by Nell Goddin
Maron speeded up, anxious to get to the farm and put some distance between himself and Monsour.
“One time, when I was no more than nine or ten, a man living in the apartment building next to our—”
“Paul-Henri? If this has nothing to do with the case, just save it, okay?”
Monsour pressed his lips together. He did not understand why Maron disliked him so much, but at the moment, the feeling was entirely mutual.
* * *
Finally, Maron turned into the short driveway of the Barbeau farm. The farmhouse sat by the side of the road, squatty and old, not charming. There was a dilapidated barn and a henhouse out back. The place did not have the air of neglect so much as want of funds; the grass was cut, and a neat stack of wood stood near the door, though paint was peeling and the roof had sections of orange tile that were cracked, with pieces missing.
“Remember, keep the mother busy,” said Maron. “If Josette is home, I’d like to ask her some questions without Madame Barbeau hanging around and butting her nose in. Obviously I don’t expect a murder weapon to be lying around in plain sight, but keep an eye out anyway. Look for things that seem out of place, anything that might have been pilfered from the Coulon house, understand?”
“Got it,” said Monsour, resigned to getting the worse assignment every time.
The driveway was empty, no truck in sight. Maron worried that he might have missed Josette again, but just as he was climbing the two steps to knock on the front door, it swung open and a pretty young woman smiled at them.
“Bonjour, Messieurs?” she said. “What can I do for you?”
Maron felt his irritation at Paul-Henri melt away at the sound of her voice, which was not particularly melodious but had a scratchy quality he found instantly seductive. Even more than her voice, however, was the rest of her; she was dressed in a grubby pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but the jeans were tight in all the right places, and the shirt might have been custom made for the way it flattered her bountiful, curvy figure. Her chestnut hair fell to her shoulders, charmingly tousled as though she had just rolled out of bed.
Maron opened his mouth but no sound came out.
Monsour was similarly struck by Josette’s good looks, but did not lose his footing. “Bonjour Mademoiselle. You are Josette Barbeau? We are Officers Maron and Monsour of the Castillac gendarmerie. We would like to ask you a few questions about the unfortunate death of your employer. Why don’t you come outside on this beautiful June day, and we can talk here?” Monsour gestured to the unkempt yard as though inviting her into a serene garden.
“I…oh, it’s just terrible,” breathed Josette, quickly leaving the house and closing the door before Maman saw them. “Monsieur Coulon was very good to me. I can’t believe it! I was so sad to hear the news.” Her coloring brightened and the men both noticed tears beginning to gather in the corners of her dark brown eyes.
“It must have come as quite a shock,” murmured Maron. He blinked his eyes hard, trying to block out the distraction of her sensual presence. “Is your mother home? Monsour, go ask Madame Barbeau if she objects to our having a look around. Josette, why don’t you show me the farm, and I can run through my questions as we walk?”
“Sure, Officer,” said the young woman.
“I’m chief, actually,” said Maron, the first time he had ever said such a thing. Her eyelashes were thick and dark against her cheek when she looked down, he noticed. And her bottom, generous and round, her waist so narrow…he blinked again, feeling himself almost on the verge of panting, she was having such a dramatic effect on him. It’s just an animal reaction, he told himself: now pull yourself together and do the interview.
“Now then,” he said gruffly. “Tell me about the morning of June 13th, this last Monday. Was anyone at the Coulon house besides you? Did you let anyone in…any workers, delivery man, anyone at all?”
“Oh, that’s the strange thing. I wasn’t there. I’ve barely missed a day of work in all the years I was the mayor’s housemaid. Not quite three altogether? Anyway, on Monday I wasn’t feeling well so I didn’t go in. I guess that’s lucky in a way because otherwise maybe the murderer would have killed me too! But on the other hand, maybe, somehow? I might have been able to save him.” She looked off into the woods and a tear trickled down her rosy cheek.
“I see,” said Maron. “You were home with your mother? How about Julien? Where was he?”
