The Luckiest Woman Ever: Molly Sutton Mystery 2

by Nell Goddin

  “Call him. What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll say it’s none of your business, see you later.”

  Molly took out her phone and almost tapped in the number to the station. After some frightening events earlier in the year, she had put his home number in her contacts as well, but she didn’t feel like she could call it unless it was an emergency. And while finding out exactly what happened felt like an emergency, she understood that it was not.

  But oh, how she wanted to know what was going on! First she texted Lawrence back, asking for more information.

  “Let’s have one more kir,” said Frances. “Will you join us, Nico?”

  “I never drink on the job,” he said. “But hmm, it’s almost empty in here except for you lot…Alphonse is home with a bad cold….okay, never except just this once,” said Nico, grinning and reaching for a bottle of schnapps and pouring himself a shot.

  “Okay, I’m calling,” said Molly. “But I’m going in the back room to do it. I get twitchy if I think anyone is listening to my phone conversations.”

  Frances waved as Molly walked away. “Pour me another, Nico,” she purred. “Did you go to the U.S. to act? You look like you could be in movies.”

  Nico laughed. “You are such a bullshitter,” he said. “And quite entertaining. Go on…”

  “I have plenty of questions I want to ask you,” she said, smiling at him. “Which university you went to, how your English got so perfect, stuff like that. But while Molly’s in the other room, let me ask you this: what do you make of Ben Dufort, anyway? Is he a good guy?”

  “Yeah, he’s a good guy. I can’t say I know him very deep down, you know what I mean?”

  “You don’t know what makes him tick?”

  “Ha, I don’t think I know what makes anyone tick.”

  “Yeah,” said Frances. “That’s profound, you know that?”

  Nico just shook his head and poured himself another shot.

  Dufort tossed his cell on his desk, irritated. He stood up and paced back and forth in front of the window, staring at the floor. The evening before he had called up Marie-Claire, to invite her to dinner, and she had refused. Told him she was fond of him and would like to be friends. Only friends.

  Well, he could admit to himself that he wasn’t in love with Marie-Claire, much as he liked her. But it was still a conclusion he would rather have reached on his own, and it stung.

  And then this morning, the lab report had come in—no cyanide in the unmarked jar of face cream. He had been so sure that was the source and was pleased that Perrault had brought it in. Had been hoping for prints, and maybe if they were really lucky, the pharmacy in the village would remember the killer coming in to buy an empty jar, along with face cream.

  But they were not lucky.

  Dufort passed his hand over his face and squeezed his eyes tight. Patting his pockets, he found the vial of tincture and let five drops splash under his tongue, not caring if the other officers saw him. All right, he thought, pulling himself together, either Michel has poisoned someone else to throw us off the trail, or it is not Michel. And if it is not, we are nowhere. And if we are nowhere, the killer will keep going and more people will die.

  He called for Perrault and Maron, who hustled in, hearing bad news in his tone. “The Arbogast case—either the nurse was wrong about its being cyanide, or she was poisoned some other way. The unmarked jar is clean.”

  “Damn it,” said Perrault.

  “All right, this is only a setback,” said Dufort. But we move forward. Maron, go interview Arbogast's son. Maybe it’s Munchausen by proxy, or maybe he tried to kill his mother but failed. Nose around and see what you think. Perrault, you knock on doors and talk to the neighbors. Ask if they saw anyone unusual coming to the Arbogast's door. And then go to both pharmacies and ask about anyone buying face cream and empty glass jars. You’ll need to get phone numbers of everyone who’s not at work when you’re there, and interview them over the phone.”

  “It’s unlikely that the two poisonings are unrelated, isn’t it?” asked Perrault, her head cocked.

  “I just told you, the lab says no cyanide. Pay attention, Perrault. Maybe she was poisoned another way, but we will need to talk to the medic to see if he corroborates the son’s report of his mother’s symptoms. And we proceed with inferences only when we have more facts. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir,” said Perrault, feeling tears welling up and sternly ordering them to go away.

