January 18, 2009
A cold night in Castillac. Sliver of a moon. Cloudless.
The streets empty, nothing stirring.
Two a.m.
Just enough light that he could see where he was going without a flashlight.
He was nimble, and made his way down rue Tabac with almost no sound. He wore leather boots with worn, soft soles—soles that could have used a visit to the cobbler, his wool sock showing through in several places.
He reached the front door of Madame Lagasse’s house and put his bare hand on the latch.
He stood for a long moment, arguing with himself. The latch was freezing cold.
And then—a deep breath—no more hesitation. He tried the latch, and when it was locked, he pulled out a wire and a screwdriver, and in less than a minute slipped, unseen, inside the house.
“It’s a glorious day to waddle around doing nothing,” said Molly, pouring a glass of orange juice as Ben came through the kitchen with his toolbox. She was—not to mince words—colossally pregnant, due to give birth at any moment.
“Carry on with your glorious waddling,” he said. “I’m headed to the pigeonnier to make sure the rathole is still plugged up.”
Molly put her hands on the counter and leaned on them, trying to take some weight off her feet. “Oh, Ben,” she said. “I want tourists staying there, not rats.”
“I know what you mean. It’s so depressing to have the gîtes sitting empty like this. I feel like I just need to do something.”
“Things have been slow before, of course. We have to expect ups and downs. But not like this. Not just an off month, but zero reservations on the books. Nothing. And no one even emails with random questions about whether Castillac has any decent restaurants or whether there are any bilingual babysitters available.”
Ben nodded, shaking his head. They had talked it all over, many times—how the world financial crisis had made its effects felt in Castillac, even deep in the Périgord, far from Wall Street and American bankers. How tourists were not touring. Not while everyone, rich and poor and in-between, felt so insecure about the future.
And for far too many—insecure about the present.
“We have much to be grateful for,” he said, putting the toolbox down and wrapping his arms around Molly as best he could, given her girth.
“Absolutely,” she said, hugging him back. “I’m not that worried about getting along, day to day.” She hugged him again. “Well, actually? I am a little worried about that. But I do have confidence that if the gîte business never revives, and you don’t get any surveillance work, and our investigation business is dead—um, what was I saying?”
“You have confidence? And then you said a lot of terrible things.”
She laughed. “What I mean is—if everything that we’ve been doing goes belly-up, we’ll just figure something else out. I’ll learn how to fix cars or something. You can be a plumber.”
Ben cocked his head, imagining this. Then he kissed the top of her head, gave her belly a rub, and took off for the pigeonnier.
