Chapter 25
1623 Words
Chapter 25“I don’t care how cold it is,” said Frances. “I’ve been cooped up all day, I think I just wrote a jingle that every person in the United States is going to be cursing me for—massive earworm, haha—and so anyway, I’d like to look at something besides your sweet face.”
“Nico or Pascal, I’m guessing you have in mind?” said Molly, putting away the last dishes from the dishwasher.
“They are easy on the eyes,” said Frances, grinning. She was standing in front of the mirror in the foyer, trying to tie her scarf in that chic way Frenchwomen seemed to manage so effortlessly. “Holy smokes, Molls, how do they do it?” she said, frustrated, whipping the end over, under and around, and looking half-strangled.
“I think it’s genetic,” said Molly. She stood next to her friend and swooped hers around her neck, up and through, and came out looking better, if a little cockeyed.
“Sometimes when I look at you, I want to push Donnie out a window,” said Frances, looking sideways at Molly’s chest.
“When you look at me?””
“Those fake boobs he talked you into. And it’s not just Donnie I’m mad at. Also you, for agreeing to that nonsense.”
Molly thought about what Frances said. “I guess I used to be mad at myself too. I know it was a really bad decision to have surgery just to make someone else happy. So dumb. Someday when I have some extra money, I’ll get rid of them. But you know, Frances? The whole thing was years ago now. I’ve let it go. So maybe you can let it go, too.”
“Okay, but I’m still gonna push him out of a window if I ever get the chance.”
“Understood,” said Molly cheerfully. “So, is Chez Papa okay with you? I’m sorry Lawrence has been out of town during your whole visit. He definitely brightens things up when he’s around.”
“Yep, sure, anyplace is all right with me. Let me just…” she rummaged in a makeup bag and brought out a stubby pencil and made a smoky, smudgy line around her dark brown eyes. They looked enormous and faintly forbidding. Then she fished out a tiny bottle of perfume and spritzed into the air in front of her, and walked into the mist.
“You’re irresistible,” Molly said drily.
Putting on their heaviest coats and hats, the friends walked quickly into the village in search of company and kirs.
“The Pales!” said Nico as they came inside with a whoosh of cold air.
“Wha—?” said Frances, looking at Molly.
Molly shrugged. “I was in here the other day while you were working. Nico was asking how we met and all that, and I may have told a few stories about our early years.”
“And you went to the same college, too? I went to a university in America for two years,” said Nico. “I know all about the crazy stuff you college students do.” He winked at Frances, and she hopped on a barstool and smiled at him flirtatiously.
“Gracious goodness, I was an angel,” she said, and Molly and Nico laughed.
Just as Nico put kirs in front of them both, Molly’s phone went off, the text sound of a chirping robin. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the screen, her eyes wide.
“It’s Lawrence…”
“Hi Larry,” said Nico, waving at Molly’s phone.
“This is unbelievable,” said Molly. She stared at the screen hard, as though she must have misread what was there.
“Well?” said Frances, her eyes on Nico as he made a cup of espresso for a middle-aged man at the other end of the bar.
“He says there’s been another poisoning. A woman on Madame Desrosiers’s street. Cyanide again, but she survived.”
“Good heavens! Is it someone you know?”
“I’m…I’m having a hard time believing…maybe Lawrence is just messing with my head.”
“Does he like doing that?”
“Well…” Molly thought about it. He did like to tease, but this wasn’t exactly teasing. It would be an unfunny practical joke, if he were making it up. “I wish I could call Ben and ask him what’s going on.”
“What’s up, my beauties?” said Nico, having served his coffee and sensing a good story.
“Molly just heard there’s been another poisoning,” said Frances.
“Larry told you?”
“Yes. How in the world does he always know everything? And when he’s in Morocco?”
Nico shrugged. “Who was it? Is she okay?”
“How did you know it was a ‘she’?” said Molly, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Don’t turn those detective eyes on me,” said Nico. “Look, I had a fifty percent chance, it was just a lucky guess.”
“Call up Ben!” said Frances. “You know he’s sweet on you.”
“Do you know that half your expressions come straight out of Gone With The Wind? We’re not getting ready to go to a barbeque with the Tarleton boys at Twelve Oaks.” Molly stood up. She took a sip of her kir. “This is serious. A second woman with cyanide poisoning within a week? Could we have a serial killer on our hands?”
“Just call the cop,” said Frances. “You’re not going to be able to think of anything else until you know the deets, so just call him!”
“I don’t think civilians can just call up gendarmes and ask for the latest gossip.”
