Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 23
Merle scribbled down dates, names, then sat back in the hard chair, stretching her shoulders. Was this the Dominique of the letters? What was her connection with Marie-Emilie?
Merle pulled out “1950-2000.” In 1954 Catherine-Juliet remarried, to a man named Carlo Lombardi. Did Dominique marry? She may never have returned to Malcouziac.
Scanning the end of the 1950’s and half through the ‘60s Merle found nothing more. She must have missed something. Back to the beginning, she scanned the ‘50s where the handwriting was so flowery she had trouble reading it. It looked like the writer had gotten old and feeble. There, at the start, 1950, Dominique again. How had she missed her? A baby boy baptized. She was a mother, at, what? — fourteen. No father listed. No name for the baby, just “garçon.” Baptism was June 3.
Writing the information in the notebook she sat back, letting the information sink in. Harry was born in the village. His birthday was May 30, 1950. She felt a chill up her spine.
Could it be? Dominique was his mother? She scoured the births again, focusing hard on every entry for 1950. Only one fit his birth date.
Harry had been adopted? If he had known, he never mentioned it. But he never talked about his parents either. She searched for more on Dominique but found nothing.
But other Redier’s— 1971, another garçon Redier, Jean-Pierre, born to yet another brother. The gendarme — and the mayor —both related to Dominique. Merle straightened up the room, tore off the gloves, and ran up the stairs.
She watched the cobblestones, walking through the village, the names swimming in her head. Dominique Redier, daughter of Andre and Catherine-Juliet. Mother of Harry Strachie. If it was true, she had given birth at fourteen, then — who was Harry’s father?
* * *
Madame Suchet’s pea green door opened in a whoosh. Merle handed her a bouquet of red and pink roses in a vase. Madame sat her visitor down, insisting on slices of quatre quart, the ubiquitous pound cake. When she could wait no more, Merle interrupted a treatise on roses.
“Excusez-moi, madame. I have a question.”
Madame Suchet sat down in a yellow print chair. Merle asked, in French, “Did you know a young girl in the forties named Dominique Redier?”
“Ici? Dans la ville?”
“Oui.”
Yes, here in the village. Her brown eyes flicked to the window. She arranged her hands, took a deep breath and blew it out. Would she talk, that was what she was asking herself. Should she? Her eyes grazed Merle, then back to the window. A minute passed. Merle ate a bite of pound cake and silently begged for trust, for help. Then the older woman cleared her throat.
“She was two or three years younger than me. A pretty girl, a blond. I didn’t know her well.”
Merle felt her breath leaving her. Finally, someone was talking. “She grew up here.”
“I haven’t seen her since the war, since I left. I never heard of her again.”
“Do you know her mother, Catherine-Juliet Lombardi?”
Mme Suchet nodded. “She has been gone some years.”
“Died?” Another nod. The older woman was looking at her straight on now, as if waiting for the real question, begging her to ask. “I’m trying to track down Dominique. That little scandal attached to the house? I think I know what it was.”
Mme Suchet was silent in her assent. Merle waited, then blundered on, unsure how this next question would sit. “Did she — ” It seemed too impolite for the French of Mme Suchet’s generation. Was she knocked up, had an illegitimate child, got in the family way? What did you say? Merle searched for the words.
“I think she got herself in trouble.” No argument from the old woman. “Was there a place for young girls to go when they were—” She hesitated, searching for a term. “—Becoming a mother?”
Madame looked uncomfortable, then corrected her. “Avant d’accoucher.” Before the lying-in. “There was a convent. ”
* * *
Poking her head out the kitchen door, she wondered if Pascal had found out anything from the gendarme. He was still painting. She went back into the front room and stared at her notes from the parish records. Harry was adopted. It had to be true. He was born here, and there was no record of a birth at that time that could be him except Dominique Redier’s son. She got out the letters again. There was the line: ‘How is the boy?’ That was why she kept in touch. Dominique was Harry’s mother.
