by Nell Goddin
Ben was busy in Bergerac until late, so he would meet her at the bistro. She spent about fifteen seconds on her appearance and flew into the village on her scooter, driving a little faster than was strictly prudent. Seeing the little strand of twinkling lights in the scraggly tree outside Chez Papa gladdened her heart, and she happily slipped inside.
“Molly!” cried Lawrence, from his stool.
“Bonsoir, my dearest,” she said, as they kissed on both cheeks. “Let me get a drink, and then I have about a hundred questions to ask you.”
“The usual?” asked Nico from behind the bar.
“Hmm, I’m feeling like something a little different tonight. No, Lawrence, I’ve had Negronis loads of times. How about…do you have any grapefruit? I’m having a sudden craving.”
With a grin, Nico reached under the bar and pulled out a grapefruit in each hand. “You must be a mind reader. I just picked these up today, thinking of making up a new cocktail.”
“Perfect!” said Molly, grinning back.
And from that bright moment on, the evening deteriorated quickly.
“Hey Molls, before I make your drink, step into the back with me for just a sec, will you?” said Nico. The two friends went into the empty backroom, Molly feeling some unease. “I just heard something this afternoon, you know how it is with bartenders, people will just talk and talk, it’s like I’m a substitute priest or psychiatrist or something. Generally I keep my mouth shut, but in this case…anyway, I thought you should know.”
Molly had no idea where Nico was going with this.
“There’s talk around town that Simon Valette shouldn’t have hired you to work the case of the murdered nanny.”
Molly’s eyebrows flew up. “What? How come?”
“They’re saying…they’re saying that you were there, at the dinner, at the crime scene. You and Ben were in the dark just like everyone else. And so by rights, you should be on the suspect list yourselves, instead of looking into everyone else’s business while you get away scot-free.”
Molly’s mouth dropped open.
“I’m giving you pretty much the exact words I was hearing. I figure you’d want the whole enchilada, right, not just the summary?”
Molly nodded slowly. “Of course. Who was saying this?”
Nico looked uncomfortable. “Aw, Molly, I don’t like to be a snitch.”
“Nico!”
“Yeah, yeah. Look, it was just some chumps sitting at the bar getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon. They obviously don’t know you and were just jawboning for something to do. I wouldn’t sweat it too much. I just…if people are talking smack about me behind my back? I want to know. So I thought you and Ben would want to know too.”
“Thank you. Yes, I definitely do. For one thing, that kind of talk can be a sign of guilt. I’m not talking myself up here, it’s not about me and Ben, I’m just talking about any effort to impede or stop an investigation, no matter who’s doing it.”
“But those guys weren’t at the Valettes’. Couldn’t have been any of them. Like I say, they were just a bunch of bored gossips when you get right down to it.”
She stood thinking, tapping her fingers on her thighs. “But you know, the troubling thing about this isn’t that some villagers were talking about me behind my back. I mean, let’s be honest, we all do that sometimes. It’s that—they’re not wrong. Ben and I were there, in the dark, when the girl was murdered. Looking at it objectively…we should be on the suspect list.”
“You didn’t even know the girl—that makes no sense at all!”
“You know how many murders are committed by people who don’t know their victims?”
“No.”
“Me neither. But it’s more than one, I think we can agree. The villagers aren’t wrong. And hey, for all we know, the new chief has Ben and me at the top of her list.”
Molly laughed but Nico looked skeptical. “If you say so. Okay, come on, I’ll make you a grapefruit cocktail and you can put the case aside for a little while, and enjoy the evening.”
Molly thought to herself that other people—non-detective people—just don’t understand how it is when you’re on a case. You never stop thinking about it. Even when you’re doing something else, even thinking about something else or having fun with friends, the case is always there, and part of your brain is picking over it, making lists, going over and over what someone said or how someone looked or what was on the table in the library, on and on and on, endlessly until the criminal is pinned down by the evidence and cannot escape.
She and Nico went back to the main room. Ben had arrived, looking glad to be there, and so had Frances.
“Get anything?” Ben whispered in her ear when he kissed her.
“Not anything big,” she whispered back. “Tell you later.”
Ben raised his voice to ask if anyone had seen Lapin.
“Since when?” said Lawrence. “I gave him a ride home from the Valettes’ the other night.”
“Wait, what? How did I not know this?” said Molly.
“You didn’t ask,” said Lawrence drily.
“When did you leave? I was intending to come see you tomorrow, I’ve got a load of questions I’m asking everyone. All I know is that when the lights came back on, you and Lapin were gone.”
“Did you suspect me?” he said, looking hopeful. “I’m always sitting on the sidelines during these things. I wish just one time I could be in the spotlight.”
People down the bar laughed.
“Sorry to disappoint,” said Molly. “But seriously, I wouldn’t make light of it, at least not publicly. You can see how disappearing into the dark could look a bit shady. Especially if no one sees you for some time after.”
“Here I am! Yesterday I cleaned up my yard—the storm had made a mess of it and I picked up sticks for what seemed like an eternity. I read in front of a fire even though it wasn’t really cold. And I made myself a superb mushroom sauce to go with some fresh pasta I whipped up. That was my day.”
