An Official Killing

by Nell Goddin

  “No, madame, I don’t. Can you start at the beginning?” They rounded the corner and, without intending to, started down rue Malbec.

  Annette tucked her hair again and tried to keep her voice from shaking. “All right. Sorry. I’m just…this whole thing is making me really nervous. You must understand, it’s not like your boss gets killed every day, right? Things at the mairie are always so…so ordinary, you know? We get a few requests for this or that, we help out people new to the area, we fill out forms. A lot of forms. We—”

  “You do not need to explain the entire scope of what the mairie does. I understand that it helps Castillac run smoothly. What I want to know is—”

  “Yes, yes, all right.” She took another deep breath, and Maron wrestled with his impatience, jamming his hands in his pockets and chewing on his lip.

  “I can’t be sure, but I think the mayor was under some pressure. From the big stores outside of the village.”

  “You mean to the east? The Mega-Mart and all that?”

  “Yes. The mayor had a number of meetings with representatives from those companies, the ones all down that road—the huge DIY store, the supermarket, and a few others. In his office with the door closed, which was not unheard of but a little unusual. It was right after one of those meetings that he told us to stop giving permits to small businesses.”

  “Meaning, if someone wanted to open a shop he wouldn’t be able to?”

  “That’s right. Obviously, any successful small business is going to take profits away from the big stores. They’re like ravenous sharks, those places, and they aren’t happy with getting some of the local business, they want it all.”

  “Did you overhear anything, read any notes or reports, anything to support that claim? Or is that just your personal opinion?”

  “Like I said, I can’t prove there’s a connection. I wasn’t at the meetings so I don’t know what was said. I have no idea how they got Coulon to agree, either—could have been the carrot or the stick, if you ask me. And, for the record, we issued almost no rejections of applications. Coulon didn’t tell us to outright refuse anybody. Just to keep taking the applications for small businesses and putting them on the bottom of the pile. Any other work, no matter how incidental, came first. And so what happened in most cases, I believe, is that people just gave up. You understand how that would be—if you’re making plans to open a shop, you can’t sit there twiddling your thumbs indefinitely. The investment money is ready to go, and you need a decision. And so eventually, if they don’t get one, they go on to something else.”

  Monsour was thinking hard. Was it possible some disgruntled prospective shop-owner had killed the mayor out of frustration and anger?

  “And how did the applicants react to this treatment? Did any of them come into the mairie and confront Coulon?”

  Annette looked down at her feet as they walked quickly along the sidewalk, approaching the Coulon mansion. “Odile Dupont. His ex-wife.”

  Monsour smiled, then suppressed it. “What exactly happened? As detailed as possible, please.”

  “I don’t like to…I’m maybe the only person in Castillac who doesn’t like to gossip. Which I’ve always told myself is a very lucky thing, because being in the mairie for so long, I know private things about a lot of people’s business. Sometimes things they wouldn’t want made public. So it makes me uncomfortable to talk about Odile, when it’s not like I know—”

  “Annette. I’m not asking you to gossip. A man has been killed and I am trying to gather evidence so that we can figure out who did it and bring that person to justice. It is not a straight line from your remarks today to Odile’s rotting in prison. You must give me the facts and trust that I will use them honorably.”

  Annette looked into Monsour’s eyes and uttered a soft whimper. “All right,” she said softly. “Just last week—the week before…before he was killed…Odile came into the mairie, and boy, was she furious. She slammed the door, scowling, and demanded to see the mayor. When I tried to tell her he was in a meeting, she ignored me and breezed right into his office. That door slammed too, I heard shouting, a crash which later turned out to be an ashtray heaved against the wall, and then—maybe five minutes later?—she came back out, face blazing, shot me a dirty look and left.

  “Was there some reason she was angry at you?”

  “Not me, no. I figured she was furious at the mayor because her permit application still hadn’t gone through. She’s opened shops in other towns and wants one here as well. Beauty products, you know. Too expensive for me, but I have friends who swear by her face cream.”

