The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 30
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“Rogers?” Merle blinked, trying to engage this new information. “Your brother’s son, your nephew — is he named Hugh Rogers?”
Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “So that is why you’re here, to squeeze blood from this old stone. Many have tried to recover the money he’s swindled them out of. You won’t be any better at it. All you’ll winkle from this old body is onion soup, I told you.”
“No, I — I met him in France. This man, Weston Strachie. Hugh says he swindled his father out of some wine. A long time ago.”
A dry laugh came from the old woman’s mouth. “Hugh’s been barking about that wine for years. Well, don’t worry, I want nothing to do with him and his dirty dealings. I’m sure it’s some tale Armstrong made up to make himself feel better for throwing away all those pounds. Throw the blame off his own stupidity. Now Hugh appeals to me from his prison cell in Paris. ‘Help me, Aunt Annabelle.’” She snorted. “Not likely, laddie.”
Merle let her rankle subside. She had more questions.
“Weston came here, did he?”
“Oh, yes. We were all young then. He was a friend of Hugh’s father. The restaurant business, always a poor way to earn money, if one must. Let’s see. He came several times, I believe. The year Virginia was here, though, she had just come back from school. It was winter, I recall. He stayed for the season, six or eight months.”
“What year was that?”
“Virginia was nineteen, I believe. Sometime after the war. 1950, maybe.”
“Why did he stay so long?”
“Armstrong enjoyed having a pal around. Pudge and I were married then but — well. They didn’t get along. Wes had energy. He loved to shoot and drink and all. He wooed silly Virginia right from the start. Poor wretched girl. I tried to warn her about men like him but she did love him.”
Merle looked at the photo. “Was she wrong, do you think? To run away with him?”
The leafless trees across the back garden made stark designs on the sky. Annabelle’s voice was soft. She glanced at Merle then disappeared into her memories.
“Love is never wrong. But where it leads you, that can be the biggest mistake, one you pay for all the rest of your life. I fell in love with Pudge Gallagher against everyone’s wishes. He was a buffoon, they said, but I didn’t see that. I was blind. I found that out later, to my sorrow. He spent my money and that was that. So were they right about Pudge, about my mistake? The heart doesn’t hear that. I couldn’t tell Virginia she would be unhappy, that she would, as you say, meet a painful end with him, could I? She would have been unhappy if she’d stayed — although we all liked to think we could have picked out someone better for her than that slimy American. We always like to think we know best for others, don’t we.” Annabelle sighed. “She was happy, for awhile, do you think?”
“I suppose,” Merle said. “Maybe that's —” She stopped. To be happy for awhile seemed like such a small thing.
“All we get. Yes,” Annabelle said. “Life is long, I can tell you. It has moments you cherish and those you wish you could forget. You know what the poet said, ‘he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternity’s sunrise.’”
The smell of boiling onions wafted in from the hall. Merle said goodbye. The Widow and her Gothic Mansion had come to life. The bitterness, the loneliness, the empty rooms and dashed dreams crashed in on her. She shivered, closing the heavy door behind her.
In the car Merle tried to feel the coursing of life through her veins, blood sending oxygen to her brain. I am alive. Would she end up bitter and alone like Annabelle Gallagher? No. She would not ruminate on her failures, on her faults, on her losses. She would not. But she would send Annabelle some money, a ham every Christmas, something to atone for the sins of Weston Strachie. Wait, she had money now. Of course she did. She’d send Annabelle a ham every week. She would stop into that butcher shop in Hockingdon.
Yes, and then — she would move on. She sat straighter and said it aloud: “I will move on.” Was this the release she’d been looking for? Had she forgiven herself for her blinders and blunders?
The sky was so blue suddenly, the clouds blown off to the west. If this wasn’t forgiveness, it was a decent stand-in. It would do. It was reality. She hadn’t loved Harry; he hadn’t loved her. With any luck she would grow old, he would not. She would hold her grandchildren, he would not. It was a hard bargain but she had no choice. Accept death, she’d told herself. But what about life? Was she ready to accept all it offered, good and bad? To open her arms, her heart to anything and everything?
