The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 23

Chapter 232005The Castillac police force was in Dufort’s office on Thursday morning, having looked at everything Perrault had brought back from the Desrosiers mansion: the will, a stack of letters, a stuffed bear.

“Nice work, Perrault, although I don’t see the significance of the bear.”

“Well, me neither,” said Perrault. “I’m not saying it means anything. It’s just that it was propped up on a pillow on her bed, and I got the feeling it was important to the deceased, so I brought it along.”

Dufort gave the small bear a quick inspection, palpating it to see if anything was inside besides stuffing, and then put it on a shelf. “He can be our mascot for the duration of the case,” he said.

Maron rolled his eyes when Dufort’s back was turned, and then bent back to the pile of letters, reading with no comment.

“Since she bequeaths nearly everything to Michel Faure, obviously he’s our top guy,” said Dufort.

Perrault nodded. When she had sat on Desrosiers’s bed and read the will, and saw that Michel was the major beneficiary, a flash of heat had gone through her. The fact that she found him charming and attractive made him seem all the guiltier, though she did not share that thought with her boss.

Maron had put the letters aside and was studying the final page of the will. “Hey now,” he said, going to his desk and pulling out the letter he had taken from Claudette Mercier’s living room floor and not yet entered into evidence. “Look at this.” He smoothed the handwritten letter out on Dufort’s desk, and put the last page of the will right beside it. “I can’t call myself an expert, but I did take a handwriting analysis course when I was in Paris,” Maron said. “Look at the capital ‘D’ here, and here,” he said pointing to places in each document. “And also the small ‘s’—see how on each one there’s a slight squiggle on the bottom, as though the writer’s hand hesitated for a moment?”

“You’re saying Desrosiers wrote the poison pen letter to Mercier?” said Perrault breathlessly.

“It sure looks like it,” said Maron, trying not altogether successfully to keep his feelings of smugness out of his voice. “They knew each other well—don’t forget, Mercier was at the birthday party.”

“I thought people quit doing that kind of crap in middle school. Gave me chills when I read it.”

“Maybe it gave Mercier chills too, or worse,” said Maron.

“Why would Desrosiers write a letter like that by hand, anyway? Everybody knows handwriting can be matched, don’t they?”

“I can’t see her sitting at a computer,” said Maron. “That generation, you know it’s hit or miss when it comes to computer skills. And typewriters, who even has those around anymore?” He paused, looking back and forth from will to letter. “There’s definitely something here.”

Perrault studied the note, then added, “And listen to this part: ‘you’re lucky you didn’t end up a scullery maid’. Either the writer is good at throwing false clues or it’s someone old. Who even knows what a ‘scullery maid’ is anymore?”

Dufort asked, “If Desrosiers hated Mercier enough to write the letters, why was Mercier at the party?”

“Michel did the inviting,” said Perrault. “It was a surprise party, not something Desrosiers planned. Maybe she was horrified to see Mercier there?”

“Or maybe Mercier got herself invited, so she could bring a very special present,” said Maron.

“Maron likes Claudette Mercier for the murder,” said Dufort, grinning, unable to help himself. What was it about Maron that brought on such an urge to tease?

“It’s not a ridiculous idea,” said Maron. “Poisoning is a woman’s weapon, after all.”

“Oh, please,” said Perrault, rolling her eyes. “Where did you get that stupid idea? Maybe from your misogynist handbook?”

“Actually that is incorrect, Maron,” said Dufort. “A quick glance at the history will show you that more men have been convicted for poisoning than women. Men kill vastly more often than women, no matter what method is employed. Over ninety percent.”

“Okay, fine. Let me say it this way: if Desrosiers was bullying and threatening Mercier, and Mercier got pushed to the breaking point and wanted to kill her, how do you think she would do it? I don’t think she’s going to go over to the Desrosiers mansion and strangle her, do you? Do you really picture the two of them grappling in the salon, a fight to the death? No. No, she’s going to use poison. It’s more genteel, it’s something she can physically manage.

“And just because men are more likely killers, that doesn’t mean that every murder was done by a man, as you both well know.”

“But seventy-two-year-old women are generally not the first cohort one suspects,” said Dufort.

“Agreed,” said Maron. “But I still say we shouldn’t count Mercier out. You’re being sexist, really,” said Maron, drawing himself up. “You’re making generalizations about her because of her gender and age, and I think that’s wrong.” And he left Dufort’s office and went to sit at his desk.

Perrault and Dufort exchanged glances. “How about you?” asked Dufort. “How do you see this murder happening? Have you got any ideas other than Michel?”

Perrault thought a moment. “To me, it’s got to be about the money. It’s easy for people to lose their heads over an inheritance, you know? Especially one that big. They might do something that in the rest of their lives would be unthinkable. And in the Desrosiers case, a killer would have the easy rationalization that by getting rid of a horrid old woman, he was doing the world a favor. A favor he would profit from, but still.”

Dufort nodded. “What if the contents of the will were unknown to everyone—are there other family members who might have believed they would get something if Desrosiers died?”

“I don’t think there’s much family left. It was only the two girls, Murielle and Josephine. Their parents of course are long dead. I’ve looked for extended family and found none so far besides a couple of cousins up in Franche-Comté.”

Dufort walked to the window and looked out. It was gray and drizzling, perfect for a run. Perhaps he would leave work early and get another one in before dark. Sometimes he had better ideas when running than he did in uniform.

“I know it’s not a horse race,” said Perrault. “But if I were betting? I’d put my money on Michel. Even if he didn’t know about the will.”

Dufort agreed. “He had opportunity. As for means, cyanide is not something you can buy at the épicerie, but it is not so terribly difficult to get hold of. As I’ve said, his organizing the party is definitely a strike against him—it looks as though he wanted to plump up the list of possible suspects.”

