An Official Killing

by Nell Goddin

  Ben said his goodbyes and walked away, lost in thought. Was Coulon’s murderer an angry ex-wife? Or had he cheated someone out of something, and crossed the wrong person? Tessier had opened up vistas of possibility but offered nothing substantial as evidence. The questions tumbling around in Ben’s brain were, number one, what was Coulon up to that got him killed (because since he disliked him, Ben would bet anything that the mayor had somehow brought the murder upon himself), and number two, how were he and Molly going to get in on the case, and, crucially important—get paid for it?

  23

  “Look, it didn’t take an investigative mastermind to figure it out,” Maron was saying to Monsour. “The second person I talked to told me that the girl had been working for Coulon for years. She’s the sister of—you know Julien, who sells chickens at the market? No? Paul-Henri, you do go to the market on Saturdays? What, are you eating pizza every night?” he said, shaking his head. “Oh never mind, I sound like somebody’s grandmother. Anyway, the point is, Josette Barbeau has been working five days a week for Coulon since 2005. The Barbeau family lives on a farm, way out toward Riberac. Julien gives her a ride into the village every morning and picks her back up in the afternoon.

  “And you assume…?”

  “I assume nothing. But if Josette was in the house the day of the murder, which would fit with her normal schedule, she could have seen or heard something. Or done it herself, for that matter. Come on, it’s a long drive out to the farm.”

  “Does it make sense for us both to go?” asked Monsour, whose idea of a good time did not include out-of-the-way farms with their funky smells and pretty much guaranteed manure on your shoes.

  Maron stood still, trying to decide whether to chastise Monsour for his insubordination. It was tempting to go without him; the prospect of a long drive listening to him talk about his mother and her Paris connections was not appealing, to say the least. “Someday,” he said finally, “it would be good if you would simply do as I tell you, and not attempt to make every single thing a subject for discussion. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes, chief,” said Monsour.

  “All right, stay here in the village. Keep your ears and eyes open.”

  “I could go over to the mairie and talk to more people there?”

  Maron sighed. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, after all. “Do that,” he said finally. “I won’t be back for some time, depending on how things go at the Barbeaus. Just the drive there and back will be nearly two hours.”

  Monsour brightened up and Maron went out and got on the police motorcycle, happy to have an excuse to ride it on the lonely country roads where he could go fast, clearing his mind and enjoying the thrill of leaning into sharp turns, the wind whipping into his face.

  24

  Malcolm Barstow, Castillac’s most promising young thief, realized early on that he had gotten in over his head with these Russians. But in the optimistic way of young people, he believed he would be able to figure out an escape at some point down the road. So rather than admit his mistake and extricate himself right then, he pretended to be enthusiastic about helping the Vasilievs.

  He had met Vasily and Fedosia on Sunday, when they had spied him stealing a magazine from the Presse. Fedosia walked up to him and grabbed him by the arm, suggesting that they take a few steps into an alleyway where they could talk in private.

  Malcolm whipped his straight brown hair out of his face by jerking his head to the side, giving the woman the side-eye. He was good at sizing up strangers, and this one looked dangerous. He knew from the start that she was not going to turn him in, but rather use witnessing his theft as leverage. But for what? Castillac’s foreign visitors were usually on the trail of obscure historical sites or rare cheese, not illegal activity.

  His interest was piqued, perhaps more than it should have been.

  He kept an eye on Vasily, who made him a little nervous, rightfully so since he had a dead-behind-the-eyes look about him and was strong enough to tie Malcolm into a pretzel if he felt like it. Malcolm’s father was in jail again (fraud this time, having gotten carried away with impersonating an itinerant roofer and taking checks while doing no actual roofing) and the family would be in even worse shape if Malcolm followed him, but on the other hand, his mother, as usual, was in somewhat dire need of money. Fedosia promised him a sizeable wad of cash, so in the end, given the circumstances, she did not have to do much convincing for Malcolm to agree to help them with their project.

  At first, it seemed an easy enough job. All they asked was for Malcolm to help them secure a rental on an empty building—first scouting for the kind of building they had in mind, and then coming up with a believable false name to use on the rental agreement, so as not to attract attention.

  “But the thing is,” Malcolm had warned them, “I understand why you want the building on rue des Chênes. It’s out of the way, like you want, and convenient to where you’re staying and everything. But what I’m trying to tell you is, if you’re up to anything a little bit outside the law? And I’m not saying you are? But that building is bloody well right next door to Molly Sutton. And I want to let you know, mates, that you’ll want to keep as far away from her as possible. I would advise not renting that particular building and changing where you’re staying, if at all possible. Seriously.”

  Fedosia waved a hand dismissively. “You forget, boy, we’re staying at La Baraque. We’ve been there for over week now. We know Molly Sutton. She thinks Vasily and I are a pair of stupid foreigners who can’t speak anything but Russian. And she is easily distracted, a scatterbrain.”

  “Ha,” said Malcolm under his breath. “She’s caught a pile of murderers since she moved here, I can tell you that.”

  “Who said anything about murder? That is not why we came here. We know her reputation. And anyway, don’t you think it’s the policeman boyfriend who solved those cases?”

