by Nell Goddin
Molly nodded.
A long pause while Adèle turned on her barstool and looked out a grimy window to the street, and Molly felt tense, wondering how to get the conversation moving along a little faster.
“There was a dark-haired woman there? Frankly, not looking too happy. With a guy?”
“Sabrina. That’s what I mean about Michel having a tough time coming up with enough guests; she’s the housekeeper, been working for Josephine for a couple of years which must be a record. The guy is Jean-François, her boyfriend. He was the gardener there briefly but he was not one to put up with Josephine’s treatment, I don’t think he lasted a week. Talented with plants, so it was too bad. Not that Josephine was spending any time in the garden anymore anyway. Michel said she barely even came downstairs, and kept the shutters closed all day. Like a mausoleum in there, he said.”
“Hmm,” said Molly. “Do you think…I mean, Jean-François looked really angry—I’m sorry,” she said, trying to laugh gracefully. “I don’t want to sound like I was stalking all of you. But I like people, I like parties—and I couldn’t help looking over that night, and wondering how everyone fit together.”
“Very awkwardly,” said Adèle with a faint smile. “It’s just starting to sink in what you’re getting at. You’re saying….somebody at that table, at La Métairie, killed my aunt?”
Molly shrugged. “It seems so, but I’m no expert. Maybe she was poisoned with something long-acting, that she took hours or even days earlier. But she seemed fine at first, yes?”
“Yes,” said Adèle slowly. “And then, suddenly…not. We had our first courses, and then she opened a few presents. And I remember looking down at her end of the table and seeing that her face had gotten red, which it used to do when she got really angry about something, and I said to myself I was lucky to be all the way at the other end, out of gunfire range. Not long after that she got up to go to the bathroom—our mains had been served but we hadn’t gotten that far with them.”
“Did anyone offer to go to the bathroom with her?”
“Go to the toilette with Aunt Josephine? Ha! Not if you wanted to escape insults coming at you like a swarm of hornets for the rest of the evening! Josephine did not take it at all well if her age or frailty was ever alluded to. Not that she was frail—like I said, we all thought she was strong as an ox.”
“I guess somebody got impatient.”
“It’s terrible to say, and we barely know each other, I shouldn’t burden you with such confidences,” said Adèle. “But to tell you the truth, I was happy when I heard she was dead. Happy! And Michel—he was about to burst into song!”
Molly couldn’t help smiling, but then her expression turned serious. She felt protective of Adèle somehow. “Do you either of you stand to benefit from her death? I don’t want to tell you your business, but if you are going to, maybe dancing in the streets might give the wrong impression?”
“You don’t understand,” said Adèle. “Having Josephine in the family meant that we were forced to think about impressions constantly. I think that is why my mother always dressed me so nicely—far beyond her budget, no doubt. Because it gave Aunt Josephine one less thing to criticize. Even though we saw her infrequently, we walked on eggshells, not wanting to incur her rage. Once I wore something a little racy to school—I was a teenager and I bought a red mini-skirt with money I had earned. Josephine heard about it and made me come over so she could rant and rave over the damage I had done to the family’s reputation.
“Josephine’s death means we don’t have to worry anymore. No more having to keep up this false front just to keep her off our backs. No more dreading holidays and being forced to endure her vicious insults. We feel free, Molly,” said Adèle intently, taking Molly’s hands and squeezing them, a beatific smile on her beautifully made-up face.
Claudette Mercier spent most of every Tuesday morning at the market in Bergerac. Of course she went to the Castillac market on Saturdays, but there were some particular things she could only get in Bergerac, and even though she felt it was an imposition, she wanted those things so badly she allowed the teenage son of her next-door neighbor to drive her. He was a nice boy and dropped her off on his way to school and picked her up during his lunchtime. She paid him in cherry tarts, which he loved with a passion, thus thoroughly winning her over.
