Death in Darkness

by Nell Goddin

  Ford hesitated a moment. “No,” he said. “That will be fine.” The young woman closed the door.

  Molly did not believe for one minute that Rex thought it was fine. She almost never called ahead when interviewing; of course it was better to catch people off guard, not give them a chance to work out their stories, or disappear entirely.

  She did not suspect Rex Ford. She had known him long enough not to trust him exactly, but to believe she knew, more or less, what kind of man he was. She did not think he would kill a woman he had only just met, and she furthermore believed his story that he was coming into the dining room from the library because he had gotten turned around in the darkness.

  Molly wandered up and down the corridor, letting her mind range over the details of the case. At one point, feeling an excess of snoopiness, she put her ear to the door and heard Rex saying something about how the ebauche had been poor and the paint was cracking, none of which made any sense to her but which she recognized as being about art and nothing sinister. After a few more circuits, the door opened and the student scurried off in the other direction.

  “Come in,” said Rex, gesturing to her to come inside his office. He was tall and rangy, and his furniture was too small for him.

  “Thanks for seeing me. I’m a little behind, as you can probably tell. Fact is, the investigation was…well, it was headed one way and now is not. So Ben and I are trying to start over, as it were, and….” She trailed off, not wanting to talk about her failure as she attempted to organize her questions.

  “Are you heterosexual?” she blurted out, then clapped her hand over her mouth because the words had flown out without thinking.

  Rex Ford cocked his head. “What business is it of yours?”

  “None,” said Molly, swallowing hard. “It’s only that when a young woman dies, you want to know…you want to know what the stakes are for everyone involved, if you see what I mean.”

  “Do you have any reason to think that Mademoiselle Crespelle’s murder was sexual in nature?”

  “No,” said Molly, her voice small.

  “Do you know what percentage of all murders are sexual in nature?”

  “I don’t, and Rex? I’d like to ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”

  Rex smirked and gave a short nod as he settled into his chair, again leaning back precipitously, his eyes on Molly.

  “First off, just generally: did you notice anything the night of the murder? Catch a stray comment, a look, anything at all that, looking back, you think might have some significance?”

  “You’ve got nothing, is that how it is?”

  Molly shook her head irritably. “Just please, answer the question.”

  He looked up at the ceiling and stroked his chin. “It was an awkward occasion, as you well know. I did not like either the host or the hostess. She was an utter mess, thinking about herself every second, and he…”

  “He meaning Simon?”

  “Yes. Fancies himself quite the….”

  Molly waited. She saw a familiar expression on Rex’s face, envy and spitefulness mixed; it was no surprise that he had not taken to the charming and accomplished Simon Valette.

  “Yes?” she asked finally.

  “You know, a funny coincidence. I was noodling around about it, couldn’t quite place her—you know how it is, a person you meet seems familiar somehow, and you can’t remember whether you’ve actually met them before or they only remind you of someone. Once I went up to Anthony Hopkins on the street in London and clapped him on the back, thinking he was an old friend—because he looked so familiar, you understand. He looked at me with horror and I realized too late that we had never met, I just knew him from the movies.”

  “Who was familiar? Camille? Violette?”

  “Violette. And what a name, eh? Violette Crespelle. So…romantic, I suppose you could say. All those ‘e’ sounds tumbling along in a row. Quite poetic.”

  Patience had never been one of Molly’s best qualities, and she felt it becoming thinner by the second. “And had you met her before?” she asked, pretending not to want to strangle him.

  “Yes. Right here at L’Institut Degas.”

  Molly was confused. “But the Valette girls are far too young to be—”

  “Quite. It was nothing about the girls. It was Violette herself. She applied for admission, and went through what I freely and rather proudly admit is a rigorous and arduous application process, including the preparation of a significant portfolio of course, as well as extensive interviews.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, six months ago, I would say? Long enough ago that when I saw her at the dinner party, I couldn’t place her for the longest time. We do get over a thousand applications, so I might be forgiven for not remembering all the faces right off, especially out of context like that. It would all be in the files somewhere, you can ask Marie-Claire. Or better yet, her assistant. She knows where all the bodies are buried.” He smirked again, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair still farther.

  Curious. So Violette Crespelle had been in Castillac before the Valettes moved here, thought Molly.

  “And did Marie-Claire and you both interview her?”

  “We did.”

  “And did you accept her to the institute?”

  “No, I’m afraid we did not.” Something crossed his face then, some worry or hesitancy, but Molly could not read its meaning.

  Violette had been right in this very place, had possibly sat in the very chair Molly was sitting in. And been rejected. People apply and get rejected from schools all the time; it’s perfectly commonplace. But…a coincidence, to end up in the same village a few months later as a nanny?

  And if it was nothing, why had Marie-Claire lied about it?

  41

  There were still a few guests at the dinner that she had not spoken to. Her best friend Frances had been off on a jaunt for the last week, visiting Irish castles, if Molly remembered correctly. Frances was not known for her powers of observation, as her talents lay in other directions, but talking to her was worth a shot. If for no other reason than to follow the most basic investigative protocol of speaking to everyone who had been present at the scene of the crime.

