Death in Darkness
Page 13
After spending the entire morning dragging ladders around in order to install the cameras, Ben, like any Frenchman, was ready for a good, long lunch. He drove back to Castillac and settled on the terrace of the Café de la Place, dreaming about Pascal’s mother’s pâté and a big bowl of cassoulet, in the mood for hearty fare since the day had turned colder.
“Sorry, but it’s been so warm lately, cassoulet isn’t on the menu,” said Pascal to a massively disappointed Ben.
“Agh, I could practically taste it,” said Ben, letting his irritation at Petit spill over into lunch.
“Maybe the beef stew?” asked Pascal, with a twinkle in his eye, knowing that his mother’s stew was a favorite of everyone in the village.
Ben ordered it gratefully, along with a glass of Médoc.
“Terrible thing, the other night,” said Pascal. Ben thought he looked a little pale.
“Yes. I’ll want to talk to you at some point, maybe if you have some time after this lunch?”
Pascal nodded. “Hard to predict how busy we’ll be. And I don’t think I’ll be any help. But happy to talk, of course.” He moved off to the kitchen, gracefully dodging another waiter and a woman looking for the bathroom.
Ben put his jacket back on and stared into space, thinking about Violette Crespelle and her relationships with the other members of the Valette household. Was Camille jealous of the attention and affection her daughters gave the nanny? Or was something going on between Violette and Simon? Or even, implausible as it might seem, Raphael?
Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a gendarme’s uniform, spotless and perfectly creased, and turned to see Paul-Henri heading straight for him.
“May I?” asked the junior officer, pointing to the seat across from Ben.
“Certainly,” Ben answered, quickly trying to figure out a way to entice Paul-Henri into telling him about any progress the gendarmes might have made in the case.
Pascal arrived as though by telepathy and put down another place setting without a word. “I’ll have the stew,” said Paul-Henri, and Pascal winked at Ben and disappeared inside the kitchen.
“I’d like to talk you in confidence,” Paul-Henri said, his voice so soft Ben could barely hear what he was saying.
“Of course,” said Ben.
Paul-Henri ran his teeth along his bottom lip, thinking hard. “Will you swear not to say a word about what I’m about to tell you? Well, you can tell Molly, since you’re partners and I know you would anyway. But no one else.”
Ben was loathe to make any such promise, but his gut told him that whatever Paul-Henri had up his sleeve, it was going to be worth it.
“All right,” said Ben. “As long as you’re not asking me to break the law.”
Paul-Henri let out a nervous guffaw. “Hardly! The whole idea is to help catch criminals, not propagate them.”
Pascal appeared with the pâté. “Give my regards to your mother,” said Ben. Paul-Henri usually relished the dish but was too consumed by his thoughts to have any at first.
“So?” said Ben, digging a knife into the crock and spreading a thick layer of pâté on a piece of toasted baguette.
“I’m…I’m not feeling a great deal of confidence in the new chief,” said Paul-Henri slowly.
Interesting, thought Ben.
“She’s quite by-the-book, which I would have guessed would suit me quite well, but in the event…all right, let me get to the point. I am very serious about my job, Monsieur Dufort. The idea that a murderer is loose, running amok in the village—it’s intolerable, frankly, and I believe you understand perfectly well where I am coming from.”
Ben nodded, chewing.
“I am no different from many other Castillaçois; I have a great deal of respect for what you and Madame Sutton have accomplished over the past few years. It was my pleasure, when Maron was chief, to work with you both, and I can say with all modesty that I think we worked well together and ensured a safer village for us all.”
Oh, how he does drone on, thought Ben, taking a sip of his wine.
“In short,” said Paul-Henri, lowering his voice even more, so that Ben had to lean halfway across the table to hear him. “In short, I am so worried about the competence of the new chief that I propose—completely against protocol, I am sorely aware—I propose sharing such information with you as is pertinent to the investigation. I believe Maron did as much, am I correct? And which sharing, against protocol or no, has proven to have excellent results, thus far a hundred per cent arrest rate if my arithmetic is correct.”
Ben felt like leaping out of his chair and doing a victory dance, but he had long experience in controlling his emotions and gave no hint to Paul-Henri. “We would appreciate that,” he said mildly, and grinned with anticipation as Pascal came out holding a tray with two steaming bowls on it.
After they had eaten several mouthfuls of the rich and flavorful stew, spiked with rosemary, thyme, and some other spice that remained Pascal’s mother’s deep secret, Ben waited to see if Paul-Henri would volunteer anything without prompting.
“We’ve got Lapin in our sights,” Paul-Henri said, after swallowing and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You know that on the night of the murder, he disappeared right when the lights went out and hasn’t been seen since?”
Ben sighed. “I was afraid Charlot would draw the wrong conclusion about that. But you know Lapin, Paul-Henri, at least a little? Do you really think he’s a murderer? And why in the world would he kill someone who had just arrived in town, a total stranger?”
“Number one, it’s your belief that Lapin and Crespelle didn’t know each other, but you haven’t seen him to ask him, have you?”
Ben shook his head.