“It’s not gossip, Molly. You’re worried about your safety and the safety of your houseguest who is tremendously important to you. Right?”
“Nico? What’s your vote?”
“Call him. What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll say it’s none of your business, see you later.”
Molly took out her phone and almost tapped in the number to the station. After some frightening events earlier in the year, she had put his home number in her contacts as well, but she didn’t feel like she could call it unless it was an emergency. And while finding out exactly what happened felt like an emergency, she understood that it was not.
But oh, how she wanted to know what was going on! First she texted Lawrence back, asking for more information.
“Let’s have one more kir,” said Frances. “Will you join us, Nico?”
“I never drink on the job,” he said. “But hmm, it’s almost empty in here except for you lot…Alphonse is home with a bad cold…okay, never except just this once,” said Nico, grinning and reaching for a bottle of schnapps and pouring himself a shot.
“Okay, I’m calling,” said Molly. “But I’m going in the back room to do it. I get twitchy if I think anyone is listening to my phone conversations.”
Frances waved as Molly walked away. “Pour me another, Nico,” she purred. “Did you go to the U.S. to act? You look like you could be in movies.”
Nico laughed. “You are such a bullshitter,” he said. “And quite entertaining. Go on…”
“I have plenty of questions I want to ask you,” she said, smiling at him. “Which university you went to, how your English got so perfect, stuff like that. But while Molly’s in the other room, let me ask you this: what do you make of Ben Dufort, anyway? Is he a good guy?”
“Yeah, he’s a good guy. I can’t say I know him very deep down, you know what I mean?”
“You don’t know what makes him tick?”
“Ha, I don’t think I know what makes anyone tick.”
“Yeah,” said Frances. “That’s profound, you know that?”
Nico just shook his head and poured himself another shot.
Dufort tossed his cell on his desk, irritated. He stood up and paced back and forth in front of the window, staring at the floor. The evening before, he had called up Marie-Claire to invite her to dinner, and she had refused. Told him she was fond of him and would like to be friends. Only friends.
Well, he could admit to himself that he wasn’t in love with Marie-Claire, much as he liked her. But it was still a conclusion he would rather have reached on his own, and it stung.
And then this morning, the lab report had come in—no cyanide in the unmarked jar of face cream. He had been so sure that was the source and was pleased that Perrault had brought it in. Had been hoping for prints, and maybe if they were really lucky, the pharmacy in the village would remember the killer coming in to buy an empty jar, along with face cream.
But they were not lucky.
Dufort passed his hand over his face and squeezed his eyes tight. Patting his pockets, he found the vial of tincture and let five drops splash under his tongue, not caring if the other officers saw him. All right, he thought, pulling himself together, either Michel has poisoned someone else to throw us off the trail, or it is not Michel. And if it is not, we are nowhere. And if we are nowhere, the killer will keep going and more people will die.
He called for Perrault and Maron, who hustled in, hearing bad news in his tone. “The Arbogast case—either the nurse was wrong about its being cyanide, or she was poisoned some other way. The unmarked jar is clean.”
“Damn it,” said Perrault.
“All right, this is only a setback,” said Dufort. But we move forward. Maron, go interview Arbogast's son. Maybe it’s Munchausen by proxy, or maybe he tried to kill his mother but failed. Nose around and see what you think. Perrault, you knock on doors and talk to the neighbors. Ask if they saw anyone unusual coming to the Arbogast's door. And then go to both pharmacies and ask about anyone buying face cream and empty glass jars. You’ll need to get phone numbers of everyone who’s not at work when you’re there, and interview them over the phone.”
“It’s unlikely that the two poisonings are unrelated, isn’t it?” asked Perrault, her head c****d.
“I just told you, the lab says no cyanide. Pay attention, Perrault. Maybe she was poisoned another way, but we will need to talk to the medic to see if he corroborates the son’s report of his mother’s symptoms. And we proceed with inferences only when we have more facts. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” said Perrault, feeling tears welling up and sternly ordering them to go away.
“Do you think it could be a serial killer?” asked Maron.
Dufort held his palms in the air. “I don’t know,” he said. “The two of you—get going. Be meticulous. This is a precarious moment in the investigation—we’re dealing with someone who is extremely dangerous, especially since we don’t know the motive and are in the dark to stop him. I won’t be surprised to get a report of another poisoning quite soon.”
Perrault and Maron took off, their expressions serious. Dufort took five more drops, then five more, and then threw the bottle against the wall.
- Writer
