Murder for Love (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 4)

by Nell Goddin

  Molly thought about going to see Madame Tessier, who almost always had a nugget or two of news, but what she was most in the mood for was hanging out with children. Any children, really, though she realized that some people might think she sounded like some kind of weirdo predator. It was only that her head had been filled with little but Iris for so long—with death and loss and sorrow—and she wished to hear the bubbling, innocent laughter of kids. Wanted to listen to rambling stories with no punchline, and be asked questions she had no idea how to answer.

  In short, she missed Oscar and Gilbert and every other kid she’d gotten to know and love…but Oscar was in Australia and she knew Madame Gilbert was not her biggest fan.

  Well, Pâtisserie Bujold would have to do.

  The shop was empty except for Nugent.

  “This heat, it’s terrible for business,” he groused, not giving Molly’s chest so much as a sideways glance.

  “It is hotter than I remember from last year,” said Molly sympathetically.

  “It is not good for the pastries, either.”

  “I expect not.”

  A long silence while Molly inspected the contents of the display case. Something about Nugent seemed off. Usually he stood behind the counter smiling in expectation of compliments, enjoying the way Molly looked over the day’s selection. She kept glancing at him as she admired the row of strawberry tarts, next to a stately line of Napoleons, then cream puffs, pistachio Jésuits, buttery palmiers. He was paying no attention at all, but staring out of the window, his mouth drawn down at the corners.

  Molly inhaled deeply, never tiring of the heady combination of butter and vanilla that was the hallmark of Pâtisserie Bujold. “So Edmond, I have to admit I haven’t practiced making croissants even once. I don’t know where I got the idea that moving to France would turn me practically into a woman of leisure with time for hobbies, because I’m quite busy, not that that’s any excuse really.”

  Nugent turned his face towards Molly when she began speaking but did not change his expression. She waited for criticism, remonstration, at the very least some teasing…but Nugent said nothing.

  “Would you be up for another lesson?” she blurted out, not remotely having intended to suggest such a thing.

  Nugent startled. “Another lesson?”

  “Yes. Maybe we could set aside croissants for the moment, give me a chance to practice that at home, and move on to something else? Éclairs, maybe? Are they very difficult?”

  “Pssh,” said Nugent with a wave of his hand. “A child could make them. Of course, the other pâtissiers in Castillac—their éclairs taste like cardboard. The shell is tough and overly chewy, the filling tastes like paste. So perhaps I should not insult children in this way.”

  Molly grinned, seeing him return to his old self a bit. “Excuse me if I’m being too pushy, but maybe…maybe we could do it right now, since the whole village seems to be hiding inside out of the heat? I guess the tourists are all looking for swimming pools instead of pastry. Anyway—what do you think?”

  Nugent considered. Again Molly noticed that at no point did he look at her with his usual lasciviousness, which was certainly a relief…but what did it mean? And since when had he ever been reluctant to spend time alone with her?

  “Actually Madame Sut—er, Molly. I’m not…it’s been tough lately, I mean to say….”

  Molly waited. She watched him grimace, saw his fists tighten. What is going on with him, she wondered.

  “Oh, all right,” he said finally. “Get your apron over there.”

  Molly put down her handbag and got the apron wrapped and tied around her. “Is something…is there anything you want to talk about?” she asked.

  Nugent was getting a large bowl and a carton of eggs. “No. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Talking isn’t going to bring her back, is it?”

  “Iris?”

  “Of course Iris! Who else would I be speaking of?”

  Molly smoothed her palms over her apron, observing him.

  “It’s just—people don’t understand. They don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  Nugent appeared to be struggling. Molly was confused but felt there was something dangling in front of her to grab onto, a thread, a trail, but she couldn’t quite see what it was.

  “You didn’t know her, Molly. We shared something, Iris and I. She came in almost every morning, always at the same time, right after I opened the shop at seven. She was an early riser, you see, just like me. About nine months a year she would be up at dawn to garden before she went to work, and she would come here to get a croissant or a roll, hot out of the oven. Iris knew my schedule intimately. She knew which days I made tart tatin. She knew that a pain de campagne has a thick crust to make it last longer.

  “She paid attention, is what I am trying to impress upon you. We…we had something, Iris and I.” Nugent drew in a long, snuffly breath. He opened his hands and closed them again tightly, then banged them on the counter. “That Pierre, he is nothing but a brute. Hardly deserving of her. Séverin—he’s much younger than I, all right, I have eyes in my head. It’s not an utter mystery to me why she might have chosen him. But he didn’t esteem her, not like I did. No. He broke up with her, didn’t he? Just tossed her aside when he was done like she was nothing more than an empty beer bottle.”

  Nugent put his hands over his face and Molly thought she heard a sniffle.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I only met her that one time but I got the instant feeling we were going to be friends.”

  “And doubtless you would have been.” Nugent’s shoulders drooped. “Get out a big bowl. Sift the flour. Take out a saucepan and the milk.”

  Molly moved around the kitchen at Nugent’s bidding, her mind only half on what she was doing. She had milk heating up and the flour and salt sifted when her cell whistled.