“I thought so. As you know better than anyone, only painstakingly accurate legwork will determine who had any connection to the nanny. Number two, who am I to judge what people I know are capable of? Every day, people are known to run off the rails, Monsieur Dufort. And number three, how do you account for his sudden flight without telling a soul? His new wife doesn’t even know where he is. You must admit, his behavior…”
Ben sighed again, longer and louder this time. “Running off wasn’t the best decision, there’s no denying that. But it’s Lapin, Paul-Henri. He has never been known for making great decisions. I’ve known him since we were in primaire together—”
“With all due respect, I don’t think his early school days are relevant to the case. Perhaps if he is innocent, you will find him and he can come back and clear his name. But in the meantime, Chief Charlot and I—”
“I thought you had no confidence in Charlot?”
“Well, I…I’m not saying that I never agree with her on anything. Or that it is even my job to agree or disagree,” he said. “In short, I am not even arguing with you about Lapin or not Lapin. I have no horse in that race, you understand? I only want the killer brought to justice, same as you do. If Lapin is innocent, I trust you—and he—will be able to demonstrate that.”
Ben wiped the last of the sauce from his bowl with a torn-off hunk of baguette. “Oh, that was a good meal. I was planning to go for a run this afternoon but now I’m not so sure.”
“Do you not keep the usual work hours?” Paul-Henri looked horrified at the idea of such irregularity.
Ben shrugged, enjoying the other man’s discomfort. “Sometimes we work really late, sometimes very early in the morning. So taking a very long lunch, maybe a nap or some exercise—it all works out in the end.”
He had given up hope that Paul-Henri had anything useful to say when the officer leaned forward and said in a low voice, “One more thing. It’s about Camille Valette. Before moving to Castillac—and I believe not very long before—she spent some time in a psychiatric hospital.”
“Hm,” said Ben, noncommittal.
“You’re not interested? You don’t think that’s possibly meaningful?”
“To the investigation? Maybe, maybe not. Do you know what the diagnosis was?”
“All right. Anything else?”
“Like I said, we don’t have any details yet. I’ll get back in touch when I get them.”
“Much appreciated, Paul-Henri,” said Ben, though he did not seem as grateful as Paul-Henri would have wished.
Overall, he was rather disappointed in Ben. He didn’t seem impressed by the risk Paul-Henri was taking in order to pass him information that absolutely should not be transmitted to anyone outside the gendarmerie. And he also did not seem to have the same clear image of Camille in the nuthouse that Paul-Henri did: wandering the halls wearing a thin cotton nightgown and a vacant expression, a bloody knife raised in her fist…just as an example.
All right, perhaps he was veering a little toward an operatic scenario, Paul-Henri admitted to himself. But it could be true.
They ordered coffee. Ben was intentionally not making a fuss over Paul-Henri’s offer, thinking that his nonchalance might draw him out more successfully than enthusiasm would. But instead of becoming talkative, Paul-Henri became sullen. He was thinking about the long list of slights and insults he had suffered at the hands of Chief Charlot, and not about the Crespelle case at all.
While Ben was having lunch with Paul-Henri, Molly had zipped into the village on her scooter to pay a visit to Merla and Ophélie. Molly found the place without any trouble, a small, unremarkable house on rue Saterne, only three houses away from the decrepit, falling-down house of Madame Luthier, whom Molly had still never met.
Merla ushered her in seconds after Molly knocked, and offered her coffee, which, Molly being Molly, she accepted with a smile.
“I don’t think I’m going to have a single thing to tell you,” said Merla. “You know I’ve only worked for the Valettes for a matter of days. And honestly, I am not in the habit of gossiping about my employers. As you might imagine, discretion is an important part of my job.”
“Of course!” said Molly. “If a young woman hadn’t been murdered in their library, I would not be asking you a single question about the family. However, I hope you’ll agree that circumstances require…well, being more open about certain things than you would be otherwise?”
Merla gave a short nod—very short—as Ophélie served coffee and some small pastries.
Molly thanked her. She saw that Merla was skittish, and didn’t want to overwhelm her or give her a reason to clam up. “All right, let’s get started,” she said, in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. “How did the Valettes find you?”
“Pascal. I guess Madame Valette had breakfast at the Café de la Place a few days after they moved in. She got to talking with Pascal, as almost everyone does, and said she was looking for a part-time cook. I’ve filled in at the Café from time to time—when they needed extra help catering special events and such. So Pascal thought of me.”
“He’s a good friend,” said Molly, and the two women nodded but said nothing further.
“And do you like the Valettes? As employers?”
“No problems. I have dealt with Monsieur Valette exclusively. Monsieur came to the house and offered me the job, and paid me. Promptly, just as we agreed, which I thought was good of him, considering what they were all going through.
“And what about personally?”
Merla was taken aback. “My personal feelings are not part of the job. Monsieur talks to me about the menu, I do the shopping, I cook. They have only had people over the one time, and as you remember, Ophélie came to help serve and assist me in the kitchen.”
“So you don’t especially like them,” said Molly, with a small smile.
