An Official Killing

by Nell Goddin

  Just then Coulon caught a glimpse of Odile making her way down the sidewalk. It was Monday and the streets weren’t packed, but there were enough pedestrians that she ran into people she knew, stopping to exchange kisses and small talk before continuing toward the café. Coulon saw very well that she was not trying to be on time, was in fact purposely going to be late just to annoy him, and he tapped his fingertips faster and faster until an old woman at the next table shot him a look that made him stop.

  “Bonjour, Maxime,” Odile said when she finally dropped into the seat across from him.

  “Bonjour, Odile,” he said, forcing himself to sound more pleasant than he felt.

  “Did you order?”

  “Of course not. I waited for you. Something that feels quite familiar, I might add.”

  Odile laughed. She was a put-together woman dressed in a smart suit, her auburn hair in a neat chignon. As the owner of a number of successful beauty product shops, Odile was confident and independent. Her working habits—and failure to defer to Maxime—had been a great source of marital discord.

  Pascal appeared with a plate of crudités, a basket of bread, and a pot of pâté. “Maman made her special recipe, don’t miss it!” he said with a wink as he passed them each a menu. He took their drink orders and then went on to the next table, where a harried mother and three young children were waving their hands for his attention as though on the point of mass starvation.

  “I’m going to cut to the chase,” said Odile. “I know you enjoy the fruits of your position, Maxime, including hiring only the prettiest assistants you can possibly find—”

  Maxime opened his mouth to argue but Odile held up one finger. “I’m not here to argue about that. I am merely pointing out—”

  “Odile, how I run the mairie is none of your business beyond the interest of any citizen of Castillac. And I’ll have you know that every single person working in that office is highly qualified. Overly so, actually. And for you to—”

  “—what I want is for you to allow the building permits to go through on my store on rue Picasso. All the paperwork has been filed, the staff should have finished its review last month. You know perfectly well you are blocking the project out of spite.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,” Maxime said airily, though he knew quite well. She wanted to open a third store right here in the village, and Maxime took it as a personal affront. The whole reason for the Castillac shop, from his point of view, was for Odile to flaunt her financial success, as though to proclaim to the village how much better she was than he, even though he was mayor and had been elected, which certainly should count as more—

  He was snapped out of his internal rant by his ex-wife, who tapped him on the arm. “Maxime. Look, you’re a perfectly good mayor when you stick to your strengths. Go around the village and chat with people. Keep the mairie working efficiently so that we don’t all drown in red tape. But these manipulations and underhanded machinations, for revenge or profit or some other motive? Leave that alone, Maxime. I’m telling you. Leave it alone.

  “Now tell me,” she continued, with a stiff smile, “where I can find a few more girls like your house-maid? I hear she’s quite the stunner. I could use help like that in my shops.”

  “Josette? She’s quite diligent. I couldn’t be more pleased.” He was especially pleased that Josette obviously irritated his wife, a side benefit that only occurred to him now that he saw Odile’s dour expression as she continued to talk about her.

  “She’s probably stealing you blind while you stand there drooling,” said Odile, with an angry smile.

  “I’m afraid your jealousy is showing,” said Maxime. “Indeed, it is sad when the bloom is off the rose, and there is nothing anyone can do to bring it back, no matter what creams or lotions you use. At least you have your work,” he said.

  Odile had never despised him more than she did at that moment, which was saying something.

  * * *

  Odile did not stay but took off looking as though she had eaten something that disagreed with her. Coulon lingered at the table, savoring his victory as well as Pascal’s mother’s exquisite pâté, and then deciding to take a stroll around the village before going to his afternoon appointment at the bank.

