An Official Killing

by Nell Goddin

  “Well,” said Molly, trying not to sound grudging, “you’re right, could go a lot of ways. But at this point, those possibilities are awfully vague, aren’t they? Whereas with Daniel, we’ve got someone who was seen near the scene, has a massive motive, and who’s a little off, to boot!”

  “What do you mean, ‘a little off’?”

  “Well, like I said, he zigzagged. He would seem angry, then sort of friendly, then—talking about his father’s murder—almost giddy. I’m telling you, it wasn’t normal!”

  Ben nodded, hearing what she was saying but also feeling some stubbornness about his own discovery and wanting Molly to be more excited by it. At long last they reached the purveyors of sausage and had their plates loaded down. Molly added a heap of frites because she could never say no to frites, and they went in search of Monsour, stopping to say hello to yet more friends and acquaintances along the way.

  A small band got up on the makeshift stage and started playing Irish jigs, and children crowded around, hands in the air and legs flying. For a second Molly stood still and looked around at her beloved village, all these people she cared about sitting down to a meal together, lit up by strings of fairy lights, under the deep dark blue sky. She felt emotion bubbling up and had to choke back tears, she was so happy to be there, in that place, with Ben right behind her and her best pal Frances off somewhere causing trouble, no doubt. But as she glanced around, she did not see Daniel, and worried that he had skipped town before she had another chance to talk to him.

  “How is the sausage?” Ben asked Paul-Henri, who had eaten half of his before they got settled in their chairs.

  The three of them talked of grilled meat and fried potatoes for a minute or two before getting down to business.

  Molly, for her part, was focused for the moment on the food. Murder was serious, and solving one crucially important. But a girl needs sustenance, she was thinking to herself as she sliced into the perfectly crisp exterior of the sausage after slathering on some mustard. If she had to travel to Brittany to interview Daniel, that’s just what she would have to do. Constance could manage things while she was gone. And Frances and Nico’s wedding…well, it would all come off somehow.

  “I wanted to speak with you both as a matter of professional courtesy,” said Monsour. “We are not quite at the moment of writing out a warrant, a few details remain to be worked out, and as you are quite aware, the collection of certain kinds of evidence can be numbingly slow—”

  “Yes?” interrupted Ben. “Who do you have your sights on?”

  “Your client, Odile Dupont.”

  “What?” said Molly, leaning forward and forgetting about her frites. “Odile is innocent! You can’t just arrest people without any reason!”

  Monsour smiled and sliced the last bit of his sausage in two. “The motive is multifold,” he said primly. “Not only was there a great deal of rancor about the divorce, but Coulon had been actively hurting her financially. He had instructed the workers in the mairie not to review her application for a business license. Odile, you see, runs a conglomeration of beauty shops. I can tell you that in Paris, these sort of places do quite a serious busin—”

  “We know, Paul-Henri, we know,” said Ben. “We are aware of the situation with the permits you’re talking about, but have drawn a different conclusion about who is implicated.”

  “Were others in Coulon’s office the week before his murder, throwing ashtrays and making all sorts of threats? Because your client was,” said Monsour.

  Molly and Ben looked at each other. Seems Odile had left a few details out of her version of the story, and how were they going to slow down Monsour while they figured out who the real killer was?

  Or for once, had the gendarmes beaten Molly to the truth?

  39

  The next morning Molly sped into the village early with two goals in mind: get a few wedding errands crossed off her list, and find Daniel Coulon if he was still in town. She rode through the Place, eyes peeled, but did not see him, then went down rue Malbec in case he was still hanging out around his father’s house. Still no sign of him.

  She and Ben had decided not to tell Odile how close the gendarmes were to arresting her, agreeing that the news might put enough pressure on her that she might do something she shouldn’t—make a run for it, cause a scene, anything other than just go to work every day and not throw ashtrays at anybody. All Dufort/Sutton could do to protect their client was try to offer the gendarmes other possibilities, equally convincing, to buy some time.

