by Nell Goddin
“What’s that mean?”
“Oh, just that…he was…” Molly wished she hadn’t started down this conversational path. “Just that their father has enough to deal with. Chloë and Giselle are so young. They’ve already been through so much. It wasn’t long ago that their grandfather died, and there was that whole business with the nanny…and you know how unstable Camille was, and how badly she treated them sometimes. I know Merla has done her best to look out for them, as well as she could, but she is only there a few times a week. I just—”
“Fine, Molly. Go. I think it’s a mistake, and the Valettes should be allowed some privacy at this moment of all moments. But I can see I’m not going to convince you of that. You make your own decisions, obviously.”
Molly opened her mouth to answer but then closed it again. It was the plain truth, she did make her own decisions, and right then the decision was to get back on her scooter and fly down rue de Chêne, through the village and then down route de Fallon, to the gracefully imposing manor house of the Valettes, now three instead of four.
14
Sunday afternoon in Bergerac. The townspeople had been to mass, if they were inclined, and enjoyed a substantial meal over several hours.
The sun had already peaked by this point and the sky was gray and just beginning the quick march toward dusk, when a few of the hardier residents of Bernard Petit’s neighborhood went out for a walk and a breath of fresh air. Though the walking part was rather quickly put to the side as they met each other on the sidewalk, and enthusiastically discussed their neighbor’s murder.
“I’ve been lying awake at night, thinking about it,” said Rachelle Combe, who lived in the house two doors down from Petit’s. “Do you think it’s some crazy marauder, and we should fear for our lives?”
Tristan Ducasse, who lived around the corner, shook his head. “You’ve only to consider the victim,” he said in a low voice. “And there’s your answer.”
Rachelle, who was not the quickest rabbit out of the gate, looked confused. “Consider Bernard? What do you mean?”
“I mean that he was a nasty piece of work and I would guess, conservatively, that anyone who had ever met him would be overjoyed to hear of his demise.”
Rachelle tittered. “Oh, Tristan, you’re too much. Though it’s true, he was a bit of trouble to have as a neighbor. Always complaining about something or other. I think he and Jean nearly came to blows several times over a tree on their property line.”
Tristan nodded theatrically. “And let’s be honest—Jean is not someone you’d want to have a disagreement with!”
“Oh no,” said Rachelle, “you’re entirely right.” She looked over at Jean Chavanne’s house, on the other side of Petit’s from hers, as though fearing he might have overheard them somehow. “I’ll say this just to you: Jean frightens me a bit. I was never frightened of Bernard, however. More bluster than anything, I always thought.”
“Because you steered clear of him. His family didn’t have that choice—I heard he beat his children unmercifully,” said Tristan. “I’m not against a swat now and then—my father used to cut the backs of my legs with a switch and leave me bloody—I turned out all right,” he said, drawing himself up and sticking out his chest. “But what he did to his children was something else. Orders of magnitude worse, that’s what I heard.”
Rachelle’s eyes were wide. They both looked at the Petit house, imagining horrors taking place within. The shutters were closed, and even though Petit had not been dead long, the house already gave out a feeling of abandonment.
“Are you saying,” Rachelle asked slowly, “that you think one of his children…”
“Oh no. I have no idea who picked up that ashtray. I’m only saying that the list of people with a grievance against him has got to be very long. He was unscrupulous in business, too, you understand. Late in paying people, sometimes not paying them at all. He would cut any corner he could, giving no thought to who he harmed, that’s what I heard.”
Rachelle shook her head. “Well, I hope the house gets sold quickly. Here’s hoping we get someone good as our new neighbor.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Tristan, and having reminded himself that it was nearly time for an aperitif, he said his goodbyes to Rachelle, walked around the block, and then home.
Just at dusk, Molly whipped down the Vallette’s driveway without any hesitation, her mind on Chloë and Giselle and what they must be feeling. Florian’s van was gone, thank goodness. Knocking on the door, she shivered after the cold ride.
No answer. Simon’s car was still there. Did they want privacy, just like Ben said?
Molly trotted down the steps and walked around the house, listening for voices. In the distant part of the backyard, she glimpsed bright yellow, and knew it to be the color of Giselle’s winter coat. She walked quickly in that direction and saw that it was Simon and the two girls, walking slowly next to the edge of the woods, his arm around each of them.
She stopped and watched them. They walked so slowly they barely made any headway. Molly could see that Giselle’s head was bowed. She could hear the faint murmur of Simon’s voice.
Clearly a moment that Molly should not crash in on, like a well-meaning but destructive elephant. She would wait on the front porch to see if they returned in the next fifteen minutes or so, and if not, take Ben’s advice and go home.
Like most people, she was not fond of taking other people’s advice when it went against her inclination. But she was doing her best to think of the Valettes most of all, and not give in to her more adolescent urges to do things her own way no matter what.
Simon’s voice got louder, and Molly heard the girls chiming in as well. She heard crying, and a querulous tone, and Simon again, sounding comforting though she could not yet make out the words. They were no longer behind the house but beside it, and Molly went to greet them.
