by Nell Goddin
“You’re done with this,” said Molly, laughing, nimbly plucking the bottle from Frances’s hands.
“Oh, it’s not the whiskey making me talk this way. I’m fine, I really am. But I feel like I’m one of those cliff divers, you know, from South America? The ones who sail out from an impossible height to dive into that blue, blue water? It’s a wonder they aren’t all killed,” she added under her breath.
“Fear and love, they’re connected very closely,” said Molly. “Can’t have one without the other.”
“Oh, we’re back to Molly, Zen Priestess again?”
The two friends hugged, holding back tears so that their eye makeup wasn’t ruined before the ceremony.
“Ready?” asked Molly.
Frances nodded, still fighting back a sob.
Meanwhile, in a mad flurry, with newly arriving guests pitching in to get everything organized, the tables had been dried and beautifully decorated. Lawrence had a string quartet playing on his boom box. Guests were relieved to see that the bride had not absconded, and Frances began greeting her French friends with her usual warmth and sometimes mystifying humor. Nico, the long-suffering groom, waited impatiently in the annex for Lawrence to give him the signal. Alphonse, owner of Chez Papa, had been tapped to perform the ceremony, and he waited nervously, rehearsing his lines under his breath even though he had everything written down.
As Molly surveyed the yard, she couldn’t help feeling satisfied. Somehow—with a lot of help, actually—she had managed to pull it off. People were munching happily on hors d’oeuvres and drinking kirs, laughing and telling stories. The place looked lovely and very suited to Frances’s wishes—it wasn’t fussy, but only tables with plain white tablecloths, some bowls of pink roses, and a ribbon on the tree under which they planned to say their vows. The tiny dinosaurs held or propped up place cards. Bobo sported a red ribbon on her collar, which Molly had cleared with Frances in case it was too cute, but with the ceremony only a half hour away, the bride was surprisingly calm, given the intermittent bouts of hysteria over the last few months anytime the subject of marriage came up.
Ben and Lawrence kept their distance from Molly, but they both noticed that she continually checked her phone, presumably for texts from Maron. Lapin and Anne-Marie told the story of their elopement and made everyone laugh and then cry. Manette’s husband found his pregnant wife a chair, then got another for Madame Gervais, who at a hundred and four had good reason not to stay on her feet for too long at a time, and they and the rest of the villagers picked the plates of hors d’oeuvres clean.
Alphonse did a lovely job; the ceremony proceeded like most, with tears springing up all over the place and a glowing bride looking at her new husband with unadulterated joy while he appeared to be the happiest of men. Molly was of course as glad as anyone, though she acknowledged a whisper of sadness too, because no matter how happy you are for a good friend, a big event like this in someone else’s life can make you feel a bit left behind.
And just like that, Frances and Nico were married. After serving champagne, Molly went to the three grills (two of which were borrowed) and threw steaks onto the perfectly timed coals. She checked her phone again, but still no word from Maron.
“Okay, it’s time,” Ben said, joining her by the grills.
“I know. If it hadn’t been for all this,” she said, gesturing to the crowd, “we’d have been able to talk it all through. So I’m sorry if it’s felt like I left you out. Well, I did leave you out. I suppose I’m hoping that Maron will get in touch and I’ll be able to present the whole thing to you with no loose threads.”
“That’s not how our business works. Not how a partnership works.”
“You’re right,” she said. She should have simply paused the wedding prep and told him everything. How could he not be furious with her? She flipped a steak and gave him a sidelong glance, but Ben did not look angry. Though perhaps at the limit of his patience.
“Okay, come close so no one can eavesdrop….are you kidding, you know perfectly well everyone in this village is a master eavesdropper!”
Ben laughed and slipped his arm around her, bending his ear close.
“I was telling you about the La Perla underwear that had always been a mystery to me. Especially early on, when I’d just moved here, I would be at the Saturday market and look around, wondering who was wearing it. Okay, maybe that is not particularly normal behavior, I understand that. But here’s the thing: I never thought to figure out which house that clothesline belonged to. I never once counted how many houses that backyard was from the corner, and then walked around and counted on the street-side to see whose house it was. I guess I sort of enjoyed savoring the mystery, you know?”
Ben waited, resisting the urge to push her to go more quickly.
“But so this morning I was walking through the alley, and I realized that I had not seen the La Perla hanging on the line for a while. Today I finally counted the houses and walked around the block to see whose house it was. Right, one guess—it was Coulon’s.”
“But Molly, you know how Castillac is. If an unmarried man had women’s underthings hanging on the line, people would talk.”
“Right, they would. But the backyard isn’t open, it’s a walled garden. For me to see the lingerie in the first place, I had to climb on a rock or a stack of planks so I could see over the wall. From time to time I’d peek over, just checking to see if it was still there, but it’s not like just anyone could see it as they strolled along the alley, you had to be a little snoopacious. And before you mention the neighbors—the person living to the right is in bad health, and probably not using the upper floor of her house where she could look down into Coulon’s backyard. And I’m pretty sure the house on the other side has been empty for some time.”
She gave Ben a look of triumph as she turned three more steaks, the grease making the flames shoot up.
