The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 9

Chapter 9The day after his aunt died, Michel Faure sat in a café opposite her mansion, drinking coffee and pretending to read a novel. He had been out of work for months, and the small price of the coffee was money he should not have been spending, but he shrugged that knowledge off and spent the money anyway, feeling irritated.

Castillac in winter was a different place than in warmer months. He had no idea what people his age did with themselves, but they weren’t out on the streets, that was for sure. The people-watching aspect of sitting in the café was more or less null, as the only passersby were an old lady walking very slowly with a cane, who Michel thought was a schoolmate’s grand-mère, and the mailman.

He wanted a plate of cookies—this particular café was known for them, after all—but he had rules, whereby he was allowed to buy the coffee he couldn’t afford, but not the cookies.

Forty minutes, and nobody but a granny and the mailman.

The mansion was imposing. Rising up behind an ornate but rusting gate, the house had four floors plus a cellar, and a carved wooden door painted a deep violet-blue with pots of topiary standing on either side. The long windows were shuttered, and Michel knew the curtains were drawn inside, thick brocade curtains, so thick they half-suffocated him just in the remembering.

He was waiting to see someone, watching, but she did not come. Maybe I’ve been wrong about her, Michel thought. But I don’t think so.

He chewed on a fingernail, his eyes pinned to the grand building. His stomach didn’t feel so hot.

He wondered when the will would be read. Wondered how long it would take before his aunt’s things were handed out to whomever she had designated to receive them. Wondered if any of his efforts had paid off.

Michel Faure did not miss his aunt. He would have laughed at the suggestion that he might, as he believed her to have been one of the vilest creatures he had ever met. He had suffered from her as a young child, as she was the sort of aunt who pinched cheeks hard enough to cause bruising. The sort of aunt who insisted he memorize poetry and if he stumbled on a line would whip the backs of his legs with a cane.

Hateful b***h, he thought. He signaled the waiter for another cup, knowing it wouldn’t do his stomach any favors, but wanting to spend the money if only because he shouldn’t, and because Aunt Josephine would have lectured him about financial responsibility, and—thankfully, blessedly, gloriously—she was no longer able to do so.

Molly hesitated. She thought Frances would probably like to see the Saturday market, but should she wake her up for it? It was cold, after all, and Frances did seem pretty devoted to getting a really good night’s sleep. Molly dressed for the weather, put her basket under her arm and set off by herself.

She had lived at La Baraque nearly four months. Not long enough to feel as though it—or France—was home, not all the way. And not long enough that every single walk down rue des Chênes into Castillac didn’t take her breath away in one way or another. That day, the world seemed muffled. The sky was cloudy and the limestone of the buildings didn’t have that characteristic yellow glow, or at least the color was dulled. Thin wisps of smoke rose from chimneys. A dog barked.

The street was empty save for a small pickup that passed her heading away from the village. When she came to the cemetery, Molly ran her eyes over the inscription “Priez pour vos morts,” and she wondered if anyone was praying for Josephine Desrosiers.

She thought not.

She couldn’t say exactly why, and if Dufort tried to pin her down she would have no way to describe it…but something about the tone of the conversation she had overheard at La Métairie made her think that it was possible the old lady’s death was not as simple as Dufort seemed to think it was. It wasn’t the words anyone said—and honestly, though her French had improved mightily, she hadn’t been able to understand quite a few of them—it was the tone. Acid. Bitter. Plus the sense that the guests at the party were smiling when they faced Madame Desrosiers, but under their breaths, mutterings of resentment bubbled up.

On the other hand, she thought, kicking a pebble as she walked…as Frances said, plenty of families don’t get along. Doesn’t mean anyone gets killed. And besides, she hadn’t seen anyone attend the old woman into the bathroom, or follow her in there either. Though of course, she had been eating a superb meal with her good friend, so she could easily have been distracted long enough for someone to leave the dining room without her noticing.

And surely there are ways to murder in which the murderer doesn’t have to be present at the exact moment of death. Poison comes quickly to mind.

Oh please. Can’t I just enjoy a simple walk into the village without looking under the bed for monsters?

She turned a corner and the Saturday market was there in its much-reduced winter glory. About half the usual vendors were present, all looking cold and rather depressed at the sparse number of customers.

“Manette!” said Molly, going up to her friend the vegetable seller and kissing both her cheeks.

