The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 4

Chapter 4Claudette Mercier always had tea for breakfast, with a bit of stale bread left over from the day before spread with some strawberry jam. This had been her routine for close to twenty years, ever since her husband had passed away, and she no longer had to make the more substantial breakfast he preferred. While she waited for the water to boil, she stood in her nightgown and brushed her long white hair and then braided it. Most mornings she remembered how her husband, Declan (his mother had been Irish) had often told her that the long white braid was the hairstyle of an old woman. And she had replied that she was an old woman.

It made her smile to think she had only been in her fifties then, hardly old considering she was over seventy now. It had been so many years since Declan had passed away, but she felt his presence still. Even strongly so, from time to time, and she believed that some part of him was still there with her, though she could not explain in what fashion that might be possible.

After her tea and bread with jam she went to work in the kitchen, which took most of the morning. There was jam to make, and chutney, and silver to polish. The work was never-ending and she enjoyed the routine and sense of accomplishment. Her father had owned a prosperous hardware store, and her family had been well off by the Castillac standards of seventy years ago. Her parents had tried to keep her out of the kitchen and let the servants take care of those chores, but Claudette hadn’t listened. It seemed as though she had spent most of her life cooking and cleaning up, and except for missing Declan, that life had been mostly happy.

At least until the letters started coming.

By about 11:30 she was folding up the last dishtowel and ready to get the mail, before making her lunch. In earlier years, the mail had been such a source of pleasure! Her friends sent postcards and letters when they traveled, and she had some cousins who lived in Brittany who sent a birthday card every year. But people didn’t write letters anymore. She still got a few birthday cards, but the mail was almost entirely advertisements now. Except for these letters, written on expensive stationery, which came every few months. Vicious, hateful letters, with the sole intention of causing hurt.

When the first one arrived, Claudette had been excited to see the lovely stationery; it had been so long since receiving a real letter. She opened it standing by her front gate, not waiting to get back in the house, and began to shake and then to cry when she saw what it said. Later on, when others showed in her mailbox and she recognized the stationery and handwriting, she knew the prudent thing would be to throw them directly in the trash, but she could not make herself do it.

Five letters so far. Every word burned into her brain like a scar.

Everyone has weaknesses, or perhaps we can call them areas of sensitivity, where we struggle if prodded too roughly. For Claudette, her heart’s desire was also her weakness. All she had ever wanted was a simple life of making food and being with her family, and that was what the letter-writer attacked, telling her she had been adopted and was not the natural child of her parents, and she was lucky not to be a scullery maid which was all she was equipped for.

Now, Claudette had nothing against adopted children, or even being adopted herself, but the idea that her parents had lied to her, never told her the truth, dying with the secret? They must have thought the circumstances of her birth terribly shameful. It was unthinkably painful to contemplate.

She was not a woman who was particularly gullible or dim, nor was she quick to take offense. It was only that the letter-writer had been able to divine the exact thing to say that Claudette could not defend against, finding the one bit of soft flesh showing under the social armor we all put on every day, and driven in the stiletto precisely at that spot. Now Claudette counted the days since the last letter, wondering if the next one would come on the same schedule as the one before, or just possibly there would be no more and it would all be over. But she sensed that the letter-writer would keep on as long as she was able, and Claudette was not wrong about this.

That morning there was no mail, and she was caught somewhere uncomfortable between relief and wishing a letter had been there, just to get it over with, because the anticipation of the pain had become almost as bad as the pain itself.

She kept the letters, for reasons she could not explain. All five were placed in a tin and nestled in her bureau drawer underneath her winter socks. The letters were unsigned with no return address, and no telltale markings or monogram on the fancy stationery. But Claudette had a pretty good idea about who was sending them, and she was not wrong about this either.

Molly and Frances had intended to make an extensive tour of Castillac before going to dinner, but the weather was not cooperating, and their feet complained before they had gotten very far.

“We lost our taxi driver—long story—so we have to walk,” Molly told her friend as they left La Baraque. They were dressed up and wearing heels, and looking forward to a meal at La Métairie. Molly had never been to the almost-one-Michelin-starred restaurant but figured her friend’s visit was the perfect opportunity to try it.

“I don’t know about a fancy restaurant,” said Frances, limping a little from an incipient blister on her right heel. “If you’ll remember, my palate leans sorta toward the Cheetos end of the spectrum.”