Merle was pouring herself a second glass of ordinary Gagillac wine when Pascal came to the door. “That for me?” His face was wet, his hair dripping on the stone floor. Pouring another glass, she carried both into the garden. Pascal was staring at the shutters as she handed him his wine.
She walked to the outhouse. “Do you think we’ll ever get in there again? Will they open it up?”
“I don’t know. And this pile of stones. What will you do with them?”
“Tristan can move them.” She sat on a metal chair in the last rays of sun. It felt warm and good. The wine was going to her head.
“Not another fight?” He perched on the low wall.
“Just fifteen year olds on the loose.” She leaned over her knees, her forearms on them, and stared at the mud by the patio edge. Harry, adopted. It wouldn’t sink in. She felt woozy in the evening heat. At her feet were stones, piles of dirt. The garden was a wreck, hardly the lovely place it had been when they’d arrived. Rocks, leaves, dead flowers, a nasty trench torn through. Their presence was disruptive, there was no denying it.
“I need more wine.” She rose unsteadily and headed toward the kitchen door. Pascal took her elbow before she got in the house.
“You need food. You and me, we go eat some dinner.”
Her head hurt as it spun. This garden. This nasty little town. She suddenly hated all of it. For so long this adventure, this summer, had been a dream, an idyll, but now she saw it for all it was — the death of an aging prostitute, a rundown house with a dark past, a village full of hateful strangers who decided before she arrived that they wanted nothing to do with her then proceeded to frame her for murder. And Annie! How could she come into all this, expecting lavender and cheese and loveliness? She covered her eyes with one hand.
“My sister’s coming and I don’t have anywhere for her to sleep. The garden’s a mess. There’s a hole in my ceiling. I’m suspected of murder. I broke my fricking arm. Why should I — ”
The glass slipped out of her hand and Pascal caught it. “Everything will seem more manageable after you eat. We don’t allow wine drinking without eating in France.”
“Is that so?” His face was dry now, his black curls hanging over his collar. His neck was caked with grime and small flakes of old blue paint. “You’re too dirty to eat in a restaurant.”
“You will come with me while I change my clothes.”
“No, I won’t.” He kissed her suddenly. The shock of his warm lips sobered her enough to know she really was tipsy. She pulled away from him and straightened herself.
“Do I — do I get to watch?”
He smiled. “Do you want to watch?”
She took several shallow breaths, so close to him they exchanged oxygen. “Are we still talking about dinner?”
The shower helped clear her head. Everything was manageable. It was just a moment there when things looked bleak. Her list ran through her head the way it always did but fuzzy with the wine effect. Annie needed a bed, didn’t she? She wanted the extra bedroom finished. What about Tristan — was camp going well? She hadn’t an email since he first got there. Pascal’s lips seemed more, well, pressing. She turned to the mirror, rubbing it clear of fog.
“Be logical,” she whispered to herself. She rubbed the coarse towel over her body. Thin, with protruding bones, chapped skin, calluses, age spots — plus a damp cast on her wrist — this sack of bones sagged in all the right places. She looked in the mirror. From any angle she looked, well, not that bad, but certainly not young.
She leaned close to the mirror. “But he likes you, old woman.”
* * *
The restaurant she chose was the one with the truffle omelet she had been dreaming about, Les Saveurs. Everything else was expensive as well, rack of lamb, trout, beef. She leaned over the large menu toward Pascal and whispered, “It’s tres cher.”
He shook his head. “Order whatever you want.”
He ordered a small pitcher of house red wine and poured a thimble-full into her glass. Service was quick and friendly, by a young woman who Pascal said was the daughter of the owner. The chef’s Cordon Bleu diploma hung proudly on the wall. The restaurant was paneled in dark wood, with a cornucopia of fake fruit and vegetables on the sideboard, unlike expensive French restaurants in New York with their fancy tablecloths and elegant flourishes. In a room off the entry she could see the regulars, laughing and eating at a small table.