  Was it possible that Nico and Frances’s wedding was in only two days? How was that even possible? She felt totally unready, though as she ran through the items on her list, the situation wasn’t completely hopeless. The menu was simple enough, just grilled steaks and whatever vegetables looked freshest that day, sautéed in butter. Salad, of course. Edmond Nugent was bringing bread and making the cake, and she had arranged for the steaks, vegetables, and liquor to be delivered Friday morning, so that was done. She already had tables, tablecloths, cutlery, glasses, all bought for the Chef du Monde contest she’d put on in the winter. Unless she was overlooking something crucial, all she had to do that morning was see Madame Langevin about the flowers. The timing had turned out to be terrible but she could hardly blame Frances and Nico for that, or the mayor either, for that matter.

  But first, coffee. She parked outside Pâtisserie Bujold and went in, waving to Edmond as he talked to another customer.

  “Well, bonjour, Malcolm,” said Molly, when the boy turned to see who was coming into the shop. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Hullo,” he said, then turning back around. His longish hair was a bit matted and his shirt did not look fresh. Molly wondered how things were going at home, unable to imagine what family life must be like when your father is in prison.

  “How’s your family?” she asked, unwilling to give up on engaging him.

  Malcolm turned his face towards her but not his body, and shrugged. “Fine, I guess,” he said, mumbling.

  Hm, she thought. He’s certainly out of sorts about something.

  Malcolm bought a fancy layered cup covered with crushed almonds and a red feather sticking out of the top. Molly admired it and laughed as the boy immediately dug his spoon in and ate, but could get no more response from him.

  “He a regular?” she asked, when Malcolm had left.

  “Hardly ever been in. Doesn’t usually have the scratch,” Edmond said in a low voice, leaning across the counter. “At least in here the display case keeps him from walking out with half the merchandise.”

  “Listen, the guy I was talking to the other day? Coulon’s son? Have you seen him around since then?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Funny you bring him up right on the heels of Malcolm Barstow. So that guy, Daniel his name is, he comes in yesterday, maybe it was the day before, and orders a couple of caramel éclairs. I put them in a box and stepped away for just a second, had to take a delivery in the back but it wasn’t more than a minute. Came back and Daniel had polished off one éclair and was making headway on the second. Gluttonous behavior,” said Edmond, shaking his head. “But still worse, he hadn’t the money to pay. Just smiled at me, saying he’d be back eventually with the money. Didn’t say when.”

  “Did you call the gendarmes?”

  “Over a couple of éclairs? Nah. Not worth it. I don’t think he’ll be coming back, though. Probably off to scam the next guy…maybe he’ll go to Fillon,” he added with satisfaction.

  “It’s obvious he’s pretty hard up,” Molly said, actually arguing with Ben, not Edmond.

  “I fail to feel a great deal of sympathy,” said Edmond with a sniff.

  “He didn’t happen to say where he was staying, or anything like that?”

  “No. But by the look of him, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’s sleeping rough.”

  Molly raced off, not forgetting her small bag of pastry, wanting to get the florist over with so she could get back to L
a Baraque before everyone was up. The fête had gone very late and Ben and the guests were all sleeping in, so she figured she could squeeze in Madame Langevin, as long as they didn’t get carried away talking.

  The shop wasn’t officially open yet, but Molly could see Madame Langevin inside sorting an enormous armful of roses on a stainless steel table. Molly knocked on the door and waved, her mind zinging from Daniel to Odile to Mega-Mart to the wedding, like a battered pinball game on the point of throwing sparks.

  “I wondered if I was going to hear from you,” Madame Langevin said with a smile, as she opened the door. “The wedding is this Friday. Cutting it a bit close, are we?”

