The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 34
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“Remember the time Elise stole a piece of candy from Nelson’s Store and you made her march back and pay for it?” Francie asked.
“She cried the whole time,” Stasia said.
Francie giggled. “And wet her pants!”
“You had to carry her,” Annie said.
“By her heels,” Stasia laughed.
“I was only three,” Elise said. She threw her hair back and stuck her chin out. “You were meaner than Mommy, Merle.”
And you were the baby. Merle looked into her wine glass. She wasn’t going to be drawn into an argument, especially in front of Pascal.
“You know what they say,” Annie said. “It takes a village.”
“Takes a village for what?” Pascal asked.
“Never mind.” Merle stood up, grabbing his hand. “Come on. I miss my long walks already.”
The alley sported a mossy strip down the middle, so neat and tidy. Merle was still holding Pascal’s hand. It reminded her of his work on her roof and in her bed. Like its owner it was hot, muscular, and a little rough around the edges. She stopped abruptly, facing him.
Pascal had put his sunglasses on. He skidded to a stop and looked over them, his dark eyes flashing under unruly eyebrows. “Everything okay?”
Merle took a breath and looked at her feet, trying to process what was happening. Should she tell him about James? Did it matter, really? She would be here for nearly three weeks. Pascal—who knew? Days, hours? James had insisted on coming against her advice. Should she feel flattered he couldn’t stay away or annoyed? Then there was Gillian, also uninvited. And Pascal, in all his manly now-ness. Holiday crashers all.
His hand cupped her cheek. “What is it, mon petit merle?”
She thought of the things she should say: her sisters, the togetherness, the bickering, the love she felt for them, the interloper, the walking, the stray dog. Tristan, growing up too fast. Her job, demanding all her energy and dwindling charm. She wanted to tell him all of it, but it was too much. Time had gone by and here they were again, alone together, two strangers in a small town in France.
She bit her lip and looked into his brown eyes. They were just as warm and open as she remembered. What else could she say?
“I’ve missed you.”
BLOG—That Girl
Tagged vacation, blisters, wine, whine
Posted June 18
Turns out there is an extra along, not just the five sisters. It’s a dog! Found by the side of the road, injured, and suddenly we are the Doggie Samaritans. Is anyone more dog-crazy than Americans? A brown-and-white mutt, filthy, whiny, and bleeding: what a pathetic sight. But the Sisters have come to the rescue like the angels of mercy we are.
Plus That Girl.
Yes, a real sixth wheel. One of the sisters invited along a friend. A law colleague. What was she thinking, throwing the poor thing into the cat house like an injured mouse? She seems capable enough but the girl is not a mixer. Doesn’t even try. And by now she’s alienated even the nice sisters. (The not-so-nice sisters took against her from the start.)
To be fair to the sisters, That Girl has made her bed. She’s not warm or friendly in the least. And so private it makes you wonder what she’s hiding. Hard worker and all that, always walks the fastest, but standoffish. Turns out she’s really into lost dogs, so how bad could she be? The sisters should warm up to her, if she ever gives them the chance. Right now she’s off somewhere moping.
Oh, wait. Drama ensues. Oldest sister, rock of flippin’ Gibraltar, has just raised her voice. She’s the calm, Zen sister no more. She is calling out another sister for whining. Love it! I see tears coming! Now she’s calling out another sister for being bossy. Another one is getting it for inviting That Girl along and messing up the ‘delicate karma of sisterhood.’ The last one gets it for something lame, can’t even be bothered to repeat it. Just equal opportunity ragging.
A hush falls over the crowd.
Then somebody opens a bottle of wine and it’s over.
Texts between Annie Bennett and her father, Jack.
Annie: Find out anything on Gillian Sargent? She’s messing with my head. Got a contact at Ward & Baillee?
Jack: From the website: Colorado Law, 98. Playing golf with attys on Saturday. Will ply with liquor. Jack, Ace Detective
Jack: Finally got a source at W&B. Somebody there dubbed her ‘The Girl in the Empty Dress.’ Nobody knows a damn thing about her.
