Murder on Vacation (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  Murder on Vacation

  Molly Sutton Mysteries 6

  Nell Goddin

  Beignet Books

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Also by Nell Goddin

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Nell Goddin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For a free short story set in Castillac, click here!

  Created with Vellum

  1

  2007

  The second week of February, cold and damp. Molly Sutton stood looking out the French doors of La Baraque at the frosty landscape, struggling with the feeling that she should be a lot happier than she was.

  After all, her move to France had turned out even better than her wildest dreams: she loved her village, had good friends, and enjoyed a full and satisfying life. On top of that, she had recently solved a difficult case and been rewarded with quite a pile of money, and even though everyone knew the old saw about how money can’t buy happiness, did anyone really believe it? And there was nothing but good news in every direction. Usually a dreary time of year for bookings, her gîte business was booked to overflowing for the following week thanks to a marketing campaign she had sent out playing up what a romantic place La Baraque would be for Valentine’s Day. Benjamin Dufort, the handsome and complicated former chief of gendarmes, was back in town. And yet…

  She stood at the window looking out, and moping.

  Eventually Molly decided some company might help her out of her funk. So she bundled up, gave Bobo a pat, and hopped into her new Citroën coupe since it was too cold to use the scooter. The car had been a total splurge—and a silly one at that—since she didn’t actually care all that much about what kind of car she drove. There was something about suddenly being rich that had made her lose her head for just a bit, and the car was the least of it.

  La Baraque now had three new guest rooms in a formerly dilapidated wing off the main house where she lived. A swimming pool was being put in, with work beginning next month. Her bathroom had been renovated to a level of luxury that sailed right past “lap of” and landed a little over the top. Next month, a part-time gardener was due to start work.

  While all these things were delicious in many ways—and to be honest, she didn’t regret a single one of them—she nonetheless woke up every morning and, well, there she was. Same Molly, with the same ungovernable tangle of red hair, the same yearning for motherhood, the same uncertainty in the area of romance, and the same pants that were getting too tight.

  She reminded herself on the ride into the village that it’s not exactly charming to complain about how coming into a sudden windfall isn’t as transformative as you thought it would be. After parking, she took a moment to look inside the big window of Chez Papa, the bistro that had become her second home in Castillac. She was friends—as everyone was—with the shaggy-headed owner, Alphonse, and knew she could count on knowing at least one person if she dropped by for a meal or a drink or a quick plate of frites.

  That night, to her relief, her pal Lawrence sat on his usual stool, drinking his usual Negroni. He grinned when he saw her looking through the window.

  “Trying to catch us up to no good?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye as she came inside.

  Molly shrugged. “Oh, you know…I just like observing sometimes instead of jumping right in. So how are you? It’s so strange to be at Chez Papa without Nico, isn’t it?”

  “I got a postcard yesterday, which pleased me inordinately. I didn’t expect to get anything but the odd text.”

  Nico, the bartender, and his girlfriend Frances—Molly’s best friend from home—had taken off for a month in the Maldives.

  “Frances sent me a few photos. I’m so envious. That beach! That crystal-clear blue water!”

  “I know. Well, why didn’t you go with them? Something remains of your huge pile of gold, does it not?”

  “Eh, who wants to be a third wheel? Plus, I have a big week coming up—I’m fully booked for Valentine’s Day. Not that I’m not grateful. This time last year, I was about to start eating cat food, my income was so low.”

  “Well, my dear, no one is more pleased than I that your financial picture has become so rosy. Are you feeling the letdown yet?”

  Molly jerked in Lawrence’s direction. “Letdown?”

  “Of course. Something big like coming into money, or winning a longed-for prize, finally accomplishing something you’ve worked for after years of effort, those sorts of things—I would imagine close to a hundred percent of the time—people get totally depressed afterwards. Ecstasy, followed by morosity. Because of course, getting the thing is wonderful, but it doesn’t actually change you.”

  “Honestly, sometimes I think you live inside my brain.”

  Lawrence just smiled and sipped his drink. “I hope at least you’ve continued to spend the money frivolously?”

  “I need to invite you over so you can take a gander at my bathroom.”

  Lawrence laughed. “Oh, I do love a bathroom makeover. Is it very trashy?”

  “Lifestyles of the Rich and Not-at-All Famous allll the way.”

  They laughed.

  “And, if I may be so nosy…what about Ben? Have you seen him lately?”

  Molly shrugged again. “I don’t know. It’s…unsettled. I was so glad to see him when he got back, and I’m pretty sure he felt the same way. But now…we’re being sort of careful around each other, you know? Friendly, interested…but a little…”

  “Wary?

  “Yes. If something’s going to happen, someone needs to make the first move, but we’re both waiting to see what the other one is going to do.”

