Provence - To Die For (23 page)

My heart was heavy. Mallory was so young and aimless. Was she deranged as well? Had Bertrand’s nasty comments to her snapped something in her psyche? Had she, like the tormented children who bring guns to school, lashed out at a bully who’d humiliated her? Had I misjudged her so? Had I been harboring a murderer all along? Was my own life now in danger?

I carried the box downstairs, closed the garage door, and walked back to the house, worried about this child and what I had to do next The living room and kitchen were empty. I put the box on the mantel of the kitchen fireplace and walked to the staircase. I could hear Mallory crying in Martine’s room, her sobs echoing in the stairwell. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to yell at her. How could she hide something so important? How could she be so foolish?

Mallory had thrown herself across Martine’s bed, and was clutching the pillow. She sat up when I entered the room and pulled the pillow across her chest as if to protect herself from my onslaught. Her nose and eyes were red, her cheeks wet with tears. She looked at me fearfully. “Wh ... wh ... what are you going to do?” she got out.

“What do you think I should do?”

She drew a big breath and hiccuped. “I ... I ... I don’t know.”

“I have to call LeClerq.”

She hung her head and sobbed. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you found it?”

She shook her head.

“Concealing evidence is a crime,” I said. “Not to mention that it makes you look guilty. At least if you’d come forward right away, the police would have had less reason to suspect you. Now ...” I trailed off. I took a box of tissues from Martine’s dresser, placed it in Mallory’s lap, and sat on the bed next to her. “Now I don’t know what they’ll do.”

Mallory blew her nose, took another tissue, and pressed it against her swollen eyes. She put on her eyeglasses. “I didn’t kill him,” she said, her voice quavery. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what to believe, Mallory.”

“But I didn’t,” she whined. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“I didn’t say I don’t believe you. But you’ve lied to me before, Mallory, so I’m reserving judgment.”

She dropped the tissue and turned to me. “When? When did I lie?”

“You told me you lived in Portland, yet you told LeClerq you live in Cincinnati.”

“I explained that.”

“You told me you were eighteen.”

“I am.”

I raised an eyebrow and waited.

“So what? So what if I’m not eighteen? It’s not that important.” She jumped off the bed, letting the pillow fall to the floor, and began pacing the room.

“Telling the truth is important.”

“What else? What else can you say I lied about?”

“You told LeClerq you were watching the children on the merry-go-round when you went for a walk.”

“So
^?
” She was getting angry now.

“So, the carousel has been closed for repairs for a week.”

She stopped pacing and faced me. “You checked on me?” she said, her voice rising with hysteria.

“Not at all,” I replied, standing. “I believed you. But I passed the carousel yesterday and heard a father asking the guard when it would be fixed. He said his daughter was disappointed that the carousel had been closed all week.”

“Well, there were kids sitting on it then.”

“That’s not what you said. And it was cordoned off.”

“So does that mean I killed Bertrand?” She was yelling now. “Does it? Does it make me a murderer because the merry-go-round was broken? Because there weren’t any kids on it?” She started pacing again, then picked up the pillow and threw it on the bed.

“No, lying doesn’t make you a murderer,” I said, “but it does make you an unreliable source of the truth. And it could make you a suspect.”

“You don’t believe I didn’t kill him. I knew it. No one ever believes me.”

“You make it difficult for people to believe you when you lie. Sit down, Mallory.”

“Why?” she yelled.

“Because I have some questions for you and I want you to tell me the truth.” I pointed to the bed. “I want you to sit down calmly, and behave like the adult you claim to be.”

She glared at me, but sat on the bed.

“Did you really call your parents? Or was that a lie, too?”

She pulled her braid over her shoulder and twisted it.

“The truth now,” I said.

“No,” she answered in a small voice.

“Why not?”

“The battery’s dead in my phone.”

“You could have asked to use Martine’s phone.”

“I didn’t really want to talk to them.”

“Are you running away?”

“They know where I am.”

“The truth?”

“I took a course in Paris this summer—I told you about that on the train—and I ... I just decided not to go back.”

“Why not?”

She closed her eyes and shrugged, her anger having dissipated, leaving her looking tired and dejected.

“You are running away. Why?”

“I didn’t want to go back to school.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t like me there.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“The other kids.”

“Mallory, you’re bright and charming. Why wouldn’t they like you?”

She was silent.

“Did you get in trouble because of lying?” I asked.

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell them everything.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She picked up the box of tissues that had fallen on the floor and pulled one out. She dabbed at her eyes under her glasses. “One of the girls had gotten some pot, you know, marijuana. A bunch of us wanted to try it. But we needed a place no one would come.” She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I knew where the key to the teachers’ lounge was kept, so I took it.” Her eyes were glued to her hands in her lap. “And the security guard caught us. Not me. I’d gone out to the bathroom. I heard him coming down the hall and I ran back to my room. The other girls, they got in trouble for doing drugs and also for breaking into the teachers’ lounge.”

“But you had let them into the room.”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“So if you’d told the authorities the truth, you would have gotten into trouble yourself. They would have punished you for stealing the key.”

Another nod.

“Your friends were certainly not innocent in all of this, but you let them get blamed for something you’d done.”

“They hate me.”

“Mallory, you can’t keep running away from responsibility. You have to acknowledge the truth and accept the consequences. Lying has gotten to be a bad habit with you.”

“I know.”

“What did you mean when you said your parents know where you are?”

“When I didn’t go back to school, they sent my uncle to Paris to look for me. He found out where I was staying. I don’t know how he does it, but every time I move somewhere else, he finds me.”

“Your cash card.”

“Huh?”

“The bank keeps a record of each time you use it and where. Your parents are probably relaying to him the location of every ATM machine you stop at.”

She snorted. “I wondered why the money hadn’t run out yet.”

