Death in Darkness

by Nell Goddin

  “I came here hoping to find a decent potato,” the chief said to Ninette at the register, who was the daughter of the shop owners. “But you’re charging a ridiculous amount for what you have. Look—it’s practically shriveled.”

  “Oh!” said Ninette, so taken aback she was at a loss for words. She recognized the new chief because her boyfriend had pointed her out on the street the day before, but they had not been introduced. Ninette wasn’t sure whether she should pretend she had no idea who Chief Charlot was, or proceed as though they knew each other. In the confusion, she said nothing but stood with her mouth open, staring.

  “Come on now, give me a discount. It’s the least you can do. And if you would, pass along my comments about the state of your produce. I’d have purchased lettuce—I hate the idea of lunch with no salad—but every bit of it was so wilted I just could not in good conscience pay money for it.”

  “Discount?” said Ninette, her voice quavering a bit.

  “I’ll take thirty percent off. Thank you.” Chief Charlot tossed a few euros on the counter, put her groceries in a straw bag she had brought with her, and left.

  Paul-Henri had heard every word. When the chief was long gone, he stepped out from the aisle and looked at Ninette.

  “What in the world?” he said.

  “Oh my God, What a horrible person. There is nothing at all wrong with our potatoes!”

  “Or your lettuce,” said Paul-Henri. “Doesn’t Rémy bring it fresh every morning?”

  “Yes! Oh, I can’t believe it. It was bad enough when Dufort quit, and we got that moody Maron hanging around all the time. I never liked him, not one bit. But now I want him back!”

  Paul-Henri paid for his Perrier and said goodbye, heading in the direction away from the station, thinking Chief Charlot had probably gone there. On the one hand, it pleased him probably more than it should that the new chief was unpopular. And if she continued to argue and be disagreeable to all the shopkeepers, she would soon be hated throughout the village, which couldn’t help but raise his own popularity.

  On the other hand, he had to work with her. Well, maybe she’s just cheap, and that won’t affect me so much, he thought. But with a sudden sense of purpose, he headed straight to the station, intending to email some of his colleagues in Paris to ask if they knew anything about Chantal Charlot, either from personal experience or reputation. Much better to know what he’s dealing with than go along in blissful ignorance, he thought grimly.

  Ben was out for a run and Molly was debating whether or not to make another pot of coffee when she heard a gentle knock on the front door.

  “Oh, bonjour, Arthur!” she said, ushering the guest inside. “Do you have those papers you want me to put in the safe? I really should ask about valuables when I’m showing guests to their rooms. Some crazy things have happened over the years here at La Baraque, but so far I’ve been lucky that nothing’s been stolen—at least, no one has reported anything. An innkeeper’s nightmare, as you might imagine.”

  Arthur looked a bit stunned by Molly’s chatter but nodded and tried to summon a pleasant expression. He had not slept well. The shock of finding Emilia in his room the day before had upset him far more than it should, he thought. It’s not as though he was a Resistance fighter and she a Gestapo agent. And she had just been standing there looking around, not rifling through his luggage.

  “I’m wondering…” he began, but faltered.

  Molly waited. There was no telling what a guest might need or want, and it was always interesting to see what they came up with.

  “You see, I am in this part of France trying to research a relative of mine.”

  Molly nodded encouragingly.

  “She is a cousin, on my father’s side, and they say she fought with the Resistance. I understand this area was involved heavily in such fighting?”

  Molly shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not the person to ask. I do know that there was some fighting nearby—a terrible massacre in Mussidan, for one thing. I’ve heard stories of French families being hidden at certain farms, and I’m sure there’s much, much more. I’d suggest talking to Madame Gervais, who lives in the village. Would you like me to make an introduction? She was a young woman at the time—not a child—and I believe she knows quite a lot about it. Though I’ll admit, she’s not necessarily that open about it. In my limited experience, a lot of people who have lived through terrible war do not want to talk about it.”

  “That would be a disappointment.”

  “Maybe it’s too painful to dig through those memories. Or maybe words just can’t express what it was like.”

  Arthur nodded and said something, but Bobo burst into raucous barking and drowned out whatever he said. A panel truck was turning into the driveway just as the mail-truck pulled up to the mailbox, and Ben could be seen breezing down rue des Chênes on his way back home.

  “Heavens, La Baraque is like a three-ring circus these days! I’ll take those papers, Arthur? I promise to keep them safe. Au revoir—I have to deal with this—”

  Molly got the truck headed for the worksite and got a sweaty kiss from Ben.

  “I found a new trail, back up behind the Bourgey’s place,” he said. “Maybe you’ll come with me sometime.”

  “If we walk. I wasn’t built for running. Bobo, hush for crying out loud.”

  Ben reached down to give the dog some attention while Molly checked the mail. “Bills, bills, ads, ads, oh! What in the world?” She held up a square envelope of heavy cream-colored paper, with her and Ben’s names and the address written in elegant calligraphy.

  “No idea,” said Ben.

  Molly flipped it over and saw an engraved address on the back flap, but did not recognize it. She tore open the envelope and pulled out a heavy card.