  “What do you want to happen?”

  “If I knew that….”

  Constance leaned against the doorsill, her arms crossed. “If you want my opinion, Molls—and of course I know you’re dying for it, haha!—you should just get over yourself and get back together with Ben. You’ve been moping around ever since he got back. What are you waiting for?”

  “Okay, yes, I admit there’s been some moping. But I don’t think that’s why. Really, I don’t.”

  “Then why do you get that pained expression on your face whenever I talk about how crazy-good things are going with Thomas now? I think it’s because you feel left out. I’m blissfully in love, your buddy Frances is blissfully in love, and where are you? Staying home to eat almond croissants all night and
day?”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve moved on from almond croissants. Haven’t eaten one in weeks.”

  “Moved on to what, pain au chocolat?”

  “I thought it was a nice change of pace.”

  “Molly!”

  Molly heaved a theatrical sigh. “All right, I’ll give him a call if it will stop your nagging. I do want things to work out between us, it’s just that…I don’t know, we’re just taking our time. Which is why I don’t think my grump has anything to do with him.”

  “Call him!”

  “I said I would, jeez. Here’s the mop, Mademoiselle Bossy.”

  Molly picked up a bucket and the vacuum cleaner. “Let’s hit the cottage first,” she said. They didn’t bother putting on coats for the short walk over. The heat was only set at fifty degrees since no one was staying there, and they shivered as they came inside.

  “Oops, sorry about the heat.” Molly sat down on the sofa and stared into space.

  Constance put down the window cleaner and a pile of rags and looked at her friend. “Molly?”

  “Yeah?

  “Is it okay if I turn up the heat?”

  Molly looked at her vacantly as though she had lost the ability to understand French.

  “Molls, are you feeling all right?”

  Molly sighed again. “Actually, now that you mention it, no. I don’t feel sick, exactly. But I’m so tired. Like I could sit here on this sofa pretty much into eternity and never get up.”

  Constance felt her forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

  “I don’t feel sick. Just tired.”

  “It’s probably your liver. You’ve got to go see Dr. Vernay. The village doctor—you’ve met him? He delivered most of us in Castillac. He’s very good, he’ll fix you right up.”

  Molly’s expression didn’t change.

  “Want me to take care of it? I’ll make the appointment and drive you over. In the meantime, why don’t you just get in bed and rest? The guests aren’t coming until tomorrow. I can do the cleaning in here by myself no problem.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve got six guests coming tomorrow. I’ve never had more than four at one time. What if they’re all high maintenance?”

  “It’s Valentine’s Day. They’ll be busy with each other,” said Constance with a wink.

  “Oh please, let that be true,” Molly muttered to herself, after thanking her friend and heading back to her house and bed. For once, she thought, let there be no drama. Just an easygoing crowd that gets along and needs no hand-holding.

  She climbed into bed, and lacking the energy or commitment to protest when Bobo curled up next to her, fell fast asleep.

  2

  After a long nap followed by ten solid hours of sleep, Molly felt refreshed on Saturday morning and ready to face the influx of guests at La Baraque. She decided to skip the market—a first since moving to Castillac almost a year and a half ago—and instead made the rounds of all the guest rooms, making sure each was spotless and stocked with a welcome bottle of wine, along with a small booklet with suggestions for sight-seeing, restaurant recommendations, and some emergency phone numbers.

  All in all, her gîte business was much more settled than it had been even six months earlier. The income was not substantial but it was steady-ish and improving. Molly now knew what to expect and felt ready for the odd questions guests sometimes came up with. And most important—she really liked doing it. The plumbing repairs, greeting guests and getting to know them, making improvements at La Baraque…there wasn’t any part of the business that Molly minded, and most of it she thoroughly enjoyed.

  Valentine’s week was going to be a challenge, however. Fully booked, which at this point meant six guests: two couples and two singles. Darcy and Ira Bilson were due early Saturday morning; they had been traveling in the area and asked if they could check in early, which was fine with Molly since she had no guests currently in the cottage and the cleaning was long since done. By nine o’clock, Molly was up and caffeinated, expecting the Bilsons to show up any minute, and the rooms were all double-checked and ready.

  Lately she’d been having a bowl of fruit in the morning instead of her usual croissants, not so much from any grand ambitions of self-improvement and control, but more for a change of pace. It had taken months to get over her habit of shoving food into her mouth while standing by the sink (or in front of the open refrigerator) instead learning to follow the French way, really taking time to make the meal an event even if she was eating by herself.

  She sat at the table and sliced an apple into pleasingly thin and symmetrical slices. The orange cat streaked through the kitchen as though on a crucial mission from Satan, prompting Bobo to jump up in hot pursuit.