Some of the particular things were mushrooms, cèpes and girolles especially. There were no mushrooms in December, but Claudette had gotten into the habit of the Tuesday market in Bergerac, she had friends there to talk to, and so the Tuesday after her old schoolmate Josephine Desrosiers died, Claudette went as usual. Marc was a careful driver and it occurred to her that really, she hadn’t a care in the world—she looked forward to a chat and then coming home to a glass of sherry in the afternoon, and it had the makings of an excellent day.
The market was lovely, if cold. Afterwards, Marc was on time to pick her up as he almost always was, and she was thinking about that sherry as they arrived home. Claudette waved goodbye to Marc and unlocked her front door. She walked inside. She stood still, her mouth gaping. A barely audible peep came out of her. The basket dropped to the floor. Her living room, always neat as a pin, looked as though a hurricane had gone through it. Sofa cushions on the floor, lampshades awry, papers dumped out of drawers and lying on the rug.
Her first impulse was to get down on her hands and knees and begin to clean up the mess. But then she had the frightening thought that whoever was responsible could still be in her house, possibly lying in wait! Slowly she backed out the front door and scurried as quickly she could to the next-door neighbor’s. Only Marc was there but he called the emergency number and even made her a cup of tea.
Gilles Maron received the call and got on his new scooter. He had convinced Dufort to spend the money on it, saying that one police vehicle was not enough and with Castillac growing as it was, not quickly but steadily, the force needed to update if they wanted to be responsive to the village’s needs. Maron could read Dufort well enough to know that words like “responsive” were likely to have an effect, and in the end, he got his scooter.
He drove straight to Claudette’s house after receiving the call. Finding the door open, he walked in, alert and listening. A plump tabby cat was curled up in an armchair, sleeping. An antique clock was ticking. The living room floor was covered with papers, clothing, a tangled knitting project, and knickknacks. He stepped carefully over the mess and went down the hallway to the kitchen, obviously the heart of this house, the pans well-scrubbed and shining, everything neatly put away, not ransacked as the living room had been. He walked to the bedroom of the small house and saw that the night table had been overturned, a lamp broken, bureau drawers pulled out and rummaged through—but no one was in the closet or under the bed.
The bedroom window had been jimmied open and a cold breeze swept through.
Maron went to the next-door neighbor’s and knocked on the door.
“Bonjour, Madame,” he said to Claudette, who stood partly behind Marc. “I am Officer Maron. You’re all right? Did you catch a glimpse of anyone when you entered your house?”
“Oh no,” said Claudette. “I didn’t want to see anyone. I ran straight here, to the neighbor’s!”
“Whoever it was is gone now. But I ask that you give me a few moments to look for evidence before returning.”
“Of course! Thank you for coming so quickly,” said Claudette, trying to muster a smile. “Who would do such a thing? I’ve never had anything like this happen in my whole life. It’s terribly upsetting.”
“Oui, Madame, I understand,” said Maron, though his tone was not warm. “I’m afraid your house is not the first. In the last month, we have had two other similar cases. May I ask you a few questions?”
“Please, come in,” said Marc, who was secretly thrilled at the idea of a burglar breaking in right next door, in broad daylight.
The temperature had risen some but the wind was still biting. Maron nodded and came
inside. “First, do you have anything valuable in your house that anyone knows of?”
“Heavens, no. Not unless you mean my collection of copper pans? I know they’re worth an awful lot now, I’ve been adding to them slowly over the years, you know. I just got a lovely little one-quart saucepan last month to replace one that the handle wasn’t as nice, how it felt in my hand, you know.”
“I believe the kitchen was untouched,” said Maron, sighing inwardly. Why hadn’t Perrault taken this call? “No family heirlooms, nothing like that that people might know about?”
“No. I don’t go in for frippery, Monsieur. My father used to buy me necklaces and things of that sort but I told him to stop, I didn’t like it. What I wanted was a Sabatier cleaver instead. He was very disappointed in me.”