  Frances and Nico lived in a small apartment near the center of the village. Frances had always had money—first from her very wealthy family, and then money she made herself writing jingles for ad agencies. But after moving to France on a whim, she had fallen into a simple life with Nico that was not about having the latest clothes or fast cars, and so even though they could afford something much grander, they stayed in the small apartment, happy as peas in a pod as far as anyone could tell.

  “Well, hello stranger!” said Frances, opening the door.

  “I think you’re the stranger,” said Molly. “You’ve been traveling like mad lately. Having fun, or is there some other reason you haven’t shared with me?”

  Frances waved a hand in the air. “Always detecting, aren’t you? Nah, you know me, I get restless. And Nico is so devoted to Alphonse that he won’t ask for any time off to speak of, so I just go off by myself. It’s all good.” She flashed Molly a brilliant smile, her lipstick a dark red against her pale skin. Her jet-black hair had grown out to below her shoulders, and Molly reached out to tuck a hank behind her friend’s ear.

  “Anyway, I’ve missed you,” said Molly.

  “Same.”

  “You got time for a cup of coffee and a few questions?”

  “How’s the case going?”

  “I thought it was going just fine, but I just found out that my main suspect has an alibi. So I guess you could say things are going pretty badly. Terrible, actually.”

  Frances went over to the kitchenette and bustled about with the coffeepot. “Well, you want my opinion? I think it was the old man, Raphael. And I heard he kicked the bucket, so really, there’s not anything left to be done.”

  Molly tried to summon a smile but could not. When Fr
ances said nothing else, Molly asked, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. Not at all. Don’t you remember when he came into the dining room brandishing that fire extinguisher? He could have killed somebody with that thing, if he hit ‘em in the head the right way. He was so hostile. I was afraid of him. Not you?”

  Molly considered. “I can’t say I was totally without fear,” she said, thinking back to the interview when she had felt threatened. “But I’ve been around people with dementia before—my dad, remember? A lot of them are angry, and who can blame them?”

  Frances shrugged. “All I can do is throw out my opinion.”

  “Don’t get huffy.”

  “Never.” She pushed the plunger on the French press and then poured out two cups.

  “I went to talk to him. Was hoping he might, um, be lacking in filters and let something fly, you know? But I didn’t have any luck. He kept going on about a missing pair of scissors. If we were dealing with a stabbing, that might have been helpful…”

  “How’s Ben? Has he got any big ideas?”

  “Just between us? We’re stumped. I was ninety-five per cent sure it was Camille, but turns out I was wrong. That means, I’m afraid, that the needle of guilt swings in Simon’s direction.”

  “‘I’m afraid’?”

  “Of what?”

  “No, I mean why did you just say you were afraid it might be Simon?”

  “Oh. Not afraid that way. Well…hmm. I just meant that…you ask the most irritating questions!”

  Frances grinned. “I do try my best. Always.”

  “I don’t want it to be Simon, okay?”

  “Charming fella, eh?”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Okay, yes, he is, to be honest. But I don’t think it’s just that. Maybe…maybe it’s just my pride or something, but when I first met Simon, my take was that he is really a very decent man, down deep. How many men would leave Paris like that, a job that’s the culmination of years of study and work, because a life in the country would better suit his family? Not many, I don’t think.”

  “Women can be that ambitious too.”

  “Of course, I’m not saying they can’t. I’m only saying it would be very tough for anyone to leave a life like that behind. And what does he spend his time doing? Breaking rocks like he’s in a work camp.” Molly smiled thinking about Simon sweating himself to death working on his piles of stone.

  “You do have a weakness for—”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Molly, smirking back at her. “Got any pastry lying around? I’m feeling faint.”

  “I do not. I’ve been eating sour Haribo while I work, I think it’s eating holes in my teeth.”

  “Sounds fun. All right, I suppose I should head home. I just wish I had a decent lead.”

  “You’ve got nothing?”

  Molly just lowered her head. She tried to remind herself that cases were sometimes stubborn like this, and there was no way to speed things up—the facts of the case would become apparent, eventually. But she knew there was no guarantee. Whoever killed Violette could get away with it, and maybe this time, there wouldn’t be any stroke of luck coming.

  Frances smiled and patted her friend’s shoulder. She wasn’t all that keen about having murderers running around the village either, but at least she and Nico didn’t feel responsible for uncovering evidence or catching anyone.

  Each day at the end of school, Gisele found her sister, which was usually not easy, as Chloë might be shinnying up the flagpole, streaking by in a race with classmates, or hiding in a closet in the science room. Once found, the little sister held hands with the older and they walked home. Gisele did not mind looking after Chloë, as other older siblings might have. Their mother had been inconsistent their whole lives—sometimes present and sometimes not, sometimes fierce and sometimes gentle; it had been natural for Gisele to take over some of the jobs a healthier mother would have performed herself.

  It could seem as though the sisters had divided things up neatly: Gisele handled all the worrying, keeping track of what they were supposed to do when, while Chloë was all freedom and wildness. Not the fairest division, but that was how it was.