“Did you eat lunch here?” she asked, sipping slowly on her wine as they made their way through elegant appetizers of shrimp and asparagus. “With le flic?”
“I didn’t see him today.”
So he wasn’t as obsessed with Justine LaBelle and her sad death as she was. Why would he be? That would just be the inspector and herself. Cutting up the shrimp was difficult. It almost squirted off the table. Finally she stabbed it and bit off a piece. Pascal was sipping his wine.
She swirled hers, safer than drinking it. “Do wineries generally buy from other wineries for resale?”
Pascal chewed his bread. “I wouldn’t know. Did you see some?”
“In the chai. Gerard won’t let us take tours through there but I sneaked in.”
He shook his head. “Keep out of there. I told you he is —”
“What?” She leaned over her plate toward him and whispered. “Tell me what he’s up to. Something — fishy?”
“Stay out of it. No sneaking around.” He looked past her to the back of the restaurant. “Isn’t that your friend from the tour?”
She glanced over her shoulder just as Anthony Simms looked up. He was sitting alone, stuck in a back corner.
“He’s not a friend,” she said. “Don’t look at him. I don’t want him to think I talk about him.”
“But you do.”
“He’s a creep.”
“He wants to be your boyfriend?”
She rolled her eyes. Just the word was ridiculous.
Pascal pouted and said mockingly, “He looks so very sad. A plate for one. So terribly lonely.”
Merle smiled. “Not my problem.” Their appetizers were taken away. Pascal reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a small piece of paper.
“For you,” he said, sliding it across the table. On the paper was written two names: ‘Justine Labelle — Dominique Redier.’
She stared at the writing. “The same person?” she whispered. She was Harry’s mother — ??!. That tired, crazy old whore? Oh, God. What can of worms had she opened?
He sipped wine, enjoying her surprise.
“But — but you said you didn’t talk to the gendarme.” He hiked his shoulders. “Someone else gave you the name? Who?”
He held up a hand. “I gave them immunity.”
“I knew these people knew her.” She stared at the paper. “This is the name of —” she lowered her voice “—the mayor.” Pascal’s eyes flashed. “So, he knew her?”
“Usually you know people with your name in a village this size. There are others as well.”
“Jean-Pierre,” she whispered. Pascal stared at her, agreeing with his eyes. His lamb with roast potatoes dotted with rosemary arrived. He picked up his knife and fork.
“You must know what this means. Someone, perhaps many people, knew her, knew who she was and what she was.”
“She had relatives in this village. Yes.” He looked at the people sitting next to them, American tourists deep in conversation about their meal. “Your special omelet gets cold.”
It was big enough to feed her for a week. She cut off a piece and hummed with the taste of truffles, woodsy and delicate and unique among mushrooms, dug from the roots of ancient oak trees. The village’s mayor and only policeman were in the family of the murder victim. No one talked about the murder. Was that because they knew more about the victim, and perhaps the perpetrator, than they let on?
“How is your dinner, Merle?”
Anthony Simms stood by the table, smiling down at them. “I’ve had the truffle omelet myself, and also, yours,” he nodded to Pascal. “If that’s the lamb. Delicious.”
Pascal leaned back in his chair. “How was your dinner?”
“Excellent, thanks. The duck tonight.” He patted his stomach and looked abashed suddenly. “Nice to see you then. Have a good evening.”
He backed away, bumping into the waitress who spilled water from a pitcher onto the floor. He mumbled apologies and ran from the restaurant.
Pascal winced. “Poor guy. What do you call them, a spaz?”
A laugh escaped her, unbidden. “Another naughty word, Pascal.” She tried to pull her focus back, to enjoy the rest of her meal. She tried not to think about Dominique/Justine, or the fact that she was Harry’s mother. It didn’t change who he was, the man he had been. “You didn’t learn all your English from MTV.”
“I’ve been to the United States. A couple times.”
“Where?”
“New York City, of course. And Washington, the capital.”
“There’s a lot of territory besides that.”
“Where have you been? To Texas and Montana and Chicago?”
