The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 11

Chapter 11Perrault and Dufort watched the rest of the bank videos and the Presse video, but were still waiting to receive the one from Chez Papa. The rest of the day had been almost entirely taken up with the usual bureaucratic nonsense, apart from a few hours in the afternoon when all three gendarmes had taken to the streets and searched for Amy, by foot and by motorcycle. Now at least they had photographs they could show around, and a better idea of who they were looking for, even if they had yet to find a way to describe her in a way that would lead to someone saying, oh yes, I saw that girl!

At the end of the day, Thérèse stopped by Chez Papa to ask what was holding up the video transfer, and to have a kir after a long and frustrating day.

“Bonsoir, Alphonse!” she said grinning.

“And what have you been up to today, ma chérie?” he asked, ruffling her hair as though she were six.

“You’ve heard about the missing girl?”

“Oh yes. I had Nico send the video, you got it this morning?”

“No, actually, we didn’t.” Thérèse worked to keep her naturally expressive face impassive. It wouldn’t do to scowl at people now that she was a gendarme.

“Can’t imagine why not, I spoke to him about it right when Ben called—first thing. I leave the computer stuff to Nico. I’m just too old for all that now! That camera has been nothing but trouble since I put it in, always on the fritz one way or another. Technology, bah!” Alphonse laughed and rolled his eyes. “So tell me, do you have any leads?”

“You know I can’t talk about that,” said Thérèse, but she shook her head. “So far I haven’t been able to figure out who she is, if you understand, what kind of personality she has. She’s a talented painter, apparently, but that’s all I’ve got. She looks totally average, like anybody really.” Thérèse, like almost all the locals of Castillac, had known Alphonse since she was a baby, and it was easy and natural for her to talk to him about anything.

Alphonse nodded his shaggy head and said nothing.

“Ah, here’s Nico!” he said. “Now we can get you your kir and straighten out this business of the video, all in one go. Come say goodbye before you leave.” He ruffled her hair again and went around the bar and into the kitchen.

“Hey, Nico.”

“Bonsoir, Thérèse.” He smiled and leaned over the bar so they could peck each other’s cheeks, once per side.

“You were supposed to send the video from the surveillance camera to us?”

Nico slapped his forehead. “Oh mon Dieu, I knew there was something I was forgetting! I will get that over to you right away, as soon as my shift is over.”

Thérèse looked around at the nearly empty bar. It was barely five o’clock and there was no one else there but Vincent the taxi driver, drinking an espresso and reading the paper at a table in the corner. “Maybe you could do it now. There’s nobody here, and my kir can wait.”

“Oh no it can’t,” Nico said with a laugh. “Never let it be said that someone at my bar is going thirsty!” He pulled the bottle of cassis off a shelf and poured a small puddle into a white wine glass.

“Sparkling?”

Thérèse thought his smile looked a little forced. Why was he stalling?

“Sparkling would be lovely,” she said. She had grown-up tastes but had never lost her appreciation of the things she had loved as a child such as fizzy Cokes and Haribo.

She took the glass, said “Á la tienne!” and took a sip. “Nothing better than a kir at the end of the day,” she said, deciding to keep talking to Nico. Feed the line out a little and see where it took her.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

“Do you ever try to guess what someone will order, I mean someone you don’t know who comes into the bar? You know, matching what they’re like at first glance to the drink?”

“Off and on,” he answered, but Thérèse had the feeling he only responded that way to be agreeable.

“Generally,” he said, “the locals drink the same thing all the time. Maybe someone will get a little crazy and order a cider instead of the usual beer, but on the whole….” He shrugged.

“And the tourists?”

Nico laughed. “Oh, they’ll drink anything. Something about traveling makes people want to experiment. The other night, the woman who’s living at La Baraque was in—Larry got her drinking Negronis. You can imagine that didn’t end well.”

Thérèse laughed along with him although she didn’t find his story especially funny.

“Salut, Nico. Thérèse. Vincent,” said a voice from behind her.

“Hello, Lapin,” said Nico.

Thérèse sighed. She was in no mood to fend off the attentions of Lapin, and he was interrupting her attempt to interrogate Nico without his knowing it.

“Terrible about that girl,” said Lapin.

“Awful,” said Nico. “But maybe she’ll turn up. People do run off, you know.”

“They do,” said Perrault. “Usually from bad marriages, mountainous debts, things like that. This case doesn’t seem to fit that.”

“Listen to our little fliquette!” said Lapin. “She’s such a serious detective, now that she’s all grown up. And into quite a woman, too,” he added, running his eyes slowly from her face to her knees and back up again.

“Shut up, Lapin,” said Thérèse with a sigh.

“Shut up, Lapin,” said Nico, laughing. “You never give up, do you?”

“Persistence is the key to success,” said Lapin with a wink. “Now pour me a pastis, will you?”

“And after you do that, go send that video,” said Thérèse, watching Nico to see how he would react to her instruction. She was watching Nico so carefully that she did not see the way Lapin’s face changed from jovial to a mask with no expression whatsoever.

Molly was in a frenzy of cleaning. She had torn the cottage apart, even dragged furniture outside, hung carpets up and beat them, and attacked the windows with a ferocity that was on the point of leaving her exhausted. Which was one good reason for doing it—it helped calm her down at least a little.