  “Bonjour, Mayor Coulon,” said villager after villager, as he made his way along. He was relieved that people seemed happy, as they often do on a beautiful June day, and did not approach him with an endless stream of complaints and problems the way they sometimes did on drizzly gray days with a chill in the air. He stopped to talk to Dr. Vernay, just as he was going back in to see his afternoon patients. He waved at Ada Bellard, who worked at the cantine at the primaire around the corner. He petted various dogs if their owners were around to appreciate it. All in all, he felt he had bolstered his chances at the next election by ingratiating himself with at least twenty people in a short hour, and went into the bank feeling pleasantly complacent.

  The receptionist showed Coulon into a back office, where he sat with Monsieur Lachance, the bank vice-president, for about an hour. The conversation might have seemed rather dry to many, since some of it concerned the hated VAT and matters of taxation—but the local gendarmes would have been very interested to hear what the two men spoke about in low voices with the door closed.

  Very interested indeed.

  5

  Saturday morning, changeover day. Molly had found, over several years of running La Baraque, that she got to know some guests pretty well during their stay, while others remained complete strangers. Which was fine by Molly, as she understood that people are different in how much socializing they want to do; some of the guests were dedicated sightseers and so barely spent any time at La Baraque except for sleeping.

  The group leaving was entirely of the second type, and so the goodbyes were quick and without any promises to keep in touch. Molly hoped they were satisfied customers, and reminded herself to make up a short questionnaire and send it out to her mailing list of guests, to see if there was anything they might suggest if they had the chance to do so anonymously. That reminder joined a rather long list in Molly’s head of things she needed to attend to in the upcoming week: the faucet in the pigeonnier was leaking again; she needed to find a mason to talk about rebuilding the ruin in the back pasture; a window pane in the hallway was cracked, and she was sure there were about five other things she’d forgotten for the moment.

  A loud bang on the door, and Constance, Molly’s friend and occasional housecleaner, let herself in. Bobo ran over for a joyous greeting as Constance called out “Bonjour!” in that singsong way the French had. “Molly, I—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re about to get married, too,” snapped Molly from the kitchen.

  “Whoa whoa whoa!”

  “Sorry. I’ve had a stream of people in here telling me how sad they are that their partners want to marry them so desperately. I mean, I’m perfectly happy not being married. Marriage isn’t exactly easy, after all. It’s just—”

  “Oh, believe me, I know. Simone Guyanet? My arch-nemesis since primaire? She’s getting married. I guess she finally got it through her head that Thomas had made his choice and it wasn’t her, so she ran out and got engaged to the first guy to come along.”

  “Someone from the village?”

  “Nope, Bergerac, I think. You’d think he was the Prince of Wales to hear her go on.”

  “I didn’t know you and Simone hung out.”

  “We don’t! But Thomas and I had dinner at Chez Papa last night, and she was there with her fiancé. Talking in a loud voice as usual so that everyone in the whole place could hear all their business.”

  “Want some coffee before we get started?”

  “Sure. And okay, because it’s you I’m talking to and I know you know the truth anyway—I would like to get married. Wear a fancy dress, throw a party, the whole thing. Or maybe it’s really just about having a moment when Thomas says, right in front of everybody, �
��I love Constance, and we will be together until the end of time.’ Something along those lines.”

  Molly nodded. It was hard to sort through what she actually felt versus what she wanted to feel. Things with Ben, the former chief of gendarmes, had been going very well lately; they were comfortable with each other, and there was a spark there too. The single thing keeping Molly from being ecstatic about her life was not having any children; even though her fortieth birthday was right around the corner, she mostly kept that worry to herself, at least as far as Ben was concerned. It wasn’t fair to unload all that pressure on him—it’s not like it was his fault baby alarms rang in her head whenever she spied a little one.

  “Okay, shall we have at it?” she asked, after she and Constance had polished off their coffee, both lost in thought.

  “I’m ready. So where’s the creepo dude staying this time?”

  “You mean Wesley Addison?”

  “Yeah. I’d have thought you’d have had enough of having murderous guests.”

  “Jeez! What is it about this village! He did not murder anyone. His poor wife fell off a cliff.”

