The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 31
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“No,” Gillian said, still attached to the animal, clutching him tightly. “I want to take him with us.”
The sisters looked at each other. “Be reasonable,” Francie said. “We’re on vacation. What are we going to do with an injured dog?”
The nurse bent down beside Gillian and talked to the animal soothingly in French. The dog seemed very sweet, considering the pain he must be in.
The nurse stood and addressed Merle. “Tell your friend not to worry. She can come back for le chien in a couple days if she wants.”
The walk that afternoon was hot and dusty. They were mostly on farm roads but veered off onto a trail marked with little pink slashes on fence posts, through woods, and next to a creek. The shade was delicious. The French sun could be brutal in June, baking the hillsides. The roses in the hedgerows grew limp as did the Bennett sisters. Gillian marched off moody and alone, back to her silent self.
The walking was meditative for Merle, calming her overactive mind. Her job in New York helping Legal Aid get Big Law backers kept her spinning in circles. Or maybe that’s just the way she rolled, booked to the max, going 110 percent all the time. At any rate, she was back to her mind-set of lists and calendars. Nearly a week in France hadn’t cured her of that. She would stay on for a couple extra weeks though so there would be time to unwind. It worked last year in this soft European time, where no one has anything more important to do than buy fresh croissants. She’d looked forward to getting back in the golden light for months. It really was a shame Gillian had to come along with her negativity.
Stop. Calm. Family. Tristan. She said it like a mantra. Dinner tonight at Albert’s. Wine. France. Calm. Wine! There was a happy thought. Her throat felt parched, even with the last few lukewarm gulps from her water bottle. A cold Sauvignon Blanc would go down nicely.
By late afternoon, they were close to her adopted town. The approach to the walled village of Malcouziac filled her with pride and a kind of longing. Here was her piece of the Earth, a rocky, forlorn shard of charm. Harsh, unknowable, foreign. And yet, she belonged to it. Down a deep valley choked with brambles then up the other side, past high cliffs where the Saint Lucretia shrine guarded them all, around the butte, down another hill and there they were, the golden stone of the bastide walls, framed against the sky, curved and delicate, yet sturdy, and satisfyingly permanent. As much as the village had despised her last year, she loved it in all its messy glory. Centuries of fighting, clan against clan, duke against king, outsider against local. The walls of Malcouziac had lasted seven centuries. They would endure long after the petty quarrels of today’s inhabitants.
The past year had taught her so much: patience, tolerance, forgiveness. If she could practice those things on herself, she could sure as hell offer it to the unfortunate citizens of Malcouziac. They had a new mayor and gendarme. She’d only been in the village a couple days before the walking tour, but there was a new air of friendliness.
They rounded the cliffs, tall and chalky on their right. An image of Harry sprang into her head, something that didn’t happen often anymore. Her husband died last year of a heart attack and set her world on end. He would have enjoyed this though, in his curmudgeonly way. She could see him waddling along in his fancy loafers, tie loose, suit coat draped over a shoulder, moaning about the heat. If he wasn’t already dead, the heat would have killed him.
“What are you smiling about?” Annie asked her.
“Nothing.” Merle took her sister’s arm. “Everything.”
“Harry or Pascal?”
Pascal: last summer’s curative to her broken spirit. She hadn’t told him she was back in France. It would be awkward with James around. It seemed less complicated to just forget about Pascal.
“You know me too well.”
Annie squeezed her hand. “Will we have to go back for that damn dog?”
Merle laughed. “Yes, oh wise one. I think we will.”
2
The multi-paned door to the house on Rue de Poitiers stood wide open, a gust of wind rattling its dry shutters against the stone. Merle stood on the threshold, heart thumping. Tristan was alone in the house. He’d forgotten to lock the door. Panic shot through her. How close disaster had been last summer.
Laughter in the back garden reassured her. The cache of wine was gone. The bad guys were locked up. She took a breath. Why was she still so jumpy? She and Annie were the last two hikers to arrive. The sisters had felt the need for fresh air. That was all.
The ancient stone house still smelled stale from the winter, its thick walls cool and a little slimy in spots. It needed airing. The blue shutters were old and cracked but freshly painted. The orange tile roof had been repaired and survived the winter intact. Everything was intact. No need for worry. In the main room with its huge trestle table and a worn horsehair sofa, she knocked on a window sash and pushed it up. A breeze from the vineyards carried in the scent of fruit and musk.
Stasia called from outside. “Bring the wine, Merdle!”
When Merle arrived after a year away she’d been worried her garden would be a mess, both from neglect and from last year’s modernizing. But her neighbor Josephine — who lived here long ago — had delivered on her promise to keep things tidy and growing. She’d watered the grapevine and the espaliered pear tree, trimmed the roses, and swept dead leaves off the gravel patio. Merle was looking forward to thanking her at dinner tonight.