She opened her bag — that much she could do — to put away the envelope of photographs and memories. There, tucked into a side pocket, was the purple marble little Sophie had given her. They had all met one Saturday in early October, Harry's extended family: Courtney, Sophie, Tristan, and Merle, at a pizza parlor on the Lower Eastside. There were nerves, lots of them, except for Sophie who danced in wearing her red party dress and pink tights. The little girl brought gifts, a marble for Merle and a rabbit’s foot for Tristan. It had been so hard to tell Tristan about them. He had cried, pounded his bed with his fists, and cursed his father. Then the next week he sent her an email from school that he wanted to meet Sophie. She was his sister. She was a connection to his father, he wrote, a way to keep him in his life. Tristan was so much wiser than she was, in so many ways.
The marble was smooth, veined with white. She rolled it in her palms. Now that she didn’t have to worry about Tristan’s future, she was concocting a plan to put aside money for Sophie from the auction proceeds. But first she would invite Courtney and Sophie for Thanksgiving dinner at her dark, shadowy house. It would be awkward, difficult. There would be more nerves and probably tears. But she would be brave. She wasn’t afraid of the future now.
She shut her eyes and thought of Pascal. Was that love? Probably not. She went days without thinking about him when she was busy. But she could love again, it was possible. Her heart wasn’t cold and dead. There was something left inside her, a yearning for more. Another chance. A richer life. A second half.
Possibility. Was that all that it took to feel alive? Could it be that it wasn’t getting the thing you desire itself but the anticipation, the struggle, the dream of it that makes living so amazing? Was it that simple?
The noon sun peeked out again from the clouds, glinting off the car’s chrome. The old woman’s poem echoed in her head. ‘Kisses the joy as it flies’— she got that. Annie would be proud: enjoy the moment. But ‘eternity’s sunrise’— what the hell did that mean? Hope? A new day? Always living in that moment when the sun comes up, a new day begins and anything is possible — or — or —
Merle touched a finger to her forehead and smiled. The engine roared back to life. She didn't have a clue what the poet meant.
And that was all right.
Get ready for
the sequel to Blackbird Fly
winging your way
May 2014
The Bennett Sisters are on a walking tour of France
when they discover an injured dog
Who else is looking for the dog?
Truffles, Intrigue, Wine, and Romance
Come along and find out who is...
The Girl
in
the Empty Dress
Read an excerpt here
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Lawyrr Grrl
Where a woman can grrowl about the legal profession
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BLOGSistrrs in Law
tagged family matters, vacation, kvetching,
screaming inside, ulcer time
Posted June 13
Grrls, it’s confession time. You may have guessed from posts over the past year that I have four sisters and all of us are trained attorneys. Kinda crazy, but there it is. Our father and his father before him were also lawyers. The law is in our blood. We grew up debating, arguing, holding mock trials over dishwashing duties, deposing each other, trying to best one another around the dinner table, running to Daddy’s law books if we were stumped.
We sisters are all different and use our legal training in various ways: profit, non-profit, corporate, non-traditional. I’m not going to tell you exactly what we do or where we live. I will tell you this: being a non-lawyer in this family was a non-starter. Eventually we all fell into lock step. Some are happy troopers, some not so much. Some enjoy cracking the whip, some like taking a beating. We all have our strengths.
So we’re going a trip together! No lounging around five-star hotels or cruise ships for us. No, we’re walking through the countryside, reading maps like explorers, getting spider webs in our hair, perspiring like champs, losing our way. Sounds like a bonding experience, huh. I mean, what the hell? We don’t wear zip-off pants and hiking boots. We wear power suits and stilettos. We’re lawyers: we have manicures for f••kssake!
And yet. Grrl sigh. Not going is also a non-starter. I will report in, or lose my shit, or both.