  “And had the mayor said anything specifically about Odile’s application?”

  Annette threw Monsour a look of agony. “I really must get back. With no mayor, the office is in a bit of disarray and I don’t think it’s overstating to say that I’m sort of holding things together.”

  Monsour, showing unusual fortitude, waited without saying anything.

  “Yes,” Annette said finally. “He told us to make sure her permit never got to the top of the pile.”

  With that, she said goodbye and broke into a jog. Monsour stood listening to the sound of her heels hitting the sidewalk, thinking that he was glad he had no ex-wives, and feeling extremely pleased with the way the interview had gone.

  36

  Ben was following a similar path of investigation as Monsour, and had gone for a short run in the cool morning before leaving his apartment in his creaky Renault. After pulling into the vast parking lot outside Mega-Mart, he started to text Molly but called instead.

  “Hope I’m not waking you,” he said, his voice sounding more seductive than business-like.

  “Not at all!” Molly protested, the phone having jolted her out of a deep sleep in which she had been dreaming about running down a deserted road, terrified but quiet. She shook her head quickly to banish the dream and wake herself up.

  “I’m in the Mega-Mart parking lot. I’m about to go in and look for a manager or, hopefully, someone higher up,” he said.

  Molly propped herself up on one elbow and tried to push her curly hair out of her face. “What for?”

  “Picked up a few tidbits in the village yesterday. Monsieur Clement, who lives across from that café over on rue Picasso that’s usually mostly empty? He told me that Coulon and one of the bosses at Mega-Mart used to meet there regularly. Clement noticed because he thought it was strange they would go there when the mairie is so close to the Café de la Place. Said he thought there was something fishy about it.”

  “How did he know who the other guy was?”

  “Well, he doesn’t, not exactly. All he told me was that he recognized him from Mega-Mart. Apparently Monsieur Clement is a big fan. He told me I could get a garden hose for practically nothing if I hurried out here fast enough before the sale ends.”

  “Those stores are killing the shops in the village,” said Molly, waking up fully now that she had something to sink her teeth into.

  “Not news to me, chérie. France has worked quite hard to keep those big stores out of sight at least. But obviously we can’t force people to shop in certain places and not others.”

  “Is cheaper Scotch tape worth losing village life?” she cried, jumping out of bed. Bobo barked and ran over to get in on the excitement.

  Ben laughed. “Molly, I’m heading in now, trying to find the guy Clement described to me. What’s your day look like?”

  “I’m calling Daniel’s mother.”

  “Excellent. See you for dinner.”

  Molly put her cellphone down and flopped back on the pillows, wishing for a genie to arrive at her bedside with an enormous, steaming cup of coffee. She had not had enough time to assemble her thoughts before she heard someone banging on the terrace door, and Bobo streaked out of the room barking.

  “Wesley! Good morning!” she said, arriving at the French doors a few moments later, disheveled but dressed. “Did you lose your key?”

  He stared at her.
“Why would you think that?”

  “You’re banging on the door?”

  “Oh, that,” said Wesley, standing up straight. He was at least six foot four and he towered over Molly. “I wanted to speak with you and felt uncomfortable knocking on your bedroom door.”

  Molly held back a smile. There was something moving about Wesley; his awkwardness and good intentions combined to make her quite fond of him.

  “I definitely thought you should know: I’ve seen someone following you,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Well, I’m traveling alone, as you know. I do not have a companion to distract me, and I believe this has made me much more sensitive to my surroundings. And I was already quite sensitive.”

  “Yes,” said Molly, “that you are.”

  “I have been feeling a bit ‘under the weather’—a maritime expression, as you probably know, taken from a seasick person going below decks on the ‘weather side,’ where the storm is hitting—and so have been spending more time in my room than I might otherwise, sometimes just looking out of the window and allowing my thoughts to ramble. And it was thus that several times I witnessed you, Molly. In the garden, and going into the village. And both of these times, a man was hidden, watching you.”

