by Nell Goddin
But that was then. As with many pursuits, a willingness to make mistakes leads to fast progress, and a year later Molly would still not have said she was fluent, though she really was. She understood jokes most of the time, and could almost always find a way to say what she meant and understand what someone was saying to her.
“Molly!” called her friend Manette, who presided over a vast array of vegetables, both imported and grown locally.
“Bonjour, Manette,” said Molly. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“When have I ever not been? Oh, that one time when my brother-in-law took my place because I had the flu. I think he sold three potatoes and that was it for the day.”
Molly laughed. “Those radishes look very good. Give me a bundle of those and two handfuls of beets, if you please.”
“So let’s get right down to it,” said Manette, leaning in close to Molly as she loaded beets on a scale. “You heard about the Baron?”
“Oh, I heard all right.”
“Any ideas?”
“Ideas? The poor man’s been dead for fifteen minutes and I know absolutely nothing about the case! Nor will I, now that Ben’s left town.”
“Eh, you’ll find a way. Well, look who it is…” said Manette, still whispering.
Molly raised her eyebrows.
“Antoinette!” Manette boomed out.
Molly whirled around to see a slender woman dressed in a quietly smart wool suit, wearing an expensive pair of leather boots.
Manette came around from behind the counter to hold the Baroness firmly by the arms and kiss cheeks. “Antoinette, I was so, so sorry to hear about the Baron. What can I do? Would you like me to deliver some things to the Château? Surely you don’t need to be here at the market, not with everything you’re going through—”
“It’s helpful to me, actually,” said Antoinette in a low voice. “I’m so…it’s just such a shock, you understand…so a bit of normalcy, it’s a good thing to be out and about, and just carry on with things.”
Molly stood with her eyes wide and her ears open, hoping Manette would introduce her, but after talking a minute more, the Baroness bought an eggplant and four potatoes, waved goodbye, and moved back into the throng in the center of the Place.
“Manette!” hissed Molly.
“I know, I know. But after what’s happened—I felt I had to respect her privacy. She’s a Baroness, after all, and doesn’t really mingle with villagers. It just didn’t seem like the right moment to make an introduction. I hope you understand.”
“Well, not really,” Molly answered, scowling. “Besides, I thought all the aristocrats got the guillotine,” she added under her breath.
Manette grinned. “You’re going to the Gala this year? Perhaps you’ll meet her there.”
“Oh, the thing at L’Insitut Degas?”
“Of course. It’s, let’s see, I think it’s next Friday. They’d best get to work on their advertising, I’ve barely seen any notices about it.”
Molly kissed Manette goodbye and tried to think about what to make for dinner. Sausages and sauerkraut? With a dry cider?
“La Bombe!” called out a familiar voice.
“Good morning, Lapin,” said Molly, stopping to let the big man dodge through the crowd to catch up to her. They kissed cheeks and exchanged how-are-yous. Market day took three times as long now that Molly had so many friends in the village.
“Are you rushing back to do changeover?”
“Alas, not this week. No guests coming. I’m expecting someone next week though, and he’s super fussy—so at least I’ll have a whole week to get the cottage just so.”
“I know you’ve heard about the poor Baron….”
Molly sighed. “Look, I’ve very much enjoyed being involved in past investigations, but I’m afraid that’s all over now. I don’t know the family and apparently won’t be getting to know the family, so let’s just move on and talk about something else.”
“You’re adorable when you get snippy.”
“I’m not being snippy!”
“Have you finished your marketing? Walk with me to my shop, I have something juicy to tell you.”
Molly looked at her friend and narrowed her eyes. “Yes?”
“Come on, walk this way.” He took her arm and pulled her along in the direction of his antique shop on rue Baudelaire. “I won’t torture you by dragging it out. The rumor is that the late Baron, Marcel de Fleuray, owned La Sfortuna, the famous emerald. It was kept in a jeweled box, also extremely valuable, hidden somewhere at Château Marainte.”
Molly rubbed her chin. “How do you know this?”
“Well, it’s true that the Fleurays have never hired me to appraise anything at their estate. But still, people in my business talk. I have at least two associates who claim to have seen the box, if not the emerald itself.”
“And how widespread is this rumor?”
“Oh, everyone in the village knows about it.”
“You do realize you’ve just given pretty much anyone a rock-solid motive for killing him?”
“I knew you’d know valuable information when you heard it,” said Lapin with satisfaction.
“La Sfortuna…is that Italian? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Do you keep up with jewelry news, ma chérie?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“You stick to the sleuthing, Molls, and let me cover the antique side of things. We make a great team, if I do say so myself.”
Molly nodded glumly and said her goodbyes before reaching the shop. She had left her scooter parked beside Pâtisserie Bujold and she gratefully entered the store and bought a loaf of sourdough and an almond croissant to have for breakfast the next day.
Because really, a village murder, and at the Château no less? And here she was, shut out entirely. It was hard to bear. As she sped home she told herself not to be so selfish, that plainly it was the Baron and the Baroness who had the worse end of the stick by far. But sometimes all the self-criticism in the world doesn’t budge you an inch, and she walked inside La Baraque, tossed the bakery bag on the counter, and dropped to the floor and let Bobo lick her face until she couldn’t help smiling just a little.
