An Official Killing

by Nell Goddin

  Maron shook his head. “I believe he was dead in a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds. The coroner will be the one to determine that with any precision. But whether you called yesterday or today—wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. Now, what about the afternoons? Did he go out for lunch? Did he leave at the same time?”

  Slowly and methodically Maron went through a list of questions with the distraught Annette, writing the answers down on the same brand of notepad Dufort had used. At first glance, nothing the receptionist said seemed to shed any light on what had happened the day before on rue Malbec. Maron worried that the investigation might take a long time, since it was not lost on him that a mayor might have all sorts of enemies that a regular citizen would not. He and Monsour might have to comb through council business and endless files at the mairie to find out who wanted the mayor dead; and who knew, there might well be more than one.

  As had happened before since becoming chief, Maron felt an unpleasant buzz in the back of head, an anxiety that this time, he would not be up to the task and the murderer might go free. He would never admit it to anyone, barely to himself, but he hoped that somehow the team of Dufort and Sutton got on the case, because you couldn’t ask for better backup than that.

  * * *

  News of Coulon’s murder whipped around Castillac like an out-of-control forest fire. His unacknowledged son, Daniel, stood down the block from his father’s house for hours, watching official-looking people go in and out. He saw Maron and Monsour arrive first and sail in through the open front door. Next came Florian Nagrand with his black bag. Daniel waited a long time, long enough to see a stretcher at last leave the house, carrying a covered body.

  Eventually, worried that someone might get suspicious about a stranger hanging around, the newly-half-orphaned Daniel made his way back to the Café de la Place and ordered a coffee even though he could not afford it.

  His body was on edge, despite having stood for so long in the same spot, and his mind kept racing around to the same thought: that his father was considerably more valuable to him dead than alive. A living father could reject him, as he already had. A living father could turn him away without a centime. But dead? Surely a biological son had some claim on the estate, whether he had met his father or not? Daniel did not know the specifics, but had an idea that French inheritance law was quite favorable to the children in almost every case. You couldn’t just disown your flesh-and-blood son on a whim, no matter how negligent a father you were.

  Daniel grinned and ordered a crème brûlée to eat with his coffee. He felt expansive, almost rich, as though the money were already filling his pockets. As far as Daniel knew, he was the sole heir. As it hurtled toward an abyss of stark poverty, his life had just come to a screeching halt, wheeled in the opposite direction, and was careening straight for that lovely mansion and all that was in it. And surely, anyone who lived in a house like that would have multiple bank accounts and investments, he told himself.

  As he dug into his crème brûlée with gusto, he began to pay attention to what the other diners were talking about. Behind him sat two older women, who were of course discussing what had just happened to the mayor.

  “I heard he was shot with some sort of automatic rifle,” said the first woman.

  “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to. Someone making up a pack of lies just for sport! I have it straight from my neighbor’s cousin, who works in the office next door to the coroner: the poor man had his throat cut! She didn’t say what the weapon was though. I’m not sure they know. But get out of here with your automatic rifles!”

  Daniel leaned in their direction so he wouldn’t miss anything, sucking the last bit of sweet sticky goodness from his spoon.

  “I bet anything it was Odile,” said the first woman, lowering her voice but not enough to prevent Daniel from hearing.

  “Hm. Maybe. They did have that big row on the street a few months ago. You’d really think the mayor of all people would have a little more self-control! But why do you think Odile did it? She doesn’t need his money, that’s for sure. Her shops are popping up all over the place. And have you tried that new eye cream? I don’t know what’s in it but it takes ten years off,” she said, tilting her face as though being photographed.

  The first woman rolled her eyes. “She was married to him,” she said, like it was obvious. “You’ve been married. Do I need to give you the illustrated version? Who doesn’t want to kill her husband from time to time?” The other woman giggled. “And he was an ex-husband on top of it. Who knows what might have broken up their marriage and left her seething with revenge?”

  The other woman threw her head back and laughed. “What an imagination you have! Odile may be a hard-charging businesswoman, but she’s always been perfectly nice whenever I’ve had dealings with her.”

  “You mean been one of her customers? Of course she’s nice then. How many euros did you throw away on her eye cream? That stuff is murderously expensive.”

  The other woman hooted. They continued to discuss the mayor’s case, the lack of any solid information not deterring them from making wild guesses and suppositions about any of the details. Finally, when Daniel was just about to leave, one of them mentioned Molly Sutton.

  “Well, you may disapprove of her for whatever reason, but you have to admit she’s the best when it comes to finding killers.”

  “Which we have seen far too many of lately…since she’s moved here, I might add.”

  “No argument there. Do you think Chief Maron can just outright hire her? I admit I don’t really understand the protocols involved.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The Chief’s job is to handle crime and arrest perpetrators, right? He can’t go around hiring outside people to do it, and an American female detective on top of it. That would be like admitting he was a total failure at his job.”

  Daniel was listening intently. Quickly he paid his bill and rushed out into the mild June sunshine, intent on finding someone who could help him understand a bit about tax law—and how quickly a murder victim’s estate might be expected to settle.

