by Nell Goddin
Molly considered. “Make me a kir, will you? And keep the questions coming, that’s a good one.”
Nico reached for the cassis and got to work while Molly tried to come up with reasons why Simon would turn his back on all that success. She came up empty.
“I didn’t talk to the nanny the other night. Did you?” asked Nico.
“Not much, I’m afraid. She seemed energetic and lively enough. The children had disappeared and she was trying to find them. I got the feeling this was not unusual.”
“Do you think Simon would be interested in someone who, um, wasn’t that good-looking?”
“It’s a good question, Nico. Well—she wasn’t beautiful, okay. But I would definitely say she was attractive. At my age, youth all by itself starts looking pretty damn good.”
“At your age?” Nico cracked up laughing. “Right up there with Madame Gervais?”
“I’m turning forty in an alarmingly small number of days,” Molly said in a low voice, as though protecting a state secret.
“Is that so? Having a party?”
“I don’t think it’s cause for celebration.” It wasn’t that Molly was vain, or especially worried about getting older in general. It was only that at this point, every year that went by made the possibility of having a child shrink further, and that fact was hard to face.
The door opened and Simon Valette swept in, wearing a very expensive-looking sport coat, a starched button-down shirt with stripes, and a scarf artfully tied around his neck.
“Bonjour, Simon,” said Molly. “I’m afraid you need to go home and change. We don’t go in for such fashionable clothing around here and you’re going to make all the other men look bad.”
Simon’s eyes widened.
“Joking!” said Molly with a merry grin. “Get a drink and let’s talk in the back room.”
Nico poured Simon a glass of a local red that wasn’t very good, and he and Molly went to the back and sat in a booth across from each other.
“Have you got news?” he said hopefully.
“Oh, not yet. It takes quite a while just to get the information organized, Simon. Especially with a group this large. Just mapping out the comings and goings…”
“Oh yes, of course. Well, anything I can do to speed things along….”
“Much appreciated. I wanted to ask you a couple of specific questions, though. All routine. Violette—she’d been with you around six months?”
“That’s right.” He took a sip of his wine and grimaced slightly, though he made no comment.
“How did Camille get on with her?”
“Fine. She’s—Camille, I mean—not a very…she hasn’t been well, as I explained. I think she was relieved to have someone else taking care of our daughters. Not that Violette replaced Camille, I’m not saying that at all. But you know—Violette braided their hair, made sure their clothes looked nice, played games with them—things that Camille couldn’t keep up with, day after day. And if you saw me braid hair, well….” He gave Molly a brilliant smile, and she couldn’t help noticing how magnetic he was when he turned all his attention on you.
“So the girls liked Violette? Would you say they liked her quite a bit?”
“I would, yes. The drawing lessons, for one thing, were a big hit with both of my daughters.”
“And Camille…it would be totally understandable, but was she jealous of your daughters’ attention going to Violette?”
“I don’t believe so, no. She never said anything to me about it. As I said, I think relief was the main thing Camille felt. Gratitude that the girls had someone so dependable. We all counted on Violette, Camille included.”
Simon let go of his glass and brought his fingertips first to his chin and then his cheek. He ran his finger along his face several times, stroking pensively.
“And how about you, Simon?” Molly continued. “Of course I’m aware that you hired us, and it’s quite awkward to bring things like this up. But I’m sure you understand that all lines of questioning must be pursued nonetheless.”
Simon waved a hand as though to brush away her discomfort. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Yes, we’ve got some things in the family closet that would be…somewhat embarrassing if they became public knowledge. Like all families, I suppose. But ask away, Molly, none of it is of any real consequence.”
“All right,” said Molly, taking a sip of her kir and then arranging her notebook to prolong the moment. “Tell me,” she said finally, “was there anything between you and Violette that Ben and I should know about?”
Simon made a quick intake of breath. He sipped his wine with the same small grimace. “Nothing whatsoever happened between me and Violette,” he said. “She did a good job and I was grateful to have her on the household staff. I cannot for the life of me discover even an inkling of why anyone wanted her dead. Certainly not me or Camille, I can swear to that.”
“All right. I hear you are a graduate of ENA? I suppose that’s like Harvard to an American, and you know I was Boston-raised so I have a soft spot in my heart for the place.”
Simon smiled and nodded. “Yes, I suppose they could be considered on a par.”
“In terms of prestige, I’m saying.”
“Yes.”
“I’m wondering why, with that kind of impressive qualification—and your job was just what one would expect, also very important and consequential. And lucrative,” she added. “Why walk away from all that? Why come to Castillac, of all places?”
Simon leaned back in the banquette and shrugged, that particular Gallic shrug that is far more expressive than mere words. “Oh, a combination of things, Molly. Camille’s health. The stress of the city is invigorating, but not necessarily always the best thing for everyone, you understand? And perhaps…perhaps there was a dash of mid-life crisis as well.”
“Ha! You’re too young for a midlife crisis!”
“I’ve always been precocious,” he said, deadpan.
Molly laughed, completely sucked in by his charm, though she at least observed the sucking-in as it happened.