“No witnesses?”
“None. Except the cat, and she dislikes me, so I wouldn’t trust anything she says.”
Molly smirked and then looked serious. “And Lapin…you dropped him off at home? Do you remember what time? As far as I know, you must be the last person to have seen him. Anne-Marie called, worried about him. And I don’t have to tell you,” she said, more quietly, “that running off without a word after a murder has been committed is pretty much the worst thing a person can do.”
Lawrence nodded. “I hope he turns up soon. Though I can’t believe anyone would try to pin it on Lapin—he had nothing to do with that family. It’s got to be an inside job, don’t you think?”
“Quite possibly,” said Molly. “The victim was in their house, after all, and part of their household. The murderer could have nipped down to the cellar and pulled out the fuse himself. The storm would be the perfect cover.”
“Well, I’ve got a story about a new person, if anyone happens to be interested,” said Frances loudly, pouting a little because everyone was talking to everyone else.
“Tell us in French,” said Nico, mischievously.
“Oh, Lord,” said Frances under her breath. “You’re a slave driver, you know that?”
“Are you talking about the Valettes?” asked Molly.
Frances took a deep breath and put her hair behind her ears. “No Valettes,” she said in French. “It is big police.”
Molly scrunched up her face. “Huh?”
“Nico!” said Frances, pleading.
“You’re doing fine, chérie. They’ll get it. Just keep going!”
“I hear big police in grocery store. Is…she has desire to pay…Nico!…Okay, okay. Item cost two euros, she want pay one. Only one!” Frances finished with a look of triumph.
Molly and Ben stared at her. “Wait, you’re saying…that the new chief was trying to bargain at the grocery store? At the épicerie? Tried not to pay the price on the sticker?”
/> “Yes!” shouted Frances, and she got up from her stool and did a quick hip-hop routine in the middle of the room, among the tables. “They understood me! I’m practically fluent!”
“Some people think they are being cheated if they pay full price,” said Ben.
“Sure, in some places. But the village épicerie? That family is hardly known for wallowing in vast sums of profit! It’s ridiculous!”
Molly felt a great deal of affection for the various shopkeepers in Castillac, all of whom had been very gentle with her when she was first learning French, not to mention getting to know the customs of the village. It appalled her that anyone would try to cheat them.
“Frances, do you know if this was a one-time thing, or something Chief Charlot is doing all over the place?”
“Partout!” said Frances, glowing, and amazed that the right word had just appeared in her mouth, just like that, without her having to search for it.
The truck came through the front yard of La Baraque at exactly six in the morning, waking Bobo, then Molly and the Mertenses, as well as Arthur Malreaux, who had been sound asleep in his room in the annex after staying up late reading. Ben had the talent of deep sleep no matter what, and snoozed through the din.
“What on earth,” mumbled Molly crossly, as she flung on some clothes and went to talk to the driver. It was never a good idea to have pre-caffeine conversations first thing in the morning, but she pulled on her boots and stomped across the meadow to the old ruined barn, where the truck was now parked.
“Boris!” she said, seeing him sitting in the cab.
“Bonjour, Madame Sutton,” he said, as insolent as the first day she met him, when his reckless driving had put Constance in a ditch.
“The next time you come, please use the short driveway right over here,” she said pointing. “There is no need to drive through my yard, waking my guests!”
Boris shrugged. “Gradin said he needed this stuff first thing.”
“Yes, fine, wonderful. Bring Monsieur Gradin everything he needs and do it when he says. Just don’t drive the truck through my yard anymore. Do you understand?”
He nodded, but Molly saw that he’d wanted to get a rise out of her, and was pleased with how his morning had begun. If she had anyone to bet with, she’d put a hundred euros on his doing it again. And again.
She was hoping to have a word with Monsieur Gradin that morning anyway, so after Boris drove off, she decided to wait a bit to see if she could catch him, and take a look at how things had been coming along. It was a big project, so she was happy to see how much progress had already been made. The plan was to turn the ruined barn into three gîtes, giving her a total of seven additional beds. The building had started out nearly entirely covered in vines, with a collapsed roof and only two-and-a-half good walls. The mason needed to build one wall from scratch, stabilize and rebuilt another, as well as make doorframes, window-frames, and chimneys. Once he was done, another man was slated to build the interior walls, put in kitchens and bathrooms, and do the rest of the finishing work.
Monsieur Gradin had only been at work for a short time, but the site was already practically unrecognizable. The vines were gone, and Molly could see he had built a fire and burned most of them. The loose stones had been piled to one side and he had begun removing the debris of the collapsed roof. All in all, Molly was very pleased. She would be spending almost the last of her windfall on this project; it was going to cost a fortune, but she hoped the new spaces would make La Baraque so much more profitable that she would be able to relax when those low-tourist winter months came.
What good is money, just sitting in a bank? She wanted to use it for something. And as far as Molly was concerned, La Baraque deserved every penny.
But there were more interviews to do, and Molly was impatient to get going; she headed back to the house, had a quick cup of coffee with a sleepy Ben, and took off for the Valettes’. She thought about the last time she had gone to their house, only a few days earlier. How she and Ben had looked forward to the odd dinner party—a group of friends and acquaintances, invited by a family of complete strangers.
