Death in Darkness

by Nell Goddin

  34

  Molly was in the garden pulling weeds, where she did her best thinking. It was taking some discipline to focus on possible leads instead of mentally wringing her hands over the wellbeing of the Valette girls. For whatever reason, Gisele had chosen her to ask for help, and so far, she had managed nothing. Yanking up a particularly long and nasty root, Molly wondered idly about a wiretap. How hard were they to get in France? Would it ever be possible for a private investigator to get one legally? And even if it was obtained and put in place—was Camille chatty enough, revealing enough, to make it worthwhile?

  Her cellphone buzzed and Molly sat back on her heels, tried to wipe the dirt off her hands, and dug it out of her pocket. A text from Lawrence:

  raphael valette dead. thought you’d be interested

  Raphael? What?

  Molly was stunned. Not that there had been another murder—that was common enough, sadly. But Raphael? That…that made no sense. It didn’t fit at all with how she saw Camille, or the Valettes as a family.

  She jumped up and brushed off her jeans, then called Ben, who had gone over to check on how the renovation was going.

  “Here’s a shocker,” she said when he answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Just got a text from Lawrence. Raphael Valette is dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Ben. “I’m sure it’s rather bittersweet for the family in a circumstance like that.”

  “What are you talking about? What could possibly be sweet about having a family member murdered, not two weeks from a different member of the household being strangled?”

  “Murdered? You didn’t say that, Molly!”

  “I—well,” she laughed weakly. “I guess Lawrence didn’t say it either. I totally jumped to conclusions. Sorry! Maybe you could call Florian and find out what’s going on?” She shook her head. “I guess I’m really on edge. I spent a couple hours this morning trying to find anything online that would help the case, but I’m getting nowhere.”

  “It is frustrating,” he said.

  “And…you’re pretty iffy about Camille, aren’t you?”

  Ben didn’t answer at first. “Well,” he said finally, “of course I think that if she stabbed Simon, she’s obviously not mentally well. And I suppose that could mean just about anything, but yes, it’s a violent act and so, obviously, is murder. I don’t dispute that she could have had motive, whether her fears were based in reality or not.

  “But Molly, that adds up to a lot of supposition, a lot of jumping from one stone to another to get across the pond, if you see what I mean?”

  “And you want a bridge.”

  “A solid one, made of concrete, if you’ve got one of those.”

  Molly sighed. “I’ll keep looking. Let me know what Florian says?”

  “Of course.”

  She threw a stick for Bobo for a few minutes, then took a long, leisurely shower, all the while combing through every moment of the Valette dinner party, hoping to see or hear something she had missed the first ten thousand times she had replayed the evening in her mind.

  And once dry and clean, Molly sat back down at the computer, flipping through the same sites she’d looked at before and haphazardly trying new ones, desperately hoping for a bit of luck.

  But Molly’s natural inclination was not to sit at a desk staring at her computer screen. She much preferred to be out in the world, even if that only meant whipping down rue des Chênes on her scooter. So before long she stood up, deciding that at least she could finish her interviews with the dinner party guests. Just as she was headed out the door, her cell buzzed again.

  “llo?”

  “Molly! It’s Anne-Marie. Just wanted to tell you that, thank God, Lapin has come home.”

  “Good! I hope he’s given you some explanation for worrying you so?”

  “Well, sort of. It’s not exactly…I mean, all he says is that when the lights went out, he completely freaked out. Something about a punishment he used to get as a child? His father sounds like a real—”

  “Yes, terribly cruel. But so…that doesn’t explain why he was gone so long. The lights did come back on, after all.”

  “He was on his way back when he heard about the murder. He was sure that his disappearance would look suspicious.”

  “So he made himself look even more suspicious by staying away? Lapin!” said Molly, shaking her head, but feeling a little sorry for him.

  “I know. He’s ridiculous,” said Anne-Marie, but her voice was full of sympathy.

  “I would let the gendarmes know. Better for him to make the first move, than that they hear it from someone else.”