“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to spell it out. Coulon lived alone. Are you saying he had a mistress or a secret girlfriend living with him?”
“No! We’ve asked those questions all over the village and no one has said one word about any girlfriends—I’m not saying it’s impossible, but we have no evidence for that at all.”
“Are you saying Coulon wore the underwear himself?” he asked, eyes widening.
“No, not that either! Listen—we searched the mayor’s house, remember? If some girlfriend had been keeping things there, or Coulon had been wearing it, we’d have seen it. The underwear would have been in a bureau somewhere. But there was nothing. No lingerie in that house anywhere. I checked all the drawers in all the rooms, remember?”
“And so? Where is this taking you?”
“The only woman who regularly went into the Coulon house, as the neighbors all told us, was Josette Barbeau.”
“Josette Barbeau,” said Ben slowly. “You’re saying she and the mayor were having an affair? The Josette with an alibi from Rémy and no apparent motive, unlike the rest of our list?”
“Yes, that Josette,” said Molly. “I don’t have to tell you that this business of ours is not about feelings or premonitions. But when I stood outside 1 rue Malbec and realized that the mayor’s house was the La Perla house all this time, I knew it was Josette. I’ll make any bet you want to name that she killed him. And then took the fancy underwear with her.”
“So how are you going to prove it?”
“Well, I called Rémy and leaned on him. At first he was stubborn, but when I pushed harder, he admitted that on Thursdays and Mondays he does errands off the farm, sometimes including outreach with other farmers. He did go to the Barbeau farm to talk to Julien about those chickens—but he could have mistaken last Monday for the Thursday before. Just a few days apart, a mistake anyone could make.”
“Okay, so her alibi is a little shakier. She still has her mother and brother standing by her.”
“You know we can’t trust family members in a case like this. Hell, I’d probably lie to prot
ect some people really close to me.”
“It’s just…I don’t want to slam your idea, Molly, but you’re still working on supposition here.”
“What if Maron finds La Perla underwear at the Barbeau farm? Would that convince you?”
“That steak is about to burn, Molly,” said Ben, pointing. “And actually, no, it wouldn’t convince me, not by a long shot. All that would tell us was that she took some underwear. Where is the motive, even if she was having an affair with him?”
Molly stabbed the steak and put it on a waiting platter. “I know, I know, the whole thing isn’t all the way sewn up,” she said. “But you have to admit, it would mean she’s been lying. Which leads to the inevitable question of what else she might be lying about? All we can do now is wait to see what Maron finds,” she said. “But I have to tell you, I’m feeling pretty good about our chances.”
They looked around at the party, which was humming along without their help, a jubilant Nico and Frances at the center. The sun was drifting toward the horizon and the light was soft on everyone’s faces. Molly saw the tail of the orange cat sticking out from underneath a table, and hoped it did not bite anyone’s ankle during dinner.
“I think we’ve pulled it off,” she said, grinning at her partner. “Life is good.”
Ben tucked a wild curl behind one of Molly’s ears. “Will you marry me?” he asked, before he realized what he was saying.
48
Josette had a small bag packed and was waiting in the barn for Julien to return in the truck and pick her up. She made no excuse at all to Maman, even knowing full well that Maman would be driven wild when she discovered that her children were gone—that they had left for good without a word.
Josette hummed to herself, looking forward to the journey. And then, with the force of a thunderous wave slamming down on the beach, she remembered what she had done.
She had killed a man.
Her brain formed the sentence and she knew in her conscious mind that it was true—knew even that it was the reason she was standing in the barn with a small bag at her feet—and yet it seemed absurd and unbelievable. Slowly she remembered what had happened after she had done it.
Julien had been having breakfast at the Café de la Place, and hurried over in the truck to the mayor’s house when she called. As they drove away from the mayor’s house for the last time, all of the La Perla lingerie stuffed into her straw bag, Josette tried at first to keep from telling him anything, but she could not come up with a reason why she had called for a ride home when she had only been at work for an hour. Not to mention that her brother noticed blood spattered on her arm and pressed her.
“Josette, you’ve got to tell me what happened. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
“I…”
“Did he hurt you? Is he hurt? Whose blood is that?” The truck sped erratically down the narrow road as Julien kept looking over at Josette.
“It’s…um…”
“Look, you know I’ve got your back, no matter what. I just need to know what we’re dealing with here.”
Josette nodded and tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to. Well, I sort of did,” she said.
“Mean to what?”
“He was going to get me in trouble. Like, really really bad trouble, with the gendarmes. But it’s…it wasn’t just that. He…he said he would never marry me. And after…” she drifted off, staring out of the window at the sunflowers about to bloom.
“Josette! Tell me what happened!”
“I killed him,” she said simply, and then laughed because it sounded so implausible. “I slit his throat like he was a chicken.”
Julien gasped. He gave his sister strict instructions to take a shower the minute they got home— no, even better, go to the pond and have a swim. He had seen a TV show once where forensics had been able to get blood samples out of a shower drain, so better safe than sorry. “If they find even a speck of his blood on you, you’re sunk,” he told her, knowing it would frighten her but not wanting her to be sloppy.
