by Nell Goddin
It was dark and Maman had not come home. Sometimes an event or a meeting at school tied her down. Sometimes she was out in the ditches and woods collecting things for her science classes. The desire to confront her had dwindled like a sputtering fire, and Adèle stood at the window watching for her, frozen, with no idea what to do next.
So she couldn’t have Albert, thought Adèle. So what, people get their hearts broken all the time.
Maybe not by their sisters.
Adèle sighed deeply, trying to calm her frazzled brain. And Michel? Has she spoiled him so much that now he does her bidding? Even all the way to murder?
No. No, Maman spoiled me too, Adèle reminded herself. She generously made me the best-dressed girl in the whole village. And all those evenings helping me with chemistry, the picnics in the woods she took us on, the games of chess….
But still. She had this awful nagging worry that Michel…that Maman and Michel…could they possibly have…
Adèle went to the foyer where she had left her bag, and took out her cell phone. She hesitated, uncertain of whom to call.
She chose Molly.
“Salut. I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, when Molly answered. “Something’s…I’m at home, at Maman’s house. I found some letters. It looks like there was something between Uncle Albert and my mother, I don’t entirely understand what went on. But Molly…”
Molly waited, all her senses sharpened. Gently she suggested, “Want to read me a bit of it?
Adèle nodded and walked back to her mother’s desk, but avoided sitting in her chair. She took the packet out and read Molly the one in her mother’s handwriting.
“When I got to the line, ‘my heart has turned to stone’—I…I…an icy feeling went through my chest. I’m frightened, Molly. It’s like this abyss has opened up right in front of me and—”
“I understand. Do you have a car?”
“No, no, I walk everywhere. Not even Maman—”
“All right, listen to me,” said Molly. “I want you to follow my instructions, all right? I want you to leave the house, right now, while I’m talking to you.”
“But Molly—”
“Adèle, it’s not safe there. Not right now. I want you to grab those letters and then leave the house, and walk north on that same street. Isn’t there a café a few blocks down?”
“Yes but—”
“Meet me there. I’m leaving now. Please, Adèle.”
Frances was in the cottage and Molly decided to leave her a note rather than take the time to explain. She hurried into a coat and hat and took off for the village. It was a longish walk to Murielle’s house and Molly wished she hadn’t put off getting a car.
She was afraid for her friend. She didn’t understand what had happened between the Faures and Albert Desrosiers any better than Adèle did, but she was certain that whatever it was had everything to do with the murder of Josephine. From what Molly had seen, Murielle appeared to be a devoted mother and a dedicated teacher, and confusingly, she was those things.
But when Adèle had read the letter, Molly got the icy stab in her chest as well. And she thought, given the limited number of possible suspects in the case, that all signs right now were pointing straight at Murielle Faure.
The night was especially cold, in a month that had been far colder than any December in anyone’s memory. Molly pulled her scarf up to her nose and jammed her hands in her pockets, walking as quickly as she could. A few people were out on the streets but most of Castillac was inside, getting ready to have dinner. Molly caught a few delicious smells as she passed some houses, roasting meat mixed with pine logs burning.
Should she call Dufort? She brought out her phone but then decided against it. She had no proof yet, no evidence that Murielle had done anything at all besides possibly gotten her heart broken. But at the same time, when Adèle had read her what Murielle had written, Molly had thought: she killed her sister.
Just like that.
The cold rage in the letter had come across with utter clarity, and Molly did not think for one second that somehow Murielle had gotten over whatever injustice she wrote to Albert about.
Molly was glad the streets weren’t empty; at a moment of such high stress, she wanted to be surrounded by other people, by laughing, normal people, out doing ordinary things. Their presence was a kind of balm to her nerves. Because if Murielle had killed Madame LaGreffe to cover up the first murder, what would stop her from more killing, for the same reason? Anyone connected to the Faures was potentially in danger.
And that was her main thought as she walked as quickly as she could towards Murielle Faure’s house.
38
The café a few blocks down the street from Murielle’s was open, but there was no sign of Adèle. Molly felt a punch to the pit of her stomach even though she hadn’t really expected Adèle to follow her instructions. She went on to the Faure house, seeing a light on from a block away. The sidewalk was icy and she didn’t dare run.
Finally Molly reached the house and trotted up the front steps. Her hand was up, reaching for the knocker, when she thought better of it and let it drop. She stepped back down to the sidewalk and tried to look in the living room window instead, wanting to know if Murielle was inside before she went barging in.
She didn’t see anyone. But she heard raised voices—she heard crying—she heard Adèle—couldn’t make out her words but the tone of her voice was like a steel string pulled so taut it was about to snap.
Molly sneaked around the side of the house, praying no neighbors were watching. A light was on in the kitchen, and the window was high up, which made it easy for Molly to crouch down so as not to be seen, and get as close as possible. The walls of the little house were not thick and after catching her breath she started to be able to understand some of what the mother and daughter were saying.
“You must understand. I had no choice. I couldn’t let her take him away too.”
“No choice? Are you joking? No one forced you to kill anyone, Maman!”
Molly got out her phone and called Ben.
