The Luckiest Woman Ever: Molly Sutton Mystery 2

by Nell Goddin

  THE LUCKIEST WOMAN EVER

  Molly Sutton Mystery 2

  NELL GODDIN

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Also by Nell Goddin

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 by Nell Goddin

  A Beignet Books publication.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  If you would like a free story of suspense (and to be added to Nell’s Reading Group and find out about new releases, discounts, and other fun stuff)—click here!

  Created with Vellum

  1

  2005

  In the grand old mansion on rue Simenon in the center of Castillac, sitting in a deep armchair covered in a fabric so expensive it could have paid for a small car, Josephine Desrosiers was watching a game show. She was wearing a nightgown her husband, long dead, had bought for her in Paris thirty years earlier. She blinked as the host talked rapidly in his forced jolly tone, lights on the set flashing as a contestant managed to mumble out the correct answer.

  Madame Desrosiers was seventy one, and her hearing was as sharp as ever. She heard the door to the kitchen close three floors down even though Sabrina, the housekeeper who came each morning, was a quiet girl and not remotely a door-slammer. Josephine got to her feet and snapped off the television set, then smoothed the cushion of the armchair so that it looked fresh and unsat-in. And then she nimbly climbed into her vast bed with its ornate posts and carved headboard, and squeezed her eyes closed.

  Sabrina could not clean the entire four-story house in one day, even as young and hard-working as she was. That day she did all of the first floor and most of the second but never came up to Mme Desrosiers’s bedroom. Mme Desrosiers had told her that she was very ill and did not have the wherewithal to see visitors, including Sabrina, so she was left alone. She had a box of crackers under her bed and a bit of Brie that was past its prime, quite enough sustenance thank you, so she never rang the servant’s bell.

  When Mme Desrosiers heard the door softly shut at the end of the day, she slid out of bed and turned the television back on. Then she did her exercises in front of an enormous gilt-framed mirror, counting her movements, bending to the right and then the left, and breathing heavily from the work of reaching for her toes. She was preparing for the best part of the day, when she sat at her desk and wrote letters. Each one was a harassing and maligning and instructing sort of letter, every single one of which, when opened, was greeted with the same feeling of deflation and even shame by its recipient, just as Josephine intended.

  Josephine Desrosiers had been a lucky woman, in material respects. Her family had not been wealthy but her husband had invented something that made him millions. (She couldn’t say what exactly—something electrical, she believed?) And now she was able to play the significant role of Rich Widow, complete with younger members of the family gathered at her feet, hoping for the odd crumb to fall their way.

  Well, there was one family member who did that anyway: Michel, her nephew. He would likely come around tonight as he usually did late in the week, trying to butter her up. Very occasionally she wrote him a small check. She liked sometimes to think of herself as bountiful, and with impressive self-control she denied any connection in her mind between Michel’s attentiveness and the money she gave him. As she thought of Michel, the doorbell sounded and she heard him let himself in. She was not quite dressed and she enjoyed making him wait. Josephine liked the idea of the young man sitting in her salon, twiddling his thumbs, with nothing to do but look forward to the moment when she appeared at the top of the wide curving staircase.

  A vanity table stood in a corner of the expansive bathroom off her bedroom, covered with crystal bottles of perfume and old tins of eyeliner and foundation. She sat gazing at herself in the mirror, brushing her wisps of white hair straight up. She dabbed her fingertips into a pot of rouge and reddened up her wrinkled cheeks. She applied lipstick and blotted it with special blotting papers. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that some music might be pleasant to listen to while she made her preparations—but the record player had broken decades ago and she had no wish for anything ugly and modern in the house.

  Finally, with a spritz of perfume Josephine Desrosiers was ready to greet her nephew. Her legs were spry for her age and she had no trouble with the stairs. She nearly hummed to herself as she descended but stopped herself because she thought humming was a low-class pursuit. Her nephew was sitting on the very edge of the sofa cushion, his brown hair falling down over one eye, chewing on a fingernail.

  “Ah, Michel, comment vas-tu?”

  Michel jumped up from the sofa and kissed his aunt on both cheeks, murmuring the most polite murmurs he could come up with.

  He loathed his aunt.

  He thought her mean and narcissistic, which did not take an abundance of perception.

  “What would you like to do this evening, my dear?” he asked her, so solicitous he almost believed himself. “How about a bit of television? I hear there’s a new—”

  “Television is vulgar,” said Mme Desrosiers.

  “Ah. Well, shall I take you out to dinner then? Are you hungry?”

  She considered. She did like to enter a restaurant and see the people she knew jump up to come say hello. But on the other hand, the tiresome service! The expense! She had lost her appetite for food years ago and spending that much time and money on something that she wasn’t especially interested in—she didn’t see the point. “If you would make me my usual,” she said.

