An Official Killing

by Nell Goddin

  Slowly she moved down the row of nest-boxes, picking up still-warm eggs and gently placing them in the basket. By the end, the basket was heavy and she was on the verge of choking from inhaling stray feathers and the ammonia-laden air.

  But then, slowly, as though her mind were pulling on a thread and unravelling a sweater, Madame Barbeau had an idea. Perhaps it will turn out to be lucky that Josette left the eggs to me this morning, she thought with a wide smile, moving more quickly once she had latched the henhouse door and was hobbling her way back to the farmhouse. Once inside, she carefully put the eggs down and looked underneath the kitchen sink where she kept odds and ends that weren’t used often. She pulled out a narrow box and checked inside to make sure all the narrow gauge needles hadn’t been used. Then, moving slowly but steadily, she went back outside to the herb garden, which was now overflowing with June bounty.

  The tarragon was the size of a small bush, the chives flourishing in several healthy clumps. Behind the chervil, Madame Barbeau found what she was looking for: belladonna, which she had grown as an experiment, having heard that it can help with coughing and fever. Further research, however, in an old tome her husband had left behind, explained that the line between alleviating those conditions and killing the patient was rather thin, and Madame Barbeau had let the project fall by the wayside. She coughed, reminded of the illness that had led her to find belladonna seeds in the first place. The plants were growing nicely, the emerald leaves thick and healthy, with abundant black berries underneath. She picked a handful and brought them back into the kitchen, where she mashed the poison berries into a paste, then added a small amount of sunflower oil.

  How long would it take the poison to seep into the oil, she wondered? She decided to give it until morning, the timing perfect for tomorrow’s market, when she would send Julien off with a very special treat for one of his most loyal and famous customers.

  * * *

  Madame Barbeau was so excited by her plan she could hardly sleep. Just before dawn she got up and put water on for coffee, then rummaged around under the sink for a candle. There was a flurry of agitation when she could not find a match, it being June and not the season for lighting fires (and her cigarette lighter irritatingly misplaced), but eventually after much cursing under her breath she found a mildewed box of matches in a drawer, lit the candle, and waited for the wax to melt.

  In less than a minute she was able to drip a single drop of wax onto an egg. She blew out the candle. She wanted the needle next, but—the box was here a minute ago, now where in the world could it have gone?

  Another ten minutes evaporated as she searched the kitchen counter twenty times, finally bumping her foot against the box of needles on the floor, and realizing she must have knocked it over without noticing. She had bought the needles years ago when…was it the donkey? Or maybe that goat Josette had insisted on having? At any rate, an animal had been ill and needed regular injections of medicine, and the vet had sold her this box of needles so she could administer the shots there on the farm without his having to visit every day. The needles were eighteen gauge, very narrow, and she hoped she could get the point through an eggshell without cracking it.

  Slowly she drew up several cc’s of the belladonna-infused oil. She held the syringe up to the light, the sun just barely starting to glow a rosy pink through the east window. And then, with total concentration, as carefully as she had ever done anything, she held the egg in one hand and placed the tip of the needle into the drop of still-soft wax, and pushed.

  She heard a tiny pock, and the needle was through. With her heart in her throat, Madame Barbeau pushed the plunger and then quickly pulled the needle out.

  No crack.

  She waited a moment, then picked off the drop of wax. Holding the egg in the light, she turned it this way and that, but to her eyes, which were still sharp, the egg looked like any other egg, with no mark, crack, or discoloration to reveal anything different about it apart from the tiny hole where the needle had gone through. Picking up the candle, she let another drop of wax fall on the egg, directly over the almost invisible hole, and without waiting for it to harden, she wiped the wax off with her finger, wanting only the faintest bit to seep into the hole to block it up.

