The Third Girl (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 1)

by Nell Goddin

  Not six degrees of separation, here in Castillac. More like two.

  She smoothed a wild ginger curl back behind her ear and tried to steer her thoughts somewhere else. The Bennetts hadn’t even arrived yet, there was absolutely no news about Amy that she knew of, she was totally getting ahead of herself. Chill out, girl.

  Molly was not a big drinker, she really wasn’t, not even when her marriage was falling apart, Negronis notwithstanding. But now that the Bennetts were due in moments, she had the idea of a little brandy, and the idea hit her with that feeling you get sometimes of Oh yes! That’s just the thing!

  She cracked the seal of some Martell and poured herself a finger and gulped it down just as Vincent’s taxi pulled into her driveway. It burned her throat a bit but she felt the warmth going out to her fingertips, gathered herself together, and went out to greet her guests.

  “Salut!” she called, waving.

  Vincent pulled his bulky self out of the taxi and went around to open the trunk as Sally and Marshall Bennett got out. Sally looked dazed, so dazed that Molly immediately wondered if she was taking tranquilizers.

  Marshall Bennett stood for a moment and blinked, then strode over to Molly with his hand outstretched. “Hullo! We’re so glad you had space for us. Lovely place!”

  “Thank you.” Molly shook his hand and was suddenly overcome with wanting to sob. Surreptitiously she reached out of sight with one hand and gave herself a hard pinch, anything to focus her mind somewhere other than Amy.

  “Marshall? You’ve got to pay for the taxi.” Sally’s voice was faint, as though she were in a thick bubble.

  “Oh yes, what do I owe you?”

  Vincent said “Ten euro,” in English, then grinned, and held out his hand.

  “See, I told you Sally, our lack of French was not going to be a problem!” Marshall smiled at Vincent and dug in his wallet for one of the notes he had just gotten at the airport. “We took a flight from London, then a train to Castillac,” he explained to Molly. “I hate renting cars, it’s a terrible expense—do you find it’s very necessary here to have one?”

  “Actually, I haven’t been here long, but I haven’t gotten around to getting one yet. I can walk to the village easily enough, and if I need to go farther, I can always call Vincent.”

  Vincent grinned again. “That’s right, you call me,” he said. “I can pick you up anytime you want.”

  The Bennetts had not brought much luggage. Molly picked up one of the small carry-ons and started towards the cottage.

  “Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” she said, her nerves jangly despite the shot of Martell. How did one talk to people going through this kind of crisis? She didn’t want to seem too sunny, or morose either.

  Vincent waved and drove off and the Bennetts followed Molly. Even their gaits seemed affected by what they were going through—Sally Bennett was unsteady on her feet, drifting off course, and Marshall stared at the ground and walked as though he were concentrating hard on where to place each foot.

  “I don’t know if you’re interested in history,” Molly began, as they came inside and put down their things. “I can’t say this is verified, but I’ve been told the cottage dates from the early 1700s….” Then she stopped, shaking her head. “Oh, forget that. I just want to say—I know there are no words—but I am so sorry that the reason you are here is such a terrible one. I very much hope you get good news about Amy soon.”

  Sally Bennett dissolved into tears and Marshall put both arms around her. “Thank you, Molly,” he said. They said nothing else and did not look in her direction again, so Molly mumbled some more welcoming words and backed out and closed the cottage door.

  Well, I guess I put my foot in it already, she thought. My heart is aching for them, and I wish there was something useful I could do.

  But nothing matters except their daughter. Of course.

  13

  The scream had come from inside the jellyfish building but the door was locked. Dufort ran to the other end of the building and tried that door—also locked. He stopped and listened. He heard several thumps, some talking, then another scream.

  He considered breaking some glass to get in but instead ran to the administration building. The ground floor door was unlocked and he tore it open and burst through, calling out, “Hello! Police! This is Chief Dufort! HELLO!”

  A secretary who always got to work hours before anyone else poked her head out of her office. “What’s the matter? May I help you?” she said, taken aback.

  “Unlock that middle building, someone inside is screaming. Can you open it? Hurry!”