Marc looked at his neighbor with new admiration. He thought cleavers were awesome.
“All right, Madame Mercier. I’d like to walk through the house with you after I’m done, and perhaps you can tell me if anything appears to be missing. The thief was most likely after items that are easy to sell—televisions, computers, things of that sort.”
“Well, I do have a little television. There are so many cooking shows on now, you wouldn’t believe it! I have several of those I keep up with. Have you seen that Gordon Ramsay? Such language! And of course he’s not French but I believe he does know how to cook. My English isn’t all that good and I can’t follow it all. But still, I watch.” She shrugged, and gave Maron a mischievous smile. “But no computer, oh no. I’m too old for that foolishness.”
Marc snickered and then patted Madame Mercier on the shoulder.
“My next question: do you have a predictable schedule? Are you out regularly on Tuesday mornings, for example?”
“Well, of course I have a schedule. Who doesn’t? On Tuesdays, Marc drives me to the market in Bergerac. The man who sells walnuts on the north side of the church has the best walnuts in the Dordogne. I try not to miss a Tuesday market. And thankfully, even though as you may have noticed I am not young, I still have my health, and so it is quite rare that I have to call Marc and tell him I can’t make it. I hope someday to drop dead of a heart attack, like Josephine Desrosiers did—here one minute, gone the next! That’s the way to do it, don’t you think, Officer Maron?”
Maron nodded slowly. He noticed how Madame Mercier’s expression lit up when she mentioned the death of Desrosiers, like it was the happiest news she had heard in a very long time.
“All right, thank you, Madame. I will step back over to your house and see if I can find anything helpful to the investigation. If you would please stay here for the moment, I thank you for your patience.” Maron turned and went back to the Mercier house.
He was pretty sure the burglar was an addict, looking for something to sell to make money for drugs, and hoping maybe to find a bundle of cash under an old lady’s mattress. It was not a crime that called for forensics; it wasn’t even clear that anything had been stolen. Castillac had not seen much drug activity over the years, but there had been those two other similar break-ins, and based on his experience in the Paris suburbs, all of them felt like drug money burglaries—sloppy and not very successful.
Maron squatted down in the living room and picked through some of the papers on the floor. He looked around the room, trying not to look for anything in particular but letting his eyes roam, trusting that they would pick out any anomalies.
The room was so typical it verged on cliché: lace antimacassars on the chairs and sofa arms, the dozing cat, the ticking clock, the small framed family photograph on a side table. It looked like a room where nothing exciting had ever happened. He stood up, ready to return to the station and make his report. Glancing back at the mess on the floor, his eyes fell on an envelope of heavy stationery, lying on some papers. He picked it up and saw that it had a recent postmark. He told himself that it might give a clue about the break-in, though he knew that was unlikely.
He pulled the letter from the envelope and read it. His eyes widened as he read the caustic, threatening words. The letter was short and unsigned, but there was no doubt the writer bore Claudette Mercier a great deal of ill will.
Well then, thought Maron, maybe there is more to this break-in than I thought. And maybe something has happened in this stuffy little room after all.
18
“Sorry Chief, I don’t think you can just dismiss this,” said Maron, who was back at the station, having shown to Dufort and Perrault the letter he found at Claudette’s.
“It’s a nasty piece of business, no question about that,” said Dufort. “So what are you saying, that you think the burglar wrote the letter? On what basis? Perhaps your intuition?” he said, teasing Maron because in fact Maron would never, ever use the word “intuition” without a sneer.
“Mercier has been the victim of two acts of violence, one physical and one emotional. It’s not a huge reach to think that they might be connected. Might,” Maron added, with some vehemence. “But actually, it’s not the attempted burglary I’m wondering about—there’s a connection between Mercier and Desrosiers. Turns out Mercier was at the birthday party—all I found at La Métairie was a note card, on the ground outside near the dumpster. Looks like it was on a birthday gift?” He went to his coat pocket and brought it out, a small rectangle of thin cardboard with some purple flowers decorating the top. ‘From your friend, Claudette’.”