  22

  “Okay, so tell me everything you know about him,” Molly said to Ben, who had come over to La Baraque after a day walking around the village talking to people, just like he had in the old days when he was chief at the gendarmerie. “I can’t believe someone killed the mayor. This is so crass to say, but I know you’ll understand: this could be a seriously juicy case, don’t you think?” Molly’s eyes were bright and she couldn’t help grinning.

  “Could be. Can’t say this early. And I don’t have to remind you that we have zero business sticking our noses into it.”

  “But we will anyway, right?” said Molly, crestfallen.

  Ben shrugged. “Maybe Maron will ask for our help, but honestly, he’s not going to want to. It doesn’t look good, the chief running to the American gîte owner and former chief for help solving cases.”

  “I’d be more than happy to meet with him on the sly, if that’s the problem. I don’t do it for the glory.”

  Ben gave her a wry look.

  “Well, maybe a teensy bit,” she admitted.

  “That doesn’t matter. If our business is ever going to get off the ground we need all the glory we can get, and word of mouth to go with it.”

  “Well, we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. Let’s solve the thing first,” laughed Molly. “So come on, tell me about the mayor. Coulon, right? I met him a few times but don’t know him at all. I’ve seen him working the crowds at village fêtes, that kind of thing. Was he a good guy? Did you like him?”

  Ben popped the top on a beer and joined Molly on the sofa. “I can’t say that I did, no. Not that I have any particular reason for not liking him, I mean, nothing solid. I just always had the feeling that he…was an operator, you know what I mean? Out for himself, above all. Oh, he pretended to be interested in the needs of the village, of course. Politicians always talk a good talk.”

&
nbsp; “Married?”

  “Not anymore. His ex-wife is Odile Dupont, who has a store in Bergerac and I think some other places. Beauty stuff. He didn’t have any girlfriends, that I ever noticed. I always had the idea that Coulon was more interested in money than anything else.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Ben thought for a moment. He reached over and stroked Molly’s arm and then held her hand. “Just an impression, I suppose. I often saw him going in and out of the bank. Whether that was managing his own money or something to do with village business, I have no idea. It just struck me as odd.”

  “When Lawrence called to tell me—because of course he knew about the murder before almost anyone, practically before Coulon himself—he said the body was found in his house on rue Malbec. Which house is it—the nice one with the blue shutters?”

  “Yes,” said Ben. “I asked a few questions today in the village—just idle curiosity, of course,” he added with a quick smile. “Apparently his family had some money—his grandfather bought that house, then his father had it and left it to Maxime when he died about five years ago. You don’t get rich on a mayor’s salary, that’s for sure.”

  “Did his father make a lot of money?”

  “I can’t say. But that’s one thing we might be able to check out without bothering Maron. Maybe Coulon got involved in a business deal with some shady characters to supplement his income, or something along those lines.”

  “Lawrence said the front door was wide open. That struck me as odd, how about you? Say Coulon interrupted a burglar who killed him in a panic—the last thing you’d want after killing someone would be to leave the door open, attracting attention.”

  “Yes, a murderer with any sense would want that door closed. Presumably the longer it took anyone to find him, the better.”

  “You make me nervous, saying ‘presumably.’ That’s what gets us into trouble.”

  “Right you are, chérie,” said Ben affectionately, scooting closer on the sofa and putting his hands in her hair. “Have I told you today how beautiful you are, carrot top?”

  “No.”

  “I could look at your freckled face all day.”

  “Benjamin! We’ve got work to do!” Molly was unused to such romantic remarks from Ben and she felt a bit off balance. She grabbed the pad with the few wedding notes on it. “Can’t we make a list? That’ll at least give us the feeling that we’re getting something done.”

  “I’m afraid that until we get some kind of standing in the case—and by that I mean someone actually hires us, or Maron swallows his pride and comes knocking—we’re no better than the gang at the bar of Chez Papa making wild guesses.”

  “Well, I’m not as resigned as you. I’m going to head into the village and poke around a little, swing by the house, talk to whoever I can find, see if I can turn up any good nuggets.”

  “You are the best nugget-finder in the département, no doubt about that,” he said, smoothing her tangled hair out of her eyes and kissing her on the forehead.

  “Glad you think so. Now tally-ho, there’s not a moment to be lost!”

  * * *

  After Molly took off on the scooter, Ben walked back to the village by himself. He was in no hurry. Coulon was dead and nothing was going to change that; neither had he any particular worries that the murder posed any danger to the rest of the village, though to be sure, that was more of a wish than a fact.

  He walked straight to the gendarmerie and went in, feeling the slight sense of dislocation one sometimes experiences when returning to a familiar place under different circumstances. “Bonjour, Paul-Henri,” he said to the junior officer, who was sitting at his desk. “I hear Castillac just woke up from a nap.”

  “You could say that,” Paul-Henri said, standing and making a slight bow, which embarrassed Ben. “Maxime Coulon, our mayor, as I’m sure you realize. Did you know him, Monsieur Dufort?”

