Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 38
She doubted that but nodded. “You’ll see him this afternoon then?”
He promised to do so, and to call her with a report on the charges and how to proceed. They shook hands again and said good day.
As she walked home she felt she’d handled things well with Redier. Like professionals, lawyer to lawyer. James would be out of jail this evening, or in the morning. After that he could deal with his own defense. There was no point trying to see him again, not with that gendarme in charge. Jimmy Jay would just have to wait. Not an easy thing, waiting for French bureaucracy to grind its way through.
Feeling efficient, she tackled another item on her list. With her sisters returning she changed the reservation at the winery restaurant to six people, then stepped through the alley to knock on Albert’s garden gate. Inside she heard the groan of a metal chair and crunching of footsteps on gravel. The old man opened the gate, wearing his blue coveralls that pulled tight across his bulging midsection. He stepped back, sucking in his teeth.
“How are you today? And Father Cyril?”
“He’s better.” Albert relaxed a little. “Come in, come in.”
They settled onto the metal chairs. Merle felt sad, wondering if this was the way it would be between them now: tense, hurt, careful. He had been such a good friend.
He cleared his throat. “A terrible mess. I told him not to go to the police but he wouldn’t listen. I said, these are my friends. No matter what you think of them, we don’t do this. But—”
“It’s all right, Albert. We can’t control our friends.” She smiled ruefully. “I’d like to have you both to dinner, tomorrow if that suits you. My sisters will be back.”
Albert tipped his head. “Will he be there?”
“Oh, no, no, no.” What was she going to do with James? She’d been shutting him out of her mind. “This is to apologize. Bring Madame Azamar. Will Father Cyril come?”
“I will ask him.” Albert leaned forward and patted her arm. “Thank you. You are a good person. You are right, friends do what they do. We love them but we can’t be responsible for every action.” Her shame about James’s behavior eased along with the tension between her and Albert. “What became of the dog? Did you find her?”
“It’s a long story. But no, we didn’t find her.”
Merle excused herself, slipping back into her garden and hanging the key on the nail set into the stones of the outhouse. Albert seemed to have forgiven her. A weight lifted off her heart. He’d been there for her so solidly last year, when they barely knew each other. He’d taken Tristan under his wing, taught him fencing, gave his home over to him and Valerie. She couldn’t imagine the village without her friend.
She checked her watch as she stepped into the kitchen. There was barely time for a small glass of rosé before Annie, Stasia, Elise, and Francie descended on the house, all talking at once, haranguing her for keeping Callum a secret, describing sunsets, demanding to see Gillian’s note, showing her photos, cursing Gillian, popping corks, drinking wine, spilling wine, asking about Jimmy Jay, cursing Father Cyril and James, and asking when was dinner.
So good to have them back.
Chapter Eighteen
Dinner at the Chateau de Martinac winery that evening was amazing: six courses, wine pairings, three desserts, hundreds of cheeses. White tablecloths were scraped for crumbs by young maidens, the silver was exchanged dozens of times, and candlelight twinkled in cut-glass bowls.
Merle was quiet, absorbing the joys of her family together again, listening to their laughter and squabbles. The bickering seemed lighter now that Gillian was gone, more the playful ribbing they’d always done instead of mean-spirited digs from the walk. She was glad they’d had these two days. They seemed so relaxed and happy. And this dinner was a perfect way to cap the tour.
As they sipped coffee, Annie nudged her with her elbow. “What about Jimmy Jay? Are you worried?”
“They’re not going to do anything to him. They just like to make foreigners sweat.”
“And then what? You and him.” Merle just shook her head. Annie said, “I wish he’d never come. Where’s Pascal?”
“Gone off somewhere to work. He might come back, or not.”
Annie drummed her fingers on the table. “This Gillian stuff is making me nuts.”
“I’ve reported the car stolen. She left me no choice.”
“Where do you think she went? Where is her ‘someplace safe’?”
“No idea.” Merle looked at her. “Did Francie say anything about her?”
