The Third Girl (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 1)

by Nell Goddin

  “Perrault, would you give—yes, here’s a kit with all the information we can give out—”

  Perrault jumped up to hand one over to the reporter, and smiled at her, trying to stay upbeat. Then the gendarmes nodded and said goodbye and filed back into the station.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” said Dufort under his breath. He went into his office and closed the door, and immediately called up the television station to give whichever manager he could get ahold of a piece of his mind.

  That done, he called Maron and Perrault into his office. “All right then,” he said. “We’ve got to start looking for the body. As I’ve reminded you before, this cannot be an official investigation, so we’re going to have to do it without looking like we are doing it. I’m going to spend some time in the morning, before I come to the station—I will take everything north of rue Gervais. Perrault, you check your family’s neighborhood, up to rue Tartine. Maron, either ride your bicycle or take the car and look on the outskirts—farm buildings, garages, you know the drill. If anyone asks, make something up.

  “We need to find her. I don’t care if you look before work or after, but put the time in every day. We keep looking until we find her, is that understood?”

  Perrault and Maron nodded, their expressions grim.

  17

  Dufort spent the last few hours of the workday walking around the village. He didn’t stop to talk to anyone, but waved when he saw people he knew. He was putting himself in a sort of trance, the same sort of trance he went into when jogging, where the repetitive movement of his body settled his mind and allowed it to roam freely over the details of the Amy Bennett case and everything related to it. He was not judging the information, not trying to be objective, but rather the opposite—to sense the emotions underneath the facts.

  But at this point, the facts were minimal. A young woman was gone. Third from this village. No apparent motive for leaving without telling anyone. No romantic entanglements that anyone knew of, and not a person who tended towards the dramatic or impulsive.

  No sign of her. Her wallet, phone, and ID cards missing, her knapsack missing.

  Amy Bennett: missing.

  Dufort was walking down a narrow back street, his gait slightly uneven because of the cobblestones. He glanced in the villagers’ back gardens, noting who kept things neat and who did not.

  Coming the other way was a man walking a dog. He was a tall, spindly man with notably long feet. Glasses. Hair down over his collar. Dufort wasn’t sure but he thought the man was a painter who taught at Degas. Could this finally be a moment of serendipity, during a non-investigation that so far had been full of nothing but blockages and silence?

  Ordinarily when he passed someone from the village he did not know, he did not speak but looked the other way so as to allow the person his privacy. But in this case he needed to speak, needed to see if the man had anything at all to tell him.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur,” said Dufort, with a nod. He slowed and then stopped as the man and dog reached him. “I’m sorry to bother you, I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Benjamin Dufort, of the gendarmerie.”

  “Bonjour, Chief Dufort. I am Rex Ford. Of course I know who you are, a leading light of our village,” the man said deferentially. His French was perfect with only a slight accent.

  Dufort made a quick, somewhat ironic bow. “I believe you teach at Degas?”

  “That is correct. Six years now.”

  The dog, a dachshund, strained on the leash, wanting to sniff along the fence line of someone’s backyard. Ford moved a few steps to allow the dog his pleasure.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I can walk along with you, so that you can accomplish walking your dog at the same time.”

  “You’re very kind. Of course, ask away. I assume this is about Amy?

  “Yes. It is about Amy.” Dufort and Ford headed towards town, stopping every so often for the dachshund to sniff and lift his leg on any tuft of grass he could find. Dufort had been so deep in his trance that he was struggling to find a line of questioning for the teacher off the top of his head.

  “So, did you have Amy as a student?”

  “I’m afraid not. Although the school is small enough that we professors know the reputation of all the students. She’s got quite a talent, I can say that without hesitation. And more important—she’s a worker. Persistent. That’s really what makes an artist successful, you know,” he said. “Talent—eh, there are loads of people with talent. It’s talent along with not giving up…that’s what makes an artist who gets somewhere.”

  “Did Amy Bennett want to get somewhere?”

