No Honor Among Thieves

by Nell Goddin

  “Unless she took in the payment, and funneled the whole thing to her father instead of splitting it with Burnette.”

  Ben sighed. “All right, have it your way. Laurine might be involved. But Molly—the main point of what I am telling you is that we have a man who was egregiously ripped off by Petit and had every reason to be furious with him. So let’s find him, check his alibi, the usual procedure.”

  “Does Laurine think he’s innocent? She must, if she’s telling us it was her brother.”

  Ben clamped his mouth shut in frustration.

  “Listen, I’m on my way to see Tessier. I’ll ask her if she knows—what’s his name again? Stephane Durkette?”

  “Burnette.”

  Something about this exchange made Molly laugh, and they said goodbye feeling slightly warmer toward each other. She took a shortcut through a narrow alley that led to Tessier’s house, eager to ask if she had ever heard of Stephane Burnette.

  The man in the cap cut into the alley just behind her, walking quickly to catch up.

  Molly stopped suddenly, turning back around, and saw the man stop abruptly. She considered, then hurried on through the alley and emerged on rue Saterne before he could reach her. Madame Tessier was coming down the street from the other direction carrying a string bag, and Molly waved.

  “Oh, chérie, come in, come in, I’ve been thinking of you. So many days have passed, and if my information is correct, there has been no arrest, and you and Ben are running in circles?”

  “Not sure where you’re getting your intel,” said Molly, making a face. “But I can’t say it’s incorrect.”

  They went inside where the heat was cranked up, never mind the warmer weather. Molly sank down on the velvet sofa and tried to focus.

  “Stephane Burnette,” she said, not waiting for Madame Tessier to put away her marketing.

  “Ah, yes. I don’t know him, but I have heard the name. From Bergerac, I believe. Something of a ladies’ man.”

  “For real, or in his own mind?”

  Madame Tessier chuckled. “Perhaps both. Tell me, have you found anything else on Laurine?”

  “You really think it was her, because of that old shoplifting mistake? Or you’re just looking for a juicy morsel?”

  “I’m always looking for juicy morsels, that goes without saying. As to whether she’s the guilty party—it would be rash of me to say.”

  “But what’s your intuition tell you?”

  “I thought intuition was underrated in the private investigation business.”

  “You are in a difficult mood, Madame Tessier!”

  She laughed again. “Shall I make us some tea? And then we can have a proper chat. I promise not to be so contrary.”

  Molly agreed unenthusiastically to the tea and waited impatiently for Madame Tessier to return.

  “Ah, here we are,” said the older woman, arriving with a small tray, two cups of tea, and a few cookies on a plate. “I know the thermometer says the temperature has gone up, but my old bones take a while to shake off the chill.”

  Molly smiled, hoping sweat didn’t begin to trickle down the side of her face. “So. Stephane Burnette? Anything else? Do you have any sense of what kind of man he is?”

  Madame Tessier made an exaggerated shrug. “Talk to Inès Bériot. She lives in Bergerac, sells spices at the market on Wednesdays. She’s married, so might not be terribly anxious to talk about it—but I happen to know she had an affair with Burnette last year.”

  “Oh, that’s good. And the affair is over now? Do you know who ended it?”

  “He did. She claimed to be broken-hearted, but then she took up with the vegetable-seller at the booth next to hers, so I would judge that her heart mended rather rapidly.”

  Molly nodded, already thinking of what she would say to Inès.

  “Is this the best lead you’ve got? What is Burnette’s motive?” asked Madame Tessier.

  “Petit betrayed him in a business deal.”

  Tessier waved her hand in the air. “Oh, really? I’d imagine that to be commonplace with a man like Petit. People get cheated all the time, and if you’re in business with a man like Bernard Petit, you’d have to be blind not to realize going in that losing your money is a distinct possibility.”

  “Maybe, but there’s no reason a blind person—or an overly optimistic person, or naive, pick your adjective—can’t get fed up enough to kill someone.”