Curiosity piqued. Background check?
Annie: Hold off. She hasn’t done anything
And one from Francie.
Francie: M&D: Why didn’t you tell me about Camembert? You’ve been holding out on me! Thinking of cheese biz. My friend Gillian is driving us crazier than we are already. Must drink wine to hold tongues! Sisters having fun!
Bernadette: Remember, dear, cheese is very binding. Mother.
The market at Uzès was bustling in the morning sun, red umbrellas lining the sidewalks to the Place des Herbes, the central square. Vegetables, nuts, spices, bread, sausage, and a vast array of clothing, dishes, and souvenirs beckoned to the two middle-aged men. Hector loped slowly by the stands, dragging his worn boot heels, hands in his baggy trousers. Everywhere he turned, the Dutch: tall blond people with small, blond rug rats. Milo munched on a croissant chocolat and complained about the heat.
It took them thirty minutes to determine that no one was selling truffles. Wrong time of year. Truffle-hunting was a winter sport and most markets ran January to March. The markets at Lalbenque and St.Paul-Trois-Châteaux had been equally disappointing. Tourists everywhere, Hector thought, spitting out the stub of his cigarette. Nothing but tourists.
If only they could speak to a single truffière. The truffle hunters were a close-knit and closed-mouth bunch. But they might gossip about a dog on the loose. But the markets were hopeless, endless stands of tablecloths, courgettes, and old shoes.
Milo wanted a beer. The heat was wicked and he was parched but Milo must not have a beer. Hector bought him a bottle of water and led him back to the truck.
Driving north, Hector looked for the dog along the roadsides. She would be injured, bleeding, thanks to Milo. She couldn’t go far. He kept to the secondary roads, winding around the hills, along the rivers. Milo began to snore.
It took several hours to get to Sarlat. Crowds at the market had thinned but it was still lively. Again no truffles for sale. Such a specialized product, one mushroom seller told him. So pricey. Ask the duck and goose people.
One seller of foie gras remained in his stand under a large, green canopy. He was an old man with scarred hands from handling temperamental fowl. The drawing of a fat goose hung on a mural behind him. Hector waited for him to sell a small tureen and three jars of foie gras and duck confit.
“Excuse me. Bonjour, monsieur.” Hector doffed his cap and waved toward the mushroom merchant. “Monsieur des cèpes has advised me to ask if you have heard anything of my poor dog. My little Julie was taken from her pen. Did you hear of it? My truffle dog was stolen.”
The old man’s wrinkles deepened around his eyes. He squinted at Hector and Milo. Not his usual customer, no tourist or rich Parisienne. He wore a Greek sailor’s cap and a dirty navy blue apron over his white shirt. His jowls were legendary, as were his forearms, exposed with turned-up cuffs, muscular and hairy. Milo was coughing into a dirty handkerchief. When that was over, the old man eyed Hector.
“I hear things.”
“I’m afraid someone will try to sell her. She is one of the finest noses—plus coûteux—in the Dordogne. In France! Tell me. Where was she seen?”
The old man crossed his arms, taking another look at Milo then back at Hector’s sweat-stained striped shirt and dirty hands. “You are the owner then?”
“Oui, oui. I have been searching for her day and night. I am most anxious.”
“Quel dommage.” Too bad. He shrugged and turned his back.
Hector’s hopes sunk. The old man didn’t believe him, the hard country nut. He reminded Hector of his grandfather, gnarled, suspicious, and coldhearted. Where could he try next? Périgueux? It was nearly four o’clock. It would be another night on the ground under the truck. At least they still had a few of the signora’s euros to get a decent meal.
Then the old man was back. He stood across the table full of preserved duck and liver of goose, a sheet of blue paper in his hand. Hector reached for it as the old man asked, “How much will you offer?”
In large, black lettering, the paper announced a reward for a truffle dog stolen from a farm. A grainy photo showed her from the side, ears flapping in a breeze. There she was, the scrawny, whimpering mutt they had held in their arms three days before. The one who had wiggled the latch on the crate while he and Milo drank a few celebratory Kronenbourgs.