  After polishing off the apple and her second cup of coffee, Molly got up to toss a few more logs into the woodstove. She heard a car pulling into the driveway. Slipping on a coat and grabbing a wool hat, she went quickly outside to greet the new guests.

  “Bonjour, Madame Bilson!” she said, as a lean, dark-haired woman dressed in yoga pants got out of the small car. Her hair was cut short and her body so boyish that for a moment, Molly was confused, but she quickly got her bearings. “Monsieur Bilson! Welcome to La Baraque.”

  “Ah, we are thrilled to be here. Just thrilled! We’re coming from three days at an organic farm north of here, not far from Limoges,” said her husband as he came to shake Molly’s hand. He was a big bear of a man, and stood with his chest expanded and hands on hips. His blond hair was shaggy and looked as though it hadn’t seen a comb in a few days, and his eyes were red, perhaps from the strain of traveling.

  “A working farm, with gîtes too?”

  “Sort of, yes, they have a work program. So our room cost almost nothing, meals were free, and we put in some hours working on the farm every day. I milked a goat for the first time!”

  Molly laughed. “You have to come back in the spring after the baby goats are born. There is nothing in this world cuter than a baby goat!”

  “Affirmative, Molly!” boomed Ira. He was dressed in black jeans and a ripped black T-shirt, sort of a thirty-five-year-old’s post-punk outfit. “This is a research trip for us. We’re planning to start a cheesemaking business back home in Oregon, with our own goat herd. That’s why we chose Castillac for this leg of our trip. Maybe you know Lela Vidal, who makes the incredible Cabécou de Rocamadour? She’s quite famous in the cheese world.”

  “Yes, I do know her. Lela’s at the Saturday market every week, and I’ve bought her excellent cheese many times. I had no idea she was a cheese celebrity.”

  Darcy shot Molly a dark look. “People who are good at their craft do develop reputations, you know. That is not in the least unusual.”

  Molly looked confused. “Sorry? I didn’t mean…I wasn’t being critical. Um, the Saturday market is going on right now. If you like, I’ll show you the cottage, you can put your bags away and I’ll take you to meet her.”

  “Excellent!” boomed Ira.

  Molly was so used to the softer voices of her village she nearly clapped her hands over her ears, but caught herself in time. She picked up an extra bag that Ira Bilson had taken out of the car and walked toward the cottage. “We’re still in late winter, obviously,” she said. “Today’s weather is very typical. Sometimes it seems as though we never see the sky in February! But the cottage is very dry and cozy, and you’ll find a stack of firewood under the eaves to the right of the door.”

  “Is there an extra charge for that?” asked Darcy.

  “Oh no,” said Molly. “Everything’s included, and I believe you’re paid in full, so no worries on that score.”

  Darcy gave a brief nod but did not soften her expression. Although she was only thirty, a deep furrow had been carved between her eyebrows.

  Tough nut, thought Molly.

  “The bedroom is right through there, the bath is off to the left. Anything you need, just
give a holler, I’m right in the main building. You can text me or just knock on the door. Would you like some time to settle in, or would you prefer to head straight to the market?”

  “Let’s go! Er…is that what you want to do, lovey?” he asked his wife.

  Darcy shrugged.

  “If you’d like to do yoga beforehand, that’s fine too,” he said. “Though I do want to have a crack at Lela’s cheeses before they’re all bought up.”

  Darcy sighed and shrugged again. “All right,” she said, her tone one of deepest martyrdom.

  Darcy jumped into the front seat of the Citroën leaving Ira to fold his long legs into the back. Molly turned the car around and pulled onto rue des Chênes and headed into the village. “Well, maybe I was silly to drive,” she said, seeing that cars were parked far away from the village center, a sign that the market was crowded and parking places not easy to find. “I just got the car recently and I guess the excitement hasn’t quite worn off. It’s a perfectly pleasant walk, takes about fifteen minutes.”

  Ira opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. Darcy looked out of the window and said nothing.

  Maybe more pain in the butt than tough nut, Molly thought. Not that I should judge anyone after five minutes…

  She spotted a family getting into a Saab and waited patiently before easing into their spot. “All right!” she said brightly. “Would you like me to take you around and make some introductions, or set you loose? Either is fine with me, of course.”

  The Bilsons answered at the same time, with Ira wanting Molly’s company and Darcy wanting to be without her. Darcy won, which did not come as a complete surprise to Molly. She pointed to the section of the market where the cheesemonger usually set up, and fled for the Café de la Place.

  “Pascal!” she said, slipping into a seat on the glassed-in terrace where a small heater was set up. The model-handsome server grinned and asked her how she was doing.