  The secretary disappeared into her office and came back with a card. “Swipe this,” she said. “Do you want me to do it? Is someone hurt?”

  “Stay here,” said Dufort, grabbing the card and running.

  He swiped once but the door stayed locked. Too fast. He tried again, swiping less frantically, and heard the lock click open.

  Arguing was coming from down the hallway. Dufort trotted quickly and quietly towards the voices. He heard crying.

  When he got to the right room, he stopped for a second to listen, then he eased around the corner. He saw a big man raising his hand, and a woman cowering before him.

  “Stop!” cried Dufort, running into the room.

  The man turned and stared at Dufort, his hand still in the air. “Who are you?” he asked, in a stunned tone.

  The woman stood up. She looked oddly curious, not upset—she did not look like he expected.

  “I am Chief Dufort of the Castillac police,” he said. He turned to the woman. “Are you all right?”

  The big man laughed. “We’re doing a show. We’re actors, just doing theater exercises and about to rehearse a scene!”

  Dufort looked the man, then at the woman. Now that he was in the same room with them, he did not sense adrenaline, or fear. He believed them. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, trying to smile. “I was walking by, and heard you scream….”

  “It’s a violent play,” the woman said, with a laugh. “My husband here, he’s not a very nice man!”

  “You’ll pay for that remark,” the man said, his eyes darkening.

  “He’s joking!” said the woman, seeing Dufort’s eyebrows go up. “Really! Stop it, Marc, or he’ll take you in.” She laughed again, and Dufort could see the actress in her—how her laugh wasn’t altogether genuine, but a bit of a performance, meant to charm him. “Hello, I’m Marilyn McKay.”

  “That’s her character in the play,” said Marc, rolling his eyes. She reached over and stroked his arm. Dufort wanted to leave this couple to whatever it was they were doing and get on with the interview he had come to do. But as long as he was here, perhaps they could give him some information. You never knew where the crucial bit might come from.

  He looked around and saw they were in a large room filled with light. In the center of the room, where the couple was standing, an elevated platform stood about three feet off the ground. One wall, the one across from the hallway, was entirely glass, and the other walls were covered with drawings pinned to a strip that ran around the room just above eye-level.

  “I didn’t realize that Degas has theater as well? I thought it was fine arts only?”

  “That’s right, said the woman. “We’re just putting something on for fun. Not for the public, just the other students.”

  “I see,”said Dufort, although he had never liked the theater and did not see, not really. The focus of his work life was on finding the truth, so traipsing about on stage pretending to be someone you’re not…he had never seen the point. “Tell me,” he said, “do either of you have classes with Professor Gallimard?”

  Marilyn, or the actress playing Marilyn, laughed. “Oh, we all have Gallimard sooner or later,” she said. “Is he in trouble?” she asked hopefully.

  “Oh no. I was just wondering what kind of teacher is he, that sort of thing? If you have an opinion.”

  “Marc always has an opini
on,” said Marilyn playfully.

  “He’s okay,” said Marc. “He gets a little over-focused on his female students, if you know what I mean.”

  Dufort nodded knowingly, as though he had heard as much before. “Is he good in the classroom? Knows his stuff and all that?”

  “Very much so,” said Marilyn. “Don’t listen to Marc, he’s a sculptor and never gives the painters any credit. Gallimard is an excellent teacher, he really is. And he’s not shy about introducing his students to some of the influential people he knows, either. He makes an extra effort, outside of the studio.”

  “I’ll say,” said Marc. Marilyn elbowed him in the ribs.

  “All right then,” said Dufort. “I’m sorry to have barged in on you, I’m off—thanks very much for your help.”

  The pair nodded and watched Dufort leave the room. He walked briskly down the hall, not looking at any of the art hanging there, and headed back to the secretary in the administration building.

  “Sorry, I’m Chief Dufort,” he said, when he reached her office. “Thanks for your help, everything’s fine.” He handed the card back and nodded. He was calm enough now to notice that the woman was around his age, and quite attractive.

