by Nell Goddin
Dufort nodded. “We could use a break,” he said. “All right then, we need to find the will, to see who will inherit. Could be a lot of money involved. No children, so presumably the larger portion will be split by her sister and niece and nephew, although there may be more distant relatives with some claim that we aren’t aware of. At any rate, that definitely puts the Faure family top of the list.”
“Adèle and my sister used to hang out,” said Perrault. “They were way older than me but I always thought she was one of the really cool girls. I mean, she stood out, you know? Dressed to the nines but with that limp.”
Dufort cocked his head, picturing Adèle walking down a school corridor, head held high.
“She had this…this disability, that she never let slow her down. I guess…a lot of times when people have something like that, they don’t want to attract attention to themselves, you know? But Adèle didn’t let that bad foot slow her down. You have to admire her for that.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with her foot, Perrault? Clubfeet are rarely seen anymore because they fix that—Perrault, find out if it is a clubfoot and whether or not she was treated.”
“Awkward,” said Perrault, hanging her head for a moment. But then she got a look of determination on her open, freckled face, and said she would get the information.
“We’ll need to look into the brother and the mother as well.”
“Michel is out of work, last I heard,” said Perrault.
“Out of work means an inheritance might be timely,” said Maron.
“And beyond the Faures, who else have we got? Maron, go back to La Métairie and a get a list of guests at the birthday party—anyone present had opportunity, if it turns out the poison could have acted that quickly. I know you already asked but press Nathalie, she may simply be reluctant to give any names. I’ll drop in on Molly Sutton. She was at the restaurant the night of the murder, perhaps she saw something.”
Dufort’s cell rang. “Oui?” He nodded his head. Perrault and Maron could hear a rasping voice on the other end and knew it to be Florian Nagrand, the coroner.
Dufort said thank you and hung up. “He was calling only to confirm that we understand what was in the report. Cyanide. Route of entry was the skin on her face, which was slightly abraded allowing for quick penetration. It killed her quickly.”
“Definitely someone at the party,” said Maron.
“Or the restaurant anyway,” said Perrault.
Maron shot her a cold glance, thinking she was criticizing him.
“Let’s get to it,” said Dufort. “Perrault, find Adèle and wring every last drop of information out of her. I want to know what was going on in that family—I want to know why Michel isn’t working, I want to know how well Murielle and her sister got along. And—I know you know this, but I will mention it all the same—Adèle is no longer the cool girl who’s a friend of your sister. She is a possible murder suspect. Don’t let that slip your mind.”
Perrault said “Yes, sir,” taking the reminder to heart but wishing he hadn’t felt the need to say it.
“Maron, you’re off to La Métairie again. I’m not convinced Nathalie doesn’t remember perfectly well who was there. Find out who waited on them, since it was a large party it might be more than one person. Names and numbers, of course.”
Dufort felt energized and confident. They knew the murder weapon, they knew when it had been utilized, and they had a room with a reasonably small number of people in it who could have committed the crime, and witnesses galore.
How hard could the rest be?
Adèle spent that Tuesday night at her mother’s house. She didn’t think about why, it was simply something she did whenever she felt unsettled, even now when she was thirty-nine years old, an officer at the bank, and had had her own apartment for years. It was inconvenient because the bank where she worked was on the other side of the village, and in December, it wasn’t always a pleasant walk. It made her foot hurt and she had to get up very early in order to get there on time. But still, a few times a year she came to her mother’s anyway, because her old room was the same as when she was a child, and it was comforting to sleep on that narrow bed with the familiar duvet, and see the branches outside her bedroom window in what seemed like the exact same pattern as when she was ten.
Murielle always got up early. In the dark days of December that meant long before sunrise, and she would make coffee and read scientific journals and gardening magazines until it was time to go to the lycée where she had taught for over thirty years.
“Bonjour Maman,” said Adèle, padding down to the small kitchen in her nightgown and robe. “Did you sleep well?”
“Of course not,” said her mother. “When you get to be my age, no one sleeps well. Not unless they drug themselves, which many choose to do. There’s coffee,” she added, and went back to reading her journal.
Adèle helped herself to coffee, adding a big splash of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar.
“You know that sugar is devoid of nutrition,” said Murielle.
“Yes, Maman, you’ve mentioned that once or twice. Listen, I want to talk to you about Michel.”
Murielle’s head jerked up from her journal. “What about him?” she demanded.
“Well, I just…the whole business with Aunt Josephine….”
“What about it, Adèle? Speak up.”
“Do you think he’s all right? I mean, really all right?”
“He’s as right as he’s ever been. As right as he was the day I picked him up at the hospital as a baby. I don’t think for one minute that Josephine’s death will have any sort of bad effect on him, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“Not exactly, Maman. It’s that—didn’t the police tell you? Aunt Josephine was poisoned. And if that’s true, then Michel….”
“That sounds like rubbish,” Murielle said. “Who in the world would want to poison Josephine?”
Adèle laughed. “Half the village?”
“Adèle!”
