by Nell Goddin
“Sparkling?”
Thérèse thought his smile looked a little forced. Why was he stalling?
“Sparkling would be lovely,” she said. She had grown-up tastes but had never lost her appreciation of the things she had loved as a child such as fizzy Cokes and Haribo.
She took the glass, said “Á la tienne!” and took a sip. “Nothing better than a kir at the end of the day,” she said, deciding to keep talking to Nico. Feed the line out a little and see where it took her.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said.
“Do you ever try to guess what someone will order, I mean someone you don’t know who comes into the bar? You know, matching what they’re like at first glance to the drink?”
“Off and on,” he answered, but Thérèse had the feeling he only responded that way to be agreeable.
“Generally,” he said, “the locals drink the same thing all the time. Maybe someone will get a little crazy and order a cider instead of the usual beer, but on the whole….” He shrugged.
“And the tourists?”
Nico laughed. “Oh, they’ll drink anything. Something about traveling makes people want to experiment. The other night, the woman who’s living at La Baraque was in—Larry got her drinking Negronis. You can imagine that didn’t end well.”
Thérèse laughed along with him although she didn’t find his story especially funny.
“Salut, Nico. Thérèse. Vincent,” said a voice from behind her.
“Hello, Lapin,” said Nico.
Thérèse sighed. She was in no mood to fend off the attentions of Lapin, and he was interrupting her attempt to interrogate Nico without his knowing it.
“Terrible about that girl,” said Lapin.
“Awful,” said Nico. “But maybe she’ll turn up. People do run off, you know.”
“They do,” said Perrault. “Usually from bad marriages, mountainous debts, things like that. This case doesn’t seem to fit that.”
“Listen to our little fliquette!” said Lapin. “She’s such a serious detective, now that she’s all grown up. And into quite a woman, too,” he added, running his eyes slowly from her face to her knees and back up again.
“Shut up, Lapin,” said Thérèse with a sigh.
“Shut up, Lapin,” said Nico, laughing. “You never give up, do you?”
“Persistence is the key to success,” said Lapin with a wink. “Now pour me a pastis, will you?”
“And after you do that, go send that video,” said Thérèse, watching Nico to see how he would react to her instruction. She was watching Nico so carefully that she did not see the way Lapin’s face changed from jovial to a mask with no expression whatsoever.
* * *
Molly was in a frenzy of cleaning. She had torn the cottage apart, even dragged furniture outside, hung carpets up and beat them, and attacked the windows with a ferocity that was on the point of leaving her exhausted. Which was one good reason for doing it—it helped calm her down at least a little.
She had been feeling jittery ever since last night, when she had checked her email right before going to bed. Often inquiries from the States arrived then, and she had gotten in the habit of checking twice a day, always relieved to see more interest and get more business. But last night’s inquiry was not simply a couple on holiday, easy enough to manage: it was the Bennetts, the parents of the missing Amy Bennett, asking to come for a stay starting on Tuesday, which was tomorrow, with an open-ended departure.
When Molly read the email, she got the wobbles.
She could not imagine what they must be going through. The depth of their fear. How in the world did they struggle with that kind of uncertainty? At least if you know what’s happened, you can start to face it, however slowly; at least you know what you’re in for. But what the Bennetts were dealing with was something else. Possibly a terrible loss and also possibly a misunderstanding, a lost or dead cell phone, a secret lover, a letter that got lost in the mail.
Could be a hundred explanations. And no way to know when, or even if, they will find out which one is correct. Or some other reason they had never considered. It’s possible they will never know, thought Molly, and literally a chill went up her spine.
Lunch on the terrace was some leftover quiche and some leftover salad that was fairly wilted but just this side of edible. She washed it down with the last of a bottle of rosé, and stayed sitting there after she finished, looking out at her wreck of a garden, not following any train of thought in particular. She was tired from the cleaning binge. Part of her wished she had told the Bennetts she was booked solid just to avoid being tangled up in the whole thing, but she couldn’t have actually refused them. She had learned by now that uncharitable thoughts were perfectly fine as long as she didn’t act on them. Hadn’t she heard that somewhere? Perhaps during the mid-divorce lie-on-the-sofa-all-day phase, when she had watched plenty of Oprah and Dr. Phil and anyone else who might toss a comforting word her way.
I wonder if there will be the kind of media frenzy there is in the States when a young woman goes missing, she wondered. I don’t want newspeople trampling around my garden and peering in my windows. I don’t want…any of it. Of course I hope they find her. And if there’s not a happy ending, if this isn’t a misunderstanding, I hope at least the Bennetts learn what happened. It’s the least they deserve.
Molly suddenly stood up with the vigor that comes with just the right idea, and that idea was Pâtisserie Bujold, the almond croissant specifically. If anything was going to improve the day, it was going to be that almond croissant. No need for a hat, the day was cloudy and coolish, so she just picked up her bag on her way through the house and out to rue des Chênes and was quickly on her way, mouth already watering.