“Claudette Mercier was at the party?” said Dufort, looking up quickly.
“Yes,” said Maron. “Some coincidence, huh? And actually she mentioned Desrosiers—said she wanted to drop dead of a heart attack too, when the time came.”
“They were around the same age, probably in school together,” said Perrault. “They both grew up in Castillac, right?”
“Yes,” said Dufort. “The Merciers used to own a hardware store in the center of the village. They were quite a prosperous family, still are as far as I know.”
“Don’t you think it’s meaningful that one lady gets offed, and then another one from the same party has her house broken into and was receiving anonymous bullying letters?”
“We can’t say whether it’s meaningful or not,” said Dufort. “Let me caution you both against trying to make order where there is none. All three events might be unconnected and we are still in the preliminary stages of the investigation, Maron. At the moment it is looking as though Desrosiers was roundly despised by everyone who knew her—at least by family and the people who worked for her. Any of them could have killed her. Mercier may have been her only friend.”
“Maybe the rest of her friends are all dead. She was seventy-two, after all.”
“As I told Perrault, seventy-two is not that old. You must both make an effort not to view everything through the lens of your own youth. Perhaps…she didn’t have any friends. It does happen, you know. Although not usually because someone is odious to every single person they come across; usually it is a matter of some mental illness getting in the way, high social anxiety or something of that sort.”
“Desrosiers hated other people,” said Perrault.
“Who knows what happened to twist her personality that way? There are mysteries we’ll never unravel, not without much more understanding of the mind and the things that affect it. Desrosiers’s sister isn’t cut from the same cloth?” asked Dufort.
“No,” said Perrault. “I asked around. She’s a respected science teacher at the lycée, leads an upstanding life as far as I can tell. Raised two children by herself with little support from her rich relatives.”
Maron said, “Back to Mercier—I’m just saying that looks can be deceiving. She looks like a gentle old lady, sure, but she did something to enrage that letter-writer. I don’t see how we have any actual evidence to eliminate her from the list of suspects.”
“All right then, look into it, you’re like a dog with a bone. Go talk to her again. But don’t blame her for getting those letters. As far as we know, she’s the victim, not the perpetrator
.” Dufort shrugged. “It sure hasn’t been the best week for the seventy-year-old ladies of Castillac. Now, on the other matter, Perrault and I caught Sabrina Lellouche coming out of Desrosiers’s house yesterday, carrying some bags. I questioned her; she said she had come back to the house one last time to pick up a few things that were hers, as well as some things Desrosiers had given her.”
“If she’s lying, she’s a really good liar,” said Perrault.
“She was quite cool and collected,” agreed Dufort. “I asked her what was in the bag and she she offered to dump it on the sidewalk, but I told her that wasn’t necessary. She may be a useful witness to us later on and I don’t want her to think she’s under suspicion. According to her, the bags were filled with a bunch of old clothes, hand-me-downs Desrosiers had given her, that’s all. I asked if there was a key to the house and she told me there’s an extra under a flowerpot in the back garden. We were interrupted by a call from Madame Vargas, but Perrault and I will head over there again to look for the will and see what we can find. Perhaps more letters!” he said, teasing Maron again. There was something about a person who took himself so seriously that tempted Dufort to poke him. (He did not admire this quality in himself.)
Maron leaned against Dufort’s desk. His dark eyebrows looked heavier and darker than usual, knitting together as he stared at the floor. Dufort felt a twinge of remorse. “So Maron, nothing else to report from La Métairie? My hopes aren’t high,” he said.
“Not much,” said Maron, his face not brightening. “All the plates, glasses, cutlery—that had been washed and put away, then used for another service. Any trace of cyanide that might have been in Desrosiers’s glass, for example, would have been long gone, not that there was any way to distinguish which items she had used. No birthday presents left behind.”
