by Nell Goddin
Molly noticed tension around Camille’s mouth, and saw several patches of raw skin on her lips.
“I think you’ll find that the villagers aren’t quite so quick to judge,” Molly said.
They talked for another half hour, at which point Camille said that she was terribly fatigued and would Molly mind finishing their chat another day?
Molly agreed, feeling she had no choice, and left on her scooter, seeing no one on her way out.
When the sound of the scooter could no longer be heard, Simon appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. “What did she want to know?” he asked his wife.
“I don’t know why you hired that woman,” said Camille. “You really think it’s a wonderful idea to have not only the bumbling gendarmes but that woman poking her nose into all our affairs? Whatever possessed you, Simon?”
“What better way to deflect guilt than to add more investigators?”
“I’ll take that as an admission,” she said, her eyes blazing.
“It’s nothing of the sort,” he said, changing his tone from exasperated to patient. “Only that…look, how do you think it will go for a bunch of strangers to show up and immediately one of the household gets murdered? They’re going to think it’s one of us, Camille, don’t you see? And it’s a fairly sensible conclusion. Why would some random person from the village that you happened to invite to dinner kill her? It lacks reason!”
Camille fell back on the pillows, both hands picking at her lips, an old habit that Simon knew was a bad sign. But there was nothing he could do for her at the moment, so he went back outside and continued with the laborious sorting of rocks at the stone wall.
19
Ben made Molly a kir and joined her in the living room. “I do have one question,” he said, handing over the drink. “You remember you agreed to marry me, right?”
“Haha!” said Molly. “Oh wait, that came out wrong. Of course I remember, and I think about it every day with great joy.”
“Well?”
“Is it bothering you that we aren’t making plans? You’re not in any hurry?”
“I’m not in a rush to have the ceremony, Molly. And I know we just talked about this. But something about what happened at the Valettes…I’d like to tell people. Stop keeping the secret.”
Molly sipped her drink. For the first time in her life, everything relationship-wise was going so well that she felt a little superstitious about rocking the boat. “You know, I just realized I’ve been acting just like Frances.”
“That’s a little scary.”
Molly laughed again. “I know. Like I said, I’ve been enjoying having our little secret, you know? But I think I’ve probably done that long enough. I’m ready to tell if you are.”
Ben grinned. “All right, chérie, same here.” He leaned over and gave her a lingering kiss on the side of her neck.
Molly sighed, not quite believing how content she was.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” said Ben, “let’s sit down and put our heads together on the case. We need a timeline with everyone’s movements on it. I think at this point we have most of that nailed down, don’t we?”
“Well, if you include the disappeared and unaccounted for, yes, I think so.”
“Here’s what I have,” said Ben, looking at his notes and writing a master list on a big pad. “It looks like everyone except for the cook and her daughter were seated at the table when the lights went out. So the only notation after a person’s name is where they were when the lights came back on.”
“Got it.”
“Nico, Frances, Edmond, Anne-Marie, and the two of us: at table. Lapin and Lawrence: missing. Marie-Claire, Camille, and Dr. Vernay: in foyer. Pascal: coming up stairs to foyer from basement. Rex Ford: coming into dining room from library. Simon: missing, then coming downstairs to foyer.”
Molly got up and looked over Ben’s shoulder at the list.
“Anything jump out at you?”
“I’d feel a lot better if we knew where Lapin was now. It’s exactly the kind of thing Charlot might jump on.”
“Seems like it’s Rex Ford who should be getting our attention.”
“I know he was in the wrong place, but at least in my talk with him, I didn’t see anything to pursue. Do you think Simon was upstairs checking on his father?”
“Seems likely, or at least plausible. How long do you think the lights were out? Long enough to strangle Violette, leave the library through the kitchen or dining room, and hurry upstairs before Pascal got the new fuse in?”
“How long does it take to strangle someone?” Molly asked quietly.
“Not long. Two minutes or less, if the person knows what they’re doing.”
Molly took a deep breath and exhaled it. A young life, snuffed out for what had to be selfish reasons of one kind or another. Which of the twelve had done it?
“But why?” she said plaintively to Ben.
“I know how you feel. And I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out, Molly. We will.”
Not long after Molly left, Chief Charlot pulled up in the Valettes’ driveway. She walked over to where Simon was working, and held her hand up as a visor to the strong sun.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself quite a job,” she said, seeing the sweat on his naked chest.
“Oh bonjour, Chief,” said Simon. “I know it’s early, but do you have any news?”
Charlot glared at him. “No, I don’t have news. Are you under the mistaken impression that I’m going to be sharing the information I gather with you?”
“I…no, I’m not,” said Simon, wanting to say something sarcastic but getting control of himself in time.
“We’re still waiting on lab results,” she said. “I’d like to have a talk with your wife. She is home, I hope?”
“Yes. She’s resting upstairs. I do hope…I hope you will take into account what I told you the other day about the state of her health. Not surprisingly, this whole affair has set her back considerably.”
“Oh boo hoo,” said Charlot, and set off for the house.
