Death in Darkness

Chapter 5

5On Monday morning, Paul-Henri Monsour, junior officer of the Castillac gendarmerie, checked in early at the station—early enough that Chief Charlot would not yet be there. He made sure his desk was neat, though since he never ever left it messy there was little to tidy. He did give the floor a quick sweep, having brought Madame Bonnay’s dog Yves back to the station the day before after finding him trotting down rue Picasso as though headed for Pâtisserie Bujold. Paul-Henri did not see the problem with a dog running loose; most of the dog owners of Castillac allowed it, and they all seemed to do just fine. But when Yves got out, Madame Bonnay was not to be consoled until that big Bleu de Gascogne was safely back home.

At any rate, the dog had tracked in sand, and one of the things Paul-Henri could not stand was the sensation of walking on grit. The slippery feeling under his shoes, along with the grinding sound as he pressed on the grains, set his teeth on edge. But once the floor was swept there was nothing else to do, and he was not going to be caught sitting there twiddling his thumbs when the new chief showed up. He left the station and went down rue Malbec, alert and hoping to stumble upon a situation he could easily solve and thereby impress Chief Charlot.

He saw nothing out of the ordinary as he passed the former mayor’s house, which now had a For Sale sign attached to the front door. Down the sidewalk he noticed someone moving slowly, and he hurried to see if he could be of assistance.

“Bonjour, Madame Gervais. How are you this morning?”

“Bonjour, Paul-Henri. I’m as well as can be expected. You do know I’m a hundred and four?”

“Of course, Madame Gervais. Your age is famous throughout the Dordogne, and you give the rest of us hope for a long future ahead!”

“I’m afraid my own future will not be so very long,” she said, without a scrap of self-pity.

“Are you not feeling well? I’m very sorry to hear that.” Paul-Henri liked old people, especially old ladies, and he did not mind at all listening to long lists of complaints, but actually tried to draw them out on the subject.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Madame Gervais, who found that the less she thought about her aches and pains, the better. “I probably sound a bit morose because fall is upon us, and it’s my least favorite season. I much prefer spring, when the earth wakes up and comes alive.”

“It hardly feels like fall this year, does it? The air is so warm you’d think it was May.”

Paul-Henri and Madame Gervais continued to chat like this for several more minutes until Madame Gervais had had as much of the officer as she could take, and set off to finish her morning errands.

Feeling thirsty, Paul-Henri turned down a side street and headed for the épicerie, thinking he would buy a bottle of Perrier. He greeted the girl at the cash register and several customers before disappearing down an aisle of the cramped store to get his water, missing Chief Charlot who was coming up a different aisle on her way out of the store. She was dressed in uniform, a French blue suit with a skirt and a cap, her hair in a braid so tight it pulled the skin on the side of her face. She was small and trim, with a body like a gymnast.

“I came here hoping to find a decent potato,” the chief said to Ninette at the register, who was the daughter of the shop owners. “But you’re charging a ridiculous amount for what you have. Look—it’s practically shriveled.”

“Oh!” said Ninette, so taken aback she was at a loss for words. She recognized the new chief because her boyfriend had pointed her out on the street the day before, but they had not been introduced. Ninette wasn’t sure whether she should pretend she had no idea who Chief Charlot was, or proceed as though they knew each other. In the confusion, she said nothing but stood with her mouth open, staring.

“Come on now, give me a discount. It’s the least you can do. And if you would, pass along my comments about the state of your produce. I’d have purchased lettuce—I hate the idea of lunch with no salad—but every bit of it was so wilted I just could not in good conscience pay money for it.”

“Discount?” said Ninette, her voice quavering a bit.

“I’ll take thirty percent off. Thank you.” Chief Charlot tossed a few euros on the counter, put her groceries in a straw bag she had brought with her, and left.

Paul-Henri had heard every word. When the chief was long gone, he stepped out from the aisle and looked at Ninette.

“What in the world?” he said.

“Oh my God, What a horrible person. There is nothing at all wrong with our potatoes!”

“Or your lettuce,” said Paul-Henri. “Doesn’t Rémy bring it fresh every morning?”