“To France, twice,” she said, smiling. “But I haven’t been to most of the states either.”
“I have a confession. I have never been to Normandy or Brittany.”
“And so close. Shame on you.”
“When you go to heaven you get check marks next to your name for every new place you visit. The more check marks, the bigger your wings.”
“A lovely thought. If you believed in heaven.”
Pascal reached over and took her hand. “What if — ”
“What?”
“Just in case there is a heaven we go on a trip tomorrow. We drive to Provence or Biarritz, or somewhere you’ve never been.”
This was progressing pretty quickly. One drunken kiss and they were off on a trip together. She smiled, a little wary even as she felt — or because of — a rush of desire for him.
“I can’t.”
“You work too hard. Do you take a day off and enjoy yourself?”
“I’m confined to the village, remember? Besides there’s too much to do.” Time off made her anxious. She needed progress. It didn’t escape her that having true free time made her more nervous than a romp with a fine, young Frenchman. She told her family this was a vacation but it definitely was not. It was work, getting the old place in shape. She needed to check things off her list.
“I have company coming, Tristan and my sister. Tuesday evening.”
“This is Friday. That’s three, almost four days.”
And she knew that. Was her calendar back? It was depressing to think so. “Where would we go? I mean, if the inspector let me go.”
“Anywhere. But I see a problem. Between us we have no car.”
In her mind she saw the shutters closed, the house empty. Vulnerable. No. The wine. She couldn’t leave it. Strange how attached she had gotten to her basement treasure. Two or three days with the house unattended? It gave her chills.
“What if —” She put her hand on his now. He turned his palm up and grasped her fingers. “We decide in the morning.”
* * *
She woke in the night, wrapped in the sheets. He had grunted when her cast rubbed his ribs. Rolling toward him, she propped herself on pillows and stared at his profile against moonlight, the pointed chin, the straight nose, the muscular shoulders. Her body didn’t feel old anymore. He made her feel the way Harry had twenty years before, a feeling she’d forgotten, of hunger and contentment.
They had almost run home in the starlight. Whatever had made her cautious in the restaurant had evaporated with the twilight by the time they reached rue de Poitiers. He had kissed her neck as she climbed the stairs, and moved on quickly as they reached the bedroom.
He smelled of garlic, and wine, and sex. She ran her fingers through the thicket of hair on his chest and his eyes opened. She had wanted to touch him, and now she couldn’t stop. She felt grateful more than anything. She wasn’t the cold-hearted bitch she imagined she was, no — had been with Harry. Whatever she’d been, that was in the past, the other Merle who forgot how to feel, how to love. Pascal had found, then revived, something in her that had withered, hardened, and almost died. Always, always she would be grateful to him for that.
He pulled her on top of him, warm and strong. With her face in his capable hands he whispered, “What are you doing, my little blackbird?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The night was dark and full of stars when Hugh Rogers tapped on the door. The smell of sweet florals scented the air. The house served its purpose, imposing with a blue mansard roof, the sort of grandiosity you would expect from a village mayor. The glow of window light spilling onto the carefully raked gravel path. The wisteria, past its prime, hung limp on the wrought iron fence while the clematis crept over the arched gate. The walk was lined with rows of small flowers in white and orange, militaristic in their precision.
A servant answered, an elderly man in a pinching navy uniform. Rogers gave his name and was admitted to the salon. A squat brass lamp illuminated a circle of light near a threadbare needlepoint chair. He preferred to stand.
Redier entered the room wearing a blue cotton dressing gown over his trousers and undershirt. He looked annoyed. Rogers shook his hand politely. The mayor stuck both hands in the pockets of the thin gown, fists balled. Like his house he was tall and pompous, his gray hair in place and a pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose.
“We need to discuss payment,” Redier said. Hugh had expected as much. It always came down to money. “I am taking all the risks. My office, the gendarmerie, all will be scrutinized when this is over. You will disappear but I will stay to face the music, as you say.”
