An Official Killing

Chapter 5

5Saturday morning, changeover day. Molly had found, over several years of running La Baraque, that she got to know some guests pretty well during their stay, while others remained complete strangers. Which was fine by Molly, as she understood that people are different in how much socializing they want to do; some of the guests were dedicated sightseers and so barely spent any time at La Baraque except for sleeping.

The group leaving was entirely of the second type, and so the goodbyes were quick and without any promises to keep in touch. Molly hoped they were satisfied customers, and reminded herself to make up a short questionnaire and send it out to her mailing list of guests, to see if there was anything they might suggest if they had the chance to do so anonymously. That reminder joined a rather long list in Molly’s head of things she needed to attend to in the upcoming week: the faucet in the pigeonnier was leaking again; she needed to find a mason to talk about rebuilding the ruin in the back pasture; a window pane in the hallway was cracked, and she was sure there were about five other things she’d forgotten for the moment.

A loud bang on the door, and Constance, Molly’s friend and occasional housecleaner, let herself in. Bobo ran over for a joyous greeting as Constance called out “Bonjour!” in that singsong way the French had. “Molly, I—”

“Don’t tell me you’re about to get married, too,” snapped Molly from the kitchen.

“Whoa whoa whoa!”

“Sorry. I’ve had a stream of people in here telling me how sad they are that their partners want to marry them so desperately. I mean, I’m perfectly happy not being married. Marriage isn’t exactly easy, after all. It’s just—”

“Oh, believe me, I know. Simone Guyanet? My arch-nemesis since primaire? She’s getting married. I guess she finally got it through her head that Thomas had made his choice and it wasn’t her, so she ran out and got engaged to the first guy to come along.”

“Someone from the village?”

“Nope, Bergerac, I think. You’d think he was the Prince of Wales to hear her go on.”

“I didn’t know you and Simone hung out.”

“We don’t! But Thomas and I had dinner at Chez Papa last night, and she was there with her fiancé. Talking in a loud voice as usual so that everyone in the whole place could hear all their business.”

“Want some coffee before we get started?”

“Sure. And okay, because it’s you I’m talking to and I know you know the truth anyway—I would like to get married. Wear a fancy dress, throw a party, the whole thing. Or maybe it’s really just about having a moment when Thomas says, right in front of everybody, ‘I love Constance, and we will be together until the end of time.’ Something along those lines.”

Molly nodded. It was hard to sort through what she actually felt versus what she wanted to feel. Things with Ben, the former chief of gendarmes, had been going very well lately; they were comfortable with each other, and there was a spark there too. The single thing keeping Molly from being ecstatic about her life was not having any children; even though her fortieth birthday was right around the corner, she mostly kept that worry to herself, at least as far as Ben was concerned. It wasn’t fair to unload all that pressure on him—it’s not like it was his fault baby alarms rang in her head whenever she spied a little one.

“Okay, shall we have at it?” she asked, after she and Constance had polished off their coffee, both lost in thought.

“I’m ready. So where’s the creepo dude staying this time?”

“You mean Wesley Addison?”

“Yeah. I’d have thought you’d have had enough of having murderous guests.”

“Jeez! What is it about this village! He did not murder anyone. His poor wife fell off a cliff.”

“Right,” said Constance, winking.

Constance and Molly cleaned quickly and efficiently, having accomplished so many changeover days at this point they could do it in their sleep. The cottage, pigeonnier, and annex to the house all needed vacuuming and mopping. Refrigerators emptied and cleaned, trash taken out, beds freshly made, smudgy windows washed. Just before the guests were due to arrive, Molly went around to each lodging and left a bottle of red from the Sallière vineyard down the road and a small vase with some June roses, along with a notebook that had listings of emergency phone numbers, places to eat, and sites to see.

She could perform this work without having to think about it, free to wonder why she got so annoyed with Frances and Lapin and their marriage woes, but getting no answers. When she and Constance were done, she asked her if she wanted some lunch, but Constance took off on her bicycle for a rendezvous with Thomas. Which was just as well, because Molly had only eaten a piece of brie with a torn-off bit of baguette when Christophe’s taxi pulled into the driveway of La Baraque and Molly saw the imposing body of Wesley Addison inside.

“Bonjour, Wesley, it’s good to see you. You’re early!” she said, trying to sound jolly.

“If you’re not ready for me, I’m happy to wait on the terrace or wherever is convenient. As I am sure you are well aware, traveling is quite tiring and I will require some rest. Please bring me a bottle of Vittel.”

Molly stood with her mouth open, unable to form a polite response. She had gotten to like Wesley by the end of his stay the year before, but at the moment she was having trouble remembering why. You wouldn’t think the lack of a simple “bonjour” would matter so much, and yet boy, it did.