  Perfect. It was a beautiful egg, she thought, admiring its dusky brown color, its weight in her hand, its power. Molly’s second crime was to come poking around the farm, sniffing after evidence that was none of her concern. Her first? Showing up in Castillac, Madame Barbeau’s village, and settling there, making friends, not slaving away on a farm day in and day out but shopping for pretty dresses and going to one social event after another. (Madame Barbeau had a rather cockeyed vision of how Molly spent her days, Molly being more likely to be dressed in a pair of appalling sweatpants with dirt under her fingernails from gardening than wearing a dress and going to fancy teas.)

  Josette and Julien had gotten in very late, but it was market day and time for them to get up and drive into Castillac to set up. Madame Barbeau rousted them and made them toast and coffee, reusing the coffee grounds she had used for her own cup. After they had eaten, she took Julien aside before he went to load up the truck.

  “I want you to do something, Julien. It’s very important that you get it right. Important for our Josette, do you understand?”

  “No, Maman. What are you talking about? Let me get going, I’ve got to load the truck—”

  “Julien! Listen to me! You love your sister, right?”

  “Of course, Maman,” he said impatiently.

  “Take this box of eggs,” she said, having packed all the eggs herself that morning, though it was usually Josette’s job. “See, I have marked it with a small heart, here in the corner. Molly Sutton is a regular customer, is she not? Or was that just a lot of talk the other day?”

  “Yeah, she’s a regular. Whole chicken, a dozen eggs, every week if she gets there in time.”

  “Excellent. All I am asking you to do is make sure this is the box of eggs she gets. Simple. Any idiot could manage that. If she’s late, hold them and wait for her. Don’t give them to anyone else. You understand, Julien? You won’t be a fool?”

  Julien had long ago steeled himself against his mother’s insults and he did not flinch at that one. “Why, Maman? What’s so special about this box?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” she said. “Just do it. For Josette.”

  She did not tell him about the belladonna because she feared he would throw the eggs in the trash. Or perhaps he was even capable of reporting her to the gendarmes. Never one to shy away from unflattering truths, Madame Barbeau understood that her son might not be trustworthy as far as his devotion to her was concerned, but she knew that he would do anything to protect his sister. Madame Barbeau was confident he would do what he was told.

  But at the last minute, after Josette and Julien had rushed around getting the truck loaded, Madame Barbeau decided she would accompany them into the village and make sure Julien managed the job. She couldn’t risk not knowing.

  Josette rode in back so that Madame Barbeau could have the seat in the cab, where she spent the trip sulking about the ingratitude of her children, with only a little time devoted to imagining the delightful prospect of Molly Sutton writhing on the floor after ingesting one very special egg.

  32

  Maron had dragged his feet about letting Ben and Molly into the mayor’s house for a look around, which was no surprise to Ben. He was was well aware of Maron’s ambivalent feelings toward their involvement, fearing the former chief might find some clue that the gendarmes had missed. So it was Saturday before it was arranged. Monsour met the team of Dufort and Sutton at 1 rue Malbec at seven o’clock, saying he would return in an hour to lock up again.

  “Thanks for coming over, we appreciate it,” said Ben. “Got any tidbits you’d like to let fall?” he asked with a grin, mostly just to see Monsour stiffen with resentment, which he promptly did.

  “You of all people—”


  “I know, I know, just joking with you,” said Ben, putting his hand on the glossy green front door and giving it a push. Monsour scuttled off down the sidewalk and Ben and Molly went inside the mayor’s house for the first time.

  They stopped in the foyer and looked around, taking in the feel of the place. It was sparsely decorated, and what decoration there was seemed out of date. Probably Coulon’s mother had chosen the curtains and hung the pictures, and he had just left everything as it was, but the house felt a bit like stepping into a time capsule from thirty or forty years ago.

  “We don’t have much time. I’ll take the upstairs while you do down?” said Molly.

  Ben agreed and headed into the kitchen, which was neat and orderly, everything put away. The refrigerator held a minimal amount of vegetables, three bottles of local wine, and a big chunk of butter in a tub. In the door were several varieties of jam, Bonne Maman with the gingham-checked lid.

