by Nell Goddin
Nathaniel kept his room neat. That was not a surprise. As far as she could tell, his foremost quality was not wanting to cause a disturbance—he wanted to do the right thing, wanted everything to be all right—and if his room had been messy, it would have seemed out of keeping with her impression of him.
Molly did have some rules concerning the privacy of her guests. Obviously it was necessary for her to go into their rooms from time to time, for various reasons: plumbing events, illness, and once or twice a forgotten wallet that Molly retrieved for a stranded guest. Just as obviously, it would not be right to snoop.
Well, under most circumstances anyway, she told herself, opening the armoire to see a small row of shirts neatly hung. When one of your guests is a killer, doesn’t that throw all the rules out of the window? Guardedly, Molly thought, Yes.
She was not looking for anything specific. The used garrotte was unlikely to be stashed under anyone’s pillow. But she persevered, because you just never knew what small detail would crack a case wide open.
Molly riffled through the paperback book on the bedside table, felt around the inside of his extra pair of shoes, opened the drawers in the desk and bottom of the armoire, but found nothing. On top of the desk was another book, and she picked it up and glanced at it—a technical book about information technology that went right over her head—and then saw a small piece of paper underneath it.
She felt a fleeting stab as she picked it up and began reading. She knew, of course, that she would not like it one bit if someone went into her bedroom and began reading her letters. But the stab didn’t slow her down. She felt the electric sensation of knowing she was about to read something momentous.
“Dearest, dearest Miranda,” she read. And then let out a sigh. What did I think I was going to find, a note to Ryan saying he was coming to strangle him? I swear this Lyme business has made me simple-minded.
Dearest, dearest Miranda,
I can’t even describe how much I wish you were with me. France is incredible—the people, the food, everything—and it would be so awesome to be experiencing it with you. I know I said I’d made a lot of friends here, and while it’s true some of them are women, it’s actually hilarious that you would be even a tiny bit jealous. I love you so much, Miranda! You only!!
I’ve got no idea when I’ll be coming home, which is pretty frustrating. The cops (they’re called gendarmes here) seem competent so hopefully it might not be too much longer. And you’re very sweet to worry about my staying here with a murderer on the loose! If it helps, I’m not worried about that. I’m pretty sure I know who did it, and it’s all about romantic jealousy. Not something I’m mixed up with here, because of course my heart belongs to you. I haven’t said anything about my suspicions to the cops because I don’t have any actual evidence. Just a strong feeling backed up by a few odd remarks. No doubt they’ll be back and maybe I’ll talk to them about it then.
Okay, I’m going to go for a walk into the village—which you would love—and get some lunch. I’ve been eating these ham sandwiches on a baguette with butter almost every day. They’re so awesome!
I hope you’re feeling good and having fun with your girlfriends while I’m away. Never dreamed I would get stuck in France for something like this, but I’ll be home soon.
love love love,
your Nathaniel
Molly put the letter back on the desk, feeling relieved. At least the one guest who seems like a nice guy actually is, she thought. Quickly she glanced around to make sure she hadn’t left any sign of her snooping, and left the room.
It’s only fair that I get into the other rooms as well, she thought, stopping at Ryan’s room for moment before heading back to the main house. Everything was just as she and Maron had left it. She had wondered if she would need to mail off a package of his belongings to his family; now they didn’t even have an idea who that family might be.
Who were you? she said to him, picturing Ryan’s open face, his warm smile, and his twinkling eyes. It’s so bizarre that I don’t even know your real name.
18
“Yoo-hoo!” warbled Constance, after letting herself into La Baraque. She carried a paper bag from the pharmacy, having been in touch with Dr. Vernay’s office and filled the prescriptions at the pharmacy for Molly.
“Bonjour, Constance,” said Molly from the kitchen. “I bet it’s not almond croissants in that bag.”
“No madame, it is not. And I can see by the look on your face that you’re not to be trusted. You are going to take the medicine, aren’t you?”