RÉCOMPENSE [REWARD]
Chien Volé [Stolen Dog]
‘Aurore’
10,000 €
Pas des questions [No questions asked]
Milo clucked. He could only read the numbers. “Ten-thousand?”
“When did you get this?” Hector asked the old man.
“Yesterday. The owner was desperate. His grandson raised the dog, trained her himself. He can’t afford that much but he has no choice.” He squinted at Hector. “And now your dog, also stolen. Must be a ring of thieves.”
Back in the truck Milo asked Hector what the old man said. “But that is more than the signora will give us. Much more.”
“Sì, sì, sì.”
“What should we do?” Milo poked a stubby finger at the sheet. “He pays much more. Will the signora be offended? I never cared for her myself. Beautiful, yes, but, pffft. She is a miser with the wages.”
Hector started the truck. “Stop babbling. Let me think. I am the thinker. When I decide, I will tell you.”
Ten thousand euros. The money was in his mind, in his hands, already spent.
Bettina Dellepiane learned the news that same day through the world of truffles. There were only a handful of operations like hers, owners of truffle grounds who were also buyers, sorters, and distributors. One was her neighbor and fierce competitor, Gianluca Gribaudi. That he was her late husband’s distant cousin was perhaps inevitable; the family owned all this land at one time.
Gianluca and her Furio never were friendly. There had been a feud when they were boys with lingering bad feelings. So it was suspicious when Gianluca drove his new black Land Rover onto the courtyard that afternoon as the sun beat hard on the gravel. Bettina re-pinned a loose strand of hair as she watched his quick, happy step toward her door.
She smiled at him. “Come inside out of the heat.”
He kissed her cheeks. “How are you, Bettina? Are you well? I’ve not seen you for many weeks.”
Months, to be sure. Since the harvest fair in March. His white hair was thick and swept back from his tan forehead now creased with lines. He was still proud of his physique, the way he hitched his pants to show his prowess. He wore fancy sunglasses, a pressed purple shirt, white linen slacks, and leather loafers. He smiled at himself in the mirror in the hall.
She ushered him into the parlor and offered him a glass of chilled wine. Was he just being polite by this visit or did he hope she had taken ill and would sell out? She didn’t trust a word from his mouth. He made small talk about the weather and the price of truffles. He inquired about the grandchildren. When she had poured each of them a tiny glass of wine, he got to the point.
“I heard your beloved Pompeo has gone.” He sat forward, eyes sad. “I know how hard that is. My sincere condolences.”
Bettina felt the loss of her dog once more, like a knife. Pompeo had been her faithful partner for twelve years until the cancer came. The best dog, best friend, best truffle hunter: il suo buon tartufaio. He softened the loss of dear Furio and made every day sunnier. She couldn’t cope with putting him down, but in the end, she couldn’t watch her loyal companion suffer either.
She gathered herself. “It’s been two months. Time heals the wound.” She sipped a little wine. “But I appreciate your sentiment, Gianluca.” Even so late, she did.
“Has it been so long as that?” His hand flew to his heart. “I apologize. I should have come sooner.”
She gave him a conciliatory smile. He was probably too busy celebrating the loss of her money-maker. Pompeo’s nose was known far and wide. Gianluca had many dogs but none in the same league as her Pompeo.
“Have you looked for a new dog?” he asked. She nodded. “And—success?”
“I’ve seen a few. But none close to Pompeo.”
“An impossible standard.” His extravagant eyebrows twitched. “I wonder. Pardon. I thought it might be too soon but since you say it is two months... I saw this in the village and thought of you.”
He extracted a white sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Smoothing it against his knee, he passed it to her. A photograph she had seen before on the Internet in an article about top truffle dogs. The sheet, from the Ente Nazionale per la Protezione degli Animali and the Carbinieri, announced a reward for a dog stolen in France. She read the name and felt a chill of fear. She straightened her back and turned to Gianluca, arranging her face.
