The Prisoner of Castillac

Chapter 4

Chapter FourFrances had borrowed Nico’s car so that she and Molly could drive to Périgueux where there was a flea market that afternoon.

“Are you ever going to get your own wheels?” she asked, as Molly climbed in.

“Stay, Bobo!” Molly said to the big speckled dog, who had shown up just before Christmas and quickly become part of the household. “I know you hate to miss out but I’ll take you on a long walk when I get home. Promise!”

Bobo’s head drooped. Then she turned and loped back to the house and curled up on the doorstep, the picture of dejection.

“You know, ‘Bobo’ is a very undignified name for that dog. I think she deserves better,” said Frances, just managing to turn around without running the car into the flower border.

“Says the woman who tried to name her ‘Dingleberry’.”

“It just came to me. Sometimes you have to go with inspiration.”

“Right,” said Molly, looking out the window and rolling her eyes. “And about the car—I know, I have to do something. Actually I was thinking about getting a scooter.”

“Whoa, that would be be awesome! I say go for it!”

“It would be cheap, but otherwise completely impractical. What if I need to pick up guests at the train station or something? But anyway, that’s a decision for another day. Today is just about getting some furniture for the pigeonnier. Once that’s done, all that remains is getting the plumbing hooked up, and it’s ready to rent.”

On the half hour drive to Périgueux, Molly and Frances chattered about how good the chicken had been at Chez Papa the night before, and about Lawrence’s fizzled romance. They argued about whether iron bed frames or wood were preferable. And before long Frances was pulling into an underground parking lot in the center of town, making the tires squeal as she rounded the tight corners.

“Frances, I’m not in any hurry,” said Molly, gripping the armrest. “Has Nico ever seen you drive?”

“He loves how I drive,” said Frances smugly. “Says it’s hot.”

“Oh, my eyes are hurting, they’re rolled back up in my head so far.”

“Well, roll them back down, silly. Nico and I—we understand each other.”

“I’m happy for you both.”

“Your eyes are still rolling.”

“Never. Now let’s get to the flea market before all the good stuff is snapped up.”

They wandered into the old section of Périgueux, swiveling their heads all around so as not to miss anything. The streets were narrow, most likely former cow-paths as the streets were very old, and the buildings close together. Molly didn’t understand why old buildings made her so happy to look at, but they did. They had stood there so long, seen so much history, held so many mysteries….

The flea market surrounded the old cathedral, an unusual Byzantine and Romanesque building with large domes. Sellers were clustered all around it, with small items on tables or spread on blankets, and furniture of all shapes and sizes was on offer.

“So what’s on our shopping list?” asked Frances. “Beds? Tables? Chairs?”

“The pigeonnier only has one bedroom. So let’s see, a full-sized bed, and a kitchen table, which’ll double as a dining room table. Maybe three chairs? And a bedside table if we find one, or something that would do for one. And I guess keep your eye out for a sofa, though I’ll probably have to shell out for a new one.”

“Used sofas give me the creeps, ever since the one I bought at a used furniture store, remember? Right after college for my first apartment? I was so proud of it. It was bright green. But when the weather got warm it smelled of cat pee. Burned your eyes it was so bad.”

Molly was laughing, remembering. “I recall that air freshener did not work.”

“Just made for flowery-smelling cat pee,” agreed Frances.

“La bombe!” a man said, almost in Molly’s ear. She turned to find Lapin standing with his arms open, grinning. Awkwardly they kissed cheeks.

“Bonjour, Lapin. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. See anything good?”

“Today is a total bust so far. Nothing but junk. Allow me to introduce myself, since Molly appears to have forgotten her manners,” he said to Frances, with a bow. “I am Laurent Broussard, but the world calls me Lapin.”

“Translate?” asked Frances.

“She doesn’t speak French,” said Molly.

“No problem,” said Lapin in English, introducing himself again.

“Very nice to meet you,” said Frances, giggling. Molly wanted to elbow her in the ribs but restrained herself.

“All right, we have much to do—I’m trying to outfit my pigeonnier. À bientôt,” said Molly, beginning to walk away.

“Wait, why didn’t you come to me? You know I can get you the best deals, and tell you who to go to. I’m afraid I don’t keep much furniture of that size, not unless it’s a very special piece. But I can introduce you to a fellow on the other side of the cathedral who most likely has the sort of thing you’re looking for.”

Molly and Frances followed Lapin as he nimbly moved his big self through the maze of sellers and their furniture. Molly was torn. She needed his help but didn’t especially want it. Lapin made such a pest of himself most of the time, although she had to admit he had toned down his ogling and suggestive remarks after the Amy Bennett case.

“You know, I’m planning to open my own shop in Castillac soon,” Lapin told them. “I just signed a rental agreement and will be spiffing the place up a bit before moving in all my valuables. You might find all sorts of things that would be perfect to decorate your gîtes.”

“The cottage could use a little jazzing up,” agreed Frances, and Molly shrugged, though she thought maybe her friend had a point.