When Giselle spotted her, she ran straight into Molly’s arms, with Chloë right behind.
“Oh, my dears,” Molly said into their hair, as she hugged them tight. “I’m so sorry this has happened.”
“Giselle says she knew it was going to happen one day,” said Chloë. “But I can’t say if she’s telling the truth or not.”
Normally Giselle might have rolled her eyes at her little sister, but this time she put her arm protectively around the younger girl. Molly’s eyes had already been welling up and now tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Simon, I hope you don’t mind that I came back. I just wanted to make sure the girls got home all right.”
“They were in the woods, just as you said. Making elf-houses out of moss and mud. A bit cold for that sort of thing, I would think, but not according to them.”
“I want to go back. My house is only half-finished and the elf will not have a place to sleep tonight,” said Chloë.
That made more tears roll down Molly’s cheeks. They were so young, so innocent! And to have a death, a murder, and a suicide in their house, after not even having lived there a year. Her heart was breaking for them.
“Would you like to come in?” asked Simon. Molly thought his voice sounded tremendously weary. “We were going to warm up with some chocolat, and if I have any predictive powers at all, I would guess you like chocolat very much.”
“I do,” said Molly, smiling and wiping her face. “Is that because you think I am childish, or just something of a sugar fiend?”
“I never answer questions that will get me in trouble,” said Simon. He made a loud sigh, as though the effort of trying to say even a few sentences about something of no consequence was exhausting.
“Let me make it,” said Molly. “You all make yourselves comfortable and I’ll bring it in.”
“Thank you,” said Simon. He took the girls by the hand and led them into the dining room.
Molly could hear the sound of their talking as she heated up the milk and got out sugar cubes and cocoa. How could Camille have left her girls like this? She must have seen no
other way to end her misery.
She wondered if Simon would remarry, or whether the family would stay in Castillac. Molly certainly hoped so, though she realized it was a selfish hope. It would be understandable if they decided to make another fresh start somewhere else, or simply returned to Paris.
Molly brought the bowls of chocolat to the cozy living room where the Valettes were seated around the fireplace. She stopped for a moment, feeling strange—and realizing that the strangeness was a feeling that she could step straight into this family, this life in the manor house on route de Fallon.
That Simon would welcome her staying, would want her to stay.
Instant family.
Molly swallowed hard while putting down the tray. First she told herself that she was exaggerating, that she and Simon had only the mildest, most innocent flirtation between them, nothing more.
But as she straightened up, then called the others to get their bowls, she understood that she was not wrong: Simon did care for her, and he had said nothing before out of respect for his wife and marriage, even his unhappy marriage.
And she realized that Ben had known this from the beginning.
“I should get going,” Molly said, feeling awkward.
“No!” the girls chorused.
“We’d like you to stay,” Simon said. Again looking into her eyes with so much feeling Molly had to turn away.
Slowly she sank into a chair. Chloë immediately jumped into her lap and put her head against Molly’s shoulder, and began to suck her thumb, which Molly had never seen her do before.
“Oh, sweet girl,” Molly murmured into her hair. “Sometimes life is terribly unfair, it really is.”
Simon smiled gratefully at her, and Giselle came to stand by Molly’s chair, shyly reaching for her hand.
As she pressed Giselle’s hand in hers, Molly was so undone by emotion that she almost couldn’t breathe.
15
Chantal Charlot, Chief of the Castillac gendarmerie, was holding on by her fingernails, or so she feared. Her career had been spotty, to put it generously, which was why she had landed way out in the provinces in such a small village after beginning her career in Paris. She had had high ambitions of moving through the ranks and being given the choicest appointments, but life had not worked out that way. Now she was hearing rumblings that the higher-ups weren’t happy with her performance in Castillac, either.
That Monday morning she got dressed, grumbling under her breath, not looking in the mirror but braiding her chestnut hair and then knotting it, trying to think of something she could do to reverse the bigwigs’ opinion of her. She needed to crack something big, to pull off some kind of…well, she didn’t know, a law enforcement splash of some kind or other…and sleepy Castillac seemed an unlikely place for such a victory.
It was no surprise that Charlot did not have a great deal of affection for the village, since opportunities to shine were few and because the posting had so clearly been a step down. She had not made many friends, though to be fair, she hadn’t even been there six months. At least her initial iciness toward Molly Sutton had melted somewhat, and the two of them achieved a rapprochement that allowed them to work together rather effectively on a murder earlier that year.
Still, Charlot was annoyed when she heard Dufort/Sutton had been hired for the Petit case. It was out of her own jurisdiction, Petit having lived in Bergerac, and Charlot felt a sort of professional jealousy that Molly and Ben were in on it and she was not.
She drank a hurried cup of coffee and set off for a stroll around the village. There was usually little to do—Monsieur Vargas may have wandered down to the cemetery again, Madame Bonnay could not for the life of her seem to figure out how to keep her dog from roaming the streets, the Barstow boy was shoplifting again. Nothing but petty thefts and pettier problems that the least talented, worst trained cop in the world could manage.
