Where Secrets Reside (The Outsiders Book 2)

by Susan Finlay

“OH, HELLO, MAURELLE,” Jeannette called out from a table in front of the bakery. “Come, sit, and join us for a snack. Paul and I are having coffee and pastry and talking about gendarmes and scandal.”

  “I can’t. Sorry.”

  Jeannette watched as Maurelle darted away. Such a strange girl. Sweet but flighty. “You know,” Jeannette said, “I had hoped you’d marry Maurelle. You did like her, didn’t you? And I am sure she’s fertile. She could have given me grandchildren. I’ve nearly given up on Simone.”

  Paul nodded, then said, “You’ve always been tougher on Simone. She might change her mind about children. Maybe if you didn’t nag at her about it, she would grow to like the idea.”

  Jeannette pouted.

  “I do hope you’re going to settle down soon,” she said, waving her hand at him. “Enough of that funny business. That’s what you promised.”

  “Grand-mère, you said you wouldn’t bring that up again, remember?”

  She sipped her coffee. Paul had always been her pride and joy. Oh, she knew he had his faults, but didn’t everyone? She’d certainly heard enough about the wild things men did. Her Charles wouldn’t like the way people behaved in this generation. He wouldn’t have understood. But she did.

  A loud commotion caught her attention and she looked up to see what was happening.

  At another outside table about five feet away, Sophie Dubois was standing with her hands on her hips, staring at Bruno Houdan, a chair lying tipped over behind him. Apparently, she’d thrown one of the plastic chairs at him. He was lazy, disgusting, and the town drunk. Coralie had once tried to get Jeannette to loan the man some money to get him back on his feet. Jeannette knew better. He’d throw it away on alcohol. Now, if he was to clean himself up and consider working, she might consider helping him. Fat chance of that ever coming to pass.

  “You stay away from my child, you pervert,” Sophie said. “I won’t have you touching my daughter the way you did with your brother’s step-daughter. Now go on, get out of here before I call the gendarmes.”

  “I didn’t touch anybody,” Bruno said. “It was all lies. She didn’t report anything. That’s because she made it up. Needed a good excuse to leave Michel. I was her scapegoat.”

  “Hah,” Sophie said. “Don’t waste your breath. I’ll never believe a word you say.” She turned on her heels then and stormed off.

  “HAVE YOU FOUND Luc Olivier yet?” Goddard asked.

  “No, sir,” Durand said. “No one at his restaurant has heard from him. Do you think something happened to him? Maybe our killer isn’t only killing women?”

  Goddard pursed his lips. He hadn’t thought of that. It was indeed a possibility. Or it could be the guy was hiding. He sighed and shook his head. Now Durand’s imagined dramas had his thoughts running amuck.

  “What do we know about him? Any signs that he’s packed up and left?”

  “His front door was unlocked. However, it’s our understanding that most people in Reynier don’t lock their doors—not residences, anyway. We went inside and had a look around. His clothes are still in his wardrobe. No sign of violence or anything like that. Nothing missing that we could tell.”

  “Does he have family in the area?”

  “No. He was dating Aimee Augustin, an estate agent, for a while. She says she hasn’t talked to him for at least a week.”

  “When was Olivier last seen?”

  “Uh, that’s right come to think of it. A few of his employees at his restaurant said they saw him this morning actually. And Felicia was one of his employees.”

  Sometimes, Durand. . . “I need you to run a background check on him. And talk to this Augustin woman again. See what she knows about him.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MAURELLE WALKED TO the bridge at the edge of the village, but instead of crossing over she paused, unsure where to go. On impulse, she turned the opposite direction and trudged up the steep road, eventually reaching the area where the ancient ruins of the old church were located.

  At the top, she stopped and bent forward, spent, hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. Three months ago she had walked this same stretch without even being winded. At first she was going to blame her pregnancy but then realized she was not that far along yet. Sad truth is, I’m just getting out of shape. Gotta get out more often. She straightened and gazed out over the vista. The brown rooftops and chimneys were surrounded by greenery so lush they were now almost invisible. Tall cypresses and graceful weeping willows flanked the river, a broad brown and olive ribbon meandering through the lush green expanse, with shades of the blue reflected sky periodically shimmering off the water surface. On the other side of the river, a baker’s dozen buildings were visible, the main thoroughfare of the newer part of town. Residential streets extended outward, making up the remainder of that part of town. A farmer’s lake with a small island could just be seen next to the main road heading south. In such an idyllic setting, no one would ever imagine that murder could happen. This was supposed to be a place for her to start over. Right. She should have known that mud sticks; she would never be able to wash it off.

  Maurelle continued toward the ruins. The old Gothic windows were long gone, as was the ancient slate roof and steeple. Remnants of some columns and most of the stone walls remained. She could almost imagine the original great arched roof overhead, an altar on which burned rows of candles, and lovely murals adorning portions of the ceiling. She sat down on a half-wall and closed her eyes as she’d done at other times when she either needed to think or just obtain some semblance of solitude. Images from a year ago troubled her mind. Blood had covered Jared Raybourne’s chest and trickled down from stab wounds onto the floor where he was laying. What was she going to do if Scotland Yard reopened the case? She couldn’t tell Dave what had happened. He would never understand, and he certainly wouldn’t forgive her. Tears trickled down her cheeks and she trembled with emotion.

