The Third Girl (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 1)

by Nell Goddin

  “Maron, any progress?” said Dufort.

  “Yes, sir. Let me get the books.” Quickly he stepped to his desk and returned while opening up a ledger with a red leather cover. “It was pretty easy, actually,” Maron was saying, pointing to some fine print in Degas’s accounting books. “You see this list of vendors that the school paid money to every week or every other week? Cleaning services, laundry, and the like. Well, I checked out each one to make sure they were legit. All of them were—except this one….” he pointed to Acmé Food Services, which appeared to be receiving 2254 euros a week.

  “It’s a dummy,” said Maron, gleefully. “There is no food service at the school. Vending machines, that’s it, and the school doesn’t pay for them.”

  “So that 2254 euros is going where?” asked Perrault.

  “Someone’s pocket,” said Maron. “The board of the school is more or less for show. Gallimard decides who gets hired and which students get admitted, and Draper takes care of the finances. Both of them have access to the books and to the school’s bank accounts and investments. Either of them could be siphoning off this money, or they could be working in concert.”

  “That’s well over 100,000 euros in a year. Something of a dent in their operating budget, I’d imagine, in a small school like that. Nice work, Maron,” said Dufort, leaning up against a radiator and looking out the station window. “Unfortunately I will tell you that I got these books through…a not entirely legal process. So for the moment, let’s keep the thought of embezzlement under our hats, yes?”

  Perrault’s eyes were wide. She would never have thought Dufort capable of skirting the law. He was the Chief!

  “The important thing,” Dufort was saying, “is that even with the embezzlement, there’s no linkage to Amy Bennett. We would have to prove that Amy found out about it, that she either threatened to tell the police or they believed she would, and that the embezzler’s solution to the threat of being caught was to kill her. I’m afraid at this point that’s simply a fairy tale that we have absolutely no evidence to support.

  “So even though we’ve got the body, and we’ve got DNA…we’ve got nothing,” said Perrault.

  “Correct,” said Dufort, and he looked so grim that the two junior officers unconsciously took a step backward.

  “I was at Degas yesterday, talking to a number of people. Students and faculty as well as administration. It’s a curious thing, but though I heard more of the wild womanizing rumors about Gallimard from several people, I could find absolutely no one who could confirm even one instance of it. I spoke to three people the rumors had linked to him and they were quite convincing in their denials.

  “My conclusion is that Gallimard himself does what he can to promote the rumors, although apparently, there is not so much as a hint of evidence that they are true.” He walked from behind his desk and glanced out the window to the street. “People are strange,” he said.

  Maron shrugged. “It’s not so different from guys at university, bragging about what they had done with certain women. But all of it’s just fantasies, you know?”

  Dufort considered his words but did not speak. He rubbed his close-cut hair with one hand, he looked out the window, he twiddled the small glass bottle of tincture that was in his pocket.

  “This crime,” he said slowly, “looks more and more as though Perrault is right. We’re dealing with a murder of a young woman likely to be the aftermath of a sex crime. So, a sociopath. He wants to hurt, to dominate, and he cares little of what damage or pain he causes in his pursuits. Actually, it might better be said that he is unaware of others’ pain because other people are not real to him.”

  Perrault was looking intent, hanging on her Chief’s every word.

  Dufort spoke softly. “The way to catch a criminal is to put yourself in his shoes. Think how he thinks. And it is abundantly clear that thus far, I have been unable to do this effectively. I know he is among us, probably someone we have at least some connection to, in a village this size. Yet so far—for years—he has acted with impunity.

  “Let’s get back to it,” said Dufort, with a briskness that was almost worse than his anger. “Somebody in this village knows something, and we won’t hear it hanging around the station.”

  * * *

  After a couple of days in near-seclusion, Molly was looking forward to dinner at Chez Papa—extra-crispy frites, perhaps a hanger steak and sautéed mushrooms—and some company. The Bennetts had finally emerged from the cottage to tell her they planned to leave the next day. They were effusive in their thanks which made Molly feel terrible.

  “Lawrence!” she said, spotting her friend in his usual spot and opening her arms for a hug. He slid from his stool and wrapped her in a big hug.

  “I can’t believe after all that has happened that you didn’t come tell me all the details, you minx!”

  “I know,” Molly said, feeling chastened. She realized in the moment that if the positions were reversed, she’d have stayed glued to her stool at Chez Papa until Lawrence showed up and told her all about finding the body. “I’m sorry, I needed a few days to hole up and get my feet back under me,” she said.

  “I understand. Sort of,” he added, giving her a sideways look. “I suppose you don’t want to hear the little tidbits I’ve gleaned in your absence?”

  “Tidbits? What kind of tidbits? Does Dufort have something on somebody? Has anybody been arrested? Come on, Lawrence, don’t be horrible!”

  “Bring her a kir, Nico. She’s overwrought.”

  Molly gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs and Lawrence filed away a mental note not to call her overwrought ever again. “Well,” he said, after taking a fortifying sip of his Negroni, “what do you know so far?”