“Sorry, Maman. Well, I heard from what I think is a reliable source that she was definitely poisoned. And probably by someone at the birthday party. And so, I was wondering…I wanted to talk to you about…it couldn’t be…you’re sure it wasn’t…not Michel? Tell me you don’t think it could have been Michel.”
Murielle stared at her. “Why would you say something like that? Why would you even think it? Of course Michel did no such thing. He hasn’t got his feet under him yet, that’s true. But he couldn’t hurt a fly. Michel, a murderer?” Murielle shook her head decisively.
“Of course I don’t think he could do it,” said Adèle, feeling better. “But I just worried, because of the money….”
Murielle shook her head again and looked out of the window at the gray morning, her expression doleful. Adèle wondered if she felt more grief at losing her sister than she was admitting.
“Maman, you mentioned picking Michel up at the hospital. I don’t think you’ve ever really told that story, Maman, I mean of Michel’s adoption. I’m very glad you did adopt him, it’s wonderful to have a brother I’m so close to. But what made you decide to take him?”
Murielle looked as though she was trying to decide what to say. “You were lonely,” she said finally. “You were a vivacious little girl and honestly, I wasn’t enough company for you.”
Adèle laughed. “You could have just gotten me a dog.”
Murielle shrugged. “And also—I got a call, from a lawyer I used to know. He said there’d been a birth, the mother was young and unmarried, the family was Catholic and not at all pleased, and would I consider….” she trailed off, looking out of the window, remembering. “You have to understand, in those days, being an unwed mother was considered a scandalous, shameful thing. It wasn’t easy to get through.”
“You managed, Maman,” Adèle said softly, for the first time really understanding that her birth had caused her mother real difficulty, even pain.
Murielle did not respond at
first but kept looking out of the window. “Michel came from Bergerac, not a village family,” she said finally. “I’ve forgotten the name.”
Adèle was not sure she believed her. “Well, it was good of you to do it. I know it wasn’t easy with the two of us and not much money.”
“And no husband. Not that I wanted one. More trouble than they’re worth.”
Adèle nodded. She herself had never been much interested in marriage, or having children either for that matter. She drank her coffee. Her mother went back to her journal. After fifteen quiet minutes, Adèle went upstairs and dressed carefully for work in clothes hanging in the armoire in her old room. The fabric of the wool skirt was very fine, and the sweater cashmere.
“À bientôt, Maman,” she said as she left, kissing her on both cheeks. Leaving her coat unzipped as the weather had warmed considerably during the night, Adèle made her way through the cobblestone streets of Castillac, thinking not about murder but about her first tasks at the bank that morning, and wondering again about her mother and the adopting of Michel. She hadn’t given it much thought before, but all of a sudden it was something that nagged her. It was just a feeling, but nonetheless she felt confident that there was more to that story than her mother had just told her.
19
Dufort walked back to his house from the station so that he could drive his own car to Molly’s. The police car was available, but he preferred a more low key approach, having found that showing up in an official car, even without sirens and lights flashing, tended to put people ill at ease. Even people who were not guilty of anything. Even someone like Molly, whom he guessed would be eager to help with the case.
He knocked on the door and stood waiting, looking around at the property of La Baraque. It was a mess, really—the front garden still had tall frozen stalks of something or other leaning this way and that. A woodpile in disarray near the side of the house. The lawn needed raking. Yet the place gave him a good feeling, nonetheless; it didn’t seem neglected so much as a lot going on at once. He saw a cart with a load of stone, and a giant metal toolbox next to it. Probably Pierre Gault, he guessed correctly.
He knocked again, more loudly, and heard rustling inside. The door opened and a striking woman with a black pageboy and pale skin opened the door.
“You’re not Molly,” said Dufort, drily.
“I have no idea what you just said,” said Frances. “But hey, I like a man in uniform as much as the next girl. Want to come in? Molly is back in the meadow talking with the mason guy.”
Dufort considered making an effort in English, but she was distractingly pretty and he couldn’t stand how he mangled the language. So he simply nodded and smiled and came inside. Frances went to the French doors and shouted to Molly that someone was there, and the two of them sat in the cold living room, uncomfortable without the grease of small talk to make things less awkward.
Molly came in shortly, not wearing a coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her red hair flying up in a curly cloud around her head. “Ben!” she said with a grin, striding over to kiss cheeks. Ben gripped her arms firmly and smiled back.
“So you two met?” Molly switched to English. “Frances, this is Ben Dufort, our Chief gendarme. Ben, this is my old friend, Frances Milton.”
“Are you from Massachusetts also?” he ventured in English.
“Oui,” said Frances, but that was the end of her French, and she smiled and excused herself. Dufort and Molly heard her tinkling on the piano in the music room.
“Police business?” asked Molly, hoping hard that it was.
“Well, I’m just here informally. Can we sit? There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about.”
They walked to the sofas facing the woodstove and sat down. “Is it about Madame Desrosiers?”
“Yes. You were at the restaurant of course, and there are a few things I’d like to nail down, if you have a moment to talk.”
“Of course! I was just out with Pierre Gault, the mason. You know him? Of course you do. He’s going to rebuild my pigeonnier so I can rent it out. Hoping to be done by early summer, fingers crossed.” Molly blathered on about the cost of stone and dry-stack walls, wondering at the same time why she was delaying getting to the subject that had been consuming her. It was a bit like saving a fat wedge of chocolate cake to eat in bed at the very end of the day.
