Murder on Vacation

Chapter 2

2After a long nap followed by ten solid hours of sleep, Molly felt refreshed on Saturday morning and ready to face the influx of guests at La Baraque. She decided to skip the market—a first since moving to Castillac almost a year and a half ago—and instead made the rounds of all the guest rooms, making sure each was spotless and stocked with a welcome bottle of wine, along with a small booklet with suggestions for sight-seeing, restaurant recommendations, and some emergency phone numbers.

All in all, her gîte business was much more settled than it had been even six months earlier. The income was not substantial but it was steady-ish and improving. Molly now knew what to expect and felt ready for the odd questions guests sometimes came up with. And most important—she really liked doing it. The plumbing repairs, greeting guests and getting to know them, making improvements at La Baraque…there wasn’t any part of the business that Molly minded, and most of it she thoroughly enjoyed.

Valentine’s week was going to be a challenge, however. Fully booked, which at this point meant six guests: two couples and two singles. Darcy and Ira Bilson were due early Saturday morning; they had been traveling in the area and asked if they could check in early, which was fine with Molly since she had no guests currently in the cottage and the cleaning was long since done. By nine o’clock, Molly was up and caffeinated, expecting the Bilsons to show up any minute, and the rooms were all double-checked and ready.

Lately she’d been having a bowl of fruit in the morning instead of her usual croissants, not so much from any grand ambitions of self-improvement and control, but more for a change of pace. It had taken months to get over her habit of shoving food into her mouth while standing by the sink (or in front of the open refrigerator) instead learning to follow the French way, really taking time to make the meal an event even if she was eating by herself.

She sat at the table and sliced an apple into pleasingly thin and symmetrical slices. The orange cat streaked through the kitchen as though on a crucial mission from Satan, prompting Bobo to jump up in hot pursuit.

After polishing off the apple and her second cup of coffee, Molly got up to toss a few more logs into the woodstove. She heard a car pulling into the driveway. Slipping on a coat and grabbing a wool hat, she went quickly outside to greet the new guests.

“Bonjour, Madame Bilson!” she said, as a lean, dark-haired woman dressed in yoga pants got out of the small car. Her hair was cut short and her body so boyish that for a moment, Molly was confused, but she quickly got her bearings. “Monsieur Bilson! Welcome to La Baraque.”

“Ah, we are thrilled to be here. Just thrilled! We’re coming from three days at an organic farm north of here, not far from Limoges,” said her husband as he came to shake Molly’s hand. He was a big bear of a man, and stood with his chest expanded and hands on hips. His blond hair was shaggy and looked as though it hadn’t seen a comb in a few days, and his eyes were red, perhaps from the strain of traveling.

“A working farm, with gîtes too?”

“Sort of, yes, they have a work program. So our room cost almost nothing, meals were free, and we put in some hours working on the farm every day. I milked a goat for the first time!”

Molly laughed. “You have to come back in the spring after the baby goats are born. There is nothing in this world cuter than a baby goat!”

“Affirmative, Molly!” boomed Ira. He was dressed in black jeans and a ripped black T-shirt, sort of a thirty-five-year-old’s post-punk outfit. “This is a research trip for us. We’re planning to start a cheesemaking business back home in Oregon, with our own goat herd. That’s why we chose Castillac for this leg of our trip. Maybe you know Lela Vidal, who makes the incredible Cabécou de Rocamadour? She’s quite famous in the cheese world.”

“Yes, I do know her. Lela’s at the Saturday market every week, and I’ve bought her excellent cheese many times. I had no idea she was a cheese celebrity.”

Darcy shot Molly a dark look. “People who are good at their craft do develop reputations, you know. That is not in the least unusual.”

Molly looked confused. “Sorry? I didn’t mean…I wasn’t being critical. Um, the Saturday market is going on right now. If you like, I’ll show you the cottage, you can put your bags away and I’ll take you to meet her.”

“Excellent!” boomed Ira.

