by Nell Goddin
“Molly,” said the doctor with a wide smile. “How good to see you looking so well. You’re absolutely blooming!”
Molly gave a short nod. She was at a loss for what to say.
“I’ll tell you, Gérard, I’m surprised to hear you say that, because this case I’m working on is causing me to lose sleep like I never have in my life.”
“No leads?” he asked.
“None. I had been so positive that Camille was guilty, but that’s turned out to be utterly wrong. I guess I’m…really doubting my powers as a detective.”
Dr. Vernay leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “You’re sure about Camille? As I shared with you, I had some reservations—”
“She has an alibi. Rock solid.”
“I see. Ah well, I’m sure when the next case comes along, you’ll be back in fine form!”
Molly let her eyes wander up the wall behind the doctor, to the framed diplomas. “So tell me more about the university in Nice. Were you happy there?”
Dr. Vernay did not answer immediately. For the first time, Molly thought she could see him thinking through what to say.
“It was a long time ago now,” he answered finally, trying for a light tone that did not entirely come off.
“Do you keep up with many of your friends from those days?”
“Like I said, a long time ago.”
“I hope you won’t find it unforgivably nosy of me, but I’m wondering—I’m at such a loss about this case, and you’re the only person I’ve discovered so far to have any connection with the Crespelles at all.” She tucked one hand into her coat sleeve and crossed her fingers. “And you know, so often it turns out that the crimes of the here and now have their origins in something that happened long ago.”
Vernay smiled again, drumming his fingers on his leg. “Connection?” he asked. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes. Well, your university,” said Molly, gesturing to the diploma. “It’s such an interesting insignia the school has, wouldn’t you agree? The colors are so perfect for Nice, that turquoise and yellow, so sunny and lovely. I’ve never been there, but that insignia seems to suit the city well, at least as I imagine it. That’s why it caught my eye.”
“I don’t pay attention to school insignias.”
“I know what you mean. Who cares, really—it’s the education you’re after, right?”
“My reputation—”
“You cured me from that horrible Lyme disease, and I haven’t forgotten for a minute,” said Molly, keeping her voice light.
Vernay’s face relaxed a bit but his fingers kept drumming.
“Violette’s father, was it, who you were friends with? Biagio Crespelle? A long time ago, as you say. Thirty years, give or take?”
“No idea what you’re getting at, Molly. I’m sorry I don’t have any way to help you on your case, but I’m afraid I do have patients to see—”
“I glanced at Robinette’s scheduler as I went by, looks like you’re all clear for the next few hours. You know, of course I was once a college student myself. Can you just imagine me and Frances at that age? Oh, we got into all kinds of trouble. I remember one party, mixing drinks in a garbage can if you can believe it. Something so American too—it was ice cream, vodka, chocolate syrup, and Kahlua, if I remember right.”
Molly seemed to be lost in her happy memory but she was watching Vernay carefully. “We thought we were smarter than everyone—especially anyone older than we were,” she chuckled. “Was it the same in France, or maybe still is? I mean at that age, thinking you know it all?”
Vernay shrugged and looked out of the window. “Just kids,” he murmured.
“What kind of a man was Monsieur Crespelle?”
“He wasn’t anything!” blurted Vernay. “I barely knew him! It’s not—he was an annoying twit, if you must know. He has nothing to do with anything, which is why I didn’t even think to mention it.”
“But you mentioned it to Violette, the night of the party, isn’t that right?”
Vernay blinked rapidly. “No. I don’t know. I might have. So?”
“It’s an unusual name, Crespelle. A tasty name, if I may say so. Although Biagio—to my American ear, that’s very exotic. You must have been surprised to meet your old friend’s daughter out of the blue like that.”
“I haven’t said anything about knowing anyone.” He laughed unconvincingly. “It’s certainly interesting watching you work, Molly. I never realized the degree of imagination involved…pure fantasy in this case. Now again, I don’t mean to be rude, you know you’ve always been one of my favorites…but I have some things do to this afternoon, a few…things…”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Vernay’s face sagged.
“I’m sure it was a sudden impulse, something you immediately wished you could take back?”
She thought she had him. For an instant she almost heard his confession, the words rushing out before he could stop them, filling in all the gaps in what she had imagined.
But Vernay collected himself. He rearranged his face to something resembling politeness, and refused to say anything more. Molly asked a few more questions, trying to show the man as much sympathy as she could muster, but eventually gave up and left the office, because what other option did she have?
When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, Molly instantly saw Ben across the street, not doing a very good job of looking inconspicuous. He and Paul-Henri were pretending to read the same newspaper, halfway behind a tree.
“What in the world,” said Molly, unable to keep from smiling as she crossed the street to them.
Ben shrugged. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You left with a particular look in your eye that I recognized.”
“What are you talking about? What look?”
“Like you were running headlong into a murderer. That look. I texted Paul-Henri and we tailed you to the doctor’s. Not one of the top ten places I thought you’d be going, I’ll admit. Are you—do you really think that Dr. Vernay—?”
“What happened in there?” asked Paul-Henri.