“What do you suggest?” She tried to laugh brightly. “That I go searching in France for this dog?”
He smiled. “No, no, Bettina. But you could contact this owner. Offer to pay the reward and buy the dog in one single step.”
She glanced again at the picture of the dog. She had already done that, more or less. Carefully, hand shaking, she passed the sheet back. “I don’t think so. But a very creative idea. Very creative indeed.”
“Please, keep it. Maybe you will change your mind. I have heard of this dog. They say she is very capable.”
He didn’t stay long, sensing perhaps she wanted to get rid of him. As she closed the door, she fell against it in anguish. The owner was offering twice the money for Aurore. Her olive pickers would know this by now. She must call them right away before they found the dog and returned it to the owner.
Her forehead thumped against the solid old door. She cursed Gianluca, then Furio for leaving her with this. How dare he die so young? She let out a little groan. How was she to come up with ten thousand euros? Because there was no other solution now.
Tristan arranged the pillows in the basket, gently setting the dog’s head on a pink velvet heart that Valerie had left with Albert. She was still weak, her leg bandaged, but she looked better. Her tail thumped as he patted her head.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to her. “I’ll take good care of you.”
Behind him the women were arguing. Gillian had her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. “I don’t see why you want the dog over here. I can take care of her better than any of you. I know how to give pills to a dog.”
“Honestly, Gillian,” Francie said. “It’s not rocket science. A little peanut butter and you’re good to go.”
“You think you can find peanut butter in this village?” Gillian said.
“Nutella,” Annie suggested.
Merle said, “Actually the vet said cheese, which we have in quantity. I already gave her a pill. She likes gruyère.” She looked at the basket her son had set up in the corner of the main room. A shaft of sunlight warmed it. The dog looked comfortable, clean, and well-loved. Why was Gillian making such a fuss? She seemed to have two settings: silent and brooding or hot and bothered. “Besides, we don’t have permission to have a dog at Yves and Suzette’s.”
Tristan stood up. “I don’t care if you give her the pills, Gillian. All I want is for her to get better.” Merle smiled at him. Somebody had to be an adult here.
Gillian had her dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a short khaki skirt that exposed her muscular calves with a black T-shirt covered with white hairs from holding the dog in the car. She’d been frantic to get the dog back this morning, talking the vet into releasing her into their care.
She tossed back her hair and sniffed. “That’s all I want too. Of course.”
“The vet told me something different today, Gillian, about the wound.” Merle had her attention now, bright, dark eyes. “It wasn’t a gunshot wound.”
Gillian melted a little, relieved. “What was it?”
“It was too small for a bullet,” Merle continued. “But it wasn’t an accident. Based on where the wound was, the size and depth of it, he thinks it was a computer chip. An identification chip.”
“Someone took it out?” Gillian asked.
“And not very neatly,” Merle said.
“Eeeeuw,” Francie squealed helpfully.
“If he’s right,” Merle said, “she was probably stolen. The chip was removed so the owner couldn’t trace her.”
“So she’s a girl dog?” Elise was kneeling by the basket, petting the dog. “Poor baby.”
“The vet told us. We’ve never had a dog. Are you leaving tomorrow for the next part of the walk, Mom?” Tristan looked at his aunts gathered around the living room, eyes twinkling. “Because I can hang here and take care of Tartuffe.” He flashed his boyish smile. That smile was the only thing of Harry Merle saw in her tall, lanky son. “That’s what I named her. Tartuffe.”
Gillian blinked. “You named her?”
“Sure. Why not?” Tristan went back into his crouch by the basket.
Gillian let a hmmph escape her mouth and rolled her eyes. Annie said, “Let’s not fight over a dog. Please.”
“We’re not fighting,” Gillian said, still very much in combat mode. “We’re discussing what’s best for the dog.”
“We don’t have to call her ‘the dog.’ Tartuffe,” Tristan said. “Like the play.”
“That’s one of those silly French farces, isn’t it?” Elise said. “With slamming doors and love affairs and people who aren’t who they say they are?”