  We would be so pleased if you could come to dinner. Friday 19h. RSVP at simonvalette@Valette.fr

  “Curious,” said Ben.

  “I’ll say! Have you met them? How did we get on the guest list?”

  “No idea.”

  “You keep saying that. What kind of detective are you?”

  Ben swatted her on the rump and Molly let out a shriek and ran for the house. Bobo danced between them, barking.

  6

  The following morning, Ben left right after breakfast to drive to Bergerac and inspect the house of Bernard Petit, while Molly spent the morning digging vines out of the front border—a never-ending, thankless job—and then meeting with Monsieur Gradin to discuss the barn rebuilding. The Jenkinses left to see the cathedral in Périgueux. There was no sign of Arthur or the Badowskis, and the Mertenses seemed perfectly content to sit at the small table outside the cottage, lingering over fresh croissants and watching the activity in the yard at La Baraque.

  Ben took the short cut to Bergerac, a series of twisting, narrow roads that wound through forests and farmland, until in short order he was waiting at a stop light on the fringes of the small city. He found Petit’s house without any trouble and parked his battered Renault a few blocks away so he could stretch his legs on the way to the meeting.

  Despite his dislike of Petit, he was quite pleased to have the job—mostly for the sake of Dufort/Sutton Investigations, but also simply because the case was an interesting enough mystery to pique his curiosity. Who was stealing from the house? Were the thefts done purely for money or was there another motive? And how was he going to catch the thief?

  Petit answered the door and mumbled a greeting. “All right then, come in,” he said, irritably, as though Ben had appeared at his door to pester him.

  Ben smiled. “First I’d like—”

  “Come on upstairs, I’ll show you the closet where the shoe trees were stolen.” Petit began lumbering up a graceful wooden staircase with a patterned carpet running down the center.

  Ben did not move. “Before you do that, I would first like to see all the entrances to the house, including basement doors and windows. If you please,” he added, with only a faint edge.

  Th
e two men stood and looked at each other. Petit broke first, shaking his very large head. “Have it your way,” he said gruffly. “Front door, obviously, you just saw.”

  “How long has that lock been on the door? Do you use that inner deadbolt when you’re home?”

  “No, I don’t. Well, occasionally I might, if I happen to think of it on my way upstairs. You’re not suggesting someone is coming in while I’m here? They wouldn’t be able to get into the closet in my bedroom if that were the case!” Petit glared at Ben.

  “I’m asking routine questions, Monsieur Petit, calm down. The point of routine questions is to fill in the big picture, so I have a good idea of your habits regarding security.”

  Petit shrugged and looked away. “The lock’s been there quite a while. Never had any problems with it, never needed to change it.”

  “Who else has a key?”

  “My children, I suppose, but as I say, they are in school and haven’t been home in months. We don’t get on all that well. Not every family is a happy, joyous group, you know.”

  “Right,” said Ben. “And you’re sure they haven’t been back, maybe came to Bergerac to see friends, something like that?”

  “I can’t say it’s categorically impossible,” said Petit, raising his voice. “But my children did not steal the shoe trees!”

  Ben sighed. “I am not suggesting they did. I am only trying to understand who might have been going in and out of the house in the last few months, that is all. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re quite…unsettled, Monsieur Petit. Is something bothering you, I mean apart from the thefts?”

  “Did I hire you to be my psychiatrist or private investigator? I’ll thank you to limit your investigation to the job as I have described it. Allow me to state the situation again in case you missed it: over the course of several months, someone has been coming into my house and stealing my things. Nothing exceptionally valuable, thank God. I have found no broken windows or other evidence of a break-in. I have fired my housekeeper and hired a new one. Yet the thefts have continued.”

  Ben kept his expression unperturbed, though he couldn’t spend five minutes in Petit’s company without wanting to punch him in the nose. “Would you list the stolen items, please?” He pulled out a small pad and had a pen at the ready.

  “All right,” said Petit, seeming a bit mollified. “The shoes trees, as I believe I have mentioned. Pillowcases, at least six or eight. All the umbrellas from the umbrella stand.” He tapped his sausage-sized finger against his chin, thinking.

  “All somewhat utilitarian items, then.”

  “What do you mean? That they’re useful? Well, anything is useful one way or another, or it wouldn’t exist.”

  Ben shrugged. “So three different items at three different times?”

  “Yes. I feel like there’s something I’m forgetting, but that’s what I remember for now.”

  “Are you often forgetful?”

  “Dammit, Dufort! For the last time, you are not investigating the inside of my head! The shoe trees, please!”

  Hiding a smile, Ben went upstairs followed by Petit. He rather thought that every investigation, no matter what it was about on the surface, was about the insides of people’s heads. And even though he thought Petit to be a dreadful person and disliked him intensely, it was also true that the inside of Petit’s head held some mysteries Ben was not incurious about.

  Did someone want to torment the man? If so, the plan appeared to be working. Was someone only trying to steal things that might not be missed…no, that couldn’t be right, anyone’s going to notice when the pillowcases all disappear right off the pillows. Why was Petit so exceptionally grouchy, and why did his children not get along with him?

