Death in Darkness

by Nell Goddin

  That success notwithstanding, Simon and Camille both sometimes admitted (only to themselves) that happiness had been elusive. They had done everything that was expected of them—studied hard, married and had children, been successful at business and socially—and found that, somehow, all of that accomplishment added up to very little.

  Camille dressed three times and each time rejected the look; a pile of dresses lay in a heap on the end of the bed. It felt impossible to hit the right note when she had no idea what sort of people were going to arrive on her doorstep. They had all RSVP’d to say yes: fourteen, including her and Simon. Perhaps she should have started with something less ambitious? But it was helpful to have enough people so that one could get a little lost in the crowd, so that the group had enough energy to run on its own without her. She could slip away, if need be, for a few moments alone without her absence being noticed.

  She settled on a pair of beautifully tailored slacks of a wool so light it barely felt as though she had anything on. A cream-colored silk blouse, heels because she was on the short side. She knew it was time to check on the kitchen but she stayed a long time sitting at the vanity, looking at herself in the mirror, ostensibly trying to decide which earrings to wear, and whether to put on the onyx necklace Simon had given her for her thirtieth birthday, which now seemed a lifetime ago though it was only a few years.

  Before Simon got out of the shower—and he always indulged himself with a household’s worth of hot water, staying in so long his fingers pruned—Camille went downstairs to check on the dining room and see how the cook was getting on. She left the girls to Violette.

  The table was dressed simply and elegantly, with white candles in silver candlesticks in a row down the center, and a silver bowl of light pink roses. Thick linen napkins embroidered with a capital V so large it bordered on egocentric, heavy silver place settings, the mahogany table polished to a high shine. She worried it looked too Parisian, and her guests would think she was putting on airs. But it was too late to change now; they were due in half an hour.

  Quickly Camille stepped to the sideboard where the wine was decanted, poured herself a glass, and downed it in one gulp. Her doctor in Paris had warned her that alcohol was contraindicated with her prescriptions, but surely he did not mean that she could not allow herself a minor fortification before hosting a dinner party of strangers?

  In the kitchen, all was bedlam.

  Camille stood in the doorway, eyes wide, watching Merla, who had been recommended by Pascal, whirl from stove to sink to table, her hair flying up in a cloud around her head from the steam of something cooking at a rapid boil. Merla had brought her daughter to serve and act as sous-chef, and the girl was chopping onions with a ferocity that made Camille feel a little queasy.

  “Merla? How is everything? I do appreciate your hard work. May I—”

  “Everything under control madame, no time to chat. First course will be ready in fifty minutes on the nose.”

  “Good. It smells wonderful. I’m very—”

  “Yes, madame. Ophélie, that’s enough! You don’t need to chop the onions all the way to mush, it will ruin the texture of the dish. Go have a drink, madame. I’ll have Ophélie come out with a tray of tidbits once enough of the guests have gotten here. I hope no one’s put off by the storm.”

  “Storm?” It had not occurred to Camille to check the weather. An unpleasant surge of adrenaline shot through her body.

  Merla opened the oven and Camille could feel the heat all the way across the room. “Take a look,” the cook said, jerking her head at the window.

  The sky was dark and foreboding. In September, it stayed light until eight-thirty, but it looked as though night was falling before seven. “Oh no,” said Camille, leaving the kitchen and heading directly to the sideboard for another small reinforcement.

  There was some sort of hubbub under the dining room table. Piping voices, and then a loud smack.

  “Chloë! You are horrible!”

  “Come along now, girls,” said Violette, crawling out from under the table. “Oh! Bonsoir, Madame Valette.”

  “Bonsoir, Violette,” said Camille, so frostily that even in the middle of their fight the girls noticed. “My guests will be arriving any minute. Are the girls clean and dressed? No?” She did not offer any criticism besides her expression, which was plenty.

  Violette tugged on Chloë’s hand. “I said, come along,” she pleaded.