Simon stared at her. He couldn’t believe a public servant would say such a thing. Knowing he shouldn’t do it, he trotted to catch up with her. “Chief?” he said.
Charlot stopped and looked at him defiantly, hands on hips. Simon, who had vanquished many powerful men in the halls of international business, suddenly could not think of a single appropriate thing to say. Her behavior was appalling, but the last thing he needed to do was get on her bad side. “Try to be gentle with her,” he said.
Charlot’s lip curled into a victorious smile. “We’ll see,” she said, and walked on.
She found Camille still in bed, still wearing the quilted Chanel bed-jacket, sitting up and staring into space.
“Bonjour, Madame Valette,” said the chief. “I’m sure this is all very trying but I have a killer to track down, so you’ll excuse me if I skip over the usual pleasantries.”
Camille went back to picking at her lip. “When did you come to Castillac?” she asked. “I heard you are a newcomer as well.”
“Apologies—not relevant. Now, can you explain to me how you arrived at the guest list for your party on Saturday night?”
Camille looked at her feet. “You’re going to think I’m silly.”
“Probably. Just explain, please.”
“Well, I very much wanted to meet some people in our new village. I know that it takes time to make friendships, and I thought I might try to hurry the process along a little bit. One of the first mornings here, I went to the Café de la Place for breakfast—if you haven’t been, I recommend it highly. Good, strong cup of coffee, and the—”
“Yes, yes, you may skip the restaurant reviews.”
Camille paused, and swallowed. “Anyway, I met a waiter there who was particularly friendly, especially once I told him I had just moved to Castillac. And somehow, one way or another, he helped me make out the guest list.”
“So you had a waiter you had never
met make a guest list for a dinner party?”
“Yes.” More lip picking.
“Do you see that it looks a little strange?”
Camille shrugged, unable to think of anything else to say about it.
“Were you jealous of Violette Crespelle, Madame Valette?”
“What?”
“She was young, talented, and lively, from what people are telling me. While you are, excuse me, some sort of invalid?”
Camille’s mouth opened and then shut. “I don’t want you here insulting me. Simon!” she called, but the windows were closed and she knew he would not hear her if he was out on his rock pile.
But to her relief, he opened the door to the bedroom almost right away. “Darling?” he said. “Is anything the matter?”
“I’ll be going,” said Chief Charlot, with a satisfied smirk. She didn’t like these Valettes; she thought them arrogant and self-absorbed.
It would please her to hang a murder on one of them.
Problem was, she didn’t really think either one of them was guilty.
20
“I think it’s so interesting that you moved here out of the blue and ended up a private investigator! Well, I suppose anyone who’s a big mystery reader would get excited about the turn your life has taken,” said Elise Mertens. She and her husband, Todor, were sitting on the terrace with Molly, Ben, and Arthur Malreaux, having a drink at dusk. The Jenkinses were off touring yet another cathedral somewhere.
“‘Out of the blue’ describes it pretty well,” said Molly with a laugh. “Although once I met Ben, maybe it was fate,” she added, and he threw an arm across her shoulders and kissed the side of her head.
“So when are you going to marry her?” Elise asked Ben. “I can say things like that because I’m seventy-two. Once you pass seventy, you’re allowed to say whatever you bloody well like.”
“Oh, Elise,” said Todor, but he was smiling.
“Actually,” said Molly slowly. “We are getting married. And that’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.”
“Congratulations,” said Arthur Malreaux.
“That’s lovely!” said Elise. “Where will you have the ceremony?”
“We…we haven’t figured out the details yet,” said Molly. “So, Arthur, have you had any luck tracking down your relatives?”
Arthur looked down. “Well,” he said, switching his gaze to the woods, which were darkening as the sun dropped. “When you start looking into something, sometimes you discover things you do not expect.”
“I’ll say,” said Ben.
They all waited, but Arthur did not continue.
“Another drink, anyone?” asked Ben, reaching for the bottle of cassis.
“I’m at my limit,” said Todor. “And since Elise has already warned you that people of our age can say whatever we like, I’ll go ahead and ask you, Arthur. What did you find out that surprised you?”
Arthur ran his hand through his thick, wavy, hair. He stood up from the table suddenly. “If you must know, I had believed my second cousin twice removed to have been involved with the Resistance. For various reasons I won’t go into, it would mean very much to have a relative who had behaved with honor during such a frightening and dangerous time.”
He paused. The others were on the edge of their seats, wondering what he had found out. Molly noticed how exciting it was, anticipating bad news.
“Turns out my original information couldn’t have been more wrong. He was a collaborator of the worst kind, responsible for the deaths of Resistance fighters throughout the Dordogne, all because he was lining his own pockets.”
“Oh dear,” said Elise. Todor shook his head and downed the rest of his wine.
“Of course, you didn’t do those things,” said Molly. “It doesn’t reflect badly on you because you had nothing to do with it.”
Arthur shrugged, looking as though the weight on his shoulders was very heavy indeed.