  Michel sighed inwardly and went to a sideboard. He took a dangerously fragile cordial glass from inside the cabinet and placed it on a silver tray. Then he poured some Dubonnet from a crystal decanter and took the glass to his aunt. The stuff smelled musty like the rest of the house and he held his nose until she took it from him.

  He would have welcomed a drink himself, but had learned that helping himself, or even asking politely if he might join her, was a mistake. And with Aunt Josephine Desrosiers, you did not want to make mistakes. Not if you wanted to escape without a cruel dressing-down.

  And definitely not if you wanted to inherit her money.

  Molly Sutton rubbed her sleeve on the window thinking to wipe away the condensation blocking her view of the meadow, but it was not fog
on the window, it was ice. On the inside. Her first winter in France, and oh it was a cold one. Lowest temperatures in decades, and La Baraque—her beautiful, odd old house—was not insulated.

  She had moved to the village of Castillac at the end of the summer. A fresh start in a beautiful place: a life of gardening, eating fabulous food, running a gîte business, and talking to goat farmers—that was what she had imagined. And instead she had discovered a corpse in the woods and gotten involved in a murder investigation, not exactly the peace and serenity she was going for.

  But on the whole, Castillac was even better than she dreamed: she had made friends, even good friends; the beauty of the village and the surrounding area never failed to take her breath away; and the pastry was sublime.

  Molly was willing to pronounce any day that began with an almond croissant from Pâtisserie Bujold at least a partial success. Now of course they were at their peak when utterly fresh, so that meant walking the kilometer and a half into the village to buy one first thing in the morning, still warm from the oven. Café de la Place was only two steps away from the pâtisserie after all—why not stop in for a café crème and say bonjour to that blindingly handsome server, Pascal?

  She wasn’t flirting with him, not really. She was too old for him anyway. Nevertheless they showed their appreciation for each other, as he took her order with a twinkle in his eye, as if to say: in a parallel universe I’d have a romp with you, oh yes.

  Molly allowed herself a twinkle back.

  But that was a summer sort of exchange, all that twinkling—when sitting outside with the sun on your back felt so good, and the days were so long it was sometimes hard to fill them up. Winter was a whole other matter. Restaurants closed their terraces and everyone was wrapped up in heavy coats and sweaters. It didn’t feel very sexy. Instead of warm, loose, and easy-going, life felt stiff and closed in.

  Molly’s best friend in Castillac was Lawrence Weebly, but he had taken off for a month in Morocco, and December had begun to drag a little. She was lonesome.

  Instead of going into the village she booted up her computer and checked her email. No inquiries about booking the cottage. Make that lonesome and anxious about money. But at least the first problem was easy enough to solve. She emailed Frances, her best pal from the U.S., and invited her to come for a long visit. The cottage was empty anyway and Molly would love the company.

  Frances must have been sitting at her computer at the same time, because in three seconds she emailed back: PACKING.

  Molly grinned but had a pang of regret at her impulsiveness. Yes, Frances was an old friend and gobs of fun, and she loved her. But Frances was also, well, the sort of person trouble seemed to follow. Houses burned down, cars were stolen, epic misunderstandings—this was Frances’s daily life. Molly could only hope that her black cloud would stay on the other side of the Atlantic, or perhaps by now Frances had outgrown it. They weren’t far from forty, after all.

  Someone banged on the front door.

  “Coming!” yelled Molly, wishing again for a dog. She always felt a spark of worry, opening the door when she had no idea who was on the other side. Was she too suspicious? Overly anxious? She made a mental note to ask Frances if she felt the same.

  Constance, the young woman who occasionally came to clean, stood on the front step with a toothy grin. She had her hair scraped back into a high ponytail that Molly knew was her ready-to-work hairstyle. They exchanged greetings and Constance came in and stood in front of the woodstove.

  “It’s really cold in here, Molls,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want Thomas to put in some electric heaters so you don’t freeze to death? I’d hate to come over and find you all stiff and iced over!”

  “Nah, it’s not that bad. Spring’s right around the corner anyway.”

  “It’s December.”

  Molly shrugged. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you to do today. I knew bookings would fall off once the weather turned, but it’s worse than I expected. I guess anticipating something isn’t the same thing as going through it. No one’s set foot in the cottage since you cleaned it last.”

  Constance looked crushed. “Well, but—how about I clean your house instead of the cottage?” She looked around the living room and raised her eyebrows at the line of bark and twigs that had trailed over the floor when Molly brought in armloads of wood.

  “Sorry, Constance. Without bookings, I don’t have the money to pay you. Want a cup of coffee? How about you sit down and tell me all the news. I know you have news.” Molly smiled and gestured towards the living room.