“I am not calling her Tartuffe,” Gillian said to no one in particular.
“She cried the whole time,” Stasia said.
Francie giggled. “And wet her pants!”
“You had to carry her,” Annie said.
“By her heels,” Stasia laughed.
“I was only three,” Elise said. She threw her hair back and stuck her chin out. “You were meaner than Mommy, Merle.”
And you were the baby. Merle looked into her wine glass. She wasn’t going to be drawn into an argument, especially in front of Pascal.
“You know what they say,” Annie said. “It takes a village.”
“Takes a village for what?” Pascal asked.
“Never mind.” Merle stood up, grabbing his hand. “Come on. I miss my long walks already.”
The alley sported a mossy strip down the middle, so neat and tidy. Merle was still holding Pascal’s hand. It reminded her of his work on her roof and in her bed. Like its owner it was hot, muscular, and a little rough around the edges. She stopped abruptly, facing him.
Pascal had put his sunglasses on. He skidded to a stop and looked over them, his dark eyes flashing under unruly eyebrows. “Everything okay?”
Merle took a breath and looked at her feet, trying to process what was happening. Should she tell him about James? Did it matter, really? She would be here for nearly three weeks. Pascal—who knew? Days, hours? James had insisted on coming against her advice. Should she feel flattered he couldn’t stay away or annoyed? Then there was Gillian, also uninvited. And Pascal, in all his manly now-ness. Holiday crashers all.
His hand cupped her cheek. “What is it, mon petit merle?”
She thought of the things she should say: her sisters, the togetherness, the bickering, the love she felt for them, the interloper, the walking, the stray dog. Tristan, growing up too fast. Her job, demanding all her energy and dwindling charm. She wanted to tell him all of it, but it was too much. Time had gone by and here they were again, alone together, two strangers in a small town in France.
She bit her lip and looked into his brown eyes. They were just as warm and open as she remembered. What else could she say?
“I’ve missed you.”
BLOG—That Girl
Tagged vacation, blisters, wine, whine
Posted June 18
Turns out there is an extra along, not just the five sisters. It’s a dog! Found by the side of the road, injured, and suddenly we are the Doggie Samaritans. Is anyone more dog-crazy than Americans? A brown-and-white mutt, filthy, whiny, and bleeding: what a pathetic sight. But the Sisters have come to the rescue like the angels of mercy we are.
Plus That Girl.
Yes, a real sixth wheel. One of the sisters invited along a friend. A law colleague. What was she thinking, throwing the poor thing into the cat house like an injured mouse? She seems capable enough but the girl is not a mixer. Doesn’t even try. And by now she’s alienated even the nice sisters. (The not-so-nice sisters took against her from the start.)
To be fair to the sisters, That Girl has made her bed. She’s not warm or friendly in the least. And so private it makes you wonder what she’s hiding. Hard worker and all that, always walks the fastest, but standoffish. Turns out she’s really into lost dogs, so how bad could she be? The sisters should warm up to her, if she ever gives them the chance. Right now she’s off somewhere moping.
Oh, wait. Drama ensues. Oldest sister, rock of flippin’ Gibraltar, has just raised her voice. She’s the calm, Zen sister no more. She is calling out another sister for whining. Love it! I see tears coming! Now she’s calling out another sister for being bossy. Another one is getting it for inviting That Girl along and messing up the ‘delicate karma of sisterhood.’ The last one gets it for something lame, can’t even be bothered to repeat it. Just equal opportunity ragging.
A hush falls over the crowd.
Then somebody opens a bottle of wine and it’s over.
Texts between Annie Bennett and her father, Jack.
Annie: Find out anything on Gillian Sargent? She’s messing with my head. Got a contact at Ward & Baillee?
Jack: From the website: Colorado Law, 98. Playing golf with attys on Saturday. Will ply with liquor. Jack, Ace Detective
Jack: Finally got a source at W&B. Somebody there dubbed her ‘The Girl in the Empty Dress.’ Nobody knows a damn thing about her.
Curiosity piqued. Background check?
