The Prisoner of Castillac (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 3)

by Nell Goddin

  “Hmm,” said Molly. “Come on in, let me pour myself another cup of coffee while I think about it. You want a cup?”

  “We don’t drink coffee,” said Ned, grinning. “Got too much energy already!”

  Molly laughed, although she considered non-coffee-drinkers to be a species of human she could not comprehend.

  She thought of Constance, but wasn’t sure if she had any experience with kids, especially sick ones. She thought her neighbor Madame Sabourin might know of someone, but that might take time.

  “Oh hell, I can do it,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  “All right!” said Ned, pumping his fist. “You know, I think he’s already quite taken with you, so I think it should be easy enough.”

  “Of course he’s taken with me. I’m the chocolate lady,” laughed Molly. When the family had first arrived, Molly had brought Oscar a small chocolate bell—the French version of Easter candy.

  Leslie took Molly to the cottage and showed her where the diapers were and told her Oscar’s general schedule while Ned packed up the car. Within ten minutes they were gone, and Molly was alone in the cottage with a sick eleven-month-old. Who was thankfully having a morning nap.

  Molly crept into the bedroom and over to the crib, glad she had found a sturdy one at the flea market a few months earlier. The little boy was asleep on his stomach, his arms sticking straight up over his head, and one knee bent up. His face was flushed and his brow sweaty. Molly wanted to stroke his cheek but was afraid to wake him.

  Quietly she went back to the small kitchen, and steamed some vegetables for his lunch. The orange cat appeared from nowhere and rubbed up along her leg.

  “I’m not fooled,” she told it. “And leave that baby alone.”

  Bobo scratched, wanting to get in on whatever was happening. Molly went over and spoke to her through the door. “I’m looking after the baby, Bobo. And none too confident about it, since I haven’t actually touched a baby since I was in high school and used to babysit for Mrs. Stout who lived two doors down. So just stand guard outside, okay? And no scratching on the door.”

  Molly heard a low grumble but then the sound of the dog flopping down on the doorstep.

  “See that?” Molly said to the cat. “Obedient. Helpful.”

  The cat streaked into the bedroom and jumped into the crib. Molly cursed under her breath and ran after it.

  Oscar was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. The orange cat was rubbing along his back, its tail wrapping around into Oscar’s face, making him giggle.

  “Hello!” said Molly. “Do you like cats, Oscar?”

  “Mum?” said Oscar.

  “Mum is…uh, Mum and Dad went on a short trip, they’ll be back later. In the meantime we can play, how about that?”

  Oscar reached his arms up for her to pick him up and the gesture made tears spring to Molly’s eyes. He was so trusting! So willing to adapt to what was happening, even if that meant an almost complete stranger mysteriously replacing his parents. Molly reached into the crib and lifted his small body, pulling it into hers. She smelled his hair and let her cheek touch his.

  “I don’t know about you, but I love to play,” she said to him, and with a pang realized that there was not a single toy anywhere at La Baraque. She carried Oscar into the other room but saw nothing in the open kitchen/living room either. Ned and Leslie must have driven off with everything except for the stuffed animal in the crib, or possibly they thought toys were bad for some reason?

  If there was one thing Molly understood at the age of thirty-eight, it was that people were nutters. She didn’t follow the latest trends in parenting, as it only reminded her of what she wished for but did not have, and so if there were a robust anti-toy movement she wouldn’t know about it—but wouldn’t have been surprised either.

  She put Oscar down on the wood floor. He crawled a short way and then sat, looking at her. He rubbed his eyes again.

  “You don’t feel well, do you?” she said, squatting down beside him. “Are you hungry?”

  “Mum?”

  “Right. Mum. She’ll be back before long,” said Molly, knowing it was at least a two hours’ drive each way, and a lot of walking and sightseeing once you were there. She and Oscar had many hours to kill before Mum was going to show up. So Molly played peek-a-boo. She made up a long story about goats and a mean orange cat, successfully changed a diaper, and served him lunch on the front step, in the sunshine.