  Constance smoothed a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “Well,” she said, “have you heard about Mme Luthier? You know her, she lives in that decrepit house over on Rue Saterne?”

  Molly shook her head while getting another coffee cup. Constance was a terrible cleaner, no getting around that, but she did always have news, and she wasn’t stingy with it either—qualities Molly esteemed quite highly. At least as high as being adept with a vacuum cleaner, luckily for Constance.

  “I think I met her at the market one day. Dresses all in black, with really thick hose?”

  “Yeah,” laughed Constance. “And black shoes that I don’t know, look like she’d like to kick someone?”

  “Did she do something scandalous?” Molly handed Constance the coffee and sat on the sofa, leaning forward and hoping for a juicy tidbit.

  “Depends on if you think cutting her daughter out of her will is scandalous.”

  “Ooo, maybe not. But mean. Did the daughter do something horrible? Or is Mme Luthier just a controlling battle-axe?”

  Constance tittered. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t say cut her daughter out, because in France you can’t do that. But she’s leaving only the portion required by law, which I think anyone would agree that if the daughter had to put up with Mme Luthier all these years she deserves more than that!”

  “You mean there are laws about what you do in your will?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Constance. “Your children automatically get half or something? Oh, I’m not good with the details,” said Constance. “Math was so not my thing, and it’s not like my parents are going to leave me anything but debts. But so anyway, I heard the daughter—her name is Prudence and everyone used to call us Pru and Con, although I don’t personally see what’s so funny about that—so Prudence is supposedly furious. But she better not kill her mother unless she changes her will!” And Constance slammed back against the sofa laughing hysterically at her schoolmate’s predicament.

  2

  The next day was even colder. I knew Castillac wasn’t exactly the south of France, Molly was thinking, but I did think it was south-ish. She put on a heavy jacket and went out to the woodpile, grateful at least that the wood was dry. Constance had generously vacuumed the living room yesterday and here she was dropping bark and sawdust all over the floor again.

  That’s life, huh? An endless cycle of tidying up the mess you’ve made.

  She got the fire stoked, put on some blues, and settled on the sofa with a blanket and some gardening catalogs she’d brought with her from America. It was less than practical to pack catalogs she wouldn’t be able to order from in France, but Molly loved looking at the photographs and imagining the plants in various combinations in borders on her property. She wasn’t shopping; she was looking for inspiration.

  Certain plants she loved deeply: all the artemisias, definitely baptisias, most of the roses. And for some reason, other plants made her feel slightly ill to look at them—kniphofia, amaranth, astilbe especially. She didn’t understand why this was so, because the revulsion she felt couldn’t simply be a matter of aesthetics, could it? Yet the aversion was pretty powerful. Half of them she’d only seen in catalogs anyway; maybe if she saw them in a garden she would feel different.

  A slow hour passed. She put more wood in the stove, fiddled with the air intakes, swept up the mess. Had another cup of coffee. Thought about inviting her neighbor, Mme Sabou
rin, over for a cup of tea. Except Molly didn’t like tea. She considered calling Lawrence in Morocco but remembered he had said something about turning off his phone, taking a break from the electronic world. There had been a moment—and a night—when she thought maybe something had sparked between her and Ben Dufort, the Chief gendarme, but the moment seemed to have passed and she didn’t know what to make of that.

  Not that she was looking for romance anyway.

  She had come to France in part to recover from a divorce. She hadn’t been especially happy in the marriage, but still, its ending had knocked her for a loop. And this French winter, with everyone hunkered down in their own houses and the village quiet as a tomb—it let some of those crummy post-divorce feelings come back, like a high tide leaving a line of detritus on the beach.

  Thank God Frances is coming. I desperately need some distraction.

  Eventually she shoved the catalogs under the sofa and went out for a walk around her property. She had two hectares, just shy of five acres, with a small patch of woods and a sloping meadow in addition to the lawn and gardens around the house. It was difficult to imagine lush gardens in that chilly weather, so she thought about buildings instead. At the moment she had only the one cottage to rent out, but to get anything close to financial security she needed more buildings with beds in them. An old pigeonnier—where some former owner had raised pigeons for dinner—was starting to crumble but would make a charming gîte to rent out, if she could find a good mason.

  When she returned to the house and peeled off her coat and scarf, she realized she’d forgotten to put more wood in the stove before going out, and now the living room felt like a freezer.

  This is ridiculous, I might as well have stayed in Massachusetts!

  But she had not moved to France for a change in climate. She had wanted calm and peace and pastry, and she couldn’t find them in her Boston suburb, where the crime-to-bakeries ratio was all wrong.

  But the truth was, now that she had calm, she didn’t want it. She wanted stimulation and excitement. Maybe not as exciting as finding a corpse in the woods.