by Nell Goddin
Edmond lifted his nose in the air with a scowl, but he nodded. “Girl talk,” he sniffed.
“Come on in,” Molly said to Gisele, who was lingering at the door as though she might bolt. “In my humble opinion, this shop is the best thing in Castillac, and all newcomers should be brought here on their first day. So we will do what we can to make up for lost time.”
Behind the counter, Edmond’s expression brightened. Molly and Gisele chose their pastries without much dithering. Edmond brought drinks to the tiny table in the corner and then dutifully disappeared into the back, leaving them in private.
“I’m glad to have introduced you to this place,” Molly said confidentially. “That is, if you are a fan of pastry? I suppose there must be people somewhere who are indifferent to it, but even they might change their minds if they tried some of Edmond’s. He is an artist, truly.”
Gisele’s eyes were wide and Molly could tell she wished the floor would open and swallow her right up.
“And also,” Molly continued, “I’m so very glad you called me. Do you know—well, of course you don’t know, what am I thinking?—I am about to be forty years old. True! Ancient, isn’t it? My birthday is in a few weeks. But I haven’t told anyone. Even my fiancé doesn’t know. Do you think I should just get over myself and throw a big party? Do you like big parties?”
“Not really,” said Gisele.
Molly waited but she said nothing further.
“Oh my gracious, I’m an utter blockhead…Gisele, I’m so sorry for babbling on about parties, when the last party at your house…it was…traumatic, is the only word. I know you must miss Violette tremendously.”
The girl shrugged, but Molly was not fooled into believing the girl didn’t care. “I hope you catch who did it,” Gisele whispered. “I heard you are a famous detective, and I’m glad my father hired you.”
“I’m glad he did too. And my partner and I are working very hard on the case.” Molly paused and took a bite of the apricot pastry, savoring the burned caramelized bits and the vanilla cream. “I’m wondering, because you seem to be a person who notices things—might you possibly have something to tell me about the case? Something you overheard, or saw, or anything at all?”
Gisele shook her head. “No. I don’t think so, anyway. I do like detective stories very much, and there was a show on TV we used to watch in Paris…but I know that’s just pretend, and I don’t really know what detectives do in real life.”
Molly laughed. “It’s far less glamorous than on TV, I can tell you. Often the best clues come from work that’s painstaking drudgery, to be honest—going through someone’s trash and finding receipts, interviewing people over and over until finally they mention the seemingly insignificant thing that turns the case around. You’d be surprised how often a case hinges on some small detail that everyone overlooks.”
“But you see it,” said Gisele, looking at Molly intently.
Molly shrugged. “I look for it,” she said. “But even in the cases I’ve solved, who knows what I may have missed?”
“And have you solved every one?”
“So far. But it’s not that many. Really, I’ve been extremely lucky, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me, I’m not some Sherlock-level detective genius, I’m really not. Would you like another pastry?” she asked, seeing Gisele’s plate was empty save for a few crumbs.
Gisele shook her head. She decided to be direct. “Gisele, you can be frank with me. Is there…a particular reason you called me?”
“I…I called because…well, I didn’t want to call you, Madame Sutton, but you were so nice the other day, and with Violette gone…please don’t tell my father or my mother. I don’t think they’d like it at all.”
Molly nodded seriously. “I am very, very good at keeping secrets,” she said.
Gisele flashed a grin. Her two front teeth were a little bit crooked, which Molly found adorable. “I miss Violette,” she said, still whispering. “I could tell her things. It made me feel better to talk to her when Maman…”
Molly felt a prickle on the back of her neck. “When Maman…?”
“Hits,” said Gisele, barely loud enough to hear. She made a grimace that reminded Molly of Simon.
Molly breathed in sharply. She was not shocked to hear this news, but what in the world could she do about it?
“Oh, chérie. You and your sister don’t deserve that.”
Gisele shook her head, her eyes welling up.
“Does your father help?” Molly asked softly.
Again the girl shrugged. “He doesn’t like it,” she said. “But she’s stronger than he is.”
Molly thought this over. On one hand, it was hard to imagine that a man with Simon’s charms, intelligence, and accomplishments could be overpowered by anyone. But on the other, Molly understood that those things might not be the best protection against violence. His good manners might, in fact, be his Achilles heel.
Molly brought her attention back to Gisele. She felt at a loss, wanting to offer reassurance but knowing there was little, if anything, she could do to help. Were there laws about this sort of thing in France? She doubted it, given that schoolteachers were allowed to whack their students in the classroom.
The only solution that Molly could see would be to prove Camille’s guilt in the murder of Violette Crespelle. Of course no one would wish that their mother be arrested for murder, but at least it would put a safe distance between the vicious mother and the dear little girls, who deserved much better, as any child would.
“I didn’t call you because of that,” said Gisele, sitting up straight and looking at Molly with a serious expression
“There’s more?”
“It’s about the other night. I…I like watching people. And listening.”
“You mean the night of your parents’ party?” Molly got that tingly feeling she sometimes got, that meant something important was in the vicinity.