  “Do you think it could be a serial killer?” asked Maron.

  Dufort held his palms in the air. “I don’t know,” he said. “The two of you—get going. Be meticulous. This is a precarious moment in the investigation—we’re dealing with someone who is extremely dangerous, especially since we don’t know the motive and are in the dark to stop him. I won’t be surprised to get a report of another poisoning quite soon.”

  Perrault and Maron took off, their expressions serious. Dufort took five more drops, then five more, and then threw the bottle against the wall.

  26

  Michel spent the morning cleaning his small apartment. He was very thorough, taking books off the bookshelf and dusting each one before putting it back on a clean shelf. Everything under the bed was pulled out and dusted as well, and the two windows opened despite the cold to freshen the air in his one-room-with-kitchenette. When there was nothing left to straighten or clean, he put on his thin coat and a scarf and went for a walk.

  He wandered aimlessly through Castillac, but the Desrosiers mansion exerted magnetic force on him, pulling him closer when he had had no thought of going anywhere near it. He cut through an alley to get there more quickly, then jumped over a fence and trotted through someone’s yard. The streets were relatively crowded with people walking home from the market, and Michel nodded to one or two as they passed, finally coming to his aunt’s house. He grasped the freezing iron bars of the gate and looked up at it.

  Nothing had changed. The same violet-blue shutters, closed, making the house look blind. The same tattered topiary, the same frost on the roof slates. He thought he saw a strip of light under one of the shutters upstairs, but when he looked more closely he decided he was mistaken. He kept walking, still without any intention to go one place over another, just wanting to be out of his cramped apartment, and always hoping he would run into someone who would take him to lunch or at least buy him a cup of good coffee.

  Michel was hungry. Impulsively, he went into a specialty shop, the kind of place that sells fancy chocolates, imported delicacies, and in this case, truffles and foie gras. All foods he adored but had not had the opportunity to taste in a very long time. “Bonjour, Madame!” he said warmly to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur,” she answered, noticing his thin coat, and also the charming way he smiled at her.

  “I’m wondering—your shop is full of the most divine things,” he said, after a moment’s perusal. “Do you think you could tell me where I might find some oysters?”

  “You mean fresh oysters? For those you’ll have to go across town to Bedin’s place. He gets deliveries from the coast every Saturday morning so this would be a good time to go.”

  Michel was nodding and smiling. A lock of hair fell into his eyes.

  “And if you want smoked oysters? Just at the end of the aisle you’re standing in, Monsieur.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Michel. He walked slowly down the aisle, looking at all the bottles and cans, his mouth watering. At the end of the aisle, he deftly slipped a tin of smoked oysters into his pocket, then walked slowly up the next aisle. “I believe I will go over to Bedin’s right now, thank you again,” he said, smiling brilliantly on his way out the door.

  “This is sort of a tricky invitation,” Molly was saying to Frances as they stood in the foyer as usual, trying to knot their scarves. “It’s not every day you go to dinner with someone who’s under suspicion for murder.”

  “Well, do you think they’ll speak Eng
lish? Because if not, I’m just going to be sitting there like a dummy.”

  “Maybe not. They both speak English with me, but I don’t know about their mother. You’re sure you want to come?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I don’t mind being a dummy. Maybe I can come up with a distraction so you can search the house for evidence.”

  They left La Baraque, Molly locking up behind them. “There’s no evidence there,” she said, “because I don’t for one second think Michel had anything to do with it. Do you?”

  “Honestly? Yes. Maybe. I do think it’s possible. Five million is a lot of euros, you know?”

  Molly felt irritated. In the dark they walked without speaking all the way down rue des Chênes, and then down an alley and a narrow street, more turns and then more until Frances was utterly lost, on the way to Murielle Faure’s small house on the other side of the village. It was neat and orderly and drab. Molly knocked on the door, forcing a smile at Frances that she did not feel.