“You know my brother?”
“You do have the best chickens.”
“Thank you, chief!” she said, with a warm grin. “So let’s see, Julien is usually gone most mornings. He goes to get feed, things for the barn, I don’t know all of what he gets up to. You know how men are,” she added, giving Maron a shy smile.
“Indeed,” said Maron, nearly choking. He had lost virtually all professional distance, and instead of concerning himself with the mayor’s case, he was thinking about the completely inappropriate things he wanted to do with this potential witness.
He cleared his throat and tried to get back on track. “Well, all right. Let’s see…in the time you have worked there—over two years, you say?—have you had any occasion to think someone had a major beef with the mayor for any reason? Have you overheard arguing, anything like that?
Josette put a finger on her chin and looked up at the sky. She tapped the finger, and Maron stared at it, mesmerized. He stepped closer so that he could inhale the scent of her body, unmasked by any perfume.
“I don’t think so,” she said finally. “I was wondering if it was a burglar who killed him. He had plenty of valuable things in that house, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, silver things. Lots of paintings. There was even a silver knight on a silver horse, up on the third floor. I kept asking him, why don’t you bring it downstairs where people can see it? And he’d say he was afraid someone might steal it.” She finished with an air of finality, as though that anecdote clinched the case, and all the gendarmes had to do was find the thief who had come into the mayor’s house and killed him.
As they talked, they had moved away from the house a little ways, over near the henhouse. Maron pointed to it. “What’s in there?”
“The chickens, silly,” she answered, unable to believe anyone wouldn’t know such a thing.
“Did you work on the farm before getting the job at the mayor’s?”
Josette laughed. “I worked on the farm before, during, and after! You’re not from Castillac, right? A big city somewhere?”
Maron nodded. “My family is from Lille.” He started to say something more about his upbringing, things he had never told anyone, but stopped himself in time. “And what are your jobs on the farm?”
“You’re easy to talk to. I could talk to you all day,” said Josette. “But what do my chores have to do with the mayor?”
“I’m just curious. I’d like to know how you spend your days.”
They had passed the henhouse and gone into a field. The sun was shining and the grass in the field a strikingly bright green thanks to an overnight rain. It felt deeply peaceful on the Barbeau farm, with only the bucolic sounds of clucking hens and a donkey trotting over to them to break the silence. Josette chattered about farm work and her love of animals as they approached a small pond, where she fell silent. She turned to face him, her eyes tearing up again from emotion, and it was all Maron could do not to throw his arms around her and kiss her deeply on the mouth.
The moment tested him like no other since he had joined the gendarmerie, but he did manage to resist, even if for a long moment he couldn’t form any words.
* * *
While Maron was allowing Josette to stomp on the last shreds of his professional objectivity, Monsour was ensconced in the dingy farmhouse, drinking a terrible cup of coffee with Madame Barbeau. He may not have been the most competent junior officer the Castillac force had ever seen—the much-missed Thérèse Perrault probably took those honors—but he believed he had one skill that came
in handy more than occasionally: Monsour understood older women, and knew how to handle them.
“So you didn’t grow up in the country at all? It must have been so difficult for you to adapt to life on a farm, after growing up in Castillac.”
“Oh, it was, it was,” said Madame Barbeau, nodding and fixing her large gray eyes on him. “You know how young love is,” she said, giving a wink that sent chills through him. “I thought Adolph was the moon and stars! Turned out he was nothing but a mean, penny-pinching…well, that’s over and done with, long ago. I suppose you want to know anything I can tell you about Monsieur Coulon. But I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell. My Josette was very happy at the mayor’s. He treated her well, paid on time, wasn’t a difficult employer. She’s quite upset by the news, as you can imagine. Do you have any leads, any idea about who could have done this horrible thing?”