Annie: Hold off. She hasn’t done anything
And one from Francie.
Francie: M&D: Why didn’t you tell me about Camembert? You’ve been holding out on me! Thinking of cheese biz. My friend Gillian is driving us crazier than we are already. Must drink wine to hold tongues! Sisters having fun!
Bernadette: Remember, dear, cheese is very binding. Mother.
The market at Uzès was bustling in the morning sun, red umbrellas lining the sidewalks to the Place des Herbes, the central square. Vegetables, nuts, spices, bread, sausage, and a vast array of clothing, dishes, and souvenirs beckoned to the two middle-aged men. Hector loped slowly by the stands, dragging his worn boot heels, hands in his baggy trousers. Everywhere he turned, the Dutch: tall blond people with small, blond rug rats. Milo munched on a croissant chocolat and complained about the heat.
It took them thirty minutes to determine that no one was selling truffles. Wrong time of year. Truffle-hunting was a winter sport and most markets ran January to March. The markets at Lalbenque and St.Paul-Trois-Châteaux had been equally disappointing. Tourists everywhere, Hector thought, spitting out the stub of his cigarette. Nothing but tourists.
If only they could speak to a single truffière. The truffle hunters were a close-knit and closed-mouth bunch. But they might gossip about a dog on the loose. But the markets were hopeless, endless stands of tablecloths, courgettes, and old shoes.
Milo wanted a beer. The heat was wicked and he was parched but Milo must not have a beer. Hector bought him a bottle of water and led him back to the truck.
Driving north, Hector looked for the dog along the roadsides. She would be injured, bleeding, thanks to Milo. She couldn’t go far. He kept to the secondary roads, winding around the hills, along the rivers. Milo began to snore.
It took several hours to get to Sarlat. Crowds at the market had thinned but it was still lively. Again no truffles for sale. Such a specialized product, one mushroom seller told him. So pricey. Ask the duck and goose people.
One seller of foie gras remained in his stand under a large, green canopy. He was an old man with scarred hands from handling temperamental fowl. The drawing of a fat goose hung on a mural behind him. Hector waited for him to sell a small tureen and three jars of foie gras and duck confit.
“Excuse me. Bonjour, monsieur.” Hector doffed his cap and waved toward the mushroom merchant. “Monsieur des cèpes has advised me to ask if you have heard anything of my poor dog. My little Julie was taken from her pen. Did you hear of it? My truffle dog was stolen.”
The old man’s wrinkles deepened around his eyes. He squinted at Hector and Milo. Not his usual customer, no tourist or rich Parisienne. He wore a Greek sailor’s cap and a dirty navy blue apron over his white shirt. His jowls were legendary, as were his forearms, exposed with turned-up cuffs, muscular and hairy. Milo was coughing into a dirty handkerchief. When that was over, the old man eyed Hector.
“I hear things.”
“I’m afraid someone will try to sell her. She is one of the finest noses—plus coûteux—in the Dordogne. In France! Tell me. Where was she seen?”
The old man crossed his arms, taking another look at Milo then back at Hector’s sweat-stained striped shirt and dirty hands. “You are the owner then?”
“Oui, oui. I have been searching for her day and night. I am most anxious.”
“Quel dommage.” Too bad. He shrugged and turned his back.
Hector’s hopes sunk. The old man didn’t believe him, the hard country nut. He reminded Hector of his grandfather, gnarled, suspicious, and coldhearted. Where could he try next? Périgueux? It was nearly four o’clock. It would be another night on the ground under the truck. At least they still had a few of the signora’s euros to get a decent meal.
Then the old man was back. He stood across the table full of preserved duck and liver of goose, a sheet of blue paper in his hand. Hector reached for it as the old man asked, “How much will you offer?”
In large, black lettering, the paper announced a reward for a truffle dog stolen from a farm. A grainy photo showed her from the side, ears flapping in a breeze. There she was, the scrawny, whimpering mutt they had held in their arms three days before. The one who had wiggled the latch on the crate while he and Milo drank a few celebratory Kronenbourgs.
