No Honor Among Thieves

Chapter 3

3

With a sigh, Sarah Berteau left her house, on a dingy back street of Bergerac, and made her way to Monsieur Petit’s, as she had done four mornings a week for a few months. It was sunny and cold, and she pulled on a pair of gloves as she walked, even though it was only a five-minute walk to the much nicer street where the Petit house was.

She had only begun with Petit when her husband Anthony lost his job. Sarah didn’t mind working—or at least, in principle she did not. Working for Monsieur Petit, however, had been no picnic, and she had no cause for optimism about the situation—or his moods—improving.

The streets were full of people hustling off to work or doing errands. They squinted into the sun, their shoulders hunched against the cold. Passing a pastry shop, she paused, tempted, but decided to press on to Petit’s and get the work over with. At least he did not require that she spend a certain number of hours at his house; she had only to perform the assigned tasks, after which she was free to go…though she had learned he did not tolerate even the tiniest cutting of a corner.

As she fumbled for the key, Sarah had no premonition of anything amiss. On her way to the kitchen, she did not glance in the direction of the study and did not see Petit’s body slumped over his desk.

He had failed to clear his dishes from the dining room table, which was unusual. The house seemed rather cold and she kept her coat on as she took his plate and wine glass to the sink in the kitchen.

Oh my, she thought, seeing a window open. Could I have left that open yesterday? The place had really needed airing, but I’m surprised Monsieur Petit did not close it later, it’s terribly cold in here.

Sarah went to the window and closed it. From the closet she took an apron, some rags and a duster, and, being a methodical sort of cleaner, followed her usual pattern of starting at one end of the downstairs and dusting each room in turn.

The living room was already nearly spotless, but she dusted it anyway.

Then to the hallway, and Monsieur Petit’s study.

She stood for a moment in the doorway. She opened her mouth to say something to him, even though it was quite apparent he was in no shape to answer. A pool of blood was on the floor under his chair and Sarah immediately considered how the stain would need to be addressed, and the quicker the better.

She closed her mouth. It was the strangest sensation, seeing her employer with his head caved in, obviously murdered; her eyes knew what they were seeing but her brain refused to make any meaning out of it.

And then, all at once, all her senses synchronized, and Sarah Berteau—for the first time in her life—let loose a terrified scream.

I don’t know why I’m screaming, she thought, taking a quick breath and screaming some more. Unless whoever whacked him in the head is still in the house?

She shut up in a hurry. Holding her breath, she peered both ways down the hall, her ear c****d.

Oh come on, she said to herself. They’ll be long gone by now. It’s not as though it just happened, either, anyone can see that. She went back to Monsieur Petit and looked him over, making sure he was dead though she was just being over-careful, then matter-of-factly pulled out her cell and called the gendarmerie.

“Âllo, bonjour,” she said, “This is Sarah Berteau. I’m at the house of my employer, Bernard Petit, on rue Lafayette. I wish to make a report…he is dead….yes, I’m quite certain…no, I am not a doctor, but I have eyes...all right, send whoever you like, I’m only making the report…yes…all right, I’ll stay here and let them in.”

Annoyed, she put her phone back in her apron pocket. She was not sure what to do next. Continue cleaning as though nothing had happened? It wasn’t as though Monsieur Petit was going to care one way or another. She passed through the living room and neatly arranged the throw pillows on the sofa, something Monsieur Petit had been particular about.

Sarah had not liked him. He had been disagreeable to work for: hard to please, ungrateful, dismissive. But nonetheless, she felt no gladness or relief in his death, and she paced around the house, nervous and still a little afraid, even after bravely checking the whole house from top to bottom and finding no one else there.

At last there was a rap on the front door and she trotted over to open it. “Whoever it is, they’re long gone,” she said, realizing when she laid eyes on the gendarme that what she was worried about was whether she had left that window open the day before—had, in essence, provided an easy way into the house for a murderer to do his dirty business.

Molly was fiddling around at her home, La Baraque, sipping a third cup of coffee and waiting for her friend and housecleaner Constance to show up. Constance was late, but their work wasn’t pressing and Molly didn’t mind.

When she heard a revving engine, Molly looked out to see Constance waving goodbye to her boyfriend, Thomas, as he flew out of the driveway on a new motorcycle. The young woman turned and ran to Molly’s door.

“Bonjour Molly,” she said, breathless, jumping inside the second Molly opened the door, and kissing her on both cheeks. “It’s cold as the devil out there!”

“Indeed,” said Molly. “Is that a new bike Thomas is riding?”

“Yes,” said Constance, with a grin. “He got a promotion, can you believe it?”

Molly couldn’t, actually, knowing Thomas’s work history to be a little on the sketchy side. “Glad to hear it,” she said.

“And what about your work,” said Constance. “I mean both kinds. Do you have anyone coming for Christmas—are there any repeaters, anyone interesting? And also, what about the detective biz? You and Ben got any irons in the fire?”

“Afraid not,” said Molly. She was happy enough just running the gîte business at La Baraque; now that the renovations were more-or-less complete, she made a decent income from it, and the guests coming and going made life pretty interesting. But for some people, “happy enough” doesn’t quite cut it, at least not all the time. Molly missed the excitement and challenge of solving difficult cases; cleaning the cottages before guests arrived was obviously not as thrilling, though satisfying in its own way.