  Malcolm shook his head. There was no reasoning with some people.

  “We want to make it clear,” continued Fedosia, shaking her head quickly like she had something in her ear. Malcolm noticed that her platinum hair was so stiff it barely moved. “Privacy is very important to us. You get chatty…you’ll be very sorry.”

  Even right then, when he had only just met the Vasilievs, Malcolm chastised himself for getting mixed up with them. But the lure of quick, easy cash proved too tempting, and he figured all he could do was hope they did whatever they were going to do and left town as quickly as possible.

  But still, he was curious about what they wanted that building for. His criminal senses tingled anytime he thought about it. Perhaps there was more money to be gotten from them, and it could be quick and easy like the fat wad padding his pocket as he jauntily headed for home, anticipating the relieved smile on his mother’s face as he held out enough cash to cover the rent on their dilapidated house for the next two months.

  * * *

  A window in the downstairs corridor was cracked, and rather than luxuriate in the new swimming pool, Molly forced herself to go to the glazier’s for a new pane of glass and some putty so she could replace the damaged one. That errand was delightfully accomplished without any trouble whatsoever, and she decided to swing by Pâtisserie Bujold on the way home, just to say hello to Edmond Nugent and check out the contents of the display case.

  Well, she hardly fooled herself with that little lie, and soon enough Edmond was packing a small white box with an array of pastries that Molly claimed were for her guests. And she would share, really she would, as long as the guests happened to be available at La Baraque and not napping or out sight-seeing.

  “They’re just impossible to resist,” said Molly, gazing at the display case. “The strawberries in that tart look unreal.”

  “They do have a glaze, you know, that gives them that shine,” Edmond said proudly. “Now tell me, chérie, are you hard at work on the mayor’s murder? You know we depend on you to root out all the bad elements here in Castillac. Which fra
nkly, there seem to be an alarming number of.”

  “Well, comme ci comme ça,” she answered, a bit glumly. “Of course, Ben and I have our eyes and ears open, but we haven’t been hired by anyone. And really, who’s going to, anyway? He’s not leaving behind a bereaved family. I doubt his ex-wife is going to call.”

  “I gather she’s delighted by the news.”

  “Is that so?” Molly felt a quick shiver. It verged on nearly imperceptible, but a shiver nevertheless.

  “I exaggerate, don’t take me literally. I adore Odile, she’s one of the most fashionable women in the village—nothing on you, of course, Molly—and I don’t mean to imply she’s bloodthirsty. But it’s no secret that whatever love existed between her and Maxime died a long time ago, and then turned into pure poison. Very acrimonious divorce.”

  “That’s what I thought. You know of anyone else that Coulon had bad blood with?”

  “Hmm,” said Edmond, pleased that Molly was asking him. “Actually, Maxime spent much of the day strolling about the village trying to ingratiate himself with everyone. That worked, in some cases. Others of us, not so much.”

  “Not a fan?”

  “Molly, he shopped at Fillon,” he said, as though the taste of the word in his mouth made him want to throw up. Fillon was the other pastry shop in the village, which the highly competitive Edmond Nugent considered beneath contempt. Molly had never sampled their wares, rightly fearing Edmond’s wrath if he ever heard of her disloyalty.

  “Ah,” said Molly. “All right, well, I should head home and get this window taken care of. Nice to see you.”

  “You too, dearest Molly.”

  She leaned across the counter to kiss cheeks, quickly turned and nearly bumped into Daniel Coulon, who had somehow managed to come in the shop without the bell tinkling.

  “Excuse me!” said Molly, taking a step back.

  Daniel cocked his head. “You wouldn’t be Molly Sutton, would you?”

  Molly summoned a fake smile. Very occasionally she found that her reputation had preceded her and it always made her quite uncomfortable, as though it meant that any moment she was going to be exposed as a fraud. “I am,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “Daniel Coulon.” He moved to the side and looked into the display case as though the conversation was finished, tucking his worn T-shirt into his even more worn jeans.

  “Pardon me for intruding, but are you related to the mayor?” asked Edmond.

  “I am his son,” said Daniel, and broke into laughter.

  Molly and Edmond exchanged a look.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” said Molly. Daniel said nothing, but continued to look over the pastries in the display case. He licked his lips, still smiling.

  Molly did not remember anyone saying anything about the mayor’s having a son, but could not think of a way to broach that politely. For a long moment, the three of them stood in silence, until Molly decided to hell with manners, she needed some answers.

  “I didn’t know Monsieur Coulon had a son,” she said, trying to soften the rudeness with a mild tone. “Perhaps you’re from out of town?”

  Daniel turned quickly to face her, glowering. “Some people don’t go around talking about every detail of their personal lives,” he said. “That doesn’t mean anything. Some people like to keep the things they care about the most a secret.”

  “Are you saying no one knew you were his son?”

  “I’m suggesting that perhaps you shouldn’t poke your nose in someplace that doesn’t concern you.” He turned back around, and pointed at the éclairs but did not say anything to Edmond.

  “One more question, Daniel. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know who I was?” she said, picking up her box of pastry.

