by Nell Goddin
“I’m glad that’s going well at least,” she said.
“Are other things not going so well?” asked Pierre.
“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know.”
“Ah. All cleared up, then.”
Molly thanked him for his fast work and walked out into the meadow. The grass was crusty under her feet, frozen in spikes that crunched under her sneakers. For a brief moment she forgot about the Faures and Desrosiers, and Ben, and Nico and Frances, and thought about the surprise she was going to get when spring finally came. La Baraque had old gardens, and the meadow was old too—she expected to see all kinds of things come up that past inhabitants had planted before they died or moved on. A few apples trees hung on, their bark scarred and showing signs of ill health. Then the forest, dark and impenetrable, at least from the edge of the meadow. Molly was in no rush to blunder around back there, out of the sunlight.
She was sure the secret of Adele’s parentage meant something. But what? And what in the world was the right thing for her to do? She felt as though she were walking around the meadow with a grenade in her pocket. With no idea how to set it off to cause the least amount of damage.
33
The third cyanide poisoning in Castillac occurred the next day, a Wednesday notable for an unusual amount of snowfall. Castillac generally got a dusting or two each winter, rarely more, but this was a real snow—not to Molly, who was used to close to four feet a year in Boston—and to the residents of Castillac, the five inches was a dire emergency.
But no ambulance skidded through the storm on the way to Madame LaGreffe’s house that night. Madame LaGreffe lived alone in a little house on rue Saterne, and there was no one to call for help.
That morning she had gotten up early, as she always did, never able to sleep even until dawn since she hit her mid-fifties. Now she was nearly eighty. At least, she told friends, for these last years of my life, I will be awake nearly all the time, so I shan’t miss a thing.
Madame LaGreffe had done her marketing as soon as the épicerie and the butcher opened their doors. She had splurged on a case of Perrier and arranged for the delivery boy to bring it later in the day. Unlike a lot of old people, she adored snow and was excited to sit in her cozy house and watch the village turn white. When she reached home again with her basket under one arm, she saw a small paper bag sitting on her front step, right up against the door as though to keep it from getting snowed on.
Inside was no note, just a jar of face cream—Chanel of all things. Madame LaGreffe had never used anything so fancy and she let out a little cackle when she saw it. Never for a moment did she wonder where the face cream had come from, or whether there could be anything shady or unsafe about it. The rest of the day passed as most of her days did: she vacuumed the upstairs, ate lunch and washed the lunch dishes, thought about dinner, did a little knitting while listening to the radio. She was lonely, but so used to loneliness that it caused her no pain, but was rather like an achey joint that never really went away, so constant she barely noticed it.
In the back of her mind, all day long, she was looking forward to her bath, and then using that expensive face cream before going to bed. It made lunch more exciting. It had even made washing out her underthings after dinner more exciting. She thought that if she had suddenly inherited a million euros, she still would never have bought such an expensive jar of face cream for herself—it was just not in her nature to indulge herself that way. But how lovely to be able to do it without having to make the choice!
Madame LaGreffe lingered over her bath, washing herself thoroughly and for a moment splashing about like a little girl, slapping the water and letting it spray up against the tile. She dried herself and put on a flannel nightgown that a friend had brought her from England fifteen years earlier, and then, fatefully, she sat down on the edge of her bed and opened the jar. She leaned down and smelled the fragrance, and for an instant she closed her eyes and remembered being a teenager, when her mother had allowed her to use a quick spray of good perfume before going out on a date.
Then she dipped her finger in and smoothed the cream across her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. Carefully she screwed the cap back on the jar, slid her feet under the covers, and went to sleep with a smile on her face.
She was awakened later, but at first it didn’t register that anything was wrong because she was used to waking up in the middle of the night. She did not get up and walk to the window and watch the snow come down; instead she lay gasping for breath, feeling sick to her stomach, and wondering why in the world she suddenly felt so terrible.
She never suspected the face cream. She did suffer, but not for long, and there was no one to watch or to help, as the village slept through the storm and all of Castillac got whiter and whiter.
