Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 35
But duty called and Merle was nothing if not practical. Slipping into a cotton skirt and t-shirt, she pulled her dark hair into a band and pushed open the bedroom door. Stasia and Tristan were up. Their twin beds in the loft room lay rumpled. She went to the back window and looked down on the garden. Quiet for a change, the wisteria dropping purple petals in drifts. A wine glass sat abandoned in the dirt, stem snapped.
Merle tiptoed down the stairs. Tristan sat cross-legged on the floor by the dog basket, talking to his new best friend. What were they going to do with this dog? She slipped by him into the kitchen for coffee and fooled with the stovetop espresso maker, cursing herself for not getting the fancy electric one she’d coveted. While the water boiled she poked her head out and asked Tristan where his aunts were.
“Next door, I think. They said they’d say goodbye before they took off.”
Merle poured her coffee into a demitasse cup, splashed in a little cream, sprinkled some cinnamon on top, and walked out the front door. Elise, Annie, and Stasia stood in front of Yves and Suzette’s charming house with its lace curtains and burgundy shutters. Their backpacks were on their backs, hiking boots laced, hats on heads.
A pang of regret, then anger, coursed through her. They were going without her. It sparked a childhood memory, an early hurt, when they all took their father to the train station without her. She was late, or sick, somehow left behind. They were a gang, she was the outsider, the tent pole to their tent, solid, dependable, and alone.
“Morning, sunshine,” Annie said brightly. She gave Merle a hug. “Don’t look so sad. We’ll be back in two days.”
“I wish I was going.”
“There’s still time,” Stasia said. “We can wait.”
Elise straightened her hat. “Francie’s not ready yet.”
“She’s going?” Merle looked from sister to sister. That meant she would have to deal with Gillian on her own. And James. And Pascal. And Father Cyril of the Broken Nose. The coffee churned in her stomach. She threw back the last sip. If the sun hadn’t been gleaming off the stone of the houses on rue de Poitiers, she would have sworn she’d felt the hand of doom.
“She changed her mind,” Annie said. “Something about a cluster fuck.”
“No idea what she’s talking about,” Stasia said with an eye roll.
“At least Gillian’s not coming,” Elise said. “So it should be fun for a change.”
Stasia frowned. “I thought you liked her. You said she was interesting.”
“I was just trying to be nice. Something you could take a lesson in, Stace.”
“Don’t start, Elise,” Annie warned. “Did you have coffee yet?”
“You said we’d get some at the bakery. Why, am I caffeine cranky?”
“Yes, you are,” Stasia said.
Francie burst out of the house. She wore zippered hiking pants and a bright blue shirt covered with pockets. Her auburn hair was tucked into girlish pigtails. She slung her backpack over her shoulders. “Whew. Sorry I’m late. Am I late?”
“You’re fine,” Annie said. “We better go.” She turned to Merle. “You and Tristan have some fun. See you day after tomorrow. You have your cell phone, right?”
“Right.” Merle tried to look cheerful. “Have a great time.”
They turned and walked away. Stasia held her touring map in its plastic sleeve, studying it. Francie laughed, a high, joyful sound. Elise skipped, a girlish hop. Merle watched until they got to the corner, arguing, pointing east then west. Just before they disappeared, Annie turned back and waved.
As Merle turned to go back inside Gillian opened the burgundy door. She was dressed as she’d been for the walking tour: safari pants with voluminous pockets, khaki shirt, and Aussie hat. No backpack, just her fancy camera slung across her chest.
Merle nodded, unable to think of anything to say. Gillian had managed to alienate the entire Bennett clan, not a small feat. She returned the nod without a smile, adjusted the camera strap, and stepped into the cobblestone street.
“I’m off to do some shooting around the village.” She set her quick pace, arms swinging, marching down the street as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Merle watched her turn the corner. “Knock yourself out, girlfriend.”
