by Nell Goddin
“You must have gotten to know the new bartender.”
“No, can’t say that I have. He’s nice enough, but not a talker. Blood from a stone, chatting with that one.”
“And…” Molly started to ask about Lawrence’s boyfriend, since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him.
“Stephan? Long gone. But no worries. It was, blessedly, about as amicable a breakup as one could hope for. One night we looked at each other over a platter of roast duck with new potatoes, and knew it was over.”
“No period of heartbreak?”
“A token week of self-pity. That’s it.”
Molly drank another spoonful of soup and fell back on the pillows. “Sorry. I know I don’t seem like myself.”
“It’s true,” said Lawrence, looking at her carefully. “One of the great things about you is your vitality. And…it’s rather like your tank is empty. Not the cleverest metaphor, but would you agree?”
Molly nodded. “And the timing is terrible, though of course no time is convenient for falling ill. But I’ve got five guests, a record number. They’re pretty much all high-maintenance. And then…” Their eyes met. Molly looked away laughing. “You know, don’t you. About everything. Just like always.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” answered Lawrence, looking pleased. “You’re the one who actually catches the murderers, so your contribution is obviously worth far more than mine. But yes, I have heard that a guest of yours was killed. And that the killer could be…right here at La Baraque. Again, I don’t want to step on your toes or anything, but do you really think it’s a good idea for you to stay here, under the circumstances? When you’re unwell on top of it?”
Molly chewed her upper lip. “Do you…are you saying you think I’m in actual danger? I know when you say the killer is one of my guests, that sounds pretty bad. But it’s looking as though the motive was probably jealousy. Ryan was, well, kind of an operator, and we’ve got guests who couldn’t have appreciated that much. And the women themselves could have gotten carried away—‘if I can’t have him no one will’ kind of thing. Whatever went on that led to Ryan’s murder, I don’t think it had a thing to do with me. And you know, it didn’t even happen on my property. Strictly speaking. It could have been committed by someone else entirely, not one of my guests at all.”
“But you don’t know that, Molly. Not with any certainty.” said Lawrence. “And frankly—though I know this will sting—you’re not in top form, ready to work the case. You’ve got to make your recovery your number one priority. And that means plenty of rest and good food and whatever Vernay has in store for you, which by the way I hear is not exactly a walk in the park.”
“Yeah, he mentioned something…about how if the treatment works, it will make me feel terrible.”
Lawrence reached for one of Molly’s hands and squeezed it. “I am sorry you’re going to have to go through that. But don’t you agree—you have to agree—that going through it with a murderer in the house is possibly asking too much, even for you?”
After Lawrence left, Molly nestled under the covers for a nap, quickly dropping into unconsciousness almost as if she’d been drugged. It seemed as though only ten minutes had passed when she woke to hear her phone buzzing on the bedside table.
“Molly,” said Maron. “Paul-Henri and I are standing at your front door. Are you in?”
“Hold on, I’ll be right there.” She dragged herself to sitting and tried to think about what to put on, but her brain felt impossibly sluggish and the concept of jeans/shirt/socks was too difficult to master. She sat for a moment looking at the floor, listening to Bobo bark.
This is not good.
With extreme effort she got her pajamas off and clothes on, and went to the door with her hair sticking out like a fright wig, matted in back with curls spiraling in all directions.
Maron was taken aback. “Molly,” he started, but trailed off.
“Bonjour Gilles, Paul-Henri. Sorry, I’m not feeling well. I’m not sure I can help with whatever it is you want, not right this minute.”
Paul-Henri’s uniform was turned out to perfection, as it always was: every button shining, every crease sharp. He frowned at Molly’s hair while saying bonjour.
“Sorry you’re not well. However, I’m here to see your guests,” said Maron. “Doubtless I will need to talk to you further, depending on what they have to say, but for now my focus is on them. Are you well enough to gather them together? I do of course need to interview them individually, and Paul-Henri is here to assist, but first I would like to see them in one group.”
