The Prisoner of Castillac

Chapter 5

Chapter FiveMolly’s current guests, a lively Australian couple, wanted to drive over to Rocamadour, an ancient village built right into a rock face high above the river Dordogne. The morning they were to leave, they rapped on Molly’s door.

“Bonjour, Ned and Leslie! Are you all set for your excursion? The drive isn’t bad from here, though I admit I haven’t done it myself.” Then Molly paused, seeing something was wrong.

“Bonjour Molly,” said Leslie. “Here’s the thing. Little Oscar isn’t feeling well. He’s not really sick, we don’t need a doctor or anything like that. But I think a day trip like we have planned wouldn’t be very fun for him, you know?”

Molly nodded. Bobo came up behind Molly and stuck her head between Molly’s legs.

“So…we know it’s short notice…well, no notice I guess. But we were wondering whether you knew of anyone who could look after him just for the day, so we could go on ahead and see Rocamadour, and he could stay here and rest.”

“Hmm,” said Molly. “Come on in, let me pour myself another cup of coffee while I think about it. You want a cup?”

“We don’t drink coffee,” said Ned, grinning. “Got too much energy already!”

Molly laughed, although she considered non-coffee-drinkers to be a species of human she could not comprehend.

She thought of Constance, but wasn’t sure if she had any experience with kids, especially sick ones. She thought her neighbor Madame Sabourin might know of someone, but that might take time.

“Oh hell, I can do it,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“All right!” said Ned, pumping his fist. “You know, I think he’s already quite taken with you, so I think it should be easy enough.”

“Of course he’s taken with me. I’m the chocolate lady,” laughed Molly. When the family had first arrived, Molly had brought Oscar a small chocolate bell—the French version of Easter candy.

Leslie took Molly to the cottage and showed her where the diapers were and told her Oscar’s general schedule while Ned packed up the car. Within ten minutes they were gone, and Molly was alone in the cottage with a sick eleven-month-old. Who was thankfully having a morning nap.

Molly crept into the bedroom and over to the crib, glad she had found a sturdy one at the flea market a few months earlier. The little boy was asleep on his stomach, his arms sticking straight up over his head, and one knee bent up. His face was flushed and his brow sweaty. Molly wanted to stroke his cheek but was afraid to wake him.

Quietly she went back to the small kitchen, and steamed some vegetables for his lunch. The orange cat appeared from nowhere and rubbed up along her leg.

“I’m not fooled,” she told it. “And leave that baby alone.”

Bobo scratched, wanting to get in on whatever was happening. Molly went over and spoke to her through the door. “I’m looking after the baby, Bobo. And none too confident about it, since I haven’t actually touched a baby since I was in high school and used to babysit for Mrs. Stout who lived two doors down. So just stand guard outside, okay? And no scratching on the door.”

Molly heard a low grumble but then the sound of the dog flopping down on the doorstep.

“See that?” Molly said to the cat. “Obedient. Helpful.”

The cat streaked into the bedroom and jumped into the crib. Molly cursed under her breath and ran after it.

Oscar was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. The orange cat was rubbing along his back, its tail wrapping around into Oscar’s face, making him giggle.

“Hello!” said Molly. “Do you like cats, Oscar?”

“Mum?” said Oscar.

“Mum is…uh, Mum and Dad went on a short trip, they’ll be back later. In the meantime we can play, how about that?”

Oscar reached his arms up for her to pick him up and the gesture made tears spring to Molly’s eyes. He was so trusting! So willing to adapt to what was happening, even if that meant an almost complete stranger mysteriously replacing his parents. Molly reached into the crib and lifted his small body, pulling it into hers. She smelled his hair and let her cheek touch his.

“I don’t know about you, but I love to play,” she said to him, and with a pang realized that there was not a single toy anywhere at La Baraque. She carried Oscar into the other room but saw nothing in the open kitchen/living room either. Ned and Leslie must have driven off with everything except for the stuffed animal in the crib, or possibly they thought toys were bad for some reason?

If there was one thing Molly understood at the age of thirty-eight, it was that people were nutters. She didn’t follow the latest trends in parenting, as it only reminded her of what she wished for but did not have, and so if there were a robust anti-toy movement she wouldn’t know about it—but wouldn’t have been surprised either.

She put Oscar down on the wood floor. He crawled a short way and then sat, looking at her. He rubbed his eyes again.

“You don’t feel well, do you?” she said, squatting down beside him. “Are you hungry?”

“Mum?”

“Right. Mum. She’ll be back before long,” said Molly, knowing it was at least a two hours’ drive each way, and a lot of walking and sightseeing once you were there. She and Oscar had many hours to kill before Mum was going to show up. So Molly played peek-a-boo. She made up a long story about goats and a mean orange cat, successfully changed a diaper, and served him lunch on the front step, in the sunshine.

