Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 36
“Will you call at least? I might need some virtual hand-holding.”
He pulled out his phone. She gave him her new French cell number and he immediately sent her a text. “There. Now you can call. And never come to France again without telling me, blackbird.”
He gave her a final hug and turned back toward the center of the village. She watched him stride across the cobbles, strong and purposeful. Would she see him again? Her heart rose in her throat. She had to hang onto that. Yes, she told herself. She would see him again, and more.
But first she had to deal with All This.
Chapter Eleven
When Merle reached her house, Tristan was standing on top of the broken wall, looking out over the vineyards. Despite standing for centuries, defending the city against the English in the Hundred Years War, and possibly the Cathars too, this section had surrendered to the vagaries of weather. Wind, rain, and cannonballs had dislodged the top of the wall. The big stones lay where they fell, littering the cobblestones, or were thrown over the side.
Her son had his hands on hips, surveying his kingdom. His cargo pants were dirty and worn, his T-shirt was stained. But he looked so happy. “I couldn’t get in. You locked the door shutters.”
Merle frowned at her front door. The ill-fitting shutters, haphazardly replaced last summer after the originals were ruined, were closed and padlocked. Did she lock them? Maybe Pascal had done it. He was adamant about locking up.
She fiddled with her keys, looking for right one. But when she found it, she couldn’t quite reach through the crack to get to the padlock. “Did we leave through the back?”
“No. Wait. Because of Tartuffe? Maybe.”
They walked down the street and up the alley with its funky moss strip down the middle. Josephine lived behind this wall to the left, near the corner, a few houses down from Albert, a pretty vine covering her back wall. Merle didn’t know most of the neighbors. But as they approached their garden gate Albert opened his and threw a plastic trash bag into the alley. He saw them and paused, a grim smile on his face.
“You have come to see Cyril?” Merle looked at Tristan and gave him a signal to go along. They stepped into his garden. Albert’s plum tree was heavy with ripening fruit. On his patio table sat a coffee cup, a spoon, and crumbs.
“How is he?” Merle asked. They should have come earlier. So many ‘should have’s’ today. She’d been too busy having her way with Pascal.
Albert shook his head. “He did not sleep. Now finally he has relief from the pills and he rests.”
“I am so sorry about all this, Albert. We’ve just been to see Mr. Silvers. He took a sleeping pill last night and it made him walk in his sleep. Not that it’s any excuse.”
The old man listened, nodding. “I see.”
He was really upset with James, and by association all of them. “Is there anything I can do for Father Cyril? For you? Please, tell me.”
“The damage is done, I’m afraid. We must accept that and move on.”
Merle glanced at Tristan, imploring him for help. “James is really sorry, Albert,” he said.
“Is he?” Albert sighed.
“He’ll be here soon, Albert,” Merle promised. They made their excuses, turned to leave, and closed his gate carefully.
“He’s pissed, isn’t he?” Tristan whispered.
“I guess I would be too. Cyril was just trying to help and all he got for it was a broken nose.”
“That hurts. I know.” Tristan had his share of fights after his father died. “Do you think he’ll forgive James? Albert, I mean. Father Cyril too. Aren’t priests supposed to be all kind and forgiving?”
“We’ll see.”
Merle unlocked their gate and handed the key to Tristan. “Lock up, then open the front shutters.”
The garden had its normal air of safety and calm. Sunshine streamed down on the pear tree, lighting up the still-green fruit. Merle opened the spigot on the cistern and filled the watering can. She was pouring water on the roots of the pear tree when Tristan burst back outside.
“She’s gone. Mom! Tartuffe is gone!”
* * *
Merle helped her son look through the house again, in every cupboard and cranny. They pulled up the floor trap and went into the musty cellar, just for good measure. No dog to be found. Her basket lay in the garden, in the shade of the pissoir (which she really should start calling something more refined.) Her water dish was gone.
Tristan was frantic, running through the house, up the stairs, back down. “Where could she be?”
“Calm down.” Merle felt her own heart rate rising. “She can’t have gone far with that leg. We’ll find her.”
“But how did she get out?”
“Maybe the aunties came back.”
“Then where are they? Is there a note?”
Another round of panicked searching for a note. Nothing. They unlocked the garden gate again and went down the alley, knocking on each alley entrance. No one answered. They went around to the front of the houses and repeated the knocking. A few old ladies were home but no one had seen a dog. Josephine tried to get them to come in for cake and tea but they declined.
Reluctantly Merle knocked on Albert’s front door. He made no attempt to look happy to see her. “Sorry to bother you again. We’re looking for the dog. She seems to have escaped.”
He hadn’t seen her. He wished them luck, a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. Tristan groaned in frustration and announced he was going to run around the village. He took off, skidding around the corner, arms flailing. Merle walked back to the house. She stepped inside, trying to think what could have happened to the dog.