  “I’m Marie-Claire Levy,” she answered. “I was so worried after you took off that I followed you and listened in the hallway until I could hear everything was all right.”

  “I told you to stay put!” said Dufort, but he was smiling. Marie-Claire had dark hair pulled into a severe bun, but a warm expression in her eyes. And a lovely face, there was no doubt about that. Dufort smiled more broadly.

  “Well, I know you did. And at first I thought if something bad was happening I would call the gendarmes, but then I realized you were already here. Silly of me, I know.”

  Dufort shrugged. “Theater exercises.”

  Marie-Claire laughed. “The students here are like students everywhere, always getting up to something, you know how it is!”

  “Those days seem pretty far away to me now,” said Dufort.

  Marie-Claire nodded. “So, you are here about Amy?”

  Dufort paused. With some effort, after taking one last appreciative look at Marie-Claire—her intelligent eyes and her slender form—he brought his mind back to work, and work only.

  It was always a little tricky, deciding how much to say. He made a quick judgment that Ms. Levy was someone who might be useful in this investigation. An alert person in her job could be in a position to know more about what went on in the school than anybody.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “I am here about Amy.”

  * * *

  She was a miserable chicken-hearted excuse for a hostess, Molly admitted that to herself. If she had even an ounce of courage, or the barest drop of the milk of human-kindness, she would go over to the cottage and chat with the Bennetts, offer them a drink, take them some hors d’oeuvres, something. But no, instead she was holed up in her house leaving them to their own devices, because the whole aura of the Bennetts—their bottomless fear, their monumental careening anxiety—was so deeply uncomfortable.

  They had not left the cottage since Molly showed them in hours before. She realized she didn’t have a lot of experience yet, but she was used to guests getting settled rather quickly and then wanting to have a look around La Baraque, or go into the village. Even the nutty Lawlers had not spent all day out of sight with the door shut.

  I should be doing something to help them, she thought, but still didn’t budge, staying on the terrace in her favorite rusty chair eating some bits of salami (wild boar with fennel, extremely tasty) and not moving in the direction of the Bennetts no matter how hard she flogged herself for not reaching out.

  She checked her email, hoping to hear from some friends back home, but there was nothing besides some fresh inquiries about the cottage. She turned them down, having no idea how long the Bennetts would be staying. Will they live in the cottage until Amy turns up, one way or another? That could take months. It could take until…forever.

  She shuddered. What I need, she thought, is some distraction. Hello, Lawrence Weebly! He’s probably sitting on that same stool at Chez Papa this very minute.

  She sailed into her bathroom, buoyed by a sense of purpose, however minor, and put on a bit of mascara and a swipe of lipstick.

  I really do need to see about getting a car, she thought, turning down the driveway and heading for the village on foot as usual. Soon it’s going to be cold, and dark early, and walking will be a lot less appealing. I don’t want to spend a fortune on Vincent and his taxi.

  Just as she guessed, Lawrence was at Chez Papa, on the very same stool, drinking a Negroni. Nico nodded when Molly walked in, and Lawrence hopped up and they kissed cheeks.

  “My dear!” he exclaimed. “I was concerned that you had still not recovered from the other night. Sometimes the aftermath from Negronis is something of a steep climb. How are you? And I hear the Bennetts are staying at yours. Tell me everything.”

  “Bonsoir. Just a kir,” Molly said to Nico. “Sparkling, please.” She eased onto a stool and looked around, enjoying the friendly smell of Chez Papa: a mixture of duck fat, tobacco, coffee, and people.

  “I don’t have anything to tell really.”

  Lawrence’s face fell. “Oh come on, I’m not asking in an unkind way. Nosy, maybe, but not mean.’

  Nico set down Molly’s kir and gave her a wink.

  “Thanks, Nico,” she said. “Don’t let me get into the Negronis, will you?”

  “I only do what I’m told,” he said, grinning.

  Handsome boy, that Nico, thought Molly. He was dark and looked part Italian, and Lord knows the Italians hogged the market when it came to good-looking men.