  “Yes, good idea, Molly. I’ll go around with him as soon as I can. Do you know…have you been working with Chief Charlot? Any tips on what we should say?”

  Molly paused, taking a deep breath. “Charlot…she’s not easy. She’ll probably snap at you, say rude things to Lapin, accuse you both of who knows what. But look, we know Lapin didn’t do anything wrong, so just hold your ground and eventually she’ll have to let it go.”

  “Are you saying Lapin is actually a suspect?”

  “That’s what I hear, Anne-Marie. I’m sorry. We’ve tried to reason with Charlot, but she insists that his leaving puts him at the top of the suspect list. She doesn’t have anything else though.” Molly stepped outside and shut the front door behind her. “She doesn’t, right Anne-Marie? I mean, I know Lapin is innocent, but do you know of anything Charlot might have gotten hold of, anything that would seem to be incriminating? I ask only because if all he did was leave, that’s a pretty weak case for a chief of gendarmes to be making. Not without something in addition.”

  “There’s nothing else, Molly. Nothing at all. That I know about,” she added, a little weakly.

  “Then don’t worry. Ben and I will figure this out, and she doesn’t have nearly enough to try to pin it on Lapin. I’ll call you soon, and give Lapin my love. And a spanking.”

  35

  Simon Valette stood in the midst of the ruin, surrounded by rubble and carefully sorted piles of stones, staring down the driveway where the coroner’s van had traveled hours earlier, on the way to the morgue with his father’s body.

  Everything was entirely surreal. Death after death…and the feeling of unreality was compounded by the family’s recent move to Castillac, where they experienced serial traumas but did not have the comfort of people and places familiar to them.

  My father is dead, Simon kept saying to himself over and over, trying to believe it.

  Camille was in the kitchen, planning dinner with Merla. After Violette’s death, they had hired the cook to make dinner for the family twice a week, and thankfully the day of Raphael’s death was one of the appointed days; Camille did not know her way around a kitchen, Simon was in no condition to do anything, and people, after all, needed to be fed.

  “I think something in the peasant line,” she said to Merla, who sat at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen at the ready. Merla was confused.

  “Pardon?” she said. “Peasant line?”

  “Oh, I just mean some sort of hearty dish, nothing fussy,” said Camille, irritated. “How about a simple beef stew, can you do that?”

  “Of course,” said Merla, keeping her face unperturbed. “I’ve been meaning to ask about general preferences. Are there foods that anyone doesn’t like? I know the young ones sometimes have—”

  “The girls will eat what they’re given,” said Camille.

  Merla nodded. “Are you…do you need any help with anything else, given Monsieur Valette’s sudden passing?”

  Camille looked up at the ceiling, thinking. They couldn’t very well have a reception, because who would come? Not to mention that after the disastrous dinner party she had decided not to entertain for months, to let that memory fade a bit in people’s minds.

  “I’m…I’m not sure what the plans will be. It’s…”

  Complicated, thought Merla, but said nothing.
>
  Home from school, Gisele and Chloë were in their room upstairs, building a fort with every blanket they could find. Gisele had dragged some high-backed chairs from somewhere to hang the blankets on, while Chloë had stolen pillows from all over the house, so that their fort was now, as they saw it, a sort of Arabian palace inside, with soft places to lounge and a feeling of princely grandeur. They were each sitting on a pillow, lost in thought, not taking the usual pleasure in their creation.

  “He was horrible,” whispered Chloë.

  Gisele agreed, but said nothing.

  “Do you think he fell?” asked Chloë. “I mean, I know he was old and everything, but I don’t remember him falling before. I’ve heard about how old people fall sometimes. But…”

  “All we know,” said Gisele slowly, “is that Grandpère went over the railing of his balcony and then died.”

  “Do you think we’re in danger?” whispered Chloë. “First Violette, now Grandpère…what if one of us is next?”

