An Official Killing

by Nell Goddin

  After a few moments, the woman kept walking. Josette wanted to chase her down the alley, shouting at her to mind her own business, but she was in enough trouble with the mayor and did not need to go looking for more.

  15

  The pastries had been such a big hit the day before that Molly scootered into the village on Friday morning to get more. She always liked her guests to leave on a high note, and though the other guests were all staying for two weeks, the Vasilievs were due to leave the next morning. She would not be sad to see them go. After her long struggle for fluency in French, Molly found it very entertaining to try to talk to people when they did not share a common language. It turned into a game of deduction and charades that almost always led to hilarity and a feeling of warmth between the participants.

  But apparently the Vasilievs did not feel the same way. Fedosia had knocked on the door of the house several times, asking for instructions on how to run the washing machine and what place had the best exchange rate for changing currency. But she did not linger, gave the barest thanks, and was gone. Molly could not remember seeing Vasily even once since they moved in on changeover day the Saturday before.

  Meanwhile, she had shared several cocktails with Wesley Addison, after remembering from his visit the summer before that cocktail hour was a sad time of day for him, when he missed the ritual of making his wife a drink every day at five. Molly invited him to join her on the terrace and asked him if he would be so kind as to make her a kir, and one for himself too, of course, though he usually stuck with mineral water.

  He regaled her, after a fashion, with stories from his work in linguistics, which could actually be quite funny after a kir or two. He told her that in Mississippi, people called a fat person a “squab.” In Missouri, a coat rack was a “hall tree,” and in Oklahoma, if something was delicious you could call it “larruping.”

  “Well, have some of this larruping cheese, then, Wesley. You know, the French never serve cheese before a meal and they probably have very good reasons for that. But some of my American habits die hard.”

  Often Molly organized a get-together at some point during the guests’ stay—an apéro the first night, or possibly a dinner later in the week if the group seemed to be hitting it off. This week, though never intending to skip it, she kept coming up with reasons to put it off, and here it was their last night. Honestly, the prospect of socializing with the Vasilievs seemed like such an uphill slog, and she was in no mood, having been plagued all week with worries about Ben and their failing business.

  Eh, maybe if I invite them, they won’t even come, she said, on her way to the cottage to ask Nancy and Emily first.

  * * *

  But they did come, all of them. And not only that, Fedosia asked Molly if it would be possible to stay another two weeks, and the question came as such a surprise that she couldn’t think of a graceful lie fast enough.

  Two more weeks of the Vasilievs. Ugh.

  Molly hustled in the kitchen to come up with a suitable meal for seven, giving Ben a quick call to press him into service. She went with simplicity, making an enormous salad, steak Diane, and garlic mashed potatoes, and sent Ben to Pâtisserie Bujold to pick up dessert.

  “Thank you for inviting us,” said Fedosia graciously enough, as Molly poured kirs for her and Vasily. Wesley was drinking mineral water on the terrace, where Emily and Nancy were giggling about something—probably their latest discovery of a cache of bones somewhere—and Molly suggested the Vasilievs join them while she and Ben finished preparations for dinner. Vasily said nothing and remained expressionless as usual.

  “He gives me the creeps,” Molly whispered to Ben as he dressed the salad and she whipped the potatoes, splashing in some extra cream.

  “Is he always so stone-faced?”

  “Always. Well, to be fair, I haven’t seen him much. And he doesn’t speak English, so I guess it makes sense that he doesn’t react to what’s being said. But still…usually when I’m around people and we don’t share a language, people’s faces are more expressive, not less.”

  “What are they doing in Castillac, anyway?”

  Molly shrugged. She picked up the bowl of potatoes and turned to see Fedosia standing in the doorway, looking at them. Molly had no idea for how long, or what she had heard. Her face got instantly red, not being in the habit of insulting her guests and being overheard doing it. “Dinner’s ready!” she sang out, sounding like a complete idiot. “Ben, you’ll bring the steak? I think we’ve got everything we need at the table.”