  “You mind if I get that?”

  Nugent waved his hand in the air to say he didn’t care and then leaned heavily on the counter while Molly rummaged through her bag.

  It was a text from Frances.

  Pierre dead.

  “What?” Molly said out loud.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Nugent, hearing the shock in Molly’s tone.

  Molly was furiously tapping more questions to Frances. “I just heard—something about Pierre. Hold on, I’m trying to get more details.”

  Nugent turned away. His jaw was set and he did not smile, though Molly might have detected an expression of satisfaction on his face if she had been able to see it.

  34

  Molly cut short the lesson on éclairs, which Nugent barely seemed to notice. She ran back down rue Picasso to see if the mechanics had shown up, and found her scooter parked outside with a ticket attached to the handlebars. It had been cleaned up and the brown paint shone as much as such a muddy color could. She pushed open the door and said hello.

  “Ah, Madame Sutton! We saw that you left your scooter here and figured there was some kind of problem, so we went ahead and took a look at it. You’ll be happy to hear it needed only a minor adjustment to the carburetor. I fixed it up and you’re all set to go.”

  “What?” Molly was having a hard time taking in the good news right on top of the shocking news about Pierre. “I’m set to go?”

  “Not to be a nag, but you might take a little better care of her,” said the mechanic. Wipe off some of the mud every once in a while.”

  “You mean…it’s running now?”

  “Purring like a kitten,” said the mechanic with a small smile.

  Molly thanked him, and thanked him profusely when he told her she owed him nothing. No parts, and it had only taken him five minutes. But she made no move to leave, instead stood there staring at a truck in the parking lot, thinking.

  “Do you mind if I ask a question? How hard would it be to…to make a truck start without a key?” she asked, not knowing the French word for hotwire.

  “Are you planning a new career in veh
icle theft? You know the French system would make it next to impossible for you to find a buyer. Or are you going to forge paperwork to go with it?” The mechanic was chuckling now, enjoying this idea of Madame Sutton, master criminal.

  “What I’m wondering about is…well, did you know Pierre Gault? Have you heard what happened?”

  “Of course I know Pierre. I saw him just yesterday. He brought the truck in for an oil change.”

  “Wait, what?”

  The mechanic shrugged. “Of course he could do it himself easily enough. But if you know Pierre, you know all he cares about is stones! He’s got rocks in head!” He laughed. “So I take care of his truck for him.”

  “So you changed the oil, and then he came and picked it up? This was yesterday?”

  “No, not—sometimes that’s how we do it. This time he’s working out on route de Tournesol and it’s too far for him to walk. So after we changed the oil, the easiest thing was for me to drive the truck over to his place—it’s not far from here—and leave it for him. He said he’d get a ride home from the guy he’s doing the work for.”

  So no wonder Pierre hadn’t answered when she knocked on his door last night, she thought. Well, that’s one mystery solved, though not the one I’d have chosen. Still, baby steps….

  Molly said, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but apparently Pierre…he fell off a ladder at the worksite. Didn’t survive the fall.”

  The mechanic stared at her. “He’s…?”

  Molly nodded. She searched for something to say, some explanation, some comfort, but could find nothing. She grasped hands with the mechanic and the two of them held on tight, their eyes getting damp, shaking their heads in unison.

  The scooter was purring like a kitten, though Molly could hardly enjoy it as she rode distractedly back to La Baraque. She kept seeing this image in her mind, over and over, of the stolid Pierre toppling off a ladder and falling onto what was likely a stone floor. Ugh. She had seen him on ladders many days at La Baraque, as he shaped the walls of the pigeonnier, and it had seemed to her at the time that he was terrifically nimble, much more so than one would have expected given his heavy body type. He had scrambled up and down ladders and on the roof of the building like a ten year-old in a tree, as physically capable as anyone you could imagine.

  She couldn’t help wondering: had he fallen? Or was the truth more complicated than that?

  No matter what, Ben was going to be devastated. Molly wanted to check on Eugenia and begin planning Lawrence’s birthday party, but first, after a calming few minutes petting Bobo, she settled on the terrace in the shade and called him.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said flatly.

  “You have? Maybe I had the ringer off by mistake—so sorry but I’ve been running around the village and just got home. Ben, I’m heartbroken about Pierre.”

  “Really? That’s something of a surprise.”

  Molly drew in a long breath. She knew better than to get into an argument now, when the news was so fresh. “Do you think it was an accident?” she asked quietly.

  “I do not.”

  Molly waited but Ben did not elaborate. She wanted to know if he’d been in touch with Maron and Monsour but of course Ben knew that perfectly well and was choosing not to say. “Would you like to come over?” she asked.

  “I have work to do.” His tone was rough and Molly’s eyes widened at the chilliness of it. “I’ll call later,” he added, more softly, and they hung up.

  Well.

  I’m not going to think about that right now, she said to herself, jumping up and getting a pad and pen. Instead I’m going to figure out the guest list for Lawrence’s birthday and work on the menu, then call Frances to see if she’ll help.

  Castillac was going to have its first American disco 70s party, and there was no reason in the world Molly couldn’t arrange that with one hand and work on the Iris case on the other. It might be the only way to save things between her and Ben.