  She delighted in Oscar’s company and simultaneously felt trapped and desperate to get free. When her cell phone rang Molly was relieved to make contact with the outside world.

  “It’s Thérèse,” said Perrault.

  Molly could hear a horn honking in the background. “Hey Thérèse, how are you?” The two had been friendly since Molly had helped with a couple of murder investigations.

  “I’ve got something I want to pass along. But…you’ve got to keep it on the down-low.”

  Molly handed Oscar a wooden spoon to bang on the floor. She felt a familiar tingle of anticipation. “All right,” said Molly. “I’m all ears.”

  * * *

  Valerie Boutillier. A beautiful name, thought Molly. And now, maybe, just maybe…still alive, against all odds. Valerie had disappeared years before Molly moved to Castillac, but she was not forgotten there, and Molly had heard enough stories about her to feel as though she was not a total stranger.

  And now someone had seen her.

  Molly did not spend any time doubting the note. She reasoned that if it turned out to be a joke of some kind, there was no harm in having done whatever they could in the way of investigation. Far worse to disbelieve it, do nothing, and never know if the note had been true or not. It might be true. And for Molly—and Thérèse Perrault—“might” was good enough.

  It was one o’clock. When Thérèse called, Molly had been about to put Oscar down for a nap (which they both needed). He was fussy and hadn’t eaten much, mostly just slurped a lot of water. “So Oscar,” she said, picking him up. “How would you like to go on a walk? Get a little fresh air, see the sights? And if you’re not in the mood for sights, just go ahead and close your little eyes. How’s that sound?”

  Molly’s plan was to take Oscar into the village and see whom she could find to talk to about Valerie. She had no stroller and certainly no baby carrier, so she took him to her house. In the foyer she found a very wide and long heavy cotton scarf, wrapped it around them both leaving spaces for his legs to hang down, and knotted the ends. With a little adjusting, her improvised sling seemed to be working perfectly, the baby secure against her chest. She bent her knees quickly and stood up, and Oscar gurgled happily.

  “You like it?” she asked him, her voice all high and cooing and unrecognizable to herself.

  “Mum,” said Oscar. By this point Molly understood that he was not calling his mother so much as saying the one intelligible word he could say.

  “Mum indeed,” she answered. She kissed his cheek, which was astonishingly soft, and set out for the village. The walk was still new because Molly had yet to walk it in every season. The weather was lovely. Birds were making a racket, trees were leafing out, and the world was bright and green and sweet-smelling.

  And was Valerie outside, somewhere, seeing this blue sky? wondered Molly. If she’s alive, why hasn’t she come back? If someone has seen her, why has Valerie not reached out, called for help, somehow made her presence known?

  Molly figured the most likely explanation was that Valerie was imprisoned somewhere—everyone had seen reports every so often of that happening: girls snatched up and kept in some bunker or basement, sometimes for years on end. Is that what had happened to Valerie? And yet somehow, someone had seen her?

  As she walked, Molly thought of a long list of questions for Thérèse, but Thérèse had been quite clear that she was violating all kinds of regulations by telling Molly about the note, and it was better if they did not meet. Molly thought that perhaps a chance encounter in the vill
age would be all right, if they didn’t linger. So she walked towards the station, one hand on Oscar’s deliciously fat little leg, talking to him about what they saw along the way…a red squirrel, a car with a dent in one side, some late tulips not yet in bloom.

  It was one o’clock and all of Castillac was sitting down to lunch. Not a soul on the streets. Molly kept walking, aware that she was carrying something defenseless and precious. She wondered if mothers got used to that, or whether they continued to worry constantly that something dreadful might happen—she could fall and land on him, or a car could jump up on the sidewalk and run them over; there was no end to the catastrophes lurking around every corner.

  When she reached the station, she walked to the front door, studying it. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to imagine someone approaching it, not wanting to be seen, note in hand with a piece of tape already attached. She stepped back and looked at every detail of the door—the big hinges, the decorative molding, the glossy green color.