  A pause, then the door swung open and Murielle welcomed them inside. “So happy you could come!” she said. “Michel and Adèle have been talking nonstop about the interesting Americans who have come to Castillac. May I get you both a kir?”

  Molly and Frances both gratefully said yes, and they came into a small living room where Michel and Adèle were waiting.

  “As usual, love your clothes,” said Molly as she and Adèle kissed cheeks.

  Adèle was wearing a short wool skirt, thick tights, and boots with a shearling lining. “Merci, Molly,” she said. “It’s good to see you again.” Adèle and Michel greeted Frances with interest and Frances performed her gesticulations that she thought communicated good spirits and friendly feelings, and the siblings laughed.

  “Oh, Maman, I brought something for us to have before dinner, do you have any little toasts to go with them?” Michel reached into a knapscak and brought out the tin of smoked oysters and handed it to his mother.

  “Michel, how wonderful!” she exclaimed, putting an arm around him and giving him a squeeze. “Always full of surprises, my dear. Can you imagine how many frogs he brought me when he was a little boy?” she said to the guests, who laughed politely.

  Molly saw Adèle giving Michel a hard look. She tried to read it: was she jealous of her mother’s attention? Wishing she had something to offer too? Doesn’t like oysters?

  And then, seemingly from nowhere, the most dreaded circumstance of any dinner party: a long, uncomfortable moment that stretched longer and longer. All of them were suddenly at a complete loss for words, and the feeling was compounded the longer the silence went on. All Molly could think about was dead Aunt Josephine lying on the bathroom floor, and then of her fears for Michel, but of course she couldn’t mention any of that, and not being able to mention it meant she could think of nothing else. Murielle gave Michel’s shoulders another squeeze, then left without a word and went into the kitchen. Adèle walked to the window and pretended to look outside, and Michel smiled ruefully and shook his head.

  “I’m afraid we are all thinking about the same thing,” he said. “So I suppose it is up to me to say it out loud. It’s true, Dufort has been talking with me. Nothing formal, not yet anyway. But it is pretty plain that he considers me a suspect, possibly even the prime suspect. He came around to my place this morning, in fact, after talking to me yesterday afternoon. According to him, it turns out I am going to inherit Aunt Josephine’s fortune, which would be lovely if it didn’t put a noose around my neck.”

  Adèle made a humorless chuckle and shook her head. “If Dufort knew anything, he would know you are incapable of hurting anyone. It’s just not in Michel’s nature to do something so…so aggressive.”

  “Congratulations—and I’m so sorry,” said Molly. “Do you understand?” Molly asked Frances, since everyone had spoken in French.

  “Of course not,” said Frances cheerfully.

  Molly translated for her. “Well, I don’t know,” Frances said. “Can we really say that anyone—and I’m including myself, absolutely—wouldn’t ever be capable of murder? Not ever? I’m kinda on the side of everyone might do it, if the conditions were all met. Some of us have more conditions than others, yeah sure, but unless you believe in angels…” She shrugged.

  Molly translated for the others. Adèle gave Frances a frosty look. Michel smiled at her. “Actually, I agree with you, Frances,” he said in well-accented English. “I did not poison my aunt. But I cannot say that I would never kill anyone, no matter what. And I am a bit affronted that you think me such a placid soul, incapable of action!” he said, still smiling, to his sister.

  “I don’t think you should joke that way,” Adèle said softly.

  Murielle returned with kirs and a small plate heaped with toasts, and a saucer of the smoked oysters in the center. “These are very good for your love life, I’ve always heard,” she said, looking at Michel.

  “To love!” said Michel, lifting his glass and rolling his eyes.

  Molly watched Adèle. Her face had a sort of frozen look, with the plastic smile you see on television newsreaders. The four of them struggled to make conversation, whereas every time they had been together before, they had chattered away so easily. Molly looked around the room, which was almost entirely devoid of decoration except for a bouquet of dried flowers in one corner. Nothing on the walls. Just a sofa and four chairs wedged into the small space, a dim lamp, and a hooked rug. Everything spotlessly clean.