  Gisele put an arm around her sister. “Don’t worry,” she said, though she was worrying intensely. “It’s important to stick with what we know, and not start making things up. He probably slipped or something like that. You know how the tiles on the porch get slippery after a rain—maybe it was the same on his balcony. And he was so tall that the railing wasn’t going to hold him back.”

  “Maybe he did a flip,” said Chloë.

  “Maybe,” said Gisele, holding her sister more tightly.

  Simon left the ruin and circled around the house to the side where his father’s room was. He looked up at the door to the balcony, now shut. Then down at the ground, where the men from the coroner’s office had struggled to get Raphael’s body on a stretcher so they could lift him into the van.

  “Rest in peace, father,” Simon murmured. He tried to summon some earlier memories of their time together, before Raphael had begun to deteriorate. But Simon’s mind was too fractured, too busy leaping from thought to thought with a kind of frantic desperation, unable to stay in one place for more than a moment.

  He took in a long, slow breath, still staring at the ground where his father’s broken body had been found. Was it over now? Any further loose threads to tie up, any tongues that needed to be silenced? He knew the inquiries and investigations would go on for an eternity, but that was almost a minor nuisance in comparison.

  Could the deaths stop?

  Was it over yet?

  Wanting some exercise, Molly walked from La Baraque to Dr. Vernay’s office. For the entire half hour it took her to get there, she went over the details of the case for what felt like the millionth time, picking at all the questions that she and Ben had made no progress answering.

  Had one of the Valettes gone to the basement that fateful night and replaced the fuse with a bad one? Did Violette Crespelle have any connection with anyone except the Valettes? Was Raphael capable of murder? Had Raphael been murdered himself—and if so, did that mean he did not kill Violette?

  It was like being on one of those playground spinners, around and around and everything getting blurrier and harder to hold on to the more she thought about it.

  As she proceeded down rue Malbec, Molly was tempted to stop in at the station to see Paul-Henri, and take the general temperature of the gendarmerie. Certainly Lapin’s reappearance would put a stop to that ridiculous wild goose chase? And who knew where Charlot’s suspicious eye might fall next? It made no sense to Molly that Charlot seemed to discount Camille; was it possible the two women had crossed paths before somewhere?

  She shook her head to try to clear it. I’m making this more complicated than it needs to be, she said to herself as she arrived on the doctor’s doorstep.

  Smiling, with rosy cheeks, Robinette Vernay appeared quickly after Molly rang the bell.

  “Bonjour, Molly! Wonderful to see you. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, come on in, please, have a seat and rest. Gérard is with another patient but I don’t think it will be too long. What seems to be the matter?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, I’m not sick—I’m here to talk to him about the murder the other night.”

  “Ah. Yes, well. It’s really quite disturbing the way murder seems to flourish in our little village. Never seen the like. But I guess when you have a lot of new people moving in, people you don’t know anything about…”

  Molly smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  “I didn’t mean you!” said Robinette, her cheeks turning pink. “It is almost as though you have always been in Castillac, Molly. And we are very lucky to have you.”

  The two women stood in silence for a few moments. Molly shifted from one foot to the other, impatient to see Dr. Vernay.

  “You do look rather peaked,” said Robinette. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Really, I’m fine,” said Molly, just as an old man came out of the examination room, followed by Dr. Vernay.

  “Anything in moderation,” the doctor called after the man, who chuckled to himself, nodded to Molly, and slipped out the door.

  Dr. Vernay expressed concern about Molly’s health, but once she explained why she was there, he led her into his office, which, like the examining room, was a homey place with thick rugs and many paintings on the walls.

  “I must tell you, I found the other night to be quite unsettling,” he confided. “Of course, a murder is unsettling, there’s no avoiding it. Such a bit of sudden chaos, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s a good way to put it,” agreed Molly. “I guess you’re a little more equipped than most of us to deal with death, or am I making an assumption there?”

  Dr. Vernay leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s true, many of us in the medical profession are dulled to it, as you say. But others—we got in this line of work to help people, to save lives. And so a senseless death like that of Mademoiselle Crespelle…it hits us hard. Very hard.”