  “Right,” said Constance, winking.

  * * *

  Constance and Molly cleaned quickly and efficiently, having accomplished so many changeover days at this point they could do it in their sleep. The cottage, pigeonnier, and annex to the house all needed vacuuming and mopping. Refrigerators emptied and cleaned, trash taken out, beds freshly made, smudgy windows washed. Just before the guests were due to arrive, Molly went around to each lodging and left a bottle of red from the Sallière vineyard down the road and a small vase with some June roses, along with a notebook that had listings of emergency phone numbers, places to eat, and sites to see.

  She could perform this work without having to think about it, free to wonder why she got so annoyed with Frances and Lapin and their marriage woes, but getting no answers. When she and Constance were done, she asked her if she wanted some lunch, but Constance took off on her bicycle for a rendezvous with Thomas. Which was just as well, because Molly had only eaten a piece of brie with a torn-off bit of baguette when Christophe’s taxi pulled into the driveway of La Baraque and Molly saw the imposing body of Wesley Addison inside.

  “Bonjour, Wesley, it’s good to see you. You’re early!” she said, trying to sound jolly.

  “If you’re not ready for me, I’m happy to wait on the terrace or wherever is convenient. As I am sure you are well aware, traveling is quite tiring and I will require some rest. Please bring me a bottle of Vittel.”

  Molly stood with her mouth open, unable to form a polite response. She had gotten to like Wesley by the end of his stay the year before, but at the moment she was having trouble remembering why. You wouldn’t think the lack of a simple “bonjour” would matter so much, and yet boy, it did.

  But like any seasoned innkeeper, she found her good spirits quickly. “Actually, everything’s ready and you can have your room right away if you’d like. Or if you’d rather drink your mineral water on the terrace, that would be fine too.”

  “Excellent, Molly,” he said with a rare smile. “I imagine other guests will be arriving soon? In that case, I will go to my room. I would be happy to meet them at some other juncture but as I said, at the moment the stress of traveling must be addressed.”

  Molly smiled to herself as she got him settled in the same room upstairs he had stayed the year before. It was easily the worst room at La Baraque but Wesley had requested it, not being a fan of change when he could avoid it.

  Molly managed to make a salad with greens from her garden, some olives, and a bit of tuna, but before she could eat much of it, Christophe’s taxi was chugging into the driveway again with a pair of guests, also early.

  “Bonjour!” Molly said, as they got out and looked around. “You are the Vasilievs? Welcome to La Baraque!”

  “Dobryj dyen’!” boomed the man, who was broad in the chest with short legs. His wife, who had shoulder-length hair bleached platinum, stared at Molly without smiling, then shifted her gaze to Bobo, who was not going up to give them a sniff as she usually did with new guests.

  “Ah, I’m afraid my Russian is nonexistent. I’m so glad you are here. I’ll show you to the pigeonnier right away, and you can let me know if you’d like a tour of the whole place a little later.”

  Vasily Vasiliev said something else in Russian. For a moment they all stood awkwardly with frozen smiles on their faces. “I’m sorry,” Molly said. “We were emailing in English when you made your reservation, am I right? Or have I lost my mind entirely?”

  “I am Fedosia Vasiliev,” his wife said finally. “My husband speak only Russian. I fill out form and send money.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t speak a word except for ‘do svidaniya,’ and I’m probably saying that wrong,” laughed Molly.

  “Is no worry,” said Fedosia, suddenly warming up and patting Molly on the arm.

  “That’s good to hear,” said Molly. She was thinking, with some embarrassment, that she knew virtually nothing about Russia. Had never been to or even known anyone who had traveled there. She vaguely remembered Brezhnev and communism, and of course knew that Russia became its own country when the USSR split up in the early nineties. But the culture, the people, the language? Molly was utterly ignorant of all of it.