RÉCOMPENSE [REWARD]
Chien Volé [Stolen Dog]
‘Aurore’
10,000 €
Pas des questions [No questions asked]
Milo clucked. He could only read the numbers. “Ten-thousand?”
“When did you get this?” Hector asked the old man.
“Yesterday. The owner was desperate. His grandson raised the dog, trained her himself. He can’t afford that much but he has no choice.” He squinted at Hector. “And now your dog, also stolen. Must be a ring of thieves.”
Back in the truck Milo asked Hector what the old man said. “But that is more than the signora will give us. Much more.”
“Sì, sì, sì.”
“What should we do?” Milo poked a stubby finger at the sheet. “He pays much more. Will the signora be offended? I never cared for her myself. Beautiful, yes, but, pffft. She is a miser with the wages.”
Hector started the truck. “Stop babbling. Let me think. I am the thinker. When I decide, I will tell you.”
Ten thousand euros. The money was in his mind, in his hands, already spent.
Bettina Dellepiane learned the news that same day through the world of truffles. There were only a handful of operations like hers, owners of truffle grounds who were also buyers, sorters, and distributors. One was her neighbor and fierce competitor, Gianluca Gribaudi. That he was her late husband’s distant cousin was perhaps inevitable; the family owned all this land at one time.
Gianluca and her Furio never were friendly. There had been a feud when they were boys with lingering bad feelings. So it was suspicious when Gianluca drove his new black Land Rover onto the courtyard that afternoon as the sun beat hard on the gravel. Bettina re-pinned a loose strand of hair as she watched his quick, happy step toward her door.
She smiled at him. “Come inside out of the heat.”
He kissed her cheeks. “How are you, Bettina? Are you well? I’ve not seen you for many weeks.”
Months, to be sure. Since the harvest fair in March. His white hair was thick and swept back from his tan forehead now creased with lines. He was still proud of his physique, the way he hitched his pants to show his prowess. He wore fancy sunglasses, a pressed purple shirt, white linen slacks, and leather loafers. He smiled at himself in the mirror in the hall.
She ushered him into the parlor and offered him a glass of chilled wine. Was he just being polite by this visit or did he hope she had taken ill and would sell out? She didn’t trust a word from his mouth. He made small talk about the weather and the price of truffles. He inquired about the grandchildren. When she had poured each of them a tiny glass of wine, he got to the point.
“I heard your beloved Pompeo has gone.” He sat forward, eyes sad. “I know how hard that is. My sincere condolences.”
Bettina felt the loss of her dog once more, like a knife. Pompeo had been her faithful partner for twelve years until the cancer came. The best dog, best friend, best truffle hunter: il suo buon tartufaio. He softened the loss of dear Furio and made every day sunnier. She couldn’t cope with putting him down, but in the end, she couldn’t watch her loyal companion suffer either.
She gathered herself. “It’s been two months. Time heals the wound.” She sipped a little wine. “But I appreciate your sentiment, Gianluca.” Even so late, she did.
“Has it been so long as that?” His hand flew to his heart. “I apologize. I should have come sooner.”
She gave him a conciliatory smile. He was probably too busy celebrating the loss of her money-maker. Pompeo’s nose was known far and wide. Gianluca had many dogs but none in the same league as her Pompeo.
“Have you looked for a new dog?” he asked. She nodded. “And—success?”
“I’ve seen a few. But none close to Pompeo.”
“An impossible standard.” His extravagant eyebrows twitched. “I wonder. Pardon. I thought it might be too soon but since you say it is two months... I saw this in the village and thought of you.”
He extracted a white sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Smoothing it against his knee, he passed it to her. A photograph she had seen before on the Internet in an article about top truffle dogs. The sheet, from the Ente Nazionale per la Protezione degli Animali and the Carbinieri, announced a reward for a dog stolen in France. She read the name and felt a chill of fear. She straightened her back and turned to Gianluca, arranging her face.
“What do you suggest?” She tried to laugh brightly. “That I go searching in France for this dog?”