“Dr. Vernay said it will make me feel terrible. And I’m having a good day today, really I am. So, of course I’ll be taking the medicine—it would be silly not to! But…not today.”
“Molly!”
“Would you be enthusiastic about taking something that was going to make you sick?”
“If it was the only way to get well, yeah! Sorry to be blunt, but you’re not right in the head.” Constance got a glass from a shelf and filled it with water. “Here you go, now. Drink a little of this.” She dumped the bottles onto the counter, all eleven of them, then took a large glass bottle from her purse. “Hm, one thing you gotta give Dr. Vernay, he’s very thorough.” She began to read the instructions on each bottle, shaking out the dose and putting everything into a saucer.
Molly stood looking like she was riding in a tumbril, heading straight for the guillotine. “Can’t we just start tomorrow?” she asked in a small voice.
“No!”
“Did you hear the latest about Ryan Tuck?” Molly asked, hoping in vain to distract her.
“That he was really some other dude? Oh yeah, that was making the rounds last night.”
“You already knew?”
“You forgetting that gossip is the major sport here in Castillac?” laughed Constance.
“We might never find out who he really was.”
“Or why he was pretending to be someone else. One thing for sure? He was up to no good.”
“You don’t think it’s possible a person could run away and pretend like that for a good reason? Like maybe his life was in danger and some terrible person was after him?”
“Why would somebody be after him—he owed money? Revenge for something terrible he did? Come on, Molly. People don’t steal identities and jump across the ocean for nothing. Whoever that dude was, he was no Prince Charming.”
Molly started to protest but changed her mind. “I just realized the most basic thing. Let’s say the guy’s real name was Dedalus Morton.”
“Who names their kid Dedalus?”
“Nobody! I’m just giving him a name to make it easier to talk about. The thing is—we don’t know whether the killer was trying to kill Dedalus, in which case he succeeded—or Ryan Tuck, in which case he failed. In other words, was the murderer tricked by the identity switch same as we were?”
“Beats me, Molls. Let’s split these pills into a few handfuls, you can’t take them all at once. Come on now, down the hatch!” Constance held them out along with the glass of water. “Mon Dieu, you are stubborn! Did your mother want to poke her eyes out with forks, raising you?”
“Probably,” said Molly distractedly. Defeated, she took the pills and chased them with a long swallow of water. “And…if the murderer was fooled, then that means, obviously, that he or she had never actually met Dedalus before. Whew—we’ve got a lot to look into.”
Constance shook her head. “Is Larry coming over later with some food? You know, you’re normally pale, but at the moment you’re positively ghostly. Get back in bed, why don’t you? I’m going to straighten up in here for a bit and then take off. Thomas and I are going to the movies tonight.”
Molly smiled, but it was clear she was thinking about the case. She barely registered anything Constance said, though in her preoccupation she was least a little more compliant. Constance herded her back into bed and tucked her in. Molly fell back on the pillows with her eyes closed but her mind tearing around, t
rying to recall the interactions she had witnessed among her guests, any moments that might mean more now than she had thought at the time.
It was surprisingly fatiguing just to lie in bed and think. Her left arm started to twitch. She drank more water but it tasted strange and she put down the glass, feeling something already shifting in her body from the medicine. But before she could make any sense of what, she was, once again, asleep.
After Constance neatened up the kitchen, she wrote Molly a note saying she’d come back tomorrow and do the gîtes. With the guests staying on indefinitely, there was no changeover day for room cleaning. Leaving by the front door, she bumped into Ben on his way in.
“Bonjour, Constance,” he said, and they kissed cheeks. “How is the patient?”
“Not patient at all,” she laughed. “Asleep, last I looked. Listen, you’re going to have to make sure she takes the medicine when she’s supposed to. It’s like dealing with a stubborn child, I swear. Tried to talk me into starting some other day.”