  “Objectively, I can’t argue. It’s only that…my vision of the case is something more…shall we say, romantic? Or no, that’s going too far—more emotional. Not only about money.”

  “But a situation like that stirs up plenty of feelings, wouldn’t you agree? Your trust is broken, you feel betrayed, lied to, whatever. A murder proceeding from that would hardly be a cold-blooded calculation only about money.”

  Madame Tessier sighed. “I adore you, Molly, I really do, but I would be even more fond of you if you appreciated my opinions as the jewels they are.”

  Molly decided to head home instead of going back to Café de la Place for lunch, though the prospect of a steaming bowl of cassoulet was tempting. She was hoping Ben had returned from Bergerac and they could talk over the Burnette development.

  As she walked back to the car, she passed a few villagers out enjoying the end of the cold snap, stopping to chat with some of them. As she was heading up rue Saterne, she had the sudden sensation that someone was watching her, but when she whirled around and looked, no one was there. She glanced up at the surrounding buildings, but saw no one looking out.

  Turning a corner, she nearly bumped into Chief Charlot and Paul-Henri, whose faces were dead serious.

  “Chantal, Paul-Henri—bonjour to you both.”

  “Bonjour, Molly,” said Chief Charlot, unsmiling. Paul-Henri offered his greeting as well, his expression dour.

  “I heard about the robbery out at the Bisset’s,” said Molly.

  “It’s not as though we can act as a guardian for every house in the entire commune,” Charlot snapped.

  “Of course not! I wasn’t blaming you for it,” said Molly.

  “People take no precautions, they don’t even bother to lock their doors. And then they’re shocked, shocked, when a thief strolls in and cleans them out.”

  “Did he get away with much?”

  “Indeed he did, if Jules Bisset is being honest about how much he had in his lockbox, and I have had no indication that Monsieur Bisset is a liar.”

  “Right. I suppose people are getting a little wary of banks these days. So much of the news is unsettling.”

  “It’s not unsettling to me because I don’t have an enormous pile of investments that are at risk. I lead a modest life, Molly, as most gendarmes do. A life of service, if I may be so bold.”

  Even Paul-Henri rolled his eyes at this, and he was generally one of the most patient of men. “At any rate,” he said. “The Bissets are expecting us.”

  “Don’t mean to keep you,” said Molly. “Just wondering—do you have any suspects? Should I put in extra security at La Baraque or do you think this’ll be wrapped up fairly quickly?”

  “Well, the village’s resident criminal has been back in town for some weeks now. Unfortunately, thus far the Bissets are saying the thief was not Fletcher Barstow, even though he is known to be attracted to cash like a moth to flame,” said Charlot.

  “Thus far? You think they might change their minds?”

  “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think that Fletcher might have used a disguise or some such. So Paul-Henri and I are on our way to show her some sketches—how he might look with a false nose, a mustache, that sort of thing.”

  “What about his accent? I assume the thief spoke in French? Fletcher has always spoken English, not that I’ve talked to him more than a few times.”

  “Yes, of course, we’re on top of that,” said Paul-Henri. “The thief did speak in French, though Madame Bisset wonders if the accent was native. We have some audio files for her to lis
ten to, Brits from different parts of the UK and their varied French accents, all terribly sad to listen to. It would be funny, if it weren’t part of an investigation.”

  “Interesting! Well, I hope he’s guilty and you nab him. Would be the best thing for the family, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I know how you dote on Malcolm. It’s the talk of the village,” said Charlot, an ugly tone in her voice. Molly glanced at Paul-Henri and saw his neck turn pink, and guessed he was the source of the gossip.

  “Well, yes, I do have a soft spot for him, I admit. It’s not his fault his father is a train wreck and his mother doesn’t have the strength to stand up to him. The kid does his best for his family, and I respect that.”

  “There is not a day dawning that will find me respecting a lawbreaker,” sniffed Charlot.

  Molly nodded. “I understand. Anyway—I should shove off. Good luck and as I said, I hope Fletcher ends up behind bars where he belongs.”