Stepping through the tiny kitchen into the sunshine, Merle felt the same rush of pleasure at the sight of the garden as the first time. An electric charge of wonder: her oasis, her pleasure grounds. Stasia had scoffed when Merle described it, calling her a romantic. How could a small garden be all that? When she saw it Stasia admitted she was wrong. It was a special place. Merle looked around. There, where she and Pascal danced that last night, last summer. There, the old rock pissoir, a soon-to-be converted outhouse with a vine climbing over the mossy roof. The wooden water cistern, still used for laundry and gardening, stood guard on its ten-foot legs surrounded by lavender. The roses were all in bloom, the red one busting its guts.
It was all so quaint and harmless and French.
Such a contrast, this little paradise surrounded by hard, weathered rock walls. Inside they were softened by wisteria and clematis and grapevines. Outside the world could be hard and cold. But in here, everything was safe and calm.
She delivered the bottle of wine as her sisters took off boots and swilled liquids then went to hug her son.
Tristan and Valerie sat at Père Albert’s kitchen table, playing cards. Her son had met the girl last summer. She was the reason Merle got Tristan to come back to France with her. Her great-uncle Albert was round and cheerful, a former priest with the sort of beatific air that made you forget not to call him Father. His head injury from last year had set him back a little. He’d lost weight, Merle noted, and was less sure of climbing the ladder to pick his beloved plums for eau de vie. But he emerged from the sitting room with a big grin and open arms.
“Bien venue, Merle. How was the walking?”
“Lovely. The weather couldn’t have been nicer. We stopped for a few gustations along the way.” The wine tastings only worked at the end of the day of walking, otherwise there was much weary carping. But Merle only smiled. Albert wasn’t interested in bickering.
“And your feet? Okay?”
“Not one blister.”
“What about Aunt Francie?” Tristan said, his eyes on his cards. “No blisters for Queenie Franceenie?”
“Well, yes. She got a couple.” And bug bites, thorn pricks, sunburn, and scraped elbows. Disaster seemed to follow Francie on the trail, at least from her perspective. Each sister’s personality blossomed on the trail. That morning Merle had made a mental list of each one’s travel mojo.
Annie: Everybody has a good time, right now!
Stasia: Follow the plan or I shoot you.
Merle: I just hope nobody stabs anybody.
Francie: This cheese is so freaking awesome! Ow! Look at me! Pass the wine!
Elise: If you tell me what to do I will pout all day.
And the plus one:
Gillian: My mind is too beautiful to share.
Two days in Malcouziac, resting, then they would hit the road again for three more days in a loop off to the North. The thought of it made Merle queasy. Her sisters were getting along all right, but the togetherness sometimes put a strain on things. If anybody bailed Stasia would be livid.
Merle turned to Albert’s niece. “Have you and Tristan had fun, Valerie?” She put her hands on her son’s shoulders. Maybe this was all the hug she’d get. Her boy was sixteen now.
“Oui, madame. Nous — pardon, I am to speak English.” Valerie rolled her eyes. “It sound terrible to me.”
“It sounds great.” Tristan said. “I love your accent.”
Valerie gave him a playful punch. “What accent?”
At fifteen the girl had already perfected the French pout, the ammunition against men for centuries. She turned up her nose, folded her arms, smirked and burst out laughing. She was going to be a handful, if she wasn’t already.
“Thanks so much for looking after my boy, Albert,” she said.
“Valerie took charge of activities. I only feed the man.” Albert wagged his finger. “Not a boy any longer. So tall!”
“And handsome,” Valerie chimed in. “With big shoulders.” Her violet eyes flashed at Tristan again.
Merle tapped his shoulders. “Come say hello to the aunties, Tris.” As he got up, Valerie did too, straightening her chic print blouse that clung to her chest and tugging down her mini-skirt.
“Oh, madame. I will love to practice my English on them!”
“Dinner at nine,” Albert called as they trailed through the back garden to the alley and through Merle’s garden gate.
The women dressed for dinner, changing into summer dresses. Merle had been able to rent her neighbors’ house as her own was too small for all of them. Yves and Suzette had been very generous. Elise, Francie, and Gillian were staying in Yves and Suzette’s house next door. It was much more modern than Merle’s, with a full bathroom on the second level and everything very chic. It made Merle’s tiny maison de ville look medieval.
When the younger three showed up in the garden for wine before heading to Albert’s they looked refreshed, shampooed and powdered. Elise, youngest and shortest sister, wore a flowered skirt and crisp white blouse. Francie had on a fitted dress with the kind of low neckline she liked. Gillian had transformed herself with a short lilac dress with black lace insets better suited to New York than rural France. She’d worn it to dinner twice already, with her thick brown hair onto her head. She took a glass of wine and stepped away without speaking, as if fascinated by the ripening pears as she tottered on four-inch heels.
“How much do you think that dress costs?” Stasia whispered in Merle’s ear.
“Whose?”