So once again, for what felt to Molly like the millionth time, the five remaining Valentine’s week guests congregated in her living room. They demonstrated the grumpiness that seemed to be their usual state in Ryan’s absence, sniping and glaring at one another, but Molly felt too weak to try to untangle what any of it meant, if anything.
“Thank you all for coming,” said Maron. Molly noticed that he was a lot more confident than when she had first come to Castillac and he was one of the officers serving under Ben. His investigative abilities still failed to wow her; nevertheless, Maron used to have a wary suspiciousness about him that he had learned to hide pretty well.
Maron glanced at each guest in turn before continuing. “As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, Ryan Tuck did not commit suicide as we originally believed. The coroner has ruled his death a homicide.”
“I’ve been thinking, it must’ve taken a couple of guys to get that done,” said Ira. “He was reasonably fit. Not like anyone’s going to say, ‘Hey, sure, put that noose around my neck, that’ll be fun!’”
Paul-Henri, thrilled to be able to work the case alongside Maron instead of being sent off on some miserable errand, opened his mouth to correct him. But Maron was ready for it and jostled him hard.
“Chief—” started Paul-Henri, but then realized he shouldn’t be giving out any details of the cause of death.
“It may well have been two people,” said Maron. “Obviously the investigation is in its earliest stages, and there are, therefore, innumerable questions to be answered.”
Molly was skeptical about a two-murderer theory. But it was hard for her to concentrate on what he was saying so she went for a glass of water.
“Some of those questions we hope to answer this morning. The fact is that some person or persons made the decision to end Tuck’s life. We do not know if the decision was premeditated, or if the motive was money, jealousy, revenge, or any of the hundreds of reasons people have for killing someone. As you say, Monsieur Bilson, we don’t know if there was one killer or more than one.
“I hope it does not inconvenience you too much, but I am going to interview each of you, starting right now. Please, as you are waiting your turn, do not leave this room while the process is carried out. Officer Monsour will stay with you. At this point I cannot force any of you to stay in France, but I urge you to do so until we have made substantial progress on the case, preferably an arrest.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I say that as much out of concern for your safety as from a desire to bring the killer to justice. I have not spoken with Madame Sutton about this but I hope she can continue to house you here at La Baraque.”
“I’m sorry, I’m a bit foggy and need to check the calendar. But I think that should be fine,” said Molly from the kitchen, always pleased to have more bookings but wondering exactly who would be paying for the extra days.
“Excellent. Is there anyone who claims this to be an impossibility? You can all stay for a short while, while we get to the bottom of what happened to Monsieur Tuck?”
The guests looked around at each other, waiting to see what the others would say. The level of tension, already high, had jumped up a notch thanks to Maron’s warning. It came out in a variety of fidgeting, lip-chewing, fingernail-biting, and leg-jiggling.
“I guess I can handle another week of croissants. Especially if Molly gives us a discount?” said Ashley, breaking
the quiet and trying to smile. The others nodded and shrugged. No one said they could not stay. Well played, Maron, thought Molly.
“The other thing I wish to say to you as a group is this: I ask that you all think hard about the days since you came to La Baraque—what you’ve observed, what you’ve noticed about your fellow travelers. It can often be the smallest thing that reveals the identity of a killer. And one last thing, though it doubtless goes without saying: be on your guard. Most probably someone among you is dangerous. Do not forget this.” Maron clapped his hands together, causing Ashley to jump.
“Let me start with you,” he said, gesturing to her. “What is your name? And Molly, is there a room where I can conduct the interviews with privacy?”
Ashley stood up, bashful, as though she were being asked to dance at the cotillion. She fluttered her eyelashes at Maron and Patty rolled her eyes.
“Honestly, she’s not like this at home. At least, not all the time,” Patty whispered to Nathaniel, who shrugged.
“I’m sure she’s really nervous,” he said. “Who wouldn’t be, having to go talk to a gendarme all alone? And that dude looks like he means business.”
