No Honor Among Thieves

by Nell Goddin

  “Can I make you a cup of tea?” she asked.

  “Are you turning British on me now?” Simon said, with a fleeting smile and a glimpse of his usual charm.

  “No, more like a bumbling American casting about for something to do. How about I pour you a whiskey, is that more on target?”

  “Yes. Please. There’s a bottle of scotch on the sideboard in the dining room. Two fingers.”

  Molly scurried into the dining room, the site of quite a drama not so many months earlier, and made him the drink.

  “Here you are,” she said, handing him the glass. “I take it you haven’t told the girls?”

  “No,” he said in a low, anxious voice Molly had never heard before. “They went off to Pâtisserie Bujold about an hour ago. They should have been back long ago. I don’t want them to come strolling down the driveway and see the coroner’s van, or even worse, their mother being carried out with a sheet over her!”

  “Simon, please, we won’t let that happen. Where do you think they might be? They’re an adventurous pair, as we know, so it’s not a surprise that they’ve wandered off someplace. Probably having a pastry feast somewhere in the woods, pretending to dine with elves and fairies or something.”

  The faintest hint of warmth flickered on Simon’s face.

  “I will wait with you,” said Molly. “Shall we sit on the terrace, where we can see anyone who comes in the driveway? It’s cold, but so what?”

  “Let’s do that. And Molly, have a whiskey with me, will you?”

  “Sure,” she said, and went to the dining room to get the bottle. She couldn’t remember the last time she had whiskey for breakfast on a Sunday morning, but thought it was generally good practice not to be too rigid, especially in times of strife.

  Her cell was in her pocket and she felt it vibrate as she carried the bottle and a couple of glasses back to Simon. After she set them down, she checked her phone to see see who had called.

  The number was unfamiliar. She listened to the voice message. The voice was unfamiliar too, and somewhat robotic and strange, with an unidentifiable accent.

  You better be careful with that boyfriend of yours. He’s not as loyal as you think

  Molly blinked. Huh?

  She listened to the message again. There was no figuring out whose voice it was—a woman’s, she could hear that much—she must have been talking with some sort of device to disguise it. And what in the world was she getting at? That Ben…was cheating?

  It can’t be, she was thinking.

  Not again.

  Twenty minutes later, Florian Nagrand’s van pulled into the driveway. Simon was not quite drunk and the girls had not returned.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Valette,” said Florian. He smelled of smoke and his clothes were rumpled as usual.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Nagrand. I…I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had a dead wife in the house before.”

  Florian looked at him curiously. They stood in silence for a moment. “Well? Where is she?” Simon’s eyes widened. “Right, sorry. Come this way.” He closed the door as Florian made his way into the foyer.

  “Oh,” said Florian, seeing Molly. “I should have guessed you’d be here.”

  Molly said hello but did not respond to his remark. Truth was, she did sometimes feel a bit like a vulture, always flying to the scene of death. The fact that her purpose was to serve justice could sometimes feel a bit thin—and in any case, that purpose had nothing to do with Camille’s death at all.

  “May I ask how long ago you found her?” Florian said to Simon as he trudged upstairs after him.

  Simon looked at his watch. “Several hours, I suppose.”

  Florian stopped, grasping the bannister and breathing heavily. “Several hours? Why the delay?”

  Simon looked flustered. “I…look, I did not write down the minute, that could be way off. You can understand, Monsieur Nagrand, that the situation is…is deeply upsetting. I feel a bit like everything has turned upside down and I haven’t even had a chance to tell my daughters…”

  “Yes, yes,” sighed Nagrand, heaving himself up the last few steps to the second floor. “Where is she, please?”

  Simon led the way into his bedroom. Molly followed but then stopped; though she wanted to see Camille, she understood that despite her friendship with Simon, hovering over Florian’s shoulder would be intrusive. And the coroner would no doubt remark on it and make it seem even worse.

  She stood in the doorway to the bedroom, looking at the silk curtains, a beige-and-orange stripe probably more elegant than any in Castillac. The bed looked to be Louis Quinze, white-painted wood with gilt detail. A stunning armoire was in the corner, a door hanging open. Something about that door hit Molly in the chest—instantly she understood that if the fastidious Camille had been in her right mind, she would never have left it so.

  Simon and Florian were murmuring in the bathroom and she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying without moving closer. She leaned in the direction of the bathroom without taking a step, but still couldn’t quite hear. The angel on one shoulder told her to go on downstairs and wait for the girls, while the devil urged her to move closer and eavesdrop. For once Molly was so indecisive that she stood rooted to the spot, doing neither thing, until the men returned to the bedroom.

  “I’m not much of a fan of the benzodiazepines,” said Florian to Simon. “Too many calls like this one. And they’re very addictive, too. People have a hell of a time getting off them.”

  Simon shrugged. “It was an untenable situation. If she didn’t take any drugs, she had terrible episodes—life was a kind of agony for her much of the time. But of course the drugs are full of problems as well.”

