by Nell Goddin
“Find out anything?”
“Well, I learned from that guest last Valentine’s Day, remember Ira Bilson? He showed me how valuable a little internet detective work can be. People get online and think they’re hidden, but oh are they wildly mistaken,” she said with a laugh.
“So what have you found?”
“Nothing. Yet.”
“I will tell you, I don’t see the appeal of the internet, at least beyond business. Ordering things online and having them delivered, of course almost anybody would like that. Such a time-saver, among other things. But socially…I would so much rather talk to someone face to face. Facial expressions and even silences, in my opinion, can be so meaningful. But there are no silences in internet conversation, yes?”
“Well, kind of. If someone takes a long time to respond. But it’s not really the same thing, you’re right. No question that you lose some parts of communication that you have in person. It’s sort of like writing a letter—not better or worse, just different. If you ask me.”
“How about we ask the experts?” Ben said as they entered Chez Papa to a chorus of bonsoirs. “Bonsoir, tout le monde,” said Ben. “Molly and I were just wondering, how many of you spend any time online socializing? Not shopping, but chatting with people you know from real life or have met online?”
Everyone in the bistro raised a hand except Nico.
“Really!” said Ben, stunned.
“See? We’re all trooping along here in the twenty-first century, and we’ve left you behind with the buggy whips!” said Molly. Nico looked faintly stricken and Molly assured him she was only teasing.
“I’m sure the internet is a great boon to the P.I. world, for sure,” said Nico. “But I’d much rather get together with friends around a table than on a screen. The food’s better,” he said, reaching for the bottle of cassis before Molly had to say a word.
“A hundred percent agree on that score,” said Molly. “I do wonder…do you think you are the same person, meeting someone online and getting to know them? Do we—on purpose or not—change who we are, in some way, since we aren’t actually being seen?”
“I don’t bring up my pot belly,” said a man at the end of the bar, and everyone chuckled.
“I have met some people in political chat rooms,” said Nico, “but the conversation is about ideas, it isn’t personal. My own opinion is that we have to guard our privacy now more than ever.”
Molly leaned her head to one side, considering her friend Nico, who had always had a secretive side. Some of his biggest secrets had been uncovered, but a lifetime of habit wouldn’t be switched off that easily, she thought.
“Okay, second question,” she said, raising her voice and addressing the room. “How many of you have googled someone you know, or searched for information online about your friends or family?”
Again, all hands raised.
“It’s a different world,” said Ben under his breath.
Perhaps, thought Molly. But if we get on top of it, this different world could be a tremendous advantage to Dufort & Sutton Investigations. Though how to do that is another, more difficult question.
All Molly wanted to do on Saturday morning was sit at her computer trying to find some scrap of something, anything at all, that might shine some light on Camille Valette and her penchant for violence. She tried several different search engines and got progressively more creative with her keywords, but after several hours of diligent searching she’d gotten exactly nowhere.
At nine o’clock she forced herself to step away from the coffee pot and the computer. It was changeover day, after all, and no matter how juicy the case or cold the trail, Arthur Malreaux needed to be seen off, Constance would be showing up any minute to do the cleaning, and a new couple was due to arrive later that afternoon. It was time to hop to it and get everything ready.
“Molls!” shouted Constance, having let herself in. Molly appeared from her bedroom, yanking a comb through her hair.
“Bonjour, Constance,” she said, concerned at her friend’s expression. “Is something wrong?”
“There sure is,” said Constance, her eyes welling up.
Uh oh, thought Molly. What has Thomas done now?
“It’s Madame Gervais,” said Constance. She shook her head, her face crumpling.
“What happened?” said Molly, her heart sinking.
“She…she died last night. Or maybe this morning. I’m not sure exactly when. Her neighbor…Madame Gervais didn’t answer the door, and so the neighbor let herself in, and she was…she was dead in her bed.”