The day was bright and cold. She saw a Père Noel with his head down the chimney of the bank building; a scrawny pine tree leaning against the wall next to the bank; some dingy baubles hanging across rue Picasso. All in all, the view of the village indicated the upcoming holiday but did nothing to instill any gaiety, nothing at all compared to Paris, which would be lit up in the most beautiful and sophisticated fashion by this time in December, she thought, feeling more than a little sorry for herself.
She passed by the épicerie and had almost turned the corner when Ninette caught up with her.
“Chief!” cried the young woman. “Please!”
With a deep sigh, Charlot turned around. She yanked the hem of her uniform jacket down smartly and pressed her lips together. “Bonjour, Madame,” said Charlot. “Is there something the matter?”
“Bonjour, Chief. I’ll say there’s something the matter! We’re on the verge of losing our business thanks to shoplifting, that’s what. You know about profit margins, I assume? Well, for a small épicerie such as ours, that margin is slimmer than slim. We do our best not to charge high prices, Chief, because we care about the people in the village and don’t want to cheat our customers. But because of that, when that…that Barstow boy comes in, and fills his pockets, well—it’s very bad for business, understand?”
Charlot nodded. “Is it only the Barstow boy, or are there others?”
“It’s all those boys! I’ve got a mind to bar them from the store between the ages of seven and sixteen. I’ve got to keep an eye on them every minute—and I’ve got customers needing my attention, I can’t sit on the boxes of candy to keep their fingers out of it!”
“And Malcom, he’s been in again?”
“This last Thursday, he—”
“And didn’t Paul-Henri come take a report and look for the boy?”
“He did come but—”
“Then the matter has been dealt with appropriately. I do understand your difficulty,” Charlot forced herself to say. “But you must understand, the entire Castillac force consists of me and Paul-Henri. You can’t expect us to be at your beck and call every second. There is the whole village to think of.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I just want to know—has he been arrested? Is he in jail right now?”
“Who?”
“Malcolm Barstow!”
“Oh, I don’t believe so. Paul-Henri has been looking for him, but that one is slippery as a wet bar of soap, as I believe you’re well aware. We’ll let you know if there are any developments. You gave a list of what was stolen? I can assure you that Paul-Henri will give him a serious talking-to once he’s found.”
“A talking-to isn’t going to cut it! That family is a blight on the village, I tell you! He’s probably teaching his younger brothers and sisters his criminal ways, too, young as they are. And that father—I saw him creeping about the streets recently, back from prison. I’ve no doubt it won’t be five minutes before he does something to get sent back again, that’s how it goes with Fletcher Barstow.”
“All right, well, nice to see you, Madame, and please give my regards to your father and mother. I have some business on the other side of the village and so I’ll say goodbye now.”
Ninette seemed pacified, more or less, having been allowed to vent. Charlot turned and walked on, her actual business being an almond croissant from Pâtisserie Bujold, and a second, far better cup of coffee than the one she’d made herself. If she were a different sort of gendarme, she might put a dollop of whiskey in her cup, but she wasn’t that sort. More’s the pity, she said to herself, glancing down side streets and alleys on her way to the pastry shop, hoping to see some terrible crime in progress that she could leap in and efficiently shut down, thereby setting her career on the path where it belonged.
16
Molly had taken a quick stroll around the cathedral in Bergerac, stopping a moment to watch a funeral procession. A small group of older women stood by the ornate wrought iron gate, their faces stoic. Around the sidewalk came the plain coffin, the pallbearers older working men. The men were different heights and the coffin b
obbed up and down as they walked, faces impassive.
Molly looked intently at the coffin, wondering who was inside, and what kind of life the person had had. Did some of the women standing by the gate love him? Had he been happy in his work? Or was it a woman? Was she wearing her favorite dress? Had anyone tucked a memento or jewelry into the coffin, as though she were a Pharaoh of Egypt?
No one was crying; Molly didn’t know whether that was a reluctance to show emotion in public or a lack of feeling for the deceased.
When the group had made its way inside the cathedral, Molly snapped out of her daydream. She was there to do some sniffing around on the Petit case, not get distracted by every interesting thing that passed by—and in any French town, there were always plenty of fascinating new things, since she was still (and probably always would be) a fish out of water, despite having lived in France for several years.
Earlier, she had called Sarah Berteau, who had reluctantly agreed to meet her in front of the cathedral. When Molly walked around to the front, she saw the small woman standing on the step, her shoulders drooping.
“Bonjour Sarah,” said Molly, reaching out a gloved hand to shake. “I’m Molly. Thanks so much for talking to me. I only—”
“I don’t know if it was me,” blurted Sarah. “It’s just that Monsieur Petit was so particular, and he couldn’t stand a stuffy house. Always wanted it aired out until there was practically frost forming on the furniture.”
Molly did not know what to make of this.
“So what I mean is, it probably was me who left the window open,” said Sarah plaintively. “But I didn’t mean to! Do you think that makes me an accessory to the murder or something like that?”