  “YOU’RE HOME EARLY,” Chantal said. “I wasn’t expecting you for hours. Does this mean you’ve solved the case?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Goddard said. He sighed and shook his head. “Far from it. However, I realized today that I have been neglecting you and you deserve better than that. I can’t stay home for long. I have another person to interview in an hour and a half, but I hoped we might at least have a nice dinner together at home. I’m sorry to have dragged you out to that restaurant last night.”

  Chantal fidgeted with the neckline on her dress. Until then he hadn’t noticed she was dressed up and wearing high-heeled shoes.

  “Uh, I’m sorry. Did you already have dinner plans?”

  “I do, Pascal. I’m sorry. I made plans to go out with a couple of neighbors. I really couldn’t imagine you would be free tonight, with the big murder case going on. I can cancel the plan. I’m sure they will understand.”

  For all his experience in reading people and knowing how to respond to them, he was momentarily at a loss. Maybe he was reading more into the situation because of all the talk of affairs. Still, he couldn’t quiet his mind.

  “That’s not necessary, is it? I could join you and your friends.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. You would be bored out of your mind. Besides, I’m sure they would ply you with questions about the case and you would not be happy about that. I’ll call them and cancel. I don’t have anything ready for dinner, though. We’ll need to go out, if you don’t mind.”

  Goddard nodded, resigned, and stuffed his hands in his pant pockets.

  AFTER DINNER, GODDARD walked his wife home and then drove back to the Gendarmerie on the other side of town, this time admiring the peaceful but well-appointed town he usually took for granted. Having moved here from a larger town, he’d thought the place rather boring. Now he didn’t feel that way so much. Belvidere was a typical French town with a town square, old and new houses, several hotels, a train station, numerous restaurants, bistros, and outside cafés.

  Goddard and Chantal had sat at one of those
outside cafés as the sun was setting and Chantal had been so attentive and talkative that he felt foolish for having doubted her. Dinner turned out to be pleasant after all, a chance to spend at least some quality time with his wife.

  With a feeling of satisfaction over a pleasant evening, he stepped back into the Gendarmerie looking around for his men. The place looked deserted. No one around to answer phones or man the front desk? Shaking his head, he went into the main office where most of the men’s desks were grouped together. Michaud and Petit were standing near the coffee machine talking.

  “Why aren’t you at your station, Michaud?”

  “It’s been quiet, sir. Most of the men have either gone back to their barracks or are in Reynier.”

  “Where is Paul Lepage? I’m supposed to interview him right now.”

  “He’s already waiting for you, sir.” Petit motioned with his head toward the interview room.

  Goddard went to his office and picked up his notebook, then opened the door to the interview room. Paul Lepage looked exactly as he had on Wednesday when Alain and Paul had escorted Goddard to the cave where they’d found the first body; lean, muscular, black hair, and several days’ worth of stubble on his face.

  He sat down across from Paul, walked through his standard preliminary questions, and then said, “My men tell me that you were involved with Felicia Beaumont.”

  “I was . . . a few months ago. We’d since gone our separate ways. No hard feelings. I was devastated, though, when I heard she had been murdered. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill such a sweet woman.”

  “Who broke off the relationship?”

  “I don’t know. It was mutual, one of those situations where we both lost interest.”

  “Was she seeing anyone after you broke up?”

  Paul leaned back in his chair, frowning and studying Goddard.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I need you to answer me. This is a criminal investigation and everyone who knew her is a potential suspect, including you.”

  Paul sighed out loud.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you what I know. Felicia confided in me a couple weeks ago that she was seeing someone and that she was pregnant. I asked and she said not to worry, it wasn’t mine. She wouldn’t tell me who the father was. Now, I’m not an idiot. First off, I figured he’s a married man or at least one in another serious relationship. Why else the secretiveness? ”

  “And who do you think is the father?”

  He shrugged. “Do you really want me to guess?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, I see several possibilities; there’s Alain Delacroix and Dave Martin. But I have to say that neither seems particularly likely to me. Simone and Maurelle would probably kill them if they were. Having an affair, I mean. Neither of them would put up with a cheating man.” He hesitated and then said, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  Goddard didn’t like the smoke, but he knew from past experience that allowing a smoker to light up during an interview sometimes helped to get them to open up and talk more. He stood up, opened the door, and asked Petit to bring in an ashtray.

  After Paul lit up, he said, “I feel a bit guilty telling you any of this. These men are friends. Oh, and I didn’t mean to imply I thought Simone or Maurelle is a killer. God no. Simone is my cousin and my best friend. She wouldn’t kill anyone. It was simply a manner of speech.”

  “The truth will come out eventually. You’re doing the right thing telling me what you think. Now, you said Simone wouldn’t kill anyone, but what about Maurelle Martin?”

  He shrugged.

  “I’ve known her for only about a year, actually a little less than a year. She’s always been nice to everyone from what I’ve seen.”