She had thought up a few other random questions to ask so that her interest in the potential goings-on between Simon and Violette did not appear to be the only reason for asking for a meeting. Molly observed him carefully. He did not seem anxious or tense. He answered the rest of her questions with deliberation and good humor, and after about a half an hour, she thanked him for his time and said goodbye.
“Get what you needed?” asked Nico.
“Eh,” said Molly.
Just because Simon hadn’t admitted to anything between him and Violette, didn’t mean she had to believe him. His wife was ill, and he was clearly a man who loved paying attention to women and getting attention from them. Molly put herself in Camille’s place: she imagined being taken out of a stunning Paris apartment and dropped in Castillac with a difficult father-in-law, then being shut up in the bedroom much of the time while my charismatic husband and a lively nanny (that my children adored) ran the household…it made Molly burn with jealousy just thinking about it. She had no idea what the statistics were on jealousy being the motive for murder, but she was ready to push Simon out of a window just after imagining the situation for a moment.
And the point was, it didn’t actually matter whether Simon was cheating on his wife or not, Molly mused, riding home on her scooter. If Camille thought he was having an affair, or even that he might—she could have seized the opportunity of the sudden darkness covering a dinner party full of people to put an end to what for her was an existential threat.
Sometimes the most likely suspect is actually the murderer, she thought. Simply connect the dots between means, motive, and opportunity, and any detective with any talent at all will end up knocking on the bedroom door of Camille Valette, and no one else.
When Molly got back to La Baraque, Ben was in the kitchen and the house smelled incredibly good. “Oh, I am starving!” Molly exclaimed, wading through Bobo and the orange cat to get to
him for a kiss. “And can I just say that coming home to find you behind the counter whipping up dinner is pretty much the best sight ever!”
Ben just smiled and stirred the carrots, which were bathing in an ungodly amount of butter and slowly caramelizing.
“Is that a chicken roasting I smell?”
Ben smiled and nodded. “How did the meeting with Simon go?”
“Eh,” she said, but then grinned. “It was terrifically awkward at some points, actually, which only solidifies my thinking.”
“Yes?”
“Let me lay it out. Obviously we have to wait for the DNA reports from Florian, and it would help to find the cord that was used as a garrote, but at this point I just don’t see this case as any big mystery. Sometimes the most obvious answer is the correct one, you know?”
“Umm…well, about that last bit, sure, sometimes the obvious thing is correct. Though I’m not at all sure what that is in this case.”
“Seriously? You haven’t been thinking it’s probably Camille right from the get-go?”
“Camille? No. Not in the least. Not for a moment.”
Ben and Molly stood looking at each other with mixed expressions of horror and disbelief.
“How could you—” they both said at once.
“Let me go first,” said Molly, pulling herself together a bit. She pulled a leftover container of her favorite lemony mustard dressing out of the refrigerator and stirred it before pouring some on the salad. “Okay. Step by step. We’ve got a murder in a houseful of people, which at first seems like a whole host of suspects, right? But unless one of our friends is a secret homicidal maniac who prefers to do in total strangers, by far the more likely scenario is that the murderer is one of the people who actually knew the victim, correct?”
“Correct,” said Ben, somewhat reluctantly.
“That leaves Simon, Camille, and Raphael. I think we can agree the daughters aren’t in the running?”
“Correct,” said Ben, more willingly.
“Any of the three had opportunity. The house was pitch dark and you can get to the library through the kitchen. I spoke to Merla and Ophélie, and they both say that they could have been in the pantry just before the murder, which would allow anyone to slip through the kitchen unobserved. They also said that both Simon and Camille came through the kitchen multiple times during the party. They were of course focused on the cooking and cannot remember who came through when.”
“But they did not mention Raphael coming through?”
“They weren’t standing guard, Ben. He could have come through while they were taking something out of the oven, before the lights went out. Or they could’ve been in the pantry. Look, any of the rest of us could have gotten to the library through the dining room. But in addition, all the Valettes could have taken the back way. That’s what the evidence shows.”
“Okay,” said Ben. “So that narrows it to three. I’m still not seeing why you choose Camille over the others.”
“You’re in agreement that they all had opportunity to get to Violette in the library?”
“Yes, all right. Opportunity points among the three are even. I’ll also give you means, since a cord to do the job would not be hard for anyone to find, though I’m honestly not at all convinced that Raphael has the mental capacity to pull off something so neat.”
“I would agree,” said Molly, “thank you for bolstering my conclusion. And that leaves us with motive. And that, my dearest, is where all signs point to Camille.”
Ben shook his head slowly.
Molly’s eyes widened. “Why do you disagree? I do like Simon, but it’s nothing at all to do with that. And—I’m well aware that he’s our client and that he hired us expressly to avoid the conclusion I’m reaching—which, to be honest, is a bit suspicious all by itself, isn’t it? Why was he so afraid that his wife might get nailed for a murder, unless he guessed—or knew—that she had committed it? At any rate, to get to the bit of information I haven’t told you…Merla accuses him of having an affair with Violette.”
“Do you have any evidence that she’s right? Does he admit to it?”