* * *
Pascal arrived while Merle and Tristan were watching the dog walk around the garden. She limped still but seemed more alert, eating a little leftover chicken. Merle was so glad for a friendly face she pulled Pascal to her in the kitchen. He responded as best he could, which is to say, he kissed her hard.
“Where is everyone?” he whispered, peering out the garden door.
“It’s just me and Tristan -- and the dog.” An idea popped into her head. “What about last night? Wasn’t that crazy?”
“I have been to check on Father Cyril at Albert’s. His nose is as big as my fist.”
“I can’t believe James --.” She shook her head. No James, not now. She smiled at Pascal and took his hand. “Do you have a couple minutes?”
They tiptoed upstairs and were naked in the time you can say ‘espresso.’ It was comforting to realize she hadn’t forgotten the contours of his hips, or the small scar on his neck. And he hadn’t forgotten how to make love to an ancient woman now fifty years old. They giggled and shushed each other and lay spent and happy in the shadows of the shutters that lined the snow white sheets.
“I am so glad your Charlie’s Angels have gone, blackbird,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “They scare me.”
She turned toward him and hugged his neck. He smelled like oranges, and cigarettes. If only this could last. If only --
A knock on the door downstairs. She looked at Pascal with rounded eyes. It would be James of course, with his impeccable timing. She was so mad at him, for last night, for showing up in France at all, and early! What a --
“Mom?” Tristan, from downstairs.
She scrambled out of bed and stuck her head out the bedroom door. “Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s the police.”
The gendarme was new and very young. Blond and peach-faced, he looked stiff in his navy uniform, fingering his cap. “Madame.” He rattled off something in French. Merle caught only ‘questions.’
Pascal was tucking in his shirt when he arrived behind her. She checked own her buttons, having dressed in record time. “He has questions about last night. The priest.”
Merle invited the policeman inside. They stood holding the backs of the dining chairs. The gendarme had a strange accent and Merle had trouble following him. Thank god Pascal was there.
“He’d like your version of what happened.” Pascal then spoke to the gendarme, introducing himself as a Policier Nationale and also a witness to the incident.
“Ah, bon.” The gendarme then turned to Merle, waiting.
“Tell him my friend James Silvers came here and --” What could she say? He was acting strangely? “And he was distraught.”
Pascal translated. “He asks, was there an altercation.”
“Do you think Father Cyril has reported this already?” she asked Pascal. He nodded solemnly.
“It was an accident,” Merle explained. “James was, um, hugging me. Father Cyril thought I was in some sort of trouble. It was a misunderstanding.”
As she spoke Merle had second thoughts. James was hardly an innocent in this matter. What did he mean, coming around in his pajamas and making an ass of himself? As she listened to Pascal translate her words she tried to find some explanation for James’s behavior. And failed.
The gendarme nodded for her to continue. “Well, Father Cyril pulled James away and James reacted. By striking out. Then the Father responded with a blow of his own.”
The gendarme asked another question. Pascal translated: “He asks did James strike first,” then answered it himself. ‘Oui.’ He continued, in French: “I believe the American had woken from a deep sleep and was confused. He was in his pajamas, walking the streets. Perhaps jet lag or wine was a factor. This was not his usual behavior. He is a lawyer from New York City, a civilized man.”
The gendarme straightened, defensive. He said he didn’t care what a man did at home, it was how he behaved in his village that counted. How he conducted himself on French soil.
“Ah,” Pascal said. “Votre ville.” Your village.
The cop squinted now, looking at Pascal from head to toe as if that would intimidate him. He thanked them for clarifying the event, and said he would return if he had more questions. He asked where James was staying. Merle replied, “Hotel Quimet.”
“Thank you,” Merle said to Pascal after the door closed. “For speaking up for James. I don’t know if I would have.”
“Have you seen him today?”
She shook her head. “I thought I better let him sleep.”
“The gendarme is probably headed straight to the hotel.”
“He’s a self-important little twatwaffle.”