The street was quiet. She hoped she was not too late and the shop wasn’t closed, which would be almost unbearable; she wanted that croissant desperately. Taking a shortcut down the alleyway, she noticed the La Perla underwear out on the line again, at the same house. Who in the world wears La Perla all the time, she wondered. Just as she had the week before, she stopped and considered reaching over to touch some of it. But this time she kept her hands at her sides, and stood there for a moment contemplating it, imagining a life in which her underwear was always La Perla, her house was filled with the most coveted and brilliantly designed appliances, and her car—well, as long as she was fantasizing, why not get a little Austin Healy? Racing green, please. Or is that too cliché?
She took one last look at the house that the underwear belonged to. It was nondescript, really, not a dump by any means but hardly the dwelling of someone used to sumptuous underthings, at least not from the outside. Curious, isn’t it, how funny people are, the choices they make, and what they might be hiding?
At last she turned the corner and saw the enameled red outside of Pâtisserie Bujold. She breathed in the sugary vanilla aroma, and paused with her hand on the doorknob, wanting that croissant with all her being yet wanting to delay facing the proprietor. She took a deep breath, then another, and went in.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she said, glancing at him and then at the display case, always fantastically beautiful with its exactly ordered rows and its mouthwatering variety. Last week she had felt frustrated because she had already gotten in the habit of buying her few favorites over and over, and was feeling stressed out by all the morsels she wasn’t choosing—and then she remembered that she lived in Castillac now. Neither she nor Pâtisserie Bujold was going anywhere, and she had all the time in the world to taste every last pastry eventually.
“Please, an almond croissant,” she said, pointing. The proprietor was staring at her chest, same as the other times she had come in. He did not follow where she pointed but nodded and smiled enthusiastically, eyes still pinned on her. It occurred to Molly that his expression was the same one she had when she looked at the chocolate-covered creampuffs with whipped cream spilling out the sides. Like he wanted to devour her on the spot.
Molly clamped her t
eeth together and rummaged in her bag for the right change. At least she knew what it cost and could avoid the extra time of back-and-forth by giving the exact amount.
“I understand your liking for the almond croissant,” said the proprietor. “One of my favorites also. Award-winning,” he said, gesturing to a yellowing document on the wall with some kind of fancy seal on it. “It is truly magnificent,” he said, handing her the wax paper bag. “Just like you, Madame.” And with that, spoken in a low voice, he waggled his eyebrows in a way he must have thought alluring but that Molly thought was the funniest thing she had seen in days.
Like Groucho Marx! She laughed to herself on the walk home, stuffing her face as she walked with the indescribably wondrous pastry. The inside was layered with almond paste so that it was very soft, and almondy, and moist. The outside was the usual shattering butter explosion, with the addition of sliced and toasted almonds and a faint dusting of confectioner’s sugar. Simple and spectacular.
She had finished the croissant long before she turned in at La Baraque, but the walk and the pastry and the waggling eyebrows had turned her mood completely around, and she felt no more yearnings for fancy undergarments or cars, and her worry about not being able to manage things with the Bennetts had diminished to something manageable. Perhaps the magic of France can be summed up in two words, she thought.
Almond croissant.
12
Dufort was up early on Tuesday morning. He went on a punishing run, taking a hilly route partly on narrow country roads and partly on trails through the forest, arriving back at his small house in town to shower before getting to the station by 7:30. He wanted to interview Gallimard, Amy Bennett’s teacher, but guessed Gallimard would not be at work that early, and so he strolled over to the Café de la Place for some breakfast first.
“Bonjour, Pascal.”
“Bonjour, Chief, comment allez-vous?”
“I’m well, and you? How is your mother?”
“She is better, thank you. We are grateful for having a good doctor and she is healing faster than expected.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Dufort, keeping his thoughts about doctors to himself. “Petit café, please, and a croissant.”
Pascal nodded and gracefully weaved through the tables on his way to get the order. The café was crowded with locals and families of tourists getting in a last holiday before school began. Dufort nodded to a few friends and then spent some moments observing. He had a nonchalant way of watching that did not alert the people who were being watched. It was quite a talent, actually, although Dufort did not realize this about himself.
Dufort closed his eyes and listened. At first he didn’t try to hear what anyone was saying but tried to listen to the undertones, the emotions behind the conversations. He couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Then words began to clarify and he overheard a father getting angry at his son for losing a shoe, a young man telling his girlfriend that he was sorry but he was not going to stop playing video games, and an old woman complaining about a problem with her liver.
He wondered if anyone here had ever met Amy Bennett, or seen Amy Bennett, or had anything at all to do with the disappearance of Amy Bennett—the same thoughts that had been running through his mind ever since he first heard her name. For a fraction of a second he was assaulted by the notion that he might never know what happened, might never find her.
The idea was horrifying and his heart began to race.
Carrying a tray on one hand over his head, Pascal came dancing through the crowded tables back to Dufort. He was a good-looking boy, Dufort noticed, and he could see several women at the café, of varying ages, following him with their eyes.
“Merci bien,” he said as the espresso and plate with croissant were placed on his paper placemat.
Pascal smiled and nodded. “Oui, Chief. Anything else I can get for you?”