“Let’s walk,” said Molly, and the three of them set off towards Chez Papa. “To be honest, I think…well, I know it’s a shock, and he’s practically like family to most of the village and all…but I’m fairly sure…”
“He’s the killer? Dr. Vernay?” Ben asked, incredulous.
Molly nodded. “I know it sounds crazy. But follow my thinking: there has to be a linkage somewhere. It makes no sense at all that a stranger came to town and got brutally murdered out of nowhere, with no motive. Either there was something really bad going on in that family, and therefore it was one of the Valettes, or one of the villagers knew Violette before the night of the party. Had some connection to her, somehow, someway.”
Paul-Henri nodded. “This is the kind of police work that—”
“How does any of that lead to Vernay?” asked Ben.
“He knew Violette’s father, he’s admitted that much. I was hoping I could get him off balance, maybe he’d blurt something out, explain what went wrong in the friendship or whatever it was that led to murder all these years later. But he wouldn’t admit to anything else. I got close. Damn close. But I…I couldn’t think of any way to put more pressure on him, so finally I took off.”
“More details, Molly,” said Ben. “How did you connect them?”
They were a half block from Chez Papa. Molly had a sudden urge for a plate of hot and salty frites, but did not want to have this conversation in the bistro where anyone could overhear them. She stopped and pulled the other two into the narrow space between two buildings. “Here’s how. Vernay went to the University of Nice. Apparently they have a good medical school there, the diploma is right there on his wall. Has a yellow and blue school insignia.”
Ben and Paul-Henri waited, looking baffled.
“Violette had an active Facebook page, where she kept up with a lot of old friends and family. I don’t kn
ow if you do Facebook, but people have their own pages, and most of them have a big photo across the top. Violette is in the photo, smiling—and behind her, on the wall, is a University of Nice school flag, or whatever you call it—the same yellow and blue insignia. But she did not go to that school—her father did. And right at the time when Vernay was there.”
“Excuse me, Molly. A fair coincidence, I guess you could say, but isn’t it a big jump to think it is meaningful? Many thousands of students go to that school every year, do they not?” said Paul-Henri.
“Yes, yes, no doubt. But there’s one more thing. It may not sound like much, but fellas, you have to admit that clues have been pretty scarce so far. We’ve got to grab onto any little thread we find, no matter how tenuous it may appear.”
“I’m just not seeing it, Molly,” said Ben, frustrated that he couldn’t quite grasp the story Molly was trying to tell.
“Did you know that Gisele and Chloë were under the dining room table the night of the party? While we were eating, they were under there having a picnic.”
“I don’t see—” started Paul-Henri.
“—and Gisele is a thoughtful kind of girl. The kind of kid who pays attention to grownups and what they say to each other. She notices things. And so she told me what she had heard, either before we sat down to the table or during the meal. Much of it was useless, as you might imagine. But there was a snatch, just a snippet she overheard—I paid no attention at first, I was distracted by Camille—that Vernay said to Violette as she went through the dining room looking for the girls. Something about the old days, and stories about naughty students.”
Ben and Paul-Henri said nothing. They waited.
“That’s it?” said Paul-Henri finally.
Molly looked at Ben. “Don’t you see? The ‘old days’ are the student days of Vernay and Violette’s father, who were at the University of Nice together. Vernay made the connection because the name ‘Crespelle’ is, if not odd, at least a little attention-catching? Lord knows Vernay mentioned it enough times, going on about Italian pancakes. I think he was trying to cover up…”
“Cover up what?” asked Ben.
“That’s the thing—I don’t know! He knows I suspect him, it was right out in the open…but he didn’t crack. Even though he’s not good at lying. Even if he didn’t do it, he’s holding back something.”
“So I was right, you were headed straight into the arms of a murderer.”
“What was he going to do, strangle me in his office with Robinette right there? I don’t think he’s that crazy.”
“Molly, if you’re right about him, he strangled a young woman he had just met only steps away from fourteen people sitting at dinner.”
“You have a point.”
“I’m going to rush to the station and tell Charlot what you’ve told us,” said Paul-Henri. “Maybe it will at least slow her down as she rushes off to arrest Monsieur Valette.”
Molly blew out a big breath of air. “Sorry that I failed to bring it home,” she said to Ben as they watched Paul-Henri jog off to the station.
“Maybe it’s all just a misunderstanding, and he did not confess because there is nothing to confess to,” said Ben. “Marie-Claire and Rex Ford were in no rush to say they had met Violette before, either. But I accept their explanation of being freaked out by the coincidence and wanting to protect L’Institut Degas from another scandal. It was poor judgment, to be sure.
“At any rate, I understand your desire to look for connections…and I think you’re right to look,” he said quickly, seeing her expression. “How about for now, we get some frites, and talk some more” he said, taking her arm and steering her into Chez Papa.
47
Chief Charlot had called Paul-Henri and gotten no immediate answer, which was clearly a problem and something he would have to answer to once she had made the arrest. She turned the police car into the Valettes’ driveway, looking forward to confronting Simon. Not making an arrest, she wasn’t that impulsive…but who knew how the questioning would go this time, when she applied a bit more pressure?