Molly sent them to the unused music room. Because her usual reaction to stress was to think about food, Molly rummaged through the refrigerator looking for something to make for the waiting guests. But she was too tired to whip up any culinary ambition, and ended up passing around a cheese board with some rather tired-looking specimens, and the end of a wild boar salami. As they ate—ravenously—she leaned her elbows on the counter and watched them. It was hard for her to believe any of them was actually a killer, even though she did have some experience with homicidal people who appeared mild-mannered enough on the surface.
She needed to concentrate. To focus her thoughts and impressions. And she would like to do all that with Ben. But at that moment it was all too much, and she slipped away from the group and back into bed, not staying awake long enough to have even one coherent thought.
12
1986
Eight-year-old Ashley was kneeling on the bathroom sink trying to use her mother’s curling iron, but the effect was not turning out the way she had envisioned. “Dammit all to hell,” she muttered to herself.
“Ashley Gander,” said her mother from the next room. “Do I hear you cussin’ in there like trailer trash? Did I raise you to talk like that?”
“I’m by myself!” shouted Ashley.
“I don’t care if you’re standing on top of Mount Everest without a soul to see for miles. You do not use that kind of language in this house. Or anybody else’s house for that matter. And you just keep in mind that every single thing you do and say reflects back on me, and I won’t have it.”
Ashley made a face in the mirror and hopped off the sink. The bathroom was very cramped, so that getting down without banging into anything was something of an athletic feat. “Mama,” she said, coming into the living room, “I need some new pants. Mine are too small and they’re uncomfortable.”
“Tight is trendy, honey darlin’. Look at this magazine right here, what all the girls are wearing.”
“Stupid Daddy,” said Ashley.
“Ha!” said Mrs. Gander. “Your Daddy is just about the stupidest man on the entire planet Earth, yes indeedy. Didn’t get a check this month. Didn’t get one last month. I’m afraid your Daddy is what’s called an A-number-1 dirtbag deadbeat.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Now where in the world did you ever get the idea anything was supposed to be fair? Not from me. So at least I have the consolation of not having anything turn out to be any different from how I expected,” she said to herself.
“Marcia has the best clothes. I swear it’s something new every damn week.”
Mrs. Gander sighed. “What did I just two seconds ago tell you about your mouth? I will not have a potty-mouth for a daughter, I will tell you that right now. Go on in the bathroom and wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Ashley, disappearing into the bathroom again. She stood still in front of the mirror, looking at herself. The she opened her mother’s treasured bag of make-up, which she was not allowed to touch under threat of being smacked straight into next week, and took out a lipstick. As carefully as she could, she smoothed it over her thin lips. Then she swept blush over her cheeks and clumsily put mascara on her lashes.
“Oh my goodness, I’m going to be late for work!” cried Mrs. Gander. “I’m running out the door, chile. I’ll be back at the usual—”
Ashley heard the flimsy front door bang. They didn’t lock up because the lock was broken, and there was no extra money to get it fixed. She put the makeup back in the bag and zipped it up, then wandered into the living room. She was used to being on her own. Her mother worked at the drugstore in their small town, and often babysat after that. She filled a saucepan with water and put it on the stove, then got a box of macaroni and cheese from the cupboard.
If I only had the right clothes, I could run away, she thought, flopping on the sofa. I bet I could be the girl on TV selling cereal. But I can’t leave until I get that outfit. At the very least I need those jeans Marcia has.
Back in the bathroom, she turned her face this way and that, made kissy-lips, scowled. She loved the way the makeup made her look like someone else, someone to reckon with. She wondered: when she ran away, would she miss her mother?
No.
She went into the tiny kitchen, climbed up on the counter, and took down the porcelain cookie jar that her mother kept cash in. She knelt down on the counter and looked in at the money, then allowed herself to reach in and take out the bills and lovingly count it. $47. A damn fortune.
