Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 37
“Merle? It’s James Jeremy — James.” He was whispering, his voice squeaky and anxious.
“What is it?” She stopped, staring at her shoes.
“The police are here. At the hotel. I’m in the bathroom. They weren’t going to let me call anyone.”
“What do they want?”
“Want?! They want to fuckin-a arrest me, that’s what! That priest has pressed charges.” Now he was worked up, trying not to raise his voice and failing.
Oh shit.
“I am going to end up in a French prison. Just like I told Pascal.” He pronounced the name like it rhymed with ‘rascal,’ which made a chuckle escape from Merle.
“They’re at the gall-durned door, Merle. This isn’t funny.”
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you know a lawyer?”
“Um, yes.” Last summer had acquainted her with more than one French attorney. “But not here in town.”
“Well, get them here! I can’t even talk to these frogs. They don’t speak English?! It’s the global business language, for pete’s sake.”
“This is rural France, James.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I’ll find somebody. Hang in there.”
“Easy for you --” A crash then shuffling then: “Get your hands off me!”
And the phone went dead.
* * *
An hour later Merle stood in the small entry of the gendarmerie, the police station, a utilitarian cement block addition at the rear of the Hotel de Ville, the city hall. She’d showered and put on a skirt and blouse. As she’d predicted the day had warmed dangerously and she dabbed her face with a handkerchief as she pressed the buzzer and waited for someone to appear.
Finally the young, sour-faced policeman opened the door. He stepped up to the long gray counter as Merle’s cell phone rang. She let it go.
“Monsieur le gendarme, bonjour,” she said, remembering how Albert’s token of respect had gone over so well. He nodded. She continued in French. “I have come to report that my rental car was stolen.” Don’t beat around the bush. Gillian stole it, as Tristan said. “One of my houseguests took the keys and left, without permission. I have no way to find her and she doesn’t seem to be coming back. I will have to file a report with Avis.” She dreaded that. The Avis clerks would not be impressed by her losing her car.
He pulled a form from somewhere under the counter and even gave her a pen. Before he turned to go she added, “Pardon, monsieur. You have a friend of mine here, I think. Monsieur Silvers, the American?”
This was the real reason she was here. The rental car could wait. But she wasn’t sure how long James would tolerate lock-up, croissants or not. His screech rang in her ears.
“We are in process of charging him, madame,” the policeman said.
“Can I see him?”
He squinted at her, like she had some nefarious plan to spring James. “He can see a lawyer when we are finished with the charging.”
“But as a friend.” She put a hand to her chest and batted her eyelashes, taking a few lessons from Valerie. “S’il vous plait, monsieur. He is a stranger here and very afraid.”
The gendarme curled his lip in disgust. To show fear was cause for shame, or maybe James had acted badly. His yelling and squealing, no doubt. The gendarme shook his head and retreated, disappearing into the back. She knew that space, the interrogation room, the smoke of a thousand Gauloises. It wasn’t pretty but it wasn’t terrible either. James would live.
She set her mind to translating the directions on the form and carefully filling out the report of the stolen car. She’d left the paperwork in the glove compartment. But the second key had the plate number, Avis identification, and relevant details, on the plastic ring. Halfway down the long report she was stumped and had to call Avis.
They asked her if she’d purchased travel insurance, something she rarely bothered with. But on this trip, with unknowns like Gillian, James, trains, planes, and automobiles, she’d gone for it. And now she was glad. It would still be a lot of paperwork of course; this was France. But it allowed her to get a replacement, even though she’d been so careless with the first.
Another call, to travel insurance. Complicated but ultimately successful.
Finally she was done. She pressed the buzzer again. Another fifteen minutes passed then the gendarme came through, his face stoic.
“Madame.”
“Can you look this over and make sure I’ve gotten everything?” She pushed the report across.
He glanced at it then spun it back, his finger pointing at a line. “Initial here.” She did as he said. “And sign here. Then I need a copy of your passport.”
Finally he was satisfied and told her it would go to the regional office of the Policier Nationale. “You don’t expect to see the auto again?”
“It’s a rental,” she reminded him. “They’re giving me another.”
That was apparently mildly disgusting.
“Can I see Monsieur Silvers now?”
“Non, madame.”
“What about a lawyer? Is there an attorney in town? For Mr. Silvers’s sort of misunderstanding?”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a business card. “Voilà, madame.” He slapped the card on the counter with more force than necessary and quick-stepped it out the back.
Merle smiled, pleased with herself for getting under the gendarme’s skin. That was always fun.
Then she spun the card around.
Michel Redier
§
Avocat
Criminel • Immoblier • Famille
Chapter Fifteen
Michel Redier. His haughty visage popped into her mind, the cold blue eyes, the nose like a hatchet blade. The former mayor, having lost his powerful position with only a slap on the hand, was back in business as a criminal lawyer, and the person she must ask for help.
Just perfect.
On the way back to the house Merle detoured into the Petit Casino, a convenience store near the Place de la Victoire. She didn’t usually get supplies here, it was touristy and overpriced. But she didn’t care today, wanting only orange juice, lettuce, and of course cheese.