  Oscar’s head had lolled to one side when he fell asleep. Molly had a sudden idea and startled, nearly waking him up. She ran her fingers over the wood, trying to feel where the adhesive had been. After moving her fingers lightly over much of the door, she found a small patch, maybe about a square centimeter, just lower than chest height. Looking at it closely, she could see it was relatively fresh—not completely covered in dust and pollen as it would be if it had been there long. Maybe at some point (if she was ever allowed to talk openly about the case) she would have an opportunity to ask Maron whether he remembered where on the door the note was taped, just for added verification, but she trusted she had the answer. Molly was a little on the short side.

  Which meant that whoever taped the note on the station door was not tall.

  It was the first step towards finding Valerie. A small one, Molly had no illusions about that.

  But you have to start somewhere.

  6

  Molly was giving Bobo her breakfast when she saw the delivery truck pull into her driveway with the furniture for the pigeonnier, followed by Dufort’s green Renault. Quickly she ran into her bedroom and whipped off her nightgown and robe, and put on a clean pair of jeans and a shirt.

  “Coming!” she called out, leaving by the French doors and walking around the side of the house to greet them. Bobo ran frantically back and forth, unsure what her job was.

  “Bobo! Down!” said Molly, before the dog flattened the truck driver with her excitable leaping. Bobo stopped on a dime and dropped to the ground.

  “Impressive,” said Dufort, walking up to kiss cheeks.

  “Bonjour, Ben! And bonjour, Monsieur,” she said to the driver. “Can I ask you to drive a little farther? The furniture is going in there,” she said, pointing to the meadow where the pigeonnier stood, its walls no longer crumbling thanks to the exertions of the mason, Pierre Gault.

  “Looks like I came just in time to help,” said Ben.

  Molly grinned. “Well, I won’t say no. I can carry some of it but honestly I wasn’t sure I could hold up my end of the bed going upstairs—there wasn’t room in there for anything but a ladder.”

  “It has a loft bedroom?”

  “Exactly,” said Molly. “It’s very romantic. Pierre Gault left all the little nest-boxes or perches intact, and made some of them into tiny windows. It looks amazing! I’m desperate to get photos up on my website, but I’ve been waiting to get the furniture in.”

  The driver knew his business and with Dufort’s help, all the furniture was unloaded and roughly in place in half an hour.

  All through the unloading and the talk of furniture and dogs, Molly had been wondering whether to tell Ben about the note. Thérèse had only said not to say a word to Maron. Perhaps Thérèse was actually hoping she would tell Ben?

  “I’m sorry, I got distracted. What were you saying about asparagus?” said Molly.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I was just telling you about a typical day at Rémy’s.”

  Molly cocked her head, then lifted the bedside table and put it next to the bed. “Want a coffee?” she asked. “Or maybe lemonade?”

  “Sounds good.” Dufort and Molly climbed down the wooden ladder to the bottom floor of the pigeonnier. “The place turned out well,” said Dufort, looking around the cozy downstairs room with its tiny kitchen.

  “Yes, I think so too. I should find interesting things to put in the rest of the little nest-boxes. Or maybe my guests will leave mementos in them, if I hint enough.”

  “Come, Bobo!” Molly called, wanting to make sure the dog was out of the way as the delivery truck backed up to the driveway and turned around. Bobo popped out of the forest and streaked to Molly’s side.

  “How did you train your dog so well?” asked Ben.

  “I can’t take any credit at all,” answered Molly. “She just showed up one day acting like she lived here. Already trained. I swear you can talk to her like a person and she understands.”

  “I would guess someone is looking for her.”

  “Yes. Well, I’ll give her back if I have to. But in the meantime, we are pals. Isn’t that right, Bobo?” she said, scratching behind Bobo’s ears. “So, Ben. Do you miss the gendarmerie?”

  Dufort thought a moment. “That’s hard to answer. I suppose the fairest thing to say is that quitting the job has not given me all the freedom I was looking for.”

  Molly looked at Ben questioningly but he shrugged and looked away. His rampant anxiety had disappeared once he gave up the gendarmerie, but nonetheless, he did not have peace. They walked back to the house in silence. Molly was still trying to decide whether she would be causing trouble for Thérèse if she told Ben about the note. And Ben was thinking, as he so often did, about Elizabeth Martin and Valerie Boutillier, because he was not free from his responsibility to them, and never would be, until they were found.

