The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 18

Chapter 18“Sorry Chief, I don’t think you can just dismiss this,” said Maron, who was back at the station, having shown to Dufort and Perrault the letter he found at Claudette’s.

“It’s a nasty piece of business, no question about that,” said Dufort. “So what are you saying, that you think the burglar wrote the letter? On what basis? Perhaps your intuition?” he said, teasing Maron because in fact Maron would never, ever use the word “intuition” without a sneer.

“Mercier has been the victim of two acts of violence, one physical and one emotional. It’s not a huge reach to think that they might be connected. Might,” Maron added, with some vehemence. “But actually, it’s not the attempted burglary I’m wondering about. There’s a connection between Mercier and Desrosiers. Turns out Mercier was at the birthday party. All I found at La Métairie was a note card, on the ground outside near the dumpster. Looks like it was on a birthday gift?” He went to his coat pocket and brought it out, a small rectangle of thin cardboard with some purple flowers decorating the top. ‘From your friend, Claudette’.”

“Claudette Mercier was at the party?” said Dufort, looking up quickly.

“Yes,” said Maron. “Some coincidence, huh? And actually she mentioned Desrosiers—said she wanted to drop dead of a heart attack too, when the time came.”

“They were around the same age, probably in school together,” said Perrault. “They both grew up in Castillac, right?”

“Yes,” said Dufort. “The Merciers used to own a hardware store in the center of the village. They were quite a prosperous family, still are as far as I know.”

“Don’t you think it’s meaningful that one lady gets offed, and then another one from the same party has her house broken into and was receiving anonymous bullying letters?”

“We can’t say whether it’s meaningful or not,” said Dufort. “Let me caution you both against trying to make order where there is none. All three events might be unconnected, and we are still in the preliminary stages of the investigation, Maron. At the moment, it is looking as though Desrosiers was roundly despised by everyone who knew her—at least by family and the people who worked for her. Any of them could have killed her. Mercier may have been her only friend.”

“Maybe the rest of her friends are all dead. She was seventy-two, after all.”

“As I told Perrault, seventy-two is not that old. You must both make an effort not to view everything through the lens of your own youth. Perhaps…she didn’t have any friends. It does happen, you know. Although not usually because someone is odious to every single person they come across; usually it is a matter of some mental illness getting in the way, high social anxiety or something of that sort.”

“Desrosiers hated other people,” said Perrault.

“Who knows what happened to twist her personality that way? There are mysteries we’ll never unravel, not without much more understanding of the mind and the things that affect it. Desrosiers’s sister isn’t cut from the same cloth?” asked Dufort.

“No,” said Perrault. “I asked around. She’s a respected science teacher at the lycée, leads an upstanding life as far as I can tell. Raised two children by herself with little support from her rich relatives.”

Maron said, “Back to Mercier—I’m just saying that looks can be deceiving. She looks like a gentle old lady, sure, but she did something to enrage that letter-writer. I don’t see how we have any actual evidence to eliminate her from the list of suspects.”

“All right then, look into it, you’re like a dog with a bone. Go talk to her again. But don’t blame her for getting those letters. As far as we know, she’s the victim, not the perpetrator.” Dufort shrugged. “It sure hasn’t been the best week for the seventy-two-year-old ladies of Castillac. Now, on the other matter, Perrault and I caught Sabrina Lellouche coming out of Desrosiers’s house yesterday, carrying some bags. I questioned her; she said she had come back to the house one last time to pick up a few things that were hers, as well as some things Desrosiers had given her.”

“If she’s lying, she’s a really good liar,” said Perrault.

“She was quite cool and collected,” agreed Dufort. “I asked her what was in the bags, and she offered to dump them on the sidewalk, but I told her that wasn’t necessary. She may be a useful witness to us later on, and I don’t want her to think she’s under suspicion. According to her, the bags were filled with a bunch of old clothes, hand-me-downs Desrosiers had given her, that’s all. I asked if there was a key to the house, and she told me there’s an extra under a flowerpot in the back garden. We were interrupted by a call from Madame Vargas, but Perrault and I will head over there again to look for the will and see what we can find. Perhaps more letters!” he said, teasing Maron again. There was something about a person who took himself so seriously that tempted Dufort to poke him. He did not admire this quality in himself.