  “From where?” Molly’s mind was evenly split between wanting to dismiss what Wesley was saying and feeling that spark of dread when you sense that someone warning you has good reason to do so. “Did you see who it was?”

  “I’m afraid I could not, though of course since I am not a native, he is unlikely to be someone I would recognize in any case. When you were in the garden, he was standing in the shrubbery between La Baraque and your next door neighbor. Standing as still as a statue, watching. As far as I could tell—regretfully I did not pack my binoculars, they are Bushnells and I’ve been quite pleased with them—as I was saying, this person’s eyes were pinned on you. Well, to be precise, I could not see his eyes. But his body was facing you and he stood there, not moving, for quite some time. I was quite certain he was trying to stay hidden so he could observe you.”

  “Why didn’t you come outside and tell me?”

  “I…I’m sorry to say I can’t answer that. It did not occur to me. I am sorry, Molly, in retrospect that is what I should have done. I did keep watching until you came inside and I thought you were safe, since he did not follow but rather melted into the shrubbery until I could see him no more.”

  “Oh, don’t blame yourself, I’m fine. And…you say he did it again? It’s definitely a man?”

  “Yes, a man. The second time—that I witnessed, of course there may have been others and I would say that is likely—was Saturday night. I happened to be looking out of my window just as it was getting dark. I saw you get on your scooter and turn onto the street toward the village. He jumped on a bicycle and followed you.”

  “Maybe he was just going for a ride?”

  “At night? And why did he have a bicycle hidden in the bushes next to the road, as though he had planned ahead to wait there for you?”

  Molly’s first thought: was the stalker Daniel Coulon? She had decided during their first meeting that he was unreliable, but she only realized after hearing what Wesley had to say how much she distrusted him. “I need coffee,” she said. “Can I get you anything? Some tea?” She put the pot under the faucet and filled it up. “And…thank you. This case I’m working on, I don’t have much of a handle on it at this point, but I honestly don’t think there’s anything dangerous about it. I can’t think of any reason at all that someone would want to follow me. My life really isn’t all that exciting.”

  “I thought something similar as I watched the man watch you in the flower bed. Gardening is of course quite a healthful pursuit, but I would not characterize it as a spectator sport.”

  “No,” said Molly, baffled, not noticing that Wesley had implied her life was a bore.

  “All right then, I just thought you should be apprised. No need for tea. I plan to walk into the village and from there over to the Sallière vineyards. Even though I rarely drink alcohol, as you know, the process of making wine is a fairly interesting one. And there is a host of jargon for me to collect as well.”

  “Have fun, Wesley! Say hello to the owners for me, if you see them. It’s a young couple, can’t remember their names at the moment. I don’t know them well but they seem lovely.”

  With his heavy-footed step Wesley disappeared to his room upstairs to prepare for his sojourn, and Molly absent-mindedly took the carton of eggs out of the refrigerator once again, this time too distracted to notice the little red heart drawn on the corner of the carton. Daniel had mentioned his mother’s last name and the town where she lived, and she hoped that would be enough to go on to find out her phone number. Mentally she rehearsed the call, hoping that the woman wouldn’t be angry to get a call from a stranger out of the blue asking a lot of personal questions about her past.

  Bobo had curled up on Molly’s feet, making breakfast a more difficult meal to prepare than it might have been. “Come on, girl,” muttered Molly as she took a couple of eggs from the carton and cracked them into a bowl. “Get up, you’ve got me pinned!” Bobo grumbled and moved away, keeping her eyes on Molly.

  Molly put the whisk down. Glancing at her watch, she decided to call Daniel’s mother before cooking the omelette. It had not been a lesson she learned early in life, but at nearly forty Molly knew that if you’re dreading a task, it’s far better to just get it over with. She took coffee and sat on the sofa, thinking about how to find out the woman’s number, then jumped up and went to her computer. In a matter of minutes, she had a list of four Clarys who lived in Laval, not far from Rennes where Coulon had gone to university.