“Too bad,” said Constance, who understood perfectly. “But hey, someone could get killed any day!”

“Great?” said Molly, laughing. “Okay, so I’ve already cleaned the pigeonnier and the annex. All we have left is the cottage, plus the living room here could use a vacuuming. What do you want to tackle first?”

“How about throwing some more logs in the stove? It’s freezing in here. And maybe we could have a cup of coffee before we get started? I want to hear all about the wedding plans.”

Molly shrugged. “Help yourself, I just made a fresh pot. As for wedding plans…we’re at zero so far.”

“What? No theme, no location, no nothing?”

“Correct,” said Molly, opening the fridge to get the cream. “It’s funny, or maybe not so funny since I’ve already been married once…I’m just not that invested in the actual wedding this time. I want it to be fun, obviously, and meaningful—I’m not saying I’m totally jaded or cynical, nothing like that. But I don’t really care very much about the details. As long as we have good food, good drink, and all our friends, that’s all that matters.”

“How spiritually advanced you are,” said Constance, with an exaggerated frown. “I see I’m going to have to twist your head back around to understanding that you’re throwing a wedding for crying out loud and expectations are high. You’re not allowed to let us all down with a half-baked party, Molly Sutton! And also by the way, it just occurred to me—are you changing your name to Dufort?”

Molly paused, surprised that she’d never even considered it. “I…I don’t know. I guess I’ll talk to Ben about it. I didn’t change my name when I married Donny. Just not something I ever thought much about.”

“Oh, you’re so modern. And I don’t mean that in a good way.”

Molly laughed. She was suddenly feeling peckish and was about to offer to make a hearty breakfast before they got to work, when her cell buzzed. She picked up her phone and looked at the screen, a text from her close friend Lawrence:

Bernard Petit found dead in his house. Wasn’t he a client of Ben’s?

Molly stared at the words. A very pleasant little tingle was spreading through her body at the prospect of a new case, though as usual it was only a prospective case so far. Quickly she texted Ben to let him know. She remembered that Petit had grown children—maybe Ben could get somewhere with them?

“Molly?” said Constance.

“It’s nothing. At least, well, it might be something. Tell me this, though: what connection does Lawrence have that he finds everything out before I do? It’s been driving me mad for years.”

Constance just smiled. “So somebody got offed? Hopefully no one we like?”

“You’re very cavalier about murder, Constance.”

“You’re one to talk. So who is it?”

“Bernard Petit, from Bergerac. Though as far as we know, he wasn’t offed, as you so charmingly put it. According to Lawrence, he was found dead in his house. Most likely natural causes.”

“Didn’t know him. But I’ve heard of him. Because people love to talk about people they don’t like.”

“True enough,” said Molly. “Well, shall we get to it?”

They collected buckets and mop, dusters and dustpans, and got over to the cottage.

“Almighty Lord Jesus!” said Constance.

“Have you suddenly got religion?”

“It’s freezing in here, Molls. If anyone’s showing up today, you better jack this heat up!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Molly, who had a constitutional aversion to spending money on heating bills. As she adjusted the thermostat, her cell buzzed again, another text from Lawrence.

Head bashed in

“Oh!” said Molly, and showed the screen to Constance.

“Now we’re talking!” said Constance. “I’m not going to feel even a little bit bad. Everyone—and I mean everyone—thought he was a massive jerk. You get what you pay for!”

Molly paused for a moment, then shook her head. “I think I see what you mean. Though maybe while you’re wishing people dead you could offer up a prayer for their souls at the same time.”

“Bernard Petit had no soul. Have you heard a word I said?”

Molly tossed Constance a rag. “Wipe down the bathroom, will you? I’ll dust. As usual there’s like three inches of dust from these stone walls.”

Constance disappeared into the bathroom and Molly heard her spraying cleaner all over everything. “Where are they from?” Constance called out.

“Virginia. And New York City.”

“Ah!”

“Someday, Constance, we will take a trip there together. Though I’m afraid it will never live up to your expectations.”

“Are you kidding? New York? Of course it will. Sweet Mary and Joseph!”

Molly ducked her head into the bathroom. “What?”

“Look at what your guests left behind,” said Constance, pointing into the cabinet under the sink.

Perched next to a bottle of floor cleaner was a fat roll of bills. Molly plucked it out and slipped off the elastic band.

“Fifties,” she said, eyes big. “There must be a few thousand euros here. What in the world?”

Constance was practically drooling. “If, uh, if you’re at a loss about what to do with it,” she said, patting Molly on the shoulder. “I’ve got a few ideas. And you know, when it comes to ideas, mine are super-ultra-good.”

Molly flipped through the bills to make sure the fifties weren’t just on the ends of the wad. Nope, it looked to be all fifties, through and through.

Curious.

The Donalds had stayed in the cottage last, having left only the day before. They were an unassuming couple, not given to chit-chat.

“The Donalds?” said Molly, incredulous.

“Those two little mice? Well, just goes to show—you never know about people.”

“True enough,” said Molly. “You never know.”