Josette had followed his instructions and even, for some moments, enjoyed her swim, floating on her back looking up at the cloudless sky, happy that she would never have to see Coulon ever again. She thought about Lebeau instead, about how tightly he had held her around the waist, and tossed her up on his shoulders where the other girls had looked at her enviously.
It’s not like she had planned it. It was simply the way events had unfolded, almost like finding herself in a movie, swept along in a story she did not write.
The next morning she had gone to look for some lipgloss in her bag and found the balled-up La Perla, the frilly pink matching set that she’d been wearing when the surge of violence overtook her. It was grotesquely decorated with the mayor’s blood, and Josette did not need Julien to tell her she had to get rid of it immediately, no matter how much she would have liked to keep all of the beautiful underwear for her own. She stood thinking, and finally decided that the pond would be a good place to put it. With a grimace she picked it up, balling it up as tight as she could, and slipped out the side door of the house before Maman could ask what she was up to or give her a chore that had to be done that second.
Walking along the dirt path along the side of the field, she wondered: was she going to end up in prison after all? Maybe she deserved it. She knew it was wrong to kill another person—not just legally wrong, but morally so. But what if the person was horrible? Was she supposed to suffer on and on forever, putting up with his horribleness into infinity?
In Josette’s mind, options were very limited and always had been. All she knew how to do was try to escape whatever punishment was coming her way, however she could. All she could do was react to what was happening to her, even though this strategy had been working less and less well the older she got.
On that fateful morning, Coulon had berated her from the minute she entered his house. He criticized her coffee, said the spoons were tarnished, and mocked her for hinting about marriage. All of that, Josette was willing to endure, knowing that her family needed the money she earned at the mayor’s, and being unable to find a way to stand up for herself.
But then he had followed her into the guest room where, on his direction, she was about to change the pillowcases even though no one had slept in the bed, and he had grabbed her like she was nothing but a plaything, not even human. Josette had an instant vision of her future, trapped in Coulon’s house forever, never having love or even a pet goat, but only her employer’s unwanted attentions and contempt.
She snatched up a curtain pin from the top of the dresser and cut him without thinking. And on the whole, she admitted only to herself, she was not sorry.
When she reached the pond, she looked around for some rocks and found them easily. She wrapped the rocks in the pink and bloody underwear, and threw the bundles out into the pond as far as she could.
For a long time she stood at the edge of the water, her shoes getting damp, listening to the cries of birds in the distance, and watching the rings in the water pulse outward until the surface was flat and it was as though nothing had ever disturbed it.
49
Molly stood by the grill, frozen, unable to believe what Ben had just asked her. “Really? Marry you?” she said, with wide eyes, and he laughed, taking the fork out of her hand and pulling her close.
At that moment they both felt her cellphone vibrate. Molly grabbed it from her pocket.
“What’s Maron say?” asked Ben.
“It’s not him,” said Molly wonderingly. “It’s Malcolm Barstow, telling me to get to the train station right away.” She paused. “He doesn’t say why…but I trust him.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Ben, and though Molly hesitated for just an instant, she quickly waved for him to follow her.
“Can we take your car?” she asked. “I’ll text Lawrence and ask him to take over hosting duties. Frances and Nico will be fine. Hurry!”
Ben was a
n expert driver but Molly had never seen him in action before. They flew down rue des Chênes, zipped around the edge of the village to the west, and got to the train station before Molly got any answer to her text back to Malcolm, asking for details.
As they hurried out of the car with no idea what they might find in the station, Ben wished he had his pistol. “Wait,” he said urgently. “Slow down. Let’s try and see what the situation is before we go rushing in.”
Using every bit of willpower she could muster, Molly stopped running and let Ben walk slightly ahead of her. He was trained, after all.
Ben slipped into the building using the door farthest to one side. A train had arrived five minutes earlier, and travelers were already streaming through the station. Molly followed, looking everywhere for Malcolm. They searched the waiting room and the small café attached to it, but saw nothing out of the ordinary and no one they recognized.
Molly ran through the doors to the platforms, and caught the barest glimpse of Josette Barbeau disappearing into a car of the waiting train.
“Ben! Hurry!” They tore down the platform and reached the door to the train just as the conductor hopped on board to prepare for departure. Ben did some quick talking and they were allowed to board.
They found Josette sitting next to Julien, three cars down.
Molly stopped for a moment, feeling a pang of sadness, knowing in her heart that Josette had committed a terrible crime, but wishing she could somehow be brought to justice without inflicting so much pain on her brother. She turned to look at Ben, and instinctively he understood what she was thinking and looked sad as well, and then nodded that it was time to act.
Molly walked to where the Barbeaus were sitting and dropped into an empty seat across from them. The train lurched twice and began to glide out of the station.
“Josette,” she said, simply.
“Well bonjour, Molly!” said Julien, falsely hearty. “I’m afraid I’ve got nothing to sell at the moment! I’m taking Josette on a little trip, just a few nights away. It can get boring for her, stuck on the farm with Maman day after day. Where are you off to?”