No Honor Among Thieves

by Nell Goddin

  “You’re quiet,” he said, as they got in.

  “But happy,” she said. “Very, very, very happy.”

  They kissed, then sat in the stillness for a moment, in the dark, watching the snow come down.

  “I’ve got a little idea,” said Molly.

  Ben grinned.

  Frances was in charge and driving everyone else nearly insane.

  “I’ve got it,” said Angela, who was putting up swags of greenery over the French doors. “Really, I do know what I’m doing.”

  Frances grumbled and moved on to Edmond, who was slicing baguettes for the pâté. “It’s better on the diagonal,” she said.

  “Really? You’re going to tell a pâtissier—an award-winning pâtissier, I’ll have you know—how to slice the bread? Frances, I know this whole thing is nerve-wracking, but please, go find someone else to bother. It’s all going to be fine, it really and truly is.”

  “Well, just tell me where Molly is,” said Frances. “She was supposed to be here an hour ago. I should be fixing her hair right now.”

  Edmond paused, the bread knife hanging in the air. “If I know Molly, it’s probably something to do with the case they’re on. That fellow from Bergerac that no one liked? Personally, I think everyone should just calm down and accept that whoever performed the deed did everyone a favor.”

  Bedin had the raw bar all set up, with an array of oysters on ice. Lawrence was putting the bar in order, a simple enough matter, since they were only serving champagne.

  “The party starts in twenty minutes! It would be nice if the guests of honor were here!” someone muttered.

  “Look, here’s Ben—I’m sure the blushing bride is with him,” said Angela.

  Ben walked straight over to Lawrence. “I’m having a whiskey, care to join me?”

  “Remember when you used to take that herbal elixir? I think whiskey is a much better plan.”

  Ben tossed back a shot. “It’s weird. I’m so happy, I honestly am. But…”

  “No need to explain,” said Lawrence. “Have one more. But perhaps only one.”

  “I’m good,” said Ben.

  “Where is Molly, anyway?”

  “Halfway home, she wanted to get out and walk. She’s nuts for snow, said she wanted just a moment to herself before the party.”

  “It’s a beautiful night,” said Lawrence.

  Frances tried to corral Ben into helping Angela put up some twinkling lights over the doorway, but he shook his head and slipped back out. He and Molly had agreed he would give her just a few minutes alone on the road, and then circle back on the sly. That had seemed like a reasonable plan—they agreed that if someone was following her, it was important for Ben to continue on to La Baraque, to set the trap properly. But as the minutes ticked by, he began to worry, and trotted quickly back alongside rue de Chêne toward the village, just inside the trees so as not to be easily spotted.

  Meanwhile, Lawrence finished his whiskey, thought for a moment, then tossed on his coat and slipped out the French doors when no one was looking. He didn’t like the idea of Molly walking alone on that lonely road after dark. Maybe that made him old-fashioned or over-protective, but he was far too old to worry about how anyone would judge him.

  The snow was no longer coming down hard but falling softly, gently, and it seemed to Lawrence that the world of his adopted country was even more beautiful than usual—tree branches were sagging under the snow, and ice glittered on the road. He glanced toward Castillac but did not see Molly. He tightened his scarf and began to walk. Music filtered out from La Baraque and he looked forward to what he knew would be a great party, but for the moment, he felt not festive but apprehensive.

  Lawrence got around the first bend in the road, and could see down a long, straight stretch that went almost to the edge of the village. Ben said he let her out halfway home. Shouldn’t he be able to see her by now?

  Lawrence walked more quickly. Every now and then he stopped, and turned his ear toward the village, listening.

  43

  Molly had not dashed off on one of her signature wild goose chases. She was not doubling back to knock on Barstow’s front door or check with Madame Tessier about some detail or other.

  She was, in part, walking in the snow and taking a breather after the emotional excitement of the marriage, feeling so much gratitude for the way her life had recovered, and for Ben, for Castillac, for France. But mostly she was acting as a decoy, with an undercover assist from her adoring and adorable new husband, with an ear cocked for someone behind her, on foot or by motor.

  The night was cold and still. She breathed the fresh air deep into her lungs, pungent from nearby pines, and listened to the thump of her low-heeled shoes on the snowy road.

  Molly was dangling herself like a worm on a hook, a tasty bit of bait, hoping Fletcher Barstow was on the lookout, and following her, as she believed he had been for days on end.

  Ever since Dufort/Sutton Investigations had been hired for the Petit case, Molly had known she was being tailed. Sometimes she was distracted and didn’t see him, but she had caught him at it enough times to be sure he was following her—though always in glimpses, not hard enough looks to identify who he was.

  Molly had guessed her tail on those occasions was Fletcher Barstow, though this was not correct.

  She had convinced Ben that given half a chance, Fletcher would show himself, and she could trick him into admitting he had planned the murder of Bernard Petit.

  Sometimes the only way to prove something is to pretend you have the goods when you don’t.

  Sometimes the best way to solve a case is to grab a big handful of assumptions—the best ones you can lay your hands on—and lay them right on the table, willing them to be aces.

