Murder for Love (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 4)

by Nell Goddin

  “You’re saying she’ll be able to find me a 70s disco suit in Castillac?”

  “I may have to cast a wider net than the village,” said Frances. “Just leave it to me.” She clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m so pleased to have a project other than this stupid jingle! Let’s drink to procrastination!”

  Everyone at the bar raised their glasses and clinked. “To procrastination!”

  Molly peeked out of the corner of her eye at Caroline Dubois, who had pulled her chair right up close to the woman she was having dinner with. “Hey Lawrence,” she said, sotto voce, “do you know her? The woman in the navy jacket?”

  “No, but I admire the jacket. It looks perfect on her, for one thing. Beautiful cut, though I’d imagine it might be a little warm this time of year.”

  Molly nodded, thinking.

  “Does this have something to do with Iris?”

  Molly nodded again. There she was with Hector on one side and Caroline on the other, but how to approach them?

  Did they both have a thing for Iris? Did either of them know something they weren’t telling?

  “I’m gonna…I’ll be back in a minute,” she murmured, and walked over to Caroline’s table. “Bonsoir, Caroline,” she said warmly. “It’s so packed in here tonight, huh?”

  Caroline met Molly’s gaze but did not smile. She put her arm around the woman she was with, her fingers stroking her bare shoulder.

  “Sorry, am I interrupting?” Molly took a step backwards.

  “It’s all right. Do you know each other? Molly Sutton, let me present my friend Kath Halliwell.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Molly, who couldn’t help noticing that Kath might have had one too many drinks. Her eyes were glassy as she smiled at Molly without speaking. “Can I join you just for a moment?” she asked, sliding into a chair despite Caroline’s chilliness.

  “Did you know Iris too?” Molly asked Kath.

  “How dare you,” said Caroline in a low voice. “Do you run around the village like a vulture, picking over the bones of everyone who dies? Is that what you do?”

  Molly sat up very straight. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand why you’re angry with me. Don’t you want us to find out what happened to Iris?”

  “You’re just interested in getting another notch on your belt. ‘Look at me, everyone, I come barging in from America and start solving all the mysteries in the département!’ You don’t care about Iris. It doesn’t even matter to you if you get it right—as long as you can get someone arrested and bask in the glory, that’s good enough, right?”

  “What? Caroline, you’ve really got me all wrong—”

  “I don’t think so, Madame Sutton. You come over here and sit down without being invited, thinking you’ll catch me in some little lie, and pin Iris’s murder on me. That’s what you’re up to, isn’t it?”

  Even though Caroline was not at all topping out Molly’s list of suspects, the grain of truth in what Caroline said made Molly pause.

  “You think because I’m gay, I’m capable of anything, is that it?”

  At that Molly burst out with a laugh. “Caroline, I don’t know what’s given you these wrong ideas about me, but I will tell you, they are dead wrong!”

  “See, you can’t get a sentence out without saying ‘dead’. You’re like a circling hyena, scavenging on Castillac.”

  Finally the penny dropped and Molly realized Caroline as well as Kath had had too much to drink. She hadn’t seemed that tipsy at first. Kath, who didn’t appear to be taking in any of the conversation, slumped her head on Caroline’s shoulder.

  “Look, I’m sorry to have interrupted. You have a good night,” said Molly, heading to the bathroom in the back of the bar. She splashed some water on her face and looked in the mirror, wondering what Caroline saw when she looked at her. A homophobic vulture-hyena, apparently.

  By the time she rejoined her friends, everyone was beginning to drift home. She hugged Frances and asked her to come over in the morning, kissed Lawrence goodnight and made a plan to get together later in the week, and waved at Nico as she left to walk home.

  The night had been a failure in every direction. Pierre in hiding, no useful information on Hector, an accusatory Caroline.

  Maybe this time, Molly was not going to get to the bottom of what happened. Maybe nobody ever would.

  31

  Molly got home from Chez Papa exhausted. It was far earlier than her usual bedtime but she fell gratefully into bed and fast asleep, so that when the sirens went past la Baraque they woke her out of a deep slumber. At first she thought she was back in Boston where sirens were commonplace; she nearly rolled over and went back to sleep. But as consciousness developed and she grasped that she was in a place where sirens hardly ever blared, she bolted out of bed and texted Lawrence, who so often seemed to know what was happening almost before it happened.

  “No idea,” he texted back.

  It was not yet midnight. She texted Ben; he didn’t know what had got the gendarmes out either. Molly couldn’t help wishing sometimes that he was still Chief, with all the inside information and authority that came with the position. But that was over and done, he was happier now, and she’d have to find another way to get information. If she’d had the scooter, she might have ridden down the road to see for herself, but walking didn’t seem like the best idea since she had no idea how far away the trouble was.

  Now she was up, wide awake, and the wheels started turning. Somewhere, somehow—I’m making a faulty assumption, she thought. I’m believing someone who is lying, making a connection where there is none, seeing something that isn’t there. But what?

  She poured herself the dregs of a bottle of rosé and went out to the dark terrace. Bobo roused herself to follow, and the orange cat showed up and rubbed against her ankles. Molly sipped the wine and looked up into the starry sky, thinking about Iris. Were you happy? she wondered. Did you ever believe anyone really loved you, and wasn’t only carried away by your looks?

