by Nell Goddin
Constance had a key to all the gîtes and she let herself in, hoping the Bilsons would prove to be on the neat side. She was quickly disappointed. Empty mugs sat on the coffee table and dirty dishes covered the dining table. A jumble of clothing was wadded up in a corner of the sofa, magazines on the floor, empty potato chip bags underfoot…a real mess. With a sigh (and a grumble), she got a bag from under the sink and started by collecting the trash on the floor. Then she headed into the bedroom to pick up empty cookie packages and soda cans, and from there to the bathroom for more of the same.
I’m no neat freak, she thought, but this is insane. How can they stand to live like this?
Once the trash was off the bathroom floor, she decided to clean since she was already there. A quick scrub to the toilet, spray and wipe down the shower. The area around the sink was cluttered with all kinds of stuff, and she had to move it in order to wipe the surface. Bottles of shampoo, makeup, toothpaste, toothbrushes, combs, hair product—Constance had not met the Bilsons, but imagined they must be very glamorous, considering the number of products they used to make themselves look good. She looked closely at a mascara and some face powder, interested in American cosmetics that couldn’t be found in Castillac.
The last remaining object on the counter was a small leather case, a shaving kit, the kind that opens when you squeeze the ends and snaps shut when you squeeze in the other direction. Not the most agile of cleaners, Constance knocked the kit onto the floor as she was getting out a rag, and it popped open—spilling out several hypodermic needles.
Constance frowned. She squatted down and picked one of the needles up. It looked new, unused. She looked inside the kit and found a short length of rubber hose, a spoon, and a small plastic bag of white powder.
Holy smokes, she thought, quickly shoving everything back in the kit. She gave the counter a wipe, put everything back without attempting to make any order out of it, and ran back to the main house to tell Molly.
20
Luckily for the Bilsons, the other attendees at the cheese-making workshop were British. Accordingly, Lela spoke English, though her accent was heavy and occasionally, they couldn’t understand exactly what she was saying.
“I don’t know why people learn another language and then don’t bother to find out how to pronounce it,” Darcy muttered under her breath, loud enough for another attendee, Alice Bagley, to hear.
“Sorry if she’s using English on my account,” the young British woman apologized. “I did take French in school but I’m absolute rubbish at it.”
“What? Oh, I don’t speak French either,” said Darcy, and Alice widened her eyes slightly, but said nothing more.
“The first step in making cabécou is to mix this morning’s milk with yesterday’s, and bring the temperature to ten degrees.”
“You freeze it?” Ira whispered.
“Centigrade, you mule,” hissed Darcy.
“Now, stir in the whey and rennet, and cheese-making is done for the day,” said Lela. “Let’s go out to the barn and I’ll talk about caring for your herd. Everyone: it is dairy goats, yes? Not the cow?”
“Right, not the cow,” said Darcy.
“Darce,” said Ira quietly.
“Shut up Ira,” she shot back.
“Goats, they are the most amusing of the animals,” said Lela, patting a pregnant Alpine on her flank. “By reputation, quite stubborn. Their habits and desires can seem odd while you are getting to know them. For example, very much they like to be high up, so if you do not want them on the roof of your car, make certain to pay good attention to your fencing. I myself use portable electric fence. It is easy to move about and not too expensive to run as the voltage is low. If you have some areas on your property with some difficulties—I mean plants that you would rather to disappear, such as poison ivy as you have in the United States—put the goats to work and they will eat everything right down to the ground.”
“Do we have to worry about poisonous plants?” asked Alice, who had moved to the other side of the group, away from Darcy.
“Oh yes!” said Lela. “In fact, it would take several days to go through all the dangers. People think goats are garbage eaters, yes? And they are helpful to eat down plants where you do not want them. But at the same time, you must learn what they cannot absolutely eat. Wild cherries, for example. They can poison a goat quickly and fatally. Certain grasses, especially after a frost, can kill a goat. I have prepared a list for you and I suggest you spend some time in your pasture making sure you know what grows there.”
“This is such a big responsibility,” said Alice, and Lela agreed.
The group broke for a simple lunch of bread, salami, and cheese, which Lela provided. Ira had brought Cokes for him and Darcy; most of the other attendees drank bottled water, and one older man offered to share a bottle of Pécharmant. The group talked amiably of their herds and cheese-making ambitions, until an argument broke out between Darcy and Alice over whose country’s cheese was superior.
“You’ve got cheddar, I’ll give you that,” said Darcy to the young Brit. “But come on, you have to admit that overall, the French have you beat by a mile. Your blues don’t come anywhere close. Blue Wensleydale? Please.” She rolled her eyes.
“You’re forgetting Stilton,” said Alice, and Darcy’s smirk dropped, as she had indeed forgotten Stilton.
“I don’t understand why you have to turn it into a competition,” said an older woman from Liverpool. “Cheese is cheese. We love to eat it, we want to make it. That’s all that matters.”
“Hear, hear,” said the man who had brought wine.
“You’re defensive because, well, American cheese?” said Alice. “It’s rather an embarrassment, isn’t it.”
“Oh shut up,” said Darcy.
