The Prisoner of Castillac (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 3)

by Nell Goddin

  Molly looked sheepish. She did want to. But she guessed Ben would not be in favor of her talking about the case to anyone else; she had already blabbed to Madame Gervais.

  “Come on, Molls. Don’t tell me you found another dead body!”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” said Molly gratefully. “In fact—what I’m hoping—is that this time, it might be just the opposite. Finding someone alive who everyone assumes is dead.” She paused, her conscience making one last effort to keep her from telling. “You’re right, I’m looking for Valerie Boutillier,” she said.

  “She’s…who is she again?”

  “We talked a little about her at the dinner party awhile back. Remember my telling you about how there were two missing women in Castillac that I hadn’t known about before I moved here?”

  “Well, how would you know, anyway? It’s not like the real estate people give out crime reports, do they?”

  “Right. Well, Valerie’s been missing for seven years. A young woman about to go off to university, just disappeared out of nowhere.”

  “And so—not to be rude, of course I respect your powers. But why in the world do you think she’s still alive? Or anywhere you could find her?”

  Molly told Frances about the note and her collaboration with Ben.

  “I knew he would never make it as a farmer,” laughed Frances. “I mean really, he’s no more suited to that life than I am! Okay, so what have you got?”

  Molly looked down. She lifted her fork and put it down, staring off into the meadow. “Nothing.”

  Frances dug into her salad and waited for Molly to elaborate. Bobo streaked around the side of the house and disappeared.

  “I’ve started going door to door, asking questions about genealogy, pretending to be working on a project. But I don’t think it’s getting me anywhere. If someone is hiding her, standing in the foyer for ten minutes isn’t going to clue me in, you know? And if I get invited to sit down and have a cup of coffee, that doesn’t mean the person has nothing to hide, right? I don’t know what I was thinking—that she would be upstairs and pound on the floor? Yell for help?

  “If somehow somebody has managed to keep her hidden this long, it’s going to take more than five minutes to discover where she is. She’s not going to be where the mailman or any stray visitor would be in earshot, you know?”

  “Hmm. Yes, agreed. You need…another plan.”

  “I know. But I can’t think of anything, Franny. You got any ideas?”

  “Pour me a glass of that rosé. Let me think about it.”

  “I’m so frustrated, even though it’s been fun, actually, meeting so many people from the village. And they’re so nice—most of them invite me in, listen to my prattle, do their best to be helpful. I swear, I love this place, I really do.”

  “Obviously it’s grown on me as well,” said Frances with a sly smile.

  “Nico treating you right?”

  “Almost too right,” Frances said with a slightly befuddled expression. “But so…listen, back to Valerie. Did she have a boyfriend or anything?”

  “Apparently not. She was an ambitious girl, about to leave town to start her new life at a prestigious school. Her family is close, she has a little brother and both parents are alive.”

  “Have you talked to any of them?”

  “I want to. But it seems insensitive at this point. I mean, we’ve literally got nothing except a note that looks like a parody of a ransom note that may or may not be talking about their daughter. If I thought it would really make a difference, maybe I’d call them up. But right now it seems like it would just be stirring them up over nothing.

  “Ben’s getting a dog trained to find cadavers, actually I think he’s going to be starting that search this afternoon. I guess the family would be relieved just to know one way or the other, and have her remains to give her a proper burial.”

  “Did he not look for her body seven years ago?”

  “I’m sure he did. But maybe she was killed after the search, or maybe he just didn’t look in the right place. There are so many possibilities, and no leads to steer us one way or another. Nothing except for the note.”

  “I wouldn’t feel that way,” said Frances. “I mean about the burial. The whole idea of bodies being buried totally skeeves me out.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’d agree that the whole idea of ‘closure’ is way overrated. No matter what happens, when someone you love dies, there isn’t anything about it that’s ever finished.”

  The women ate for a few moments in silence. “You doing okay with that little kid gone?” asked Frances, knowing how attached Molly had gotten to Oscar.