“But don’t you want just once to eat in a serious French restaurant, where food is art? And yes, I’m regretting the shoes too. Let’s explore Castillac tomorrow, if it warms up a little. You don’t have to rush home, do you? I meant what I said about the open invitation. I have no bookings so the cottage is yours. And if a miracle happens and somebody wants it, you can always move into the big house with me. I’ve got a haunted bedroom upstairs that would be perfect for you.”

Frances shook her head quickly, her straight black hair whipping around her face. “Haunted? Nope, not for me, thanks. I’m superstitious, Molls. Nuh-uh.”

Molly grinned. “Maybe the restaurant has a bar where we can wait—our reservation’s not until 8:30.”

“You trying to get me drunk?”

“Yup. Then I’m gonna take advantage of you.”

They laughed and hobbled arm in arm the rest of the way to La Métairie.

“Gracious heavens, that bartender could be on the cover of GQ!”

“Ha, yeah, that’s Pascal. He’s usually at Café de la Place, I didn’t know he worked here too.”

“You know him? You’re friends with that specimen of manly perfection?”

“Well, sort of. We say hello and kiss, like everyone in the village. But we’ve never really had a conversation or anything.”

“I’d like to conversate with him right this very minute.”

Molly laughed. She was so glad she’d thought to invite Frances; she felt like she was twenty again.

The coat-girl took their coats, and Frances and Molly entered the ethereal world of La Métairie. The walls were painted a soothing dove-gray, and there were impressionistic paintings of the sea in the foyer. A small bar with four high chairs was off to the right, manned by Pascal, who really was almost too beautiful for words.

“I bet he’s gay,” whispered Frances, a little too loudly.

Molly shook her head.

“No, really! When’s the last time you met a man that good-looking who was straight?”

Molly thought if she didn’t respond maybe her friend would shut up.

“Never, that’s when!” Frances said, her voice reverberating in the small room.

Molly shot her a look and Frances shrugged. “I’m just sayin’,”she mumbled.

“Salut, Molly,” said Pascal, with a dazzling smile.

“Salut, Pascal,” said Molly, leaning across the bar so they could kiss one cheek and then the other. In French, she said, “Allow me to present my friend, Frances. She doesn’t speak French, which is a blessing, believe me.”

Pascal laughed and winked at Frances. Frances gripped Molly’s arm so hard she left marks. They both ordered kirs and turned on their chairs to look out at the dining room and the other diners.

“It looks like the Early Bird Special in Florida out there,” Frances said, her voice thankfully lower. It was true that almost all the diners were gray-haired. Molly noticed one old lady in a black lace dress that looked like something you might wear to an opera singer’s funeral. Her white hair stood on end and she was holding the hand of a much younger man. Not holding it so much as gripping it like a raptor, digging in with her talons.

“Do you think they’re a couple?” Molly said to Frances in a low voice, gesturing with her head at the old lady in lace.

“No freaking way,” answered Frances. She had turned back around and was making embarrassing goo-goo eyes at Pascal, who was smiling at her charmingly.

The chic woman who had greeted them at the door appeared at Molly’s elbow. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, a worried expression on her face, “but part of the dining room is going to be used for a private party. If it becomes too loud and you are unhappy with your service, we will be happy to have you come back to La Métairie, free of charge. I’m sorry but this is an unusual circumstance of crossed communications and I hope you will still enjoy your dinner.”

The restaurant was so calm, so serene, that it was difficult to imagine a party getting so wild it would be any kind of problem. Molly rather liked a wild party, anyway. She and Frances assured the woman that they were fine, and the woman looked visibly relieved and went back to the front door.

Not five minutes later a troupe of five people came in singing bon anniversaire, some hilariously off-key. They surrounded the old lady in lace, all smiles, though the old lady was not smiling even a little.

“Maybe they are together, and it’s their anniversary, but he forgot to get her a present,” said Frances, talking in her normal voice because no one would be able to hear her over the noise of the partiers.

“Bon anniversaire means happy birthday,” said Molly. “Good theory, though!”

The chic woman came by with compliments of the chef, a small tray of amuse-bouches: several kinds of clams and something green neither Molly nor Frances could identify. But they gobbled it all up, Molly trying to eavesdrop on the louder conversations of the party and making more wild guesses about how they were all related. Another old lady sat at the other end of the table from the first one; Molly was desperate to know the connection. Were they friends? Sisters? The second old lady had very white hair put up in a braided bun, a hairstyle Molly loved.

She wondered, would it be rude to lean over and tell her so? She knew that generally the French had stricter boundaries than Americans. But what woman doesn’t like to hear a compliment?