  Ben should be hidden in the darkness by now, watching her. She wasn’t afraid…well, maybe a little.

  But so far, the road behind her was deserted, the bait perhaps not quite sufficiently alluring.

  Molly was sure that Fletcher was dying to gloat, after Léo Lagasse had let him go. He would want to make sure she knew how he had outsmarted everyone, how he had stuffed his pockets with Petit’s money but couldn’t be arrested for his murder thanks to his tight alibi.

  Well, maybe Fletcher hadn’t been the one who picked up the ashtray—but she knew the whole thing had been Fletcher’s idea. The money Malcolm suddenly had, the flashy ring—it hadn’t appeared out of thin air. And the roll of bills under the sink in the cottage put a date stamp on when it had been stolen.

  Molly had come to know what sort of man Fletcher Barstow was, and she guessed that if she played him just right—if she acted unimpressed, unafraid—he would tell her all about what a genius he was.

  But where was he? People had been on the street when she and Ben emerged, newly married, from the mairie. Surely, with the usual rapid speed of Castillac gossip, Fletcher would have quickly gotten the news, and might get the idea to taunt her and Ben. Surely he would be extra-glad to find her alone so he could exult in his victory, hoping to ruin her special day.

  She was on the point of giving up when just before the next to last bend in the road, before the long straightaway, she heard a motorcycle behind her.

  With a sudden burst of fear, she considered taking a dive into the forest. But Molly Sutton was nothing if not determined, and kept walking steadily.

  Just keep breathing, she said to herself. And get him talking.

  “Well, look who it is,” said Fletcher, turning off the engine of his brand new motorcycle and rolling it along beside her.

  “It’s a nice night,” said Molly, who kept moving, her eyes pinned to the curve ahead. “What’s the news?”

  “Heard you got hitched. That mean you don’t mind having a cheat for a husband? That’s so open-minded of you, Molly.”

  She was thrown off balance for a moment. Her throat went dry and she focused her attention on the sound of her shoes, squishing as she slipped a little on the snowy road, thinking hard.
>
  Oh, she thought, I get it now.

  “So it’s your wife who’s been calling me?” she said. “I did wonder who it was. Did you think that the calls would upset me enough that I couldn’t do my job, is that it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t like doing any of your own dirty work, do you?”

  Fletcher looked smug. “That’s a talent of mine, you might say.”

  “Eh,” said Molly. “I’m not sure that’s the word I would choose.” They walked along for a few yards, snow starting to collect on their heads. “You know, Fletcher, people like to tell me things. People have told me a lot of things about you, for example.”

  Fletcher narrowed his eyes at her. “What kind of things?”

  “You try and try, but your criminal endeavors just don’t seem to pan out, do they? No doubt you’ll be off to prison again before you know it.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said, grinning. “I could tell you plenty, Sutton. You don’t know everything, not by a long shot. You have no idea what I’ve pulled off.”

  And the hook is set, she thought. Really, this was too easy.

  “For instance,” she said, “I heard about how you got hold of that Luger, the one that was used in the Bisset robbery. Chief Charlot’ll be wanting to have a word with you about that.”

  Fletcher squinted and chewed his lip. He was about to speak, then clamped his mouth shut. “She can have as many words with me as she likes, I’ve got an alibi for that, too,” he said, but his voice was not quite as confident.

  “Well, there’s a little more, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your friend is a blabbermouth.”

  “Which friend?”

  “You have more than one? I’m talking about the friend who killed Bernard Petit. The friend who says it was all your idea, that you forced him to do it. Not very loyal, I’m sorry to say.”

  Aces on the table.

  Fletcher parked the heavy motorcycle on the thin shoulder and quickly trotted to catch up to her. Roughly he grabbed her arm, and for the first time, panic started to well up. But she swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed it back down.

  “Let go of me,” Molly said, her voice calm. “Holding on to my arm isn’t going to save you or your friend. You’re a clever man, Fletcher, aren’t you? You do understand that you didn’t have to kill Bernard yourself to go to prison for his murder? In fact, if your friend says it was all your idea, you’ll probably serve a longer term than he will. He’ll be boo-hoo-hooing about how you forced him to do it.”

  “Alfie is going to pay,” Fletcher growled.

  Like candy from a baby, thought Molly. His fingers dug into her upper arm.

  “He didn’t say how he got in Petit’s house, though.” It was a risky question, but important to hear from Barstow’s mouth.

  He barked out a laugh. “Not hard at all, Sutton. We knew about your security cameras and made sure to disable them that night. And then Alfie just climbed over the wall. He’s a brute, you know, strong as an ox. It was nothing for him. He was planning to break a window but found one open. Practically invited inside,” Barstow sneered. He tightened his grip on her arm. Molly walked faster; the lights of La Baraque were just around that clump of trees. She stared at the curve in the road, willing Ben to appear.

  But who appeared was Lawrence, on foot, in a classic Burberry overcoat and flowing scarf. She was extremely glad to see him.

  “Let her go, Barstow!” he shouted. “Or I’ll shoot!”

  Lawrence appeared to have a gun in the pocket of the overcoat, pointed at Barstow.

