The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 40
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Tristan and Annie stood in line to get him a ticket while Merle parked. By the time she returned, the departure and arrival board said the train was just five minutes out. They found their places on the platform—train travel was very organized in France. You were expected to immediately get into the proper car, find your seat, haul your luggage, and behave yourself. Tristan by this time was an old pro, lining them up at the assigned post.
“Did they say they’d get you to the airport on Friday?” Merle asked, suddenly aware she hadn’t planned every detail of her son’s new itinerary.
“Valerie’s older brother is going to be there. He’ll drive me.” Tristan wrapped his arms around her. “He’s twenty. Don’t worry, Mom. I made it home last year all by myself, remember?”
She squeezed him tight. “Stay away from gypsies.” A family joke. As a child Tristan was fascinated with street people.
“What if they want to give me their baby?”
“No gypsy babies.” She gave him a pinch. She would miss him but he had computer camp next week and a basketball camp the week after. Stasia would make sure he toed the line.
“You can go to the Louvre with me and Annie tomorrow,” Stasia told him as the train pulled around the corner, screeching into the station.
Tristan nodded to his aunt, rolled his eyes to his mother, and in a flurry of last-minute hugs, they boarded the train and were gone. Merle felt the lump in her throat she always felt when he left but tried to smile and wave in case they were watching.
Inside the station she spent a confusing hour at the Avis desk, explaining the stolen vehicle and arranging a replacement. She wanted it delivered to Malcouziac, something the clerk declared “absolutely impossible.” Merle refused to take no for an answer. In the end they agreed. Her car would arrive tomorrow. It cost her but it was worth it.
Back in the little Citroën, Merle took a moment to regroup. She was here in Bergerac; she should check on James. She called Michel Redier’s office.
“Bonjour, monsieur. I heard you got Monsieur Silvers transferred to Bergerac.”
“Oui, madame. It was necessary because of the charges. My hands were tied.”
“Why are there so many charges? It seems excessive.”
He clucked. “It is the way it is done.”
So very French. A convenient excuse for not trying very hard is what it sounded like.
“I’m in Bergerac. I’d like to see James. Can you make that happen?”
He stammered a little as if shocked then said he would try. He gave her the address of the Police Municipale. “I do not guarantee you can see him,” the lawyer warned her. “It is, ah, an unusual situation.”
“Why is that?”
“Madame, he could not stay in the gendarmerie. They are not equipped for that. I will call the Municipale for you. Wait one hour.”
An hour? Merle started up the little beast of a car and muscled it into gear. She would do some shopping then. She found a large supermarket and parked where she wouldn’t have to put the 2CV into reverse. Her arms were already tired.
An hour later she stepped into the utilitarian, blocky building that housed the Police Municipale. Bergerac was not large, it just seemed that way compared to the tiny Malcouziac where the population had been on a downhill slide for over a hundred years and now numbered about 300 souls. By comparison Bergerac was a metropolis. Posters in the lobby of the station announced new security measures and surveillance cameras, as well as youth fairs with events like “skate, rap, danse, graff.” Trying to engage their rowdy youth, it seemed.
The young receptionist with black hair and very red lips frowned at her accent and kept saying, “Quoi?” Merle repeated everything three times. Finally, she took a slip of note paper from the desk and wrote, “James Jeremy Silvers III, American. Je demande une visite.” I request a visit: that was civil enough. The woman’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened with comprehension. She took the note through a door, leaving Merle in the lobby with a nervous couple whispering to themselves. Ten minutes passed slowly then a uniformed officer appeared.
He was a large man, broad in the shoulder, wearing a crisp, militaristic navy uniform with patches and medals. His hair was gray at the temples, dark and slicked back on top. He carried the note and nodded solemnly to her.
“Parlez-vous français, madame?” She nodded. He continued in slow French, which she appreciated. “The American arrived here last night. We kept him one night only then transferred him to the Provincial Guard in Périgueux. The court is there, madame. We are only a municipal service for Bergerac.”
Merle listened hard and frowned. “Why is he being held on these charges? It was one blow, a very small fight, really just a misunderstanding.”