  “I would say very much so. Quite ambitious, really. Almost like a businessperson, with thought-out goals and plans. Not a temperament we see often at Degas—the capacity or interest in long-range planning, that sort of thing. Of course, that makes it all the more out of character that—”

  Ford kept walking but stopped speaking.

  Dufort walked, made sure his body stayed relaxed, but he felt certain that Ford was about to say something interesting.

  He waited, but Ford said nothing more.

  “More out of character…?” Dufort prodded gently.

  “I don’t really like to say,” said Ford, but Dufort had the feeling he actually very much wanted to say.

  He waited, and tried not to betray his rising excitement.

  After a few steps, Ford said hurriedly, “Oh, you know, typical stuff for young girls. They get infatuated, think the attention of an older man means something more than it does. Old story I suppose.”

  Dufort noticed a hint of bitterness in the man’s voice.

  “Would you be able to tell me…which older man was paying her attention?”

  “Anton Gallimard, who else?” Ford said, and now the bitterness was out in the open, and when Dufort glanced at him, he saw a man who looked as though he had just eaten something spoiled. “You must understand, the man never leaves the campus. I don’t believe he even drives. He’s always there, lending an oh-so-comforting shoulder for these young female students to cry on.

  “That’s how it starts,” added Ford, but then he pressed his narrow lips together and was done talking. “I’ve got to get home, class this afternoon. I hope I’ve been helpful. And more than that—of course—I hope you find Amy.”

  He turned and tugged the dachshund along with him. Dufort watched them walk for a few minutes, the dog comically bouncing along on its short legs over the cobblestones, miraculously able to produce more pee as he lifted his leg four more times as Dufort stood watching.

  Ford seemed to be hurrying away, and Dufort wondered about that. He could have been speaking from professional jealousy—after all, it was Gallimard who had the reputation for being a big talent, even if one never realized fully. No one had heard of Rex Ford as far as Dufort knew.

  Or, if what Ford said was true, and Gallimard did take advantage of his students, Ford could be jealous of that as well. He could imagine a new flock of young women coming to the school every year could be quite the prize to fight over, for the sort of man who wanted that.

  If Amy was so dedicated, so ambitious, would she have risked so much for a dalliance with one of her professors? A relationship like that could easily go wrong and lose her the support of an influential supporter.

  Ah, thought Dufort, I am not so old that I don’t remember how it was to fall head over heels in love. Or lust. Either one, he thought, smiling to himself at a particular memory, and then turning back towards town.

  * * *

  It was really quite wonderful to feel like she was already becoming part of the village, Molly thought, strolling along at dusk, on a back street, winding her way to Chez Papa. She felt sure that someone would be there to talk to, even if it was Nico behind the bar—someone who would look up when she came in, and recognize at her, and maybe toss out the odd tidbit of gossip.

  Although these days, with the Bennetts staying in her cottage at La Bar
aque, everyone was looking to her for the tidbits, and so far she had nothing to tell.

  “As far as I know, they haven’t left the cottage even once,” she said to Lawrence Weebly, who was installed on his usual stool drinking his usual Negroni.

  “Well, what’s it been, two days?”

  “Yep. They got here on Tuesday. If your Negroni fog is not too thick, you know it’s now Thursday evening.”

  “Negronis give me clarity, dear girl, not fog,” said Weebly, lifting his nose in the air.

  “So you say,” said Molly, laughing, and taking a sip of her kir. “I understand that they wouldn’t want to rush straight to the police. But wouldn’t you expect they’d at least go over to the school, and talk to her roommate or something? And what about meals?”

  “I find that people in deeply stressful situations often don’t do what one would expect.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  The two sat in companionable silence for several minutes.

  “All of a sudden I miss smoking,” said Molly.

  “Ah, when did you give it up? I haven’t had a cigarette in years. Seven years, actually. Seven years, three months, and seventeen days.”

  Molly burst out laughing.