  “He’s proven time and again that he’s not a very good criminal,” said Charlot. “So I have every confidence he won’t be escaping this time either. I do have a little something for you,” said Charlot, an authentic smile gracing her face for once. “It’s about the Petit murder.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “Do tell,” she said, touching Charlot on the arm.

  “Could be nothing. But I did hear from someone I know in Bergerac that Bernard Petit was known for keeping large amounts of money in his house. Common knowledge, is what I heard.”

  “I’ve heard not a word about this.”

  Charlot shrugged. “As I said, could be nothing. Was the place rummaged through, signs of a search, anything like that?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “You do have a connection with Léo Lagasse, do you not?”

  “Ben knows him. But of course it’s not as though he’s calling us up every time he gets a fresh piece of evidence.”

  “Nor the reverse,” Charlot said with a smirk.

  “Well, thanks for the tip. I very much appreciate it,” said Molly. “Even if it doesn’t explain his murder, it does make sense of Petit hiring Ben last fall. He had some long story about some umbrellas being stolen or some such, but now it seems obvious why he wanted those video cameras installed.”

  “Chief,” said Paul-Henri, who was not terribly interested in people he hadn’t met and cases he wasn’t working on. “The Bissets!”

  They said their goodbyes and Molly reached her car and took off for home. So both the Bissets and possibly Petit had a lot of cash in their houses…was this a usual practice in France, or Castillac in particular? Otherwise how had the thief known which house to rob? Had the Bissets been distrustful of banks or was this about something else?

  Oh stop it, she said to herself as she got out of the car and braced herself as Bobo came streaking toward her. You’re working on a murder, not a robbery.

  Focus, girl. Focus.

  “Rémy is feeling a little depressed, nothing serious, but I’m going to meet him for dinner at Chez Papa if you don’t mind,” said Ben by phone, just before dinner.

  “Of course I don’t mind,” said Molly. “I did want to talk about Stephane Burnette, though. Madame Tessier told me a little bit about him, though nothing very earth-shattering. When will I see you?”

  “I won’t be late,” he said. “Love you.”

  “I love you, too,” said Molly, feeling a little ashamed to say the words—though she meant them—when she still had not been able to bring herself to tell him about the phone messages and the robot-voice. She hadn’t said anything to him about being followed, either.

  Or Simon Valette.

  It was as though once their openness with each other had been curtailed, it was gone altogether.

  All at once she realized that both things could be true: that whoever was leaving the messages was trying to cause trouble, and…also….in addition…Ben might not be not as faithful as she had thought.

  I’ve been telling myself it’s either-or, but that was an assumption, she thought. It was just as possible to be and also. In a sudden funk, she shoved more wood in the stove and plopped down, nearly putting her head in her hands. The orange cat jumped onto the back of the sofa and glared at her.

  “Don’t start with me,” said Molly.

  32

  The next morning, the cupboard was still bare, and so even though Molly kept making rules about how often she was allowed to go to Pâtisserie Bujold, and then breaking them (often on the same day), she threw on a coat and, grateful that the warmer weather was holding, took off on her scooter for the village, and the delectable comforts of a warm almond croissant, fresh from Edmond’s oven.

  The sun was out and so were the villagers, some standing against a stone wall with their faces tilted up to the sun, with expressions of relief and contentment. Molly wanted to stop and join them—and pick up any news about the Bisset robbery while she was at it—but her mouth was watering so desperately for the croissant that she pressed on to the pastry shop. Once there, she was surprised to see Malcolm on his way out, carrying a large white bag.

  “Bonjour, Malcolm. I thought you were persona non grata in there.”

  “Hi Molly. Persona non-whatta?”

  “Persona non grata. An unwelcome person. You never studied Latin?”

  “Nobody studies Latin, old lady,” said Malcolm, grinning, and his grin was so winning that Molly smiled at the insult.

  “Buying a bit of breakfast?” she said, pointing at the bag.

  “Yeah. The littles….”

  “I’m sure they’ll be grateful. I’m sure my childhood would have been very different indeed if Edmond’s pastries had been a part of it.”