  “Getting back to the men, who else do you think may have been seeing Felicia?”

  “Well.” He hesitated and rubbed the back of his head with his free hand while he took another puff of his fag. “I don’t like saying this, but I’ve heard rumors about Jonas Lefèvre. That he was having an affair with her. Like I said, it’s just hearsay.”

  “But you sound like you believe it? Why?”

  He sighed out loud again and then said, “Because he was also having an affair with Gabrielle.”

  Goddard tried to keep his face blank but his mind was reeling. Jonas and Gabrielle. The little girl, Amelie. Jonas and Felicia. A pregnancy.

  He pulled himself together and asked, “How do you know that he was having an affair with Gabrielle Thibault?”

  “I don’t know it for sure, but Jonas did boast about it once or twice. Of course, I’m often dubious about his claims. Still, he did know her. They actually met through me while I was living in Paris. I was in art school in Montparnasse. Jonas makes frequent trips to Paris. He would stop in to visit me at my apartment sometimes, and he came to my workplace once.”

  “And how did you know Mademoiselle Thibault?”

  “She was the daughter of my employer. I was working part-time at his art gallery to pay for living expenses. She would come in to see her father occasionally. We would talk.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “Not well. I barely knew her.”

  “Were you romantically involved with her?”

  “No. I was involved with someone else at the time.”

  “How did Jonas and Gabrielle meet?”

  “She was there, at the gallery, when Jonas visited. You know, Jonas. Well, maybe you don’t, but everyone else around here does. He turned his charm on her like he does with all the women.”

  “Was Jonas married at the time?”

  “Yes. I had hoped she would have the sense not to get involved with him.” He shrugged.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe three years ago. I was in Paris for two years and came back to Reynier a little over two years ago.”

  Goddard did a quick calculation in his head.

  “Gabrielle would have been pregnant when you left Paris. Did she ever tell you who the father of her child was?”

  “No. Why would she tell me? I only saw her occasionally—at the gallery or when her parents hosted a party. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I didn’t hear anything from her, or about her, after I left, so you can imagine I was surprised when I heard that the baby Maurelle found was Gabrielle’s. How are Gabrielle’s parents doing? My God, I can imagine how devastated they must be. They’re nice people and they didn’t deserve this. Is the baby back with them?”

  “I believe she is with her maternal grandparents now,” Goddard said, “or she will be soon. Did Gabrielle have any close friends that you know of? Someone in whom she may have confided?”

  “Not that I know of. Her father told me she was friendly with some of her co-workers at the school. If I remember right, there was a male teacher she’d dated at some point while I was still in Paris. But I wouldn’t know his name. She seemed a rather secretive person from what I could tell. You know, hard to get to know.”

  “So this would have been after she met Jonas?”

  “Probably. But you must remember Jonas didn’t live in Paris. He lived in Reynier. He was only in Paris now and again for quick business trips. I guess he still travels to Paris.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  STANDING IRRESOLUTELY IN the center of Fabienne’s living room, Dave ran his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself down. “I’m worried sick, Grand-mère. It’s not like Maurelle to stay out all night. Are you sure you haven’t heard from her?”

  Fabienne pouted. “You think I’m hiding her?”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t mean that.” What did he mean? It’s not like his grandmother was incapable of lying to him. She’d done it before. And she had helped Maurelle hide in the past.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve looked everywhere. We had an argument yesterday afternoon and she stormed out. I thought she would cool off and come home later. I don’t even know whether
to call the gendarmes. I mean, she could be staying with someone, right?”

  Fabienne’s forehead creased. “Oh, dear, what if the killer has—” She put her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

  The unspoken thought had already entered Dave’s mind, as well. He told himself he was worried for nothing, but part of him wouldn’t believe him and the worry remained. Of course, he couldn’t dismiss another lesser but still disturbing thought: that Maurelle might have run away, again. Well, better that than to be lying somewhere . . . .

  “Can you think of anywhere she might have gone or someone she might have confided in? Simone, perhaps.”

  “Dear boy, do you really think Maurelle and Simone are friends? I thought you were more observant than that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Have you spoken to Coralie? She might know where Maurelle is.”

  “Yes, I mean no, I mean . . . . I’ll go see her now. She would be at the store, right?”

  Fabienne nodded.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER Dave stood in Coralie’s office in the back of her general store and dialed his parents’ telephone number. Coralie had urged him to call the gendarmes and report Maurelle’s disappearance, but he wanted to get some advice from his father, a retired-cop, first. This wasn’t simply police business.

  “Hey, Dad. Am I calling at a bad time?”

  “What? Dave, is that you? We were asleep. Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, crap. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about the time difference. I should have waited, but I really need to talk to you about something.”

  “It’s okay. What’s going on, son?”

  Dave braced himself. This was something he’d put off as long as possible. When he’d first told them about the wedding over the telephone, his mother, Eloise Martin, had let him know she was, to say the least, displeased.

  “What a horrible thing to do to your own parents,” she’d said. “Did you really think we wouldn’t mind your waiting three months after the wedding before telling us you’d changed your entire life? And why did you have to marry a British woman?”