Maron leaned against Dufort’s desk. His dark eyebrows looked heavier and darker than usual, knitting together as he stared at the floor. Dufort felt a twinge of remorse. “So Maron, nothing else to report from La Métairie? My hopes aren’t high,” he said.

“Not much,” said Maron, his face not brightening. “All the plates, glasses, cutlery—that had been washed and put away, then used for another service. Any trace of cyanide that might have been in Desrosiers’s glass, for example, would have been long gone, not that there was any way to distinguish which items she had used. No birthday presents left behind.”

Dufort nodded. “We could use a break,” he said. “All right then, we need to find the will, to see who will inherit. Could be a lot of money involved. No children, so presumably the larger portion will be split by her sister and niece and nephew, although there may be more distant relatives we aren’t aware of, with some claim. At any rate, for now, that definitely puts the Faure family top of the list.”

“Adèle and my sister used to hang out,” said Perrault. “They were way older than me, but I always thought she was one of the really cool girls. I mean, she stood out, you know? Dressed to the nines, but with that limp.”

Dufort c****d his head, picturing Adèle walking down a school corridor, head held high.

“She had this…this disability that she never let slow her down. I guess…a lot of times when people have something like that, they don’t want to attract attention to themselves, you know? But Adèle didn’t let that bad foot slow her down. You have to admire her for that.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with her foot, Perrault? Clubfeet are rarely seen anymore because they fix that. Perrault, find out if it is a clubfoot and whether or not she was treated.”

“Awkward,” said Perrault, hanging her head for a moment. But then she got a look of determination on her open, freckled face, and said she would get the information.

“We’ll need to look into the brother and the mother as well.”

“Michel is out of work, last I heard,” said Perrault.

“Out of work means an inheritance might be timely,” said Maron.

“And beyond the Faures, who else have we got? Maron, go back to La Métairie and a get a list of guests at the birthday party. Anyone present had opportunity, if it turns out the poison could have acted that quickly. I know you already asked, but press Nathalie. She may simply be reluctant to give any names. I’ll drop in on Molly Sutton. She was at the restaurant the night of the murder; perhaps she saw something.”

Dufort’s cell rang. “Oui?” He nodded his head. Perrault and Maron could hear a rasping voice on the other end and knew it to be Florian Nagrand, the coroner.

Dufort said thank you and hung up. “He was calling only to confirm that we understand what was in the report. Cyanide. Route of entry was the skin on her face, which was slightly abraded allowing for quick penetration. It killed her quickly.”

“Definitely someone at the party,” said Maron.

“Or the restaurant, anyway,” said Perrault.

Maron shot her a cold glance, thinking she was criticizing him.

“Let’s get to it,” said Dufort. “Perrault, find Adèle and wring every last drop of information out of her. I want to know what was going on in that family—I want to know why Michel isn’t working, I want to know how well Murielle and her sister got along. And—I know you know this, but I will mention it all the same—Adèle is no longer the cool girl who’s a friend of your sister. She is a possible murder suspect. Don’t let that slip your mind.”

Perrault said “Yes, sir,” taking the reminder to heart, but wishing he hadn’t felt the need to say it.

“Maron, you’re off to La Métairie again. I’m not convinced Nathalie doesn’t remember perfectly well who was there. Find out who waited on them; since it was a large party it might have been more than one person. Names and numbers, of course.”

Dufort felt energized and confident. They knew the murder weapon, they knew when it had been utilized, and they had a room with a reasonably small number of people in it who could have committed the crime, and witnesses galore.

How hard could the rest be?

Adèle spent that Tuesday night at her mother’s house. She didn’t think about why, it was simply something she did whenever she felt unsettled, even now when she was thirty-nine years old, an officer at the bank, and had had her own apartment for years. It was inconvenient because the bank where she worked was on the other side of the village, and in December, it wasn’t always a pleasant walk. It made her foot hurt and she had to get up very early in order to get there on time. But still, a few times a year, she came to her mother’s anyway, because her old room was the same as when she was a child, and it was comforting to sleep on that narrow bed with the familiar duvet, and see the branches outside her bedroom window in what seemed like the exact same pattern as when she was ten.