  The weather was that perfect temperature of warm but not at all too warm, and the lightest breeze skipped along the treetops surrounding the meadow. Everyone was bare-armed and comfortable, and the sounds of an oriole and woodpecker were easy to pick out since no one was saying anything. Even the usually jolly Emily and Nancy were quiet.

  “So, what brings you to Castillac?” Ben said to Fedosia, giving Vasily a smile.

  “We are tourist,” she answered, and applied herself to cutting her meat.

  An awkward silence. Molly remembered with longing the many glorious dinner parties she had thrown back in Boston, full of laughter and serious conversation. Her success rate in France had not been not great, though she had to work with whoever showed up at La Baraque and didn’t have the luxury of picking guests who would complement each other.

  “How was Carcassonne?” Molly asked Emily.

  “Oh, it was amazing. It’s just like you said—such ingenious ways of hurting people! Though I suppose we like to think all that’s long past. Don’t think it is, really.”

  “We don’t have to get into that right now,” said Nancy softly. She looked around the table. “Sorry, it’s just that Emily and I can get going on world affairs in a way that’s not really meant for polite company.”

  “Are you on different sides?”

  “Heavens, no! But we direct a lot of cursing at people we don’t approve of.”

  Molly nodded and grinned. “I understand!”

  “Cursing is interesting, from a linguistic perspective,” said Wesley, but then applied himself to his steak and did not elaborate.

  “We saw a reliquary in Cadouin,” said Emily. “You’re familiar with them?”

  “Mummified body parts, right?”

  “Yes. Of famous people—holy people. The one in Cadouin was less grisly, only a wisp of fabric claimed to be a headwrap of Jesus. At any rate, reliquaries were quite the hot commodity in the Middle Ages. Churches fought over them because they had the power to draw a lot of visitors.”

  “Money, in other words,” said Ben.

  “Exactly!” said Emily brightly. “Nothing like having a bit of the Pope’s toe to really bring in the crowds.”

  “Or the Pope’s….” Nancy could not finish the sentence before dissolving in laughter.

  The other stopped eating, waiting to hear.

  “Private parts,” Emily managed to gasp between cackles, and Molly and Ben laughed too.

  Wesley looked uncomfortable. Vasily had eaten his steak and potatoes and sat looking at the older women with a scowl. Molly tried to come up with some way to make him laugh, to reach him somehow, but could think of nothing. She could sense Ben keeping an eye on him even when he was talking to someone else and not looking in Vasily’s direction.

  Molly knew it was considered impolite in France to ask someone what they did for work, but she was desperate for something to say and figured Ben would forgive her. “So what do you do back in Smolensk?” she asked, using every bit of willpower not to look at her watch.

  Fedosia just stared at her and said nothing.

  Oops, thought Molly. Guess it’s rude in Russia too.

  Never had a dinner dragged on like this one.

  She and Ben managed to limp through the rest of the evening, with the help of some pineau after the meal and some slightly off-color jokes told by Emily. And there was no scowly guest on earth that could dim her pleasure in the perfect June evening, with that magical fe
eling left over from childhood—the soft air and birdsong meant that wonderful things were right around the corner, any problems would somehow solve themselves, summer would last an eternity, and all they really had to worry about was what delicious thing to eat next.

  16

  For Molly, it was strange to have a Saturday morning in June with no changeovers. The Russians, Nancy and Emily, and Wesley Addison were all staying over, so Constance came over for only about an hour to empty trashcans, change sheets, give the bathrooms a quick cleaning, and that was it.

  “How’s the wedding planning going?” she asked Molly on her way out the door.

  “I don’t know! Frances has been working under a deadline for the last week and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her. I guess it’s still on? But I haven’t lifted a finger with the planning yet.”

  “I know you love a mad scramble more than anything on earth,” said Constance over her shoulder as she wobbled down the driveway on her bike with Bobo running alongside.

