Chapter 39
1346 Words
Chapter 39Alphonse came out from the kitchen, gave Molly a kiss on both cheeks and a big hug. “Lunch is on me,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I hear you solved the murder and I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
Molly’s eyes widened. “How did you hear that already? I just left the police station five minutes ago!”
Alphonse’s eyes twinkled. “We have our ways, Molly. Now come, sit at the bar and tell us your story. Nico, pour her a kir.”
Molly smiled half-heartedly. “I don’t know that it’s time to celebrate,” she said. “As I’m sure you know, since you people always seem to know everything—Vincent has fled. No one knows where he is.”
“The innocent do not run,” said Alphonse, shaking his big head.
“Not usually. Dufort wasn’t telling me the details but I got the impression he may have solid DNA evidence, so if they can just catch him, they’ll get a sample and undoubtedly it will match. But in the meantime…there’s a sociopathic murderer on the loose. Which is why I decided to have lunch here instead of in my own kitchen.”
“A good plan, Molly.”
“And when Lawrence gets here, I’m going to ask if I can sleep at his place until Vincent is behind bars.”
“Did Dufort say you are a target?”
“He didn’t have to. I already have been, Alphonse!”
“Just so,” the old man said, shaking his head. “No one is safe until that man is in prison. And to think I served him at least a meal a day for years now! Right over there!” Alphonse pointed to the small table in the corner by the door, where Vincent was always found if not behind the wheel of his taxi.
“I know! I rode in his taxi a bajillion times! I put the Bennetts into his taxi!” Molly and Alphonse looked at each other, their eyes wide, still barely able to comprehend that this man who was part of the daily fabric of their lives had turned out to be a killer.
“Oh Molly!” said Lawrence, peeling off his coat as he came in the door. “I just heard. Are you all right?” They kissed on both cheeks and then hugged.
“Yes, I’m totally fine. My thighs are a little sore from running. Maybe we could start working out together?”
“Never in this life,” said Lawrence. “Now tell me—how in the world did you know it was Vincent?” Alphonse nodded and leaned forward. Nico put down the bottle of Campari and gave her his full attention.
“Well,” Molly said. “First let me say that I was completely clueless all along, until the final moment. I guess all of us had wondered, at some point, was this evil person, this murderer, someone I know? But I’d never gotten any farther than that. I had no list in my head of all the creepy people I’d met in Castillac that I thought might be capable of murder. People here—they’re wonderful.”
“Molly! Get to it!” Lawrence almost shouted in frustration.
“Yes, well. You know the Bennetts were staying in my cottage. So I brought them food from time to time, and had various reasons to be inside the cottage just in the normal course of things. And what I noticed—that broke my heart—was that they had brought bags of things for their daughter, just like you would if you were visiting from your child’s home country. You know—you’d bring things the child was fond of but thought perhaps couldn’t get, living in another country.”
The three men listened intently but were still mystified. “Go on,” urged Alphonse.
“And also, I took a lot of trips in Vincent’s taxi. My house is close enough that I should just walk home, but I don’t know, sometimes I’m lazy, and Vincent seemed pleasant and it was so easy just to get a ride home that way. And I didn’t even realize I saw it when I saw it, if you know what I mean…but on the floor of the backseat of Vincent’s car was always a bunch of trash. It was annoying to me and I would push it under the seat with my foot.
“It didn’t occur to me at the time to wonder why the backseat of Vincent’s taxi was littered with wrappers of English food—McVitie’s biscuits, Cadbury Flake bars, that sort of thing. Things you could find in a French city, sure, if you knew where to look. But not so much at the épicerie in Castillac, right? And—I noticed this because it was unfamiliar and weird—a bag of something called salty licorice. It’s German, apparently. Makes me gag just thinking about it.”
“Amy got in Vincent’s taxi that night, after the celebration right here at Chez Papa. She was drunk. She had her stash of English goodies in her bag, got the munchies, and dug in during the ride, leaving her wrappers on the floor. Who knows how long Vincent drove around with her before hurting her? Could have been fifteen minutes. Could have been hours. Even the next day. But somewhere along the line, Amy had her last meal of junk food that reminded her of home.”
Nico was shaking his head. “But Molly, couldn’t any tourist have left those wrappers behind?”
“You think people in Castillac are feasting on McVitie’s and salty licorice? Not likely,” she added, “but of course it’s possible. And if they had, and Vincent wasn’t guilty, he wouldn’t have gotten worried that I would put it together. He wouldn’t have had any reason to come after me last night.” She shivered slightly and Lawrence put an arm around her shoulders.
“Why didn’t he just clean out his car?” wondered Alphonse.
“I think in cases like this, there’s an element of keepsakes,” said Lawrence, and everyone understood and recoiled at the idea. “Maybe those wrappers were something he kept to remember Amy by—to remember the night he had with her.”
“A memento of hurt,” said Nico quietly, and they all bowed their heads and couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Molly spent that night at Lawrence’s. She called Dufort to let him know, and he said he would send Maron out to cruise by a few times just to keep an eye on things. In the meantime he and the force were doing all they could to find Vincent and bring him in.
“So are you going to tell me, or do I have to drag it out of you?” said Lawrence, once they were ensconced in his deep armchairs with down cushions, directly in front of a blazing fire.
“Tell you what?” asked Molly, honestly having no idea what he was talking about.
“Well, you were nearly attacked last night. Had to run for it and the murderer is worried you can identify him.”
“Um, yeah?”
“So where did you sleep last night, Miss Sutton? I don’t think you went home alone, did you?”
Molly blushed. A deep blush that started around her collarbone and moved up to her face, making her so warm she had to fan herself. “I’m surprised your sources have let you down,” she said mysteriously, and then would discuss it no further.
They toasted thick slices of bread on the fire, and ate it with immense hunks of the most delicious sheep’s milk cheese made by a woman who lived just outside Castillac. Lawrence poured them tall glasses of mineral water and they finished up with some squares of Côte d’Or chocolate with hazelnuts.
The two friends talked long into the night, and Molly fell into a deep sleep in Lawrence’s bed. He insisted on taking the sofa in the sitting room, and she agreed for just this one night, grateful for a safe place to rest. When she was ready for bed and turned off the light and sank into his luxurious bedding, she realized just how stressed and frightened she had been for these last weeks, and conked out immediately.
Molly and Lawrence slept late. They were just drinking their first cups of coffee, not quite awake enough to form sentences, when Lawrence got a call.
“Âllo?” he said, sounding nearly French instead of the Californian he was. “Really? No kidding…that’s very good news….all right…see you later, thank you my dear.”
“Let’s finish up these cups and then trot over to Chez Papa,” said Lawrence. “I know it’s not quite lunchtime, but it sounds like the celebrating is already seriously underway and we don’t want to miss it.
“Dufort caught him, Molly. Apparently he was hiding in a cave up by the Sallière vineyard. No weapon or anything, gave himself right up.”
“How did you get all that in that ten second phone call?”
Lawrence just laughed.
“It’s fantastic news. I’ll just change out of my nightgown before we go.”
“Only if you feel like it, Molls,” said Lawrence, gulping his coffee and reaching for a heavy sweater.
- Writer
