The Prisoner of Castillac

Chapter 6

Chapter SixMolly was giving Bobo her breakfast when she saw the delivery truck pull into her driveway with the furniture for the pigeonnier, followed by Dufort’s green Renault. Quickly she ran into her bedroom and whipped off her nightgown and robe, and put on a clean pair of jeans and a shirt.

“Coming!” she called out, leaving by the French doors and walking around the side of the house to greet them. Bobo ran frantically back and forth, unsure what her job was.

“Bobo! Down!” said Molly, before the dog flattened the truck driver with her excitable leaping. Bobo stopped on a dime and dropped to the ground.

“Impressive,” said Dufort, walking up to kiss cheeks.

“Bonjour, Ben! And bonjour, Monsieur,” she said to the driver. “Can I ask you to drive a little farther? The furniture is going in there,” she said, pointing to the meadow where the pigeonnier stood, its walls no longer crumbling thanks to the exertions of the mason, Pierre Gault.

“Looks like I came just in time to help,” said Ben.

Molly grinned. “Well, I won’t say no. I can carry some of it but honestly I wasn’t sure I could hold up my end of the bed going upstairs—there wasn’t room in there for anything but a ladder.”

“It has a loft bedroom?”

“Exactly,” said Molly. “It’s very romantic. Pierre Gault left all the little nestboxes or perches intact, and made some of them into tiny windows. It looks amazing! I’m desperate to get photos up on my website, but I’ve been waiting to get the furniture in.”

The driver knew his business and with Dufort’s help, all the furniture was unloaded and roughly in place in half an hour.

All through the unloading and the talk of furniture and dogs, Molly had been wondering whether to tell Ben about the note. Thérèse had only said not to say a word to Maron. Perhaps Thérèse was actually hoping she would tell Ben?

“I’m sorry, I got distracted. What were you saying about asparagus?” said Molly.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I was just telling you about a typical day at Rémy’s.”

Molly c****d her head, then lifted the bedside table and put it next to the bed. “Want a coffee?” she asked. “Or maybe lemonade?”

“Sounds good.” Dufort and Molly climbed down the wooden ladder to the bottom floor of the pigeonnier. “The place turned out well,” said Dufort, looking around the cozy downstairs room with its tiny kitchen.

“Yes, I think so too. I should find interesting things to put in the rest of the little nestboxes. Or maybe my guests will leave mementos in them, if I hint enough.”

“Come, Bobo!” Molly called, wanting to make sure the dog was out of the way as the delivery truck backed up to the driveway and turned around. Bobo popped out of the forest and streaked to Molly’s side.

“How did you train your dog so well?” asked Ben.

“I can’t take any credit at all,” answered Molly. “She just showed up one day acting like she lived here. Already trained. I swear you can talk to her like a person and she understands.”

“I would guess someone is looking for her.”

“Yes. Well, I’ll give her back if I have to. But in the meantime, we are pals. Isn’t that right, Bobo?” she said, scratching behind Bobo’s ears. “So, Ben. Do you miss the gendarmerie?”

Dufort thought a moment. “That’s hard to answer. I suppose the fairest thing to say is that quitting the job has not given me all the freedom I was looking for.”

Molly looked at Ben questioningly but he shrugged and looked away. His rampant anxiety had disappeared once he gave up the gendarmerie, but nonetheless, he did not have peace. They walked back to the house in silence. Molly was still trying to decide whether she would be causing trouble for Thérèse if she told Ben about the note. And Ben was thinking, as he so often did, about Elizabeth Martin and Valerie Boutillier, because he was not free from his responsibility to them, and never would be, until they were found.

The day had turned hot, the way spring days sometimes do, as though suddenly opening a window onto summer. Molly got out two tall glasses and filled them with lemonade. While Frances had stayed with her, she had gotten into the habit of making it fresh every morning, because Frances said it gave her inspiration for jingle-writing. And Molly had been happy to oblige, because of course fresh lemonade is one of life’s most sublime pleasures, especially with a splash of fizzy mineral water.

“Oh, I’m just going to tell you,” she finally said.

Dufort raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“I probably shouldn’t. Or I should ask first. But you’re here, and I know this matters to you deeply, so…but listen, I don’t want you to think I can’t keep a secret. I’m actually quite good at it. Then again—”

“Molly, just tell me!”

“Yes. Well, all right. Perrault called yesterday to tell me that someone had taped a note to the station door that said ‘I saw VB’.” She waited to see Ben’s reaction.

He narrowed his eyes slightly but was otherwise completely still. Like a hunter who has just spied a sign left by his prey.

“Interesting,” he said at last. “Is that a direct quote—‘I saw VB’? Did it say anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Unsigned of course?”

“I assume so. We didn’t get a chance to talk long. I gather Maron isn’t going to pursue it and that was why Thérèse called me. She’s hoping I’ll…I don’t know, follow up somehow.”

Dufort took his glass of lemonade and slowly sat down on the sofa.