  Molly shook her head. “I know, it’s completely my fault. I should have called weeks ago. It’s just that Ben and I are on the Coulon case and it’s taken up every single bit of time.” She paused. “And you know, just between us, Frances has been so back and forth about the whole thing that it just never actually felt real to me. I had to go see Nico to get a date. Of course, when I agreed to it, I had no idea…”

  “Tell me, do you think Frances…is she not enthusiastic about the marriage? Nico has been in here multiple times to get flowers for her—you remember the bee sting episode?”

  Molly nodded, her eyes wide. “Oh yeah—scary.”

  “Well, there’s no doubt in my mind that Nico is absolutely gaga over Frances. But maybe it’s a bit of a one-way kind of thing?”

  “No, no, I don’t think so. She’s equally gaga, I’m positive of that. It’s more of a resistance to the formality. Anyway, I’m sorry to be short but I am in a terrific hurry. Would you mind coming up with something simple and bringing it over on Friday, early afternoon I suppose? A small bouquet for Frances, not frilly but simple, and maybe a couple of arrangements for the table? It’s not going to be a swanky affair, just a quick ceremony and small dinner with friends.”

  “No disco dancing this time?”

  “Not this time,” laughed Molly. “Just send me the bill. And thank you!”

  That out of the way, on the drive home Molly thought she should probably call Odile and give her an update on their progress. They needn’t tell her all the leads they were following, but she had a pretty good idea that when someone pays as much as Odile was going to be paying, they want to feel like they’re in the loop. But could she do that without telling her about Monsour’s suspicions?

  Too many things, too many things, I need to sit down and make a list before my head spins right off into the sky, she thought, taking a sharp turn into the driveway and hoping everyone was still asleep.

  Bobo greeted her with wild barking, and Molly came in through the terrace door to find Ben pouring a cup of coffee, looking bleary from the late night.

  He and Molly kissed warmly, though she felt a hint of that competitive feeling still lurking about.

  “Sorry to bother you,” boomed Wesley from the corridor. “Good morning! I’m afraid I am unused to keeping these irregular kinds of hours. I wonder if you would mind making me a hearty breakfast, Molly? I feel rather depleted.”

  “I would sign up for that too,” said Ben, with a sly grin.

  “All right, eggs and bacon fit the bill? I’m properly caffeinated, and here are some croissants to munch on if you’re feeling faint.” She put the white bag from Pâtisserie Bujold on the table and got the eggs out of the refrigerator.

  “Scrambled okay?”

  “I do prefer a sunny-side up egg but I can go with the flow,” said Wesley. “Interesting bit of slang, ‘go with the flow’. It makes one wonder what sort of flow is being referenced, does it not?”

  Molly was half-listening to Wesley ramble, and half-thinking about going straight back into the village after breakfast and covering every square inch until she found Daniel Coulon. So she was not paying attention when the orange cat hopped up on the kitchen counter when she went to get out the butter, and when she turned back around the cat startled her, she jumped, and it flew off the counter in a rush, knocking the carton of eggs to the floor.

  “Well, dammit,” Molly muttered, opening the carton of Barbeau eggs in hopes something could be salvaged. But there had been ten eggs left, and every one of them was smashed to bits and running onto the floor.

  IV

  40

  Madame Barbeau had taken to her bed, her knees on fire. She asked Josette to bring her just a bowl of soup for lunch and spent the afternoon napping, her room pungent with the smell of the ointment she had made to soothe her joints.

  After making and delivering the soup, Josette was enjoying the sunny day by wandering around the farm doing nothing. She remembered the goat she had as a child and considered spending her stash on another one. She crossed the meadow to the small pond and stood looking into it, seeing the fish rise, her mind blank.

  Oh, Josie, Julien said to himself, seeing her standing there. She was so beautiful—beautiful, with an alarming deficit of common sense, he thought, walking across the meadow to join her.

  “Listen, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’ve talked about going to America before, right?”

  Josette nodded.

