by Nell Goddin
After all that labor, her back feeling it, she texted her friend Lawrence Weebly to see if he’d like to meet her for a drink, and when he immediately answered OF COURSE, she went inside, showered, and was on rue des Chênes on the way to Chez Papa in record time.
“Hello, my dear!” said Weebly in a posh English accent when she came in.
“Salut, old chap! Bonjour, Nico!” Molly kissed cheeks with Lawrence and Nico, the bartender, and settled herself on a stool at the bar. “I’m so happy to be here. My guests are out on a long hike—I haven’t seen them all day—and much as I love gardening, I was starting to talk to myself even more than usual.”
Lawrence smiled and sipped his Negroni. “I do love this time of year in Castillac. When winter is over, everyone in the village comes out of their burrows, blinking in the sun, ready to socialize again after a long winter huddled next to the woodstove.”
“Long winter, are you kidding me?” said Molly, who was from Boston and knew a thing or two about long winters. “It’s practically tropical here. But yes, I admit I did spend plenty of time in front of my woodstove over the last months. So good for a nap, aren’t they? But maybe I’d have had more fun if certain people hadn’t extended their holiday in Morocco for months and let me get bored and lonely!”
“Well, you did have Frances,” said Nico, almost shyly.
“Until you stole her!” said Molly. Her best friend from the States had come for a visit, but once Molly started having paying guests again, Frances happily moved in with Nico, never being one to resist romantic impulses.
“She should be showing up any minute. Then we can fight over her. She’ll like that.”
Molly laughed. “Wait. Lawrence, I’m not done telling you how forlorn I was without you. How could you end up staying in Morocco for three whole months?”
Lawrence smiled. “Ah Molly, you wouldn’t want to stand in the way of love, would you?”
She paused. “I have no idea what to say to that,” she said wryly. “Love is…not my area of expertise.”
“Oh poor poor you,” said Nico, walking along the bar as he wiped it down.
“I’m not feeling sorry for myself,” she said. “It’s just true. But so anyway…Lawrence, tell the story, please. You found love in Morocco? And if so, where is he now?”
“Well, you know how it is,” said Lawrence, and Molly thought she saw a fleeting expression of pain on Lawrence’s usually cheerful face. “I actually did fall in love, embarrassing as that is to admit. He was a little younger than me, but not much. Beautiful beyond words, and tremendously amusing.” Lawrence took a big swallow of his drink and did not continue.
Molly put her elbows on the bar and looked at her friend. “That’s the thing,” she said. “It’s all just impossible. You meet somebody, your heart says yes yes yes, but most of the time it turns out to be no no no.”
She waited to see if Lawrence wanted to talk any more about the man in Morocco. When she saw that he didn’t, Molly continued, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” There was a long silence as all three of them got lost in their own memories for a moment.
Molly said, “I’m not still messed up from my divorce—really, that’s the past and I’m over it. But I admit, I miss living with someone. I’m not a solitary kind of person and even though I appreciate the luxury of always being able to do exactly as I please and never having to compromise, living alone can be sort of sad sometimes, especially at night, you know? But I just don’t see romance working out for me, if that makes any sense.”
“It does not,” said Lawrence. “You talk about love as though it’s something you can schedule, or see coming down the track. But it’s not like that at all. I went to Morocco to get a little sun and avoid the dreary weather around here in winter, that was all. I had no idea I would go into a coffeehouse and Julio would be waiting for me.” Again Molly saw a quick pang cross her friend’s face. “Well, Molly, shall we eat a proper dinner for once? Nico, what’s good tonight?”
“Rémy brought in some early asparagus, and there’s a chicken in cream sauce with mushrooms that will make you cry from happiness.”
“Well then,” said Lawrence, mustering a smile. “Let’s have it! Molly?”
“Yes, that sounds perfect. And Lawrence, for what it’s worth, I’m very glad you’re back. You missed all the excitement with Josephine Desrosiers, and the village has been totally placid since then. We’ve needed you back here to liven things up a little.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” said Lawrence. “I’m sure something will come along for you to stick your nose into. It always seems to.”
Molly put her arm around him and gave him a squeeze. “No more murders are on the docket at least,” she said with a laugh, and Lawrence thought perhaps he could detect a slight air of disappointment in Molly’s tone.
4
Frances had borrowed Nico’s car so that she and Molly could drive to Périgueux where there was a flea market that afternoon.
“Are you ever going to get your own wheels?” she asked, as Molly climbed in.
“Stay, Bobo!” Molly said to the big speckled dog, who had shown up just before Christmas and quickly become part of the household. “I know you hate to miss out but I’ll take you on a long walk when I get home. Promise!”
Bobo’s head drooped. Then she turned and loped back to the house and curled up on the doorstep, the picture of dejection.
“You know, ‘Bobo’ is a very undignified name for that dog. I think she deserves better,” said Frances, just managing to turn around without running the car into the flower border.
“Says the woman who tried to name her ‘Dingleberry’.”
“It just came to me. Sometimes you have to go with inspiration.”