  “I just want to say,” she said, speaking to Fedosia and smiling at Vasily as they walked to the pigeonnier, “that one of the things I like best about running La Baraque is getting to meet people from so many different countries. I hope we can spend a little time together while you’re here, and you can share some things about your home.”

  Fedosia drew back and Molly said quickly, “I don’t mean to sound nosy! I’m just curious about what life is like in Smolensk. That’s where you’re from, if I remember right?”

  The Russian gave a curt nod and dragged her duffel bag through the door of the pigeonnier. Molly showed them around briefly and made her escape.

  I just never know who’s going to show up here, she mused as she finished her salad, now wilted. Or why.

  * * *

  Molly was tired and cranky that evening but figured she would take a chance on Chez Papa cheering her up, though she was tempted to burrow in at La Baraque and wallow in her grumbling all evening. It had been that kind of week, nothing terrible, nothing dire, but still, the little annoyances kept piling up, and the Vasilievs’ frostiness and Wesley Addison’s weirdness felt like the next to last straw. At least she was fully recovered from Lyme disease and had her energy back, she thought as she climbed on her beloved scooter and zipped down rue des Chênes and into the village.

  June was a delight in Castillac. Many buildings had flowerpots out front along with window-boxes filled with geraniums; roses popped up everywhere and the streets were perfumed with their sweet scent. It was a time of fêtes, concerts, and ice cream, and it was impossible for Molly’s mood not to improve simply by puttering down the cobbled narrow street to her favorite bistro, where she ate so often she joked she should have some sort of meal plan, like a college student.

  “Bonsoir Nico!” she called out, coming through the door.

  Heads at the bar turned around, and everyone spent a few minutes greeting each other with bonsoirs and cheek kisses. Molly’s best pal Frances sat on the stool at the end of the bar, where she was often found, gazing at Nico with wry appreciation. Lawrence was sitting next to Lapin, who was wearing a striped tank top.

  “What is this new fashion you’re sporting?” asked Molly, suppressing a grin.

  “I don’t know why everyone has to make such a fuss,” said Lapin.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Well, it is eye-catching,” said Molly. “I like it when people take fashion risks.”

  “You’re just teasing me, I know,” said Lapin. He stood up as tall as he could and flexed his arms, taking a bodybuilder stance. “Anne-Marie likes it. And that’s all that counts.”

  “Indeed,” said Molly. “Nic
o, you’re just standing there. Kir, on the double please!”

  “Oui, Madame,” said Nico, jumping into action.

  “So when is Ben getting back, anyway?” asked Lawrence. “Seems like he’s been out of town for ages.”

  Molly shrugged. “Who knows. He says it’s the most boring job in the world, but at this point in our private investigator business, we can’t be choosy.”

  “Well, I was sorry you called off dinner the other night. I’ve got the raincheck right here,” she said, patting her pocket.

  “I know, sorry about that. I just thought it would be more fun with Ben, and he couldn’t get away.”

  “Where is he again?” asked Frances, sipping her glass of Pecharmant.

  “Got a job up near Thiviers. It’s forensic accounting, really, so he’s at a desk all day looking through files.”

  “Forensic what?”

  “Accounting. Trying to figure out where the money’s gone, basically,” said Molly. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long, it’s just a little business…a sewing shop, I think? Only a couple of employees and I can’t imagine they did that much business. I offered to go with him and help, but in this case my help would be limited to my excellent jokes because math and I are not on speaking terms.”

  “At least you and Ben can talk on the phone.”

  “Sure. And text. Just between you and me,” said Molly, quietly enough that only her friends could hear, “he may look like a stodgy boy scout but he can write some smokin’ hot texts!”

  Frances cracked up. “Ben? Sexting? Too funny.”

  “They don’t go that far. They’re not smutty, just…deliciously suggestive.”

  Nico had drifted down to the other end of the bar to serve drinks to two men that looked familiar to Molly. Having lived in Castillac for several years now, she recognized most of its inhabitants but still hadn’t been introduced to all of them.