  Molly nodded. As she tried to get her thoughts in order for the interview, her gaze wandered over the wall behind him. There were the usual diplomas, a painting of a horse galloping over a hill, and a portrait of a man who looked like he had eaten something bad. “Is that a relative?” asked Molly, with something like a smirk.

  “Oh, yes,” said Dr. Vernay, swiveling around to look. “Gustave Vernay. Somewhat dyspeptic, eh?” They laughed.

  “And you went to university in Nice?” asked Molly, pointing at his diploma. “That must have been amazing!”

  “Indeed,” said Dr. Vernay. “Lovely city. I’m very fond of the sea.”

  “I’d love to ask you more about it sometime, I’ve been meaning to take a trip to the Riviera before long. But let’s get the work out of the way, if you don’t mind? A few questions about the other night?”

  “Anything I can do to help, Molly.”

  “Did you notice anything on the night of the murder? Anything that seemed…out of place, curious? Maybe something that you brushed off at the time, but later wondered about?”

  Dr. Vernay nodded as she spoke. He looked young for his age, which Molly figured was around early fifties, with an unlined face and hair that was only just starting to go a little gray at the temples. He put his hands in his pockets, looked up at the ceiling, and considered her question. Finally he shrugged and shook his head. “I’ve gone over it and over it. The thing is, the lights going out had such a dramatic effect. I myself was rather shaken by it for some reason. I jumped up from my seat at the table and was looking for my coat in the foyer, wanting above all to leave that house and get myself home. I’ve wondered since whether I was having some sort of premonition, or at least felt the presence of evil in some way…but no matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to identify exactly what it was that gave me that feeling.”

  “Did you have any such inklings before the lights went out?”

  Dr. Vernay chewed on his lip. “I believe I must have, and the darkness amplified them. But as I said…I can’t put my finger on what it was.” He paused, brushing a
bit of lint from his trousers. “I had been thinking…there was a person who—at any rate, I don’t want to be simply gossiping about people without any solid reason for speaking. I’m afraid I may have sent poor Paul-Henri off in the wrong direction by rambling about some thoughts I had. I wish I could take it back now.”

  “What kind of thoughts?” asked Molly, perking up a bit.

  “I shouldn’t compound my carelessness by saying it all again,” said Dr. Vernay with a sudden smile. “You are a relentless one, aren’t you?”

  “I try. Mostly I’m just very, very curious. I’ll worm it out of Paul-Henri anyway, so you might as well tell me.”

  Chuckling, Dr. Valette leaned back in his chair again. “All right—but please, Molly, take this with an enormous grain of salt. On further reflection, I do believe I jumped the gun and wish I had said nothing.”

  Molly waited.

  “All right. It’s that—I wondered about…Camille Valette. Whether she was altogether of sound mind.”

  Molly moved to the edge of her seat. “Yes, she’s crazy. But what kind of crazy, Gérard?”

  “Again, I must demur. I’ve barely spoken three sentences to her, much less examined her. I merely thought that her relation to her children showed a certain…coldness….”

  “Same,” said Molly. “Same. And do you think that coldness could indicate a potential murderess?”

  Reluctantly, the doctor started to nod, but then stopped himself. “Impossible to say. Almost anyone could be driven to murder, if the stars aligned the right way, wouldn’t you say? As I said, I think I jumped the gun on that one. Please tell Officer Monsour so if you run into him.”

  Molly asked what he had thought of Simon and Raphael.

  “Oh, Simon seems a nice-enough fellow. Quite sophisticated for Castillac, I’d say. Be surprised if this experiment of theirs lasts more than a year. As for his father, just a simple case of dementia and not much more to say about it. He might be capable of hurting someone, even killing them in a moment of unfocused rage, but not planning such a thing. No chance at all it was Raphael. Neat as it might be for you for the murderer to already be deceased,” he added with a chuckle.