Dufort arrived by car, no siren, just as Maron pulled up on the scooter. Molly saw them coming and ran over.
“It’s Murielle—she’s the killer,” she said breathlessly, in a whisper. “I heard her more or less admit it to Adèle. Kitchen,” she said, pointing towards the back of the house.
“Cover the back,” Dufort said to Maron. Then he smiled grimly at Molly. “How about you wait in the café?”
Molly looked incredulous. Unless gunfire broke out there was no way she was leaving, not unless he physically forced her.
“I may be able to help,” she said. “You know Adèle and I are friends. Her whole world has just been shattered. At least let her have an ally.”
Dufort thought for a fraction of a second, then nodded and went up the front steps of the little house. “Keep quiet,” he said to her before raising the knocker and banging it down hard.
No answer. Molly thought she could hear talking but she wasn’t sure. Dufort tried the latch and the door was unlocked. “Not a word,” he cautioned Molly again as he went inside.
The light was dim and everything looked even shabbier because of it. Dufort moved quietly down the hallway towards the sound of voices, Molly following. He paused to listen.
“Eh, she was old! Perhaps regrettable but as I have said, I had no choice,” Murielle was saying to Adèle.
“No, Maman,” said Adèle, her voice sounding thin. “No.”
Dufort entered the kitchen with Molly close behind. Murielle was hugging Adèle, but Adele’s arms were at her sides.
“Bonsoir, Madame Faure,” Dufort said, his voice calm and friendly. “Adèle,” he added, nodding at her. “If it wouldn’t trouble you too much, I would like to have a word. With both of you actually.”
Molly marveled at Ben’s voice, how the tone was so gentle it was practically lulling her to sleep. He sounded so unthreatening, so kind and helpful, as though he wer
e talking to a skittish animal.
“I said all I had to say earlier today,” said Murielle, letting go of Adèle and standing up tall. Her face looked gray and drawn, betraying perhaps less ease of spirit than she was trying to project. “Michel may have made some mistakes but he most certainly did not do those things you accuse him of. Now then, I am about to make a late supper for my daughter and me. If there’s anything else, I’m certain it can wait until morning.”
“I’m afraid it cannot,” said Ben, his voice still soothing. “I’m not here about Michel. What I’m interested in is your side of the story, Murielle. In the village, everyone knows the story of Albert Desrosiers and his invention. Everybody knows how your sister married him before he was wealthy, and ended up living in the grandest house in Castillac. A mansion, really, isn’t it? But maybe the house is of no consequence to the story. What matters is you, Murielle Faure, whose story has not been told.”
Molly held her breath.
Adèle looked at her mother, expecting her to cut Dufort off at the knees.
But Murielle did not. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. “I couldn’t tell it, during all these years,” she said in a low, breaking voice. “I was trying to protect Adèle.”
Adèle looked at her sharply. “Me? How was keeping all these secrets supposed to be good for me?”
“All I wanted was for you to have a good life, a decent life,” murmured Murielle.
The others waited for her to continue but she bowed her head and did not speak.
“My mother killed Josephine,” said Adèle to Dufort, her voice strong. “As far as I can tell, she has a pack of reasons and excuses for what she did, but she has admitted to me that she did it. Oh and wait, in case you haven’t heard? Murielle is not my mother. So to put the situation correctly, the woman who has pretended to be my mother killed my actual mother. I know, you might need to take notes, it gets very complicated!” Adèle laughed harshly, a sound Molly had never heard her make.
Dufort reached out and touched Murielle on the arm. “I meant what I said. I want to hear your side of the story, Murielle. Could you tell a bit more of it?”
She looked up gratefully at Dufort, as though he was offering her water after she had crawled across a desert.
Adèle sat down in a chair and crossed her arms. “Yes, let’s hear it, Maman. Let’s hear all about poor poor you and how you had no choice but to go on a murdering spree! Because let’s not forget, it’s not only your sister you decided to kill, there’s Madame LaGreffe whom you didn’t even know. And Madame Arbogast—not so smart picking the mother of a nurse, was it?”
“Molly, would you take Adèle into the living room for a moment?” Dufort asked.
Molly nodded, afraid to say a single word. She put her fingers on Adele’s elbow and gave it a tug, and gave her an encouraging look. Adèle said “Fine,” meaning it was not fine at all, and went down the hallway with Molly.
Dufort looked into Murielle’s eyes, seeing her pain.
“The thing you must understand,” she said softly, “is that I loved him. I never stopped loving him, even after—”
Dufort nodded, guessing she meant Albert but not at all sure.
“We had just started a relationship,” Murielle continued. “This was in the 60s, you understand, another lifetime ago. A time of upheaval, as you are too young to remember. No one knew about Albert and me. We were shy. It was our own private delight, falling in love, and keeping it a secret so no one would tease us. We were not children, you know. I was already teaching at the lycée and Albert worked as an electrician. He was thirty-three years old and never married. Never had a girlfriend, I don’t believe, not until me.