“How did you find out the real story?” asked Ben.
“Madame Gervais. I do want to thank you for introducing me to her, Molly. She was very happy to talk with me, and we spent quite a few hours together. I’ve found that a lot of people don’t want to talk about that time. She was a real exception.”
“I’m sorry she didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear,” said Molly. “And…this is going to sound, I don’t know, very American, I guess…but if heroism is really important to you—if it matters so much that you were willing to spend your vacation tracking down the history of your second cousin twice removed—then find some way to be a hero yourself. It’s not like there aren’t a million ways to do it these days.”
“It’s true, the Americans are far more interested in self-improvement than the rest of us,” said Elise with a chuckle.
“Hard to say which is better,” said Ben. “Unbridled optimism about what we can accomplish, or a steady pessimism that makes any accomplishment a lovely surprise.”
Everyone laughed.
“I suppose the vast majority of people during the war just tried to keep their heads down and hope none of their loved ones were killed,” said Todor. “A few were courageous and valiant, and a few were craven. I don’t imagine it’s possible to know what factors determine which group a person ends up in.”
“Todor reads about psychology all the time,” said Elise. “I can’t tell you how many conditions he’s diagnosed us both with.” The others chuckled.
“A collaborator is likely to be a narcissist,” said Todor, undeterred by his wife’s joking. “Someone who thinks the world revolves around him, who thinks he deserves the best of what’s available—and he won’t care a whit about anyone else.”
“That’s just it,” said Arthur. “If it was just a matter of my cousin’s enriching herself, that wouldn’t be nearly as bad. But she was stockpiling food to make a bigger profit, and letting people starve.”
“Classic, I’m sad to say.”
“What makes a person like that?” asked Arthur.
“I don’t think anyone knows,” said Todor. “Early life experiences, biology, genetics…the brain and how personalities are formed are almost entirely uncharted waters, though you’ll find plenty of people willing to give opinions. Not much that is backed up by actual science, I’m afraid.”
Arthur ate an olive while concluding that what he had found out had only increased the mystery, not solved it.
Molly was completely distracted, thinking about what Todor had said and how it related to the Crespelle case. Were almost all murderers narcissists, she wondered. By definition, you’re making the decision that your own needs, whatever they are, are worth more than another person’s life.
And looked at through that lens, one person at the dinner party stood out among the rest. She couldn’t wait for the guests to wander back to their lodgings so she could talk it over with Ben.
21
Merla was in the kitchen, just beginning the Valettes’ dinner, when the moaning started. Dropping an eggplant into the sink, she froze, a feeling of dread passing through her. She did not know whether she should see if someone needed help or flee the house as quickly as possible.
Chloë and Gisele were under the small table in the foyer. Gisele had found a tablecloth that nearly reached the floor, and the two girls had brought stuffed animals and cookies with them, planning to bivouac indefinitely. When they heard the noise coming from upstairs, Gisele pulled Chloë close and put her hands over her sister’s ears.
Simon had put a small chair on the balcony of their bedroom, and Camille sat there watching swallows dive after insects in the early evening, having put her book aside. When she heard the moans, she closed the door behind her and the sound was somewhat muffled.
Simon was at the rock pile, his shirt dark with sweat although the air was cooling. He stopped when he heard the first moan, hoping he was mistaken about the cause. Another one came, louder and more ragged. He sighed. Putting the crowbar down, Simon made his way into the house and upstai
rs to his father’s room.
“Father,” he said gently.
Raphael did not look in Simon’s direction but bellowed again, a mournful drawn-out sound that came from deep in his chest. The sound would be heartbreaking for anyone to hear, and for Simon to hear it coming from his father filled him with sorrow and frustration.
“I wish there was something I could say that would calm you,” he said, reaching out to put a hand on Raphael’s arm.
Raphael twitched and shook his son off. His eyes were wide, and Simon had the clear feeling that his father was seeing things he himself did not. “Would you like something to drink? Are you hungry? Cold?” He had asked these questions every time his father had this kind of spell; they had never led to any understanding of what the trouble was, but he kept asking because he had no idea what else to do.
With a sudden lurch, Raphael was out of his chair. He was a bigger man than his son, his body far healthier than his mind. “Where are my scissors?” he bawled.
“Are you fond of eggplant? I can’t remember. I know Mother used to make that ratatouille when we were in Provence in the summer. Remember how she would cook it for a long time so that the vegetables—”
“My scissors!”
“Please, calm yourself, Father. After you stabbed the sofa cushions, I thought it best to take the scissors. Go ahead, vent your outrage all you like, make the entire house as miserable as you are!”
Raphael moaned, his anguish bare. His son bowed his head, wishing, not entirely selfishly, that his father would die.
22
Ben was very tired of dealing with Bernard Petit, but hopeful he would soon solve the man’s problem. He had ordered a set of motion detectors with video, which he planned to set up at various locations in and around the Petit house. It had been an expensive outlay, but Ben figured that if Petit balked at paying for the cameras, he would find plenty of uses for the equipment in the future.