  “Why don’t we just go, get the hell out of here! I know we don’t have much money, but we have enough for plane tickets and living expenses for a few months. We can find work once we get there.”

  Josette looked at her brother gratefully.

  “Can you imagine?” he continued. “No more of her Subjects? No more going on about restaurant food, or our father, or any of it?”

  “You really mean a fresh start?”

  “Totally fresh,” said Julien with a grin. But then he looked down at his feet, realizing how many hoops there would be to jump through. “Of course, we’ll have to get passports first,” he said.

  But they had the money. He wanted the fresh start, for both of them, so badly he could taste it.

  “Listen, I’m going to get passport applications done. Maybe we can pay extra and they’ll rush them. And don’t worry about the hens, Maman can manage by herself better than she lets on.”

  “I’m a little scared of America,” said Josette.

  They stood without speaking, staring at the water. Julien bent down and picked up a handful of stones and began chucking them into the pond.

  “But not so scared I can’t go with you,” she said quietly, and her brother let out a whoop.

  * * *

  “I’m getting married in two days, Molls. Two!”

  “I know. Grab the end there and we’ll lift on three. One, two, three!” Molly backed out of the storage shed holding the end of one of the tables, and Frances groaned and complained while walking her end along, until eventually, with more minor hysteria from Frances, they had three tables set up in the yard where they wanted them, in one long row.

  “Am I crazy not to have dancing? All good parties have dancing.”

  “There’s nothing stopping anyone. Impromptu dancing can break out anytime,” said Molly patiently. “I can hook up music and we can let ‘er rip on the grass. Easy.”

  “Am I making a terrible mistake?”

  “Not having a dance floor?”

  “No, you knucklehead, getting married for the third time!”

  Molly faced her old friend. She stood for a moment with her mouth closed tight, willing herself not to blow up. “Frances? You are making yourself crazy. If it turns out that marrying Nico is a mistake, and you liked it better not being married, then get another divorce. You guys can just go back to the way things were before, no harm done.”

  “But Nico really wants children.”

  Molly’s chest felt tight and she said nothing.

  “And I don’t have any idea how I feel about that, and I know it’s a bad subject for you but if I never talk about it then that’s weird in its own right.”

  “I’m not telling you not to talk about it.”

  “Okay, well, it’s just that I have this traditionalist streak in me when it comes to kids.”

  Molly managed to l
augh. “You do? I didn’t think there was a whisper of the traditionalist anywhere near you!”

  Frances hung her head. “I know. It’s embarrassing.”

  “So, just to finish up here—I’ve got white tablecloths ready to go, plus napkins, and Madame Langevin is doing some flowers, nothing over the top at all.”

  “I do love flowers.”

  “There, that’s a good bride! I’ve got to make a phone call. How about you go to the closet in the new addition and pull out the box with the tablecloths? I think there are salt shakers and pepper grinders in there too.”

  Frances skipped off like she was ten. Molly pulled out her cell and gave Odile a call.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Odile said, the second she realized who was calling. “Is it your usual practice to get a client and then ignore them while taking their money?”

  “We should have agreed on a timetable for communication,” said Molly, feeling too pressed for time to argue. “And I am sorry, I don’t have a lot of time right now.”

  “You’re putting on a wedding, that’s what I hear. Very unprofessional, I have to tell you. Have you made any headway on Maxime’s case at all? I’m feeling extremely anxious about it, Molly. It’s very unsettling when violence hits so close.”

  “I’m aware,” said Molly, and then tried to hide her irritation a little better. “Ben and I are making progress. Did you know that Maxime had a son?”

  “Of course. We were married, you know.”

  “Not infrequently, married people keep secrets from each other.”

  “Well, maybe they do, but that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Maxime told me about the son. He spoke about it just once. I believe it was a source of…I was going to say shame, but the truth is, he was worried that the son would show up and embarrass him, that was the main thing. He never lifted a finger to try to find him or anything, not that I know of.”