34
Dufort was furious. Another death just a few blocks from Desrosiers’s house, and nothing he and the other gendarmes did seemed to get them any closer to apprehending the murderer.
“How did LaGreffe not know about the danger?” he demanded. Perrault leaned against the wall with her head bowed. Maron was expressionless.
“We put notices up all over the village,” Perrault said. “And made plenty of noise online. Thing is, the people the murderer is targeting, women over seventy years old—a lot of them don’t have computers. We need to think of a better way to reach them.”
“Look, we can go door-to-door to every single house and warn people, but the murderer will just switch her delivery method,” said Maron. “It’s face cream today, but it could be, I don’t know, a fruit drink tomorrow.”
“‘Her’?” said Perrault witheringly. “You’re not going to let go of your whole ‘poisoners are all women’ idea are you?”
Maron stared straight ahead, not allowing himself to take the bait.
“It’s eight o’clock,” said Dufort. “I want the two of you out canvassing that neighborhood until lunchtime, and take more time if you need it. Number one, ask all the neighbors on that street if they saw anybody hanging around, anybody who doesn’t live in that neighborhood. I want a list of names. And number two, as long as you’re talking to people, warn them to make sure not to ingest anything they don’t know the provenance of. Don’t put anything on their skin, in their hair, in their mouths…anywhere on their bodies at all. And three—tell them to try to do their best to look after the older people in our community. It’s obviously only been women targeted so far, but that doesn’t mean our murderer won’t branch out.”
“Yes sir,” said Perrault, heading for the door.
“Maron, hold up, I’d like a word with you.” said Dufort. Maron stayed still and did not react. “I want to know if you have any further reason to think Claudette Mercier has been involved in this.”
“Uh, I can’t say I have anything new specifically, but I’d like to look into whether there is any connection between Mercier and LaGreffe. I know LaGreffe was older, not one of Mercier’s schoolmates, but that doesn’t mean there’s not something else. Maybe Mercier is unhappy about growing old, and she’s displacing all that fear and unhappiness onto her victims, as though killing will somehow slow her aging, psychologically I mean.”
Dufort moved around the side of his desk and got up close to Maron. “That is probably the most idiotic, implausible theory I have ever heard spoken in this office. Drop it, Maron,” he said, his tone like iron. “Now get out there and find out who was on rue Saterne yesterday. I want a report from you that’s as thorough and precise as if we had CCTV all up and down the street. You understand me?”
“Yes sir,” said Maron. His dark brows furrowed, making him look angry. He had more to say but had the sense to know this was not the time. He put on his heavy coat and followed Perrault out onto the snowy street.
This time Molly heard about the latest murder not by stumbling across the body or by a text from Lawrence. She found out at the épicerie where she was ordering the delivery of a case of Perrier just like Madame LaGreffe had the day before. A num
ber of people were in the épicerie talking about what had happened, but Molly didn’t stop to find out the details. She went straight to the bank where Adèle worked, and after a wait at the reception desk, asked her if she was free for lunch—there was something important she wanted to talk to her about.
Adèle looked at Molly carefully, her head to one side. She liked the American and enjoyed her company, but she wasn’t sure that she trusted her. A new friend is untested, nothing like the sort of friends one grows up with, or family. She appeared amiable enough, but it was not absolutely clear where Molly’s loyalties lay; she was friendly with Dufort after all. Adèle told herself to be a little careful and not get swept up into Molly’s energetic chatter and say something she would regret.
“I can meet you for lunch,” Adèle said, smiling. “Did you know that a little boutique has opened only a few blocks from here? Perhaps we could swing by after we eat, if there’s time. I hope your news…isn’t bad? Nothing too serious?”