Nico and Frances had skipped the market that Saturday, preferring to spend all morning in bed and then linger over coffee and the newspaper. But by lunchtime Frances was starting to get a little antsy.
“How about a bike ride?” she said with enthusiasm.
“We don’t have bikes. Plus—don’t take this the wrong way, petite chou—but is athletics really your sort of thing?”
Frances rolled up the paper and bopped him on the head. “Well, we can’t just laze around for the entire day. Isn’t there some secret magical place somewhere that you’ve forgotten to show me?”
“Like what, a tourist attraction?”
“Nah, you know, a witch’s cottage or something. A house where a whole family died of typhoid.”
“You have a grisly imagination.”
“All the best people do.”
Nico laughed and stepped into a pair of blue jeans, then pulled a T-shirt over his head. “There are plenty of chateaux around if you’d like to do some sight-seeing.”
“What about the one right outside the village?”
“Château Marainte?”
“I think that’s it. Is it open to the public?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Nico went into the bathroom and loudly brushed his teeth. Then he came back into the room, scooped Frances into his arms, and said, “Marry me.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Chez Papa by now?” said Frances, giggling.
“Ten minutes ago,” answered Nico, kissing her on the neck.
“Alphonse is going to blame me for your lateness.”
“Let him try.” He put his hands on her thin shoulders and ran his palms all the way down her arms. “You are a bony thing. If you won’t marry me then let me cook a big lunch for you.”
“Nico! You’ve got to
get to work!”
“Who knew you were such a slave to convention?”
“I like paychecks. Learned that one early.”
“I thought your family was mega-rich?”
“Oh, they are. But we, uh, well…I figured out pretty early that it would be best if I made my own money and didn’t depend on them. I got my first job—wait a minute, nice try, I’m not falling for your delay tactics! Get your silly butt over to Chez Papa on the double!” She reached under his T-shirt and tickled him.
“Okay, I’m going, I’m going. But one more try. Frances,” he said, his voice serious, putting his hands on either side of her face. “Elope with me. Right after I’m done with this shift. We’ll go to Bergerac, get married, and take a month of honeymoon. Alphonse will be fine with it, you know he would. And you don’t have any contracts at the moment, right? Nothing is in the way!”
Frances looked at Nico with love, successfully hiding the panic his words had stirred up. “Just go to work, monkey,” she whispered. “We can talk about all that later.”
He looked momentarily crestfallen but pulled himself together, kissed her unhurriedly, and left the apartment.
5
Sundays were quiet in Castillac, especially now that summer was long over. Families spent the day together, some going to church and some worshipping at the altar of a well-stocked lunch table. The roads were empty as Acting Chief Maron trudged through the village, wandering the streets and thinking over the details of the murder, at a loss for how to proceed.
It had been difficult to take over when Ben Dufort resigned as Chief, but at least Dufort had stayed in town and been available for consultation. Now he was on the other side of the world cavorting with elephants, and Maron was stuck with another murder that so far was offering up nothing but dead ends. Nagrand had called the day before to tell him he approximated the time of the Baron’s death to be eleven o’clock the night of the 18th. He might easily have survived but a single ball of shot had caught his carotid artery and he had bled to death in a matter of minutes.
Not the worst way to go, said Nagrand, but Maron had no interest in pursuing that line of conversation with the coroner, whom he viewed as a necessary vulture but not a friend. Not that Maron had no friends at all in Castillac, and few prospects.
In theory, death did not especially bother him as long as it wasn’t his, and having a murder to solve should have brought some welcome excitement from the usual round of parking tickets and petty theft that was Castillac’s normal fare. But to Maron’s surprise, it was decidedly not welcome. Ironically, the pressure of the being the top guy—even if only provisionally—in such a small village was far more difficult for him than the very real dangers of urban counter-terrorism would be. It felt as though all eyes in the village were trained on him and him alone as everyone waited for results.
All right then, he said to himself, trying to bring some order into his straying, jumpy thoughts. Let’s be methodical about this. We have the murder weapon, the expensive antique Holland & Holland twelve-gauge shotgun, belonging to the victim. No prints. No one known to be at the Château except the Baroness, who appears to have no motive for killing her husband, though of course more interviews are necessary, and the housekeeper. Got to see what the opinion of the village is on that one, at least if the couple mingled enough with the village for anyone to have an opinion. Maybe I should go see Madame Tessier, the font of all knowledge….
He let himself into the station and went to his desk to read Nagrand’s report once more. Time of death, ten o’clock. Penetration of the carotid artery. Otherwise fit and in good health for his age. Some arthritis in his left thumb. An ingrown toenail. Not overweight, defined musculature.
A rustling at the door and Maron looked up to see Paul-Henri come in, his uniform immaculate.
“Bonjour, Paul-Henri.”
“Bonjour, Chief. Any word from Nagrand?”
“Yes, I just emailed you his report. I’ll reserve comment until you tell me your thoughts.”