“She expects to feel worse once the treatment starts.”
“I know. But duh, no treatment, no getting better.”
Ben nodded. “Thanks for your help. Hope we’ll see you later.”
Constance waved and left. It was Sunday, and Ben almost got himself a beer, but he had asked Maron to come over, and so thought he should wait. The kitchen was clean and the woodbox was full, he noted approvingly. Molly has good friends.
A short rap on the door, and Ben let in Maron.
“I hope you don’t mind some talk about work on a Sunday?” Ben asked.
“Since when does a murder investigation pay attention to the days of the week?”
“True enough. Can I get you a beer?”
Maron hesitated, then nodded. Even though it had been well over a year since Dufort had resigned, he had to keep reminding himself that Ben was no longer his boss.
Ben gestured to the chairs and sofa arranged by the woodstove, and went to the refrigerator. He had taken an extra-long run that morning and had been looking forward to a beer ever since stepping out of the shower afterward.
“Well, look Maron, I want to be very clear. I’m well aware that you are the chief now. And that I have no official capacity with regard to this investigation at all. But I also know it’s a tricky case, or at least it seems to be thus far, and you’re anxious to get a resolution on the books. So I propose simply that Molly and I consult with you. Strictly on an informal basis. I don’t like to malign a member of the gendarmerie—and you know I am a great believer in the potential for good training, and the right mentoring, to lift a mediocre officer out of his incompetence—but, just between you and me, I have heard that Paul-Henri is not…not what you might wish for. I mean, as far as having the instincts of a detective. Is that fair to say?”
“I’m not going to comment,” said Maron. “Since you have not been hired by anyone involved—that is correct, yes?—then I don’t see a problem with some degree of collaboration. It will be strictly informal, of course. And I can’t promise that I will divulge everything we uncover, or do it promptly. I must act with propriety, you understand; it wouldn’t do at all for the villagers to think I am merely a puppet that you direct from behind the scenes.”
“No, Gilles, not at all, and that is not my agenda. I hope you know me well enough to believe that.”
“And these conversations…they will remain private?”
“Certainly. Whatever makes you comfortable. And please understand that Molly and I have the highest respect for your work.”
Maron nodded, but he did not especially believe that last bit. He appreciated the gesture, however.
“I’m going to see if Molly feels up to joining us,” said Dufort, taking a quick pull on his beer before getting up and walking quietly to her bedroom.
Molly was standing in front of the mirror on the door of the armoire, trying to get a comb through her hair.
“Chérie, Maron is here. Do you feel like joining us?”
“To talk about the case?”
Ben nodded.
“Of course I do,” she said, grinning and tossing her comb on the bedside table.
“Glad you’re feeling a little better,” he said softly, as they returned to the living room.
“So, this latest turn of events,” said Maron, when they were back and settled into chairs, “does make figuring out what really happened quite a lot more difficult. First of all, we don’t know whether the intended victim was Ryan Tuck or the man who was impersonating him.”
“Just what I was thinking,” murmured Molly.
“Obviously, it’s crucial to identify who he actually was, but that is largely out of our hands. I assume the embassy said that the Americans were involved and working on that?” asked Dufort.
“Yes,” said Maron. “I have the names of the American contacts. The first pass will be checking for a DNA match.”
“Does that mean you took some DNA from the body?” asked Molly.
“Some routine swabs,” answered Maron a little defensively.
“You had a sense about it, didn’t you?” asked Molly.
Maron shrugged. “Possibly. Just trying to cover all the bases, as I was taught.”
“Um, where’s Ryan now?”
“Nagrand still has custody of the body. We expected the Tuck family to want him shipped back to the U.S., but now…until we find out who he really is, I expect he’ll stay in the morgue. What we can do here, while the Americans do their part, is find out whether any of the guests had a connection to Ryan Tuck before arriving in Castillac—either the actual Ryan Tuck, or the man so far unidentified.”
