The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 2

Chapter 2It had taken a full year for Molly to find her new home, La Baraque. On the day her divorce was final, she was handed a check for her half of the proceeds from the sale of their house. The check was big enough for her to buy a house all her own, and she had had no doubt whatsoever that she wanted that house to be in France. She had been extravagantly happy there as a twenty year old student, but for one reason or another, unable to return since. In that weird, post-divorce phase, when her life was collapsing around her and she felt alternately morose and exhilarated, she spent hours every day looking at websites and reading about different regions of France, learning about notaires and contracts and cooling-off periods, and reveling in the stunning photographs of old stone houses and manors and even châteaux that were for sale. The endless pages detailed the most glorious habitations ever made, and depending on location, they were sometimes cheaper than a ranch house in the suburb where she lived. It was about the best house porn ever.

After a good friend had been held up at gunpoint and a cousin had nearly been r***d in her own living room, Molly had accepted that life, where she lived—a place that until then she had not thought of as a hotbed of mayhem—had become dangerous. Part of the appeal of the French house porn was imagining living in a place where crime was lower and people weren’t getting shot every three minutes. She could retire the canister of mace she carried in her purse, and just relax. Of course France wasn’t crime-free, no place was these days, but still she felt she would feel safer there. Chill out, garden, eat some magnificent French food, and put her bad marriage and dangerous outer Boston neighborhood far behind her.

A fresh start in a place she adored. What could go wrong?

It never occurred to Molly to see if she could find actual crime statistics for the places she was considering moving to. It was grotesquely naive, she realized later, but she had simply assumed that a village with a pretty historic church, a Saturday market where old people sat in folding chairs selling mushrooms, where fêtes were organized several times a year in which the whole village sat down to eat together—she had assumed that all of that charm and community spirit translated to almost complete safety. And how, she wondered later, when it was too late, how can you correct a faulty assumption if you don’t even realize you’re making it?

She spent months considering the vast array of house choices and locations. Her check would cover a house a shade better than modest (for which she was extremely grateful), but one big house would take it all. In her new life as a thirty-eight year old divorcée, Molly needed an income, and so she looked for places that had at least one separate building that she could rent out. If that went well, and she could find a place with enough old barns and stables to convert, she could expand and run her own vacationer’s empire, with a whole flock of gîtes (France’s closest equivalent to a B & B) just waiting to be filled by joyous travelers.

Well, empire might be overdoing it just a little. But she hoped before too long to at least be able to cover her bills. The trick was finding a house that wasn’t already renovated (too expensive), restored (way too expensive), or in such a ruinous state that it would take more money than she had to put it in working order.

While the glossy websites had incredible pictures, she suspected she might find something more affordable if she looked deeper into the less shiny corners of the internet, and in fact one day she saw an interesting listing on a stray ex-pat blog. The blog itself was sort of sketchy and she wondered whether the writer even lived in France: the grammar was iffy, the design poor, and the posts about French life had a strangely wooden quality about them, as though they were fifth hand or possibly fictional. The photographs of La Baraque were blurry, but she could make out the golden limestone the Dordogne is famous for. She could see outbuildings galore, even though some, like the ancient pigeon-house, appeared to be crumbling. She could imagine herself there, in the garden, drinking kirs and eating pastries.

Molly fell in love, hard.

Six months later she was bumping down the driveway of La Baraque in a taxi, having sold almost everything from her old life except a small crate of her most treasured gardening tools and kitchen equipment. The sale had gone through without a hitch, and although what was left of her family and most of her friends thought she was insane, she shipped the crate over and booked a one-way ticket to Bordeaux without looking back.

Castillac was a large village with a weekly market and a lively square. It had the orange-tiled rooftops, narrow streets, and ancient stone buildings she loved so, but no particular attraction like a château or cathedral, so while a few tourists were drawn to its quiet charm, the streets were not deluged with visitors, which Molly thought might get tiresome if you lived there full-time. Southwest France was known for its caves, its duck and mushrooms, its truffles; the weather was temperate and the pâtisseries plentiful. The perfect place to recover from a marriage turned bad.

She’d had two and a half days to get things ready for her first guests which was not remotely long enough (time management not being one of Molly’s particular talents). Those two and half days had gone by in a flurry of sweeping and painting and scrubbing, when she received a text saying the guests were forty-five minutes away.