At least sometimes it was.
“Yes, the night when Violette was strangled,” said Gisele matter-of-factly. “I took some notes about the things people were saying. Would you like to hear them?”
“Of course I would,” said Molly.
“Well, that doctor? I missed the first part of it but he was saying something about how someone ‘must have told you all kinds of stories from those days—students can be so naughty’ or something like that.”
“Who did he say this to?”
“Violette,” Gisele shrugged. “And he said her last name reminded him of stuffing himself with pancakes.”
Molly nodded, wishing the girl had something meatier to report.
“Also, the art professor patted her bottom as Violette went by, when she was chasing after Chloë. Like they were boyfriend and girlfriend? But they weren’t. Violette told me she was too busy to have a boyfriend.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Chloë and I were under the table during the dinner, do you remember? I had asked Ophélie to pack us a little box of food and we spent all that time sitting next to everyone’s legs.”
Molly grinned.
“You see a lot down there,” said Gisele.
“No doubt.” Molly’s tingle had gone away, to her great regret, as had her pastry and coffee. “Well, any other tidbits you have for me? I’m afraid I’m going to have to head home and see what kind of sleuthing I can do from my computer.” They stood up. Molly looked around for Edmond but he was still sequestered in the back, and they went outside to the tinkling of the bell on the door.
“One more thing,” said Gisele. “I don’t know her name, but the woman with the stiletto heels, who sat next to the man wearing the rough boots?”
“Marie-Claire Levy? Next to Ben?”
“I’m sorry, it’s hard to keep the grownups sorted out. I think so. Anyway, I heard her say something to that art professor after Violette went out of the dining room. She said, ‘No one knows, just keep it that way.’ Sort of quiet, so nobody would hear.”<
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Molly had listened intently to all that Gisele said, but was becoming tired and distracted, feeling pressure from too many directions at once. “Sweet girl,” she said, shaking Gisele’s hand and then kissing her cheeks. “You have been a big help. I will go home and write down all that you’ve told me. And please know—you are welcome at La Baraque at any time. No need to call ahead.”
Gisele nodded with a small smile.
“Do you need me to walk you home?”
The girl looked at Molly like she was insane. “What, Madame Sutton? I’ve been getting around my neighborhood in Paris by myself for ages. I can handle Castillac.”
I bet you can, thought Molly, watching her stride down the sidewalk, both of them feeling sick at what she was going home to.
30
Anne-Marie Broussard had been married to Lapin for only a short while. She was not from Castillac but had met him at a flea market in Limoges and married him after a whirlwind courtship, much to the surprise of the Castillaçois, who had always known Lapin to be something of a weasel around women and who had never had a romantic relationship last as long as a month.
Yet the marriage, until the Valette dinner party, had been going extremely well for both of them. Lapin and Anne-Marie enjoyed spending time together; they got along without sniping or sulking, they were physically well suited to each other, respected each other, laughed and discussed politics without rancor—the list of their marital compatibilities was long and impressive.
And maybe that was part of the trouble, Anne-Marie thought, on day ten now of Lapin’s disappearance. Maybe I started taking the whole thing for granted, started assuming that the marriage would just merrily continue on without my paying any special attention. Something must have been wrong and I didn’t see it.
Restlessly, she tidied the house though it was already in perfect condition. She walked by a mirror in the foyer and stopped to look at herself. She was middle-aged, her hair short and naturally curly. She was a bit thick through the middle and wrinkles were beginning to show on her forehead and around her eyes. Anne-Marie sighed, thinking of how Lapin would chase her around their house, singing arias as he grabbed for her, and how they would tumble onto the sofa laughing with disbelieving glee at how happy they were. What was she to make of those memories now?
And something else was bothering her. At the Valettes, Anne-Marie had for the first time seen her husband look at another woman with desire. The nanny had passed through the dining room at several points, both before and during dinner, and Lapin had not taken his eyes off her. Unsurprisingly, the new wife’s heart had sunk. But surely, she told herself, this was commonplace. It wasn’t as though she didn’t admire Pascal when she went to the Café de la Place for breakfast—it didn’t mean anything at all. She was not going to turn into a harping, jealous wife over nothing more than a glance. It was not who she was, she told herself at the party, and instead talked with animation to Nico, who was sitting on her left, and to Pascal on her right.
No, it was not Lapin’s staring that had her worried, she thought as she polished the cherrywood dining room table—it was his taking off without a word when the lights went out. She and Lapin had been so close over the months; they had shared their fears and hopes and not hidden from each other. It was not even the running as much as not telling her anything about it, then or later on, when he knew she would be sick with worry. She could not believe—even after the days passed with no contact—that he had done anything wrong. He just couldn’t have, it made no sense whatsoever.
Yet…where in heck was he?
With Gisele’s hurt expression fresh in her mind, Molly was determined to find some shred of evidence that could possibly get Camille removed from the Valette home temporarily, if not arrested. She had no idea what that might be, but wasn’t searching when you didn’t precisely know what you were searching for practically the main task of an investigator? Slipping on a jacket and leaving La Baraque with only a wave to Bobo, she jumped on the scooter and got on her way.