  Leaving the kitchen, he checked out the living and dining rooms, which looked barely used. Not surprising for a bachelor, though perhaps odd for a mayor, who might be expected to host some social events in his house, considering how nice a house it was. Quickly Ben went outside and let himself into the small workshop, but saw nothing of interest. Going in the backdoor, he joined Molly upstairs. On the second floor were three bedrooms, one clearly belonging to Coulon, one empty, and the other a guest room with a large dark stain on the rug.

  Ben stood for a long moment with his eyes on the stain. He wasn’t praying exactly, but paying respects to the man who had died there. He hadn’t really known Coulon (and their limited acquaintance had never suggested he would like him) but nevertheless, he was regretful about his death and fervent about catching his killer.

  When he looked up and began to search the room, he felt a sort of hyper-awareness come over him, a physical sensation that caused time to slow and all his senses to ratchet up; it was almost unpleasant, and at one time had caused him a great deal of anxiety, but with a change in perspective, he now considered that sensation one of the best tools of his trade. At bottom, Ben wanted to understand people. He wanted to perceive through their choices, even careless, thoughtless ones, what they really felt and believed, and thus how they would act. And that was how he got closer and closer to the truth.

  Molly, meanwhile, had been using her powers of imagination, trying to visualize the murder that had taken place in that room so recently. The bedroom was neat and clean. The coverlet looked fresh and the pile of pillows in lacy pillowcases was undisturbed. She knew it was unlikely that the murder weapon was still in the room after Maron, Monsour, and the forensics team had been through it, but nevertheless she got down on the floor and looked under the bed, and opened all the drawers in the dresser and armoire. She and Ben found no knife, no blade, nothing sharp enough to slit a throat.

  They trotted up to the third floor but the rooms were mostly empty. A silver knight on a silver horse was displayed on the landing of the stairs; it was dust-free but seemed a bit lonesome there, where no one would see it but the housemaid.

  Back downstairs to Coulon’s bedroom. Ben stood for a long while, thinking that people probably spend more time in their bedrooms than anyplace else, and it would seem reasonable for something of interest to be found there—some expression of personality, if nothing more concrete than that. But Coulon had been orderly in his habits and there was no clutter to go through, no letters anywhere that Ben or Molly could find, not even any scribbled notes or papers or lists. Just an ugly painting on the wall over his bed, a sculpture of a swan, and clothes neatly hanging in the armoire. A novel with a tattered cover on the bedside table.

  “Back in school, I thought he was kind of a nobody,” said Ben. “Surprising, really, that he managed to get himself elected mayor all these years. And this house…is the house of someone who either keeps himself hidden, or has no personality at all.”

  “Did he glorify his parents, is that why the house feels as though everything is unchanged from the 1970s?”

  “Maybe he was simply uninterested in his surroundings, and put his attention somewhere else?”

  And if so, thought Molly, where?

  * * *

  She had to admit, a Saturday with no changeover to worry about was pretty sweet. After the fruitless search of Coulon’s house, Molly hopped on the scooter to head straight to Pâtisserie Bujold, but the engine coughed and died. She started it again and it caught, begrudgingly, but Molly mentally waved away any worry that her beloved might be asking in its own mechanical fashion for a spa day at the repair shop. There were almond croissants to consider and the glories thereof, and she delighted in the wind whipping through her hair as she sped through the narrow streets, stomach growling, though she quickly hit a large crowd and decided to park and walk the rest of the way.

  In June, the market really got some momentum, with so much local produce on offer as well as tourists to buy it up. Castillac, on the whole, did not see many visitors otherwise. On that particular market day, Molly saw many unfamiliar faces as she made her way through the Place toward the bakery. She wondered briefly whether it was possible that the mayor might have had the terrible luck to get killed by some random stranger. She and Ben tended to dismiss that possibility in their investigations, but maybe that was a mistake. There were sociopaths who murdered strangers for no reason, even if it wasn’t as common as most people seemed to think. Someone might have rung his doorbell and talked his or her way inside, and dispatched him before he had a chance to get suspicious. A woman most probably, she thought, remembering that the body had been found in a bedroom, and wondering how susceptible Coulon might have been to a seductive stranger.