“Gillian’s. I saw it at Fashion Week. It’s couture, some Italian designer.”
“Looks expensive.”
“Pucci. That’s it.”
“Really? I thought he did all those blocky, colored things.”
“Look at you, fashionista. That’s why this dress stood out. Isn’t it divine? I checked it out at Bergdorf’s. I lusted after it.” They watched Gillian move carefully over the dirt, bending to sniff the roses. The black lace seemed to glow. The dress was kind of amazing.
As assistant managing editor at Gamine, a trendy women’s magazine, Stasia had access to all sorts of insider perks. Last winter she’d arrived at Merle’s with an armload of sweaters and let her take her pick. “Wouldn’t Gamine give you one?”
“Are you kidding? I can’t believe she has it. Of all people.” Stasia leaned closer. “Way too pricey. Eight-thousand.”
Merle sloshed her wine. “Dollars?”
“I have a personal limit for a single item. Kinda way over.”
Merle stared at the dress. It fit Gillian like a glove. Those shoes looked spendy too. Who would pay eight-thousand dollars for a dress? “She must be making some serious cash,” Merle muttered. But Stasia had moved away to talk to Elise. Their youngest sister was already on her second glass of wine. She’d twisted her ankle the first day out, not bad enough to stop walking. No one saw any swelling. But Elise took it as a sign of doom. She used to be such a sunny person before she went to law school.
Wine and Franglais flowed freely at dinner, between Valerie, Albert, Tristan, the sisters, Josephine, and Gillian. Josephine wore her ever-present pearls and brought a huge terrine of cassoulet rich with duck sausage. Not a usual summer dish, she explained, but one she’d made so often she could make it with her eyes shut. They were all sated with food and wine when Gillian stood up, clinking her glass with her knife.
“Thanks for dinner. It was good.” She nodded gravely at the old people. Merle blinked, fatigue slowing her reflexes. Was Gillian making a speech? “I can’t go to that church or whatever it is you’ve cooked up for tomorrow.” She looked at Albert. “We found this little dog, hurt, by the side of the road today. He’s in a village with an old lady. I don’t trust her. I have to go get him.”
She sat down abruptly. Francie recovered first, sitting on her left. “I’ll go with you. I don’t think I can stomach another church.”
“I found him. I want to go by myself.”
She glared at Francie who blinked, confused. “I didn’t —”
“I’ll go, and Valerie can too. I love dogs,” Tristan said, carrying dirty plates.
Valerie pouted. “I am to leave tomorrow. Back to Paris.”
“Well, I can go. Can I go, Mom?”
Gillian folded her arms. “I don’t need anyone to go with me. I just need to use the rental car.” She looked up at Tristan, appraising his worthiness or manliness or something. Merle felt a shiver. Gillian squinted against the candlelight. “All right. He can go.”
Rapport de Police, Midi-Pyrénées. 18 June.
M. Jean Poutou, resident of St-Paul, Lot, called to report a stolen dog. Poutou, age 82, was confused and upset. Wailing heard in the background. Claims expensive dog used for truffle hunting was released from its pen and taken from grounds. Unsure of date of incident, possibly as long as three days ago. No explanation for why dog was unattended for such a long time. Dog belongs to grandson not currently on premises and has imbedded ID chip (dog, not grandson.) Advised that les policiers do not look for lost dogs and to call insurance agent.
Patrick Girard, Commissariat de Police, Toulouse
The Girl in the Empty Dress
Available now
Also available from Thalia Press
these other great novels
by Lise McClendon
The Bennett Sisters Novels
Blackbird Fly
The Girl in the Empty Dress
Give Him the Ooh-la-la
The Things We Said Today
The Alix Thorssen Mysteries
The Bluejay Shaman
Painted Truth
Nordic Nights
Blue Wolf
The Dorie Lennox Mysteries
One O'clock Jump
Sweet and Lowdown
All Your Pretty Dreams:
a new adult romance
As Rory Tate
Jump Cut
PLAN X
As Thalia Filbert
Beat Slay Love:
One Chef’s Hunger for Delicious Revenge
Read about all these titles at
LiseMcClendon.com
The Girl
In
The Empty Dress
a Bennett Sisters novel
by
Lise McClendon
THE GIRL IN THE EMPTY DRESS© 2014, Lise McClendon
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Interior design and typesetting by Amy Eye, The Eyes for Editing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by Thalia Press in the United States of America
All rights reserved.
Also by Lise McClendon
Blackbird Fly: a Bennett Sisters Novel (#1)
Give Him the Ooh-la-la: a Bennett Sisters Novella (#3)
The Things We Said Today: a Bennett Sisters Novel (#4)
All Your Pretty Dreams
The Alix Thorssen Mysteries:
Bluejay Shaman
Painted Truth
Nordic Nights
Blue Wolf
The Dorie Lennox Mysteries:
One O’clock Jump