  Do I? Molly thought, turning to go back outside. Maybe just a little.

  She told Bobo to stay and took the scooter down rue des Chênes right after Constance, wanting to go to the market before it got too late to get anything good. On June Saturdays the market was crowded. Most of the tourists in the area were sure to be there, and almost everyone in the village and the surrounding area came, if not to buy, then to gossip and have lunch. The cafés around the Place were full to bursting and the mood was palpably joyful. And why not? The weather was absolute perfection—sunny but not ghastly hot, and there had been enough rain to keep the farmers and gardeners happy. Castillac had apparently returned to its peaceful self, with no apparent work for the gendarmes for months beyond the odd traffic ticket.

  Molly parked the scooter and went straight to her friend Manette, who ran the largest fruit and vegetable stand. She was leaning against the truck with one hand on her lower back, while her older brother waited on customers.

  “Bonjour, Manette!” said Molly loud enough to be heard over the bustling noise of the market-goers. “Are you all right?”

  Manette looked up and smiled. “Bonjour, Molly.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Just…just a bit of a surprise.”

  Molly waited, wondering.

  “Turns out the family’s going to get a bit larger in about six months,” said Manette. “Turns out…forty-two is not too old to get pregnant.”

  “Oh my! Congratulations!” said Molly, kissing her friend on both cheeks and gripping her arms maybe a bit too strongly. A flood of mixed feelings swept through her so quickly that she was unsteady on her feet. “Are you…you’re glad?”

  “Not so much at first. Our youngest is eleven, so we really had moved beyond…the idea of diapers…but you know, we’ve come around. I do adore babies.”

  “Me too,” said Molly softly. She rubbed Manette’s arm and gave a quick glance to her belly which was just a little bigger than before. “So happy to see you and hear your good news. Now I’ll hurry with my order because of the crowd.” She filled her basket with eggplant and strawberries, an impulsive combination that betrayed her discombobulation, and moved off to look for the next items on her list, soap and chicken.

  She always bought soap from a lovely deaf woman who made it herself using plenty of lavender and goat’s milk. Then on to Julien Barbeau, who had very good chickens if you were lucky enough to get there in time to snag one.

  “Bonjour, Julien!” said Molly when it was her turn in line. “How is everything at the farm?”

  “Good, thanks,” he said. “Tell me, would you be willing to pay a little extra for an unusual breed? I’ve been thinking about adding some Bresse to the flock, do you know it? It’s a breed that’s actually been given the AOC designation, just like wine.”

  “Um,” said Molly. “Can I ask you a slightly embarrassing question? I should know this by now, but what exactly is this magical AOC I see all over the place?”

  Julien laughed. “It stands for Appellation d'origine contrôlée. It just means some agricultural product that is special to a certain terroir, or place. Like—Roquefort cheese, right? It only gets the AOC label if it is made in the caves at Roquefort. Any old blue cheese won’t qualify. Now, strictly speaking? Bresse chickens come from eastern France, not the Dordogne. But a breed of chicken will travel pretty well outside its terroir, though purists might insist the feed won’t be the same. Maybe more than you wanted to know!” Julien added with a laugh.

  “Well, the main question is, are they tasty?”

  “Depends what kind of cook you are. But I hear you’re not half bad, for an American.”

  Molly took this as the good-natured teasing it was meant to be. “You don’t have to graduate from Cordon Bleu to roast a chicken. All right, give me that one,” she added, pointing to a nicely plump roaster, one of only five remaining. “How early do you run out, anyway? I don’t want to miss you.”

  “Usually by eleven at the latest,” he said. “You’re back already?” he said to a pretty young woman approaching, whom Molly had never seen before.

  “Molly Sutton, this is my sister, Josette. Molly has roast chicken every week without fail. She’s almost singlehandedly keeping the farm above water.”

  Molly laughed. Josette stared, instantly realizing she was the redhead who peered into the mayor’s backyard in that annoying way.