“Of course he doesn’t. But the thing is, Ben—it doesn’t matter whether he was or not. Only that Camille thought he was. Or worried about it. And if Merla thought something was going on, wouldn’t his wife have been feeling suspicious too?”
Ben took the chicken out of the oven and did not answer at first. “Let’s get the food on the table, pour some of that good Médoc, and talk some more,” he said finally. They bustled about, Ben slicing the chicken into parts, each with a crispy covering of herbed skin, and Molly opening the wine and scraping the carrots into a serving dish.
“I have something to tell you,” he said, after swallowing a few mouthfuls of the comforting food. “Paul-Henri is dissatisfied with Chantal Charlot. So much so that he is willing to feed us information from time to time. He believes Charlot is pursuing the wrong suspect…but I think his motive is more about embarrassing Charlot than some huge fear that the killer will go free.”
“Interesting,” said Molly, breaking off the end of a baguette and smearing it with butter. “I wonder what’s she’s done to make him that upset. He’s such a rule-follower, it’s a little shocking that he’s willing to go against protocol like that.”
Ben nodded. “So, what he passed on today, with virtually no explanatory detail, is that Camille Valette has spent some time in a psychiatric hospital.”
They looked at each other. Ben waited.
Molly took a long drink of her wine, savoring the woodsy flavor, and then a bit of chicken. “Did he give any details at all? Like what were the circumstances, what was the diagnosis?”
“Nothing else. I don’t think Paul-Henri was holding out on me, he just didn’t know.”
“Well, without more information, I don’t think we can do much with it.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so.”
“It would be ridiculous to think that having mental illness means you’re automatically violent and murderous.”
“My thought exactly.”
“Not automatically…but possibly,” said Molly stubbornly. “Okay, I’ve given the case my best shot. Now let’s hear your side,” said Molly, managing a smile that was only slightly phony.
25
Glad for a reason to be out of the station while the chief was in, Paul-Henri made his way over to Dr. Vernay’s office, working his way down the list of guests at the Valettes’ dinner. He stopped briefly on the doorstep to check his uniform, brushed a bit of lint off his sleeve, and knocked on the door.
Robinette Vernay, rosy-cheeked and bursting with good health, opened the door and ushered him inside. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Officer,” she said, surprising Paul-Henri. “You do look in woeful shape. I’m afraid the doctor is with a patient at the moment, can you wait for just a bit? Is there anything in the meantime I can do to make you more comfortable?”
Paul-Henri did not know what to say. He yanked down the hem of his coat and lifted his chest. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said. “I am here to see the doctor, yes, but on police business, not as a patient.”
“Ah,” said Robinette, looking skeptical. “You might want to let the doctor give you a once-over, while you’re in there. Your color isn’t good,” she said ominously.
Unsettled, Paul-Henri took a seat in the small waiting area. He looked around at the minimal effort at decoration, suddenly wishing he could have a glass of something before going in to see the doctor. It had been years since he had had a check-up, and what if the doctor’s wife had a talent for diagnosis? It would make perfect sense if she developed such an intuition, given that she had seen a parade of sick people coming into the office day after day for years on end. What if she could sense a dreadful illness on the verge of causing symptoms, something so dreadful that—
“The doctor will see you now,” said Robinette, sticking her head through the door. “I’ve got a bit of pineau, if you’d like?”
The fact that she guessed what he had just thought did not ease Paul-Henri’s anxiety. He nodded and took the glass as he went into Dr. Vernay’s examination room.
“Bonjour, Officer Monsour,” said Dr. Vernay over his shoulder as he washed his hands at the sink. “What can I do for you?”
“I appreciate your taking the time,” said Paul-Henri, noticing a prickle at the back of his neck and assigning dire causes to it. He took a swig of pineau. “The gendarmerie is interviewing everyone in attendance at the Valette dinner, as you might expect.”
“Of course, of course. Terrible business. Not really my line, you understand—I see people who are ill, sometimes tragically so, but by and large I deal with the living. For which I am grateful.”
“Yes,” said Paul-Henri, distracted by an itch on his left calf that he was sure was a developing hive. “So, first, just a general question—did you notice anything that night, anything at all that might be helpful to our investigation?”
“What sort of thing do you have in mind?”
“Oh, it could be anything really. An exchange between two people. A glance, even. A sense that there is something unexplained under the surface. An overheard comment that in retrospect seems troubling…”
Dr. Vernay held his chin in one hand, his usual posture for thinking. “I don’t think there’s a single thing,” he said at last. “It was an unusual evening, as you know by now…a dinner party in which the hosts knew none of the guests. A bit strange, wasn’t it? Of course we villagers were there in the usual high spirits, and I think it was coming off rather well despite the unusual circumstance, until…well, the horrible business with the nanny. What was her name again?”
“Violette Crespelle.”
“Yes, right.” The doctor nodded. “A lovely girl. Just tragic.”
“Did you see anyone go into the library after the lights went out?”
“I’m sorry to say it was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. It was bedlam for a few moments, with people rushing around and knocking into furniture, until Pascal, I believe it was, managed to get the lights on again. Turns out some of our grown friends are afflicted with a fear of the dark,” he said, looking amused.