The Third Girl (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 1)

by Nell Goddin

  Lapin did not run when Maron came in the back door. And he did not protest when Maron packed him into his car and then into the small cell at the station and locked him up, although there was not nearly enough evidence to justify doing so.

  “We’re going to want a DNA sample,” Maron said roughly, handing Lapin a blanket that did not smell fresh.

  Lapin merely nodded. His head drooped as though something had gone wrong with his neck. His eyes were glassy.

  “So what did you do with her?” Maron asked. He had alerted Dufort but hoped to get something out of Broussard before the Chief got there.

  Broussard did not answer. He just shook his head, pulled the blanket over his lap, and leaned his big body against the wall, his eyes on the floor.

  * * *

  “Well, what I heard is that he gave them a DNA sample. Doesn’t even have a lawyer.” Molly sipped her kir and put her elbows on the bar at Chez Papa, her voice low despite the noise of the bar.

  “Disappointing in a way, isn’t it? DNA has taken all the fun out of detective work.”

  “Lawrence!”

  “Oh, you know I’m kidding. At this point what good is a DNA sample going to do anyway? What do they have to match it with?”

  “I’m sorry to say it, but no one else is saying it: they’ve got to find the body.”

  Lawrence nodded. “You’ve clearly watched far too much Law & Order, but…I’m afraid you’re right. Doubtless Dufort is looking. He has never struck me as a man who shies away from…from what needs to be done.”

  “But what about the other cases? You don’t think…I mean, two other women have disappeared, right? Cases unsolved? Yes, Dufort seems like a good guy when you talk to him. But he’s not exactly got a winning record.”

  “No,” said Lawrence, taking a long pull on his Negroni. “he does not. Though I’m not sure you can look at the situation like it’s a baseball season or something. Maybe this person he’s up against is more devious and smart than the rest of us, Dufort included. Maybe more evil that we can comprehend.”

  “Or lucky.”

  “Could be that too.”

  “Or maybe…maybe the three cases are unrelated. Could be that one of the women is living incognito in Mexico, another is happily married in Gdansk, and only poor Amy is really lost….”

  “I wonder if a detective has to have a rather dark side to be any good. I mean, to understand the whys and hows.”

  Molly thought about it. She hadn’t spent that much time with Dufort, had only seen him in action that one time at the station with the Bennetts. “My main impression of Dufort is that he really is a very decent man. A little nervous, maybe? I can’t really say because honestly, being around the Bennetts makes me want to jump out of my skin, so I’m not the best judge.”

  “Are they still hunkered down in your cottage?”

  “They’ve never left, except the one time. But really—what is there for them to say? What is there for them to do?” Molly rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s so heart-breaking. They brought a bag of things for her, you know. Her favorite cookies from home. Like they were visiting her at camp.”

  Lawrence just shook his head. “And how are you doing? Does it make you nervous, living alone in that big house?”

  Molly considered. “I’m not lying awake at night, but I admit I don’t feel totally at ease either. I went for a walk this afternoon, and I…I don’t know. I got creeped out, being in the woods alone. Might be nice to have a big burly guy living with me at La Baraque.”

  “Didn’t realize your tastes ran in that direction,” said Lawrence, teasing.

  “I’ll probably get a dog,” said Molly.

  “Are you relieved at least that Lapin is in custody?”

  “I would be, if more people thought he was guilty. But so far I haven’t found a single person who says, ‘Oh yeah, now that I think of it, that Lapin Broussard for sure could have taken that girl away. I always knew he had a dark side.’ What I find is a village of apologists and defenders.”

  Lawrence laughed drily. “Who?”

  “Rémy, for one. Manette. You.”

  “Oh,” said Lawrence, his eyebrows shooting up. “You’ve met Rémy, have you? Good-looking man,” he added, pretending to inspect a bit of non-existent lint on his sleeve.

  “Oh, stop,” said Molly, remembering Rémy’s mouth, and thinking that the idea of being under someone’s protection was really very appealing. Just let those strong arms and back take care of everything, she thought dreamily.