  “Oh, I’m not being huffy,” she said to Lawrence. “I really don’t have anything to tell. The Bennetts got here today, I took them to the cottage, and I haven’t seen them since. I expect they’ll be meeting with Dufort and the school, but as far as I know, none of that has happened yet. I’m just…I’m glad to find you here because I need to talk about this to someone.”

  Lawrence nodded encouragingly.

  “For some reason I’m going half to pieces about this Amy Bennett business, and having the parents right there, in my cottage…I don’t know what it is…I feel so guilty, like I should be doing something for them, comforting them in some way. But I don’t lift a finger. I let them sit over there by themselves all day, and here I am.”

  “Oh, Molly,” said Lawrence. “I’d bet anything they want to be left alone. In their situation, the last thing you’d want would be to have to make chit-chat to a stranger, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Of course.” She sipped her drink. “You’re right.” Unfortunately, believing that Lawrence was right didn’t do much to change her feelings. “Have you heard anything? What is the rest of the village saying about the whole thing?”

  “Well, I have heard a few interesting bits. Someone told me Amy was here, at Chez Papa, the night before she disappeared.”

  Molly combed some unruly curls behind one ear, her eyes wide. “Really? Who was she with, friends from the school?”

  “It’s unclear. Apparently it was one of those nights when many who were here got a bit into their cups. My source tells me she was pretty drunk.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  “Not telling,” said Lawrence, smiling and taking a gulp of Negroni.

  “Hey Nico!” said Molly.

  Nico sauntered over from the other end of the bar. “What’s up, Boston?”

  “Oh no, you’re not giving me that nickname. Just forget that right now, hear me?”

  Nico just winked at her.

  “So Amy Bennett was in here right before she disappeared?” she asked him, her tone offhand.

  Nico shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know everybody,” he said. “It gets crowded in here some nights. Tourists, students, locals, plus I don’t know, random people from anywhere.” He went back to the other end of the bar
and wiped the surface vigorously with a bar rag.

  “So he’s not your source,” Molly said to Lawrence.

  “I do adore you,” he answered. “But I never reveal a source.”

  “Well, okay, let’s say she was in here the night before she disappeared. And let’s say she was drunk. Where do those facts lead?”

  “A fan of cop shows, are you?”

  “Back in the day, I was obsessed with Law and Order, as any discerning TV watcher would be.” Molly turned on her stool to get the wider view of the room, and spent a moment observing. It was a slow night at Chez Papa, a few couples eating dinner, a family with three children waiting to order. Molly couldn’t help being impressed with how orderly the French children were, not clamoring or poking each other or looking at anything electronic, just sitting calmly in their seats and talking in quiet voices.

  Molly turned back to Lawrence. “Tell me this, then. Is Dufort good at his job? I met him out on the road the other day.”

  “Hmm, I can’t say really. Haven’t had any dealing with him. But there are those other cases, you know. It’s not like the crime ledger of Castillac is all clear.”

  Molly swallowed. She paused, wanting, for a few seconds at least, not to know anything more. One last moment to savor her ignorance. Then she asked slowly, “What are you talking about, other cases?”

  “Amy Bennett is not the first woman to disappear from Castillac, Molly. I know it looks rather serene and picturesque around here, but evil doesn’t necessarily pay much attention to setting, now does it?”

  Molly just stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “Not the first?” she finally managed to say, but so quietly Lawrence had to lip-read to understand what she was saying.

  14

  It was Wednesday, the 17th of September. Amy Bennett had not been seen in over a week.

  As the days ticked by, Benjamin Dufort’s anxiety worsened no matter what combination of herbal tinctures he took or how far he ran in the mornings. He made lists of the steps to take in the investigation—people to interview, mostly, and other administrative details. And it was about time to go public and try to enlist the help of the entire community. But making the lists and planning weren’t doing anything to diminish his feeling of dread. And on top of the dread was the constant sense that he was inadequate at his job, failing right in front of the whole village. Lawrence Weebly was the not the only one thinking of the other women who had disappeared from Castillac. Of course Dufort was thinking of them as well, and had been, steadily, hourly, for years.