  “I want to sit under here during the dinner,” the girl said. “We can poke the grownup’s legs and tickle them!” she said with glee, thrilled with her idea.

  “You tickle too hard,” said Giselle, the older girl, coming out from under the table. She gave Violette a sympathetic look, knowing her little sister was not easy to manage. “Come on!” she said excitedly. “First one to our room wins a prize!”

  Chloë shot out from under the table and got ahead of her big sister on the way upstairs, Violette following gratefully. Once upstairs, she told the girls to wash their faces while she took their dresses out of the armoire.

  “Now, listen to me,” she said when the girls were back in their bedroom, faces glowing. “It’s important that your behavior be a step above the usual tonight, do you understand? Your family wants to make a good impression, after all. It would be best if they didn’t go back to their friends and report that the Valette children are a pack of wild beasts who don’t know how to behave.”

  Chloë stuck out her tongue, put her fingers in her ears and up her nose, and said, “Bah-de-beee, bah-de-doo.”

  Giselle rolled her eyes.

  “All right then, here are your dresses. I’ll be back in a few minutes to give you a last once-over.” Violette stepped out into the corridor, about to go up to her room for a precious few moments to herself. Just as she was closing the door behind her, Simon came out of his bedroom. He was dressed in a sport-coat and a crisp shirt with an open collar, his thick hair swept back from his deeply tanned face.

  They stood for a long moment, looking at each other.

  “Bonsoir, Violette,” Simon finally said softly.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur,” answered Violette, edging past him on the way to the stairs to the third floor and holding his gaze the whole way.

  8

  “It is odd, but since when have we ever minded odd?” Molly was saying to Ben as she tried on dresses and discarded them, one after the other. “I guess if you’re new in town and want to meet people, you could do worse than just going ahead and inviting a random group over for dinner. And please, the next time I breathe a word about Pâtisserie Bujold, divert my attention to something else, for heaven’s sake. I can’t find a single thing to wear that fits!”

  “You look incredible,” said Ben slipping an arm around her waist, which was thicker than it used to be, no question about that, but he meant every word of the compliment.

  “You say all the right things,” said Molly. “I do like that about you. So, have you picked up anything about the Valettes around the village? Is Pascal really the only person who’s met them?”

  “As far as I could tell. The wife—Camille, I think her name is—dropped by the café a few days ago. I talked to Pascal but he didn’t have much to say. Could barely give me a decent description. Too bad really—a guy in his position at the café could be an A plus valuable informant, but Pascal just doesn’t fly that way.”

  “He thinks the best of people. But we know better.”

  “Do you think our work makes us pessimistic about humanity?”

  Molly considered, turning one way and another while looking at herself in the mirror. “Not really. Actually, it’s made me more sympathetic, in a weird way. Like, I’m sorry that people are so wounded, so desperate, that they feel they have to kill someone.”

  “I’m not quite as generous as you.”

  “But at least you fit into your trousers.”

  They managed to finish dressing, say goodbye to Bobo, and get into Ben’s car before the rain started.
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  “Looks like it’s going to be a whopper,” said Ben, looking up at the clouds, which seemed to be almost boiling.

  “‘It was a dark and stormy night…’” intoned Molly.

  Just as they turned into the Valette’s driveway, the skies opened. Ben had an umbrella, but despite his most gallant efforts, the wind was blowing so hard that they arrived on the Valette’s doorstep like a pair of drowned rats.

  Camille opened the door and quickly ushered them in. Introductions all around, and Simon went to a small table in the foyer and poured them glasses of champagne.

  “So!” said Camille with forced brightness.

  “It’s a dark and stormy night,” said Simon.

  “Just what we were saying,” said Ben.

  The foursome struggled through some small talk, but for whatever reason it did not flow easily, and all four were relieved to hear the doorbell ring.

  Simon opened the door, and in came Lawrence, and then Pascal, with his arm protectively around Marie-Claire Levy, who was currently head at L’Insitut Degas, the art school just down the road from the Valette’s.