Simon opened the door at her knock, his expression stony.
“Have I caught you at a bad time?” she said, in a syrupy-sweet tone. “Good. That’s usually quite helpful.” She slipped into the house though Simon had not gestured to her to enter or even moved out of the center of the doorway.
“Haven’t I answered all of your questions?” he said.
“Oh now, you must understand, Monsieur Valette, that with an active murder investigation there is literally no end to the questions. No end at all, until we catch who did it. But we’ll start this session with a little something different: I’ve received some news to share with you.”
Simon walked heavily into the living room. There was no sound of girlish chatter, no clattering coming from the kitchen; the house felt like a morgue, silent and cold.
“Your DNA was found underneath Violette’s fingernails,” Charlot told him with triumph. “Would you care to elaborate on how that might have come to be? I’ll just make myself comfortable,” she said, sitting down on an enormous velvet-covered armchair that made her small body look almost doll-like. She peered closely at Valette but did not see any signs of fear or guilt, but rather a deep weariness instead.
“All right,” he said to Charlot.
She noticed how different his face looked, now that he was not trying to be charming. Simon did not look handsome and virile but rather worn, diminished. It was exhausting, living with a woman who literally went for the knives whenever she was feeling stressed. When she attacked him in the shower, he had easily caught Camille’s wrist and no one was hurt that time. It had not been a close call. But the effect of her violent unpredictability and not knowing what to do about it—it was debilitating.
With some effort, Charlot managed not to stroke the handcuffs on her belt in anticipation. “Go on,” she urged.
Simon sat down on the sofa across from her. “I did leave something out before,” he said, in a flat voice. “It is true that Violette and I…were not having an affair. We were not lovers.”
Charlot managed to keep disappointment out of her expression. “What then?” she said finally.
“We were not lovers yet. We were in that delicious stage of seduction, in which one comes closer and the other steps away, then the positions reverse, every time we get closer and closer, almost close enough that our lips touch—and then dash away again, excitement building all the while…”
He stared down at the carpet. Charlot wondered that he had not insisted on someplace more private to have such a conversation.
“The day of the party, I met up with Violette by accident several times. No—truly, it was by accident. There was no need for specific intention,” he said, with the first hint of a smile. “I mean only that in the course of the two of us moving about the house, doing whatever was necessary on that particular day, that at least twice we ran into each other in the corridor upstairs. Alone.
“The first time nothing happened. A burning look, nothing more. Exciting, to be sure. Almost excruciatingly so. But we did not touch. However, the second time…”
Charlot moved to the edge of her seat. “Yes, monsieur?” she whispered.
“You must understand. I have known my wife nearly my whole life. It was one of those marriages that come to be because the world you live in expects it, cannot see any other possibility at all for the two people except to carry out the world’s dream about who they are. And on the whole, Camille and I…we have done all right. We try.”
“And how does Violette fit into this trying?” said Charlot.
Simon’s face lit up for a moment as he told her how he had met the nanny in the corridor the second time, had embraced her, held her tight, kissed her on the neck, the ear, and finally—ecstatically— on the mouth. How the passionate young woman had reached under his dress shirt and scratched him almost hard enough to draw blood.
“A tiger,” he murmured, overc
ome with one of the waves of grief that never seemed to stop for long.
Charlot hated him for that last comment. How dare he? “It hasn’t been that many days. I suppose you can show me the scratches?”
Simon stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. His muscles were well formed and his skin a dark brown from all his work at the ruin, but Charlot did not notice any of that. She was focused on the scratch marks, four parallel stripes on each side of his back, where fingernails had ripped across the skin and just barely not caused him to bleed.
A tiger, indeed, thought Charlot with distaste, and no small amount of dissatisfaction.
“And let me see your arms and hands?”
Simon’s face was still stony as he presented his bare arms, palms down, and then flipped them over so she could see both sides. There were scratches here and there, a cut on his left forearm, but Charlot could see it would be difficult to prove that they had been made by fingernails and not the stones he worked with day after day.
Perhaps the lab had made an error. Perhaps, if she failed to find the culprit, her time in Castillac would be cut short, as the gendarmerie demoted her once again. The first she would cheer, but the second….
She needed Molly. There was no avoiding it any longer.
“But doesn’t she have piles of guests? Won’t they see us and tell?” Chloë said as she and her sister passed the cemetery on the long trudge to La Baraque.
“We’re not going to break into one of the gîtes!” said Gisele, shaking her head at Chloë’s silliness. “She told me that she’s having part of it renovated. It’s a ruin, like what Papa works on, and she’s making it into more gîtes, but they’re not finished yet. And it’s after dark on a Friday so nobody will be there now. We can camp through the weekend while we figure out our next step.”
“I thought you were big pals with Madame Sutton.”
“She is a friend. I think you’ll like her, too.”
“Then why are we hiding? Can’t we just ring the bell and she’ll give us dinner?” Chloë never liked missing a meal.