The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 12

Chapter 12Dufort was up early on Tuesday morning. He went on a punishing run, taking a hilly route partly on narrow country roads and partly on trails through the forest, arriving back at his small house in town to shower before getting to the station by 7:30. He wanted to interview Gallimard, Amy Bennett’s teacher, but guessed Gallimard would not be at work that early, and so he strolled over to the Café de la Place for some breakfast first.

“Bonjour, Pascal.”

“Bonjour, Chief, comment allez-vous?”

“I’m well, and you? How is your mother?”

“She is better, thank you. We are grateful for having a good doctor and she is healing faster than expected.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Dufort, keeping his thoughts about doctors to himself. “Petit café, please, and a croissant.”

Pascal nodded and gracefully weaved through the tables on his way to get the order. The café was crowded with locals and families of tourists getting in a last holiday before school began. Dufort nodded to a few friends and then spent some moments observing. He had a nonchalant way of watching that did not alert the people who were being watched. It was quite a talent, actually, although Dufort did not realize this about himself.

Dufort closed his eyes and listened. At first he didn’t try to hear what anyone was saying but tried to listen to the undertones, the emotions behind the conversations. He couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Then words began to clarify and he overheard a father getting angry at his son for losing a shoe, a young man telling his girlfriend that he was sorry but he was not going to stop playing video games, and an old woman complaining about a problem with her liver.

He wondered if anyone here had ever met Amy Bennett, or seen Amy Bennett, or had anything at all to do with the disappearance of Amy Bennett—the same thoughts that had been running through his mind ever since he first heard her name. For a fraction of a second he was assaulted by the notion that he might never know what happened, might never find her.

The idea was horrifying and his heart began to race.

Carrying a tray on one hand over his head, Pascal came dancing through the crowded tables back to Dufort. He was a good-looking boy, Dufort noticed, and he could see several women at the café, of varying ages, following him with their eyes.

“Merci bien,” he said as the espresso and plate with croissant were placed on his paper placemat.

Pascal smiled and nodded. “Oui, Chief. Anything else I can get for you?”

“Not a thing,” said Dufort. “I speak for many when I say that the first coffee of the morning is possibly the best moment of the entire day, so I thank you.” He bowed slightly, and they both laughed.

Dufort took a sip of his espresso, and then bit into the croissant. The Café got them from Pâtisserie Bujold every morning, the best bakery in town, and he was not disappointed. The outer layer crackled and shattered, the inside was stretchy and almost sweet, and still faintly warm. Dufort let himself wallow in the sensations of the croissant, and then the bitter espresso, at least for a few moments free of thinking about Amy Bennett.

When he finished, he tucked a five euro bill under his saucer and moved through the tables to the street, nodding at some people he knew but not stopping to chat. He wanted to use the walk out to Degas to think about what he knew about Gallimard, and try to come up with some questions that might throw him off balance just a bit.

Anton Gallimard. Has taught at Degas for nearly twenty years. Rumored to have quite a talent, had shown in Paris, won prizes, all the usual accolades—but his career had fizzled out in his late twenties. Has made no art (that anyone knows of) since coming to Degas to teach.

Dufort had never met Gallimard despite having several friends who were artists. It was somewhat surprising that their worlds had never overlapped, but not meaningful. He felt curious about the man, even apart from the business with Amy Bennett. Curious about why someone chooses to let a big talent go, to do nothing with it after such a promising start and so much encouragement and even acclaim.

Before long he was at the gates to L’Institut. This time he avoided the administration building and went to find the studios, hoping to catch Gallimard there. Of course he could have made an appointment, but he had found just showing up to be an easy way to put interviewees off balance, which is where every investigator wants them.

L’Institut Degas was a small school. The administration building was stately—18th century Dufort guessed correctly—and directly across a wide lawn stood the dormitory. It was three stories high but rather narrow; he figured the student body must number less than a hundred. He made a note to investigate the financial health of the school even though he did not at the moment see how there could be any connection to Amy Bennett’s disappearance.

In between the two buildings, completing a U around the lawn, was a modern building of one story. It had dramatic cantilevered skylights, walls of glass, and a strange covering over some of the exterior that looked like it was made of jellyfish. To Dufort’s eye, the building looked expensive and over-designed, although he did understand that artists required good light to do their work, and whatever else, this building would certainly provide that.

He heard and saw no one. Perhaps the young artists and their teachers were not up by 8:30. He found a door to the jellyfish building on the side by the dormitory, but it was locked. He looked through the side panels of glass, hoping to see someone who could let him in, but saw nobody.

He was relaxed from his run, and the morning and the campus had been so tranquil, that he startled violently when the screaming began.

When Molly woke up that Tuesday morning, she was not graced with the usual few moments of lazy stretching while her brain worked out who she was and what the day was going to bring. The instant she was conscious she remembered the Bennetts’ arrival and was slapped awake. Quickly she got up and put water on to boil. She longed for a pastry but had no time to go into the village to get one. Forgoing her usual time on the terrace with nothing to do but sip her coffee, she took her mug straight to the cottage with cleaning supplies under both arms. It felt important that the cottage was spotless and welcoming for the Bennetts. It was the least she could do.