Molly was so used to the softer voices of her village she nearly clapped her hands over her ears, but caught herself in time. She picked up an extra bag that Ira Bilson had taken out of the car and walked toward the cottage. “We’re still in late winter, obviously,” she said. “Today’s weather is very typical. Sometimes it seems as though we never see the sky in February! But the cottage is very dry and cozy, and you’ll find a stack of firewood under the eaves to the right of the door.”

“Is there an extra charge for that?” asked Darcy.

“Oh no,” said Molly. “Everything’s included, and I believe you’re paid in full, so no worries on that score.”

Darcy gave a brief nod but did not soften her expression. Although she was only thirty, a deep furrow had been carved between her eyebrows.

Tough nut, thought Molly.

“The bedroom is right through there, the bath is off to the left. Anything you need, just give a holler, I’m right in the main building. You can text me or just knock on the door. Would you like some time to settle in, or would you prefer to head straight to the market?”

“Let’s go! Er…is that what you want to do, lovey?” he asked his wife.

Darcy shrugged.

“If you’d like to do yoga beforehand, that’s fine too,” he said. “Though I do want to have a crack at Lela’s cheeses before they’re all bought up.”

Darcy sighed and shrugged again. “All right,” she said, her tone one of deepest martyrdom.

Darcy jumped into the front seat of the Citroën leaving Ira to fold his long legs into the back. Molly turned the car around and pulled onto rue des Chênes and headed into the village. “Well, maybe I was silly to drive,” she said, seeing that cars were parked far away from the village center, a sign that the market was crowded and parking places not easy to find. “I just got the car recently and I guess the excitement hasn’t quite worn off. It’s a perfectly pleasant walk, takes about fifteen minutes.”

Ira opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. Darcy looked out of the window and said nothing.

Maybe more pain in the butt than tough nut, Molly thought. Not that I should judge anyone after five minutes…

She spotted a family getting into a Saab and waited patiently before easing into their spot. “All right!” she said brightly. “Would you like me to take you around and make some introductions, or set you loose? Either is fine with me, of course.”

The Bilsons answered at the same time, with Ira wanting Molly’s company and Darcy wanting to be without her. Darcy won, which did not come as a complete surprise to Molly. She pointed to the section of the market where the cheesemonger usually set up, and fled for the Café de la Place.

“Pascal!” she said, slipping into a seat on the glassed-in terrace where a small heater was set up. The model-handsome server grinned and asked her how she was doing.

“Fine, thanks. But I’ll be even better if you’ll bring me the Special.” Pascal winked and disappeared into the kitchen. Molly was known in the village for her passion for French pastry, and croissants in particular. The café got theirs each morning from the best pâtisserie in the entire département—Molly’s holy of holies, Pâtisserie Bujold. In less than a minute, Pascal was back with the Special on a tray: a large cup of steaming café crème, a tall and narrow glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a croissant on its own small plate. Molly sipped the coffee and thought about the Bilsons. One crabby spouse whom the other constantly tried to appease—was that a workable arrangement? Were they happy like that, or was Darcy on the verge of leaving because Ira never quite managed to mollify her? Or was Ira on the brink of storming off, having had enough of his impossible wife?

Molly’s own marriage had ended years ago, but she reflected that she and Donnie had always seemed to get along, on the surface at least. They hadn’t revealed anything like the public tension of the Bilsons. Yet what had that mattered? They had split up anyway, and Molly no longer regretted it, not now that the whole painful thing was far in the past.

The orange juice provided the perfect mixture of tart and sweet, and after drinking most of it, she turned her attention to the croissant. Leaving all ruminations on marriage behind, she bit into the slightly hard tip, the crunch so buttery and satisfying, and then another quick bite to reach the soft, stretchy inside that tasted vaguely of cheese (even though she knew there was no actual cheese involved). She couldn’t help eating the whole thing more quickly than it deserved.

As she lingered over her coffee, reminding herself to pick up two other guests that afternoon at the train station, the Bilsons entered the café and sat down behind her. Molly started to speak but they did not appear to notice her, so she turned back around and edged her chair a bit closer, never one to pass up an opportunity to eavesdrop.