Pascal let out a laugh. “C’est typique. The uniform, the authority, it is everything to them. Still he is better than Redier.”
Jean-Pierre Redier was the corrupt local gendarme from last year. Merle had put the mess behind her but her eyes went involuntarily to the stairway where he’d locked his handcuffs to her wrists.
“I’m sorry,” Pascal said, reaching for her. “I shouldn’t bring up bad memories.”
“I never thanked you properly for fixing the bannister.”
He held her to his chest. “Yes, I believe you have, blackbird.”
They joined Tristan in the garden. The dog was walking carefully in the sunshine, lapping water from a bowl. Her son was beaming. “Look at her!”
“I’m afraid we will have to take her home,” Merle said to Pascal. “Is that difficult?”
He shrugged. “A crate, a plane ticket. No problem. He is in puppy love, is he not?” He crouched down and gave the dog a toss of the ears. “Skinny thing. Is she eating?”
“Better every day,” Tristan said.
“And what about you? Do you eat lunch these days?”
Tris grinned. “I’m a growing boy.”
“Then come with us. I am taking your mother to lunch.”
Her son frowned at the dog, reluctant to leave her. Pascal clapped his hand on his shoulder. “Bring her basket outside. She will bask in the sunshine.”
* * *
They walked to a café off Place de la Victoire where on market day the stalls lined the ancient arched colonnades. It was Pascal’s favorite place, shaded from the afternoon sun, secluded from the hubbub on the plaza. Three or four restaurants served coffee and lunch outside in the summer months there, separated by only a jute rope. Over here you could eat in peace and still see most of what was coming on.
As they settled into their seats Merle spotted Gillian striding across the ancient stones of the plaza. She stopped to take a photo of the soldier’s memorial then turned to look at the lunch crowd in the plaza cafés. She picked a restaurant and sat down at a table near the edge, setting her camera on the table.
Merle raised her menu, hoping Gillian didn’t spot her. After they ordered she risked a glance around Tristan. Gillian had her camera to her eye, taking shots on either side of her.
Pascal observed all this. “She didn’t go with the Charlie’s Angels?”
“She said she was tired of walking.”
“She came over to see Tartuffe early this morning,” Tristan said, after glancing over his shoulder. “She said she was sorry about yesterday. The stuff about who gives the dog her pills. I let her give the morning cheese pill.”
“You’re very nice to her, Tris,” Merle said.
“She’s not so bad, Mom. The aunties are pretty mean to her.”
“Are they?”
“The way Aunt Stasia was yelling? You know how bossy she can get, all, do this, do that? Yeah, they were really mean. I don’t blame her for not wanting to go walking with them.”
Merle looked over his shoulder again. Gillian had disappeared.
* * *
After lunch Merle decided she should check on James. Fortified with rosé and a goat cheese salad, with two big strong men at her side, she felt up to it finally.
Hotel Quimet was where she’d stayed when she first came to Malcouziac, a musty, provincial inn with yellow trim and dark interiors. But it was large enough to have a nice restaurant, one of James’s requirements. They took the stairs to the third floor. Pascal knew the room from the night before.
Merle knocked. “It’s me. Just checking on you, James.”
The door flew open. He stood there in bermuda shorts and a golf shirt, his hair damp and glasses fogged. He looked stunned.
“Are you okay?” Merle asked.
“Ah. I don’t know.” He looked behind him. His room was a wreck, clothes everywhere, bedding rumpled. “I’d ask y’all in but --”
“Let’s go downstairs for coffee,” Pascal suggested.
James found his sandals and they trooped down the stairs with its worn carpet and cigarette burns. Their table near the window overlooked geraniums in boxes and a narrow street. They all ordered coffee except Tristan who got a chocolate dessert.
“Have you eaten?” Merle asked. She sounded like his mother.
“I just woke up,” James said. He looked around the table. “I have this bruise here.” He tipped up his chin. “Did something -- ?”
