The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 5

Chapter 5Molly and Frances were seated close enough to the party that they felt almost part of it. Frances said she intended to help herself to some cake, if birthday cakes were a thing in France. The group crowded around the old lady, leaning down to kiss cheeks; they chatted to each other in low voices, and to Molly it was obvious that everyone was not terribly happy. The feeling of duty was heavy, and the old lady looked petulant and as though she had a bad taste in her mouth. The woman with the white bun at the other end of the table looked alert and wary, like a bird perched on a precarious twig.

A blonde woman with a limp came in last; she looked to be in her mid-thirties, around Molly’s age. She kissed an older woman wearing no makeup (Molly thought she heard “Maman”), and then she went around the table to greet the old lady, who did not look at all happy to see her.

One of Molly’s favorite things was eavesdropping, and she wasted no time.

“Dear Aunt, you must admit I surprised you this time!” said the much younger man whose hand the old lady was still clinging to.

“Oh, I was surprised all right,” the old lady croaked, looking as though she had just bitten into a caterpillar, or worse.

A dark-haired woman with a bandage on her hand stood looking on with a pained expression. Her husband stood with his arm around her protectively. Is she a granddaughter, Molly wondered, never able to say no to a family obligation even though she is a grown woman? No family resemblance though. Molly decided she was a friend, even though she was anything but friendly.

“Well of course she’s happy, everyone’s paying attention to her!” whispered the blonde to her mother, who was standing close to Molly and Frances’s table. She was well dressed and carrying a nice handbag. The older woman nodded and they both rolled their eyes. So chalk up another pair who did not appear to be fans of the guest of honor.

But fans or not, they had brought presents. They were arranged in front of the birthday girl like offerings, mostly small boxes with extravagant ribbons, and one large box that Molly guessed held some kind of clothing.

“Hello, Molly!” said Frances. “Should I just take my plate to the bar and eat with Pascal for company? Actually I wouldn’t mind that one bit.”

“Sorry.” Molly leaned forward and whispered, “It’s just fascinating seeing how this family interacts. So much history bubbling up, you know?”

“You know my opinion on families. Most of ’em suck. But this fish?” she said, pointing with her fork. “I swear to Lord Jesus I have never tasted anything so good. I may have to give up Cheetos and just eat this for the rest of my life.”

Molly realized she’d barely touched her starter. The members of the party were settling down to the long table and she couldn’t make out much of their conversation anymore, so she turned her attention back to her meal. Her sweetbreads were grilled, with a thin layer of crispy breading and a sauce so complex and wonderful she closed her eyes to savor it.

“So what are sweetbreads, anyway?” asked Frances. “I have a feeling the name is kind of a fake-out.”

Molly laughed. “Thymus gland, I think.”

“So like, guts. You’re sitting over there willingly putting guts into your mouth.”

“Actually guts are tripe. More or less.”

“Same diff.”

The waiter came by and put another roll on each bread plate with tongs. Another waiter came by and poured them more wine.

“I could get used to this,” said Molly.

“I bet half the people who come here say the same thing. And I agree with all of them.”

“And to think—this place doesn’t even have one star! What must the restaurants be like that have three?”

Frances just shook her head. “Can’t imagine. Looks like it’s all been a little much for the old lady,” said Frances, glancing over at the party table.

Josephine Desrosiers’s face was bright red under her caked-on rouge. She said something to the young man that neither Molly nor Frances could hear, but they saw the man lean away from her, and guessed that whatever she’d said had not been welcome.

“She looks like a b***h on wheels,” said Frances, a little too loudly.

“Frances, I have to tell you—French people, generally…they’re not loud. They don’t shriek in public places. So can you keep your voice down? At least when you’re insulting people or making guesses about their sexuality?” Feeling annoyed when she started to speak, she was laughing and shaking her head by the time she finished. It was fun having Frances visit, and interesting seeing Castillac through someone else’s eyes. Even if those eyes were half-nuts, probably thanks to all the Cheetos.

The friends moved on to a rich chestnut soup that they could barely sip without moaning inappropriately. Then to plates of roast duck with several sauces to dip the perfectly cooked slices in, along with a mound of sauteéd mushrooms that were so good Molly was convinced some sort of actual magic was involved. They finished their bottle of Médoc, reminisced about youthful hijinks, and enjoyed their splurge immensely.

“I’m too full for dessert.”

“Well, of course. But we won’t let that stop us.”

“No. Pass me the menu, will you?”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” said Molly. “Back in a flash. I’m thinking the lavender crème brûlée might be in my future.”

“Yum,” said Frances.

Molly’s feet cried a little when she shoved them back into her heels, but La Métairie was not the sort of restaurant where you could pad to the bathroom without shoes. Molly made her way over the dove-gray carpet to the short corridor where the bathrooms were.

Ah, what a fantastic meal. It was worth it to move to Castillac just for that one perfect dinner.

The door seemed to be a bit stuck. Molly shoved harder. Then an extra-hard shove, and she stumbled into the room to see that it was the old lady, the birthday girl, blocking the door. She was lying on the tile floor of the bathroom, on her side, eyes closed, as though she had decided to choose that spot out of all the possibilities to take a nap.