Molly swallowed hard, then again. Madame Gervais had made it to one hundred and four years old and then managed to die in her own bed. Well played, thought Molly, well played. “I’m so sorry. I suppose we shouldn’t be shocked, but that doesn’t mean the news isn’t awful.”
“Well, I am shocked. I was pretty sure she was immortal.”
“Kind of seemed that way. The streets of Castillac will not be the same without her.”
“No, they will not,” said Constance with a sob. “And I for one think you ought to go over there and have a look around. I’m not saying there was anything fishy going on or anything, but you never know, Molly. You never know. Someone could have sneaked in there and held a pillow over her head. You just don’t know what horrible things people are capable of.”
Molly sighed. Sometimes Constance took just a little too much energy to deal with. “I’m a hundred percent sure there was nothing fishy,” she said. “Come on, give me a hug. I’m sad too. I’ll really miss her.”
They had a long, tearful hug, then straightened up and started gathering the cleaning supplies, both of them feeling as though some sweaty, productive work would make them feel better. Molly carried the vacuum cleaner to the pigeonnier, realizing she didn’t know whether the Jenkinses were planning to stay another week. She could always put the new couple in the annex, so it didn’t really matter either way, but she noticed that she was getting sloppy about some of the details of the gîte business and vowed to do better.
The Jenkinses were out, sightseeing at another church, no doubt, and Molly let herself in and vacuumed both rooms. They were tidy guests and there was not much to do. Molly scrubbed out the sink and made sure there was plenty of soap in the kitchen and bathroom, and then headed for the cottage, where she expected to see Todor and Elise waiting for her.
“I don’t think we’ll ever leave,” announced Todor as she approached. He was smiling and opening his arms to the sky. “Despite that sudden stomach bug, Elise and I have had the most wonderful time here. Wandering through the village feels a little like going back in time, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Molly. “Even though obviously there are cars and mobile phones and all kinds of modern things around, very often if the light is right, you can look down one of the streets and feel as though you’ve stepped back to the Middle Ages somehow.”
“It’s those old stones,” said Todor.
“I love them so,” said Molly. She thought of Madame Gervais then, how she was so used to glancing down a street and seeing the old woman moving along with her shopping cart, stopping to talk to friends along the way.
“Is…I’m sorry to intrude, but is something wrong?” Todor asked.
“Umph, ah, something in my eye,” said Molly. “Are you and Elise planning to be out sometime today? I can come back and do a quick vacuum then, if you’d like.”
Todor went into a long description of all the things they planned to do before leaving, and ended by asking Molly if it would be possible to pay a little extra for the cottage and stay on an open-ended basis. “I’m not kidding about never wanting to leave,” he said with a laugh. “Though of course that’s only a daydream. We’ll have to go back at some point. Perhaps next month? In the meantime, there are so many more pastries yet to try at Pâtisserie Bujold.”
“A man after my own heart,” said Molly, summoning a smile that was less glowing than usual at the mention of
pastry, since that—like almost everything for the next several days—reminded her of Madame Gervais and an apricot tart they had once shared at the pastry shop.
Quickly she hustled off to the annex to wish Arthur Malreaux a happy farewell, but she found his room empty. He had left a thank-you note on the bed—not effusive, as that was not Arthur’s way. But Molly understood that he appreciated the small help she had given him, even though the stories he had heard from Madame Gervais had not covered his relative with glory as he had hoped.
After a quick conference with Constance, Molly hopped on her scooter and headed into the village. She would be just in time for the tail end of the market, where she was hoping some in-person sleuthing would be a whole lot more productive than the online kind had been.
It would have been easy enough to get sidetracked by all the details of village life, including births and deaths, not to mention pastry and the changing of seasons—but not for Molly. Violette Crespelle’s murder was always on her mind, the details flicking by in a constant slideshow as she tried to make order out of nothing.
29
On Monday morning, Molly stood in front of her armoire trying to find something to wear to Madame Gervais’s funeral, her thoughts disordered and anxious.
