The Prisoner of Castillac (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 3)

by Nell Goddin

  She left Bobo and got out a mug, splashed in a generous dollop of cream, and got the French press ready while the water came to a boil.

  Bobo growled.

  Molly heard the heavy steps of Wesley Addison coming downstairs.

  Dammit.

  She tied her bathrobe firmly and put on her game face. “Good morning!” she chirped as he rounded the corner.

  “Bonjour,” he said, looking around the room with distaste.

  Molly noticed his accent was quite good. “I’m just having some coffee before going into the village to get fresh bread. I know things are a mess but I’ll tend to it when I get back,” she explained. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to get you? Any pastry you like above all others?”

  “I don’t eat pastry,” said Wesley Addison.

  “Gluten problem?” asked Molly sympathetically.

  “No. I just don’t like it.”

  Freak.

  “Well, what else can I get for your breakfast then? I’m happy to make you some eggs. There’s a farmer at the market who has amazing sausages, if you can wait until I get back.”

  “Raoul?”

  “Yes,” said Molly, “that’s exactly who I mean. Just thinking about him makes my mouth water.”

  Addison looked alarmed.

  “No!” said Molly. “I don’t mean—I just meant that his sausages are very good, and I think I’ll buy some for my lunch. So you know Raoul from when you were here before? Do you like to cook?”

  “No.”

  Molly waited for him to elaborate. Eventually Addison said, “I don’t cook. It was my wife who found Raoul, and cooked the sausages. Wouldn’t stop talking about them either. Bought them every single Saturday and we usually ate them for dinner that night, every week for months.”

  Molly was nodding. Her mood was lifting just thinking about the cup of coffee that was almost ready. She tossed the filter and grounds into the compost bucket next to the sink and poured the magnificent dark brown liquid into her mug. “Oh!” she said, after swallowing the first ambrosial sip. “I’m sorry—would you like some coffee?”

  “No,” said Addison. “I don’t drink coffee.”

  Crazy freak.

  “My wife was an addict, however. I see you have the same fervor for the stuff that she had.”

  Molly smiled. “And where is your wife? Did she not want to make this trip this time? Hard to get away?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that,” said Addison. “She’s dead. She died near Castillac, actually.”

  “Oh! I’m…I’m very sorry,” said Molly.

  Bobo growled.

  “Hush, Bobo-girl,” said Molly, petting the top of her speckled head.

  Molly wanted to know more of that story, but for the moment her wish for something to eat trumped her curiosity. She excused herself from Wesley Addison, washed her face, threw on some clothes, and headed down rue des Chênes towards Pâtisserie Bujold and the Saturday morning market. The sun was shining for the first time in days, her party had been a great success, and Molly wanted to enjoy it all—and just this once not think about anything ugly or sad.

  19

  Castillac was in a state of spring-induced euphoria. After the rains of the last week, the warm sun felt so good on everyone’s skin, and Molly saw more than one person turn her face to the sun, eyes closed, drinking in the unfamiliar heat and brightness. The Saturday market was more crowded than usual. Every week it seemed as though more vendors crowded into the Place as they competed for warm-weather customers with fresh produce, cheese, and locally-raised meat. Molly could smell yeasty bread somewhere nearby, and coffee.

  That scooter she had her eye on was rakishly parked on the sidewalk and she stopped for a moment to lust after it. The swooping chrome, polished and shining. The adorably cute dashboard with its well-designed dials and meters. Even just the small pads where the rider put his feet, and the elegantly shaped leather seat—it was all perfection.

  She ran her hand over the handlebars, imagining herself cutting in and out of traffic like a slalom skier, a bag from Pâtisserie Bujold safely tucked onto the tiny luggage rack behind her.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” said a familiar voice.

  “Oh, bonjour Thomas,” said Molly, her tone frosty, having not forgotten or forgiven when it came to Constance’s ex-boyfriend’s cheating ways.

  “You’re still mad.”

  “Of course I’m still mad!” said Molly. “Constance is my friend and you treated her abominably. Are you suggesting I should just get over it?”

  “No, of course not. I’m…but I want you know…”

  “Thomas!” said a young woman appearing from the crowd and tugging at his arm. “Let’s go, we’re going to be late!”

  Thomas had the expression of a cow who is being harassed by a border collie.

  “But still, nice to see you,” said Molly, smiling to herself and moving on. She did love how the village was small enough that she would see plenty of people she knew at the Saturday market, but she could also see that in a place this size, if a relationship went south, it could get complicated.

  Good thing I am dedicated to staying single, she thought, making her way towards Raoul’s booth. She picked up a package of sausages, wondering briefly about exactly how Mrs. Addison had met her demise. She waved at her neighbor, Mme Sabourin, who was shoveling prunes into a paper bag.

  “Manette!” she said, surprised to see her friend selling vegetables in a different spot than usual. “I’m totally discombobulated seeing you on this side of the Place. I thought everyone stuck to their usual spots.”

  “Usually we do,” Manette said darkly. “It’s that new fellow, the one selling whole-grain bread. And don’t get him talking about the bread—he’ll go on and on about how healthful it is until you want to club him over the head to shut him up. And if you’re wondering about the taste, it’s fine so long as you like bread with the flavor of wallpaper paste. And heavy as a concrete block.”

