Chapter Forty-FiveThe next day was Christmas Eve-Eve, as Molly had called it as a child, and she let Frances sleep and walked into the village to finish up her shopping. There was the goose to pick up at the butcher’s, and the bûche de noël from Pâtisserie Bujold, and she was talking herself into splurging on some organic foie gras. Constance had promised to come over that afternoon for a whirlwind cleaning followed by a holiday cocktail. And she had to remember to pick up some dog food. But all of these things, which normally would be giving her pleasure, felt a little flat.
Whenever a period of excitement was over, there is always a letdown, she thought as she walked along rue des Chênes. Molly felt she should be happy that Murielle could no longer hurt anyone else, and that her friend