“Darce,” said Ira, warningly.
“You can shut up too!” she said, standing up suddenly, and then taking the edge of the table in her hands and flipping it over. Cheese flew up and landed on the floor, the people on the other side of the table were splashed by drinks, but at least no one was hurt when the heavy table fell on its side.
“Pardon,” said Lela, who had seen what happened as she was coming into the room with a platter of fruit. “What are you thinking? Madame Bilson, I’m afraid you must leave. I…I have no understanding of your problem. But this…this is not…” she tried to say more but could not find the words in French, much less English. “Go!” she said, pointing at the front door.
Ira started to try to convince her to let them stay, but seeing Lela’s expression decided chances were too slim to bother. “Come on,” he said, taking his wife’s arm. Darcy wrenched away from him and got through the door ahead of him, shouting obscenities at the group and at Lela.
“And your cheese is totally overrated!” was her final attempt at an insult, as Ira caught up to her and the door slammed behind them.
Molly sat on the edge of her bed with her elbows on her knees, trying to decide if she needed to run to the bathroom and throw up. The queasy feeling had started when she took her medicine that morning—a fluorescent yellow, vile-tasting liquid—and her stomach had heaved as it went down. Since then, she had broken into a violent sweat, had tingling pain up and down one arm, and had teetered all day on the verge of vomiting.
Constance knocked lightly on her bedroom door. “Molls? Sorry to be a bother. But can I talk to you for just a sec?”
“Come on in.”
“Oh jeez, you look like crap!”
Molly nodded. “I feel more awful than I look, if you can believe it.”
“So sorry! I guess Dr. Vernay was right about things getting worse before they get better, huh? At least he’s been right so far and probably Lyme is the right diagnosis?”
“I’m not really capable of feeling glad about anything at the moment,” Molly said quietly.
“Understood. Jeez! Can I do anything? Run you a bath maybe?”
“Actually, that sounds sort of appealing,” said Molly.
>
“Okay!” Constance ducked into the bathroom and got the bath going, set out a big fluffy towel, and was quickly back at Molly’s side. “Not sure if you’re feeling too bad for a little tidbit I have for you?”
“What kind of tidbit?” Molly said, lifting her eyes from the floor for the first time.
“Information, not chocolate. Well, you know I was just cleaning up the cottage this morning while the Bilsons are at that cheese thing. You know anything about running a dairy? ’Cause I can tell you, they are not the right people for that line of work. You have to keep everything clean as a whistle, you know? Sanitation is the name of the game in the dairy world! And the Bilsons, oh my—they’re a pair of slobs! Trash all over the floor like they don’t know what a trashcan is for!”
“Is that the tidbit?”
“No, no! I mean, it’s not irrelevant, is it, but I’ve got something better.” Constance wanted to prolong the suspense but could see Molly was in no shape for games. “I found a needle kit in the bathroom.”
“A what?”
“Needle kit, Molly. For shooting drugs.”
Molly ran a hand through her hair. “Drugs? Needles? You’re telling me the Bilsons are shooting drugs?”
“Well, one of them is. Horse, is my guess.”
Molly laughed in spite of herself. “Horse? Do you get your American slang from ’70s movies?” She giggled and then lay back on the bed.
“Okay, heroin then. There was a little packet of it in the kit, too.”
“Packet of horse?” Molly said, erupting in laughter.
“You don’t think this is a big deal? I do, Molly! People who smuggle drugs overseas are shady characters, if you ask me.”
“You think this ties in with Ryan’s murder?”
“I don’t know…you’re the detective! I’m just giving you some information that I happen to think is valuable, and you’re finding it hilarious for some reason. It’s not going to be any laughing matter when you have an overdose on your hands. You could probably get arrested for having that stuff on your property.”
“Okay, okay, I am taking this seriously,” said Molly, a wave of queasiness putting an end to her amusement. “But look, the needles could be for any number of things. Diabetes. Infertility. Even vitamin injections. So I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. But…thanks for telling me.”
Constance huffily went to the bathroom to check the tub, and announced that it was ready. “I guess I’ll go see if I can get into the pigeonnier next. But it’ll take another good hour in the cottage to make it fit for human habitation.”
“Don’t be rifling through their belongings, Constance,” Molly warned. “We could both end up in massive trouble for something like that.”
“I was just cleaning the bathroom,” Constance protested. “The shaving kit fell on the floor and needles spilled out. It wasn’t like I was pawing through their stuff.”
“Of course, if you happen to notice anything…” whispered Molly, and winked.
Constance winked back, and left to finish up at the cottage while Molly stripped and sank into the hot water. The tub was ancient and huge—so long that she could stretch her legs out and fully submerge.
So one (or both) of the Bilsons might be a drug user, she mused. Might explain some of the mood swings. Though to be precise, Darcy’s mood seemed to swing only one way….
“Lovey,” said Ira, as he and Darcy got into the car to leave Lela Vidal’s farm.
“Don’t start,” shot Darcy. “Just for once don’t say a word, Ira. I know I messed that up. I know it, okay? But that stupid Alice Bagley pushed me over the edge! How could she bring up American cheese right in front of Lela Vidal? Why did she want to humiliate me like that?”