She delighted in Oscar’s company and simultaneously felt trapped and desperate to get free. When her cell phone rang Molly was relieved to make contact with the outside world.

“It’s Thérèse,” said Perrault.

Molly could hear a horn honking in the background. “Hey Thérèse, how are you?” The two had been friendly since Molly had helped with a couple of murder investigations.

“I’ve got something I want to pass along. But…you’ve got to keep it on the down-low.”

Molly handed Oscar a wooden spoon to bang on the floor. She felt a familiar tingle of anticipation. “All right,” said Molly. “I’m all ears.”

Valerie Boutillier. A beautiful name, thought Molly. And now, maybe, just maybe…still alive, against all odds. Valerie had disappeared years before Molly moved to Castillac, but she was not forgotten there, and Molly had heard enough stories about her to feel as though she was not a total stranger.

And now someone had seen her.

Molly did not spend any time doubting the note. She reasoned that if it turned out to be a joke of some kind, there was no harm in having done whatever they could in the way of investigation. Far worse to disbelieve it, do nothing, and never know if the note had been true or not. It might be true. And for Molly—and Thérèse Perrault—“might” was good enough.

It was one o’clock. When Thérèse called, Molly had been about to put Oscar down for a nap (which they both needed). He was fussy and hadn’t eaten much, mostly just slurped a lot of water. “So Oscar,” she said, picking him up. “How would you like to go on a walk? Get a little fresh air, see the sights? And if you’re not in the mood for sights, just go ahead and close your little eyes. How’s that sound?”

Molly’s plan was to take Oscar into the village and see whom she could find to talk to about Valerie. She had no stroller and certainly no baby carrier, so she took him to her house. In the foyer she found a very wide and long heavy cotton scarf, wrapped it around them both leaving spaces for his legs to hang down, and knotted the ends. With a little adjusting, her improvised sling seemed to be working perfectly, the baby secure against her chest. She bent her knees quickly and stood up, and Oscar gurgled happily.

“You like it?” she asked him, her voice all high and cooing and unrecognizable to herself.

“Mum,” said Oscar. By this point Molly understood that he was not calling his mother so much as saying the one intelligible word he could say.

“Mum indeed,” she answered. She kissed his cheek, which was astonishingly soft, and set out for the village. The walk was still new because Molly had yet to walk it in every season. The weather was lovely. Birds were making a racket, trees were leafing out, and the world was bright and green and sweet-smelling.

And was Valerie outside, somewhere, seeing this blue sky? wondered Molly. If she’s alive, why hasn’t she come back? If someone has seen her, why has Valerie not reached out, called for help, somehow made her presence known?

Molly figured the most likely explanation was that Valerie was imprisoned somewhere—everyone had seen reports every so often of that happening: girls snatched up and kept in some bunker or basement, sometimes for years on end. Is that what had happened to Valerie? And yet somehow, someone had seen her?

As she walked, Molly thought of a long list of questions for Thérèse, but Thérèse had been quite clear that she was violating all kinds of regulations by telling Molly about the note, and it was better if they did not meet. Molly thought that perhaps a chance encounter in the village would be all right, if they didn’t linger. So she walked towards the station, one hand on Oscar’s deliciously fat little leg, talking to him about what they saw along the way…a red squirrel, a car with a dent in one side, some late tulips not yet in bloom.

It was one o’clock and all of Castillac was sitting down to lunch. Not a soul on the streets. Molly kept walking, aware that she was carrying something defenseless and precious. She wondered if mothers got used to that, or whether they continued to worry constantly that something dreadful might happen—she could fall and land on him, or a car could jump up on the sidewalk and run them over; there was no end to the catastrophes lurking around every corner.

When she reached the station, she walked to the front door, studying it. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to imagine someone approaching it, not wanting to be seen, note in hand with a piece of tape already attached. She stepped back and looked at every detail of the door—the big hinges, the decorative molding, the glossy green color.

Oscar’s head had lolled to one side when he fell asleep. Molly had a sudden idea and startled, nearly waking him up. She ran her fingers over the wood, trying to feel where the adhesive had been. After moving her fingers lightly over much of the door, she found a small patch, maybe about a square centimeter, just lower than chest height. Looking at it closely, she could see it was relatively fresh—not completely covered in dust and pollen as it would be if it had been there long. Maybe at some point (if she was ever allowed to talk openly about the case) she would have an opportunity to ask Maron whether he remembered where on the door the note was taped, just for added verification, but she trusted she had the answer. Molly was a little on the short side.

Which meant that whoever taped the note on the station door was not tall.

It was the first step towards finding Valerie. A small one, Molly had no illusions about that.

But you have to start somewhere.