  She was so lost in thought that she walked right into a young boy who was waiting in a line to buy a comic at the Presse, the line having snaked right out the door onto the sidewalk. “Oh my, I’m so sorry!” she said. “Are you—Gilbert! It’s so nice to run into you! I mean—well, I did run into you, literally, but I mean, it’s so nice to see you! How is everything?”

  Gilbert was grinning. “Bonjour, Madame Sutton,” he said politely. “Are you working on the mayor’s case?”

  “You bet,” said Molly confidentially. “I don’t know if you heard that Ben Dufort and I have our own investigation business now?”

  “Of course I know about that, everyone does!”

  Molly was about to say that when he got a little older, they might be able to hire him to do some legwork from time to time, but his mother, the formidable Madame Renaud, appeared and clamped one hand on Gilbert’s shoulder.

  “Bonjour Madame Sutton,” she said, her voice chilly. The two women had met during another case, and the boy’s mother was not a fan of Molly’s, or of anyone who got too close to her Gilbert.

  “Bonjour Madame Renaud. Lovely June day! So nice to see you both.”

  The Renauds moved off into the crowd, Gilbert craning his neck to watch Molly as his mother marched him away.

  Molly spied Manette and scurried over to say hello, just barely able to put off getting the almond croissant for a few moments longer. Manette’s face was rosy and smiling as she laid a head of lettuce in a customer’s straw bag after weighing it. Molly checked to see how her belly was looking and could see, with mixed feelings, the swell of her friend’s unexpected pregnancy.

  “How are you doing?” she asked, as they kissed cheeks.

  “It doesn’t get easier with age, that’s for sure!” laughed Manette, and Molly nodded, thinking of her upcoming birthday. Forty. Forty! She knew it wasn’t really old—she had friends many decades older who were very active and busy with a million things.

  But for having her own baby? Forty felt old.

  “Well, you look blooming,” she said to her friend. “It must agree with you.”

  “You on the case?” asked Manette, leaning close so no one could eavesdrop.

  “You know it,” said Molly with a grin. “Listen, I’m rushing off to Pâtisserie Bujold—if I don’t
get some coffee in the next five minutes I might expire on the spot.”

  “Understood. Go, go!” said Manette, and turned to the man who was next in line.

  Molly walked quickly in the direction of the bakery, and by avoiding people she knew was just about to leave the market when she spied Julien Barbeau. Might as well get that stop out of the way before he runs out of chicken, she thought.

  “Julien! Glad I caught you. How are you? Is Josette holding up okay?”

  “Bonjour, Molly,” said Julien. He was smiling widely and a bit stupidly, having cracked open a beer as he set up first thing in the morning and continuing to drink as his customers started showing up. “She’s fine. I’m the one feeling the stress, you know?” He giggled infectiously and Molly joined him. “Sorry I missed your visit the other day. Hear you’re working the Coulon case.”

  “News does travel,” she said, half under her breath.

  “The usual?”

  “Please,” said Molly, suddenly feeling faint from lack of caffeine and sugar. Julien put a wrapped whole chicken in Molly’s bag, and carefully placed a carton of eggs on top.

  “Aw, you put a little heart on it,” said Molly. “Nice touch.” It was one of her failings as an innkeeper, she thought, not making enough small gestures like that. They could really make people feel special without much effort, and her mind just did not seem to travel in that direction. Making a vow to do better, she handed over some bills and waved goodbye. “Give my best to Josette and your mother,” she called over her shoulder, walking quickly and then breaking into a trot, desperate to reach Nugent’s shop and the life-giving sustenance within, and never noticing the dark figure of Madame Barbeau, who sat in the shade of a tree behind some crates, watching her very carefully.