  Their grandfather had been found dead in the backyard, beneath his balcony window, only the day before. Simon had told them they did not have to go to school but Gisele had insisted they should, wanting most of all to keep herself and Chloë away from their mother. Camille did best when life was on the boring side; any excitement, especially of an emotional sort like a death, tended to make things worse.

  Including the beatings.

  “Let’s circle around like we did last time,” Gisele said in a low voice. “Papa never suspected a thing. I want to go to the woods today and not go into the house until dinnertime!”

  Chloë was surprised. Usually Gisele was all about washing their hands when they got home from school, hanging up their school-clothes, and other boring activities. They passed the manor, scampering past the driveway and not daring to peek to see if Simon was outside and had seen them, and on around the house, into the woods.

  In late September, the air was still warm, and the leaves still green. The girls walked farther than they ever had before, looking for a good spot to camp for the rest of the afternoon.

  “I wish we had a dog,” said Chloë.

  “We should ask Papa. You ask him.”

  “No, you,” said Chloë automatically. “I think if we had a dog, we would always be safe, because the dog would love us and bite anyone on the ankle if they tried anything,” said Chloë.

  “Maybe,” said Gisele. She stopped in a clearing and dropped her books next to a fallen tree that would make a good place to sit. Chloë turned an awkward cartwheel and let out a whoop.

  “Ssh! If you make noise, Maman will hear and send someone to get us!”

  Chloë rolled her eyes. “I’m going to stand on that log and do a back-flip!”

  “Be my guest,” muttered Gisele, pulling a small pad of paper and a pen from her bag. Suspects, she wrote at the top of the page, and then chewed on the plastic cap to the pen.

  An hour went by as Chloë hurled herself from one end of the clearing to the other, practicing various gymnastic maneuvers, and Gisele took a few notes but mostly replayed the night of Violette’s murder over in her mind, going very slowly, like watching a tape in slow motion. Hadn’t she seen or heard anything that could be useful to Madame Sutton?

  Chloë flumped down on the fallen tree next to Gisele. “I miss Violette,” Chloë said, barely louder than a whisper.

  “Me too,” Gisele whispered back.

  Eventually they got hungry and headed for the manor, which did not exactly feel like home, not yet. Neither said a word as they made their way through the woods, feeling despondent from missing the nanny, not knowing what kind of mood their mother might be in, and not accomplishing a backflip or finding even the smallest nugget of evidence.

  42

  Molly was frantically going through the drawers to her desk, looking for the little notebook she had taken to the interview with Marie-Claire Lévy. It seemed like ages ago—and it was, in the weird world of a case, when time was alternately compressed, stretched out, and altogether unlike real life. Papers flew in a mini-tornado and she spilled a cup of coffee leftover from the morning…and just when she was about to give up, she spied the spiral top of the notebook sticking out from under a stack of bills she had been ignoring simply because there wasn’t enough time in the day to get everything done.

  She flipped through pages of random thoughts and notes until she got to the interview with Marie-Claire, dated September 22. The notes weren’t extensive but appeared to cover the interview from start to finish.

  no connection VC

  There. Marie-Claire had definitively said that she did not know and had not met Violette Crespelle before the night of the Valettes’ party.

  Either she or Ford was lying.

  “Ben!” Molly hollered, not having stopped to see if he was home.<
br />
  He was sitting on the terrace finishing a ham and butter on baguette, drinking a glass of cider. “What’s up?” he asked, knowing from her expression that she had news.

  “It’s…it’s Marie-Claire. Or Rex Ford, I’m not sure which. Marie-Claire insisted she had no connection with Violette, but I found out today, from Rex, that Violette applied to L’Insitut Degas last spring. She came to Castillac for interviews—apparently the process is involved, not just a matter of a form sent in. She was here, Ben.”

  He nodded slowly. “Could they simply have forgotten her?”

  Molly looked askance. “A young woman is strangled at a dinner party you were present at—a young woman you have met, talked to, evaluated her art—and that just slips your mind?”

  “Okay. But we still don’t know which one—”

  “We don’t know anything, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “I want to tell you to calm down, but I’m afraid you’ll hit me,” said Ben with a slow smile.

  “I’m just so frustrated! And angry with myself for not catching the lies. I think I went into Marie-Claire’s office to talk to her that day without any objectivity whatsoever. I was thinking about her and you, if I’m going to be really honest, trying to keep myself from feeling jealous about your relationship.”

  “Molly, I—”

  “Don’t say anything. Please. It was ridiculous and I don’t deserve to call myself a detective. I’ve embarrassed myself.”

  Ben got up and put his arms around her, saying nothing.

  “So we have this lie, but what do we do with it?” she said after a few moments. “Any of us could have killed her. All we can do is focus on motive. Why in the world would Marie-Claire or Rex want to kill a prospective student at the Institute?”

  “Did they accept her?”

  “No, actually.”

  Ben heaved a sigh. “The thing’s impenetrable,” he said.

  Molly paced the length of the living room, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, shut it again, paced back to her desk. “Why would she lie if she had nothing to cover up? That is the central question here.”