But like any seasoned innkeeper, she found her good spirits quickly. “Actually, everything’s ready and you can have your room right away if you’d like. Or if you’d rather drink your mineral water on the terrace, that would be fine too.”

“Excellent, Molly,” he said with a rare smile. “I imagine other guests will be arriving soon? In that case, I will go to my room. I would be happy to meet them at some other juncture but as I said, at the moment the stress of traveling must be addressed.”

Molly smiled to herself as she got him settled in the same room upstairs he had stayed the year before. It was easily the worst room at La Baraque but Wesley had requested it, not being a fan of change when he could avoid it.

Molly managed to make a salad with greens from her garden, some olives, and a bit of tuna, but before she could eat much of it, Christophe’s taxi was chugging into the driveway again with a pair of guests, also early.

“Bonjour!” Molly said, as they got out and looked around. “You are the Vasilievs? Welcome to La Baraque!”

“Dobryj dyen’!” boomed the man, who was broad in the chest with short legs. His wife, who had shoulder-length hair bleached platinum, stared at Molly without smiling, then shifted her gaze to Bobo, who was not going up to give them a sniff as she usually did with new guests.

“Ah, I’m afraid my Russian is nonexistent. I’m so glad you are here. I’ll show you to the pigeonnier right away, and you can let me know if you’d like a tour of the whole place a little later.”

Vasily Vasiliev said something else in Russian. For a moment they all stood awkwardly with frozen smiles on their faces. “I’m sorry,” Molly said. “We were emailing in English when you made your reservation, am I right? Or have I lost my mind entirely?”

“I am Fedosia Vasiliev,” his wife said finally. “My husband speak only Russian. I fill out form and send money.”

“I’m afraid I don’t speak a word except for ‘do svidaniya,’ and I’m probably saying that wrong,” laughed Molly.

“Is no worry,” said Fedosia, suddenly warming up and patting Molly on the arm.

“That’s good to hear,” said Molly. She was thinking, with some embarrassment, that she knew virtually nothing about Russia. Had never been to or even known anyone who had traveled there. She vaguely remembered Brezhnev and communism, and of course knew that Russia became its own country when the USSR split up in the early nineties. But the culture, the people, the language? Molly was utterly ignorant of all of it.

“I just want to say,” she said, speaking to Fedosia and smiling at Vasily as they walked to the pigeonnier, “that one of the things I like best about running La Baraque is getting to meet people from so many different countries. I hope we can spend a little time together while you’re here, and you can share some things about your home.”

Fedosia drew back and Molly said quickly, “I don’t mean to sound nosy! I’m just curious about what life is like in Smolensk. That’s where you’re from, if I remember right?”

The Russian gave a curt nod and dragged her duffel bag through the door of the pigeonnier. Molly showed them around briefly and made her escape.

I just never know who’s going to show up here, she mused as she finished her salad, now wilted. Or why.

Molly was tired and cranky that evening but figured she would take a chance on Chez Papa cheering her up, though she was tempted to burrow in at La Baraque and wallow in her grumbling all evening. It had been that kind of week, nothing terrible, nothing dire, but still, the little annoyances kept piling up, and the Vasilievs’ frostiness and Wesley Addison’s weirdness felt like the next to last straw. At least she was fully recovered from Lyme disease and had her energy back, she thought as she climbed on her beloved scooter and zipped down rue des Chênes and into the village.

June was a delight in Castillac. Many buildings had flowerpots out front along with window-boxes filled with geraniums; roses popped up everywhere and the streets were perfumed with their sweet scent. It was a time of fêtes, concerts, and ice cream, and it was impossible for Molly’s mood not to improve simply by puttering down the cobbled narrow street to her favorite bistro, where she ate so often she joked she should have some sort of meal plan, like a college student.

“Bonsoir Nico!” she called out, coming through the door.

Heads at the bar turned around, and everyone spent a few minutes greeting each other with bonsoirs and cheek kisses. Molly’s best pal Frances sat on the stool at the end of the bar, where she was often found, gazing at Nico with wry appreciation. Lawrence was sitting next to Lapin, who was wearing a striped tank top.

“What is this new fashion you’re sporting?” asked Molly, suppressing a grin.

“I don’t know why everyone has to make such a fuss,” said Lapin.

Everyone laughed.

“Well, it is eye-catching,” said Molly. “I like it when people take fashion risks.”

“You’re just teasing me, I know,” said Lapin. He stood up as tall as he could and flexed his arms, taking a bodybuilder stance. “Anne-Marie likes it. And that’s all that counts.”

“Indeed,” said Molly. “Nico, you’re just standing there. Kir, on the double please!”

“Oui, Madame,” said Nico, jumping into action.

“So when is Ben getting back, anyway?” asked Lawrence. “Seems like he’s been out of town for ages.”