She had been feeling jittery ever since last night, when she had checked her email right before going to bed. Often inquiries from the States arrived then, and she had gotten in the habit of checking twice a day, always relieved to see more interest and get more business. But last night’s inquiry was not simply a couple on holiday, easy enough to manage: it was the Bennetts, the parents of the missing Amy Bennett, asking to come for a stay starting on Tuesday, which was tomorrow, with an open-ended departure.

When Molly read the email, she got the wobbles.

She could not imagine what they must be going through. The depth of their fear. How in the world did they struggle with that kind of uncertainty? At least if you know what’s happened, you can start to face it, however slowly; at least you know what you’re in for. But what the Bennetts were dealing with was something else. Possibly a terrible loss and also possibly a misunderstanding, a lost or dead cell phone, a secret lover, a letter that got lost in the mail.

Could be a hundred explanations. And no way to know when, or even if, they will find out which one is correct. Or some other reason they had never considered. It’s possible they will never know, thought Molly, and literally a chill went up her spine.

Lunch on the terrace was some leftover quiche and some leftover salad that was fairly wilted but just this side of edible. She washed it down with the last of a bottle of rosé, and stayed sitting there after she finished, looking out at her wreck of a garden, not following any train of thought in particular. She was tired from the cleaning binge. Part of her wished she had told the Bennetts she was booked solid just to avoid being tangled up in the whole thing, but she couldn’t have actually refused them. She had learned by now that uncharitable thoughts were perfectly fine as long as she didn’t act on them. Hadn’t she heard that somewhere? Perhaps during the mid-divorce lie-on-the-sofa-all-day phase, when she had watched plenty of Oprah and Dr. Phil and anyone else who might toss a comforting word her way.

I wonder if there will be the kind of media frenzy there is in the States when a young woman goes missing, she wondered. I don’t want newspeople trampling around my garden and peering in my windows. I don’t want…any of it. Of course I hope they find her. And if there’s not a happy ending, if this isn’t a misunderstanding, I hope at least the Bennetts learn what happened. It’s the least they deserve.

Molly suddenly stood up with the vigor that comes with just the right idea, and that idea was Pâtisserie Bujold, the almond croissant specifically. If anything was going to improve the day, it was going to be that almond croissant. No need for a hat, the day was cloudy and coolish, so she just picked up her bag on her way through the house and out to rue des Chênes and was quickly on her way, mouth already watering.

The street was quiet. She hoped she was not too late and the shop wasn’t closed, which would be almost unbearable; she wanted that croissant desperately. Taking a shortcut down the alleyway, she noticed the La Perla underwear out on the line again, at the same house. Who in the world wears La Perla all the time, she wondered. Just as she had the week before, she stopped and considered reaching over to touch some of it. But this time she kept her hands at her sides, and stood there for a moment contemplating it, imagining a life in which her underwear was always La Perla, her house was filled with the most coveted and brilliantly designed appliances, and her car—well, as long as she was fantasizing, why not get a little Austin Healy? Racing green, please. Or is that too cliché?

She took one last look at the house that the underwear belonged to. It was nondescript, really, not a dump by any means but hardly the dwelling of someone used to sumptuous underthings, at least not from the outside. Curious, isn’t it, how funny people are, the choices they make, and what they might be hiding?

At last she turned the corner and saw the enameled red outside of Pâtisserie Bujold. She breathed in the sugary vanilla aroma, and paused with her hand on the doorknob, wanting that croissant with all her being yet wanting to delay facing the proprietor. She took a deep breath, then another, and went in.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she said, glancing at him and then at the display case, always fantastically beautiful with its exactly ordered rows and its mouthwatering variety. Last week she had felt frustrated because she had already gotten in the habit of buying her few favorites over and over, and was feeling stressed out by all the morsels she wasn’t choosing—and then she remembered that she lived in Castillac now. Neither she nor Pâtisserie Bujold was going anywhere, and she had all the time in the world to taste every last pastry eventually.

“Please, an almond croissant,” she said, pointing. The proprietor was staring at her chest, same as the other times she had come in. He did not follow where she pointed but nodded and smiled enthusiastically, eyes still pinned on her. It occurred to Molly that his expression was the same one she had when she looked at the chocolate-covered creampuffs with whipped cream spilling out the sides. Like he wanted to devour her on the spot.

Molly clamped her teeth together and rummaged in her bag for the right change. At least she knew what it cost and could avoid the extra time of back-and-forth by giving the exact amount.

“I understand your liking for the almond croissant,” said the proprietor. “One of my favorites also. Award-winning,” he said, gesturing to a yellowing document on the wall with some kind of fancy seal on it. “It is truly magnificent,” he said, handing her the wax paper bag. “Just like you, Madame.” And with that, spoken in a low voice, he waggled his eyebrows in a way he must have thought alluring but that Molly thought was the funniest thing she had seen in days.

Like Groucho Marx! She laughed to herself on the walk home, stuffing her face as she walked with the indescribably wondrous pastry. The inside was layered with almond paste so that it was very soft, and almondy, and moist. The outside was the usual shattering butter explosion, with the addition of sliced and toasted almonds and a faint dusting of confectioner’s sugar. Simple and spectacular.

She had finished the croissant long before she turned in at La Baraque, but the walk and the pastry and the waggling eyebrows had turned her mood completely around, and she felt no more yearnings for fancy undergarments or cars, and her worry about not being able to manage things with the Bennetts had diminished to something manageable. Perhaps the magic of France can be summed up in two words, she thought.

Almond croissant.