Annie leaned closer. “No, but I asked Daddy to get a background check on her.”
“And?”
“Gillian Sargent didn’t exist before 1995. That was the year she entered law school. Before that, there’s nothing.”
Merle glanced at her sister to make sure she was serious. Annie wiggled her eyebrows. Intriguing but not very helpful.
“Was there anything else in the report?”
“Just a speeding ticket in Denver. Get this. She doesn’t show up on the CU graduation rolls. If you look at the lists, she’s not there. But if you ask specifically for her transcript or graduation record, she pops up.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
* * *
The next day Merle focused on getting the dinner together, assigning dishes to sisters, cleaning to Tristan, flowers to Elise who wasn’t allowed to cook for good reasons. Stasia was a big help, her Martha Stewart nature in the forefront. Merle sent Tristan to find out if Josephine Azamar and Father Cyril were coming. With them it made dinner for nine. It was market day in the village. Merle, Elise, and Francie went out with their baskets and bought masses of vegetables: lettuce, carrots, peppers, potatoes, onions, leeks, garlic, herbs. And two plump chickens. Merle asked the poultry man to cut them up for her and by late afternoon the coq au vin was bubbling in the oven.
At five she sat down for a break outside with a large glass of Perrier and checked her phone. No news from James or Michel Redier. What if James was released and showed up during dinner? He had to be warned.
He didn’t answer his cell phone. Maybe he left it behind in his hotel room. He might come straight over without warning. Merle whipped off her apron and ran upstairs to change her shirt. When she came back downstairs the table was set, flowers in place, napkins just so. Everyone was off somewhere, escaping the afternoon heat. She poked her head into the garden. Tristan was curled into the shade under the cistern, reading. She told him she had to run an errand.
“Can I come?” he asked, crawling out.
Merle explained she had to check on James. In the plaza the market was winding down. Tristan saw some boys he knew from fencing club and stopped to talk. Merle told him to be back by six-thirty and headed for Hotel Quimet as heat radiated from the stone buildings.
The hotel lobby was warm and smelled of rancid grease as she approached the reception desk. The clerk from last summer was on duty, a tall, forty-ish man. The plaque reminded her: Guy Framboise, Manager. He smiled uncertainly.
“Bonjour, Madame.”
“Bonjour. Do you remember me? Madame Bennett, from last summer.”
He exclaimed and shook her hand. “Yes, yes, your friend is staying with us. I am so grateful for your confidence, after that little business last year.” He frowned then turned it into a smile like a contortionist.
Do not dwell on the past: that one was coming in handy.
“Is my friend here? Mr. Silvers.”
“Allow me to call upstairs.” The manager dialed and waited while it rang. He held it out so she could hear the endless ringing. “I am sorry.”
“Can you check his messages? He might have left something for me.” Maybe a note saying: I’m outa here. Going home. Her fondest hope.
The boxes for the rooms lined the wall behind the reception desk as they had done for centuries. Little cubbies for each room, a place to leave your key when you went out so that thieves had no trouble entering your room. James’s key sat in the box for Room 314. The manager extracted a small note and stood reading it.
He looked up, dismay on his face. “There has been— some trouble?” He pushed the note across. An official crest in navy ink at the top said Ville de Malcouziac. The rest was written in that perfect schoolhouse script the French used: “Request for belongings of James Silvers. Deliver to Gendarmerie.” Dated today at 9 a.m.
“What shall I do, Madame Bennett? Shall I hold his room?”
“Has his luggage been taken over there?”
He pointed to tiny scratchings on the bottom. “The maid has packed them. They were delivered immediately.” The manager wrung his hands. “A most unusual way to check out.” He muttered something about James’s American Express card as Merle turned to go.
The police station was cool inside thanks to a window air conditioner and thick block walls. She pressed the buzzer and fanned herself. Eventually the gendarme appeared, his step stuttering as he spied her.
They exchanged bonjours before the business at hand. “I’ve come to see Monsieur Silvers.”