The aisles were crowded, stacked with crates of beer, beans, and mustard. She turned sideways to get to the refrigerated case and agonized over the highway robbery of orange juice. Maybe just get fresh oranges? Oh, fuck it, don’t be so tight, Merle.
On her way past the beer and wine which made up half the shop an old woman with a cart made her press back into an alcove by the service entrance. It smelled of rancid produce but she smiled at the woman, trying to look friendly. To her left was a bulletin board full of local notices: babysitting, houses to let, brocantes selling antiques, dates of markets, services of plumbers. And a large, fresh white sheet stapled on the top with a photo of a dog.
She stepped closer. Photocopied and blurry, the photo showed a curly-haired mutt, ears blowing in the wind. It was hard to tell exactly what the dog looked like. The profile view was not great. A tuft of hair on the top of the head. She tore the paper off the bulletin board and, folding it into her purse, paid for her groceries and walked home.
As she slipped the carton of orange juice into the small refrigerator Tristan skipped down the stairs. If his skipping was any indication, a good night’s sleep had helped his funk. She turned, making sure her face was smiling.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked.
“Good morning to you too. Orange juice? I just got some.” There were pleasantries for a moment while she fixed him breakfast. It was nearly noon but what the hell. The summer was upon us.
As he sat, munching on a croissant, Merle drew the sheet from her bag. She took a breath and set it next to him.
He stopped chewing. “Where’d you get this?”
“Posted in the store.”
He picked up the sheet, smoothing it like he’d done Gillian’s note with his large hand. “This says—”
“Reward. Stolen dog. ‘Aurore.’ That’s her name.”
Tristan looked up at her. “Aurore?”
“I can’t tell for sure if that’s your dog.”
He studied the sheet for a moment. “It must be. It’s Tartuffe. Who is, I guess, Aurore? The vet said she was stolen.” He looked closer at the sheet. “Ten-thousand euros? That’s the reward? Isn’t that a lot for a dog?”
“She must be special, in some way. To the owners.”
“You mean they’re rich?”
“Or something.”
He stood up abruptly. “I need to get on the Internet. Find out why she’s so expensive. Did she look expensive to you?”
“She just looked like a dog.”
Merle wasn’t sure she wanted Tristan to go down this path. She’d brought the reward poster home though so what did she expect? He couldn’t mope forever, he deserved some closure.
“I’ll take the iPad to Albert’s.” He paused. “Is he still mad?”
And then she had to tell him about James’s arrest. Not much choice. They were a team now, a team of two. Tristan rolled his head around, disgusted with adults. No argument there. Then he said he’d go down to the school.
“Poachable wifi,” he said, smiling at last, a mission to accomplish.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Lawyrr Grrl
Where a woman can grrowl about the legal profession
* * *
BLOG ➪ Paradisio Perdu
Tagged Blissed out, Missed out
Posted June 22
* * *
The walking vacation (sounds suspiciously walking pneumonia...) is down to four of us sisters, and I have to say, it’s an improvement. The two oldest sisters are close in age, and the two youngest. Between us is the middle sister who often, she tells us, feels odd man out. I feel for her. But on this walking tour it is nice to be an even number and only sibs. Kinda peaceful actually. Feeling a weird giddiness take over. Could this be what they mean by ‘chillaxing’?
We even talked/grumbled/moaned/exclaimed about Law as we trekked along. Youngest sister is only a year out of school, and suffering the adjustment period. You know, when you realize nothing they told you in law school is remotely realistic. When your personal life is sucked so dry you can feel the sandpaper down in your panties.
Only one of us four is married. I’ve been there, done that, got the financial distress and emotional scars to prove it. Oldest sister is, I thought, confirmed in her feminist solo-hood. Then she reveals she’s been dating this guy for eight months, keeping it a secret. Because he’s — wait for it— fourteen years younger. She showed us a photo of him and he’s srrrsly hot, Scottish, and rich. Jayzus H. She has all the luck.
So we’re getting all close and bond-y— she even tells us he wants to get married but she isn’t sure!— then she changes the plan. We are to march back to home base instead of going on to lovely tourist town with fabulous outdoor markets and Michelin-rated restaurants. All because of That Girl.
Damn that sister who brought her friend along. (This is probably where I should admit it was me. But just between us grrls.)
Chapter Seventeen
The house was quiet, empty. Tristan was off poaching the internet. The dog who had brightened their lives for an instant was gone. Her sisters were off making merry. Merle stood, arms folded, listening to a moth somewhere between the windowpanes. She couldn’t stand it, this dim and dingy house. She had to fix it up soon or live outside permanently like the previous tenant. She stared at the trap door in the living room floor. Did the dormouse— le petit loir— still live down there? Right now she might welcome the company.
She took her cheese and Perrier into the garden and sat with her back to the sun, feeling it warm her shoulders and leach out the anxiety. At least she had that run. At this rate she’d probably not get another one.
She closed her eyes and made a list in her mind, as she’d done as long as she could remember.