  Ben did his best to remember all the questions flooding his mind as Petit showed him around the house. He took notes from time to time and did not see anything at this first inspection that gave him any hint about why Petit’s household stuff was disappearing. Which was a little nerve-wracking, because Petit did not seem to be the kind of client whose middle name was Patience. He wanted answers, and it was obvious that if he didn’t get them soon, things were going to turn even more testy.

  7

  Raphael Valette suddenly stood up from his chair and went to the window. The sky was nearly black, with clouds roiling up behind the line of trees, a stiff breeze whipping the branches. He put his palms against the glass, listening.

  He heard his son in the corridor outside his door—his mind was not clear on many things, but he knew the sound of his son’s footsteps as well as those of the other members of the household. Raphael spent most of his time in his room, listening with a troubled intensity to everything that went on beyond his door, and it had not taken long in the new house before he was used to the sound of the creak on the third step, the way Chloë skipped whenever she went down the long stretch of the corridor, how Violette barely made any sound at all.

  He felt lifted up by the approaching storm, welcoming its violence.

  Seeing an unfamiliar car in the drive, he grimaced. There were strangers in the house. He didn’t want them there. With a flash of comprehension, he saw that all he had to do was descend the stairs and tell the people to leave. And if they did not listen, he would take more forceful action. He would get rid of them easily enough.

  Simon Valette was standing in the bedroom with his shirt off, covered in stone dust. “Camille, if you had only asked me…”

  “Asked you? If I had asked you, you’d have said no. You know you would have. And I just…I know it was impulsive, but it will come off all right. I’m not exactly a beginner who’s never thrown a party before.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s only that the stress…”

  “Oh, I’m absolutely sick to death of that word! If you try to make everything free of stress you end up with nothing! No existence at all that anyone would want! And I’d be stuck here with you and your father, and that Violette, and—”

  Simon cocked his head and narrowed his eyes just a bit, but Camille was ever-alert to any disapproval on the part of her husband. Or anyone at all. Switching tactics, her voice softened. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Simon.”

  “Violette is lovely with the children and we’re lucky to have her. Not everyone would put up with being in a household with my father—and darling, I know it’s hardly a perfect solution, but what is? I couldn’t leave him in that antiseptic, uncaring place. Even on days when he didn’t recognize me, I swear he was staring at me with a kind of fury because I had put him there.”

  “He had a bad spell this morning.”

  “How so?”

  “Snarled at me. Told me to stop stealing his scissors. That he absolutely knew I had them and I had better put them back or else.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not. He may turn out to be more than we can handle by ourselves.”

  “Not yet, Camille. It’s not as though he actually hurts anyone, it’s just meaningless bluster.”

  “Paranoid bluster. It reminds me of…you know, the people in the hospital.”

  Simon nodded but did not want his wife going down that road. “What time are the guests coming? And how in the world did you come up with a guest list?”

  “Well, I…you’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”

  Simon went to the armoire in the hallway to get a towel. “I’m sure I won’t. Just tell me. You haven’t met anyone yet, have you?”

  “Last week, when you went to the school, to talk to the principal? I strolled into the village by myself.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether it was wise!” Camille snapped. “I did it! I’m not an invalid, so don’t talk to me that way! I have ears and eyes, Simon, sometimes I think you forget that. I’m not broken.”

  “Sorry, you know I’m only trying to look out for you. All right, so how did you get any names and addresses? I assume you sent invitations and didn’t call people up
out of the blue?”

  “As I was saying, while you were at the school, I went into the village and had a coffee at the little café right on the Place, across from that statue. It was an odd time, between breakfast and lunch, so the restaurant was empty except for me. The waiter there—he’s very sweet. I told him I was new to the village and asked if he could tell me about some of the people who live here.”

  “And then you just invited them all to dinner?” This was so out of Simon’s experience that he could not quite believe his wife had done such a thing. “We’ve got a random assortment of people coming to dinner tonight, all friends of the waiter, people you have not actually even met?”

  “You’re not…that wasn’t sarcasm, was it?”

  “Never, my darling,” Simon said, laughing and stripping off his clothes. “I’m only surprised, since back in Paris you were so careful about your guest lists. I expected that you would be searching out the more prominent members of the community.”

  “Are you calling me a social climber?”

  “If the shoe fits,” said Simon, grinning. “No, darling, only joking with you. I look forward to it, honestly I do. I’m going to clean up and then see how I can help. Is the woman you hired to do the cooking working out all right?”

  “Well, I saw her car pull up, so I know she arrived on time. She’s been in the kitchen with her daughter helping for several hours now. The main thing is, we can’t judge that until we taste the food,” said Camille. “Obviously,” she said under her breath.

  If he had his way, she thought bitterly, I would stay in the bedroom with the door closed, and he would be free to do anything at all, as though he were single again with no responsibilities. She had known Simon since she was a young girl—their parents had been close friends, and the families had even vacationed together when they were teenagers. Their romance had been all but inevitable. After Simon had distinguished himself at school and then at ENA, they had, to the great satisfaction of both their parents, been married and quickly had two girls.