Were the Valettes hiding some kind of secret, and the murder somehow the result of that? Why would a successful man like Simon give up an important and lucrative job and move his family to Castillac, of all places? How were the girls doing, after the shock of losing their nanny so unexpectedly?
So many questions. There was never any end to them.
She turned into the Valettes’ driveway with a vague sense of foreboding. She didn’t see anyone outside. Parking her scooter out of the way of the car, Molly stood still for a moment, looking around, taking in the house and the grounds as though it was her first time seeing it. A flash of white on an upper floor caught her eye, but when she looked up at the window, it was gone. Slowly she walked toward the house, her footsteps crunching loud on the gravel.
Then shrieks, a door slam, and Chloë came flying out to a terrace on the side of the house. Nimbly she vaulted the wall and jumped down to the ground, letting out a dramatic “Uhh” when she landed. Molly smiled as the girl disappeared around the side of the house.
“Bonjour, madame,” said a young voice, as Molly started up the steps to the front door. Gisele was standing just inside, and she opened the door, her expression serious.
“Bonjour, Gisele,” said Molly. “You are not joining your sister on her obstacle course?”
“What is an obstacle course?”
“I probably have the word wrong. It’s a thing we do in America, sort of a race where you have to jump over things, climb things, maybe go through water, swing…it’s quite fun actually. If you’re in the mood.”
Gisele seemed to be thinking this over, but did not say anything.
“I just wanted to say…I was looking for the two of you the other night. It was a harrowing night, obviously, and I wanted to make sure you were all right. I mean, as all right as you could be, under the circumstances.”
Gisele looked into Molly’s eyes but still said nothing. Molly had the urge to smooth the girl’s blonde hair back from her face, but restrained herself.
“I know we barely know each other. But I’d like you to know that I live at La Baraque, on the other side of the village, just a little ways down the road. Anyone can direct you there. So if you ever have any reason to want to…I don’t know, take a little break, come for a visit? You are always welcome at my house. And you can bring Chloë too. Not that I’m encouraging you to run away from home,” she added, with a laugh. “I only mean…just come, if you like.”
The girl nodded and Molly thought she saw a fleeting warmth in her eyes.
“Do you want to talk to my parents? I heard that my father hired you.”
“He did. I’d like to talk to your mother today, if I could. Is she feeling okay, do you know?”
“Well enough to—” the girl looked away and cut herself off.
“…to what?”
“Nothing. She’s upstairs. I’ll run up and tell her you’re here.”
What was that about? Molly wondered. In the girl’s absence, Molly looked around the foyer, again remembering the other night when Simon had been so gracious, pouring everyone glasses of a good vintage champagne. He had not been a stingy pourer.
Chloë appeared, breathless, and stared at Molly.
“Bonjour, Chloë,” said Molly. “You look as though you’re enjoying country life more than anyone.”
The girl tossed her head. Then she looked goggle-eyed at Molly and stuck her fingers in her ears. “Boo!” she shrieked, and ran through the front door and out of sight around the side of the house.
“Come on up, Madame Sutton,” said Gisele, having trotted partway down the stairs. “My mother is supposed to rest, so she’d like to talk in her bedroom, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit,” said Molly, glad of the chance to see the Valettes’ bedroom, both for investigative purposes and out of plain curiosity. The door was thick and old, with
many layers of paint and an ancient brass lock. The room was in a corner of the house; tall windows on both sides would have let in a lot of light, but Camille had pulled the gray silk curtains halfway closed, so that the light was soft and diffused. It made Molly feel a little sleepy.
“Bonjour, Camille,” said Molly, reaching to shake her hand.
“Bonjour, Molly. I want to thank you so much for taking the job. I was very pleased when Simon told me you and Ben had agreed to help. I just don’t know what…I know it’s been days, but I just can’t quite believe it happened.”
“I understand,” said Molly, dropping down on a pouf next to the bed. “It is always difficult to process violence. And it changes us, when we’ve been exposed to it.”
“No doubt.”
“Are the girls doing all right? It must have been a terrible shock for them.”
Camille shrugged. “As well as one could expect.”
Molly waited but the other woman did not elaborate. “All right, let me begin by asking a few questions. How long had Violette worked for your family?”
“Six months, something like that.”
“You were happy with her?”
“Yes. She was quite accomplished.”
“Did she get along with everyone in the family?”
“Quite.”
“How about Monsieur Valette, Simon’s father?”
“What is your question? Did Violette get along with Raphael? As far as I know. I don’t believe they had much to do with each other. He stays in his room most of the time.”
“All right. Excuse me for jumping right in with what will sound like a rude question—did Raphael or your husband ever show any interest in Violette sexually?”
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” Camille smiled, but her eyes were flat. “No, they didn’t. Neither one of them. All we wanted to do was leave the hectic life we had in Paris, and replace it with something calm and peaceful. It was going to be good for all of us. And now this had to happen. I’m sure everyone in the village has probably decided we’re a pack of murdering crazies and will have nothing to do with us.”