Several hours passed as the three of them argued the merits of each piece and then haggled with the merchants, but by noon the purchasing was complete, the deliveries arranged, and all that remained to do in Périgueux was find the place where they sold the most delicious prunes stuffed with foie gras, and then eat lunch.

Molly considered inviting Lapin as a thank-you for his time and help, which had been substantial. Then she talked herself out of it. Then back into it, then out, then in…and finally Frances asked him to join them and her fate was sealed.

Back in the fall if she had been told that in a few months she would feel grateful to Lapin and willingly sit down to lunch with him—and even pay for it—she would never have believed it. But then, looking into the future had never been one of Molly’s talents.

Maron stuck his head out of what he still thought of as Dufort’s office, and called for Thérèse Perrault. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about having Maron as her boss, but told herself it was a test of both her flexibility and ability to hide her feelings at work, which were skills she knew she needed to develop if she wanted to succeed in the gendarmerie.

“What’s up?” she said evenly.

“Take a look. It was taped to the front door.” The note was sitting on his desk and he pushed it towards Perrault.

She read it, looked up quickly at Maron, and then studied it more closely.

“Valerie Boutillier,” she said.

“Right. My first thought as well. So what do you think? Does it look genuine to you? Like a prank? What?”

Perrault considered. “I doubt it’s random. The chances seem pretty slim that someone would happen to choose the same initials as one of our cold cases, with V and B not being the most commonly used letters. And not just any case—a girl who disappeared without a trace right before going off to university, her dream school where she had worked so hard to get in. A girl many of us knew and loved.”

Maron just nodded. Then he said, “I sent the note to the lab, but there were no usable fingerprints.”

“What? When did you find it?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Perrault’s face was blazing.

“I wanted to have a fuller picture before I—”

“Listen, Gilles, I know you’re probably loving every minute of being my boss, but let me tell you first of all that I am absolutely dead clear that you are my superior and I have no problem with that whatsoever. But I would ask you, respectfully, not to keep me in the dark when new evidence falls out of the sky like this apparently did. And about a case this important.”

Maron froze when Perrault began to speak. The truth was, he was uncomfortable being in charge of anyone, and spent much of his energy trying to hide that embarrassing fact. He had a grudging respect for Perrault, which she returned, but they were not friends, and they had not worked together all that happily in the past.

“Look, Perrault, no need to take offense. Of course you will be notified when we have new evidence.” Maron stood up and then sat down again. “Tell me what you know about Valerie. I was not yet in Castillac when Dufort was working that case and all I know is that she disappeared and was never found. No suspects, and no idea what happened to her, have I got it right?”

Perrault got control of herself and took a deep breath. “All right. Valerie is older than me. I was sixteen when she disappeared, she must have been…eighteen? I wasn’t a close friend—but everyone in the village knew her, or knew who she was. She was that kind of girl—charismatic, you know? Fun-loving and smart as a whip. She used to play practical jokes on people all over the village, and sometimes she would go too far and people would get mad. I remember once she got into Madame Luthier’s house—you know, she lives in that rat-hole over on rue Saterne—and while Mme Luthier was out, she took everything in the living room and put it in the kitchen, and everything in the kitchen and put it in the living room. So when Luthier came home, there was nothing to sit on in the living room but a bunch of saucepans.”

Maron lifted the corners of his mouth in the direction of a smile, but not quite far enough to actually be a smile. “And did the village think that was amusing?” he asked.

“Oh, some people did. Mme Luthier is not exactly known for being able to take a joke, so for some people, that made it funnier.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go to.”

“One of the things that made Valerie so attractive was her limitless energy. She always had a lot going on at once, with a lot of different people.”

“And what is this ‘dream school’ you mentioned?”

“École Normale Supérieure, in Paris,” said Perrault, her eyes wide. “About the toughest school to get into in the whole world. Valerie had a serious side too, and she worked super hard at school. She wanted to be a journalist, the kind who digs up dirt on powerful people.”

“Hmm,” said Maron, thinking that Valerie Boutillier did sound like an interesting and accomplished person, even if one with an odd sense of humor. “Do you know anything about the investigation?”

“It was before my time too, obviously. We should ask Dufort to brief us.”

“Of course. If we get any other indication that Boutillier is alive, I’ll call him in.”

“What do you mean, ‘any other’? This is a lead, Gilles! Sitting right there on your desk!”

Maron shrugged. “I don’t think that’s likely. The girl has been gone for seven years. Would anyone in Castillac even recognize her now?”

“Of course! I would!”

Maron looked out of the window. He would never have guessed that he would be far more comfortable taking orders than giving them, but that was precisely how things were turning out.

“Just bring me one piece of additional evidence, something solid, and I will formally open the case again,” he said. “In the meantime, if you would like to ask around, see if you can find out who put the note on the door? Go ahead, as long as your other duties are taken care of first,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Perrault, with not quite enough sarcasm for Maron to chew her out for it.