She stuck her phone into a little portable speaker and clicked on the blues playlist. She paused, wondering if the neighbors liked Percy Sledge, and then turned the volume up anyway. After an hour of scrubbing the floor and vacuuming up the hateful dust that poured out of the stone walls, she sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, draining the last of her cold coffee. Okay, she thought, make the place nice for these people who are going through something terrible. That’s just being decent. But the cottage didn’t need three hours of cleaning, it really didn’t. Why is this whole thing making me so damn on edge? Why do I feel afraid for them to arrive?

She asked the questions but had no answers.

Earlier in the week she had bought a cheap case of wine so that she would have welcome bottles for her guests, but when she went to get one, she wrinkled her nose at it, and picked a better bottle from her own stash instead. Then she roamed around the overgrown garden—an embarrassment, really—and managed to find some roses and artemisia to put in a vase. She put the flowers and the wine on the cottage’s scratched-up dining table, took one last look around, and called it done.

At least this time she had started the work early enough that she wasn’t rushed, and managed to be showered and presentable long before the Bennetts were due to arrive. But instead of picking up a book, planning dinner, or any of the other things she could have been doing, she started to pace, going from the kitchen down the narrow hallway to her bedroom and then back again. Movement didn’t stop the bad feeling from intensifying but she kept on anyway.

Amy Bennett was dead. Molly could sense it. She had no idea how, or whether she could trust the feeling, but it was undeniably there. It felt stony and real and implacable. She wondered if the Bennetts felt it too.

And if Amy Bennett was dead, what did that mean for Castillac, for the other women in the village? Was she killed by someone she knew? Somebody from the village? Somebody just passing through?

The village was large, by village standards—nearly three thousand people. Of course Molly had barely been there a week, she had not even begun to understand the social webs that comprised the place—but it seemed to her as though the villagers were deeply connected to each other. That maybe you couldn’t quite say that everyone knew everyone, but almost.

Not six degrees of separation, here in Castillac. More like two.

She smoothed a wild ginger curl back behind her ear and tried to steer her thoughts somewhere else. The Bennetts hadn’t even arrived yet, there was absolutely no news about Amy that she knew of, she was totally getting ahead of herself. Chill out, girl.

Molly was not a big drinker, she really wasn’t, not even when her marriage was falling apart, Negronis notwithstanding. But now that the Bennetts were due in moments, she had the idea of a little brandy, and the idea hit her with that feeling you get sometimes of Oh yes! That’s just the thing!

She cracked the seal of some Martell and poured herself a finger and gulped it down just as Vincent’s taxi pulled into her driveway. It burned her throat a bit but she felt the warmth going out to her fingertips, gathered herself together, and went out to greet her guests.

“Salut!” she called, waving.

Vincent pulled his bulky self out of the taxi and went around to open the trunk as Sally and Marshall Bennett got out. Sally looked dazed, so dazed that Molly immediately wondered if she was taking tranquilizers.

Marshall Bennett stood for a moment and blinked, then strode over to Molly with his hand outstretched. “Hullo! We’re so glad you had space for us. Lovely place!”

“Thank you.” Molly shook his hand and was suddenly overcome with wanting to sob. Surreptitiously she reached out of sight with one hand and gave herself a hard pinch, anything to focus her mind somewhere other than Amy.

“Marshall? You’ve got to pay for the taxi.” Sally’s voice was faint, as though she were in a thick bubble.

“Oh yes, what do I owe you?”

Vincent said “Ten euro,” in English, then grinned, and held out his hand.

“See, I told you Sally, our lack of French was not going to be a problem!” Marshall smiled at Vincent and dug in his wallet for one of the notes he had just gotten at the airport. “We took a flight from London, then a train to Castillac,” he explained to Molly. “I hate renting cars, it’s a terrible expense—do you find it’s very necessary here to have one?”

“Actually, I haven’t been here long, but I haven’t gotten around to getting one yet. I can walk to the village easily enough, and if I need to go farther, I can always call Vincent.”

Vincent grinned again. “That’s right, you call me,” he said. “I can pick you up anytime you want.”

The Bennetts had not brought much luggage. Molly picked up one of the small carry-ons and started towards the cottage.

“Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” she said, her nerves jangly despite the shot of Martell. How did one talk to people going through this kind of crisis? She didn’t want to seem too sunny, or morose either.

Vincent waved and drove off and the Bennetts followed Molly. Even their gaits seemed affected by what they were going through—Sally Bennett was unsteady on her feet, drifting off course, and Marshall stared at the ground and walked as though he were concentrating hard on where to place each foot.

“I don’t know if you’re interested in history,” Molly began, as they came inside and put down their things. “I can’t say this is verified, but I’ve been told the cottage dates from the early 1700s….” Then she stopped, shaking her head. “Oh, forget that. I just want to say—I know there are no words—but I am so sorry that the reason you are here is such a terrible one. I very much hope you get good news about Amy soon.”

Sally Bennett dissolved into tears and Marshall put both arms around her. “Thank you, Molly,” he said. They said nothing else and did not look in her direction again, so Molly mumbled some more welcoming words and backed out and closed the cottage door.

Well, I guess I put my foot in it already, she thought. My heart is aching for them, and I wish there was something useful I could do.

But nothing matters except their daughter. Of course.