Merle looked at Pascal. “You don’t remember?”
He shook his head. “And there’s this.” He showed them his skinned, swollen knuckles and looked at them anxiously. “Did I— What happened?”
“You punched the priest in the nose,” Tristan said cheerfully. “Wham, bam, thank you, monsieur.”
Merle touched Tristan’s hand. James was speechless, with a look of horror on his face. She asked, “You remember that Pascal walked you back here, after dinner?”
James covered his eyes with a hand. The coffee and cake arrived. He sipped his coffee. “You brought me back, right. Then I went to bed.”
“Did you have more to drink? Or take something?” Pascal asked.
James’s eyes flew around the room. “I remember, I was lying in bed, worn slap out but too tired to sleep. I’d been up for thirty-six hours. I had this buzz in my ears.” He rubbed his eyes. “Then, yes, I took a sleeping pill. Christine gave me a couple of hers. My ex-wife.”
“Have you taken them before?” Merle asked.
“Never needed them. I thought I would need one on the flight but I just drank the free vodka in business class.” He sipped more coffee. “The pill, of course. That’s why I feel so groggy.”
Pascal fingered his cup. “And why you were in your pajamas in Merle’s garden.”
“I— ?” His mouth stopped working.
“And threw your arms around Mom’s neck and cried,” Tristan added.
“Oh God.” James blinked rapidly.
Pascal crossed his arms. “What do you remember?”
He didn’t recall it all but bits and pieces stuck in his mind. Wine at dinner, walking home, Merle’s garden, his arms on her neck. He was embarrassed. Mortified. They told him that Father Cyril’s nose was broken and that the police had been round. He turned white.
“Should I flee the country?” he asked Pascal.
Pascal’s lip twitched. He was enjoying this, Merle realized. Her boyfriend’s antics, highly entertaining to the old boyfriend. She looked at one, then the other. Pascal was not so old, maybe forty, she’d never asked. His black hair had two or three silver strands. James was two years older than she was. And the physical comparison between lean, tall, and handsome, and short, bald, and pudgy? Lopsided.
Pascal said, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“I’ve heard terrible stories about French prisons.”
“Croissants limited to three days a week. It’s a scandal. Don’t worry. We do not put the peculiar or unruly in prison in France. We save that privilege for the truly bad.”
James looked affronted. “Are you calling me unruly?”
“You wander the streets in your night clothes, enter a house uninvited, and strike a priest who is only trying to help the situation. What would you call it?”
Pascal glanced at Merle. She raised her eyebrows. He was pretty harsh to James who no doubt deserved it. He’d made an ass of himself last night, and her for that matter. But had Pascal gone too far? Time to apologize?
“What would I call it?” James repeated, sputtering.
The Frenchman looked at him evenly. “Peculiar?”
* * *
They ordered lunch to be sent up to James’s room and left him to his own devices. He was rattled by the revelations of last night. As anyone who sleepwalks should be. He vowed to never take a sleeping pill again.
As they walked home, Merle realized James hadn’t apologized. He had embarrassed her last night, in front of her friends and relatives. He had suggested an intimacy that didn’t exist. He had slugged a priest. He had walked around in his pajamas, a fact that was probably all over the village by now, the butt of jokes in every restaurant. Everyone would know about the priest’s broken nose by Sunday mass.
Tristan said he was going ahead and ran off. Pascal took Merle’s hand as they turned toward rue de Poitiers, and stopped near the arched gate in the bastide wall.
“I came by this morning to say goodbye. I’m off to St. Remy-de-Provence again.”
She took his other hand. “It’s not really St. Remy, is it?”
He laughed, his face cracking into a grin. “You know me too well, blackbird.” He gave her a quick kiss.
Not nearly well enough. “Will you be back? I’m here for two more weeks.”
“I will try. You know these investigations take time.” Pascal investigated wine fraud, sometimes undercover as a roofer. A rooftop was a perfect vantage point to spy on vineyards.