“Not a thing,” said Dufort. “I speak for many when I say that the first coffee of the morning is possibly the best moment of the entire day, so I thank you.” He bowed slightly, and they both laughed.
Dufort took a sip of his espresso, and then bit into the croissant. The Café got them from Pâtisserie Bujold every morning, the best bakery in town, and he was not disappointed. The outer layer crackled and shattered, the inside was stretchy and almost sweet, and still faintly warm. Dufort let himself wallow in the sensations of the croissant, and then the bitter espresso, at least for a few moments free of thinking about Amy Bennett.
When he finished, he tucked a five euro bill under his saucer and moved through the tables to the street, nodding at some people he knew but not stopping to chat. He wanted to use the walk out to Degas to think about what he knew about Gallimard, and try to come up with some questions that might throw him off balance just a bit.
Anton Gallimard. Has taught at Degas for nearly twenty years. Rumored to have quite a talent, had shown in Paris, won prizes, all the usual accolades—but his career had fizzled out in his late twenties. Has made no art (that anyone knows of) since coming to Degas to teach.
Dufort had never met Gallimard despite having several friends who were artists. It was somewhat surprising that their worlds had never overlapped, but not meaningful. He felt curious about the man, even apart from the business with Amy Bennett. Curious about why someone chooses to let a big talent go, to do nothing with it after such a promising start and so much encouragement and even acclaim.
Before long he was at the gates to L’Institut. This time he avoided the administration building and went to find the studios, hoping to catch Gallimard there. Of course he could have made an appointment, but he had found just showing up to be an easy way to put interviewees off balance, which is where every investigator wants them.
L’Institut Degas was a small school. The administration building was stately—18th century Dufort guessed correctly—and directly across a wide lawn stood the dormitory. It was three stories high but rather narrow; he figured the student body must number less than a hundred. He made a note to investigate the financial health of the school even though he did not at the moment see how there could be any connection to Amy Bennett’s disappearance.
In between the two buildings, completing a U around the lawn, was a modern building of one story. It had dramatic cantilevered skylights, walls of glass, and a strange covering over some of the exterior that looked like it was made of jellyfish. To Dufort’s eye, the building looked expensive and over-designed, although he did understand that artists required good light to do their work, and whatever else, this building would certainly provide that.
He heard and saw no one. Perhaps the young artists and their teachers were not up by 8:30. He found a door to the jellyfish building on the side by the dormitory, but it was locked. He looked through the side panels of glass, hoping to see someone who could let him in, but saw nobody.
He was relaxed from his run, and the morning and the campus had been so tranquil, that he startled violently when the screaming began.
* * *
When Molly woke up that Tuesday morning, she was not graced with the usual few moments of lazy stretching while her brain worked out who she was and what the day was going to bring. The instant she was conscious she remembered the Bennetts’ arrival and was slapped awake. Quickly she got up and put water on to boil. She longed for a pastry but had no time to go into the village to get one. Forgoing her usual time on the terrace with nothing to do but sip her coffee, she took her mug straight to the cottage with cleaning supplies under both arms. It felt important that the cottage was spotless and welcoming for the Bennetts. It was the least she could do.
She stuck her phone into a little portable speaker and clicked on the blues playlist. She paused, wondering if the neighbors liked Percy Sledge, and then turned the volume up anyway. After an hour of scrubbing the floor and vacuuming up the hateful dust that poured out of the stone walls, she sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, draining the last of her cold coffee. Okay, she thought,
make the place nice for these people who are going through something terrible. That’s just being decent. But the cottage didn’t need three hours of cleaning, it really didn’t. Why is this whole thing making me so damn on edge? Why do I feel afraid for them to arrive?
She asked the questions but had no answers.
Earlier in the week she had bought a cheap case of wine so that she would have welcome bottles for her guests, but when she went to get one, she wrinkled her nose at it, and picked a better bottle from her own stash instead. Then she roamed around the overgrown garden—an embarrassment, really—and managed to find some roses and artemisia to put in a vase. She put the flowers and the wine on the cottage’s scratched-up dining table, took one last look around, and called it done.
At least this time she had started the work early enough that she wasn’t rushed, and managed to be showered and presentable long before the Bennetts were due to arrive. But instead of picking up a book, planning dinner, or any of the other things she could have been doing, she started to pace, going from the kitchen down the narrow hallway to her bedroom and then back again. Movement didn’t stop the bad feeling from intensifying but she kept on anyway.
Amy Bennett was dead. Molly could sense it. She had no idea how, or whether she could trust the feeling, but it was undeniably there. It felt stony and real and implacable. She wondered if the Bennetts felt it too.
And if Amy Bennett was dead, what did that mean for Castillac, for the other women in the village? Was she killed by someone she knew? Somebody from the village? Somebody just passing through?
The village was large, by village standards—nearly three thousand people. Of course Molly had barely been there a week, she had not even begun to understand the social webs that comprised the place—but it seemed to her as though the villagers were deeply connected to each other. That maybe you couldn’t quite say that everyone knew everyone, but almost.