Merla allowed herself a whisper of a smile. “I had a difficult marriage,” she said quietly. “I don’t tell you this because it gives me any pleasure to talk about it, but my ex-husband was a cheat like you wouldn’t believe. I’m not sure there was a woman in the entire Dordogne that he didn’t proposition. And plenty of them said yes. Sorry to say that about your father, Ophélie.”
Ophélie waved away her mother’s apology. She was very interested to hear what her mother really thought about the Valettes, because she herself had been unable to pry out a single word, and hoped Molly would manage better.
“And so…” Merla ran her hand through her short hair. “So it’s no surprise, is it, that I don’t exactly love working in a house where I suspect that kind of thing was going on.”
At first Molly didn’t get what the cook was saying. Then Molly said, “Oh! Which kind of thing?” she asked, wanting to make sure.
“Monsieur and the nanny. I can’t swear to it, I never saw them do anything, so don’t go getting any ideas about making me testify because I won’t do it. But I can sense these things. I’ve got experience with it, as I said. I would bet anything you can name that Monsieur Valette and Violette were up to something together.”
Molly took a few breaths. “Just to be absolutely clear—when you say ‘up to something,’ you mean something…sexual?”
Merla nodded, this time emphatically, as though Molly were a bit dim. “Like I say, I’m uncomfortable talking like this. I want to keep the job! But also…that poor girl….”
For another fifteen minutes, Molly asked other questions of them both, mostly about the night of the murder. But it was Merla’s insistence on something happening between Simon and Violette that was most interesting by far, not least because it fit quite neatly into the way Molly had already seen the case shaping up.
Quite neatly, indeed.
23
Though Simon thought the girls should be excused for a week of school given the circumstances, Camille prevailed, and they got a mere three days off. In this case, however, it was better for the girls to be in school, where every day was more or less the same, where all they had to do was complete their assignments—a relief, given everything happening at home.
When the school day was over, Gisele found Chloë on the playground trying to climb up the side of a wall by stepping on some small decorative protrusions in the stone. A boy was cheering her on but it was unclear whether he was being genuine or trying to encourage her to go higher so she would fall.
“Come on,” Gisele called up to her. “It’s time to go home.” She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up at her sister, who was gripping onto the lintel while searching for a foothold. Once Chloë got her teeth into something, it could be nearly impossible to pry her away. Gisele glanced at the boy, but Chloë was moving too slowly and he had lost interest; with a whoop he ran into a group of boys at the other end of the playground and disappeared.
“Chloë!” said Gisele. “You’re going to get in trouble!”
The younger girl could find nothing higher to stand on, and her audience has abandoned her, so with a dramatic sigh she let go of the lintel and dropped to the ground, scraping her knee.
Chloë sprang up, not crying though her knee stung mightily. “Can we at least go by the épicerie and get some candy?”
Gisele grinned. She might be the older, more responsible sister, but she liked candy as much as any kid. The sisters held hands and left the playground, a trickle of blood slowly moving down Chloë’s leg.
“I’m getting sour Haribo. The little apple ones. Oh, I hope they have them. The sours are the absolute best, don’t you think so? Gisele! Hey, Gisele!”
Her sister was staring ahead at a group of villagers, where she had spied Molly Sutton.
Chloë slammed her elbow into Gisele’s side and took off for the épicerie, which was half a block away.
Gisele did not hurry after her. She held her schoolbooks to her chest, drumming her fingertips on them, wondering…should she talk to Madame Sutton? She seemed so friendly. But that didn’t mean she would take anything Gisele had to say seriously.
Grownups c
an be so stupid, she thought, walking past the group of villagers quickly, not wanting to be noticed. They don’t realize that children have eyes and ears, just as much as they do. They think we don’t see, don’t pay any attention.
But some of us do.
She slipped into the épicerie in time to talk Chloë out of putting seven bags of Haribo on the counter. “I only have money for one each,” said Gisele, eyeing a chocolate bar with raisins and almonds that was a little too expensive. There was no one else in the store and they made their purchase and headed home.
“I know,” said Gisele. “How about we drop off our bags without saying anything to anyone, and take our candy out into the woods. We can pretend to be explorers or something.”
“Papa will see us. He’s always playing with those rocks beside the driveway.”
“We can circle around, where he can’t see us. Put our books by the back door and run for freedom!”
Chloë grinned at that, as Gisele knew she would.
24
It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, which was precisely why Molly had asked Simon Valette to meet her at Chez Papa at five. She wanted a degree of privacy, along with a location where he might be more likely to speak freely than he would at home. And it never hurt to talk over drinks.
“So how’s the case going?” Nico asked her as he wiped down the bar.
“Eh,” said Molly, not wanting to oversell her theory even to herself.
“I’ll give you my unasked-for two cents. Something’s a little funny when a guy like Simon Valette quits his job in Paris and moves to a place like Castillac.”
“What exactly does ‘a little funny’ mean?”
“It means it needs explaining. I haven’t gotten to know the dude, but he went to the École Nationale d’Administration, right? A guy like that, ENA grads, the world is their oyster. The best jobs, great apartments, important contacts in business and government. He was up at the very top of the heap, the tippity-top, right? Why give all that up?”