I don’t even think of the Citroen coupe anymore, she realized, turning onto rue des Chênes. Months ago, the fancy car had needed a minor repair and been in the shop for a week, and after that Molly had almost always left it in the garage, preferring the wind in her hair and even the cold while riding the scooter.
This fleeting musing over transportation alternatives was the only distraction she allowed herself during the trip to the Valettes’. She decided that she would ask to interview Raphael, Simon’s father. It was possible he might tell her something incriminating about Camille; perhaps his daughter-in-law let her guard down around him, discounting him because of his dementia and assuming he would be an unreliable witness.
At the Valettes’, Molly parked the scooter and looked around the yard, seeing no one. She knocked on the heavy wooden door but there was no answer.
“Coo-coo!” she called out, having adopted the French manner of announcing her presence. She walked closer to the ruin, thinking she might have missed Simon, but he was not there. Circling around the house, she cocked her head to listen for the girls, but all was silent.
I can’t imagine Raphael has gone out, she thought, and despite knowing full well she shouldn’t, she turned the handle on the front door and pushed her way inside the house.
“Coo-coo!” she called, and listened.
She thought she heard something upstairs, like the legs of a chair scraping on bare wood. Slowly she crept up the stairs, praying Simon or Camille didn’t appear. “Raphael?”
His door was cracked and sunlight poured through. Molly knocked softly, which pushed the door open wider. She saw him sitting in an armchair, facing the window. His shoulders sagged and he did not turn around at the sound of her knock or footsteps.
“Raphael? I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “My name is Molly Sutton. I was wondering if you would mind talking to me a little bit about the other night?”
The old man swung his head in her direction. His hair stuck up in back and he needed a shave, but Molly thought she saw a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m Molly Sutton. I’m a private investigator who also happened to be at the dinner party last Friday when Violette Crespelle was murdered.” Maybe she should have been a little more circumspect, but she had a feeling that this was a man who appreciated straight talk.
Raphael stood up, and walked over to her. He was a tall man with a large frame, and he was not without physical power. “Who is Violette Crespelle?” he said.
Molly swallowed. “The nanny. The young woman who lived here, and helped take care of your granddaughters.”
“Thieves,” said Raphael. He stepped closer and took Molly by the shoulder, and kissed both her cheeks with some force.
“Did someone steal something from you?” Molly said, trying to take a step backward.
Letting go of her arms, Raphael leaned his head back and laughed. “Steal something? They steal everything, chérie, everything.”
“Which things?” Molly wasn’t sure why she didn’t just give up and go home. He was obviously not in his right mind.
“My scissors,” he breathed. “And my string. I’ve always told them that it’s important to have string. Comes in handy. But these young people, what do they know of deprivation? They use a thing and throw it out. Everything is disposable.”
“And then they come back to you for more because whatever they borrowed is gone.”
Raphael looked at Molly with amazement. He had never been able to make any of them understand.
“Did you like Violette?” she asked, nonchalantly.
“Violette?” he said. He went to the table by his bed, opened a narrow drawer, and took out a cord. Molly thought perhaps it was a bootlace. Slowly he wrapped the cord around the fingers of his left hand. “Who are you?” he asked again, walking slowly toward her.
“Molly Sutton,” she said, her voice unnaturally high. “I wa
s wondering if you remember anything from the other night, the night of the terrible storm,” she said, thinking maybe that the wild lightning and thunder might have made an impression on him.
He did not answer, but wrapped the other end of the cord around his right hand. He was an arm’s-length away, staring into her eyes, searching.
“You don’t know me,” Molly said, trying to reassure him. “I’m sure it must be very difficult at your age—hell, at any age—to uproot and move to a new house, a new village. What do you like to do, Raphael? Do you like fishing?”
Why in the world am I talking about fishing, she thought, watching his hands pull the cord taut. Was it unconscious, or was he trying to frighten her?
It was working, intentional or not. Molly glanced behind her to make sure the door was open so she could dart through if need be.
“Fishing?” said Raphael wonderingly. “This house is full of thieves,” he added in a harsh whisper.
“And a murderer?” Molly whispered back to him, taking a chance.
31
Chief Charlot, unlike her predecessors, spent most of her working time at her desk. She sent Paul-Henri out to do preliminary interviews for the murder case and to take care of the kinds of incidental problems that crop up in a small village. He took Madame Bonnay’s dog back home, found Monsieur Vargas in the cemetery and returned him to his wife—it sometimes seemed to Paul-Henri that his main job at the gendarmerie was taking lost creatures back to their homes. Which he did not resent, to his credit.
“Have you driven past the Broussard house yet today?” the chief barked, startling him when he returned to the station.
“Not yet. I went by yesterday in the late afternoon. There was no car in the drive. Do you want me to ask Anne-Marie again if she has heard from him?”
“Of course that’s what you should do,” said Charlot, looking at him as though he had a screw loose. “But keep in mind that she might be an accomplice, and applying techniques of misdirection.”