  “…still young,” Lawrence was saying.

  “Who’s still young?”

  “You are, my dear! Though apparently a touch deaf.”

  “Pshh. I’m in my declining years, but I’ve made peace with it,” she said, glancing down the bar at Nico.

  “Liar. And let me say quite unequivocally that you haven’t lost your je ne sais quoi, Molly. I’ve no doubt the men of the village have noticed your arrival with enthusiasm and interest, and I’m not just talking about the chumps leering at your fake ta-tas.”

  Molly turned to Lawrence with a soft smile. “You’re very kind to say that,” she said, and then steered the conversation elsewhere.

  She hadn’t entirely given up on love, it was true. Although she very much believed she would be happier if she did.

  25

  Thérèse Perrault was first to the station on Monday morning. She went straight downstairs to the solitary cell to see Lapin, but he was lying on the cot with his face to the wall, the mildewed blanket pulled up to his neck. When she whispered to him he did not respond.

  She could not believe this complete travesty of justice was taking place right here in Castillac. Lapin Broussard was no more capable of taking some girl and hurting her than flying to the moon. It was that idiot Maron’s fault, she thought darkly. Always trying to do anything to curry favor and get in Dufort’s good graces. Well, she didn’t think incarcerating Lapin with no evidence was going to help his career any.

  She hoped the Chief would have something productive for her to do today. Some lead to follow that would get Lapin out of jail and the real perp in handcuffs. It was so hard for her to be patient, to wait for her orders, when what she wanted to do most of all was drive back over to L’Institut Degas and get the goods on that jerk of a professor. If anyone in the village was capable of doing something to Amy, it was him. And this ridiculous detour with Lapin was only going to slow down their progress in nailing him.

  When Dufort came in with Maron on his heels, Thérèse had mastered her impatience more or less, or at least hidden it. The three said their bonjours and went into Dufort’s office and shut the door.

  “I’m not going to talk right now about whether you did the right thing by bringing him in,” said Dufort. “Not at the moment. And—” he said, shooting a look to Perrault—“we don’t actually know yet whether it was a good move. Lapin may give us something or he may not.

  “But one thing I want both of you to think about. Something like this, and I’m talking murder now, let’s be frank if only in here with the door closed—something like this doesn’t just happen out of nowhere. People don’t lead ordinary lives and then boom go out and kill somebody. There is a context in which the action makes sense. And it is our job to look under the surface of what is going on, to look back at what has historically taken place, so that we see that context. We are lucky enough to live in a village small enough that we are not without some measure of detail.

  “Do you follow what I am saying?”

  Perrault and Maron nodded. Dufort narrowed his eyes at them. “Don’t nod just because you think that’s what I want you to do. I’m asking if you really understand what I’m saying, what I’m asking you to do. You cannot look at Lapin Broussard and think: well, he was the last person seen with the girl, and he annoys women all the time, plus there was that peeping Tom incident a few years ago. And so all that adds up to guilty for doing away with Amy Bennett and we’ll spend our energy proving that b
ecause in our minds the case is closed.”

  “But Lapin—” said Maron.

  “I’m not saying it cannot be Lapin,” interrupted Dufort. “I’m saying: let’s look at his context. He grew up without a mother. His father was by all accounts, brutal with him. Physically, I believe, as well as emotionally. Belittling, pushing very hard, far beyond what a child could manage—that sort of thing. Does that make a murderer?”

  “It could,” said Thérèse. “But I still don’t think—”

  “Thérèse,” said Dufort softly, “you must learn to separate your childhood self from your detective self. That does not mean cutting off all you know, all your life experience—those things are valuable, especially in a village such as ours. But you must find some objectivity.”

  Thérèse nodded. The Chief was right. It was as though having Lapin in the cell had sent her back to being eight years old, with all the blind outrage at unfairness that comes at that age. Lapin had spent many Sundays at her house, throughout her childhood—and she should be combing through those memories instead of childishly railing at Maron.

