9Sunday mornings in Castillac were quiet. The Romanesque church on the Place had a trickle of visitors because it was something of an architectural oddity, but the congregation attending weekly services shrank nearly every year as the elderly members passed away. What the village did on Sunday mornings was spend time with family, prepare the big Sunday meal, go to Pâtisserie Bujold or its competitors for pastries, and laze around in slippers reading the paper or perhaps a new detective novel. The more ambitious might putter in the garden.
It was a day for family, for relaxation, and food.
For Gilles Maron, Sundays were a boring nuisance. He was from the north of France, near Lille, and he was glad to have that much distance between him and his family because they were a poisonous pack of