  “I’m joking. But really—if there were a way to smoke without ruining your face and lungs, wouldn’t you go back to it in a second?”

  “Nanosecond,” said Molly. “Although despite what I just said, I almost never think of cigarettes anymore. It’s sitting at a bar, feeling a little afraid, a little anxious—that’s a prime smoking trigger, right there. I don’t actually want a cigarette, I just remember how delicious it was to smoke at moments like this.”

  “Yes. They do pull a nice cozy blanket up over your feelings, don’t they?”

  “That describes it perfectly.”

  “Are you feeling afraid and anxious because of Amy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Understandable. Sometimes I don’t know how you women manage.”

  “That’s not helping.”

  “Sorry,” said Weebly, and patted her leg. “If you ever get worried being at La Baraque by yourself, just give me a call and I’ll hop right on over.”

  “That’s very kind,” said Molly, moved by his offer.

  It was a slow night at Chez Papa so far. Only one family was in for dinner, taking the corner table. Vincent was lounging at his usual spot near the door, nursing a beer. It did not have the makings of a wild night out, and for that Molly was grateful. It was very pleasant to sit at the bar, not engaging in any shenanigans, and get to know her new friend better. It was calming, and her jitteriness over the Bennetts—parents and daughter—was slowly receding.

  “Uh oh, incoming,” murmured Weebly.

  Molly spun around on her stool, not very subtly trying to see who Weebly was looking at over her shoulder.

  “Bonsoir, mes amis!” said Lapin, clattering through the door. He was wearing some kind of boot that made a lot of noise on the tile floor.

  “Oh jeez,” said Molly under her breath. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to arrange her face into something approaching neutrality.

  “Always glad to see you, La Bombe,” said Lapin, looking a bit peeved that Molly’s arms were covering her chest well enough to ruin the view. “What, are you chilly or something? Nico, turn the heat up, man! Our Molly is about to catch a cold!”

  Molly looked at Nico and saw him looking darkly at Lapin. She caught his eye and shook her head. Nico grinned at her and nodded.

  “What have you been up to, Lapin?” Weebly asked.

  “Oh, nothing much. Can’t complain. You know Madame Louvier died last month, and I’ve been out to help the family.”

  “Lapin’s a junk dealer,” said Weebly to Molly.

  “Junk? You affront me, Monsieur Weebly!” He turned to Molly, his eyes resolutely pinned to her chest. “I sell various valuable objects of antiquity,” he said, “that I find occasionally in an attic or storeroom. Nico, get me a whiskey, will you?”

  “He picks over the bones of the recently deceased,” said Weebly drily.

  “Would you rather I pluck them while they are still alive?” asked Lapin, with a guffaw. “Madame Louvier had some nice things, not that she ever let anyone in her house to see them. A chest of drawers I may take to sell in Paris. A few good rings….” From his expression Lapin appeared to be daydreaming about all the money he was about to rake in, but his eyes never veered from Molly.

  Her arms were tired. She knew if she let them go to her sides, Lapin would stare, probably make a remark or two…but maybe then he would move on, let it go? It was worth a try. Slowly, trying to make the movement naturally so as not to attract attention, she let one arm and then the other drop away from her chest. She reached for her kir and took a small sip, holding her breath.

  “Ah,” said Lapin, “there now!” He was grinning broadly, and as expected, looking with wide eyes at Molly’s bosom. “So happy to see the girls again. And may I say again, Madame Sutton, how very pleased I am that you have chosen Castillac for your new home.”

  “You’re starting to make me rethink that,” Molly said under her breath, and turned on her stool to face Nico. She wondered why he had been giving Lapin the stink-eye when he first came in, but figured the various currents of village antipathy would take years to untangle.

  “So what happens in winter?” she asked Nico. “Do people stay home, or is business brisk all year round?”