Molly managed to get the cottage looking spiffy in time, but barely. The old stones were beautiful, but they seemed to exude dust so quickly that everything was covered again before she had even put away the vacuum cleaner. The windows were small and she rubbed them violently with newspaper and a vinegar solution so that they let in all the light they could. When she was done, she tried to stand back and look at the place critically.

Well, she thought, I hope nobody sues me after smacking his head on that beam. But it is charming, in its way. I think. Maybe.

She staggered out with a mop and pail, sweaty and grubby and looking forward to having a shower and a drink before doing any greeting.

She was just pouring the white wine into some crème de cassis and admiring how the dense purple color swirled up when she heard a car honking.

Not much of a praying woman, nevertheless she looked heavenward and said to herself: Please don’t be loud people. Or pushy. Or too chatty or quiet. Or scary. And, um, please don’t let this entire idea have been a huge mistake.

“Bonjour!” Molly said as the couple climbed out of a grimy-looking taxi. The taxi driver pulled himself out of the car and nodded and smiled. “I am Vincent,” he said, grinning. “I know English, Molly Sutton!”

Molly was taken aback by this stranger knowing her name, but she managed to say “Enchantée,” and then “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Lawler!” She was glad they were American, so at least on the first time she didn’t have to struggle to communicate. Plus they’d be as jet-lagged as she still was.

Mr. Lawler strode up and shook Molly’s hand vigorously. “So happy to be here,” he said. “And please, call us Mark and Lainie.”

Mark shook hands with the taxi driver and paid him. “Now give us the grand tour!” he said to Molly.

Molly smiled and chattered away as she showed them around La Baraque and got them settled. But underneath her bright expression, she was wondering what the deal was with Lainie Lawler, who never said a single word the entire time, and whose face was apparently so Botoxed that she appeared to be frozen in a state of childish astonishment.

Not for me to judge, thought Molly. Repeat 60,000 times. And really, this is a good way to have an income. A little chat, some handshaking—easy peasy. I just need to get enough bookings that I can hire a cleaning woman and leave the dust-busting to her.

A day. That could be everything. Or nothing.

Chief Benjamin Dufort of the three-person Castillac gendarme force walked around his desk and picked up the phone, then put it down again. He looked at Perrault and pressed his lips together, his thoughts inscrutable. “Maron!” he called, to the officer in the adjoining room.

Gilles Maron appeared in the doorway, an easy expression on his face although he did not like the way Dufort barked at him. He was in his late twenties, an experienced officer, having moved to Castillac from his first posting in the banlieue of Paris. Dufort had been pleased at his arrival and happy with his performance so far.

“Bonjour, Maron. Perrault took a call at 3:00. Student at the art school, said her roommate was missing. Perrault judged the caller to be level-headed and not just drumming up drama the way students that age sometimes do.” Dufort paused, rubbing a hand over his brush cut. “Unfortunately, as you know, we no longer search for missing persons unless they are children.”

“Stupid bureaucracy,” Perrault muttered under her breath.

“I happen to agree with you,” said Dufort. “I had a case a few years ago, a woman came in to report her husband was missing. Do you remember, Perrault? It was in the papers and on local television. Turned out the poor man had been put on a new medication and the stuff was giving him delusions. Three days later we found him in a cave, up off the road that goes up by the Sallière vineyard.

“People think if their doctor gives it to them, it’s perfectly safe whatever it is. They don’t question anything.” Dufort shook his head. “At any rate, that’s another subject. We found the man and got him home unharmed.” He pressed his palms together, then clapped his hands.

“Bon, I don’t see why we can’t keep our eyes open in regard to this art student. Just don’t neglect your other duties.”

He did not mention the two older cases of missing persons, the first of which occurred just after he was posted to Castillac. He had investigated both and solved neither. Doubtless Perrault and Maron knew all about them, as unfortunately, they were now part of the lore of Castillac. When he was by himself again, Dufort reached into his drawer and pulled out a small blue glass bottle and a shot glass. He uncorked the bottle, which contained a tincture of herbs prepared for him by a woman in the village, and poured himself a careful ounce. He grimaced as he tossed it back. He did not like this news of the girl. Somehow, he could sense something was wrong, even though he had not been the one to take the call and had no idea where the bad feeling was coming from.

But it was there, no question about that. It was there. Same as the other times.