“Bonjour, Molly! Nice to see you. I wondered if you might have fled once the weather turned.”

“Oh no, I have no place to go!” said Molly laughing. “I am officially not a vacationer, not a summer person. Though I admit, I am finding the weather a little difficult.”

“Not insulated, are you?”

“Afraid not.”

Manette cut an orange into sections and handed a piece to Molly. “So tell me the news, I’ve been holed up cooking for my sick mother-in-law and have no idea what’s going on.”

Molly was so flattered to be asked that a blush crept up her neck and bloomed on her cheeks. “Well,” she said, savoring the moment since she’d practically been an eye-witness, “did you know Madame Desrosiers? I was having dinner at La Métairie the other night, and she dropped dead in the bathroom.”

“Really!” said Manette. “I must be the last to know. What did she die of?”

Molly paused. With some effort she chose not to ramble on about her theory of poisoning. “Probably a heart attack.”

Manette nodded. “A grande dame of the village, or so she considered herself. Actually, she had perfectly humble beginnings—the daughter of a grocer, lived over by the railroad tracks. But she married an inventor who ended up making piles of money for some kind of transistor he thought up.”

“Interesting. So she was really rich? Did she have any children?”

“No, no children. Wait, I think she did have one, but stillborn. Always sad. Her sister is Murielle Faure, who teaches at the lycée. She has two children, adults now. I can’t say I know any of them, though they occasionally buy an eggplant or two from me.” Manette winked at Molly and gestured to a neat pyramid of the purple vegetables. “Well, of course they’re imported, it’s December! But very good cut in thin strips and fried, with a marinara sauce.”

Molly bought two. She was helpless in the face of Manette’s selling techniques, but hardly minded since Manette did the work of figuring out what to make for dinner.

“Oh look,” said Manette in a low voice. “Speak of the devils…”

“Bonjour!” sang out Murielle Faure to Manette.

“Hello, Molly,” said Adèle, practicing her English. “It’s nice to see you.”

Molly grinned. There was something about Adèle that appealed to her, though she couldn’t put her finger on what. She certainly dressed well. Her camel-hair coat looked freshly brushed, and her leather boots were classic without being in the least old-fashioned. “Nice bag,” said Molly, noticing it was a different one than Adèle had carried at La Métairie.

“Thanks!” said Adèle brightly. “I just got it. I confess to a weakness for nice bags. I don’t understand it, I don’t even have anything that important to carry around with me, but I seem to care quite a lot about having the possibility of carrying all sorts of things.”

“Maybe you have an explorer’s spirit,” said Molly. “You want to be ready at any moment if you get a call to head to the Arctic.”

Adèle laughed. “That’s generous of you. The truth is probably that I just want to carry something around that is beautiful, and that people will admire.”

Molly c****d her head. She was impressed with Adèle’s willingness to tell a truth that did not put herself in a flattering light. “How is your family doing?” she asked. “I’m sure the other night must have been such a shock.”

“Yes, it was,” said Adèle. “I don’t know if you have any deeply unpopular people in your family, Molly, but I think we all thought Aunt Josephine would live forever. An immortal tyrant. None of us can quite believe she’s gone. And none of us are the least bit sad.”

“Ah,” said Molly, “I see what you mean. Was she horrible to all of you?”

“Well, that’s one thing to say in her favor,” laughed Adèle. “She was more or less equally horrible to anyone, friends or family, people in the street, anyone at all. An equal opportunity insulter. Made it easier not to take personally.”

Molly nodded. “And—sorry if I’m asking too many questions—was there an autopsy? Did she die of a heart attack like Dufort thought?”

“Merci et à bientôt,” said Manette to Madame Faure, who nodded at Molly and pulled Adèle by the arm.

“See you later,” said Adèle, rolling her eyes toward her mother.

Molly watched the two of them walk away, Adèle limping slightly as though something wasn’t right with her left leg. Her mother was dressed in a frumpy pair of trousers that had seen better days. Molly wondered if Adèle had a well-paying job that allowed her to buy such nice clothing and handbags, things her mother couldn’t afford.

“Now let’s discuss your Christmas menu,” said Manette. “If there’s something in particular you want, I’m going to need some notice, you know. Tell me, what bizarre things do people from Massachusetts eat for Christmas dinner?”

Molly reluctantly watched the Faures disappear around the corner of the church. She had so many questions, but the best ones were far too impolite to ask, even to Manette.