  “Looking back, do you—”

  “No,” Simon quickly interrupted. “She had seemed the same. I thought she was in a…a kind of holding pattern, not very much better, but not worse. I hoped the small village atmosphere would be calming for her. Apparently it was not.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself,” said Molly.

  Florian raised an eyebrow.

  “So in addition to investigations, you do grief counseling?” said Florian, pushing past Molly and heading down the stairs.

  “Always with the wisecrack,” Molly said under her breath. “Simon, do you want me to wait at the end of the driveway for the girls? Or do you think they might come from a different direction?”

  “There’s no telling. They’ve taken over the woods and the road and all the property as their domain, and roam around playing…”

  Molly smiled, imagining the fun they were having. Nothing like being around children to remind you of the best parts of your own childhood. But oh, their mother’s death was going to be a terrible shock. And the part of them that felt relieved? That was something to worry about, thought Molly. That kind of guilt can be very difficult to get rid of.

  She wandered around in the Valette’s yard, keeping an ear and eye out for Chloë and Giselle and thinking about Camille Valette. Molly had been so angry at her for mistreating her daughters, but there had been little she could do to stop it, except to offer them her friendship. Over the months, she had taken them out for pastries many times and had them out to La Baraque for lemonade and games of tag in the meadow.

  Molly wished for children more than anything, and had, at age forty, more or less made peace with not having any of her own. She did not want the Valette girls to feel like they were just replacements for what was missing in her life—and they did not feel that way, since Molly’s love for them was unique to them, and not false.

  She heard another car drive up and guessed correctly that it was some of Florian’s assistants, come to help take Camille’s body away. Molly walked quickly out to the road so as to head off the children if they came down the driveway.

  The men, including Simon, carried Camille out on a stretcher, and loaded her in the back of Florian’s white van. As she and Simon watched the van back up and turn down the driveway, Molly asked
if he’d like her to stay while he waited for them.

  “Absolutely, I’d like you to stay,” he said.

  Something about his tone—it made her glad, and a little anxious, both at once.

  “You told me not to blame myself,” Simon said, as they settled back on the terrace and Molly poured them another drink. “That’s the stock line, I’m well aware. I’m not—forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude, Molly. But people have been saying that to me for years now. And I do blame myself. If I…you see, the truth is, I stopped loving her, at some point, years back. She knew this. There is no disguising it, of course, not for any length of time. So you understand why I can’t help thinking that if I could only have….”

  “Oh, Simon,” said Molly, wanting to give him another hug but staying put in her chair. “You can’t help that. Surely you know that people can’t force themselves to be in love when they are not. You can choose to act kindly towards someone, and you did that. You made tremendous sacrifices to help her. So just take that guilt and stuff it somewhere far away.”

  Simon shrugged. He put his elbows on the table and looked into Molly’s eyes, until the intensity made her glance away and mumble something about what kind of pastries the girls liked best.

  13

  Molly whistled for her adopted dog, Bobo—who was never far away—and set off into the woods for a head-clearing walk.

  This time, however, clarity was in short supply.

  It had been years since her marriage had broken up over her husband’s infidelity. Enough years that it was not even painful to think about, not really. She had eventually come to see the cheating as a symptom, not the cause, and she certainly didn’t dwell on that period in her life, having moved to Castillac in the aftermath and never regretted it for an instant. Her new French life and village friends suited her better than she ever could have dreamed.

  Yet still, the voice message was troubling. Whoever it was clearly implied Ben was…if not cheating, then capable of it. That he was not the genuine, trustworthy man she believed him to be.

  Oh come on, she said to herself, pulling her hat down over her frozen ears. I can’t get mad at him for something he hasn’t even done! And why in the world would I trust some robot-voice on my voicemail, who’s not even brave enough to identify herself? No doubt it’s just someone trying to stir up trouble, as people like to do in Castillac just like any other place in the world.

  Nevertheless…an old, forgotten scab had been ripped off, and Molly could not talk herself out of the fact that now there was a raw spot, vulnerable and potentially very painful, something she had to talk herself out of, manage, think about. One of the things she valued most about her relationship with Ben was that they trusted each other, completely and easily, without having to work at it.

  It was not a call one wanted to get right before a wedding, that’s for sure.

  The woods were still and freezing. Stark and beautiful, Molly thought, watching Bobo scoot along under the boughs of evergreens, knocking snow to the ground.

  After an hour’s walk, she turned back toward home. A few minor things needed attending to before the new gîte guests arrived the next day.

  She should tell Ben about the call, she told herself. She was being ridiculous to let it bother her, to believe for one second the caller knew what she was talking about.

  But even as that thought crossed her mind, she knew she wouldn’t. Not yet.

  When Molly got back to the house she found Ben tidying up the kitchen.

  “Sorry that took so long,” she said, and he did not look at her but nodded.

  Oh, brother, thought Molly.

  “Anyway, Camille died of an overdose. Suicide, I’m sorry to say, but not surprised, as we said. The girls had gone out before Simon found her, so I waited around for them to get back, but finally gave up.”

  “So they don’t know yet?”