“We’re completely in the dark,” Monsour said, with a confidential tone. “Did Josette ever mention anything like…someone coming over and arguing with the mayor? Did she tell you about overhearing any angry phone calls, anything like that? Or did the mayor talk about anyone in a negative way, someone feuding with him or something along those lines?” He broke away from Madame Barbeau and walked slowly through the large room as he spoke, looking around for anything that seemed even a little bit suspicious.
“She never did. You think it was some bad blood that got him killed? I don’t know how you gendarmes ever get anywhere with a case like this. Seems like the possibilities are literally endless. There are psychopaths that wander the country, killing people at random, you hear about that from time to time. Or someone might have been blackmailing the mayor, and they got into a tussle. And who knows what kind of business dealings he was involved in! Not to say the mayor was crooked—like I say, he was always good to our Josette, so I won’t say anything against him. And of course, there’s an ex-wife. She probably had a hundred reasons to kill him. Is it allowed—can you tell me how the mayor was killed?”
“Throat cut.”
“Ouch,” said Madame Barbeau, but Monsour turned back to her and thought he saw a slow smile creep over her face.
“Was Josette very upset when she got home from work that day? I understand that it was someone working at the mairie who found him. Why wasn’t Josette there when it happened, if you know? Of course, if she knew the mayor had been attacked, she should have called us immediately. But I do understand,” he said, giving Madame Barbeau a sympathetic look, “that sometimes in a moment of crisis, we flee instead of thinking clearly about what must be done.”
“Oh, it wasn’t anything like that. She was home sick,” said Madame Barbeau. “I don’t mind telling you, as you seem to be a decent young man, that I’m glad she wasn’t there. You never want your daughter mixed up in anything like this.”
“Of course. Quite understandable,” said Monsour, running his eyes over everything he could see in the kitchen, but seeing nothing at all that didn’t fit with the generally rundown feel of the house. “Was anyone outside of the family here that day, who might have seen Josette?”
“Are you saying she’s a suspect?” said Madame Barbeau, drawing back in surprise.
“No, madame. I am only asking the usual questions and making an effort to have corroboration for every statement anyone connected to the case makes. Standard procedure, that is all.”
“Well, now that you mention it—talk to Rémy, the organic farmer. He was out here that day, and he and Josette spent a little time together in the henhouse. He’s looking to expand and asked if we were interested in growing some out-of-the-way vegetables he claims there’s a market for.”
Monsour was not interested in vegetable farming, but he made the note to talk to Rémy. His gaze lingered on a set of knives hanging from a wire strung below one of the few kitchen windows, especially noting the cleaver. Not being a cook or a butcher, he had never wielded one, and he guessed correctly that Madame Barbeaus was an expert.
But it was not Madame Barbeau who had killed the mayor, unless this case was more tangled than they knew, and Monsour kept looking.
“You sell eggs, as well as chickens?” he said, seeing a large stack of egg cartons on the kitchen counter.
“You don’t shop with Julien?” said Madame Barbeau, pretending to be affronted. “Yes, although not as many as we’d like. They sell out quickly, believe me. Maybe now that Josette has lost her position, we can increase the laying flock. She was limited for time, you understand, while she was at the mayor’s, and I’m afraid I don’t have that many hours of work in me a day. Arthritis,” she said holding out her gnarled hands for Monsour to see.
“Oh, my,” he said, taking them in his own, and giving them a light rub. “I’m a city boy, as you’ve no doubt figured out, but anyone knows that running a farm takes many hands and many hours!”
If her mind were not racing in ten different directions, Madame Barbeau might have enjoyed Monsour’s visit more than anything in along time. As it was, she was wracked with worry about Josette outside alone with that other officer, whom she could tell in the few minutes she had seen him the day before, was very much more a force to be reckoned with than the mealy-mouthed excuse for a gendarme taking up space in her kitchen. Josette will never know how to handle herself, she thought. And it wouldn’t be the first time that an innocent person gets blamed for something she did not do.