  “I don’t know anything. I called Dufort when I found her—or Yves showed her to me, more precisely. I took the dog down to the road and waited for the cops there, which, uh, I felt a little funny about. I mean, I knew she was dead and everything, obviously. But still, it felt a little like I was abandoning her by leaving. You’re going to think I was drunk, but I whispered to her that I’d be back.”

  Lawrence held his head to one side, thinking this over. “I do see why you wanted children,” he murmured, low enough that Nico wouldn’t hear. “Your instinct for…what would you call it? Anything I think of seems macabre under the circumstances. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I admire the depth and sensitivity of your feeling.”

  Molly nearly made a joking remark but instead she thanked him. “And so, the cops came and I showed them where she was and they were doing all their forensic stuff and I just walked home. I thought maybe I was intruding and they were too polite to tell me to get lost.”

  “I really don’t think you have to worry about that. I’m sure they would issue whatever instructions they needed to,” said Lawrence. “So that’s it? You’ve been holed up ever since, doing plumbing repairs and learning masonry, or whatever it is you do all day?”

  “Pretty much. I saw the Bennetts leave to go to the station, or the morgue, I guess. I didn’t offer to go with them. I figured that no one tagging along was going to make that trip any less awful.”

  “Unimaginably so,” said Lawrence, and the two friends shared a look of pain, thinking of what the parents must be going through. “All right, well, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”

  Molly sipped her kir and waited anxiously.

  “I happen to know someone who knows someone…and the word is that Amy Bennett was not raped, but there was evidence of “sexual activity.” Which means the police are looking for a sociopath of the murderer-rapist variety, and not, oh I don’t know, a jealous ex-friend or something like that.”

  “Not a surprise, huh? I mean when a young woman goes missing, isn’t that the conclusion everyone jumps to? Raped then murdered? Or in this case, apparently not-quite-raped? I’m not sure it makes much difference.”

  “I rather thought you would say there was relief in knowing she hadn’t been.”


  Molly shrugged. “If she were alive, sure. Dead? What difference does it make?”

  They drank extra-big sips of their drinks. Molly had been looking forward to dinner but found she had lost her appetite entirely.

  “I also hear there’s been a date with Rémy.”

  “Good Lord, who are your sources?”

  “You ride through the village in his truck, people are going to see you. And then, you know, tell everybody they know. Gossip in Castillac is everyone’s favorite sport. It’s one of the reasons you fit right in.” Lawrence grinned at her and waved Nico over. “Get this woman a plate of frites, stat. Extra-crispy,” he added, just to annoy the cook.

  “I know it’s selfish, but that’s a whole lot worse,” said Molly, putting her elbows on the bar and slumping.

  “What’s worse than what?”

  “If Amy had been killed by, say, a crazy classmate who was jealous of her success, then the rest of us would be perfectly safe. The violence would be contained, you see?”

  Lawrence shrugged. “Maybe as far as that one crazy classmate goes. But if envy is the trigger, then what keeps your neighbor from doing you in because your roses look so much better than hers?”

  Molly laughed at the image of Mme Sabourin sneaking over to La Baraque in her housecoat, with a garrote in her pocket.

  “I’m afraid none of us are ever all the way safe, the way we might wish,” said Lawrence. “And I will admit that I moved to Castillac for reasons similar to yours. No, no divorce,” he said, waving her question away before she could ask it. “Just a lot of family unpleasantness that was better walked away from. When I came here on a vacation, I was totally smitten with the beauty of the village but also the warmth of the people living here. I thought I could leave the dysfunction and judgment of my family behind, and make real friends here. I cancelled my return ticket and settled in to embrace the tranquility of Castillac.”

  He and Molly laughed. “Oh, the irony!” said Molly. And they cracked up again, arms around each other, so happy to be exactly where they were, murders and abductions notwithstanding. Sometimes the hum of fear can make people giddy, especially with Nico throwing in the odd free refill.

  36

  It was cold and it was late, but Molly decided to walk home instead of getting the taxi. She smiled at Vincent on her way out, waved at Lawrence who had decided to have one last Negroni, and set off for rue des Chênes and home. The village was quiet. All the shops locked up tight, only a few lights on in houses and apartments along the way. On the edge of the village she could hear the faint sound of pop music coming from somewhere, so faint she could hardly make it out.

  The moon was nearly full and she needed no light to see.

  Her mind was filled with a jumble of thoughts: how she hoped Dufort would come through with an arrest, because having a sociopath on the loose was less than comforting; how much she loved Castillac and had no regrets about moving there; how the walk to La Baraque seemed farther when the weather was cold.

  She turned up her collar and walked faster to warm up. She was on the final bit, a straight stretch of road about fifty yards from her driveway, when the lights of a car appeared behind her.

  Her brain paused, but only for a second. And then she flashed on what she had seen but not noticed she had seen. She knew who killed Amy Bennett.

  She knew who killed Amy Bennett.

  And if she was right, he was on the road behind her. Coming for her.

  He knows I know.

  She began to run but of course the car was gaining on her. She left the road and pushed her way through Mme Sabourin’s hedge, running without thinking for La Baraque. As she ran she frantically pawed in her bag, searching for her phone, but it was not there. She grasped the mace on her keyring and made sure it pointed in the right direction.

