The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Early the next morning, Molly walked into the village to get croissants for the Lawlers’ breakfast. She could feel a nip in the air and wore a sweater for the first time, and shoved a cap over her red hair which was crazier than usual that morning. About halfway to the village, on the other side of a road, was a small cemetery. Molly hurried past its mossy wall with only a glance at the mausoleums on the other side. She took a peek at the neighbors’ gardens to see what kind of fall vegetables they had put in, and admired the cauliflower and ruffled kale. The French way of gardening was so neat, so orderly, so un-Molly. She passed one garden and stopped for a moment to appreciate its late-summer lushness, cucumber vines overrunning a trellis, zinnias in a profusion of orange and red, and the slight yellowing of leaves hinting at the end of the season.

She had big plans for her own garden, but had been too busy with the house to do anything yet; the real work was going to have to wait until spring. A neglected potager was right off the kitchen with an ancient rosemary in the corner, and a perennial bed along the stone wall in front of the house had a few sturdy things—black-eyed susans and coneflowers mostly—in fact, maybe she could find an hour to spend in that bed this afternoon, just to get some of those nasty-looking vines out. It would be bliss to kneel in the grass and get her hands dirty.

She had been up and had coffee, but never minded having another, so she took a seat at the Café de la Place in the center of the village and ordered a café crème from the very good-looking waiter whom she heard the hostess call Pascal. And well, why not just get the breakfast special, a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a croissant to go with the café crème? Why not, indeed.

Pascal set down the oversized cup of coffee. It had a deep layer of milk froth, and Molly beamed at it and then at Pascal, who smiled back and then disappeared into the kitchen. She sprinkled a little sugar over the froth and drank deeply, in a state of ecstasy, moving from coffee to juice to croissant. Some Brits at a nearby table started talking loudly enough for her to eavesdrop, making her breakfast even more delightful.

“I really think we ought to consider taking Lily home right now.”

“Come on, Alice, you’re overreacting. Lily is doing well and this is her dream, remember? Her work has been quite impressive here, don’t you agree? Degas is doing an excellent job.”

“Don’t tell me not to mind it, that girl’s been missing nearly two days.”

“Oh, I really wouldn’t worry, my dear. Girls run off for a million reasons, don’t they. Probably nothing. A boy, I’ll wager.”

“I heard she is a very serious student. Not flighty. And if she had gone off with a boy, she’d have contacted her mates! You know they text each other every minute. Someone would have heard from her.”

A family with two young children sat at the table next to her and Molly had to stop herself from shushing them so she could hear the rest of what the couple were saying. But they had moved on to an aunt’s lingering illness and Molly stopped listening.

For a moment she wondered about the missing girl, and which parent was right—nefarious abduction, or romantic getaway?

She didn’t want the Lawlers up and about, hungry and unattended, so she washed down the last of her breakfast special, gathered her bag of croissants, and headed back down the cobblestone street to La Baraque. She was flooded with memories from twenty years ago, when she had been a young student in France. There had been that weekend with Louis, the one with green eyes and the sly sideways look, who could make her laugh like no one else….

The officers usually met unofficially in Dufort’s office about an hour after arriving at work. Dufort had come in early after a run even more punishing than usual, wanting to clear his desk so that he could focus on the missing art student.

“Bonjour Perrault, Maron. I’ve just spoken to the school and listened to a list of platitudes, help any way we can, blah blah blah. I’m afraid the president over there is more concerned with the school’s reputation that with what has happened to the girl.”

“You do think something has happened? Other than she went off on some lark?” asked Maron.

“You know the percentages,” said Dufort quietly. “She’s too old for this to be a custody matter or something of that sort. Either she’s taken off by herself without a word, or there’s been an accident or abduction. Perrault, I want you to make some calls—airports, hospitals, car rental agencies, etc. Maron, you go around town, talk to people, look around, see what you can find out. We’ve got a description from the roommate. If it comes to that, I will call the parents and we can get a photo from them. But I don’t want to call them just yet. They can’t help beyond the photo and we’re not even supposed to be investigating this.” He paused. “First we need to find out something about her movements that night. Make sure you check the bars,” he said to Maron, even though from the description the roommate had given, it did not sound as though Amy Bennett would have been in any of them.

Dufort headed to L’Institut Degas. He walked through the village, greeting old friends and acquaintances, taking his time, keeping his eyes open. Sometimes information came from unexpected sources and he wanted to make himself available to it. On one side of the main square were three places that stayed open late: a wine bar that served “small plates”; La Métairie, an expensive place that hadn’t yet earned a Michelin star but was trying hard for it; and a bistro called Chez Papa that was run by a much-loved inhabitant of Castillac, which is where Dufort turned in.

“Alphonse!” he shouted over the din of pop music. Alphonse was mopping with his back to the door. “Bonjour, Alphonse!”

Alphonse startled and turned around. “Bonjour, Ben! I would offer you some lunch but the hour is all wrong, and I can see besides that something is the matter. Tell me!”

“You tell me,” said Dufort, with a faint smile. “What about last night? Anything unusual?”

Alphonse leaned on his mop. “A Dutch family was here with twelve children, if you can believe that. You don’t see big families like that anymore, do you?”

“Not so much. Many students? From Degas?”

Alphonse looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said finally. “I hate to admit it, but my memory isn’t what it used to be. The nights, they start to run together.” He shrugged.

“I understand. I wish I could sit and have a glass with you, but I’ve got some work that can’t wait.” And with a wave, Dufort was back on the street, alert, looking around for anything out of place, anything calling out to him, no matter how subtly.

Dufort had grown up in Castillac, and his mother and Alphonse were old friends. He could remember how Alphonse would come to dinner on Sundays, and make his parents laugh themselves sick with his imitations of other villagers. He brought homemade gooseberry jam that was Dufort’s all-time favorite. Most people in the village were known to Dufort his whole life, except of course for the tourists who passed through and the occasional new person such as the American woman who had apparently bought La Baraque and moved in recently.

It had taken some doing, getting himself posted to his hometown; officers in the gendarmerie were routinely moved from place to place precisely so that they did not get too close to the communities they served. At first he was told it was impossible, but Dufort had a way of convincing people to do what they did not necessarily want to do, and in the end, he got sent to Castillac. Perhaps he suffered from nostalgia, or was just a man who belonged in one place, but he had been happy there for the last six years.

When young Perrault had gone off for her training, she begged him to figure out a way for her to come back too, and he had called in some favors and pulled some strings, and Perrault was allowed to come but only for six months. They both expected to be posted to another village by the first of the year; their time in Castillac among the people and places they had grown up with was coming to an end.

L’Institut Degas was a short ways out of the village, just a little over a kilometer, and Dufort covered the distance quickly. He was not a large man but he was fit and athletic, and he arrived at the main building where the administration offices were without breaking a sweat. He did not call ahead, and he did not expect to get much help.