  “Well,” said Daniel, with a smug chuckle. “I didn’t know. But I have heard of your exploits. I’m sure anyone around the département has, right?” he said, looking at Edmond for corroboration. “So when I heard him call you Molly, with the village being fairly small, I just made a guess.”

  Molly nodded. “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m sorry for intruding, and also about what happened to your father.”

  “It’s not sad to me,” said Daniel. “I would like a caramel éclair, if you please,” he said to Edmond.

  Molly stood with her mouth open.

  “I never even met my father,” he explained. “My mother married Monsieur Clary when I was so little I don’t even remember it, and I’ve always thought of him as my father. And we live in Laval, a long way from Castillac.”

  “Ah,” said Molly, relieved he had opened up a little. “Did you come to meet him for the first time, then?” Molly asked. Information was coming in faster than she could process it. Did the rest of the village know that Coulon had an estranged son?

  Daniel bit into his éclair, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he stared at Molly as though trying to memorize the details of her face. She stepped backwards, wondering if he had heard her question.

  “Everyone should be able to eat éclairs,” Daniel said, smiling oddly as though he had just made an incredibly important announcement.

  “Excuse me?” said Molly.

  A group of schoolchildren came in the shop, doorbell tinkling like mad and the sound of chatter filling the small room. Molly bit the side of her cheek, wishing Daniel would talk more, but in the moment she could think of no way to make that happen, and watched helplessly as he paid Edmond and left Pâtisserie Bujold with a short nod of farewell.

  III

  25

  The next day, Maron and Monsour went to the Barbeau farm together, no one having been home when Maron had gone out there the day before. Maron climbed into the car with a sigh, not at all looking forward to the long drive with his junior officer.

  “I’d been looking through the old files, trying to find something to work on. But I guess poor Elizabeth Martin will just have to wait,” said Monsour, fussily adjusting his seatbelt.

  “I guess so.” Maron jerked the car into reverse and screeched the tires just a bit as he accelerated forward. He would have found an excuse not to bring Monsour but he wanted to talk to Josette alone, and would need Monsour to keep the mother busy.

  “So, is the housemaid a suspect? Josette, is that right?”

  “Josette, yeah. We’re only a day into the investigation, Paul-Henri. We don’t exactly have a suspect list yet. At the very least the girl had opportunity, which I’ve been telling you is more important than anything else. We’ll see what she has to say. I want you to interview the mother. She’s suspicious of strangers, or gendarmes anyway—barely opened the door to me yesterday.”

  “Maybe she’s covering up for her daughter.”

  Maron shrugged. “Well, keep her out of my way so I can talk to the daughter without her interference. And don’t be complacent. She looks like the type who’d stick a knife in your back without giving it a thought.”

  “You’re saying the Barbeaus are a family of criminals?”

  Maron sighed again. “I just meant…don’t grab onto some small remark and run with it like that.”

  “What about a remark like someone made about the mayor the day before he died, let’s see, I have it in my notes but I believe it was, and I quote: ‘maybe he’ll drop dead.’ Followed by chuckling.”

  “Who said this?”

  “Someone…let’s see…a political competitor of Coulon’s.”

  “You mean someone running for council?”

  “Right.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “Well, I performed some informal canvassing yesterday, hoping to turn up something helpful. Just some off-hours extra duty,” he said, unable to resist the opportunity of making himself look good to his boss.

  “Who told you this story?”

  “Um, I believe it was…not Madame Tessier…oh right, I remember now. I was over by the primaire, and Ada Bellard was on the sidewalk talking with Georgina Locatelli, you remember, who used to be th
e housekeeper out at the chateau. I struck up a conversation. And they told me that a few days before the mayor was killed, André—that’s his name, André Lebeau—had said maybe Coulon would drop dead. Seemed pleased by the idea, actually. Chuckling, as I said.”

  Maron chewed on his lower lip, thinking this over.

  “Probably just talk, trying to make a joke.”

  “Maybe,” said Monsour, not wanting his tip to lose value. “But still, pretty remarkable view into the future if that’s the case.”

  “I’ll grant you that.”

  They drove in silence for some kilometers. “Do you know Lebeau?” asked Monsour finally.

  “I do not.” He did not add that Castillac was full of people he did not know. “I only know his name because I’ve seen the slate for the election.”

  “Well, apparently he is aptly named. Ada and Georgina were positively drooling over him. ‘So tall, so fit,’ they said. More than once.”

  “Hard to imagine anyone getting killed over a council election. Stakes just aren’t high enough.”

  “Maybe that’s not all there is to it.”

  “Also, if you were planning to kill someone, why announce it to everyone on the street?”

  “You’ve told me over and over that very often people who break the law are not the most intelligent.”

  Maron nodded reluctantly. “Okay, look, when we get back, you’re on Lebeau. Find out whether that was just an offhand remark or something more meaningful.”

  “Are we going to search the farm at all?”

  “Not officially. Keep your eyes open, though. Murder weapon would be nice,” answered Maron, ironically.

  “You think Josette killed him?”

  “I don’t think anything until we have some evidence. But we have to look for it and find it first, right?”

  Monsour straightened his jacket and looked out the window, silently hating Maron for his condescension.