Molly shrugged. “Who knows. He says it’s the most boring job in the world, but at this point in our private investigator business, we can’t be choosy.”

“Well, I was sorry you called off dinner the other night. I’ve got the raincheck right here,” she said, patting her pocket.

“I know, sorry about that. I just thought it would be more fun with Ben, and he couldn’t get away.”

“Where is he again?” asked Frances, sipping her glass of Pecharmant.

“Got a job up near Thiviers. It’s forensic accounting, really, so he’s at a desk all day looking through files.”

“Forensic what?”

“Accounting. Trying to figure out where the money’s gone, basically,” said Molly. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long, it’s just a little business…a sewing shop, I think? Only a couple of employees and I can’t imagine they did that much business. I offered to go with him and help, but in this case my help would be limited to my excellent jokes because math and I are not on speaking terms.”

“At least you and Ben can talk on the phone.”

“Sure. And text. Just between you and me,” said Molly, quietly enough that only her friends could hear, “he may look like a stodgy boy scout but he can write some smokin’ hot texts!”

Frances cracked up. “Ben? Sexting? Too funny.”

“They don’t go that far. They’re not smutty, just…deliciously suggestive.”

Nico had drifted down to the other end of the bar to serve drinks to two men that looked familiar to Molly. Having lived in Castillac for several years now, she recognized most of its inhabitants but still hadn’t been introduced to all of them.

“So? How are things?” Molly asked Frances. “Feeling any better about the you-know-what?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean the wedding. Well, yes, maybe. Hey Nico!” She stood up and waved him over. “Let’s ask Molly what she thinks about our idea.”

Nico grinned and reached over and took Frances’s hand. They beamed at each other for a moment until Molly said, “Okay, speak up or get a room, for crying out loud.”

“You’re very grouchy,” said Lapin.

“I am,” agreed Molly. “That’s how it is sometimes. Frances knows not to take it personally.”

“So listen,” said Frances, “you know I was talking about an out-of-town wedding? What would you think about coming to the Maldives with us, and our having the ceremony there? It’s seriously paradise on earth, no joke.”

Molly’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

“I’d love to!” said Lapin, who had been leaning over so he wouldn’t miss what Frances said.

“I was talking to Molly. But you’re welcome to come too, Lapin.”

Nico’s eyebrows went up but he said nothing.

“Molls?”

“Right, I—”

“You don’t want to.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…it’s hard for me to get away. I have guests pretty much every week now, and the Maldives isn’t just around the corner, you know?”

“I suppose it’s a lot to ask,” said Frances.

“And, well…I’m not quite as flush as I was a few months ago. The new pool turned out to be way more expensive than the estimate—my fault, because I kept making changes—anyway, if I’m going to hold on to any of my nest egg, I just can’t spare the extra dough for a resort vacation right now.”

Frances nodded. She knew Molly was something of a spendthrift; even as children, she would be the one to blow all her allowance on candy the minute her mother gave it to her. So when her friend had come into an unexpected windfall, Frances had figured it wouldn’t last all that long.

“Let me offer again to have the wedding at La Baraque,” said Molly. “It could be so beautiful this time of year! We can decorate any way you want, have a theme—or not—have a big seated meal, or heavy hors d’oeuvres and cocktails, whatever. How do the French handle weddings, Nico?”

“Most of my friends aren’t married. A few have been to the mairie, and I know some with religious parents who have gotten married in the church. Usually there’s a big raucous party the night before, with costumes and drinking strange drinks, you know—silliness! But generally, it’s not like in America where people spend huge amounts of time and money on them.”

“I hope to go to the Maldives with you someday,” Molly said to Frances. “But what do you say—will you consider letting me do the wedding here?”

“How do you know you won’t suddenly get a big case and not have time?”

“Franny! Once we have a plan I’m not going to bail on you if something else comes along! And plus, things are quiet now. That bad run of murders must have come to an end,” she added, not entirely happily.

Frances looked at Nico, who grinned at her. “Whatever you want,” he said. “I just want you to be my wife.”

The whole bar groaned and then burst out laughing. Frances went around the bar and put her arms around him, and then kissed him like she meant it.

“Okay then!” she said brightly. “Um, can you pull it together in a few weeks? Not that I’m in a rush or anything.”

Molly agreed and they all clinked glasses. The two men at the other end of the bar bought Frances a Negroni, Lawrence ordered his third of the evening, and the friends settled in for a long conversation that swerved occasionally into serious topics but mostly was about making each other laugh as much as possible. When Molly finally climbed back on her scooter to go home, she was smiling and full of love for her adopted village and its inhabitants, and a tiny bit tipsy, so the things that had been making her irritable had shifted into the background, enough out of sight that she slept a deep and restful sleep. Bobo crept up on the bed and the orange cat curled up on Molly’s pillow, but she did not wake.