  For what seemed like the thousandth time, Molly thought about everyone who had talked to her about Iris. She reviewed their conversations as best as she could, trying to listen more carefully, more objectively; to see if she could find the soft spot, the place in her thinking that was rotten.

  Eventually she went back to bed, still wondering about the siren and what the trouble was, and slept only fitfully, restless enough that Bobo finally hopped out of her bed and went to sleep on the floor where it was peaceful.

  32

  Ilene Lafont was anxious to have the work on the addition finished, as homeowners in that situation understandably always are. She found it stressful making conversation with Pierre, hearing the sharp noise of metal on stone for hours on end, and her yard reduced to a construction site full of rubble for what seemed an eternity.

  After dinner with her husband, Ilene finished her brandy and got a flashlight so she could go see what progress Pierre had made now that he was finally gone for the day. She saw that his truck had made a bad rut in the soft ground beside the driveway, and made a mental note to talk to him about that in the morning. Oh, she was going to be so happy to see these piles of stones gone and the gorgeous new addition finished!

  The exterior walls of the addition did look beautiful. She ran the beam of the flashlight over them, admiring the way Pierre had managed to keep the feeling of centuries-old stonework while building something entirely new. The golden stone, the mortar, the placement of each stone…every detail was amazing…but it was inside, on the difficult staircase, where Pierre had been working that day, that she was most curious to see.

  She pushed open the door and walked in. Her eyes went straight to the figure sprawled out on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. It was Pierre, his body crumpled unnaturally, not moving.

  Ilene hesitated, then ran over to him. She was too rattled to think clearly—she put her hand over his heart to see if it was beating, then snatched her hand back and ran for the house, shouting for her h
usband.

  About ten minutes later, as the Lafonts stood in the yard in a state of shock, they heard the siren, and less than a minute after that, Officer Monsour pulled into their driveway.

  “A body?” he said, with no greeting or introduction.”Where is it?”

  “This way,” said Victor. Ilene stayed behind, wringing her hands. She hadn’t liked Pierre, not at all, and now she felt overwhelmed with guilt, even though she knew one thing had nothing to do with the other. It’s not as if she had pushed him off the ladder after all.

  “Pierre Gault, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Husband of—”

  “Yes. Of Iris. Both of them died by falling—it’s too bizarre.” Victor took out a handkerchief and wiped his clammy brow.

  “When did you last see him alive?” Monsour asked.

  “When I got home from work. It was right around five. He’s been working here for quite a while, several months—it’s a big project. Generally I would come over first thing when I got home, to see how things were coming along.”

  “And tonight how did he seem? Anything different? The least unusual?”

  “No,” answered Victor.

  “Not upset, or worried about anything that you know of?”

  “Not at all. Though as you say, his wife died last week. He never spoke of it to me. I expected him to take some time off but he refused, said coming to work was actually helpful—he never said a word more than he had to. We didn’t…we didn’t have the kind of relationship where you talk about that sort of thing. He’d tell me about the work he’d been doing that day, sometimes ask a question or two to clarify how we wanted the thing done. That was it, really. Strictly professional.”

  Monsour stroked his chin. It looked to him as though the man had taken a header off the ladder. Could have been an accident. Or he could have been pushed, or had the ladder yanked out from under him.

  “And was it you who had these conversations with Monsieur Gault, not your wife?”

  “That’s right. My wife, she struggles to make small talk, and Pierre as well. So together…” Victor shrugged.

  Monsour pulled out his cell and turned aside. First he called Florian Nagrand, the coroner, followed by Maron.

  “Yes, the Lafont’s. Route de Tournesol, it’s just past…all right, I know you’ve lived here longer than I…pardon, Chief. Yes, I can affirm that he is dead…I do have some training, sir…all right. Yes…goodbye.” With exasperation Monsour shoved his cell in its holster on his belt. He walked back to Pierre and squatted down. Pierre’s wrist was bent back and Monsour had a strong urge to straighten it out, but knew not to touch anything until Nagrand had given him the okay.

  “Does it seem to you that there are more murders in the village than is absolutely normal?” asked Victor, looking through the window hoping to see the coroner’s car.

  “Can’t do much in the way of prevention,” answered Monsour. “We generally only get the call after the fact.”

  “I wasn’t trying to affix blame, merely wondering—”

  “Do you have any reason to suspect foul play?” asked Monsour, pleased to be able to use the expression. “Have you seen anyone else on your property today?”

  Victor shook his head. Monsour heard Maron’s scooter in the distance and went back outside. Victor followed, not wanting to be in the room alone with a dead man even for a second. He wondered whether he would have to pay Pierre’s estate what he still owed, since the mason had no family—and then was appalled by having such an ungenerous thought when the man’s body was still warm and lying right there in his own house.

  “Do you need to ask me anything else?” he asked Monsour. “Can I go check on my wife? She’s had quite a shock.”

  Monsour told Lafont to be back in five minutes because Maron would want to question him himself.