“I don’t think she—”
“Shut up, Ira! Just drive. Sometimes I want to have that farm all by myself, just be me and the goats. Because people suck.”
Ira sighed. “Would it cheer you up if I told you some of the things I’ve found out about the others?”
“You mean the people you thought were your new best friends?”
Ira sighed. “We were all having fun, those first days, you included. But the murder does change things, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know, does it? Yeah, okay, it means one of us is a violent backstabbing cretin. But that’s only one out of five, right? Only one person is guilty, unless you’re about to tell me you’ve uncovered a conspiracy, Mr. Google?”
“Well, I did find out something fairly suspicious. Shocking, even.” He waited, hoping she would ask for more, but Darcy said nothing. “If you know your way around a computer,” he added, “you can find out pretty much anything about anyone…as long as they’ve spent some time online.”
Still not a word from Darcy.
“Would it surprise you to learn that someone at La Baraque knew Ryan from before?”
“Well, duh, Ira. I didn’t think he convinced somebody to murder him in just a few days. Somebody must have followed him here.”
“You don’t know that. I could have killed him for flirting with you so shamelessly.”
“But you didn’t. You hate confrontation. Plus, you’re a sniveling coward.”
“Such sweet talk,” said Ira, shaking his head. “Listen, Ryan and Ashley knew each other in the States. In fact, they used to be a couple. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
Darcy glared at Ira. “Ashley?” she spat. “He would never…”
“Oh, but he did. I found a couple of articles in a Charleston paper. Ashley likes high society, I guess. Her name is all over the internet, volunteering for this or that committee of the Junior League, or going to this or that swanky charity fundraiser. And who was her date, on more than one occasion? None other than Ryan Tuck.”
“I don’t believe it. Why didn’t they say anything about knowing each other?”
“I have no idea. I guess they had their reasons.”
“Were there photographs? Because I want a photo or it didn’t happen.”
“Just be on your guard, Lovey. We know Ashley kept a big secret from everyone. Who knows what else she might be hiding?”
“Are you trying to say you’ve solved the big mystery all by yourself? Jesus Christ, Ira. Quit trying to be a hero.”
“You are in a mood. Since when do you stick up for people? Especially people I don’t have the impression you like very much.”
“His murderer could be any of us, Ira. It could be you. It could even be me,” she added, her voice breaking. Darcy turned her face to the window and would not say anything more.
21
1985
“What is wrong with you?” Mrs. Bilson said to her young son Ira, who stood by in agony as his mother read his latest unimpressive report card. “You certainly didn’t inherit my brains. Look at this—a C- in history! You don’t have to be a genius to do well in third grade history! Just draw a few maps, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’m not a good drawer,” Ira said, though he knew it would only increase his mother’s contempt.
“Well, why not?” she snapped. “I’ll tell you why. All you do is stay in your room doing nothing, that’s why. How do you expect to learn anything that way? Oh, your father is not going to be happy to see this.” She shook the paper in his face. “Not happy at all.”
Ira looked at his mother as though he were listening, but in his head, he was counting up by prime numbers. He’d gotten to 131 when he noticed she had not said anything for a few minutes, then he scuttled away to his room and closed the door. For his birthday his parents had given him a Nintendo, and he dropped his backpack on the floor, hopped into a beanbag chair, and began to play Super Mario Brothers. The background tune of the game was like a sedative, calming his body from the effects of his mother’s harsh words.
Hours passed.
It was dark out and Ira wondered if his mother was making dinner. Sometimes she did, and sometimes she stayed in her room with the door locked. Ira had no idea what she did i
n there. He didn’t like to think about it. His father spent long hours at the office, and usually Ira was in bed before he came home. Mostly, it was just Ira and his mother, alone together in mutual misery.
He crept out of his room, alert for any signs that would tell him how his mother was doing. Had she been going to the liquor cabinet in the dining room? It always smelled funny in there, a mixture of sweet and astringent, with an overlay of tobacco—a smell that made him feel sick to his stomach.
“Ira?” she called from the living room.
He inhaled a quick breath and walked toward her. “Coming, Mom.”
Mrs. Bilson was sprawled across the sofa, one leg up over the back. “I think it’s time to celebrate,” she said, slurring her words. “Call and order Chinessh food. And sit down with me and tell me a sshtory. Entertain me, little man.”
“Which do you want me to do first, Mom?”
Mrs. Bilson took a long sip of her drink and then tried to focus her gaze on her son. “Just do it all,” she said. “I have to tell you how to do everything?”
Ira quickly went into the hallway where the phone was and looked in a drawer for Chinese takeout menus. He had learned by now that it was better just to pick out whatever he wanted, making sure to get shrimp toast because his mother was slightly obsessed with it, and ask no questions. The Chinese place knew Ira and had the Bilson’s MasterCard on file.
“Okay, Mom. They said half an hour.”
“Half an hour? Do they not understand we are starving here?” She threw her head back and laughed. Ira laughed too, but his eyes were flat. “Now, come sit,” she said, gesturing to a spot on the sofa next to her.