  Malcolm laughed a little nervously. “So anyway, I was going to come see you later. I found out who the gnome-rearranger is.”

  “Really?”

  “What, you doubt me?”

  “No, no…more like I wasn’t even sure Lucie Severin wasn’t imagining things. I mean, it’s hard to come up with a reason why anyone would do something like that, right? Unless they’re trying to make her go crazy, which I suppose is possible but didn’t really seem very likely.”

  “If you want to know the motive, that’s gonna cost extra.”

  Molly laughed. “Tell me who’s been doing it.”

  “It’s your gîte guest.”

  Molly stared at him. “Who?”

  “I don’t know her name. I didn’t think it would be very professional for me to march up to her and demand an introduction. Finally I saw her do it—and it took forever too, let me tell you. Good thing it wasn’t as cold because I was sitting there for ages waiting for her to finish. She would move a gnome a few feet, stand back, look at it, then move it another couple of feet to one side. Repeat-repeat-repeat until I was this close to losing my mind.”

  Molly was shaking her head. “It’s so strange, isn’t it? Are you sure it’s one of my guests? What did she look like?”

  “Like something out of a storybook. Red cape with a hood. Thought for a minute it was Little Red Riding Hood, ya know?”

  Molly was shaking her head, finding it hard to believe. People were so weird.

  “So anyway, at long last she quit and walked away, and I followed her all the way to La Baraque. She’s staying in the pigeonnier.”

  “Daisy McPherson,” Molly muttered under her breath.

  “Hey, maybe she’s the one who ripped off the Bissets too,” said Malcolm, looking up at Molly hopefully.

  “Hmm,” Molly said distractedly. “Listen, Malcolm, about that wad of euros I found in the cottage. I emailed the guests who stayed there last and it didn’t belong to them. It’s true I don’t have proof, but I’m asking you to be honest with me now. You put it there, didn’t you?”

  Malcolm hung his head, looking almost like a cartoon, and Molly held back a smile.

  “Well, yeah. You gonna give it back?”

  “Whose money is it? Don’t try and tell me you found it lying on th
e sidewalk. And look—if you’re in some kind of trouble, I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  He walked faster and Molly trotted to keep up.

  “Malcolm, come on!”

  “I stole it from the épicerie, okay? I was in there one day and Ninette went in the back to help someone, and she left the cash register wide open. I just grabbed what I could and took off. I know I shouldn’t have, but I don’t know, something came over me.”

  Molly was shaking her head. “Yeah, I’ll say you shouldn’t have. I’d like to give it back to you so you could return it, but I have a feeling that would be overly optimistic of me.”

  “It’s not that much money.”

  Molly gave him a skeptical look. “You joking? It is a lot of money, and anyway, the amount is beside the point. It’s not yours, Malcolm, you stole it. I want you to go talk to Ninette and tell her what you did. When I hear from you or from her that you’ve done that, I’ll return the money. Are we clear?”

  She saw a dark shape looming up from the side and turned to see Fletcher Barstow heading for them, glowering.

  “Hey!” he said, grabbing Molly by the arm. “Leave my kid alone, hear me?”

  Molly wrenched her arm away. “Take your hands off me!”

  “Pops,” said Malcolm in a low voice.

  Fletcher grabbed Molly by the arm again and squeezed it. “I said leave him alone. He’s my son, not your little plaything!”

  Molly struggled to get free but Fletcher’s grip was too tight.

  “Pops! Leave her be!” shouted Malcolm.

  A bell tinkled and Edmond Nugent came flying out of Pâtisserie Bujold brandishing a rolling pin. “Monsieur Barstow!” he shouted, raising the pin and circling it in the air.

  With reluctance, Barstow let go. “Pay attention to what I said,” he said to Molly, as he took hold of the collar of Malcolm’s jacket and started to yank him down the street in the direction of their house.

  “A scourge on the village,” muttered Edmond. “Well, at least the little cretin paid for the pastries this time.”

  33