  “No. Well, at least not by the time I left. They should be home by now. It wouldn’t be great for them to be in the village and find out from someone else. And you know how some people can be, the ones who delight in delivering bad news. They’re not even ten years old.”

  Ben nodded, continuing to wash dishes.

  Molly put her hands on her hips. “Are you mad at me for going?”

  Ben did a particular French toss of the head which meant something like, maybe and also what do I care?

  “Oh, I see. You’re mad but not willing to say you’re mad? Come on, Ben, talk to me.”

  Moving slowly, he turned off the water and wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “Of course I will talk to you,” he said, and she was relieved to hear a few degrees of warmth in his voice. “I think we French are more respectful of privacy. To me, your running over the minute you heard the news felt…way too intimate. Going where you didn’t belong, frankly.”

  “I don’t think…” Molly tried to consider. She was pretty sure she hadn’t misread Simon and the girls but maybe she was wrong.

  “It’s only…the situation stirs up a lot of things. Can I simply say that and we can let it drop?” He walked to her and put his hands in her hair, which was displaying an extreme version of hat hair. He bent down and kissed her on the mouth, taking his time.

  “All right then,” she murmured, with a small smile.

  “Tell you what. Let’s put the Valettes to the side for now, shall we? We’ve got a case to work on. I’ll get my pad and we can start the list.”

  Ben’s way of working, ever since his days at the gendarmerie, was to write his stray thoughts down in a little notebook, and then gather those thoughts together into a list of investigative chores, leads to follow up on, people to talk to. Making the list was something they loved to do together, and the first one was usually written out with plenty of hope and promise—that lovely moment before any of their ideas had come to nothing, before they had had to face dead ends, confusing clues, uncommunicative witnesses, and all the other impediments to finding out the truth of what had happened.

  “All right,” said Ben, settling on the sofa with a large pad and pencil. “Let’s briefly go over what we’ve got so far.”

  “That shouldn’t take long.”

  “Indeed. So, Bernard Petit is hit in the back of the head with an ashtray in his own home. Some months ago, he had suspected his house was being broken into, and small objects taken. Petit was a widely disliked man, including by all his family members.”

  They sat for a moment contemplating the victim. Molly wondered why Petit had turned out to be so disagreeable—was it something in his upbringing, a series of bad experiences that had soured him to the world? Or was he just born that way?

  “No question that he was murdered,” said Ben, just being thorough.

  “Check. Difficult to bash your own head in from behind.”

  “Suspects could include anyone who ever met him, apparently,” said Ben, a bit crossly. “But let’s start with the most obvious. Daughter claims to believe it was the son. Could always be the wife. Or the daughter is using her brother as a distraction, when she’s the guilty party.”

  “We should talk to the neighbors. Look through his files to see who he was working with. What kind of business was he in, anyway?”

  “Laurine said something about importing? But I have no idea what.”

  “So…family, neighbors, business associates. The field is wide open.”

  “I’ll go to Bergerac tomorrow and knock on some doors, taking the neighbor angle,” said Molly. “I suppose killing a neighbor because he’s annoying doesn’t happen all that often, but you never know,” said Molly.

  “Petit was really annoying.”

  “Honestly, his reputation is so extreme, I’m quite sorry I never met him!”

  Ben laughed. “What about Laurine’s accusations about Franck? Want to have a go at him?”

  “Sure. You liked him?”

  “He seems like a totally decent guy. But who knows what violent urges he might be hiding successfully?” Ben shook his head.
“I doubt it, though. And it’s not easy to commit murder when you live as far away as he does.”

  “Same for Laurine. And what about the wife?”

  “Name?”

  “Uh, Alaina, I believe. If she’s been out of the country, we can cross her off the list. But worthwhile to talk to her anyway.”

  “For sure.”

  “I suppose it’s possible that any of them could have hired someone to do it,” said Molly, always reluctant to cross anyone off until she was ready. “I don’t know how easy it is to find a hit man around these parts—or they could have hired someone in Paris, Bordeaux, even India—and sent them here to do the job.”

  “Could be,” said Ben, though clearly this direction of inquiry didn’t do much for him. “Generally, however, the less complicated the better. Let’s at least begin with the premise that the person who committed the murder was the person with the motive to do so.”

  “Just don’t want to assume.”

  “Of course. I’m going to wait a few days, then give Léo a call. Need to give him some time to make some headway before I try to get anything out of him.”

  “You think he’ll share anything with you?”

  “Not intentionally. But I know Léo. He might not be able to resist bragging and letting some little morsel slip.”

  Molly got up and paced in front of the woodstove. Bobo watched her, ears pricked up.

  “So, I’m…if we’re done? I’m going to go back over to the Valette’s.”

  Ben’s eyebrows went up and he did not look pleased.

  “I know you think I’m being intrusive. And I’m completely willing to believe that you’re right. I don’t know how things are done here and probably the best course of action would be to sit tight and wait for Simon to ask for help before barging in to give it.

  “But the thing is, Ben—I’m all those girls have right now. We haven’t spent that much time together, I’m not exaggerating my influence, but they’ve just lost their mother, their father is understandably stricken with…with guilt if nothing else, and—”