1
Cresting the hill on the dirt road, Merle Bennett felt the ache of her calf muscles and paused to adjust her backpack. She wasn’t breathing that hard, just needed a second to catch her breath. Four days on the trail in the French countryside, plus all that jogging she’d done this spring made her feel strong.
Her oldest sister pulled up next to her, a little red in the face but smiling. Annie was fifty-four, bearing down on Social Security, she joked, but looking fit in cargo shorts, hiking boots, and a tie-dye T-shirt from a CSNY concert. “This is so great, isn’t it? Look at that old ruin up there, all Castle Grimly.”
Merle followed her gaze. “It belonged to Lord Byron, they say. Very gothic.”
Francie arrived puffing, auburn tendrils stuck to her face and freckles blurred by exertion. Sister number four, she was too young to be a reluctant hiker. Forty-three was nothing. Just wait until she turned fifty.
Fifty. It had hit Merle hard. Fifty and alone: the words circled her brain. Even with James. Somehow he didn’t change things where it counted, deep in her heart. Was James not a keeper? No, no mind games today, not today on the top of a beautiful hill in the Dordogne surrounded by orchards and vineyards and cows with the sun on her shoulders and the scent of lavender and roses on the breeze. This was a good day. Her sisters were here, helping her celebrate being a big, fat fifty.
Focus, Merle. Smile, Merle. This is your life, Merle Bennett.
Stasia was ahead, walking down the hill beside Elise. Number two and number five, the sisters were the same height and walked the same way. Their hips swayed just so, and they swung their arms enthusiastically. Elise had dark brown hair like Merle, but Stasia’s was lighter with well-maintained highlights. Merle was the middle sister. The Tent Pole they called her, possibly because of her Olive Oyl figure. The running, the worry, and Harry’s death were responsible for that.
“Where the fuck are we?” Francie gasped, pulling out her map.
“Right here, right now, Miss Francine honey,” Annie said, smiling like the Dalai Lama.
“That’s what you always say.”
“And I’m always right,” said Annie. “Come on.” She linked arms with Merle and Francie. “Let’s truck down this hill. We’re off to see the —”
“No singing,” Francie hissed.
“Tell that to your friend,” Merle muttered. She squinted down the hill. Francie’s friend Gillian was dressed in safari classic, khaki head to toe with an asymmetrical hat that made her look like Crocodile Dundee. What was she trying to prove with that get-up? She hadn’t made a good impression on the Bennett sisters. Merle hated to dislike people in general. Everyone had at least one good quality. Lawyers were trained to find the overlooked, that one detail that would set the case back. They just hadn’t found that detail, something positive, in Gillian yet. Her presence had upset the sister dynamic, throwing off the finely tuned, five-spoke spin. But it was too late to get rid of her.
Merle sighed, pledging to herself to try harder. She didn’t want to try to like someone on her vacation. It didn’t seem quite fair.
Since they arrived in Paris together, on the plane, on the train, and on the trail, Gillian had remained aloof. She didn’t answer when asked a question, didn’t listen, didn’t offer help or information. She acted like she was doing them a favor by going on the trip. Merle had given Gillian a pass for a couple days, but it was the singing that pushed her over.
She had a nice voice, that was true. Besides Annie’s folk guitar days, none of the Bennett sisters were musical. They would be walking along, talking and laughing, and Gillian, not participating in the conversation, would nonetheless pick up on some phrase or word and burst into song. Usually Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra—if someone remarked on the moon, she rang out with all the verses of “Fly Me to the Moon”—which was weird for a woman of 30-something. No one knew how old Gillian was. She seemed older than Elise, who was also celebrating a birthday on this trip, her 40th. Elise, the baby, always seemed young.
But, dear lord, the singing. It drove Merle bat-shit crazy. She was trying hard not to let it show. There were five more days on the trail to go.