Dufort was wondering the same thing. Did she know something she didn’t want to tell him? Curious, he decided to let her babble on.
Finally Molly said, “So about the other night. Frances was there too. She kept getting mad at me for watching the birthday party. You know I’m incorrigibly nosy. So anyway, what can I tell you?”
“First, the guests at the party,” he began.
“Yes, I’ve been giving that some thought,” Molly jumped in. “Okay, there was Desrosiers, of course, at the head of the table. Michel right beside her, on her left. They were there before anyone else.”
“How did they seem together? Did you notice any…unhappiness between them?”
“None. He seemed like a pretty devoted nephew, to be honest. Even though Desrosiers looked like someone who was hard to please.”
“By all accounts,” said Dufort. “Next?”
“Next to Michel was his mother—I keep forgetting her name—”
“Murielle Faure.”
“Yes. She was next. She seemed pleasant enough. One of the few people at the table who wasn’t either angry or looking like a wolf caught in a trap who would happily chew off a leg to escape.”
Dufort laughed.
“Next to Murielle was Adèle. Then coming around the other side of the table were Sabrina and her boyfriend, Jean-Francois.”
“You figured all this out just by sitting at the next table?”
“Well, not exactly. I also went out for a drink with Adèle.”
Dufort raised his eyebrows but said nothing at first.
“Would you like some coffee or anything? Excuse me for being a terrible hostess,” said Molly, jumping up and going into the open kitchen.
“No, no thank you. Do you mind telling me why you went out with Adèle? Is it because you were engaged in some, uh, some amateur sleuthing?”
Molly bustled around in the kitchen getting herself some coffee. “Well, not exactly, Ben. I mean, yes, it’s true that I had some questions. I am curious about a few things. But also—I like Adèle. We have things in common.” She shrugged, not specifying that she was thinking about their taste in handbags.
“May I ask if you talk with her in French, for the most part? I must add that yours has improved rather dramatically since I first met you.”
Molly beamed. “Thank you! Of course I’m learning more every day. But the main thing is—I got over my fear of making mistakes. I just make them and keep on going, and paradoxically, that means I make fewer of them.”
Dufort nodded. “I wish I could say the same about my English.”
“People back home think they will be crucified if they make a mistake, trying to speak French in France. But aside from a few snickers and the occasional belly-laugh at my mistakes, I’ve found people to be extraordinarily patient about it. Sometimes my genders get corrected—and that seems like more of a reflex correction than anyone trying to be overbearing and critical.”
Molly settled back on the sofa and took a long sip of her coffee. “All right, now be straight with me, Ben. I’m picking something up in your tone…are you thinking Adèle was responsible for poisoning her aunt? Or is there someone else you’re looking at?”
Dufort considered brushing her off, telling her “police business blah blah blah”. But he was still grateful to her for her invaluable help in that earlier case. He liked her. And he wanted to see her reaction to what he had to say.
“I haven’t said anything to Perrault and Maron yet,” said Dufort. “But looking at the usuals of means, motive, and opportunity—the person who comes at the top of the list is not Adèle, but her brother, Michel Fau
re.” He watched Molly carefully.
She sipped her coffee and narrowed her eyes, thinking.
“We have no physical evidence, not yet. But Michel ticks all the boxes. Number one, he arranged the party,” said Dufort, “which I believe is an important point. If you’re going to poison your aunt with face cream—that is how we believe it was done—then it’s clever to invite as many people as you can so you have a crowd to blend into. If he had simply taken the cream to her house, the list of suspects would narrow to him and Sabrina, the housekeeper. Mme Desrosiers did not have other visitors, and she very rarely left the house.
“Michel’s family stands to inherit the money, since Desrosiers had no living children—and who knows, perhaps he had managed to persuade her to favor him with a large share. Arranging birthday parties for her might be kindness, or perhaps he was trying to curry favor, you see?
“Perrault is at the house now searching for the will, and I’ve got an accountant working on Desrosiers’s books. We’re still waiting to hear how much she’s worth, but possibly in the neighborhood of five to ten million euros. Not in the same category as your American tech billionaires,” he said with an ironic smile. “But for a young man with no work, no career, and no money? More than adequate.”
“I think for most of us,” said Molly. She felt herself pulling away from Dufort, not wanting to be convinced by his theory. She liked the Faures. She remembered the siblings coming down the road on their way to the funeral, laughing and walking in the light rain—Molly had interpreted that moment as innocent joy, not guilt.
But she also knew she had a bit of a weakness for charm. Her ex-husband being Exhibit A.
Not that charm was all bad. What she wanted was for the charm to mean something. For Michel and his lovely suits and good humor to be her actual friend, not just a man looking for a momentary audience. And certainly not the cover of someone capable of killing an old woman, no matter how unpleasant she was.
For his part, Dufort was not as decided about Michel as he pretended to be. He wanted to see Molly’s reaction, see if she could be convinced. Especially now that she appeared to be making friends with Michel and his sister.