“Exactly,” said Perrault. “And plus, he’s been out of work for a long time. Never really got going in any job, from what I can find out. He might have been looking at his aunt like she was a fat goose, prime for the slaughter.”

“No, of course this isn’t an arrest,” Dufort was saying to Michel Faure, whom he had found having coffee at Chez Papa. “I’d just like you to walk over to the station with me so we can talk about a few things. If you have a moment?”

Michel c****d his head. He had never met Dufort before and he wasn’t at all sure what to make of him.

“I think you might be able to give us some important help in the matter of your aunt,” Dufort added, his expression pleasant.

Michel nodded and slid off his stool. “All right then, I’m free just now.” He tossed some coins on the bar—not quite enough for his bill, never mind the tip—and followed Dufort out to the street. It was cold, and both men wrapped their coats tighter and raised their shoulders up.

“You’ve lived in Castillac all your life?” Dufort asked Michel as they walked.

“Yes. Well, I don’t actually know for sure, but I think so. I was adopted just after being born, but I have no reason to think that I was born anywhere other than Castillac.”

“Ah,” said Dufort. “So, you’re not a blood relative of the Faures or Desrosiers then?”

“No.” Michel shot the gendarme a glance, wondering if Dufort knew something he didn’t. What he had been thinking about constantly—but didn’t dare ask—was whether or not Aunt Josephine’s will had been found. All those dinners he had endured with her, all those Dubonnets poured into the tiny glasses while he went thirsty, all the criticism and abuse he’d allowed her to heap upon him…had it paid off? Was he named in the will, even if not as the main beneficiary? Please God?

Michel kept his eyes on the pavement. His coat was thin and he was shivering, and one shoe had a hole in it that he kept putting off getting fixed.

“I’m going to speak plainly,” said Dufort. “Your aunt was not a great favorite of anyone, have I understood that correctly?”

Michel laughed. “Spot on,” he said. “A nasty bit of business, she was.”

Dufort thought Michel was perhaps being clever by owning up to his distaste for the woman he had murdered, because what murderer would admit such a thing?

Michel noticed that they had turned down rue Simenon, going away from the station, but he didn’t want to ask why. He could see his aunt’s mansion looming up farther down the street, and felt a strong desire not to have to go inside, especially not with Dufort watching him like a hawk. Maybe a dull-witted hawk, Michel wasn’t sure about that, but in any case, he fervently wished he were in a bar somewhere with Adèle, having a drink and a laugh…or anywhere, really, but there.

They stopped in front of the mansion. The violet-blue shutters were closed as they had been for years.

“I do not want to go in,” said Michel, the words coming out before he could stop them.

“Any particular reason?”

“No. Well, yes.” Michel looked up at the house, his eyes moving over it. The slate roof was whitened with frost and he thought the mansion exuded a kind of chill that was way worse than the weather. “Don’t you feel it? Can’t you tell just standing out here that the place has some bad juju?” He ran his hand through his hair.

“It’s a house,” said Dufort, shrugging. “Quite a nice house, perhaps the nicest in the village. Early nineteenth century, isn’t it? Can you describe the inside for me?”

Michel rubbed his arms in a futile attempt to warm them. He desperately wanted to go someplace heated but was trying his best to seem amenable to whatever plan Dufort had. “Um, all right, I can do that, I suppose. It’s rather grand inside, with two salons facing the street and a wide foyer between them. Wide staircase with a wrought-iron baluster comes down to the foyer. The kitchen is quite large with an old wood-fired stove as well as a gas stove. I don’t think I was ever served a meal from that kitchen after my uncle died, back when Adèle and I were kids. There are several other rooms downstairs—a laundry, a pantry, and maybe more. I don’t really remember. I can’t tell you about upstairs because I never saw it.

“My aunt was a bit reclusive. As far as I know, over the last five years or so, she never went out unless I took her. The housekeeper, Sabrina—she came every day, cleaned and cooked for her, although I don’t think my aunt ate very much. Anyway, I came to visit her because she didn’t have friends and the rest of the family avoided her as much as possible, and I felt sorry for her.”

Dufort raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Do you really think me that gullible?”

“Did she give you money?” Dufort asked, his tone friendly and conversational.

Michel just smiled. “Oh, not usually. A five-euro note if I was lucky. She did pay for dinner if we went out, but it’s not like we were dining at La Métairie all the time—just the once, actually. Usually she wanted me to get her a bowl of paella from the guy who sets up in the Place on Tuesday nights. Or she’d ask me to run over to the boulangerie and get her a fresh baguette, and some cheese from the épicerie. She wouldn’t eat it in front of me. I got the idea she would hide that food in her room and then refuse to eat what Sabrina was making for her. Aunt Josephine was like that, she spent all her time cooking up ways to make other people unhappy, from what I could see. ‘Drama queen’ was a term invented for her, but with a mean sort of twist, if you see what I mean?”

“She doesn’t sound like a very pleasant person,” said Dufort, thinking that was the understatement of the week. “And did you have any sense that she was unhappy? That perhaps these acts of hers were an indication that she was tired of life, tired of…of whatever her existence had turned out to be? I don’t mean to suggest suicide, I am only wondering if it is possible that the person who killed her might have believed he was doing her a favor in a way.”

“Doing the rest of the world a favor, I should say,” said Michel, laughing.

Dufort ended the informal interview soon after, making an excuse that he had someone to see. He hurried off down the street and circled back to observe Michel surreptitiously. What Michel did was stand outside the mansion looking from shutter to shutter, stamping his feet from time to time, and then he turned away and did not look back, pulling out his phone and disappearing into the café across the street.

Maybe yes, maybe no, thought Dufort. Now I want to find his sister, and see what she has to say for herself—and for her brother.