiers was poisoned.”
Perrault’s eyes got bright and she grinned, and then mastered her emotions and made a neutral expression. “Is there any chance it was accidental?”
“It’s possible. We’ll know more when the lab tells us what kind of poison we’re talking about. But we must act quickly even though we don’t have all the information we need. I’m going to send Maron over to La Métairie. Perrault, you go over to the coroner’s office and pester him for that lab report. I want it in our hands the instant it arrives.”
Dufort reached Maron on his cell and told him the news. “Get over to La Métairie and talk to Nathalie Marchand. She manages the place. It’s a longshot for sure, but ask if everything—plates, cutlery, even tablecloths and napkins—has been washed from Thursday night. We need to begin testing anything we can find for residue, working backwards from the last moment Desrosiers was alive.”
“If it was her birthday,” said Perrault, “there were probably presents? Or maybe not, I know my grandmère would not like opening things at a restaurant. But some people like to.”
Dufort gave her a small smile and a nod. She was improving, Perrault. Her thinking was getting clearer. “Thank you,” he said. “Now get over to the coroner’s. If we don’t keep an eye on him, he’ll go home for a long lunch and not come back to the office. Babysit him until you get that report.”
Perrault nodded. “Yes sir,” she said, grabbing her heavy coat on her way to the door. “Chief? Is there any chance this is connected to the Boutillier and Martin cases?”
“Unfortunately for those of us who love logic and finding patterns, events in the world tend to be more disorganized and unconnected than we would like them to be. In other words: highly doubtful.”
Perrault nodded and the door closed behind her.
A poisoning, thought Dufort, leaning back in his chair. Never been one in Castillac, not that he remembered as a child, and not since he’d arrived at the gendarmerie three years ago.
At least, not one we’ve known about.
“You came home with eggplants? That’s it? Jeez, Molly, I thought you had some sense of priorities.”
“I know. And I was two steps away from Patîsserie Bujold too. In my defense, this has never happened before.”
Frances took a long glug of her coffee. She looked disgruntled and her usually sleek hair was sticking up in back. “Eh, sorry Molls. I’m stuck on a jingle and the deadline is two days from now.”
Someone banged on the door and Frances jumped up to answer it. “It’s the mason,” said Frances, gesturing to him to come in. She said “bonjour” with an appalling accent, and then gesticulated in a way that she thought was a friendly greeting. “See you, Molls. I’m going to mess around on the piano and see if I can whip that stupid jingle off in the next hour.”
The mason looked confused, no doubt in part because of Frances’s continued waving of her arms and flapping her hands.
“This way,” said Molly to the mason, Pierre Gault. “As I was telling you, I’d like to convert my pigeonnier into a living space. I’ve got some ideas and I’d like you to tell me if they’re going to work.”
<
br /> Pierre nodded, relieved to be able to understand the American’s French, which was a little disjointed but got her point across. His wife had been joking around and acting out scenes at breakfast in which Pierre was utterly lost while the American woman chattered away in French-sounding nonsense and then flew into a rage when he did not do what she asked.
But Molly was ignorant of Pierre’s wife and her jokes, and walked with him out to the meadow where the pigeonnier stood, crumbling a bit on one side, thinking only that she hoped Pierre didn’t charge too much for his services, since bookings had been nonexistent for over a month.
She did not think about the corpse she had found in the bathroom at La Métairie, nor of Benjamin Dufort, but the afternoon in the meadow with Pierre was the last time she was able to think about anything else for quite a while.
11
Sabrina Lellouche pulled her scarf forward to hide her face as she walked quickly the last blocks before reaching the mansion of Mme Desrosiers. It was dusk on Saturday and hardly anyone was on the streets. It was cold. She reached into her bag and drew out an old-fashioned key and let herself in through the kitchen door.
The shutters were closed and the house was dark. The heat was still on so it was warm enough—too warm, Sabrina had always thought, but then old people probably got cold easily. She stood in the kitchen and inhaled the familiar smell of the house deep down into her lungs. It was strange to be in the house alone but she had been coming there for several years and it didn’t feel right never to come again.
She could feel the presence of the old lady. Could feel her cruelty, her invasive personality, her evil, as though she were still alive, still upstairs pondering her next act of malice.
Whoever buys this house, thought Sabrina, will be affected by what happened here. How could they not be?
She could not imagine having enough money to afford to buy such a place. Castillac was not a village that attracted many tourists or expats, and the upper layer of Castillac society was not aristocratic or even especially rich, but even so it had a level of wealth beyond what Sabrina could comprehend. Her family had moved there from Algeria nearly fifteen years earlier and they had been barely scraping by ever since. The Desrosiers mansion with its four floors and grand foyer and blue-purple door—Sabrina thought it might fetch a million euros.
