The Molly Sutton Mystery Series, books 1-3

Chapter 7

Chapter 7Thérèse Perrault was the first to get to the station on Friday morning. She was almost always first. She was young and enthusiastic and trying to make a good impression on Chief Dufort, and very pleased to have a job she was interested in, where she could make a difference in people’s lives. Even if, in Castillac, that often meant returning Madame Bonnay’s dog or Madame Vargas’s husband, both of whom tended to wander.

“Bonjour, Thérèse!” said Dufort, striding in. He ran every morning, farther in winter than in summer because he liked working out in the cold. His skin was still bright from the exertion, and he too was glad to come to work, happy for a job where he didn’t have to sit behind a desk but could spend most of the day out on the streets, talking to the people of the village and listening to their concerns, and—he hoped—helping with their difficulties.

The third officer on the Castillac force was Gilles Maron. He had grown up in the north, near Lille, and worked in Paris for several years before being transferred to Castillac. Dufort valued his work though they had not become close. Perrault had not decided what she thought about Maron. He was not like the men she was used to—more closed up, sterner, serious.

The three usually met in Dufort’s office first thing, where Dufort handed out any assignments that had come up.

“Well, here we are, on a dreary December day,” he said. “The village is quiet and I have absolutely nothing whatsoever on my desk. Apparently the people of Castillac are without problems this morning.”

Perrault chuckled and Maron did not change his expression.

“Wait, what about Madame Desrosiers dropping dead at La Métairie last night?” asked Perrault.

“She did indeed,” said Dufort. “I got a call from the restaurant at close to ten. I drove over and spoke to Nathalie—you both know Nathalie Marchand?—at any rate, yes, the old lady was dead in the bathroom. I called the coroner and went home.”

“Heart attack?”

“Haven’t heard from Monsieur Nagrand yet, but I suspect so. She was seventy-two—yesterday was her birthday, in fact. No reason to suspect foul play.”

“Except that she was a complete witch,” mumbled Perrault.

“In what way?” asked Maron, looking awake for the first time that morning. “Garden-variety b***h, or the kind of b***h that makes people want to kill you?”

“I said ‘witch’,” said Perrault. “But I’d bet on the latter.”

Dufort shook his head. “I know you two prefer our work to be interesting, but I don’t believe there’s anything there. Seventy-two year olds sometimes die. That’s life.”

Perrault nodded and did not let on that she intended to give Desrosiers’s niece Adèle a call. Perrault’s older sister had been schoolmates with Adèle, and Perrault could remember hearing some pretty eye-popping stories about the tricks that woman got up to. Not exactly your kindly grandmother-type, but a real viper. Wouldn’t hurt just to have a chat with Adèle, see if she had anything interesting to say, thought Perrault.

“So for today, let’s get outside, cover the village, look around, talk to anyone who’d like to talk. I think of a calm day like this as an opportunity to take the pulse of our village, and see if there’s anything we’ve neglected that needs our attention. I’ll see you both back here after lunch, unless I hear from you otherwise.”

“Yes sir,” said Perrault and Maron together. All three put on their coats and scarves and headed out in different directions.

Dufort walked the short block to the Place, the square in the middle of town. In the very center, an unremarkable monument to World War I dead stood surrounded by a bank of flowers in the summer, now bare ground. The Place was ringed with restaurants, the Presse where you could get newspapers, magazines, and cigarettes, as well as several banks and a number of shops. It was the heart of Castillac, where people congregated on market day and other days as well, but on a cold day in winter, it looked desolate and closed up.

Dufort wandered into Chez Papa, a bistro owned by his old friend Alphonse. No one was at the bar. In fact, it looked as though the restaurant was completely empty of staff as well as patrons, though Dufort could hear swing music coming from the back.

“Alphonse!” he shouted. “You here?”

The bartender Nico stuck his head around a corner. “Hey Ben,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll be right with you.”

Dufort sat on a barstool and looked around. He couldn’t help staring for a moment at the table by the door, where Vincent used to sit. He shook his head, thinking not for the first time that people were extremely difficult to understand. You just never know what’s brewing underneath the surface, even people who outwardly seem perfectly pleasant and reasonable.

“Bonjour,” Nico said, coming behind the bar and wiping his hands on a towel. “Sorry, no one was coming in so I was in the back, trying to get the pantry organized. Coffee?”

Dufort paused. “All right, yes,” he said. “Petit, s’il te plaît.”

Nico fussed with the machine, served Dufort his cup of espresso, and then made one for himself.

“Not much business this month?” asked Dufort.

Nico shrugged. “You know how it is. In December, everyone is huddled up next to their woodstoves, dreaming about spring. Alphonse has been talking about closing the place in January, maybe taking a trip to someplace warm.”

Dufort shook his head. “Castillac without Chez Papa? Even for a month, hard to imagine.”

The door opened with a gust of cold air, and a group of three people came in, followed by a couple.

“Perhaps Alphonse is being hasty,” said Dufort with a smile, as Nico went to hand out menus. He thought he recognized the three as being related to Desrosiers, though he wasn’t entirely clear on the family tree.

“I can’t say I’m brokenhearted. She was an absolute horror, and I’ll say it because it’s true and so what if she is my aunt,” the young man with brown hair falling into his face said.

“Oh now, Michel,” said an older woman affectionately, perhaps his mother. “Some things are just better left unsaid.”

Dufort slid off his stool and went to their table. “Bonjour, madame,” he said to the older woman. “I am Benjamin Dufort of the Castillac gendarmerie. I’m sorry to intrude, but I believe you are related to the departed Madame Desrosiers?”

“She was my sister. I am Murielle Faure,” she said, with a slight nod.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Dufort.

“Thank you, Chief Dufort. May I present my son, Michel, and daughter Adèle,” said Murielle. Michel and Adèle showed their good manners by telling the chief they were pleased to meet him.

“Had your sister been ill? Of course it’s always a shock, no matter how old a person is. I was just wondering if there had been any indication something was amiss, health-wise?”

“Oh no,” said Madame Faure, brightening. “We always thought Josephine would live forever, didn’t we children? Healthy as a horse. So yes, we’re all quite shocked.”

Michel’s pinkie finger had a long nail, and he was sliding it along the edge of the menu, fraying it slightly. Dufort thought he saw Adèle kick her brother under the table, rather odd behavior for an adult.

“Well, again, my condolences. It is never easy to lose someone no matter the age.”

Dufort went back to the bar and sipped his espresso. He thought about Madame Desrosiers lying on the bathroom tile at La Métairie, on her side as though taking a nap. He felt his throat start to close up.

But then he remembered someone once telling him that “dirt nap” was a term for death, and let out a guffaw before pulling himself together and leaving a few euros on the bar on his way back out into the cold.