Murielle always got up early. In the dark days of December that meant long before sunrise, and she would make coffee and read scientific journals and gardening magazines until it was time to go to the lycée where she had taught for over thirty years.

“Bonjour, Maman,” said Adèle, padding down to the small kitchen in her nightgown and robe. “Did you sleep well?”

“Of course not,” said her mother. “When you get to be my age, no one sleeps well. Not unless they drug themselves, which many choose to do. There’s coffee,” she added, and went back to reading her journal.

Adèle helped herself to coffee, adding a big splash of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar.

“You know that sugar is devoid of nutrition,” said Murielle.

“Yes, Maman, you’ve mentioned that once or twice. Listen, I want to talk to you about Michel.”

Murielle’s head jerked up from her journal. “What about him?” she demanded.

“Well, I just…the whole business with Aunt Josephine…”

“What about it, Adèle? Speak up.”

“Do you think he’s all right? I mean, really all right?”

“He’s as right as he’s ever been. As right as he was the day I picked him up at the hospital as a baby. I don’t think for one minute that Josephine’s death will have any sort of bad effect on him, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“Not exactly, Maman. It’s that—didn’t the police tell you? Aunt Josephine was poisoned. And if that’s true, then Michel…”

“That sounds like rubbish,” Murielle said. “Who in the world would want to poison Josephine?”

Adèle laughed. “Half the village?”

“Adèle!”

“Sorry, Maman. Well, I heard from what I think is a reliable source that she was definitely poisoned. And probably by someone at the birthday party. And so, I was wondering…I wanted to talk to you about…it couldn’t be…you’re sure it wasn’t…not Michel? Tell me you don’t think it could have been Michel.”

Murielle stared at her. “Why would you say something like that? Why would you even think it? Of course Michel did no such thing. He hasn’t got his feet under him yet, that’s true. But he couldn’t hurt a fly. Michel, a murderer?” Murielle shook her head decisively.

“Of course I don’t think he could do it,” said Adèle, feeling better. “But I just worried, because of the money…”

Murielle shook her head again and looked out of the window at the gray morning, her expression doleful. Adèle wondered if she felt more grief at losing her sister than she was admitting.

“Maman, you mentioned picking Michel up at the hospital. I don’t think you’ve ever really told that story, Maman, I mean of Michel’s adoption. I’m very glad you did adopt him, it’s wonderful to have a brother I’m so close to. But what made you decide to take him?”

Murielle looked as though she was trying to decide what to say. “You were lonely,” she said finally. “You were a vivacious little girl and honestly, I wasn’t enough company for you.”

Adèle laughed. “You could have just gotten me a dog.”

Murielle shrugged. “And also—I got a call, from a lawyer I used to know. He said there’d been a birth, the mother was young and unmarried, the family was Catholic and not at all pleased, and would I consider…” she trailed off, looking out of the window, remembering. “You have to understand, in those days, being an unwed mother was considered a scandalous, shameful thing. It wasn’t easy to get through.”

“You managed, Maman,” Adèle said softly, for the first time really understanding that her birth had caused her mother real difficulty, even pain.

Murielle did not respond at first but kept looking out of the window. “Michel came from Bergerac, not a village family,” she said finally. “I’ve forgotten the name.”

Adèle was not sure she believed her. “Well, it was good of you to do it. I know it wasn’t easy with the two of us and not much money.”

“And no husband. Not that I wanted one. More trouble than they’re worth.”

Adèle nodded. She herself had never been much interested in marriage, or having children either, for that matter. She drank her coffee. Her mother went back to her journal. After fifteen quiet minutes, Adèle went upstairs and dressed carefully for work in clothes hanging in the armoire in her old room. The fabric of the wool skirt was very fine, and the sweater cashmere.

“À bientôt, Maman,” she said as she left, kissing her on both cheeks. Leaving her coat unzipped as the weather had warmed considerably during the night, Adèle made her way through the cobblestone streets of Castillac, thinking not about murder but about her first tasks at the bank that morning, and wondering again about her mother and the adopting of Michel. She hadn’t given it much thought before, but all of a sudden it was something that nagged her. It was just a feeling, nonetheless she felt confident that there was more to that story than her mother had just told her.