Molly looked at Adèle blankly. She had no idea what her news meant, so had no way to answer. “I’ll see you at 12:30,” she said awkwardly, and went back outside. She had an hour to kill and she spent it wandering the streets of Castillac, trying to enjoy how pretty the village looked in its fresh blanket of snow. But she couldn’t block out her nervousness, and even fear. She told herself she wasn’t in the killer’s demographic and wasn’t in any danger—but fear does not go by logic. There was a killer in Castillac, his motive was unknown, and Molly was starting to have serious misgivings about her new friends.
She wanted to believe in Adèle and Michel. But what was the friendship based on, anyway? A few ephemeral meetings in which they had felt a spark of attraction and congeniality? That wasn’t much. It wasn’t really wasn’t anything at all, at least not anything she could count on. She didn’t really have any idea what kind of people they were, deep down. And she knew her history was full of examples of being smitten with people for one small bit of charm—a joke they made, or an apt line of poetry quoted—and ignoring evidence of serious character flaws.
The snow was wet and Molly could feel dampness getting inside her boots, but she ignored it. Without thinking about it, she found herself on rue Simenon headed for the Desrosiers mansion. She peered over the wall into the empty back garden. No footprints in the snow. The front of the house looked sort of sad to her, as though the building missed having inhabitants. A shutter on a downstairs window had come loose and sagged on one side. The steps were not shoveled. It’s like a beautiful tomb, thought Molly, shivering.
Why in the world had Josephine given Adèle away? Molly went through all the reasons she could think of that a mother would choose to give her baby up, but as far as she could tell, Josephine matched up with none of them. She stood for a long moment feeling rage at the dead woman for giving away what Molly wanted so deeply.
So many unanswered questions.
The hour was nearly up and Molly got back to the bank quickly, wishing she had thought of a clever way to find out whether Adèle knew who her real mother was.
“Nice bag,” said Molly, unable to keep herself from grinning. The leather was a saturated shade of green and it looked soft as a baby’s bottom.
Adèle shrugged. “No children, you know? I don’t have many expenses.”
Molly took a deep breath. They weren’t starting on the right foot—Adèle was defensive and brittle, and Molly was already having to stop herself from blurting out a stream of questions. “I’m starved,” she said. “How about we get something to eat before going to look at that boutique you mentioned?”
Adèle nodded. She had put on short waterproof boots and the two women went outside. “There’s a little place right around the corner where I’ve been many times,” said Adèle. “Very good soup sound good?”
“Perfect for a snowy day,” said Molly, inwardly cringing at how they were reduced to talking about the weather again.
They had barely been seated when Molly burst out. “Listen, I’m sorry it’s awkward. I don’t really—well, I do actually—listen, Adèle. I know I’ve probably butted in where I don’t belong. But I do want you to know that my intentions were good. I mean, I was trying to do what I could to help Michel, you understand?”
“No,” said Adèle, “I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”
The waiter approached and then backed away when he heard the intensity of the conversation.
“I’m trying to explain that I did some digging,” said Molly, keeping her voice low. “I heard that your aunt had a stillborn child, and that got me wondering…if the worst thing against your brother is that he stands to inherit your aunt’s money, then if someone else were to inherit, wouldn’t he be free of suspicion? So anyway, again—I know it’s none of my business, but I checked the records at the mairie.” Molly was hoping that Adèle would jump in and tell her none of this was news to her, but Adèle said nothing. Her face was inscrutable.
“What I found, Adèle—it says on your birth certificate that Josephine Desrosiers is your mother.”
Adele’s eyelid twitched but otherwise she did not move; she did not speak.
“I know it was a terrible breach of privacy,” said Molly. “I just thought—if Michel didn’t inherit, then really the only evidence Dufort has against him evaporates, you see? I…I never imagined…I didn’t intend to…I’m sorry if this causes you pain. I was shocked to see Josephine and Albert’s names on your birth certificate. And I do see that it complicates matters rather than resolves them.”
Adèle did not move or speak, her gaze directed out of the window.
“Adèle? Talk to me!”