  Molly shrugged. “I know it’s ridiculous. It’s not like he’s my family, or that I even spent that much time with him. Just a day here and there over the course of two short weeks. But….”

  “It’s killing you.”

  “Yes. Honestly, sometimes I think love just really sucks.”

  Frances nodded. “I hear you, sister. So does that mean you’re not chasing after a certain organic farmer who’s quite hopeless at his job?”

  “Shut up, Frances,” said Molly, grinning, as she hopped up to go get another baguette.

  * * *

  Achille was drinking a cup of coffee in his his kitchen when he heard a knock on his door. He froze.

  He thought of Sutton standing outside and his throat closed up and his mouth started watering as though he were going to vomit.

  Must calm down. Hide your fear. They aren’t coming to take you away—they don’t know anything.

  He got up from the kitchen table and went to the door. He was so grateful to see Madame Renaud instead that he beamed at his neighbor with far more friendliness than usual.

  “Bonjour, Achille,” she said, her voice high and tight. “Have you seen Gilbert?”

  “No, Florence, I have not. But I just got up from taking a rest and have not been out and about for a few hours.”

  “The bus dropped him off after school, as always. He did his chores in the henhouse. But since then I haven’t seen him anywhere. I’ve called and called and he doesn’t answer!”

  “I’m sure it is nothing. He is just a boy, he likes to roam around in the woods!”

  “I’m sure I sound over-protective. It’s that American woman, she’s got me feeling on edge.”

  Achille looked at her sharply. “American woman?”

  “Yes—her name is Molly Sutton. Apparently she’s moved to Castillac now. She came sniffing around the other day, asking a lot of questions. Do you know she actually invited Gilbert over to her house? A perfect stranger? I tried to tell her that we don’t do things like that here…we don’t let our children wander off with people we’ve never even met and have no idea who they are…but I don’t think she understood me. It makes me very nervous, Achille, strangers like that. We have no idea what they might be capable of.”

  “She…she had no business trying to take your son away from you like that,” said Achille, feeling outrage on Madame Renaud’s behalf. “You are a good mother. You stay home, you look after your boy. You worry about him, like a mother should.” Achille’s hands started to tremble and he stuffed them into his pockets. “Molly Sutton,” he said with a sneer. “You don’t think he’s gone to her house?”

  Madame Renaud gasped. “I didn’t even consider that! Well, I don’t really think Gilbert would disobey me that way. And she lives on the other side of Castillac from us, at that old place, La Baraque—you know it? I don’t think he would get it in his head to walk that far, and his bicycle is still in the garage.

  “But then where on earth is he? It’s nearly dinnertime. We always eat at the same time and he knows he’s supposed to have finished his homework and chores by then. It’s very hard for me, you understand, Achille—it’s very hard, a mother alone like I am, with no one to share the worry.…”

  “I will keep an eye out, I can tell you that,” he answered. “He may even have come home by now, you’ll see.” />
  Florence nodded, although her forehead was still wrinkled with anxiety. “Thank you, I will go check and see. Keep your eye out, please.”

  Achille opened the door for her and watched her go, cutting through his farmyard on her way back to her place. If Valerie called out, Madame Renaud would surely hear her.

  But Valerie did not call out.

  Calm down. No one knows.

  And Achille was going to make certain it stayed that way.

  25

  He had only been messing around in the forest, daydreaming, and building tiny houses for make-believe creatures out of bark and bits of moss. Maybe Gilbert had heard his mother calling but transformed the sounds into the howling of a beast in his fantastical daydream, but in any case he had not stopped what he was doing to go home. He was angry about not being allowed to go to Madame Sutton’s house and so he took his time, getting home just before the sun went down even though he knew his mother would shriek at him and likely punish him for not coming when she called.