He smiled. “No, no, Bettina. But you could contact this owner. Offer to pay the reward and buy the dog in one single step.”
She glanced again at the picture of the dog. She had already done that, more or less. Carefully, hand shaking, she passed the sheet back. “I don’t think so. But a very creative idea. Very creative indeed.”
“Please, keep it. Maybe you will change your mind. I have heard of this dog. They say she is very capable.”
He didn’t stay long, sensing perhaps she wanted to get rid of him. As she closed the door, she fell against it in anguish. The owner was offering twice the money for Aurore. Her olive pickers would know this by now. She must call them right away before they found the dog and returned it to the owner.
Her forehead thumped against the solid old door. She cursed Gianluca, then Furio for leaving her with this. How dare he die so young? She let out a little groan. How was she to come up with ten thousand euros? Because there was no other solution now.
Tristan arranged the pillows in the basket, gently setting the dog’s head on a pink velvet heart that Valerie had left with Albert. She was still weak, her leg bandaged, but she looked better. Her tail thumped as he patted her head.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to her. “I’ll take good care of you.”
Behind him the women were arguing. Gillian had her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. “I don’t see why you want the dog over here. I can take care of her better than any of you. I know how to give pills to a dog.”
“Honestly, Gillian,” Francie said. “It’s not rocket science. A little peanut butter and you’re good to go.”
“You think you can find peanut butter in this village?” Gillian said.
“Nutella,” Annie suggested.
Merle said, “Actually the vet said cheese, which we have in quantity. I already gave her a pill. She likes gruyère.” She looked at the basket her son had set up in the corner of the main room. A shaft of sunlight warmed it. The dog looked comfortable, clean, and well-loved. Why was Gillian making such a fuss? She seemed to have two settings: silent and brooding or hot and bothered. “Besides, we don’t have permission to have a dog at Yves and Suzette’s.”
Tristan stood up. “I don’t care if you give her the pills, Gillian. All I want is for her to get better.” Merle smiled at him. Somebody had to be an adult here.
Gillian had her dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a short khaki skirt that exposed her muscular calves with a black T-shirt covered with white hairs from holding the dog in the car. She’d been frantic to get the dog back this morning, talking the vet into releasing her into their care.
She tossed back her hair and sniffed. “That’s all I want too. Of course.”
“The vet told me something different today, Gillian, about the wound.” Merle had her attention now, bright, dark eyes. “It wasn’t a gunshot wound.”
Gillian melted a little, relieved. “What was it?”
“It was too small for a bullet,” Merle continued. “But it wasn’t an accident. Based on where the wound was, the size and depth of it, he thinks it was a computer chip. An identification chip.”
“Someone took it out?” Gillian asked.
“And not very neatly,” Merle said.
“Eeeeuw,” Francie squealed helpfully.
“If he’s right,” Merle said, “she was probably stolen. The chip was removed so the owner couldn’t trace her.”
“So she’s a girl dog?” Elise was kneeling by the basket, petting the dog. “Poor baby.”
“The vet told us. We’ve never had a dog. Are you leaving tomorrow for the next part of the walk, Mom?” Tristan looked at his aunts gathered around the living room, eyes twinkling. “Because I can hang here and take care of Tartuffe.” He flashed his boyish smile. That smile was the only thing of Harry Merle saw in her tall, lanky son. “That’s what I named her. Tartuffe.”
Gillian blinked. “You named her?”
“Sure. Why not?” Tristan went back into his crouch by the basket.
Gillian let a hmmph escape her mouth and rolled her eyes. Annie said, “Let’s not fight over a dog. Please.”
“We’re not fighting,” Gillian said, still very much in combat mode. “We’re discussing what’s best for the dog.”
“We don’t have to call her ‘the dog.’ Tartuffe,” Tristan said. “Like the play.”
“That’s one of those silly French farces, isn’t it?” Elise said. “With slamming doors and love affairs and people who aren’t who they say they are?”
“I am not calling her Tartuffe,” Gillian said to no one in particular.