  “Bonsoir!” cried Molly, thrilled to see so many friends at once.

  “Ghastly night,” said Lawrence, shivering as he peeled off his wet overcoat. “Though I am always glad for an excuse to wear this trench. Burberry, 1972.”

  “Where in the world do you find this stuff?” said Molly. “Do you have a vintage clothing supplier tucked away somewhere?”

  “It’s no good telling all one’s secrets,” said Lawrence as he kissed both her cheeks. “Everyone would ignore me if every last bit of the mystery was gone.”

  “Hardly,” said Molly with a laugh.

  Simon was pouring glasses for everyone, the doorbell kept ringing and more drenched guests poured in amid exclamations and some shrieking, until all twelve guests were present, accounted for, and sipping excellent champagne from antique flutes. Pascal saw with some surprise that Camille had invited all the people he had suggested, and every single one had come.

  Edmond Nugent, the pâtissier at Pâtisserie Bujold. Dr. Vernay, the village doctor. Lapin and his wife, Anne-Marie. Rex Ford, a longtime teacher at Degas. Molly’s best friend Frances, with her husband Nico, who tended bar in the village.

  “It’s been so warm, but with this crazy storm raging, I lit a fire in the library—why doesn’t everyone come this way, if you’d like?” Simon said, raising his voice to be heard.

  “Pretty nice place,” Frances whispered to her pal Molly, as she gazed at the art on the foyer walls.

  Molly nodded, checking to see whether the hostess was close enough to overhear.

  “I wonder where the money came from,” said Frances, a little too loudly.

  “Hush,” said Molly. “Do try not to insult them before we’ve even sat down to dinner.”

  “I am horribly affronted at your suggestion,” answered Frances, giving her friend a dig in the ribs.

  “The champagne is quite good,” murmured Nico, as the group filed through the dining room and into the cozy library. “Wish I’d gotten a look at the vintage.”

  “The table looks lovely,” Molly said to Camille, who seemed on edge.

  “Thank you,” said Camille. The two women looked at each other for a moment, but once again, the conversational thread wasn’t strong enough to pull them along, and Molly and Frances continued on their way to the library.

  Simon was standing in front of the fire, but he stepped aside so that some of the damper guests could dry off in front of the blaze.

  “I don’t remember ever seeing the sky look like it did on the way over,” said Edmond. “A deep dark gray, with streaks of black. And this kind of humidity is not kind to dough, I will tell you that much. I’m going to have to make all manner of adjustments tomorrow if I don’t want to be flooded with complaints.”

  “Oh, come on, you don’t get complaints, do you?” said Molly.

  “You’d be surprised,” sniffed Edmond. “People adore complaining. With some in the village, it’s practically an Olympic sport. And if they think it will get them a discount or a freebie, they will go on and on to the point where you want to strangle them.”

  “Oh dear,” said Camille, looking stricken.

  “Baba-loo, baba-leeeee!” shouted Chloë as she ran through the library waving her hands in the air. She wore a pretty dress with a wide blue sash but no shoes.

  Marie-Claire Levy smiled. “Sometimes I wish I were still six,” she said to Pascal, who kissed her forehead and tightened his arm around her waist.

  “Where is Violette?” said Camille, plaintively. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Molly. “The nanny is supposed to be looking after the girls, and I can’t imagine where she has disappeared to. Chloë!” she called, but the girl was long gone.

  “Oh, please don’t apologize, she is adorable,” said Molly, who often wished she were still six, too.

  Holding her hand to her brow, Camille went quickly back through the dining room; Molly hoped she didn’t find the nanny too quickly so the girl could prolong her freedom.

  The library was not a big room and the guests were packed rather tight. Lawrence began talking to Rex Ford about an exhibit of modern art he had seen in Paris a month earlier. Dr. Vernay stepped away from the fire to give Pascal a chance to dry the legs of his trousers. And Frances marveled at the fresco on the ceiling.