  Steeling herself, since making phone calls in French was still not her favorite thing to do, she went down the list one by one, asking whoever answered if she had a son named Daniel. The first two said no, one irritably.

  After one ring, the third woman answered. “llo?”

  “Yes, bonjour Madame Clary, this is Molly Sutton. I live in Castillac, in the Dordogne. I am wondering if you have a son named Daniel?”

  A pause. “May I ask why you are calling? Is Daniel in some sort of trouble?”

  Bingo, thought Molly with relief. “No, I don’t think so. He hasn’t called you in the last few days?”

  “He has, yes. Why are you calling me?”

  “Um, and so, I’m sorry, this is awkward, has anyone notified you about your ex-husband, Maxime Coulon?”

  “What about him? We are long estranged, and do not speak.”

  “That’s what I understand. But have you…I’m very sorry to be the one to tell you, but…it turns out that Maxime Coulon has died. He was murdered last Monday, a week ago.”

  Molly thought she might have heard a snicker, but wasn’t sure. It sounded so out of place that she shivered.

  “Well,” said Molly, “I am a private investigator, and have been hired by Maxime’s second wife—now an ex—to try to find out what happened. I know this is coming out of nowhere, but I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s all right with you?”

  “Questions? You don’t think I had anything to do with it? I am all the way in Brittany, for God’s sake. Or are you going after Daniel, is that it?”

  “Oh no,” said Molly, half-lying. “It’s that I’m trying to understand Maxime a little better, that’s all. Daniel didn’t call to tell you about the murder?”

  “He did, actually. He’s a good boy.”

  Strange to say that about a young man, thought Molly. People are weird.

  “Did the news shock you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Molly waited but Madame Clary did not say anything further.

  “Would you mind elaborating a bit? I didn’t know him personally, even though Castillac is fairly small. Was he the kind of man…who people might…want to murder? Oh sorry, that’s terribly vague. What I’m trying to ask is…some people really rub other people the
wrong way. It’s doesn’t seem likely that Coulon was like that, because he was elected as mayor and served for so many years, so his personality must be…”

  Molly shook her head. She should have written out a list of questions in advance. She was making a complete hash out of this phone call. “You have not been not in contact with Maxime since before Daniel was born?”

  “That’s correct,” said Noelle. Then her voice softened. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened, but you must understand, that chapter of my life was over so long ago that I barely even remember him. Maxime and I—we thought we had fallen in love, but it was an infatuation, you understand? We were giddy at being out of our parents’ houses, off at university, all grown up. It was over in a matter of months. Like a lingering cold,” she added with a snort. “Annoying at the time, but soon forgotten. I raised Daniel by myself and remarried when he was still a young boy. I tried to tell Daniel that dredging up the past wasn’t going to do anyone any good, and he shouldn’t expect any help from Maxime.”

  “Does Daniel need help?”

  “Oh, you know. Some people have a harder time finding their way than others.”

  “No doubt,” said Molly.

  “Look, I’ve got to hang up now. Someone’s at the door.”

  “Would it be all right—” Molly started, but Madame Clary had already hung up.

  I wonder what kind of help Daniel was looking for, Molly thought. Was it only money, or something else? She went back into the kitchen and whisked the eggs, then stepped into the garden to pick a bit of tarragon and chives to throw in. Instead of chopping it, she broke up the herbs with her fingers, thinking all the while about Maxime Coulon, a man in plain view who had turned out to be rather mysterious.

  She needed to find out where Daniel was staying and see if he would talk to her. He had been seen near the mayor’s house after the body was discovered, he had motive…altogether, quite a promising suspect, though she was curious about what Ben might be finding out at the Mega-Mart.