The officer glared down his nose. “That is not our business, madame. We only transported the prisoner.” He handed her the slip of paper and dismissed himself.
Back in the car Merle got out her map. Why was the French state taking such a hard line on James? Was it something he’d done back home? She didn’t know much about his past, except his divorce. She couldn’t imagine he’d ever gotten into trouble, then wondered about the sleeping pill defense. Maybe he was prone to angry outbursts. She’d make sure he was well-rested when she told him they were finished.
Périgueux was almost due north, some twenty-five kilometers. Not far in a modern auto. She’d never been to the capital of the Dordogne. It was the opposite direction from Malcouziac. In the back seat, her groceries began a fragrant decline. She pictured James in a chic French prison jumpsuit, eating croissants. Was he angry? Frightened? She would give Redier a piece of her mind.
She wrangled the ungainly map back into shape then put the car in gear and headed home.
On rue de Poitiers, Francie and Elise had moved out of Yves and Suzette’s house and into the loft room upstairs in Chez Merle. They had stripped the sheets on Tristan and Stasia’s beds, washed them in the tub outside and hung them to dry on the line in the garden. When Merle returned with the groceries, they both pitched in, hauling in bags, putting things away. They seemed diligent and serious, and it made Merle suspicious.
“The cleaner came next door,” Francie said. “About eleven. We were out already.”
“And we’ve been to the edge of the schoolyard to get Wi-Fi,” Elise added.
“Any news from home?” Merle said, cutting into a new block of sheep cheese. Francie plucked a piece and moaned with pleasure. They waited for her cheesegasm to subside.
Francie licked her lips. “Not from home. That cop came over, the blond, unpleasant one. He said—I think, my French is not great, as you know—that the rental car has been found in a parking lot by a train station on the outskirts of Toulouse.”
Merle frowned. “She got on the train?”
“Or got another rental car.”
Elise said, “Why can’t they just run her name on the rental car agencies?”
“They who?” Merle asked. “Nobody’s looking for her.”
“Do people take dogs on trains here?” Francie asked.
“Service dogs mostly. Do you think she’d pretend to be blind?”
Francie laughed. “What a picture.”
“We didn’t see any dogs coming down from Paris. Not even little frou-frou ones,” Elise said. “She would stick out with a dog on the train. She’s on the run. My bet is she rented another car.”
“To go where?” Merle asked. “We need to find out more about her. Maybe she has friends in France. Did you get any info from the law firm?”
“I talked to Sandy, the secretary. She talked to Gillian’s assistant, Jonathan. He said her family was all dead and she was secretive about her friends. He thought she had a boyfriend, or maybe a girlfriend, but he didn’t know who they were.”
“Girlfriend like friend or like girlfriend?” Elise asked.
Francie shrugged. “Does it matter? We just want to find somebody she might reach out to while she’s running around France.”
“Call Jonathan and see if he’ll snoop in her office,” Merle said, handing Francie her cell phone. “It’s for her own good. She could be in serious trouble for stealing a car.”
“It’s too early there. Speaking of trouble, did you see Jimmy Jay?”
“He’s been transferred to Périgueux, to the Provincial jail or something. He’d already been shipped north.”
Merle put together a late lunch for them and they sat in the shade of the acacia tree, sipping Perrier and eating salads. Elise complained that she had thought she would lose weight doing all this walking around. Francie pointed to the cheese as the culprit.
“When will you get such a fabulous variety of cheese again?” she declared. She pulled out her iPad and began typing. Keeping a record of cheeses, she explained.
When lunch was finished, Francie called Jonathan at Ward and Baillee. Elise took the sheets off the line, folding as she listened. Merle carried the dishes into the kitchen, put away the cheese and bottled water. She stared at the bottle of Sancerre in the refrigerator and pulled it out, pouring herself what she considered a very small glass of wine. Strictly medicinal, as her father would say. Tristan was gone, her favorite sisters had left, James was who knows where, his lawyer was inept or conniving, Pascal had quit her bed, and their houseguest was on the lam with a stolen dog. And the day was still young.
Francie was talking loudly in the garden. Taking her wine outside, Merle settled into her spot on the low wall and listened.