Maron leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms up over his head, and waited for Paul-Henri to read what Nagrand had written.
“Okay. Well,” Paul-Henri began, looking up from his computer after a few minutes, “obviously there’s not much here. But in my opinion what we’re dealing with is some kind of attempted robbery or burglary.”
“Explain.”
“Well, you’ve heard about the emerald, of course. That to me is the most obvious motive. I mean, you don’t keep something of that massive value at your house, with no security to speak of, and expect that you’re never going to run into trouble.”
Maron had not heard of any emerald but did not want to say so. “So in your opinion someone went to the Château on Friday night looking for this emerald, and ended up shooting the Baron?”
“He probably had to, didn’t he, if he had just forced the Baron to hand over the goods. Getting rid of the witness, you see.”
“I see,” said Maron sarcastically. “And your evidence for this dramatic tale?”
“A murder is dramatic, Chief, it’s not me trying to make it so. And a murder at that gloomy Château—even more so.”
“Oh, you don’t approve of Château Marainte? Not your style?”
Paul-Henri wanted very much to explain the features he believed to be the most aesthetically pleasing in château architecture, but had no confidence Maron would appreciate a word of it, so he steered the conversation back to the case.
“Certainly the jewel would have been hidden somewhere, not sitting out where anyone could snatch it. So I believe the Baron was alive long enough to show the thief where it was—at gunpoint, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” said Maron, sneering.
“And so,” continued Paul-Henri, ignoring Maron’s glares, “on the assumption that the murder did not take place until the emerald had been secured by the thief, and thereby that the thief has the emerald in his or her possession—because otherwise why kill the Baron?—we should monitor all avenues of jewelry sales—auctions, and that sort of thing. Though I suspect the thief is too clever to try to sell it on the open market. It’s probably a private sale, and if our luck is very bad, it’s already changed hands and the money untraceable.”
A long quiet moment in the station while Maron digested this explanation while Paul-Henri straightened his posture, looking very pleased with himself.
“So you’re saying a professional jewel thief killed the Baron?”
“I am,” said Paul-Henri, puffing out his chest.
“And this professional jewel thief just happened to find a loaded gun at hand at just the moment he needed it?”
Paul-Henri started to speak but stopped. He looked up at the ceiling as though a movie of the murder scene was playing on it. “He could have brought his own weapon, of course, perhaps a dagger? But decided to go with the shotgun since obviously it’s better to kill someone with his own gun if it can be managed.”
“Is it now,” mumbled Maron, rolling his eyes. “Did you by any chance think about going to film school instead of the police academy? Perhaps you were writing screenplays? Your imagination is certainly…vivid. Daggers and jewel thieves, huh? How much does a ticket to the matinée cost?”
“Very funny,” said Paul-Henri. He turned back to his computer and pretended to be looking over the report again. “Shame the Baron had such bad luck. According to Nagrand the guy was in very good shape for his age.”
“Fifty-seven,” said Maron. “Not exactly an old man. Spent a lot of his time hunting, so I suppose that means a lot of walking. Do you hunt?”
“Me? Oh no. I grew up in the suburbs and liked going to museums and cafés in Paris. Forests aren’t anyplace I’d choose to be.”
Maron had little interest in nature either, but the shared opinion did not make him look at Paul-Henri with any less contempt.
“All right, one thing we can agree on—someone else was at the Château the other night. So let’s get out there, chat
up everyone we can think of, and find out who it was, shall we?”
Molly felt a little lonely that Sunday. It seemed as though the entire village was snuggled up on that chilly morning with their families and lovers, and she had no one, not even any guests. Which—forget loneliness for a minute, having no guests was the much bigger problem, she thought, looking over the numbers for her gite business for the last month. Her bank account wasn’t empty, not all the way, but dwindling by the day. After a booming summer when she’d been fully booked most of the time, with a delightful cash flow—the booking calendar for November looked bleak.
She had used much of the summer money for improvements around La Baraque. That would pay off, eventually…but how to keep food on the table in the meantime?
“Come on, Bobo!” she said, getting up from her desk and heading to the kitchen to top off her coffee. She had learned from sore experience that sitting around the house checking her email every thirty seconds did not actually produce more bookings, and it was better to get out of the house, away from the temptation.
She put on some sturdy boots which made Bobo leap about the room because she knew that meant a long walk, and then off they went, down the meadow behind the house, past the empty pigeonnier, and into the woods. Of course she wondered about the Baron’s murder, but those thoughts fizzled quickly since she had no knowledge at all of any of the details, and could not even picture where it had taken place since she had never even been up the driveway to Château Marainte.
Probably his wife did it, she figured, or a disgruntled relative. Fighting over an inheritance or something.
But such ruminations were not very entertaining since they were based on nothing at all, and soon Molly was not seeing the woods and the bright day but instead worrying over her financial situation and what to do about it. She had spiffed up her website and taken out a few ads. She had joined a site that represented many hundreds of gite businesses, but so far had only produced one booking. What could she do to make visiting Castillac in the off-season more appealing?