“Yes! Oh, I can’t believe it. It was bad enough when Dufort quit, and we got that moody Maron hanging around all the time. I never liked him, not one bit. But now I want him back!”

Paul-Henri paid for his Perrier and said goodbye, heading in the direction away from the station, thinking Chief Charlot had probably gone there. On the one hand, it pleased him probably more than it should that the new chief was unpopular. And if she continued to argue and be disagreeable to all the shopkeepers, she would soon be hated throughout the village, which couldn’t help but raise his own popularity.

On the other hand, he had to work with her. Well, maybe she’s just cheap, and that won’t affect me so much, he thought. But with a sudden sense of purpose, he headed straight to the station, intending to email some of his colleagues in Paris to ask if they knew anything about Chantal Charlot, either from personal experience or reputation. Much better to know what he’s dealing with than go along in blissful ignorance, he thought grimly.

Ben was out for a run and Molly was debating whether or not to make another pot of coffee when she heard a gentle knock on the front door.

“Oh, bonjour, Arthur!” she said, ushering the guest inside. “Do you have those papers you want me to put in the safe? I really should ask about valuables when I’m showing guests to their rooms. Some crazy things have happened over the years here at La Baraque, but so far I’ve been lucky that nothing’s been stolen—at least, no one has reported anything. An innkeeper’s nightmare, as you might imagine.”

Arthur looked a bit stunned by Molly’s chatter but nodded and tried to summon a pleasant expression. He had not slept well. The shock of finding Emilia in his room the day before had upset him far more than it should, he thought. It’s not as though he was a Resistance fighter and she a Gestapo agent. And she had just been standing there looking around, not rifling through his luggage.

“I’m wondering…” he began, but faltered.

Molly waited. There was no telling what a guest might need or want, and it was always interesting to see what they came up with.

“You see, I am in this part of France trying to research a relative of mine.”

Molly nodded encouragingly.

“She is a cousin, on my father’s side, and they say she fought with the Resistance. I understand this area was involved heavily in such fighting?”

Molly shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not the person to ask. I do know that there was some fighting nearby—a terrible m******e in Mussidan, for one thing. I’ve heard stories of French families being hidden at certain farms, and I’m sure there’s much, much more. I’d suggest talking to Madame Gervais, who lives in the village. Would you like me to make an introduction? She was a young woman at the time—not a child—and I believe she knows quite a lot about it. Though I’ll admit, she’s not necessarily that open about it. In my limited experience, a lot of people who have lived through terrible war do not want to talk about it.”

“That would be a disappointment.”

“Maybe it’s too painful to dig through those memories. Or maybe words just can’t express what it was like.”

Arthur nodded and said something, but Bobo burst into raucous barking and drowned out whatever he said. A panel truck was turning into the driveway just as the mail-truck pulled up to the mailbox, and Ben could be seen breezing down rue des Chênes on his way back home.

“Heavens, La Baraque is like a three-ring circus these days! I’ll take those papers, Arthur? I promise to keep them safe. Au revoir—I have to deal with this—”

Molly got the truck headed for the worksite and got a sweaty kiss from Ben.

“I found a new trail, back up behind the Bourgey’s place,” he said. “Maybe you’ll come with me sometime.”

“If we walk. I wasn’t built for running. Bobo, hush for crying out loud.”

Ben reached down to give the dog some attention while Molly checked the mail. “Bills, bills, ads, ads, oh! What in the world?” She held up a square envelope of heavy cream-colored paper, with her and Ben’s names and the address written in elegant calligraphy.

“No idea,” said Ben.

Molly flipped it over and saw an engraved address on the back flap, but did not recognize it. She tore open the envelope and pulled out a heavy card.

We would be so pleased if you could come to dinner. Friday 19h. RSVP at simonvalette@Valette.fr

“Curious,” said Ben.

“I’ll say! Have you met them? How did we get on the guest list?”

“No idea.”

“You keep saying that. What kind of detective are you?”

Ben swatted her on the rump and Molly let out a shriek and ran for the house. Bobo danced between them, barking.