“Right,” said Molly, looking out the window and rolling her eyes. “And about the car—I know, I have to do something. Actually I was thinking about getting a scooter.”
“Whoa, that would be be awesome! I say go for it!”
“It would be cheap, but otherwise completely impractical. What if I need to pick up guests at the train station or something? But anyway, that’s a decision for another day. Today is just about getting some furniture for the pigeonnier. Once that’s done, all that remains is getting the plumbing hooked up, and it’s ready to rent.”
On the half hour drive to Périgueux, Molly and Frances chattered about how good the chicken had been at Chez Papa the night before, and about Lawrence’s fizzled romance. They argued about whether iron bed frames or wood were preferable. And before long Frances was pulling into an underground parking lot in the center of town, making the tires squeal as she rounded the tight corners.
“Frances, I’m not in any hurry,” said Molly, gripping the armrest. “Has Nico ever seen you drive?”
“He loves how I drive,” said Frances smugly. “Says it’s hot.”
“Oh, my eyes are hurting, they’re rolled back up in my head so far.”
“Well, roll them back down, silly. Nico and I—we understand each other.”
“I’m happy for you both.”
“Your eyes are still rolling.”
“Never. Now let’s get to the flea market before all the good stuff is snapped up.”
They wandered into the old section of Périgueux, swiveling their heads all around so as not to miss anything. The streets were narrow, most likely former cow-paths as the streets were very old, and the buildings close together. Molly didn’t understand why old buildings made her so happy to look at, but they did. They had stood there so long, seen so much history, held so many mysteries….
The flea market surrounded the old cathedral, an unusual Byzantine and Romanesque building with large domes. Sellers were clustered all around it, with small items on tables or spread on blankets, and furniture of all shapes and sizes was on offer.
“So what’s on our shopping list?” asked Frances. “Beds? Tables? Chairs?”
“The pigeonnier only has one bedroom. So let’s see, a full-sized bed
, and a kitchen table, which’ll double as a dining room table. Maybe three chairs? And a bedside table if we find one, or something that would do for one. And I guess keep your eye out for a sofa, though I’ll probably have to shell out for a new one.”
“Used sofas give me the creeps, ever since the one I bought at a used furniture store, remember? Right after college for my first apartment? I was so proud of it. It was bright green. But when the weather got warm it smelled of cat pee. Burned your eyes it was so bad.”
Molly was laughing, remembering. “I recall that air freshener did not work.”
“Just made for flowery-smelling cat pee,” agreed Frances.
“La bombe!” a man said, almost in Molly’s ear. She turned to find Lapin standing with his arms open, grinning. Awkwardly they kissed cheeks.
“Bonjour, Lapin. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. See anything good?”
“Today is a total bust so far. Nothing but junk. Allow me to introduce myself, since Molly appears to have forgotten her manners,” he said to Frances, with a bow. “I am Laurent Broussard, but the world calls me Lapin.”
“Translate?” asked Frances.
“She doesn’t speak French,” said Molly.
“No problem,” said Lapin in English, introducing himself again.
“Very nice to meet you,” said Frances, giggling. Molly wanted to elbow her in the ribs but restrained herself.
“All right, we have much to do—I’m trying to outfit my pigeonnier. À bientôt,” said Molly, beginning to walk away.
“Wait, why didn’t you come to me? You know I can get you the best deals, and tell you who to go to. I’m afraid I don’t keep much furniture of that size, not unless it’s a very special piece. But I can introduce you to a fellow on the other side of the cathedral who most likely has the sort of thing you’re looking for.”
Molly and Frances followed Lapin as he nimbly moved his big self through the maze of sellers and their furniture. Molly was torn. She needed his help but didn’t especially want it. Lapin made such a pest of himself most of the time, although she had to admit he had toned down his ogling and suggestive remarks after the Amy Bennett case.
“You know, I’m planning to open my own shop in Castillac soon,” Lapin told them. “I just signed a rental agreement and will be spiffing the place up a bit before moving in all my valuables. You might find all sorts of things that would be perfect to decorate your gîtes.”
“The cottage could use a little jazzing up,” agreed Frances, and Molly shrugged, though she thought maybe her friend had a point.
Several hours passed as the three of them argued the merits of each piece and then haggled with the merchants, but by noon the purchasing was complete, the deliveries arranged, and all that remained to do in Périgueux was find the place where they sold the most delicious prunes stuffed with foie gras, and then eat lunch.
Molly considered inviting Lapin as a thank-you for his time and help, which had been substantial. Then she talked herself out of it. Then back into it, then out, then in…and finally Frances asked him to join them and her fate was sealed.
Back in the fall if she had been told that in a few months she would feel grateful to Lapin and willingly sit down to lunch with him—and even pay for it—she would never have believed it. But then, looking into the future had never been one of Molly’s talents.
* * *
Maron stuck his head out of what he still thought of as Dufort’s office, and called for Thérèse Perrault. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about having Maron as her boss, but told herself it was a test of both her flexibility and ability to hide her feelings at work, which were skills she knew she needed to develop if she wanted to succeed in the gendarmerie.