“They must be adding money to your account.”

“So they can keep track of me.”

“So they can take care of you, make sure you have enough to live on. Mallory, don’t you realize how worried they must be?”

“Maybe,” she murmured.

“When did you find the knife?”

“I told you, when I unpacked.”

“Was that before or after LeClerq and Thierry were here?”

She hung her head and mumbled something.

“I can’t hear you,” I said.

“Before,” she said in a small voice, pulling the elastic off the end of her braid.

I threw up my hands. “Do you realize what an opportunity you wasted? He would have questioned you, yes, maybe even taken you in for further questioning, but by coming forward, you would have shown that you had nothing to hide.”

“What will he do now?”

“I don’t know, Mallory. But we must call him.”

“Why?” She stretched the elastic over the tip of her braid and twisted it around and around, replacing what she’d removed only a moment ago.

“If we don’t call him, I’m an accessory after the fact,” I said. “I won’t commit a crime for you, Mallory, even if I believe that you didn’t kill Bertrand.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling off her glasses and wiping her tears again.

“I know you are,” I said, walking to the door.

“Are you going to call him now?”

“Yes, unless you want to do it yourself. That would be a good idea.”

“No.” She gasped. “I can’t call him.”

“All right. I’ll do it.” I paused in the doorway. “Why don’t you wash your face and then come downstairs. We’ll call your parents together. You’re going to need a lawyer.”

“Are you still mad at me, Mrs. Fletcher?” She gave me a pleading look.

I hesitated. “I’m very upset with you, Mallory, but I’ll help you whatever way I can.”

Downstairs, I picked up the phone in the living room and called LeClerq. There was a long wait, and then the captain came on the line. I explained the situation.

“We’ll leave right away,” he said.

“I want you to remember she’s a frightened child.”

“What have you done with the knife?”

“I’m asking you to handle her gently.”

“We’re not animals. We will do as we are trained to do. Now, what have you done with the knife?”

“I didn’t touch it,” I replied. “It’s sealed in a box for you.”

“You are not to leave.”

“We’re not going anywhere. We’ll wait for your arrival.”

“Where is she now?”

“Upstairs, washing up.”

“Keep an eye on her.”

“We’re going to call her parents and make sure she has a lawyer.”

“Yes, she will need one.”

“Do you have to take her in?”

“I cannot see any other way.”

I hung up and stared at the phone for a moment. What
a mess.
Here was a young woman, alone in a foreign country, about to be detained in jail. She must be terrified. I walked to the bottom of the stairs and called up, “Mallory, come down. Let’s call your parents right now.”

There was no answer. I couldn’t hear the sound of water running. “Mallory? Mallory!” I raced up the stairs. She wouldn’t harm herself, would she? I never should have left her alone. She was so distraught. I should have insisted she come downstairs with me.
Oh, Mallory,
be all right.

I flew into the bathroom. No Mallory. I ran into Martine’s room. She wasn’t there—and neither was her backpack. I heard the garage door slam back against the wall.

“Oh, no.”

I dashed downstairs, flung open the front door, and ran outside. “Mallory!” I shouted. “Don’t do it.” Too late. She’d taken my bicycle and was pedaling furiously down the drive. There was no way I could catch her on foot.

Disgusted, angry, and sad, I went back to the living room and phoned LeClerq again. He’d already left. I hung up and sank down onto the couch, my head in my hands.
Poor child Poor deluded child.
She was only going to make matters worse for herself. The police would find her, and there would be no sympathy, no careful handling. She was now a fugitive, wanted for questioning. Was she also the murderer?

“Gone? What do you mean, she is gone?” Captain LeClerq was practically apoplectic with rage. His eyes bulged, his face flamed, the veins on his temples stood out.

“It happened while I was talking to you on the phone,” I said. “She sneaked out the kitchen door, ran to the garage, and took my bicycle. By the time I caught on, she was halfway down the driveway.”

“Why didn’t you go after her?”

“I couldn’t catch up to her on foot.”

“Don’t you have a car?”

“I don’t drive.”

LeClerq exploded with what in translation would be a shower of four-letter words. “Whoever heard of an American who doesn’t drive?” he shouted at the sky. “You’re supposed to be obsessed with cars.” This was directed at me.

I straightened my shoulders. “It’s inconvenient,” I said, “but not unheard of.”

“Do you have any idea where she’ll go? Who her friends are?”

“I know she spent a lot of time with the expatriate community in Paris. At least, that’s what she told me. She might try to return there.”

LeClerq nodded at Thierry, who scribbled a note on his pad.

“Can you describe what was she wearing?”

I looked down the drive and tried to envision Mallory riding away. Was she wearing her ski jacket? Yes. And she had her black backpack with her, too. If she hadn’t thrown clothes over her pajamas before she left, she could easily pull off the road and get dressed later on. I described what I knew to the policemen.

“Thierry,” LeClerq addressed his lieutenant, “put an alert out for her. Then drive around. See if you can find her. I want to talk with Madame Fletcher.”

The officer drove off, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a two-way radio transmitter.

“I am praying you still have her passport,” LeClerq said to me as we entered the house.

“Yes, I do.” I led him into the living room.

“Dieu merci!
Thank goodness. May I have it back, please?”

“It’s upstairs,” I said. “I’ll get it for you.” On my way through the kitchen, I hooked my handbag off the table and ran up the stairs. Relieved that I’d forgotten to give Mallory back her passport, I set the bag on my dresser and dug out the envelope LeClerq had given me the day before. I wrote Mallory’s passport number on it, along with the issuing office, her place and date of birth—I knew it! She was only fifteen—and, just in case, the date of her entry into France. I returned to the living room as quickly as I could, pausing only to lift the box containing the knife off the mantel.