  The next day he was back to worrying about Valerie. Gilbert wasn’t sure what his new plan was going to be, but wisely he decided to do what he could to get in good with Maman while he figured it out. It was Wednesday, when he only had a half day of school, so as soon as he got home he went to the garden to do some weeding, a job Maman usually had to nag him to get started on.

  The garden was so hot, out in the baking spring sun. He kneeled down and yanked out some celandine, making a pile to one side. If only he’d been allowed to talk to Madame Sutton alone. It was agony to think of how close he had come to being able to tell her the secret that was like a poisonous weight in his pocket he couldn’t get rid of.

  Of course, Gilbert could have just blurted it out. He could have said, “Hey listen, the neighbor is keeping Valerie Boutillier captive! She’s been right next door all the time!”

  He stopped weeding for a moment and imagined what would have happened if he had opened his mouth and let the whole thing come out. Maman would have probably gotten hysterical and sent him to his room. Or she would have given Mme Sutton one of those looks grown-ups gave each other, a look that said, Don’t mind him, he’s off his gourd. Always telling tales.

  And Mme Sutton would have chuckled and they’d have gone on talking about where Maman’s cousins lived, pretty much the most boring conversation ever in the history of the universe.

  Or maybe that’s not what would have happened. Maybe he wasn’t giving Mme Sutton enough credit. You don’t solve two serious crimes by dismissing the truth when it’s spoken right at you, he thought. Maybe Mme Sutton would have listened. Maybe she would have taken out her cell phone and called Dufort right away—they were friends, he’d seen them talking at the market—and the gendarmes would be speeding with sirens going straight to Labiche’s farm by now.

  I probably blew it again, he thought, as his lower lip—to his horror—began to tremble.

  Gilbert yanked out some more celandine, breaking off some of the root.

  But if the gendarmes went to Labiche’s, they would need to know where Valerie was. Gilbert had only seen her outside, tied to the neighbor’s waist. He had no idea where she was being kept.

  He jumped up, leaving the pile of wilted weeds in the potager, and raced through the field, trying to get over the hill before Maman saw him and called him back. He didn’t feel the hot sun now that he was moving and had something important to do.

  Gilbert reached the cover of the woods, panting. He wished he wasn’t wearing a stupid bright yellow shirt. To keep from being seen, he crouched down low and went from bush to bush, moving to the edge of the property line, eyes scanning for any sign of Labiche.

  The farm was quiet except for the occasional moo; the cows were all in the near field. Because of the heat, most of them were lying down, clumped up in the shade of a few trees. Gilbert could see the large barn, and the farmhouse beyond. He snuggled down in the leaves to hide his shirt completely, and waited, watching.

  Waiting is not all that easy at any age, but at nine years old especially not. He fidgeted. His fingers picked apart leaves while he forced himself to keep his eyes on the buildings so that he would see if anyone came outside.

  The image of Dufort at the market drifted into his mind. The former chief seemed so capable, so strong. Gilbert remembered how he had looked at Mme Sutton with such an interested expression. Like he would listen to you without making fun or pooh-poohing no matter what you had to say.

  And then suddenly, the thought coming with such force it was like a slap to the side of his head, Gilbert thought—maybe Chief Dufort is my father. Maybe the reason Maman wants to keep me home all the time is that she thinks I’ll find out if I’m hanging around the village. Someone will tell me. People in the village, even Dufort himself, might even realize the truth because we sort of look alike.

  He lifted his arm from the leaves and inspected it, as though he would be able to discern some connection to Dufort in the way his arm looked.

  Then Gilbert lay his head down for a moment, his eyes shut, knowing that what he was thinking was not reality, but sucking every last little bit of pleasure out of it anyway: his father coming for him, and scooping him up in his strong, tanned arms, hoisting him up on his shoulders and giving him a bumpy ride, and then, when they were done playing, listening carefully to whatever Gilbert had to tell him.

  And then he would solve this business with Valerie. He would be able to fix it all. Everything.

  He would know the right thing to do.