  “In passing. Is Maron in, by any chance?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Ben waited to see if Paul-Henri would elaborate but he did not.

  “All right, please tell him I dropped by. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  Ben looked at Paul-Henri and wondered how a person could seem so smug without even saying a word. They said goodbye and Ben went back on the street, pausing to think about his next move.

  It was murder that eventually had chased him away from his career at the gendarmerie, or more specifically, a bad case of anxiety that routinely cropped up during investigations. It was’t so much that the anxiety itself was so terrible (though it was uncomfortable and deeply unpleasant); it was more that he began, as a consequence, to doubt his powers, and to mull over rather obsessively the few unsolved cases in the files, and conclude that he was simply not competent enough to do the job. But he had gotten past all that, thanks to a trip around the world and a lot of thinking, and enthusiastically started the private investigation business with Molly—in part, hoping to make up for those unsolved cases (only one remaining now) by bringing other wrongdoers to justice.

  The mainstay of detective work, as anyone involved in it will tell you, is the tendency of people to blab. Castillac was something of a jewel in this regard; its inhabitants adored gossiping about each other, and more than once a case had been rescued from oblivion by the willingness of someone to share what he or she had seen or overheard.

  One villager in particular, Madame Tessier over on rue Simenon, was known for having the best information. For three seasons a year, she sat outside her small stone house on a folding chair, talking at length to anyone who would stop by. And nearly everyone stopped, because she could be counted on to give them a delicious morsel or two about someone they knew—not maliciously, at least most of the time.

  June was one of her favorite months, the weather being so encouraging for everyone to be out and about, and as Ben rounded the corner he could see her down the block, sitting in her chair talking to an old woman leaning on a cane. When he got closer she called out, “Chief! Come pass a bit of time with me. Madame Gervais has to rush off to do her shopping and I’m hoping you can answer a few questions for me.”

  Bonjour, Madame Tessier, Madame Gervais,” said Ben, kissing cheeks all around. “I was hoping the same from you,” he said. “Of course you’ve heard…”

  “Oh, everyone has heard. I have to tell you, Monsieur Dufort, that I wish you were still chief. I don’t think we’d be in the middle of such a crime wave if you were. Maron is all fine and well, I can’t say I have anything concrete against him and I don’t like slandering the man without cause—but you must admit, since you’ve gone, the situation in Castillac has become quite alarming!” Madame Gervais finished by raising her cane up and shaking it for emphasis. Ben suspected she did not actually need the cane to walk but liked having a handy prop. “Anyway, au revoir to you both, I’ve got to run off.”

  Madame Gervais was a hundred and four, and “run” might have been overstating the case just a little, but she took off down the street and disappeared around the corner faster than a lot of villagers much younger than she might have managed.

  “So…” said Ben hopefully.

  “Yes. I’ll tell you right off, I’m not terribly surprised.”

  Ben’s eyebrows flew up. “Really?”

  “Maxime was always…a bit on the shady side.”

  “How so?”

  “My memory is long, as you know. A boy gets detention for cheating in primaire—I file that away. It may seem like a small thing to most people, but to me, something like that is a mark of character.”

  “You don’t think sometimes people make mistakes?”

  “Of course they do. We all do. I’m merely saying that the flavor of those mistakes tends to be of a piece. It would not surprise me one whit if it turns out that Maxime was involved in something illegal, and got himself killed.”

  “Interesting. Any ideas on what that illegal thing might be?”

  �
�You don’t want me to do your entire job for you, now do you?” said Madame Tessier with a smile. “And tell me, how is Molly doing? Did the money go to her head?”

  Ben laughed. “Yes and no. She’s the same Molly, for sure. But it turns out she’s something of a spendthrift, and the whole lot is practically gone.”

  “Tsk tsk,” said Madame Tessier. “I pride myself on my frugality. I was born just before the war, you see, and my gracious, money was tight. My parents saved every bit of string, paper—we reused practically everything instead of throwing it away the way they do now. Different world.”

  “It is, it is.”

  “All right then, if you’ve got nothing to share…” said Madame Tessier, pretending to be irritated.

  “I just told you Molly has nearly spent her fortune, isn’t that enough of a tasty bit for one morning?”

  Madame Tessier laughed. “I suppose. Have you talked to Maron? Any idea how the case is going?”

  “No idea yet. One thing I was wondering—how long ago did Coulon’s marriage break up?”

  “First or second?”

  “What?”

  “Really, you must keep up, chief! Of course you know Odile Dupont, I believe that ended not long ago, last year perhaps? But he was married long before, when he was at university in Rennes, I believe. A quickie marriage and quickie divorce, is what I heard. She never even moved back to Castillac with him.”

  “Hm.”

  “Odile despises him, but I suppose that’s not exactly unusual.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “All of the usuals,” said Madame Tessier with a cackle. “Oh look, Monsieur Vargas, lovely to see you! Come sit with me a moment on this fine day.”

  Monsieur Vargas, suffering from dementia, looked confused but came and sat in the folding chair next to Madame Tessier. “I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she said to him, giving Ben a wink.