Stasia, in a wide-brimmed hat decorated with wildflowers, rolled up pants, and a pink shirt, stopped next to Gillian. Elise pulled off her backpack and laid it on the dirt. A break was in the offing even though they’d only walked for an hour. They’d never make it back to Malcouziac tonight at this rate.
Gillian was staring at something in the ditch, hands on her hips. Merle frowned. There wasn’t supposed to be a sixth member of this trip, but Francie hadn’t gotten that memo. She’d invited her law firm colleague to go walking through France with them. Francie was the type who always needed a pal at her side, reinforcing her specialness. She was the prettiest sister, auburn hair streaked with sunlight, beautiful skin, the tallest. Pulling in the biggest salary too. But right now she was just one of the hiking Bennett sisters. She’d been cranky from the start.
When they arrived at the bottom of the hill, Gillian was crouched low in the grass, hand extended. Elise turned to them, eyes wide. “It’s a dog. Hurt or something. Gillian found it.”
They gathered around a filthy liver-and-white dog curled on its side, head up, brown eyes sad. A poodle maybe or a mix, a small one, its curly hair matted. When Gillian reached out a hand to pat its head, the dog thumped its tail.
“Don’t touch it,” Stasia said. “God knows where it’s been.”
“Aw, sweetie dog,” Gillian cooed, ignoring her. Merle looked at Stasia, who wiggled her eyebrows. This was a new wrinkle, the fuzzy side of Gillian. Stasia had tried to befriend her at the start of the trip, being a pal, calling her Gillie. She’d been corrected.
“He’s hurt. He’s all bloody on that hip,” Elise said, peering down. “I bet he can’t walk.”
“We’ll carry him,” Gillian announced. “How far to the next village?”
“Hold on,” Merle said. “We can send somebody back for him.”
“It’s a mile at most.” Francie consulted her map. “Loiverre. Not super tiny.”
“So they might have a vet.” Gillian walked around the back of the dog. “I’ll carry him. Stand back.”
“Wait, Gillian. Stop.” Stasia held up a hand. “He’ll bite you if you pick him up. Then we’ll have two injuries.”
Gillian handed her backpack to Elise and scooped her arms under the dog while clucking in his ear. The dog whimpered, his injured leg twitching, but laid his head back against his savior. Gillian gave Stasia a look of victory—or possibly fuck you—and walked out of the grassy ditch toward the village.
“She won’t make it.” Stasia marched beside Merle, shaking her head. “So bull-headed. What was Francie thinking? Gillian is ruining everything.”
At five-four with an athletic build, toned arms, and muscular legs, Gillian was strong and fast. The rest of them struggled to keep up with her, even with a dog in her arms. Francie skipped ahead to try to help. Elise carried the extra backpack and offered encouragement.
“She must hit the gym more than the lawyers I know,” Merle said.
“Don’t hold that against her,” Annie said.
Stasia laughed. “Oh, I’ve got a dozen other grievances, counselor.”
In fifteen minutes they’d reached Loiverre and gathered in the central square to reconnoiter. Gillian lowered herself to the stone steps by a statue of a soldier and the French flag, cradling the dog in her arms. Annie volunteered to go ask about a veterinarian.
Elise jumped up and they took off together for the post office before Merle could say anything. She’d never found postal employees helpful in France, especially if you didn’t speak perfect, colloquial French.
Sandwiches were eaten in silence as they waited. Gillian soothed the dog, talking baby talk. Annie and Elise returned and led them down a side street to the entrance of a medical office. “No vet,” Annie explained. “But the doctor treats animals sometimes.”
The receptionist in the doctor’s office begged to differ. Her eyes widened at the sight of the smelly dog. Merle asked in her re-tooled French if there was someone around here who treated dogs.
“Ah, oui, madame,” the young woman said, dashing into a back room. She returned with an older woman, apparently a nurse. She was tall, silver through her dark hair, and had kind eyes. Merle explained their situation.
“She says she can take him home and treat him,” Merle told her sisters. “We can leave him with her. She’ll try to find the owner.”