  “Yes, Chief,” she said. “But may I ask, are we still looking at anyone else?”

  “We are not at all considering this case closed,” said Dufort. “First, I’m going to talk to Lapin. Maron, I’d like you to be there as well. Perrault, stay in the office and deal with whatever else comes up. If I’m not mistaken, it’s getting to be about time for Monsieur Vargas to take off, am I right?”

  Thérèse laughed though she did not think having to stay in the office was at all funny. If she had to go wrangle M. Vargas today instead of being in on the most important case of her career, she might just lose her mind.

  * * *

  Dufort stepped outside the station before going down to see Lapin. He ducked around to the alley and tipped a few drops of herbal tincture under his tongue. It had been helping lately more than usual and he made a note to go see his herbalist and thank her. The stress of a case like this could eat a person alive, and he was grateful for the support.

  Then, leaving an unhappy Perrault by the phone, he and Maron went down the short stairway to the cell in the basement of the station. The cell was used infrequently and it felt unusual to both of them to be undertaking an interrogation down in the damp stone room where they hardly ever went.

  Lapin was still lying down with his face to the wall. For a frightening moment, Dufort thought he might be dead, but after repeated and increasingly louder bonjours, Lapin rolled over, clutching the blanket close.

  “Can’t a fellow get a decent night’s sleep?” he said, with a little smirk.

  “You’re not in any position to joke,” said Maron roughly.

  “Come on, then,” said Dufort. “We’ve got a few questions, let’s see if we can get this thing straightened out. I’m hoping you can tell us something helpful.”

  Lapin sat up and rubbed his eyes. “How about a coffee?”

  “This isn’t a hotel,” snarled Maron.

  Dufort took out his cell and texted Perrault, asking her to bring down a cup of coffee. Maron glared at him.

  Dufort spoke. “As Maron has told you, you’re here because the video surveillance of Chez Papa shows you leaving with Amy Bennett on the night of the 22nd, and no one has seen or heard from her since. I’m sure there’s an explanation and that’s what I’d like to hear this morning. Anything you can tell us about where she might be, anything at all?”

  Maron understood that the Chief was being so friendly partly as a tactic, but it grated anyway. He narrowed his eyes at Lapin.

  Lapin scratched his armpit. “If I had anything to tell you, I’d have come in when I first heard she was missing,” said Lapin.

  Maron rolled his eyes.

  “All I know is that there was a big group celebrating at Chez Papa, something about an award or a prize or something the girl had won. She had too much to drink and so I helped her outside to get some fresh air. That’s it.”

  “Some fresh air,” said Maron sarcastically.

  “So you went outside with her, and then what?” asked Dufort.

  “Then nothing. She said she was fine and I went home.” Lapin looked up at the corner of the ceiling and then down at his lap.

  He might or might not be lying, thought Dufort, but for sure he was holding something back.

  “You say she’d had too much to drink. If you were going to help her, why not get her home? Were you too drunk to drive?”

  “No, I…I was not drunk, Maron. Look, she told me she was fine. Her exact words. I’m not one to push myself where I’m not wanted, you know?” Lapin winked at the policemen.

  “Lapin,” said Dufort, “you know I’m on your side here. But you do not help yourself by making light.”

  “I’m not making light,” protested Lapin. “And honest to God I would tell you if there was anything to tell. All I know is what I’ve said already—she was a little tipsy, I walked outside with her, she told me she was fine, I went home. End of story.”

  Some people are terrible liars, and luckily for the gendarmerie of Castillac, Lapin Broussard was one of them.

  “Did you drive yourself home?” asked Maron.

  “Yes.”

  They could hear Perrault coming downstairs with a cup of coffee. “Salut, Lapin,” she said to him, her tone perfectly professional, not friendly and not cold either. She handed him the coffee, nodded to the Chief, and went back upstairs.

  “Perhaps you drove Amy home as well? Degas is right on the way to your house from Chez Papa.”

  “No, I did not drive Amy. She said she was fine, and I went home.”