  When she got to the wall between her house and Mme Sabourin’s, she bent down and ran hunched over until she reached a large tree covered by an out-of-control climbing hydrangea, and she buried herself among the thick vines, pushing her back up against the trunk of the tree. She was breathing so heavily she thought for certain he would be able to hear her heaving from far away.

  Molly watched the car drive slowly down rue des Chênes. He was not rushing. The headlights swung into her driveway as she knew they would, the car creeping along, the slow speed scarier and more disturbing than if he had been speeding. Her breath was not returning to normal and she wondered if she was going to hyperventilate. And why had she not simply rung Mme Sabourin’s doorbell, and called the police from there?

  Well, there was no helping that now. She watched him get out of his car and walk up to her door. She had known who it was but still it gave her a shock to see him. She watched him knock, then jiggle the knob.

  He saw me run through the hedge, does he think I would be inside now? Waiting for him?

  Molly felt a flush of fear run through her body and for a moment she thought she might lose control entirely: her legs were going to give way and she would crumple to the ground, useless to defend herself against this evil man. For a moment she saw Amy’s hand sticking up out of the dirt and she started to lose it.

  Calm down, she told herself desperately. You can’t think if you don’t calm down! If he has a flashlight, he’ll spot me in a second, she thought, adrenaline flooding her body again.

  I need a plan.

  But her brain resisted. Her thoughts were flashing, jagged lights—incoherent and undecipherable. She had never in her life been this frightened.

  He began to walk slowly around the side of the house, towards Molly. She sucked in a long breath.

  Okay, if he gets any closer, I’ll have to make a break for it.

  It had been a long time since Molly had sprinted. Years, probably. But she waited in the shadows of the climbing hydrangea, watching the killer as he tried the front windows of her beloved house, and got mentally prepared to run for her life.

  37

  1991

  Vincent hated school. He was only six but his classmates mocked him mercilessly for his grubby clothing that did not fit. He could not read and did not seem to understand the concept of reading, as though he had never seen books before. His first teacher had recommended testing but he was deemed intelligent enough not to need any special services. Everyone at school, teachers and fellow students, thought him dull, and before long the teasing moved on to someone else and Vincent was left alone.

  In some ways the isolation was worse. At school he was among other people much of the day but they did not seem to see him, did not reach out to him or involve him in what they were doing, and the pain of this was torture for the young boy.

  One day he walked home from school by himself as usual. His father was off doing farm chores he said, but Vincent knew that meant driving the tractor to a field out of sight of the house, and drinking himself into oblivion. His mother was home, however.

  His mother was always home.

  When she caught sight of him that day, her eyes glittered and he knew that was a bad sign. She ran to him shrieking and slapped him on his bare legs, yelling about how he had failed to make his bed that morning. He did not cry but stoically stood still and waited for the first burst of rage to pass.

  He knew it was only one in a series. That was how it always went.

  Vincent had an older brother, but he had run away as soon as he could and was never heard from again. No one ever came to the lonely farmhouse at the end of the road—no friends, no relatives, not even any salesmen passing through.

  Vincent was trapped there with his mother who beat him and rained insults down on his small head, and there was nothing for him to do but endure it. On that particular day, at six years old, Vincent felt his hatred for his mother grow inside him like it was a separate being, taking over his body. He welcomed the hatred because it made the beating hurt less. It gave him strength.

  He knew that he would make her pay someday. He would make someone pay.

  All he had t
o do was wait.

  38

  Alphonse came out from the kitchen, gave Molly a kiss on both cheeks and a big hug. “Lunch is on me,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I hear you solved the murder and I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “How did you hear that already? I just left the police station five minutes ago!”

  Alphonse’s eyes twinkled. “We have our ways, Molly. Now come, sit at the bar and tell us your story. Nico, pour her a kir.”

  Molly smiled half-heartedly. “I don’t know that it’s time to celebrate,” she said. “As I’m sure you know, since you people always seem to know everything—Vincent has fled. No one knows where he is.”

  “The innocent do not run,” said Alphonse, shaking his big head.

  “Not usually. Dufort wasn’t telling me the details but I got the impression he may have solid DNA evidence, so if they can just catch him, they’ll get a sample and undoubtedly it will match. But in the meantime…there’s a sociopathic murderer on the loose. Which is why I decided to have lunch here instead of in my own kitchen.”

  “A good plan, Molly.”

  “And when Lawrence gets here, I’m going to ask if I can sleep at his place until Vincent is behind bars.”

  “Did Dufort say you are a target?”

  “He didn’t have to. I already have been, Alphonse!”

  “Just so,” the old man said, shaking his head. “No one is safe until that man is in prison. And to think I served him at least a meal a day for years now! Right over there!” Alphonse pointed to the small table in the corner by the door, where Vincent was always found if not behind the wheel of his taxi.

  “I know! I rode in his taxi a bajillion times! I put the Bennetts into his taxi!” Molly and Alphonse looked at each other, their eyes wide, still barely able to comprehend that this man who was part of the daily fabric of their lives had turned out to be a killer.