  “Pierre Gault, really?” Maron said in a low voice as the two gendarmes walked back to the addition.

  “Yes. I’m interested to hear what you think once you see him.” Monsour was trying out a new strategy to deal with his boss: flattery mixed with a chumminess meant to warm him up a little.

  Maron shot him a look, not fooled for a minute by Monsour’s change in demeanor. “You called Nagrand? Where the hell is he? And Monsour, don’t use the siren unless you have a reason. It’s upsetting to the community and makes you look self-important.”

  Monsour blinked, not quite able to take in that his new strategy was off to such a terrible start.

  Maron did not like hanging around dead bodies either. He knelt down beside Pierre, checking for a pulse in his neck just to be sure. “First the wife, then the husband. Well, there goes our prime suspect.”

  A scruffy terrier came sailing through the door and barked at the two men. “Get him out of here and shut the door,” barked Maron. “I think I hear Nagrand, I’m going to check.” A little lame for an excuse, but he felt like one more minute in the same room as Pierre and he might lose his dinner, and it had been a very good dinner indeed.

  Maron stood looking around the Lafont’s yard. It looked more or less like any construction site: ruts from truck tires, piles of stones on tarps, an upturned wheelbarrow, a pile of lumber. It was neater than usual, however, which didn’t surprise Maron given that the Gault house and garden were so well-kept as to remind him of a movie set and not a place where people actually lived.

  On his own the terrier shot back outside and Monsour slammed the door after him. Maron strode up to the main house and knocked, wanting Madame Lafont to go through her movements during the evening so that he could fix the time of discovery while it was still fresh in her mind, but before anyone came to the door Florian Nagrand turned into the driveway in his white work van.

  “I was right at a very exciting part in the book I’m reading,” groused Nagrand in his rough voice as he climbed out of the van. “My wife is not happy with you,” he added.

  “It’s hardly my fault,” said Maron. “This way. Did Monsour tell you—it’s Pierre Gault. He was building this addition for the Lafonts. Nice job he was doing, eh?”

  “He’s a very good mason,” said Nagrand. “Or was.” He opened the door to the extension and looked at Pierre from a distance before going closer. Then he squatted down beside the body, not touching Pierre at first but looking at his position, and taking a few snaps with the camera on his phone.

  “We’re lucky it’s not messier,” he muttered.

  “He’s still warm, but that could simply be the fact that the air temperature is also quite warm for this time of night,” said Monsour.

  Nagrand sighed. Would the gendarmes never learn to let him do his job without always having to get their two cents in?

  “Not to push you, Florian,” said Maron. “But what do you think…an accident? Just fell off the ladder? Any possibility it could be suicide?”

  “What would be most helpful is if you and Monsour would go out to the yard and see if you can find any evidence of anyone else visiting the Lafont’s. Talk to them. Look for, I don’t know, tire tracks or fallen buttons or whatever it is you look for. Where’s Pierre’s truck, by the way?”

  Maron got a sick feeling in his stomach. The most obvious question in the world, and it took the coroner to ask it.

  33

  It was awkward, walking the scooter any long distance, and the mechanic’s shop was on the other side of the village so that Molly’s arm was aching from having to stretch across and guide the handlebars. Her mood was foul from frustration and not enough sleep, and she muttered under her breath as she made her way along.

  When she was bumping down the alley next to the La Perla house, she stopped for a moment to rest her arm. The clothesline was bare for once, no fantastically expensive underwear dancing in the slight breeze, and no one in any of the backyards. The heat had started to build again and any villagers who weren’t at work were sticking to the shade.

  Just as an exercise, she considered the clothesline of the La Perla house and tri
ed to come up with every possible assumption she could to explain why it was vacant that day. First—there was no fancy underwear on the line because it wasn’t wash day. That was most likely the correct assumption, but, she reminded herself, most likely was not the same as true.

  The La Perla woman could have moved.

  She could have broken up with the husband or boyfriend who had given her the underwear, and thrown it all out in an attempt to erase bad memories.

  She could have decided to switch brands.

  She could have decided to go commando and forgo underwear altogether.

  Okay, that last one was pretty unlikely…but this was only an exercise after all, and it was useful to remind herself that unlikely was still possible. Molly knocked back the kickstand of the scooter with her foot and kept trudging to the mechanic’s.

  “Bonjour!” she called out when she got there, seeing no one around. No answer. It was too early for lunch, the door to the garage was open, but no one was inside. She parked the scooter and went to wander around the village for a little while, planning to check back in a little later, having learned that sometimes in France, business was not the first thing on people’s minds, but the proprietors might drift back to the shop at some point.

  The village was quiet that morning with not a soul on the street. Molly thought about calling Ben, but…the truth was, she just didn’t feel like it. She was disappointed in him for not accomplishing much of anything with the investigation except to defend Pierre at every turn. If Pierre was as innocent as he claimed, what evidence had he found to support it?

  She had thought at first that any strong relationship should be able to weather a difference of opinion without too much trouble. Well, she still believed that, but was no longer so sure she and Ben were in that category.

  However—this was not the day to think about that. She had to get the scooter fixed and talk to Nugent, that was all. Ben would have to wait.