Adèle whispered, “I don’t think I can find words.” Her eyes welled up. “What you’re telling me is that my entire life has been based on…a lie…”
“Well, I don’t know that your entire life is about who your parents are.” Molly put her hand on her friend’s shoulder and then took it back. “But yes, it certainly looks as though there has been some lying. I don’t understand it, and I guess I was hoping you’d be able to explain why your family did what they did.”
Adèle shook her head. She used a napkin to wipe tears from both eyes and took a deep breath. “My mother has been a wonderful mother to me,” she said. “And I suppose I should thank God that I did not have to grow up living with horrible Aunt Josephine.” She took a deep, jagged breath. “And now that I stand to inherit, I suppose I will be the next target of the investigation.”
Molly signaled to the waiter, unable to wait for lunch any longer. “If you had no idea about this, I don’t see how Dufort could start looking at you for her murder. I don’t think you have to worry about that,” although Molly was worrying herself. Worrying that her meddling had only made things worse for the people she was trying to help. “You should be coming into enough money to buy any handbag in the world,” said Molly, trying to look on the bright side.
“I don’t want that witch’s money,” murmured Adèle, pushing back from the table. “And if you’ll excuse me, I can’t eat anything. I need to find Michel.”
“Adèle, I’m so sorry—” said Molly, but Adèle had gotten up quickly, her napkin dropping to the floor, and was halfway out the door.
35
Perrault flew down the street, slipping in the snow. For once, she had accomplished something tangible! Who would ever have guessed that old Madame Tessier would turn out to be a gendarme’s best friend?
“Chief!” she shouted, a little too loudly, as she burst into Dufort’s office. “I just talked to Mme Tessier, and I think we’ve got Michel Faure!”
“Slow down, Thérèse,” Dufort said. His voice was gentle but his gaze was intense. “Now tell me what Mme Tessier said.”
“Well, you know she’s the biggest gossip in all of Castillac. Sits on her stoop when it’s warm, peeps out of her window when it’s cold.”
“Yes, I know all that, I’ve seen and spoken to her quite often.”
“She saw Mi
chel on Wednesday, walking down rue Saterne. Carrying a paper bag. Which he put on Madame LaGreffe’s front step!” Perrault had leaned farther and farther forward, but when she delivered the last line, she leaned back in triumph and slapped her palms on Dufort’s desk.
Dufort rubbed his hand over his brush cut and thought about this. “She was sure it was Michel?”
“No doubt whatsoever.”
“What sort of bag?”
“Brown paper. Not as large as a grocery bag.”
“And she saw him walk up LaGreffe’s front steps, and put the bag there? Did he ring the bell?”
“No, she didn’t think so.”
Dufort scratched his ear. It seemed damning. So why didn’t he feel satisfied?
“All right, nice job Perrault. Let’s bring him in for a chat.”
“It does seem like a thirty-four-year-old man should have someone to call besides his mother,” said Michel, having been brought to the station by Perrault. “But that’s how things are,” he murmured to himself, and dropped down into a chair. “I’ll tell you right from the beginning that you’re going to think my version of events sounds ridiculous. And honestly, my life at the moment—it is rather ridiculous. I’ve been out of work for nearly a year, I don’t have two centimes to rub together, and for some reason unknown to me, I can’t seem to keep the shadow of suspicion off my back. You know, I had a decent job, in Paris, for a short while, working in advertising. But things…sometimes things don’t work out the way we’d like, I think we can all agree on that?”
Perrault and Dufort let him talk, since he was feeling so voluble. It was unusual for suspects, but always welcome, since almost invariably they said things that they later wished they had not.
“I seem to have the worst luck,” he said, shrugging. “On Wednesday, just before the snow, I was on rue Saterne. And I did carry a bag and leave it on Mme LaGreffe’s front step—that’s all true. But the rest of the story is that I’m out of work, as I’ve said. I have an abundance of free time, you understand, and so I do a lot of walking around the village and sometimes farther afield. Since my aunt lived on rue Saterne, I’ve walked down that street hundreds of times, and I noticed that Mme LaGreffe gets milk delivered every Wednesday.