“I want to speak with the chief,” she said moving for the door, and despite her arthritis, was spry enough to get out before Monsour could think of a way to stop her.
26
With some trepidation, Odile Dupont pulled her late-model Peugeot into the driveway of La Baraque. After parking, she checked her makeup in the mirror on the underside of the sun-visor, and got out of the car. A large pile of pulled weeds stood wilting in the sun by the front flower border, and the well-dressed woman scowled at it, never being one to tolerate any sort of messiness at her own house. Nervously she twisted a ring on her right hand, an understated but beautifully cut sapphire flanked by diamonds.
Molly answered the knock quickly. The two redheads looked at each other for a moment in surprise.
“Bonjour?” Molly said at last.
Odile jerked her head. “Oh! I’m sorry, bonjour madame, I am Odile Dupont. Former wife of Maxime Coulon?”
“Nice to meet you. Molly Sutton.” She held out her hand and they shook. “Please come in. And excuse my clothes, I’ve been working in the garden.”
Odile looked at the grass-stains on Molly’s pants and said nothing.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes. Well, maybe. I hope so. I’m sorry to bother you like this, showing up unannounced, but somehow the telephone just did not seem…”
“Come in, come in,” said Molly, praying that the chance to get in on the Coulon case might actually be standing right on her doorstep. “Can I make you a coffee? Tea?”
“No, no thank you.” They walked to the somewhat disheveled living room and sat down, Molly inwardly cringing at the sweater flung over the back of the sofa and the sloppy pile of gardening magazines on the floor. Surreptitiously she snatched an empty glass from the side table and shoved it under the sofa.
“I’m so sorry to hear about Maxime,” Molly said. “I’m divorced myself, so I understand it’s somewhat complicated…of course, just because you separated doesn’t mean you wished for something terrible to happen. Obviously.” Jeez, did I not drink enough coffee this morning? I sound like a fool.
“Yes, you’re exactly right,” said Odile, her face visibly relaxing. “I’m grateful to hear you put that into words. Our divorce was not a friendly one, as I’m sure anyone in the village will tell you. And that’s…that’s why I’m here.”
Molly met her eyes and waited. She thought back to the conversation she had overheard, between Odile and a friend at the Café de la Place, when Odile had said something about her husband getting pushed in front of a train. Surely that had just been exag
geration, an attempt to be amusing?
Odile looked away and fidgeted with the sapphire ring. “You see, I have my own business. Perhaps you have seen them, or been a customer? My shops are called Beauté Simple, so far in Bergerac and Brive. More to come, I hope.”
“Congratulations. I’m sure that’s the result of a great deal of hard work! Speaking as someone running my own business here at La Baraque, I know a little of what you’re up against.”
“Oh yes? What sort?” Asked Odile, glancing around doubtfully.
“A gîte business,” said Molly. “Of course it’s not nearly as complicated as what you’re doing. But you know, still the constant need to take care of problems, worry about the bottom line, plan how to improve, all that. Is the problem you’re having related to Beauté Simple?”
“Sort of. Well, not exactly. Let me explain. It’s only that…in retail, image is everything. Everything. The design of the shops, the tubes and bottles, the way I dress—everything gives customers an impression, you understand? And let me tell you, murder is most definitely not something I want associated with my brand!”
Molly noticed Odile’s hands trembling, and she was fairly certain it was not caused by sorrow over her ex’s fate.
“This business with Maxime needs to be wrapped up immediately or I’m worried it may cause permanent damage. This sort of scandal—and I don’t pretend to have the slightest idea who killed him or why, but whatever the story is, it’s something terribly seedy and low, that’s obvious enough—this sort of scandal can ruin a brand. Just ruin it—to the point where it cannot be salvaged.”
Molly held her breath. She thought, this woman hated her husband. And is not sorry about his death.
“Thankfully, thus far my business has done very well, so I have the funds to hire you. Name your price, Molly. You come with the highest recommendations from every person I have spoken with. Lapin Broussard especially.”