  “You’re not shooting anybody,” said Fletcher. But he let go of Molly’s arm just as Ben came running around the curve.

  “Hey fellas!” called Molly.

  “It was Alfie, not me!” he bellowed. “I had nothing to do with it! And why did you ever come to Castillac, anyway? You’re not even French!”

  “Neither are you, Fletcher,” she said. She had thought it was all over, but he became agitated as the men drew closer, taking her arm again, his fingers digging into her flesh through her coat.

  Ben and Lawrence were fifty yards away. “Let her go!” Ben shouted, flying toward them.

  “Maybe things will go a little easier for you if you tell us where Alfie is,” Molly said, soothingly, as though talking to a small child.

  Fletcher let loose a stream of cursing and buried his head in his hands. It was an impressive performance, covering several languages, and Molly felt the fear in her gut ease up and then fade away.

  Lawrence was texting frantically, and just as Ben reached Fletcher and bent one of his arms behind his back, they heard the quaint siren of Castillac’s one police car on its way down rue de Chêne.

  44

  When Molly and Ben straggled in to the living at room at La Baraque, a cheer went up, and their friends crowded around to hear about their latest victory.

  “Really, it’s time to drink champagne and celebrate, not talk about murder,” said Molly, taking a glass from Nico. “I’m ready to dance!”

  Ben, never very confident about his dance moves, expressed a momentary silent scream of panic, but Lawrence handed them champagne flutes and they went through the crowd to the tiny cleared space by the front door and started to boogie.

  “Castillac has not been the same since Molly got here,” said Anne-Marie to Lapin, as they watched Molly and Ben with their arms around each other, looking into each other’s eyes with supreme contentment.

  “Thank God,” said Lapin, who grabbed Anne-Marie’s hand and pulled her over to dance.

  Lawrence was standing by the bar, his face lit up by twinkling lights, feeling very pleased with himself for finally playing a part in keeping Castillac—and Molly—safe. He loved her as much as Ben, if platonically, and he knew it would be a moment he would remember always, careening down rue de Chêne toward that awful Fletcher Barstow, pretending to have a gun in his pocket. Even if the snow had ruined a pair of vintage Belgian loafers.

  It was practically a scene from a movie, he thought, smiling to himself. And it will be wonderful to have that horrid man gone from the village, perhaps this time for good. He waved at Nico and went to join him and Frances at the raw bar.

  We’re married, Molly was thinking, over and over. She kept putting her head on Ben’s shoulder, then lifting it up and looking into his eyes, grinning, some part of her unable to believe her luck even while she held him in her arms.

  “I have a little idea,” said Ben.

  Molly’s eyes gleamed.

  They moved to the hallway where they could whisper to each other in privacy. The guests watched out of the corner of their eyes, feeling uneasy. Ben was doing something on his phone and Molly was giggling.

  Then they came back to the living room and turned the music down. “Everyone!” shouted Ben. “Molly and I—this may seem a little irregular, but we’ve decided to leave for our honeymoon. Right now.”

  Sounds of confusion, some booing.

  “No, no—the party goes on! We want you to stay until the last bottle of champagne has been drunk and the last oyster slurped down. Please, stay and enjoy! Just consider this the first course of an elaborate celebration, which we’ll continue when we get back.”

  There was a little grumbling, but it was quickly overtaken by a cheer going up and shouts of bon voyage.

  “Ben’s got us on a flight to the south of France,” said Molly, beaming. “We love you all. Au revoir!”

  Within three hours, they were on a plane at the Bordeaux airport, Molly still wearing the wool suit, Ben’s shoes wet from running in the snow.

  “Was that terribly rude of us?” she asked, leaning her head on his shoulder.

  “You just saved Castillac from Fletcher Barstow,” said Ben. “And we’re newlyweds! I think we’ll get a pass.”

  Molly nodded, closing her eyes, smiling contentedly. It had been a cold month, full of emotional ups and downs, and
she couldn’t wait to walk along the beach in Nice with her new husband, her head completely free of suspects and terrible people.

  * * *

  THE END

  Also by Nell Goddin

  The Third Girl (Molly Sutton Mysteries 1)

  The Luckiest Woman Ever (Molly Sutton Mysteries 2)

  The Prisoner of Castillac (Molly Sutton Mysteries 3)

  Murder for Love (Molly Sutton Mysteries 4)

  The Château Murder (Molly Sutton Mysteries 5)

  Murder on Vacation (Molly Sutton Mysteries 6)

  An Official Killing (Molly Sutton Mysteries 7)

  Death in Darkness (Molly Sutton Mysteries 8)

  No Honor Among Thieves (Molly Sutton Mysteries 9)

  * * *

  Want a free short story? Click HERE!

  * * *

  www.nellgoddin.com

  Glossary

  Chapter 7

  mon ami…………………….my friend

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  pas de problème………….no problem

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  bon…………………………..good, fine

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  écureuil……………………..squirrel

  pain au chocolat……..…..chocolate

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  bien sûr…………..…………of course

  n’est-ce pas……………..…right?

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  lycée…………………….……high school

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  à bientôt ……………………see you soon

  mes petites …………………my little ones