The gendarme smiled. “Ah, but he is no longer with us. He has been transferred to Bergerac, according to the wishes of his attorney.”
Merle startled. “Monsieur Redier requested the transfer?”
Oh, yes, the policeman said, pulling up to full height. The attorney was here this morning, first thing, to arrange everything.
“And what are the charges?”
“Coups et blessures: assault and battery. En état d'ivresse sur la voie publique: disorderly conduct, under the influence, resisting arrest. And several more.” He crossed his arms and lowered his eyebrows. “He is a dangerous man, madame.”
As she walked home Merle tried to reach Redier. He didn’t answer. She felt relieved that she wouldn’t have to deal with James tonight during the dinner party, and guilty for feeling relieved. He was locked up, alone, in a foreign country where he couldn’t understand what was happening. But he did have a lawyer, she told herself. Redier would look after James’s rights. Last year she’d been suspected of murder and they’d only kept her locked up overnight. All James did was punch someone.
Why hadn’t Redier called? Was he doing all he could? She checked her watch and hurried across the cobblestones to dinner.
* * *
Albert, Josephine, and Father Cyril made the long trek around to the front door just after seven. Elise greeted them, shaking hands and showing them through to the garden. Merle was in the kitchen working on a risotto with cepes, the local mushroom. She wiped her hands and gave Albert and Josephine kisses on the cheeks. Father Cyril paused, hand extended. His light brown hair was combed forward and pasted to his forehead. He wore his all-black uniform, with the roman collar, jacket, and all, in the heat of summer.
But his face, his poor, poor face. He looked like he’d been run over by a tractor. His entire face was one big bruise with nasty red lines running out from his nose to his cheekbones and down to his mouth. It was hard to remember what he looked like normally. He’d sat at the far end of the table that night then in the garden it was dark.
Merle felt her breath catch. She blinked, tried to smile. “Oh, Father. I am so sorry.” He shook her hand solemnly. It probably hurt to smile. Both eyes were blackened, one just puffy but the other swollen nearly shut.
“Merci beaucoup, madame,” he mumbled, “de votre invitation.”
Albert and Josephine had stepped outside, following Elise. Merle put down the wooden spoon and took the priest’s arm. “Please, come outside and have some wine.”
On the way to the table where the glasses were set out, Merle touched Stasia’s arm and asked her to go stir the risotto. It was time to make amends to the priest. She told him she’d found a nice Sancerre and he didn’t look displeased. She handed him a glass of the buttery white wine, and poured herself one.
“Santé,” she said. To your health, wildly appropriate. He merely nodded, clinked her glass with his, and took a careful sip. “Good?” He looked at her blankly. “Pardon. Parlez-vous anglais?” Speaking English would make things a lot easier.
“Of course,” he said stiffly. “I studied theology at the Sorbonne.”
She tried to look impressed. “I’m sorry, how are you feeling? Have you seen a doctor about the, um, injuries?”
He touched the end of his nose gingerly. “It will require surgery. I cannot breathe properly.”
Merle murmured words of sympathy, as many as she could think of, and took a gulp of wine. What could she say about James, or his arrest? Nothing helpful came to mind. She looked around the garden for someone to take the priest of her hands. Tristan was on the iPad. Elise was talking to Josephine, Francie to Albert. She tried to get Annie’s attention by scratching her head but she was busy slathering goat cheese on a cracker.
“I hope, Father, this doesn’t sour you towards all Americans.”
His blue eyes, bloodshot and swollen, fixed on her. “It is unfortunate.”
“My friend is very, very sorry. He will tell you in person as soon as he can. He’s embarrassed and ashamed about his behavior.”
The priest was silent, sipping his wine. The sunset hit the neighbor’s windows, bouncing orange flares of sunlight into the garden. One of them lit up the priest’s shoulder and ear. His ruined face seemed to glow, the purple catching the light. Still, not a crack in his bitterness. What had become of forgiveness? Merle set her wine down on the table.