Then she remembered Gillian. She’d probably taken the dog over to Yves and Suzette’s. A surge of hope. Merle went back outside and tried the deep red front door of their house. She knocked hard and called out to Gillian. Pounded again. She ran back inside her house and upstairs, leaning out her bedroom window that overlooked her neighbor’s garden. A small tree blocked most of the view. She called out: “Gillian?!”
Back downstairs she checked the cupboard, locating Yves’s house key. Did Gillian have one? Merle knocked again at the burgundy door then unlocked it.
“Hello? Gillian, are you here?”
The house was quiet. Again Merle was struck with how chic and comfortable it was, in its warm grays and pops of jewel tones. When all this was done, next year maybe, she would ask Suzette to help her with her house.
Concentrate. Where was the dog? Tristan was going to be crushed if she was lost. She called out again, and again no answer.
Out the back door into the garden. Merle was sure she’d find them there. But the garden was empty too, a minimalist Parisian sort of mini-Tuilleries with gravel and trimmed shrubs. No flowers, no grapevines, no dog.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her pulse pounded in her ears. If the dog was here, where could she be? Just to be thorough -- and because she couldn’t think of anything else to do -- she went upstairs, looked under the beds, in the bathroom, in the closet. Maybe Tristan had found her wandering the plaza. Downstairs again, she headed back through the sitting room. On the glass dining table a small sheet of yellow paper flipped up and floated to the floor.
* * *
Merle & all:
I’ve taken the dog somewhere safe. Don’t worry about her. She’s fine with me. I’ve got her medications and her favorite gruyere. She’s happy and walking well. Don’t try to find us. It’s best you leave this to me.
Gillian
PS: Had to take the car.
Chapter Twelve
Merle sat at the scratched wooden table in the café, watching Tristan shove pepperoni pizza into his mouth. She’d brought him here to cheer him up but it didn’t seem to be working. The seesaw of teen emotions was stuck in the down position. He had been over the moon about the dog. The plans he’d made for her, the bed in his room, the yard. And now that she was gone, he was inconsolable. He didn’t cry. He’d figured out the priorities for tears this year.
So many losses, so many surprises. School had been a mixed bag academically, possibly because he knew he was going to leave his prep school and move home. He knew some kids who attended Country Day, his cousins, and some neighbors. But it would be a difficult transition at sixteen. They both knew it. It would be wonderful to have him living at home again, but he’d been thirteen when he left. She couldn’t fool herself that it would be easy.
He wiped his mouth and polished off his Coke. He looked marginally better, making eye contact at last.
“How could she do that? What gives her the right?” He’d asked this about ten times already. He got his weakness for righteous indignation naturally.
“I guess she thought she had as much right to the dog as you did.”
“Well, she didn’t. She didn’t take care of her like I did.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“And I was the only one who was nice to her. Let me see the note again.”
Merle extracted it from her purse. They’d read it, cursed it, and read it again. But one more time wouldn’t hurt. Tristan smoothed it with his large palm. He leaned close, moving his lips as he read.
“What does she mean here: ‘I’ve taken her somewhere safe.’ Did something happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“The shutters were locked from the inside.” Tristan frowned at her. “You didn’t lock them.”
“She might have done that out of courtesy.” Not that ‘courtesy’ and ‘Gillian’ ever popped up together in her mind.
He hunched over the note again, ignoring the waitress even though she was young and pretty and giving him the eye.
Her boy was all grown up, tall with muscles from dunking the basketball and running cross-country, smart too, entering the science fair with complicated experiments she couldn’t understand. Things that Harry was missing. It still made her sad but she’d come to think it always would. No point in trying to erase what had happened. Harry’s heart attack, alone at his desk, was nobody’s fault. And maybe he wasn’t world’s best husband. But he would be proud of Tristan today, just as she was. So she would be doubly proud, for both of them. That was easy.
“Do you think Pascal can find her?” Tris asked. “Where is Pascal? We need him to get on this.” He stood up, ready for action, and charged into the street.
After paying for dinner, she followed him outside. He asked her again: “Where is Pascal anyhow?”
“He had to go work on some police business.”
“This is police business. She stole our car and our dog.”
“Technically she borrowed the car.”
“Not really. And she didn’t borrow the dog. She never said she was coming back. It’s not like she asked permission. When you don’t ask first, that’s stealing, Mom.” He handed Merle the note. “You should turn her in to the cops.”
She had thought about that. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Give Gillian a little latitude to return the car. Maybe she’d turn it in somewhere— anywhere— and it wouldn’t be an issue.
“She’ll probably wreck it and you’ll have to pay for it,” Tristan said as they walked home. The sky turned to flame, orange and pink, above the city walls. Couples, locals and tourists, walked arm-in-arm through the plaza, smiling. Merle wondered what it would be like to come here on vacation and enjoy peaceful evenings and sunlit days and have absolutely no drama.
“Mom! Are you listening to me?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about having a glass of wine when we get home and whether there was any of that Côte du Rhône left.”