“I never have anything to wear. I need to make a shopping trip, maybe to Bordeaux? But talking about buying clothes—or anything, really—seems so out of place, in the face of…hey! Did we ever ask Paul-Henri about Violette’s family? And, this is a grisly thought, but what about her funeral?”
“I asked Paul-Henri a few days after the murder. Violette has a sister who lives in the States. Both Crespelle parents are dead.”
“Oh. Not that I would want any parent to have to go through losing a child, but it seems even sadder that Violette doesn’t have them to mourn for her.”
“The sister has asked that the body be cremated, so I suppose there will be no funeral, or at least no grave-side ceremony. As for a shopping trip to Bordeaux, we can do that anytime you like. It might good for both of us to get out of Castillac for a day. We could stay over, eat a good meal…”
“How you tempt me.”
Ben came up behind Molly and kissed the side of her neck, which never failed to melt her. “I would like to tempt you to more than dinner, but if we’re going to make it to this funeral, I’m sorry to say it’s time to go,” he said, kissing her one more time.
Quickly Molly combed her hair and massaged some product into it, threw Bobo another liver treat because now the dog expected one every time Molly went out, and was ready to go. They held hands once they got to rue des Chênes for the short walk to the cemetery. Before long they could see villagers walking towards the wrought-iron gates and a long line of cars parked along the road.
“Wow,” said Molly. “Look at the mob!”
“Madame Gervais knew everybody,” said Ben. “And just think: all of the people she knew as a child and even as a young adult are dead now, so this isn’t even close to how many friends she had over her life.”
They made their way under the arch that said “Priez pour vos morts,” kissing their friends’ cheeks along the way. Molly being Molly, she was taking special note of everyone connected with the Crespelle case: she saw Marie-Claire walking with Rex Ford; Dr. Vernay and his wife Robinette; Nico and Frances.
“Keep an eye out for Lapin and Anne-Marie,” Molly murmured to Ben. “I’m really hoping he’s come out of hiding.”
Frances broke away from Nico and fell into Molly’s arms. “Aww, I’m really sorry for your loss,” she said. “And I hate saying that because it just feels like a trite thing to say, when I really want to say that I’m sorry to all of Castillac for losing this amazing woman, and I’m just so sad even though I can’t actually say I ever had a conversation with her, thanks to not speaking French.”
In answer, Molly hugged her friend. “She was one of a kind,” said Molly. “Hi, Nico.”
Nico kissed her cheeks, shaking his head. “I always thought I would die in my 20s,” he said. “And when that didn’t happen, I—merde, I don’t mean to be going on about myself. Today is about Madame Gervais.”
“Well, yeah,” said Frances, slipping an arm around him. “But you’re allowed to talk about other things too, I mean jeez, come on. My sense of Madame Gervais is that she would appreciate people not getting too gloomy.”
“Indeed,” said Ben. “I expect Chez Papa to be packed after the funeral, with many spirited and long-winded toasts made.”
They all smiled faintly in anticipation. Just then the hearse pulled up and the crowd quieted. A few young men Molly did not recognize acted as pallbearers, along with Edmond Nugent, who was so much shorter than the others that Madame Gervais’s casket tipped dangerously to one side.
Molly scanned the crowd, looking for Lapin, but did not see him.
“What’s Simon Valette doing here?” Ben said in her ear, giving his chin a little jerk towards the road, where Simon’s head could be seen bobbing along above the stone wall as he made his way to the cemetery.
“No idea,” said Molly. “I don’t see Paul-Henri or Charlot here, do you?”
Ben shook his head.
The casket made its awkward way to the grave with hundreds of pairs of eyes watching.
Frances let out a noisy sob and Nico put both arms around her. “I feel like a fraud!” she shout-whispered. “I didn’t even really know her!”
Molly shot her a look, then made her way behind the crowd to a higher spot where she could see better. There was Anne-Marie, dressed in a beautiful black suit…Molly tried to get closer to her but the crowd was too thick and unyielding.