13
Back at the station, Maron and Monsour decided to go ahead and discuss the interviews while they were still fresh, rather than waiting until the following day.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Maron asked. “It’s well past time to go home.”
“You’re very kind to be so solicitous,” said Paul-Henri in that stuffy way that made Maron want to smack him. “I’m prepared to go through the interviews with you now, and there’s something else I’d like to bring up that I believe is quite important.”
“Yes?” said Maron, stuffing his irritation down out of sight.
“Well, perhaps it is an…awkward thing, given the history of everyone concerned. But if we are filling our list of suspects for the murder of Ryan Tuck with the names of those at La Baraque, based simply on their having the opportunity to have killed him—and I concur one hundred per cent that we should be doing just that—”
“Get to the point,” growled Maron.
“Why isn’t Molly Sutton on the list?”
“Molly?”
“Yes. She was there. She had opportunity. As of now, unless you have evidence I have not had the privilege of seeing, she had the same opportunity as anyone else to garrotte Monsieur Tuck.”
“We know Molly. She’s caught a number of criminals for us, for Christ’s sake.”
“By that reasoning, if a person once does good, it is impossible for that person to do wrong. I submit that your—”
“Give it a rest, Paul-Henri. We’re not putting Molly on the suspect list.” He paused. “Not unless some other evidence comes up that gives us a reason to.”
“Well,” Paul-Henri sniffed, “I’m glad you haven’t made up your mind entirely. I would also like to inquire what will be done about the evidence Christophe gave?”
“The taxi driver?”
“Yes. The taxi driver who witnessed a strange man walking down rue des Chênes on the night of the murder. I know I have not been in Castillac long, but it does seem as though February is not a month in which the streets are filled with tourists or strangers or, frankly, much of anyone.”
Maron waved his hand dismissively. “Just a man Christophe does not know, walking down the road? That’s…that’s nothing, Paul-Henri.”
“But Christophe—”
&
nbsp; “—is not a detective, or a gendarme. With nothing else suspicious, I’m going to ignore it. Of course, if you find out anything else, you are welcome to—”
“Are you telling me to continue following the lead?” Paul-Henri sat up very straight and brushed nonexistent lint off his trousers.
“Okay. Yes. Follow the lead,” answered Maron weakly. He sighed, thinking briefly of how much he had enjoyed his job when Ben Dufort was Chief and he and Thérèse were the subordinate officers. Well, he corrected himself—he hadn’t actually enjoyed it. But he should have.
“All right, let’s get to the guests at La Baraque,” he said, straightening a pile of papers on his desk. “First interview, Ashley Gander. Twenty-eight years old. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She very nearly made a pass at me.”
“Now, that’s interesting. Could be a sign of guilt, trying to co-opt the primary investigator.”
Maron shrugged. “My impression was that that’s how she acts around most anything in trousers. Not that it was specific to me, particularly. However, she did go on at length about her relationship with the deceased. How they had a mystical connection, he was her soul mate, that sort of thing.”
“Do you believe her? Is she trying to make it look as though she loved him, so couldn’t be the killer?”
Maron shrugged again. “Just let me get through the data and then we can try and sift through it. Anyway, she says she’s brokenhearted over his death, hopes we’ll catch who did this, etc.” Maron looked at his notepad and drummed a pencil on his desk. “As far as movements that night, she says she drank too much champagne, got a headache, and went to bed just after midnight. Says Patty, the woman she’s traveling with, will verify this.”
Paul-Henri gave a short nod, miffed that Maron was not more interested in either Molly Sutton or the stranger in the dark coat.
“Next was Patty McMahon, Ashley’s travel-mate. She’s quite petite, looks to be about twelve. I couldn’t get a read on her, to be honest. She prattled on about how this was her first trip out of the country and how much she adores France. I was thinking she was mild-mannered and couldn’t hurt a fly…and then, not sure why, something turned, like a switch got flipped. She jumped up out of her chair and walked around the room excitedly, telling me snippets of this and that about the other guests.