  The day had turned hot, the way spring days sometimes do, as though suddenly opening a window onto summer. Molly got out two tall glasses and filled them with lemonade. While Frances had stayed with her, she had gotten into the habit of making it fresh every morning, because Frances said it gave her inspiration for jingle-writing. And Molly had been happy to oblige, because of course fresh lemonade is one of life’s most sublime pleasures, especially with a splash of fizzy mineral water.

  “Oh, I’m just going to tell you,” she finally said.

  Dufort raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  “I probably shouldn’t. Or I should ask first. But you’re here, and I know this matters to you deeply, so…but listen, I don’t want you to think I can’t keep a secret. I’m actually quite good at it. Then again—”

  “Molly, just tell me!”

  “Yes. Well, all right. Perrault called yesterday to tell me that someone had taped a note to the station door that said ‘I saw VB’.” She waited to see Ben’s reaction.

  He narrowed his eyes slightly but was otherwise completely still. Like a hunter who has just spied a sign left by his prey.

  “Interesting,” he said at last. “Is that a direct quote—‘I saw VB’? Did it say anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Unsigned of course?”

  “I assume so. We didn’t get a chance to talk long. I gather Maron isn’t going to pursue it and that was why Thérèse called me. She’s hoping I’ll…I don’t know, follow up somehow.”

  Dufort took his glass of lemonade and slowly sat down on the sofa.

  “Let’s go on the terrace,” said Molly, and watched as Bobo sailed through the French doors and disappeared in the tall grass of the meadow.

  They sat in the shade on the rusty chairs and drank their lemonade. It was a full moment, a pause before something they couldn’t yet imagine started to happen, and they both understood this.

  “We’ll do it together,” said Dufort softly.

  Molly nodded, her face turning a light shade of pink because she was so pleased he put it that way. “I’ve got a little something s
o far,” she said, and told him about the adhesive on the station door.

  “So the note-leaver is someone short. Could be a kid just messing around,” cautioned Ben.

  “Oh, sure,” she said, “could be. But would a kid that short even have heard of Valerie? Or okay, maybe. I know her story—she’s part of Castillac mythology. But it’s not like she disappeared yesterday and people are talking about it all the time. I have a hard time believing that if a kid wanted to play a joke, he’d choose something that happened so long ago, maybe even before he was born. That’s like ancient history to a kid, you know? Might as well be an event from the Middle Ages.”

  Dufort nodded. “Good point, Molly. Good point.”

  “So,” said Molly, almost shyly, “if we’re really going to be working together, will you tell me everything you know about the case? Do you need to get files—do you even have access to them anymore?”

  “Not officially, of course. But I think Thérèse might be persuaded to sneak it to me. I’ll warn you—the file is thin. I can tell you much of it from memory. May I have another lemonade? And then we’ll get started.”

  Molly jumped up to get a notebook and pen, feeling a wild mixture of excitement, happiness, and gravity. “Yes,” she said, taking a big gulp of lemonade and cracking open the notebook. “Start with everything you know, and I mean everything!”

  * * *

  Constance came to clean in the morning and afterwards climbed back on her bike and rode off, her glum mood almost leaving a trail of gray behind her. Molly had learned from sore experience not to meddle in the love affairs of her friends, so as much as she wanted to call Thomas up and give him a piece of her mind, she resisted the impulse. She had a real soft spot for Constance and was outraged on her behalf, incredulous that Thomas could have cheated on her. And Molly was curious about this Simone Guyanet, who she remembered had a small part in the Amy Bennett case.

  Meanwhile, Lawrence, Nico, and Frances were coming to dinner and she had cooking to do. In honor of spring, she was making an asparagus soup followed by grilled lamb and a huge heap of tiny buttered potatoes she’d snagged at the market that morning. Dessert was posing a problem, however. She was stuck at the first fork in the decision-making road: chocolate or not? And so far had not been inspired to go either way.