A hundred and four, Molly kept thinking. That would mean I would still be alive in 2071.
She stopped moving, dumbfounded. I already made a new life once, she thought, but if my math is right, I might have time for several more new lives before it’s all over. Then, as the coffin was lowered down, Molly bowed her head and thought of her friend, Madame Gervais. How her intelligence and good humor had shown in her bright eyes, how she did not shrink from truth, any truth, as she had recently demonstrated with La Baraque’s guest, Arthur Malreaux.
I will miss her terribly, thought Molly, wiping her eyes, as over a hundred people were thinking exactly the same thing at nearly the same moment.
After the service, Ben and Molly were slowly making their way back to the road and on to Chez Papa for lunch when Molly’s cell vibrated in her pocket.
“It’s the Valette number,” she said to Ben, furrowing her brow and then craning her neck to find Simon, but she was too short to see over anyone’s heads.
“llo?” she said tentatively into the phone.
“Bonjour, Madame Sutton,” said a young voice. Molly was barely able to hear; the voice was uncertain and the crowd had gotten talkative and loud.
“Bonjour?” she said. “Is this…Gisele?”
“Yes, madame,” said the girl softly.
Molly put her hand over her other ear, trying to hear, but the girl said nothing else.
“It’s nice to hear from you, Gisele. Can I—is anything wrong? Do you want me to come over?”
“No, it’s not…not here. I was wondering if you would meet me, somewhere besides home? I don’t know the village well, but there must be…”
“How about Pâtisserie Bujold? It’s on the side of the village closer to your house, on rue Picasso. Just ask anyone you see on the street and they’ll be able to direct you. Does that sound all right? I’m on my way right now.”
“Merci,” whispered Gisele, and hung up.
“I have to skip Chez Papa for now, I’ve got to make another stop first,” said Molly to Ben. “See if you can find Simon in this throng,” she said. “Find out what he’s doing here, if you can find a way to ask without seeming too rude. It’s not that I have suspicions or anything, it just…seems odd, so I’m curious about what he would say. Anyway, that was Gisele. She wants to meet, so I’m off—”
Be
n nodded and waved, but Molly did not speed off like she wanted to; the way was clogged with people, none of whom appeared to be in any hurry whatsoever, but stood exchanging stories about Madame Gervais and talking about what they were going to have for lunch instead of moving through the gate and letting anyone else through.
“Pardon!” said Molly, over and over, making progress only by the judicious application of her knees and elbows, until at long last she was through the gate and marching down the road to the village, worried that Gisele would get to Pâtisserie Bujold first and wonder if she was being stood up.
Molly arrived breathless at the shop only to find it closed. Of course, she realized too late, probably every business in the entire village was closed while everyone turned out for the funeral. She paced in front of the door, her curiosity about why the girl had called nearly making her feel sick. She hoped Edmond showed up soon—she could desperately use an espresso and an almond croissant, having skipped breakfast in an effort to fit into her dress.
“Ah! The sun has truly come out, that I see you here, waiting on my doorstep!” said Edmond, from halfway down the block. “I thought you would be at Chez Papa, along with half the village. I am touched that you came here instead. And it is a lucky decision for you, Molly Sutton, because this very morning I happened to make the apricot with the layer of custard that you are so insane over.”
“You just made a terrible day quite a bit brighter,” said Molly, her mouth instantly watering.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a child turn the corner, and quickly raised her hand to wave at Gisele. “This way, chérie!” she called. “I invited her to tea,” she told Edmond, whose eyebrows were raised. “It’s Gisele Valette.”
“I know very well who she is,” sniffed Edmond. “I was at the dinner, you know.”
“Of course, sorry, I was only…I’m a little distracted,” she admitted. “I need to have a tête à tête with Gisele for a few minutes. Can you find something important to do in the back, once we’ve got our pastries and tea?”