“Let’s go on the terrace,” said Molly, and watched as Bobo sailed through the French doors and disappeared in the tall grass of the meadow.

They sat in the shade on the rusty chairs and drank their lemonade. It was a full moment, a pause before something they couldn’t yet imagine started to happen, and they both understood this.

“We’ll do it together,” said Dufort softly.

Molly nodded, her face turning a light shade of pink because she was so pleased he put it that way. “I’ve got a little something so far,” she said, and told him about the adhesive on the station door.

“So the note-leaver is someone short. Could be a kid just messing around,” cautioned Ben.

“Oh, sure,” she said, “could be. But would a kid that short even have heard of Valerie? Or okay, maybe. I know her story—she’s part of Castillac mythology. But it’s not like she disappeared yesterday and people are talking about it all the time. I have a hard time believing that if a kid wanted to play a joke, he’d choose something that happened so long ago, maybe even before he was born. That’s like ancient history to a kid, you know? Might as well be an event from the Middle Ages.”

Dufort nodded. “Good point, Molly. Good point.”

“So,” said Molly, almost shyly, “if we’re really going to be working together, will you tell me everything you know about the case? Do you need to get files—do you even have access to them anymore?”

“Not officially, of course. But I think Thérèse might be persuaded to sneak it to me. I’ll warn you—the file is thin. I can tell you much of it from memory. May I have another lemonade? And then we’ll get started.”

Molly jumped up to get a notebook and pen, feeling a wild mixture of excitement, happiness, and gravity. “Yes,” she said, taking a big gulp of lemonade and cracking open the notebook. “Start with everything you know, and I mean everything!”

Constance came to clean in the morning and afterwards climbed back on her bike and rode off, her glum mood almost leaving a trail of gray behind her. Molly had learned from sore experience not to meddle in the love affairs of her friends, so as much as she wanted to call Thomas up and give him a piece of her mind, she resisted the impulse. She had a real soft spot for Constance and was outraged on her behalf, incredulous that Thomas could have cheated on her. And Molly was curious about this Simone Guyanet, who she remembered had a small part in the Amy Bennett case.

Meanwhile, Lawrence, Nico, and Frances were coming to dinner and she had cooking to do. In honor of spring, she was making an asparagus soup followed by grilled lamb and a huge heap of tiny buttered potatoes she’d snagged at the market that morning. Dessert was posing a problem, however. She was stuck at the first fork in the decision-making road: chocolate or not? And so far had not been inspired to go either way.

Then Ned had appeared and reported that Leslie was throwing up like crazy—had perhaps eaten a bad cream puff—and would Molly mind terribly looking after Oscar to keep him out of the way?

Well, the cottage was small, and way smaller if one inhabitant was upchucking every fifteen minutes. Molly said yes.

And in approximately three minutes, before she knew what had hit her, little Oscar was in her arms and she was smelling the sweet smell of his hair and squeezing a chubby thigh in one hand.

“Not sure how I keep ending up with you,” she murmured to him. “But of course I’m very happy to see you.”

“Mum,” said Oscar.

“You like chocolate, don’t you?” She hitched Oscar higher on her hip and opened up the refrigerator and peered inside. “I’ve got cream. Cream makes everything better, have you learned that yet?”

Oscar stuck his hand in her hair and yanked.

“Yowch!” she said. “Whoa!” Molly moved out of the kitchen and put Oscar down on the sofa. “That really hurt. Don’t pull my hair.” Oscar looked at her uncertainly. “But look, I’ve got the best thing ever right here. Check this out.” She reached down to the woodbox and pulled out a stick and handed it to him.

Oscar’s eyes lit up as though she had given him his heart’s desire. “Mum mum mum mum!” he said.

“Right. I have a feeling Mum might not approve. Don’t eat it, okay?” She put him down and watched as he immediately put the stick in his mouth. “Okay, listen, we’re both going to get in trouble if you end up with a mouth full of splinters. Tell me this,” she said, wiggling the end of the stick to keep it out of his mouth, “how am I supposed to get ready for this dinner party if you’re going to be munching sticks the minute my back is turned?”

Oscar smiled at her. Molly felt a kind of melting happiness surge up in her body that she wasn’t used to. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, picked him up, and went to find the scarf she’d used for a sling the day before. Distracting him with another chocolate bell, she managed to get him strapped onto her back with minimal complaint, and went back in the kitchen.

The presence of Oscar somehow allowed her to stop dilly-dallying over dessert, and she decided to make a coeur à la crème, which had the advantage of requiring a special mold that she would need to go into the village to buy. She had given enough dinner parties to know that shopping for kitchen equipment on the day of wasn’t the best idea, but it would give her an excuse to go into the village for the second time that day, and this time maybe she could get someone to talk about Valerie.

Plus she had a secret desire to have a kitchen so well outfitted it could make meals for the President of France, so it was the perfect two birds with one stone situation.