  “Oh, it depends,” said Nico distractedly. “We’ve got the regulars, of course, who come in every day—Lapin, Weebly here, usually Vincent. There’s a German family that comes in for dinner every Tuesday, like clockwork. Almost no tourists once it gets cold. Sometimes we only serve dinner a few days a week, if business falls way off.”

  Molly got a pang suddenly, of wondering whether this move to France, to Castillac, had been a mistake. She hadn’t known a single soul when she chose it—it had all been about the house whose photographs captivated her so. Of course she had understood that there would be annoying people—there were annoying people everywhere, after all. But this Lapin—he was annoying and standing right next to her, his eyes roaming over her body as though he wanted to take out a knife and fork and eat her. And he was relentless.

  The prospect of spending a winter anywhere within fifty kilometers of Lapin seemed like a very long and unappealing winter indeed.

  Weebly had ordered some frites, extra-crispy, which irritated the cook who maintained that all his frites were extra crispy. Molly shared them, delighting in every savory bite, thinking that fall must have arrived because now a dish of hot food was just the thing.

  “The French don’t really snack at the bar, like we’re used to,” said Weebly. “Even Nico thinks I’m an utter Philistine for ordering frites only and not the steak to go with it. But sometimes my digestion is not what it might be,” he said, rubbing one hand over his belly.

  “I am not a rule-follower,” announced Lapin. “If you want to eat frites with no meal, then do it. If you want to eat frites for breakfast, do it. For myself—I do what I like. And I don’t really give a flying fig what anyone else does either.”

  “That’s quite a pronouncement,” said Weebly. “Are you really willing to go against all of French tradition of what to eat when? I had no idea you were such an iconoclast.”

  “You think I don’t know what ‘iconoclast’ means,” said Lapin, looking angry. “But I do. And I am. So screw you.”

  Molly was not remotely in the mood for conflict. She ate one more frite, drank the last of her kir, and hopped off her stool.

  “I’m going to say goodnight, fellas,” she said. “Bonsoir à tous!”

  “Oh don’t let us scare you off,” said Weebly. “Lapin and I are just play-fighting, right Lapin?”

  “Sure,” said Lapin, but Molly did not believe him.

  “Honestly, I’m ready for bed. I can feel the chill coming in the door, and my book and a quilt are calling t
o me.”

  “Bonne nuit then, my dear,” said Weebly.

  Lapin nodded, still hoping to get a good look at Molly’s chest before she left for the night.

  “It’s dark,” said Vincent, lumbering up from his table by the door. “I’ll take you home?”

  Molly paused. The idea of getting a ride home seemed like an inviting luxury at the moment; she felt tired and completely done for the day. She couldn’t really afford it, but….

  “Sure,” she said. “I don’t feel much like the walk at the moment.”

  Vincent bobbed his head. His cab was right outside and he opened the door for her, grinning.

  I’ve really got to save up the money to have these damn bags of silicone removed, she thought, and spent the few minutes it took to get home daydreaming about how soon she could start restoring the broken-down pigeonnier, so she would have another gîte to rent, and maybe double her income in one fell swoop.

  18

  The next morning Dufort spent an hour searching for Amy before going to the station, but saw nothing out of the ordinary in the alleyways and dumpsters. Before going inside, Dufort stepped into the alley and took out his blue glass bottle. He shook a few drops under his tongue and closed his eyes. Turning his face to the sun, he took several slow, deep breaths.

  Just do the next right thing, he said to himself. Just do the next right thing.

  The situation with Amy was beginning to take over, the pressure to solve the mystery of her disappearance pressing down on him, threatening to trigger anxiety so rampant that he couldn’t control it.

  “Good morning,” he said with forced optimism to Perrault and Maron who were already at their desks. “My office,” he said, and they jumped up to follow him.

  “Of course, we’re not backing off from Amy Bennett,” he said. “And we’ll get to sharing where we are with that in a moment. But first I want to go through everything else, make sure we’re on top of the rest of Castillac business. It’s always tempting with cases like Amy’s to run with them and get blinders to the rest of our responsibilities, and I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.