  “Kidding, Josette, kidding. Five—no, four—more birds and we can get on our way. The lettuce and eggs were gone by nine thirty.”

  “Oh, your eggs! If only I didn’t have to hustle down here at the crack of dawn before you run out.”

  Julien grinned. “It’s not a huge flock because our henhouse isn’t that big. If we could only shake loose some money from our mother, we’d expand, right Josie?”

  Josette mustered a hint of a smile, and nodded.

  Molly paid and stuffed the chicken into her straw bag. “All right, I’m off! Put me on your list for the Bresse, Julien. And good luck with the henhouse,” she added to Josette.

  A bottle of rosé, some late asparagus, and dinner was practically made. She might have some difficult guests, her friends were getting married and having babies at a ridiculous rate, the P.I. business might be languishing…but Molly would have a wonderful meal, perfect in its simplicity, with Ben that night. Not half bad indeed.

  17

  Molly was long gone, already back at La Baraque thinking about whether to put a lemon in the chicken cavity or possibly take a swim in the new pool, when André Lebeau started making his way through the crowded market. He had waited for the moment of peak crowd size and judged it perfectly. He moved along, kissing cheeks and exchanging greetings, smiling at everyone, and throwing out a few winks at young women who watched him with big smiles.

  Since he had no government position—and no job either, to be precise—he could not do much more than make promises about what he would do if he were elected, but he made sure that every small business owner he met got an earful about how much better his business would be with Lebeau on the council.

  Less red tape! Lower taxes! More flexibility to expand! Lebeau was not entirely sure the council had that much control over some of the things he promised, but he figured that even if the specifics were a bit shaky, the overall idea was that he was in favor of supporting the little guy, as opposed to the giant stores that were beginning to crop up at the edge of towns all over France.

  “Why should a giant supermarket be allowed to build right here in Castillac, when we already have the best food available to us right here at the market?” he boomed out, stopping by Julien’s stall as he was beginning to pack up. “I bet your chickens are far better than anything you could buy in a supermarket, right?” he said, clapping Julien on the back.

  “Of course!” Julien answered.

  “And how about you, ma beauté,” Lebeau purred, turning to Josette. She lifted her eyes and saw how his chest muscles showed through his tight shirt. His arms were so big she thought he
could pick her up with one hand. She giggled. André slipped an arm around her small waist. “And no one can say that the French do not have the most beautiful women in all the world!”

  “Don’t know what that has to do with running for council,” muttered an old woman trying to get close enough to see whether there were any chickens left.

  Josette put an arm around Lebeau and he squeezed her closer so that she could smell his cologne. Suddenly she was struck with a pang of anxiety—what if the mayor were to come by, and see her with Lebeau? He might fire her on the spot. Or at least be very, very angry. And what would that do to her campaign for marriage?

  But she pushed those worries away and snuggled close to Lebeau, delighting in the firmness of his body and wondering if he had a girlfriend.

  Lebeau kept talking politics to the crowd but he did not take his arm away from Josette’s waist. He gripped her tightly when making an especially strident point, his fingers digging almost painfully into her flesh.

  “Lebeau for mayor!” someone yelled, and without giving her any warning, Lebeau picked Josette up and put her on his shoulders as though she were no heavier than a doll.

  “Lebeau for mayor!” Josette cried out, in all the excitement forgetting entirely her matrimonial plans for the current mayor.

  * * *

  The next morning Josette arrived at Coulon’s feeling very conflicted. On the one hand, she was guilty for her flirtations with Lebeau the day before. On the other, however, she had enjoyed her moments with Lebeau and was resentful of having to spend any time with Coulon, much less trying to butter him up all the way to marriage.

  Perhaps it was Josette’s somehow expressing these contrary feelings that put Coulon in such a bad mood, but whatever it was, his face was unusually grouchy and he snapped at Josette and told her the coffee wasn’t hot or strong enough.