Things to do. Things to keep life on the rails. Things to make everyone happy. Things to make Merle calm.
Call Michel Redier again, after lunch.
Visit with, twist arm of, cajole, ply with wine, Redier the bastard.
Do not call people ‘bastard.’
Do not dwell on the past.
Call dog owner on poster and verify identification.
Let go of dream of Tristan + dog.
Plan apology dinner for Albert & Father Cyril.
Buy seriously good wine for apology dinner.
Do not lament lack of last year’s fabulous wine.
Do not make Gillian voodoo doll and stick with pins.
Take Tristan out to new winery/restaurant for dinner
Try not to obsess on the curve of Pascal’s butt.
Do not make James voodoo doll and stick with pins.
Call Annie back.
* * *
She went inside and got her phone. Annie answered immediately. It sounded like they were walking: shuffling, laughter, trees in the wind, the brush of fabric, the clomp of boots.
“Where are you?”
“We’re headed back. We’re near -- where are we, Stace?”
“Between Castelnaud and the middle of nowhere.”
“On top of a flat ridge. It’s gorgeous,” Annie said. “Keeping up a good pace. We should be there by six.”
“You don’t have to come back,” Merle protested. “Don’t change your plans. There’s nothing you can do.”
“It didn’t feel right, leaving you with the Gillian mess. It’s Francie’s problem. She should deal with it.”
Francie, in the background, let loose a round of lighthearted cursing.
“Okay. I appreciate it.”
“We couldn’t enjoy ourselves with you having all this junk. Wait, Stace wants to talk to you.”
“Hey, Merdle, guess what we found out? Annie has a serious boyfriend and she’s probably getting married!”
“To Callum?” Annie had told Merle about him in the spring.
“She told you?” Stasia said something to the others, muffled by her hand or the wind.
Annie came back on. “We’ll see you soon, honey.”
* * *
Merle arrived on the doorstep of the French attorney at precisely three. She took a deep, calming breath. Her fluency worried her. She knew Redier wouldn’t speak English, out of pride and spite. She remembered how her own attorney had been disgusted with him last summer, how the mayor had asked for a bribe, stonewalled her plans, and conspired against her.
He’s a bastard. Accept reality. Do not fight it. But do not dwell on the past.
She smoothed her hair for the tenth time.
Tristan had returned a half hour before, with news. Aurore, formerly Tartuffe, was a famous truffle dog who had been written up in newspapers last winter. She belonged to an old man about twenty miles away. Someone must have seen the article and stolen her.
“But she’s smart,” Tristan told her. “She got away from those dirt bags.”
What did Gillian know? She must have seen the flyer and wanted the reward. That was the only explanation that made sense. A bit callous but not outside the bounds of what they knew about her. Yet, why did she say in her note that she was taking the dog ‘somewhere safe’? Was someone else after the dog? With a reward of that size? Of course they were.
Tristan had accepted the loss of his new best friend. He was still bitter at Gillian but knew now that if he still had the dog she would have to go home to the owner, reward or no reward. He’d moved on to his next goal: getting out of the village and back to the ‘real world’ where dogs are just dogs, as soon as possible.
The lawyer’s office was in an elegant maison de ville, a three-story limestone townhouse with fancy lintels on the windows, deep hunter green shutters, and a carved arch over the glossy black door. A small plaque in polished brass announced the man’s name and profession. Merle had never thought of him as anything but the mayor of Malcouziac. By the looks of his digs he’d been an attorney for years.
She pushed open the door and stepped into an empty reception area with an oriental rug, chrome and leather chairs, and vases of roses. The tinkle of a bell attached to the door echoed briefly then a slender older woman appeared, dressed in a navy dress and high heels. Merle had spoken with her earlier.
The woman whisked her into the back and opened the door to a bright, book-lined office where Redier sat, rimless glasses perched on his nose, behind a large oak desk. A legal office anywhere in the world, she thought as he rose, removing the glasses and shaking her hand.
“Madame Bennett, assayez-vous, s’il vous plait.” He gestured to a gray velvet chair and she sat down.
In halting French she explained she was there for a friend who had been detained by the gendarmes. She wasn’t sure of the charges as they wouldn’t let her speak to him. Redier appeared sympathetic, nodding, bobbing his white eyebrows. He was thinner than she remembered, gaunt and bird-like, still with that haughty demeanor. But what choice did she have— what choice did James have? He needed a lawyer. One that knew the local gendarme couldn’t hurt.
When she finished explaining the situation, how James had taken a sleeping pill and didn’t remember much, how Father Cyril tried to help, how James reacted blindly, after all that she sat back and looked at him, trying to figure out how to establish a connection. Asking for help from an enemy was dicey.
“This won’t be awkward,” she asked as he rolled a Mont Blanc pen in his long fingers. “Entre nous. Between us, because of the past.”
He froze for a second, as if she’d touched a nerve, a sensitive electric shock. Then the curtain of propriety and his eyelids descended again. “Non, non, madame. It is all forgotten.”