  Dufort took a long, deep breath. He considered Lapin, wondering what it was that he knew that he did not want to say. “And did you happen to see, as you were leaving to go home alone—did anyone else stop to talk to Amy? Was anyone else on the street?”

  Lapin paused. The answer was right there, in that pause, thought Dufort. The story of what happened to Amy, almost physically palpable.

  “No,” said Lapin. “I went home, I didn’t see anything. End of story.”

  Dufort stood up. He moved his chair back against the wall and gestured to Maron to leave the cell. “All right,” said Dufort. “You keep thinking, keep trying to remember. It could be the littlest detail that opens this up, so please, continue to try. We will be back.”

  It was odd, thought both Dufort and Maron, that Lapin did not ask to be released. They had no justification for keeping him, and surely Lapin knew that.

  “He’s lying,” said Maron, once they were upstairs.

  “I know,” said Dufort.

  26

  Monday morning. Molly woke up to pounding on her front door. Groggily she slipped on a robe and went to see who it was.

  “Bonjour, Sally?” she said, opening the door wider once she saw who it was. “Is something wrong?”

  “I need you to come with me!” Sally said, her face ablaze with emotion. “I must speak with Dufort right away, and I’m afraid of getting lost in those crazy narrow streets. Will you take me? Now?” Her arms were stiff at her sides, her hands clenching and unclenching.

  Molly blinked, still only half-awake. “Of course,” she said. “Just…just give me a minute to get dressed. Come in,” she added.

  “No, thank you,” said Sally. “I’ll wait here.”

  Molly managed to find some clean clothes and put them on, and give her hair and teeth a quick brush. She looked longingly at the coffeepot on her way to the front door and Sally.

  “Has something happened?” she asked, as they walked quickly through the yard and out to the rue des Chênes.

  “Marshall went into town last night, by himself,” Sally said, her voice shaking. “I’m…I’m not sure I can talk about this,” she said, stopping, and then bending over and putting her hands on her thighs as though out of breath.

  Molly put her hand on Sally’s back. She couldn’t imagine what could have happened to Marshall to make his wife so upset.
“Is Marshall all right?” she asked. “Tell me how I can help!”

  Sally stood back up. She no longer looked drugged, but alive, and for Molly it was almost as though she were meeting her for the first time.

  “Did you know that this Broussard guy has been in trouble before? Sexual trouble?” Sally’s lips trembled as she spoke, with rage not sorrow.

  “I…no. What do you mean, ‘trouble’?”

  Sally began walking towards the village again. “I mean he was caught trying to take photographs up girls’ skirts! A peeping Tom, that’s what!”

  Molly was mildly surprised. “Hmm,” she said. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. He’s known for…” she cast about, trying to think of how to say the truth without making Sally feel even worse. “He can be sort of aggressive with women,” she said quietly. “He’s never touched me or anything like that,” she was quick to add. “But he leers. Makes a lot of comments, that kind of thing. Annoying.”

  “Aggressive? Wonderful,” said Sally acidly. “Well, if there’s a man who is known to the village as being sexually aggressive, and he’s already gotten into trouble, and then a young woman goes missing—why was he not picked up a week ago? Even if just for questioning? That’s what I want to ask Chief Dufort.” Sally was walking so quickly that Molly had to trot to keep up with her. “Although the answer is pretty clear, isn’t it? The village is protecting their own. I don’t know why I ever had any hope that the police here would actually do something. They aren’t going to give up a villager in order to get justice for an English girl who’s only here as a student, who has no connection with anyone outside of school.”

  “I’m…I don’t know about that, Sally,” said Molly breathlessly, feeling defensive about her new home and simultaneously yearning for a cup of steaming coffee with cream. “At least I haven’t gotten the idea from anyone that people here would behave that way. Sure, it’s a close-knit place, and the connections are deep and maybe sometimes tangled. But it’s a big jump to say they’d cover up for m—” She almost said murder but clamped her mouth shut just in time.