  * * *

  “Well, Mr. Addison, I’m not saying you have to move to the cottage. I’m only saying that now that Ned and Leslie and dear little Oscar are gone, it’s free if you would like to have it. Of course, if you’d prefer to stay where you are, you’re more than welcome to do so.”

  Molly wished almost desperately that Wesley Addison would move to the cottage. Financially it was better for him to stay where he was, because she sometimes got last minute bookings, and it made sense to keep the cottage available since it slept more people than the haunted room where Addison was staying upstairs. But still…she would much rather have her house to herself.

  It was turning out to be a pleasure, running a gîte business. She liked meeting new people, the people were mostly interesting and pleasant, and it was fantastic not to have to get all dressed up to go work in an office, cooped up all day, and on the phone. This work suited her far better than her former job of fundraising.

  But at the same time, boundaries were always good, and she had found out, thanks to Wesley Addison, that she would rather the guests be confined to the cottage and the pigeonnier, and not walking around her house late at night, almost giving her a heart attack since by now she was so unused to living with anyone else.

  Yet Wesley Addison did not want to move to the cottage.

  “Well then, it’s settled,” he said. “I’m thinking of extending my stay another week,” he said, and Molly’s heart leapt up at the unexpected income only to come crashing down at the prospect of yet more Wesley Addison. “You see, when my wife and I were here seven years ago, she died suddenly. It’s…I felt it was important for me to come back. Perhaps that is hard for someone else to understand.”

  “No,” said Molly, feeling some sympathy. “It’s not hard to understand. But it does seem as though it would be difficult. Painful. Do you mind my asking what happened?”

  Wesley Addison bowed his big head. Then he lifted it abruptly and steepled his fingers together. “She fell. We were sightseeing at the Château at Beynac. You know it, of course?”

  Molly nodded, her eyes wide.

  “Then you know it stands at a great height, overlooking the Dordogne.”

  Molly nodded again, not really wanting to hear the rest of the story but at the same time badly wanting to know what happened.

  “She slipped,” said Addison, and shrugged. “Smashed to bits on the rocks. As I said, the place is at a very great height.”

  Molly’
s hand flew to cover her mouth as she gasped, imagining how horrible that must have been. “I’m so terribly sorry,” she said, impulsively reaching out to touch his arm.

  Addison jerked away. Molly felt for the big man; what could be worse than having your spouse die in an accident while on vacation?

  And then seven years set off a little alarm in her head. “Seven years ago, Mr. Addison? Do you happen to remember a girl going missing when you were here? It would have been in all the newspapers and on television. Her name was Valerie Boutillier.”

  “I remember nothing about a girl. As you might imagine, my attention was taken up by the necessity for making some rather complex arrangements in order to have my wife’s body sent back overseas. I was not hobnobbing at the local bars, listening for the latest local news.”

  “Of course not. I meant…well, again, I’m so sorry for what happened.”

  “‘Hobnobbing’. Interesting word. Old English, as I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear. Comes from hob and nob, meaning to toast each other, buying alternate rounds of drinks. So you see, I used exactly the right word just there.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Molly faintly. “Well then, I have some gardening chores that just won’t wait. Have a good evening, Mr. Addison.” And she went straight out to the garden and called Bobo, who ran around the side of the house and slammed into her legs. Molly squatted down and let the dog lick her face.

  “Just keep me company for a bit,” she said to Bobo, and began pulling up weeds with fervor, feeling lonely and a little upset. Sometimes it felt as though too many terrible things happened in the world, and there was no escaping them.

  She sighed, and then sighed again, and the rhythm of weeding and the nearness of Bobo soothed her spirits.

  “Life is messy, that’s all there is to it,” she said to Bobo as she stood and headed back inside for a kir.

  26

  Molly had taken a shower and put on clean, if not very fashionable, clothes. She was pouring herself that kir when she heard a creaking sound coming from the front yard that she guessed was Constance’s bicycle.