“Excuse me, I must see to dinner.”
* * *
Everyone loved the coq au vin. Exclamations all around. The meal was pleasant enough, wine flowed and was praised, many toasts to health and France, but the evening never rose above a state dinner between enemy nations. Tristan was quiet, shoveling food into his mouth and drinking too much wine. Annie tried to keep things merry but even she gave up after dessert. It was a relief when the neighbors said good night.
The sisters cleaned up the dishes, washing in shifts, and finally, hands dried, went back into the garden with a last sip of Armagnac. Albert had brought a bottle as a gift. Josephine had brought a basket of bread. Father Cyril, contrary to custom, had come empty-handed.
“Can I have some?” Tristan asked.
“I think you had enough at dinner,” Merle told him. He shrugged and went back to the iPad, playing some game with guns and zombies.
The sisters settled into seats. Merle felt so tired. The brandy was good though, and the evening stars shone down on them. It was too perfect to abandon for bed.
“That went well,” Stasia said.
Somebody harrumphed. “Except for Cyril’s face,” Francie said.
“He must have a glass nose,” Elise said. “I’ve heard of that. People who just shatter on impact.”
“Or Jimmy Jay gave him a wallop,” Annie said. General agreement: a wallop.
Merle took a breath. “James got transferred to Bergerac, to another facility. He may not be out of jail for awhile.” That was the only conclusion she could come to: James was not a quick turnaround.
Annie swore. “Really? For one punch in the maw?”
“Assault and battery, public intoxication, resisting arrest. And so on.” Merle rubbed her face. “But he has a lawyer.”
“Who?” Annie asked.
“The mayor. Remember him?”
“Tall, butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth dude? Doesn’t he hate you or something?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Merle said, defensive now. “He seemed reasonable. I talked to him. He said all was forgotten.”
“And you believed him?”
I wanted to. Merle downed her brandy, feeling it burn her throat and work its way to her fingertips. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake with Redier.
Francie cleared her throat. “I finally got hold of the secretary at Ward and Baillee. She’s looking for some relatives of Gillian’s, somebody we can call.”
“To report her missing?” Stasia asked.
“Or find her and give her a piece of my mind.”
“As if she cares,” Elise said.
“Well, I care,” Francie said, getting worked up. “She’s stolen the car, for one thing. She’s upset the entire vacation.”
“She’s not alone on that one,” Annie added. “But I agree. We can’t just leave her twisting in the wind. Who knows, maybe she was kidnapped or something.”
“You don’t think that,” Stasia said. “She wrote a note.”
“It’s unlikely. But maybe she was coerced.”
Elise laughed. “Can you imagine anybody getting Gillian to do something against her will?”
Annie said, “Francie, you’re staying until when?”
“Saturday. I was going to go to Paris for a few days but now I’ll stay here and help look for Gillian. When do you leave?”
“We take the train to Paris tomorrow. Stasia and me,” Annie said.
“I’ll help you, Francie,” Elise said. “We fly back together, right?”
“Can I go with you, Aunt Annie?” Tristan asked. “Valerie’s parents said I could visit for a few days in Paris before I go home. Can I, Mom?”
Merle was too tired to think about travel logistics. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Mom. Look at this.”
Tristan stood beside her with the iPad. A photo filled the screen, glowing in the darkness. Father Cyril’s multi-colored face stared back at her, the black eyes and the nose like a plump apple. Tristan had added a funhouse mirror effect that made the priest’s face look even worse, twisted and grotesque, his swollen eyes huge, his nose jack-knifed.
“Cool, huh?”
Chapter Nineteen
Merle drove the old Deux Chevaux up to the train station in Bergerac with a half- hour to spare. She’d borrowed Albert’s old car, a classic Citroën with eyeball headlights and a roll-back canvas roof. Annie, Stasia, and Tristan had crammed themselves and their luggage into it early this morning. When Merle got up, Tristan was packed and ready to go. He had Valerie’s parents on the telephone before she could say ‘no.’