“If they did, they were really good at hiding it,” said Molly. “I think I was present when they all met each other. You’ll remember that this is a very sociable bunch. They practically moved into my living room on the first day and partied non-stop, at least until Ryan died. I never noticed even the tiniest bit of anything odd during all the introductions and time spent just after meeting. I mean, sure, of course the murderer could be a good actor, and it’s true that I wasn’t looking for anything, either. But…that would mean both Ryan and the killer would have had to be good actors.”
“And—we are assuming now that the killer’s target was not ‘Ryan Tuck’ but the man impersonating him—”
“I’ve started calling him Dedalus,” said Molly.
“Huh?” said Maron.
“Well, he’s not Ryan Tuck after all. He needed a new name just for ease of conversation.”
“Right, okay. So let’s say that the killer somehow finds out Dedalus is coming to La Baraque, follows him here, and while waiting to make his move, pretends not to know him so no one will see they’re connected. Why in the world would Dedalus do the same, especially when he would likely have some idea that the killer meant him harm? Why would they both simultaneously agree not to admit they knew each other?” asked Ben.
“And…if the killer had managed to follow ‘Ryan Tuck’ here, only to arrive and find that the person wasn’t Ryan Tuck at all but some stranger—why not call him out, since the murder was off anyway?” asked Molly.
“Because the murderer was hiding his connection with Tuck, not advertising it,” said Maron. “Presumably he wouldn’t be giving up the whole idea just because the plan to kill him in Castillac didn’t work out.”
“Right, sorry. It’s so complicated!”
A long silence as all three detectives considered how much they did not know, and tried to formulate ways to fill in some of the gaps.
“And what about other leads? Constance told me Christophe is talking all over town about a man in a fedora, walking down rue des Chênes the night of the murder?”
“Red herring,” said Maron. “Or at least, nothing further to go on.”
“I don’t like thinking of that man—Dedalus—lying in the morgue all this time,” said Molly. “What happens if we never figure out who he really is?”
“I’m not sure Nagrand
has ever had that problem. But I’m sure there’s a protocol somewhere,” answered Maron. “All right then. The situation may look more complicated with this stolen identity element added in. And I won’t deny that it is. But the best thing is just to treat it as new information, and consider it progress. Unless the killer was fooled by the impersonation—which seems far less likely—I believe we can assume that the target of the murder was indeed Dedalus. Once we have a name, and a profile, I don’t think it will be that hard to link him to one of the guests. In the meantime, Molly, say nothing to them about this latest development. Not until we’re ready.”
“I agree about the target being Dedalus,” said Ben. “I haven’t interviewed them, of course, but to my eye none of them look like contract killers. The motive for the murder was probably something personal, which means the murderer and the victim knew each other. I know,” he added quickly, turning to Molly, “you said you hadn’t noticed anything between Dedalus and the others. But perhaps each wanted to keep the association a secret for different reasons. And we have no idea what Dedalus might have been doing in an effort to protect himself. Perhaps all the socializing was simply a strategy—stay in a crowd as much as possible, get the others on his side in case there was a confrontation.”
“I see your point,” Molly said. “I’m just…as I’ve said before, the others are not exactly an easygoing bunch. They’re difficult and some are even downright unpleasant. But at the same time, they’re all just like people you’ve known all your life, you know? Annoying, hard to get along with maybe, imperfect certainly…but capable of murder? Hard to believe.”
“It so often is, even when you have proof,” said Ben.
Molly thought of past cases, and nodded ruefully.
19
The next morning, the Bilsons left for Lela Vidal’s farm, for an all-day cheese-making workshop. Constance took the opportunity to tidy up the cottage a bit, although without Molly to oversee her work, the place was unlikely to end up dramatically cleaner. Constance had a way of rearranging dirt, Molly sometimes told her, which was not exactly the point of housekeeping. But slowly, the younger woman was improving under Molly’s tutelage in the ways of the mop.