“What’s up?” she said evenly.
“Take a look. It was taped to the front door the other day.” The note was sitting on his desk and he pushed it towards Perrault.
She read it, looked up quickly at Maron, and then studied it more closely.
“Valerie Boutillier,” she said.
“Right. My first thought as well. So what do you think? Does it look genuine to you? Like a prank? What?”
Perrault considered. “I doubt it’s random. The chances seem pretty slim that someone would happen to choose the same initials as one of our cold cases, with V and B not being the most commonly used letters. And not just any case—a girl who disappeared without a trace right before going off to university, her dream school where she had worked so hard to get in. A girl many of us knew and loved.”
Maron just nodded. Then he said, “I sent the note to the lab, but there were no usable fingerprints.”
“What? When did you find it?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Perrault’s face was blazing.
“I wanted to have a fuller picture before I—”
“Listen, Gilles, I know you’re probably loving every minute of being my boss, but let me tell you first of all that I am absolutely dead clear that you are my superior and I have no problem with that whatsoever. But I would ask you, respectfully, not to keep me in the dark when new evidence falls out of the sky like this apparently did. And about a case this important.”
Maron froze when Perrault began to speak. The truth was, he was uncomfortable being in charge of anyone, and spent much of his energy trying to hide that embarrassing fact. He had a grudging respect for Perrault, which she returned, but they were not friends, and they had not worked together all that happily in the past.
“Look, Perrault, no need to take offense. Of course you will be notified when we have new evidence.” Maron stood up and then sat down again. “Tell me what you know about Valerie. I was not yet in Castillac when Dufort was working that case and all I know is that she disappeared and was never found. No suspects, and no idea what happened to her, have I got it right?”
Perrault got control of herself and took a deep breath. “All right. Valerie is older than me. I was sixteen when she disappeared, she must have been…eighteen? I wasn’t a close friend—but everyone in the village knew her, or knew who she was. She was that kind of girl—charismatic, you know? Fun-loving and smart as a whip. She used to play practical jokes on people all over the village, and sometimes she would go too far and people would get mad. I remember once she got into Madame Luthier’s house—you know, she lives in that rat-hole over on rue Saterne—and while Mme Luthier was out, she took everything in the living room and put it in the kitchen, and everything in the kitchen and put it in the living room. So when Luthier came home, there was nothing to sit on in the living room but a bunch of saucepans.”
Maron lifted the corners of his mouth in the direction of a smile, but not quite far enough to actually be a smile. “And did the village think that was amusing?” he asked.
“Oh, some people did. Mme Luthier is not exactly known for being able to take a joke, so for some people, that made it funnier.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble to go to.”
“One of the things that made Valerie so attractive was her limitless energy. She always had a lot going on at once, with a lot of different people.”
“And what is this ‘dream school’ you mentioned?”
“École Normale Supérieure, in Paris,” said Perrault, her eyes wide. “About the toughest school to get into in the whole world. Valerie had a serious side too, and she worked super hard at school. She wanted to be a journalist, the kind who digs up dirt on powerful people.”
“Hmm,” said Maron, thinking that Valerie Boutillier did sound like an interesting and accomplished person, even if one with an odd sense of humor. “Do you know anything about the investigation?”
“It was before my time too, obviously. We should ask Dufort to brief us.”
“Of course. If we get any other indication that Boutillier is alive, I’ll call him in.”
“What do you mean, ‘any other’? This is a lead, Gilles! Sitting right there on your desk!”
>
Maron shrugged. “I don’t think that’s likely. The girl has been gone for seven years. Would anyone in Castillac even recognize her now?”
“Of course! I would!”
Maron looked out of the window. He would never have guessed that he would be far more comfortable taking orders than giving them, but that was precisely how things were turning out.
“Just bring me one piece of additional evidence, something solid, and I will formally open the case again,” he said. “In the meantime, if you would like to ask around, see if you can find out who put the note on the door? Go ahead, as long as your other duties are taken care of first,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Perrault, with not quite enough sarcasm for Maron to chew her out for it.
5
Molly’s current guests, a lively Australian couple, wanted to drive over to Rocamadour, an ancient village built right into a rock face high above the river Dordogne. The morning they were to leave, they rapped on Molly’s door.
“Bonjour, Ned and Leslie! Are you all set for your excursion? The drive isn’t bad from here, though I admit I haven’t done it myself.” Then Molly paused, seeing something was wrong.
“Bonjour Molly,” said Leslie. “Here’s the thing. Little Oscar isn’t feeling well. He’s not really sick, we don’t need a doctor or anything like that. But I think a day trip like we have planned wouldn’t be very fun for him, you know?”
Molly nodded. Bobo came up behind Molly and stuck her head between Molly’s legs.
“So…we know it’s short notice…well, no notice I guess. But we were wondering whether you knew of anyone who could look after him just for the day, so we could go on ahead and see Rocamadour, and he could stay here and rest.”