  Molly laughed. “I’m thinking I’ll take peppers and eggplants to go with my sausages, please.”

  “Raoul’s?”

  “Of course. Now tell me how you’re doing, Manette. Kids doing all right? How’s your mother-in-law?”

  “Still sick. Or acting sick, it’s hard to tell which. But thanks for asking. The kids are good. Wild, wearing me down to my last nerve, but good.” Manette winked at her and weighed the produce.

  Something about Manette made Molly miss her own mother. She was so rosy-cheeked and good natured—things her own mother hadn’t been, except rarely—and Molly couldn’t help having a fleeting fantasy of going home with Manette and blending in, getting swept up in the happy mayhem of her big family.

  But the market was crowded that Saturday and too many customers were clamoring for Manette’s attention for Molly to keep chatting with her. She paid and arranged her vegetables in her basket and moved on with a wave goodbye.

  A wizened man she’d never met was sitting at a small table, on which stood neatly arranged plastic containers of walnuts. The man looked something like a walnut himself, his aged skin in folds and deep creases, with lively dark eyes peeping out.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur,” said Molly, and then introduced herself. She had found almost all of the locals perked up considerably when they found out she lived in Castillac and was not just passing through.

  But alas, though he was perfectly friendly, the Walnut Man had an accent that Molly could not get at all. It was so indecipherable that she couldn’t even understand his name but stood with her eyes wide and a phony smile, just hoping the clouds would part and the meaning would suddenly become apparent. But it did not. Feeling a little embarrassed and also irritated with herself, she bought a box of the painstakingly shelled walnuts, gave Walnut Man a big smile along with some euros, and moved on.

  * * *

  Next to Walnut Man was a boy, also sitting at a small table. The boy looked troubled about something—his brow was furrowed and he w
as watching her intently— which made Molly’s ears prick up just like Bobo’s. On his table were heaps of wilted greens, and a few grungy-looking plastic bags.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” Gilbert said, so softly Molly could barely hear him.

  “Bonjour,” said Molly, wanting to touch his freckled cheek but restraining herself. “Did you find these yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Gilbert, his face flushing. This is the moment, he said to himself. Talk to her! Molly Sutton was the best detective in the whole village, maybe even the whole Dordogne! Just tell her!

  But he could not make the words come out.

  He could not make any words come out.

  “They’re wild? I’ve never actually foraged anything,” she was saying. “I mean, I’ve foraged in the supermarket,” she laughed at herself, “but not in the wild. Obviously not at all the same thing. I would be afraid to make a mistake. Not that I think you made a mistake—these look lovely and I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” Molly paused, and looked at him sideways. “You do know what you’re doing, right?”

  Gilbert froze. He nodded, now his face very pale. What is the matter with you! he yelled at himself, to no avail. He had not even come close to taping the note to the station door; every time he ran down the street to check, there was a crowd of people coming and going to the market. No way to do it without being seen.

  Shy boys are so adorable, Molly was thinking. She almost had to physically hold her hand back with the other to keep from ruffling his hair, which was longer on top and a little curly.

  “I am terribly fond of wild greens, especially nettles,” she said. “How much are you charging? Can I afford to buy them all and have myself a real feast?”

  “Oui, Madame,” said Gilbert. “Five euros, that is all.”

  “You don’t charge enough. For all this work? It must have taken you hours of foraging to find all these! Are you sure five euros is your price?”

  Gilbert nodded, keeping back a smile.

  “Molly! I was hoping to see you here!” Ben Dufort cut across the crowd and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Salut, Ben! Maybe we could go to a café once we’re done marketing? I have an idea or two….”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said, smiling at her.

  Gilbert watched them. If there was ever a moment to let loose with his information, this was it. Madame Sutton and Chief Dufort, together, right in front of him, and his mother out of the way talking to Manette.

  Yet he said nothing. He watched the two of them together. Chief Dufort—well, Gilbert was going to keep calling him that even if he wasn’t actually Chief anymore—he was so…so big, and strong, and good-looking. Gilbert was pretty sure Madame Sutton thought so too.

  Surely it would be safe to tell them. They weren’t yellers. They seemed nice.

  Yes, they were nice. But that didn’t mean for one second that they would believe what he told them. He was only nine years old. They would think he was daydreaming, just looking for attention. And he only had one chance. If they jumped to the wrong conclusion, he would have no way to convince them after.

  He should just tell them anyway. Risk it.

  Or maybe…maybe he could buy a camera with the money he saved from selling greens, and he could spy on Labiche and take photographs the next time he saw him outside with Valerie!

  A dumb idea. That would take months.

  “Hello? Are you daydreaming, my friend?” Molly was saying to him. “So five euros is your final price?”

  Gilbert nodded, doubly mortified because now tears were beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes out of frustration and not knowing the right thing to do. Sometimes he really hated being a kid.

  He took her money and watched as the pair disappeared into the crowd, fully aware that his best chance to tell his secret had disappeared right along with them.