“You should be thinking about Gillian. And Tartuffe! And that stupid Renault. That’s the problem here.” He turned to her, frustration darkening his handsome young face. “Jeez, Mom, really? Wine?” He picked up his pace, leaving her behind with a huff of disgust.
* * *
Later that evening Merle took her glass of wine (yes, Côte du Rhône) outside into the garden, along with her phone. Tristan was reading upstairs. He’d forgiven her for her wine but was still all for turning in Gillian to the authorities. Merle debated calling her sisters. They were having a wonderful time, she was sure, walking through the hills and woods and vineyards, eating exotic meals at elegant restaurants. She didn’t want to put a crimp in their fun. But Annie would be upset with her if she didn’t call. Besides she needed advice about the car.
But Annie didn’t answer. They were probably still out to a late dinner, enjoying themselves with cognac and crème brulée. She sent a quick text saying Gillian had scampered.
Just after midnight a reply came.
Chapter Thirteen
When James showed up about 1 a.m. Merle was still dressed, puttering around the kitchen. She peeked through the crack in the door shutters, making sure he was also dressed -- in street clothes -- and unlocked the padlock.
“Sorry. I know it’s late,” he said, rubbing a hand over his scalp. “My sleep’s all messed up. I saw your light was on and thought maybe you were still up.”
“Come in.” She waved him through the door. “Do you want something? A glass of wine?”
“Oh no. I guess I better not.” He looked around. “Are your sisters around?”
“They went on the walking tour. They’ll be back day after tomorrow.”
“You didn’t go.” He nodded, relaxing a little. That made Merle nervous. She could still feel those clammy hands on her neck. She didn’t really think he’d do that again. But was it some clue to his psyche? His deepest desires? Ugh.
She led him out into the garden. It was still warm enough and the stars were bright. And the window to Tristan’s room overlooked it. The light cast a square of yellow on the stones of the back wall. Merle pulled her shawl around her shoulders and sat under the acacia. James settled uneasily on the edge of a metal chair.
“Look, I— I want to apologize. For— whatever it was. It’s sorta come back to me and I am awfully embarrassed. I don’t know how it happened. I mean I do, but— sorry. It must have seemed pretty ridiculous for you too.”
“It was,” she said, not feeling particularly forgiving. “But the person you need to apologize to is Father Cyril.”
“I know.” He hung his head. “He didn’t deserve that. He did swat me a good one in return though.” He pointed to his chin. “Did I show you that?”
“Yeah, you did.” In the mayhem about the lost dog Merle had forgotten about James. She was a terrible host. “Did you eat dinner?”
“Oh, yeah, the food is incredible. Everything they say is true.” He smiled, bruises forgotten. “I went back to that truffle place. I had the duck and mushrooms, to die for. I wanted to swoon. No wine though.” He laughed as if his antics were as simple as over-indulging in the grape.
She watched him. They didn’t know each other. She’d never met his children or gone to his apartment. His accent seemed so strong now, foreign. What they had was superficial. Business.
Why had he come to France? She’d never invited him and couldn’t honestly say she wanted him here. She stood up and hugged her arms, feeling a chill.
“Have some fun while you’re here, James. See some sights. I’m sorry I can’t be much of a tour guide for you. It’s not a good time. There’s a bunch of stuff going on, my sisters, my son.” And Pascal, she thought. She looked at James, huddled there, a stranger in her garden. She was exhausted and completely done with him for today.
“It’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
* * *
⌘
* * *
Texts between Annie Bennett and her father Jack
Chapter Fourteen
They slept late the next morning. Tristan hid his head under his pillow, just like Harry used to do, keeping the world at bay. Merle saw him as she emerged around nine. Her bedroom had started its climb to furnace temperature. The thick walls and ancient shutters couldn’t keep out that Mediterranean sunshine. By noon it would be ninety in there.
She decided to go out for coffee and a run. She hadn’t really had a moment alone since she left home. Pulling on shorts, a tank top and running shoes, she stuck her cell phone down her sports bra, and the house key into a pocket. She would get coffee first, she thought. But when she walked around the corner, spied the gate in the bastide wall beckoning her into the countryside, with the day promising to be a scorcher, she turned right and took off.
Just like last year, she thought with a flash of déjà vu. Last summer when she jogged the roads to the top of any hill that would take her. When she reinvented herself as a single mother, a single woman, a fundraising lawyer, a schmoozer. When she made peace with her dead.
Maybe a hard run would help her make peace with the living. She’d tossed and turned over James last night. She didn’t like to hurt people. She liked him; he was kind, attentive. But she couldn’t do this any more. The last two days are done her in. She didn’t even respect him. But panting and grunting and slapping her feet on the old country roads helped her realize she should wait until they were both back home to tell him. He should have his vacation. It would be unkind to ruin that.
She was covered with healthy sweat when she turned back in through the arched gateway and slowed to a walk, hands on hips. The sky was gray this morning but sun breaks were popping through. The humidity was already up. Her cell phone rang as she turned onto rue de Poitiers. She pulled it out of her cleavage.