“It was science that brought us together, you see. He was always making inventions, teaching himself electrical engineering—so ambitious, Albert was! And I was doing the same in my backyard garden, breeding roses and doing other botanical experiments…we had a lot in common, so it’s no surprise that we got along as well as we did. But,” and Murielle looked intensely at Dufort and her face hardened, “there was a great deal of passion as well as shared interests. I loved him unreservedly.”
Dufort gave her his full attention. “Yes,” he said, very softly.
“But then Josephine…Josephine found out about it. If she had simply made fun, that would have been one thing. But no. Josephine could not stand the idea of my finding happiness. She…she seduced him,” spat Murielle. “And much worse, she became pregnant with his child. Think for a minute, Chief Dufort! I know you have no wife, no children, perhaps you do not want them, perhaps this sort of thing only seems tawdry to you and pointless. But can you try to imagine how it felt to have my sister, my hated sister of all people, impregnated by the man I loved? The man who had sworn his love to me?”
Murielle paused. “Sworn,” she said sarcastically. “As though his words meant anything at all.”
And then, so quick she was almost a blur, Murielle leapt to the back door and slipped outside. Dufort had not seen it coming and his reaction was too slow. “Maron!” he shouted.
Molly and Adèle came running from the front of the house; well, actually from the hallway where they had been doing their best to eavesdrop.
They found the backdoor open and the kitchen empty, and the two gendarmes shouting at each other in the cold dark of the snowy garden.
39
Dufort and Maron split up to search the neighborhood on foot. Dufort told Molly to take Adèle and go home, and he spoke with such authority that Molly did not argue.
They barely spoke as they walked towards La Baraque. It was cold but they hardly noticed. After about fifteen minutes, Adele’s limp was noticeably worse; Molly had an urge to scoop her up and carry her the rest of the way, but knew she wasn’t strong enough to do so even if Adèle would let her, which she highly doubted.
At the halfway point Molly texted Frances to let her know they were coming, but left out any mention of Murielle. She was hyper-alert, flinching at any sudden noise, scared that Murielle might step out from the shadows at any minute even though she knew that was unlikely. But her body didn’t seem interested in probabilities—her heart was pounding and her hands were clammy. As best as she could tell from listening in the hallway, Murielle had completely flipped, and who knows what she might be capable of? If she could murder the innocent Madame LaGreffe, why not kill off Molly and Adèle, who had witnessed her confession?
Molly had a million questions for Adèle, but since Adèle wasn’t talking, she kept quiet. By the time they reached the cemetery on rue des Chênes, both women were exhausted.
“Molly,” said Adèle finally. “Is it much farther to your house? And listen, I’m sorry you got all mixed up in this.”
“No, not far. Just around this bend there’s a straightaway, and then we’re home. And please, don’t apologize. We’re friends, right?”
Adèle nodded but did not smile.
When they turned into the driveway of La Baraque, they heard barking.
“What in the world,” said Molly under her breath, as a big speckled dog came streaking around the side of the house and slammed into her leg with the force of a freight train. “Hey!” she said, stumbling.
Frances came out of the cottage, pulling a sweater tight around her. “Come to the cottage!” she shouted. “It’s toasty inside. And you can meet Dingleberry!”
“We’ve already met,” said Molly. “And her name is not Dingleberry.”
“Just come in where’s in warm. I made some mulled wine, you want some?”
Molly and Adèle gratefully came inside and dropped onto the small sofa. Molly started to speak but didn’t know where to begin.
“My mother is a murderer,” said Adèle, and Molly figured that was as good a beginning as any.
Molly was awakened early the next morning by a strange noise that she finally woke up enough to understand was her cell phone.
“Bonjour Molly, it’s Ben. Are you up?”
“Yes,” sh
e lied.
“Adèle is there with you, yes? Would you bring her in, as soon as possible? I’d like to see the letters. And I’m hoping she may be able to help us find Murielle.”
“She’s still at large?” Molly snapped awake.
“I’m afraid so. Hard to believe, but it was very dark last night. And of course she would know the neighborhood like the back of her hand, she’s lived in that house for over thirty years. We’ll find her, Molly. And in the meantime we want to nail down some of the details of the case, and Adèle will be helpful with that.”
“Give us half an hour? Make that forty-five minutes,” she added, running her hands through her hair and wanting time for a quick shower.
They said goodbye, and Molly texted Frances and Adèle, who had stayed in the cottage last night, not wanting to walk even the few steps to Molly’s house after drinking a few glasses of Frances’s special recipe mulled wine.
Molly lay in bed thinking about the day before. The speckled dog flopped her big paws up on her bed and nosed at her. “Well, good morning to you,” said Molly. “I’m warning you though, I have no dog food. Where did you come from, anyway?”
She found some scraps to give the dog and within twenty minutes Adèle and Molly were on their way to the station. To Molly it felt awkward not to chat, but even more awkward to talk about what was on their minds if Adèle didn’t bring it up first. So again, they walked in silence.
“At least it didn’t turn out to be Michel,” Molly blurted out once they got to the village.
“Yes, at least that,” answered Adèle, and made that harsh laugh Molly had first heard the night before in Murielle’s kitchen.
Perrault jumped up when they entered the station, and led them into Dufort’s office. “Can I get you anything, a coffee maybe?” she asked.