  Frances ate most of the oysters. Finally, since the other three were barely speaking, she began talking in English, telling stories about her eccentric mother who believed cars were evil and thus only rode her bicycle everywhere, and rambling about which pastries she and Molly liked the best and why. Molly finally began to talk about the work being done on the pigeonnier, but since Pierre Gault was doing a perfectly good job, it didn’t make much of a story. Adèle kept giving Michel looks until finally he shifted in his chair so that his back was towards her.

  “À table!” called Murielle, and with relief the four went into the kitchen and sat down at a rough wooden table.

  “I must warn you,” said Michel with a twinkle in his eye, “Maman is a very talented woman, but perhaps not so much in the kitchen.”

  “I dare you to say that in French,” said Adèle, laughing, her expression unfreezing for a moment.

  Murielle put two baguettes on the table along with a pot of sweet butter and another of country pâté. Molly and Frances, feeling awkward, dove into the food with gusto.

  Once Murielle was seated at the table too, conversation revived somewhat—at least they were able to muster up some chitchat about the weather, and various other topics with no emotional or intellectual complication. Frances pressed on Molly’s toe under the table and Molly pressed back, an method of communication they developed in childhood in which the first said, “Can you believe this?” and the second responded, “I know! It’s crazy!”

  Dinner was lamb stew. The meat was tough and the sauce bland, but Molly and Frances did their duty and ate it up, making compliments to Murielle. They were not offered coffee or anything to drink after dinner, for which they were grateful, and after a few moments of kissing goodbye and effusive thanks, they were back outside in the cold and dark, walking quickly back to La Baraque.

  “Well, that was excruciating,” said Molly.

  “I’m starting to understand your sleuthing a little more,” said Frances, as she would her scarf up over her head to protect her ears. “Something is off in that house, for sure. I’m super curious about what it is.”

  “Me too,” said Molly. “And I’m going to find out somehow.”

  27

  1966

  It was a hot spring night, the village quiet enough that the cuckoo asserting its territory could be plainly heard. Josephine had dressed carefully in white shiny imitation Courrèges boots and a dress so short she was barely covered. Her hair was piled up on her head with curling tendrils falling around her face, which was made up so
that she imagined she looked practically like Jean Shrimpton, whom she admired more than any other model.

  She had to look perfect. She had to entice him, to lure him, to tempt him.

  Josephine had paid attention to his schedule, and he was a man of regular habits so it was not difficult to guess when he might be walking by the park on his way home from work. She waited behind a thick shrubbery breathing in the thick, complicated smells of the spring air, trembling from excitement, knowing her life was about to change.

  He was a dull man, really, an electrician—probably the most tiresome occupation a man could have. Josephine did not understand herself well enough to know why she was choosing him, of all people, a man who inspired contempt more than love. She heard footsteps and held her breath. Pushing a branch to one side, she looked to make sure it was him, and then stepped out onto the sidewalk in his path.

  “Josephine! How funny to see you!” Albert stopped suddenly so as to avoid running into her. He looked down at her, unable to help noticing her curvy body in the slight dress, and her legs so dramatically on display. He would never in a million years have told anyone, but he had a thing for women in boots.

  “I’m so glad I ran into you,” said Josephine, smiling up at him through her mascaraed lashes. “You’re exactly the man I was hoping to see. Do you think you might—I know I’m imposing, but—if you could humor me, just a little? It won’t take a moment.”

  Albert’s expression softened. “I would be happy to help,” he said, not allowing himself to look at her legs and the hem of her scandalously short dress. “You know I think of your family quite warmly.”

  Josephine’s face hardened for a moment and then the moment passed. She glanced at Albert coquettishly. “I’m being silly, really,” she said. “But would you come into the park with me, just for a few minutes? I used to love the swings when I was a child—it was my favorite, happiest thing to fly way up high. And so…” she looked down and moved the toe of her boot in a circle around her.