  * * *

  Molly and Ben made their way through the crowd to Café de la Place, where Pascal took their orders with his usual dazzling smile and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Is this too public?” Molly asked in a low voice.

  “Not everyone is an inveterate eavesdropper like you,” Ben said, with a grin. “But you’re right, yes, we should be careful what we say. The success of our investigation may hinge on the abductor’s taking it easy after all this time, no longer wary of being found out. We don’t want half the village talking about what we’re trying to do.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said Molly. “But I’ve been trying to think of some way to nose around a little without raising any suspicions, and I’ve got at least a piece of an idea.”

  Pascal returned with two café crèmes and plates of warm croissants, along with small dishes of sweet butter and raspberry jam. Molly dove in, starving. “Well, very simply—and of course, correct me where I’m wrong—I figure I need to get inside people’s houses. I know there would be no way for me to really inspect anything, like if there are hidden compartments or something like that. Just getting invited in isn’t likely to be enough. But it’s a start, right?

  “Anyway, my plan is to go door to door, with some sort of survey. I’ll be armed with a clipboard and some forms, ask if I can come in and ask them some questions. Maybe say I’m doing historical research on the area, or genealogical research. I wish I could say it was a government thing but they’ll hardly believe an American would be doing that.”

  “And they’d be less likely to open the door.”

  “But so I was thinking…if you were keeping someone prisoner in your attic or whatever, wouldn’t you be super nervous if a stranger came around at all? Do you think I’d be able to sense that nervousness?”

  Ben swallowed a mouthful of croissant before answering. “Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound very confident. “Remember, we’re looking for someone who has managed to keep this secret for seven long years. If he were the type to break a sweat the minute anyone comes near his house, he’d have been found out long ago. Some criminals are made of ice—they can lie and not have any of the physical manifestations of anxiety. That’s why lie detector tests aren’t perfect. Ironically, it’s the biggest liars who don’t get caught.”

  Molly nodded, feeling a little dejected. If Valerie was being held in a secret room somewhere, how in the world was Molly ever going to find out where? She could be right under their noses—upstairs at the Café de la Place, for all they knew. Days were ticking by and they were still at square one.

  She looked into Ben’s warm brown eyes and said, “You still think she was killed.”

  “I’m afraid so. The report from my end is that my friend in Toulouse is coming through for us—he’s arriving sometime this week and bringing a trained dog. Supposed to be able to sniff out a cadaver in a large area.”

  “So what are you going to do, wander around the village with him on a leash?”

  “I plan to make concentric circles, starting in the middle of the village and moving outward. My friend will likely give me direction on how to use the dog most efficiently. I want to get out into the countryside rather quickly. Unless Valerie Boutillier is in someone’s freezer somewhere,” he added, his voice low, “I expect that’s where I’ll find her. Out in the woods—the forest of La Double has many secrets. And possibly this dog will uncover at least one of them.”

  20

  After the talk with Dufort, Molly was determined to make headway on her part of the investigation. So that afternoon while cleaning up the wreckage from the party the night before, she composed a persona for herself of a bumbling genealogical researcher, interested in the old names and families of the area. She figured that would be unthreatening as well as not require any special knowledge on her part. In her old life in America, Molly had been a fundraiser, quite used to approaching strangers, putting them at ease, and getting them to write checks before they knew what was happening.

  Well, she hadn’t been very good at that last part. Or at least, she hadn’t enjoyed it very much.
But this job, this investigation, was fundamentally different: a woman’s life was potentially at stake. Which was a whole different thing from some school’s being able to build a fancy new building they didn’t really need.

  In bed that night Molly read her questions aloud to Bobo, who was allowed on the bed just that once. She made a form online and found a notebook to fill with copies of the form along with some pages of fake notes, dug up some decent pens, and considered herself all set.

  The next morning she left some not-quite-fresh croissants on the counter along with a note for Wesley Addison, and took off for the village, wishing she could take Bobo with her for protection. For a practice run, she stopped at the house next door where Mme Sabourin lived.

  “Bonjour, Mme Sabourin!” she said, enthusiastically.

  “Bonjour Molly,” the old lady answered. They kissed cheeks. “I had a lovely time the other night. You have some colorful friends,” she said with a small smile.

  Molly ran through her questions, and Mme Sabourin answered gamely, though Molly thought she could see her wondering what in the world this was all about. And then, just to be methodical about it, she went to the next house on rue des Chênes and introduced herself and went through her list of questions, and then the house after that and on and on, marking down on a map when no one was home.

  The houses in Castillac varied from the very old—some as old as fifteenth century in parts—to so new the stucco had barely dried. Molly was grateful that many people (mostly older women) invited her in and offered her a cup of coffee or tea, and were more than happy to go into the details of their family histories as well as the history of the Dordogne. She heard about the torture of aristocrat Alain de Monéys in 1870, and about the disruption caused by the religious wars of the sixteenth century. About groups of Huguenots leaving France for England and Sweden. About the heroes of the Resistance, who showed such courage in standing up to the Nazis. About the foreigners who came, over the decades, mixing their blood and their names with those of Castillac.