  “How old is this place?” she asked Nico. “I thought frescoes were like, really old, like Michelangelo-old. Isn’t this house younger than that?”

  “Considerably,” said Nico. “But you know how people are—they get enthusiasms. One of the owners somewhere along the way must’ve gotten interested in frescoes, and wanted to have one, and the long-suffering spouse went along with it, knowing that it would be easier than trying to get in the way.”

  “What a weird thing to get obsessed with.”

  “You’re not a fan of cherubs?”

  “I have never considered that question before,” said Frances, pretending to think very deeply. Her jet-black hair had gotten long, well past her shoulders, and her skin was luminous and pale as it always was, no matter how much time she spent outdoors.

  There was a murmur of appreciation as the cook’s daughter, Ophélie, appeared with a tray of crabmeat wrapped in puff pastry. Edmond took one and peered at it, inspecting the puff pastry to see if was homemade. Molly popped one in her mouth and grinned at Ben. Conversations were starting to take off; the room was getting noisy.

  “Wait,” Molly said to Ophélie, “I need to see if that was as good as I think it was.” Ophélie winked and Molly took another. “Where did Camille go?” she said in a low voice to Ben.

  Ben shrugged. “There’s not really enough room in here for everyone. Maybe she went to find the nanny?”

  “Isn’t that girl too old for a nanny? Or is there a baby as well?” Molly was ever curious about children, her secret wish to have some of her own never having come true.

  “Castillac is not much of a village for nannies,” said Ben. “In fact, I’m not sure we’ve ever had any. Possibly the Fleurays, up at Château Marainte? Anyway, I’m not going to be much help about any of that.”

  Violette appeared just then, scanning the crowd, and then bending down to look, but the room was too crowded for her to see whether Chloë was hiding somewhere or had moved on.

  “Have you misplaced something, Mademoiselle Crespelle?” Simon asked, teasing her.

  Violette smiled. “Your youngest is going to be the death of me!” she said, craning her neck to see into the corners of the room.

  “‘Crespelle,’ such a delicious surname you have,” said Dr. Vernay. “I remember a trip to Rome once, when my wife and I ate crespelles by the wagonload.” He looked misty-eyed, thinking back on it.

  Violette nodded patiently, having had that particular conversation a thousand times. “Well, off I go to see where the little monkeys have got to!”

  Lawrence managed to squeeze through to get n
ext to Molly. “Those little crab doo-dads were extremely good,” he said. “Portends well for dinner, don’t you think?”

  Molly was just about to answer when a sudden movement in the doorway startled her. An older man stood there, brandishing a fire extinguisher. He was dressed in a bathrobe—a rather nice one, she couldn’t help noticing.

  “Is something on fire?” she asked politely.

  “Who are all these people?” Raphael said. Then louder, “Get out! Get out of my house! No one wants you here!”

  The crowd fell back, stunned and a little frightened. Simon sprang to his father’s side. “We’re just having a few people for dinner,” he said, reaching for the extinguisher.

  “I don’t want all of this!” shouted Raphael. “I don’t want strangers in my house!” He lifted the fire extinguisher over his head and jerked it, as though about to hurl it into the crowd.

  Simon put his hands on the heavy extinguisher and forced his father to lower it. “Come on now, come with me, Father,” he said, his voice soothing.

  Raphael looked startled himself, as though unsure how he had found himself in the library with a fire extinguisher.

  “Come on,” said his son. “We’re having a very good dinner tonight, and I’ll bring a tray up to your room. Are you hungry? Would you like a glass of champagne?”

  Molly thought maybe giving the man alcohol wasn’t the best idea, but figured Simon knew what he was doing. Her own father had suffered with Alzheimer’s but had been lucky enough not to linger long.

  After a short pause, the guests began talking as though there had been no interruption. Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw another young girl, older than the first, also dressed up and wearing cute patent leather flats, sidle into the library. Molly went toward her.

  “Bonsoir,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Molly Sutton. I’m guessing you are a Valette?”