  Though if that’s true, what we have is just not that solid, is it?

  Not thinking about that right now.

  She called Frances. “So if we have music and dancing, we’re not going to want a heavy meal,” she said. Often she and Frances talked to each on the phone like this—dispensing with greetings and picking up a conversation where it had been left off even if it was days before.

  “Correct,” answered Frances. She was lying on the sofa at Nico’s with her long legs up over the back of it, sweating because the windows were closed to keep any stray bees from flying in. “Although one thing I’ve learned from Nico—the French do not play fast and loose with meals the way we do. You’re not going to be able to serve cocktails and potato chips and call it a night.”

  “Now in what universe would I ever have done something like that?”

  “Just saying.”

  “Finger food or sit-down with plates?”

  “How many people are you having?”

  “Oh, right. I should really do that first.” There was a long pause as Molly thought. “You know, I just had a little idea.”

  “Uh huh. You’ve always just had a little a little idea. What is it this time?”

  “I think I’ll keep it to myself for now. But the guest list—it’s going to be on the large side.” Molly let out a cackle. “And if things work out the way I want them to, this party is going to be epic.”

  35

  The next few days went by in a whirlwind of studying recipes, searching for ingredients, and calling to invite a long list of people. Molly needed Constance to come in the day of the party to do some desperately needed cleaning.

  “Constance, is there any way you can rearrange your schedule? I’m having almost thirty people over and my living room is covered with dog hair!”

  “It’s just that Thomas and I—”

  “And of course you’re both invited! The reason I’d like you to clean on Thursday is that if you do it earlier, it’ll be a wreck again before the party. I’ll do all the kitchen clean-up myself. And maybe I can get Frances to help you.”

  “The last time you tried that, all she did was dance around with the broom singing songs from Gene Kelly movies.”

  “You don’t like Gene Kelly? I’d have thought you were too young to know who he is.”

  “Molls! Just because I’m not as old and decrepit as some people doesn’t mean my life has been a cultural wasteland.”

  Molly sighed and laughed at the same time.

  “Plus if you want me to do what you’re asking, insulting me is not the way to get there.”

  “Constance, no insult intended, I promise. Please? I’ll make it up to you somehow. This is not just any party. It’s…it’s important.”

  “Yeah yeah, I know, Lawrence is your bestie. All right, I’ll talk to Thomas. He made the plans so I’m not going to cancel without talking to him first.”

  “Understood! Thanks a billion!”

  “Um hm,” said Constance, sounding huffy but actually enjoying the whole conversation immensely.

  “All right then, see you Thursday morning unless I hear otherwise?”

  Constance agreed and they hung up. Molly consulted her list, which at this point was two pages of illegible scratchings with items checked off and scribbled notes in the margins and other things crossed out. The menu was ambitious: lavender spritzers, toasted slices of baguette spread with goat cheese and duxelles, camembert and fig tartines, frisée salad with lardons and a mustard dressing, ratatouille, duck confit, and profiteroles covered in birthday candles for dessert. And this time she wasn’t going to forget the ingredients for Lawrence’s obligatory Negronis.

  She had held her breath when calling a few people, but so far everyone had agreed to come. Eugenia graciously offered to help in the kitchen, saying that people from Louisiana have an affinity for French food and there was far too much to do for one cook.

  “Well, I’m not making the duck confit from scratch,” Molly said to her when they were hav
ing a planning meeting.

  “Good thing—it takes days, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. So I’m just buying them from the specialty food shop in town. They suggested catering the whole business, and I was tempted…but I didn’t even ask how much that would cost. I’m being financially irresponsible enough as it is.”

  “But it’s your best pal’s birthday. What better occasion to splurge?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Molly. “Now what do you think about a dance floor? I hate to say it but I almost picked up the phone to call Pierre, the mason who died a few days ago, to ask him how hard would it be to make one.”

  Eugenia shook her head. “He’s the man who did the work on the pigeonnier?”

  “Yes. Very talented.”

  “I’ll say. But…to go back to the dance floor, I think it’ll be just fine to dance in the yard. Cut the grass real low to define the area, put on some Donna Summer, and people will hop to it.”

  “Do you think people here will even know who Donna Summer is? Or anyone younger than me? I was just a little kid when disco was a thing. Once I grew up a little and discovered the blues, that’s all I ever listened to.”

  “The blues? Girl, you have got to come visit me in Louisiana. I can take you to hear music you will not believe.”

  “You’re on. Okay, what do you think about seating? Shall we do one long table in the yard, with a white tablecloth and lots of candles?”

  “Yes ma’am, you should. Do you have enough tables? Want me to figure that out?”

  Molly grinned. “You don’t speak French, Eugenia, or know a single soul in the village. How are you going to borrow enough tables for thirty people?”

  Eugenia waggled her eyebrows. “You underestimate me, darlin’. Cross that off your list—I’ll get it done.”

  The work of getting ready for the party was almost enough to put both the shaky state of things with Ben and the murder of Iris Gault out of Molly’s mind. Almost, but not quite.