“I know she’s a private person, Jonathan. You’re not telling me anything new. She went on this trip with me, didn’t she? I thought she was my friend. Now she’s disappeared. I’m worried about her.” Francie rolled her lovely blue eyes at Merle. “Think about this, Jonathan. She may never come back. Yes, I do mean it. She is going to be charged with grand theft auto in France if we don’t help her. We had to report the car stolen. It was a rental and it was gone. We didn’t have a choice. The only way we can help her is to find her.”
Francie began pacing around the table, gesturing like she was trying to convince a jury, or strangle someone. “Right. It’s for her own good. You understand that. Excellent.” She flashed a smile. “If we don’t help her, who will? Well, I’d like to find that out. Does she have a sister or brother somewhere? A cousin? Aunt or uncle?”
Another round in the gravel. “You have her email password? Why didn’t you say so? No, no, I won’t tell Mr. Baillee. This is just between us.”
Francie made typing gestures with her free hand. “Go to her inbox. Tell me what you see in the last week or so.” She shook her head. “Go farther back. Look for anybody named Sargent.”
“Contacts,” Merle said.
“Look in her contacts.” Francie waited. “Nobody named Sargent?” She shook her head. “Okay, check her mail, in and out. Anything that isn’t firm business.” She listened then spoke to Merle and Elise. “She ordered a European cell phone.” To Jonathan she said, “Did she get it? Did she leave you a number?” Francie went back to her iPad on the metal table, tapping in numbers. She read them back to the assistant.
“Have you called her? Did she call you? No, we never saw her use a phone here. She didn’t give us the number.” Merle shook her head. Francie threw one hand up to the heavens. “That is super helpful, Jonathan. Now, can you forward any personal stuff in her email to me? Go back as far as you can. Anybody who emailed her, or vice versa, anybody who seems like a social connection, friend or relative. Great. My Ward & Baillee address is fine. I can access it here. You’re a trooper, Jonathan. Thanks a million.”
Elise stood with a pile of folded white sheets in her arms, frowning. “She had a phone all this time?”
“Apparently.” Francie set the phone on the table. “He said she ordered it back in April.”
“Was she planning something back then?” Merle said. “And why didn’t she use it while she was here?”
“Maybe she did,” Elise said. “Maybe she was making phone calls on the sly.”
“How would we know?” Francie agreed.
“Call her,” Merle said.
Francie picked up the phone again and consulted her iPad for the number. She wasn’t on long. “Clicked off after half a ring. No voicemail.”
“She’s got it turned off,” Merle said. “So the cops can’t track her.”
“Are the cops after her? You said nobody was looking for her,” Elise said. “That cop seemed more concerned about the rental car.”
“With the property returned, they aren’t going to mount a man-hunt.”
“But she’s still got stolen property,” Francie said. “A very expensive dog. Probably worth more than that Renault.”
Merle hadn’t called the dog’s owner. She went in the house and found the reward poster on a side table in the living room, splashed with red wine. Back in the garden she punched the number into her phone.
It rang three times then a weak woman’s voice answered. “Allo?”
“Allo.” She spoke in her slow French. “I am calling about the dog. You posted a reward?”
A rustling, a clunk as the phone was set or thrown down. Voices, hushed, rising, down again. Merle waited. “Allo? Quelqu’un est là?”
More voices, a squeak from—a woman? Then a low, raspy voice in response, pleading? Finally someone picked up the phone.
“Allo. Who is this?” A younger man, odd accent.
“I am calling about the stolen dog. Are you the owner?”
“Oui. You have the dog?”
Something was off. She had expected relief, excitement, even tears, and had been worried that she couldn’t tell them where the dog was. But this she hadn’t expected, a hard voice, uncaring. He didn’t call the dog by her name.
“No, I’m sorry. We saw her. We found her on the edge of the road while we were out walking.”
“Where?”
“Near Loiverre. But that was several days ago. We took her to the veterinarian. She was very sick.”
“The veterinarian. Where was that?”
She hesitated. So many questions. “Can I speak to the owner please?”
“I am the owner! I told you!” He was shouting. “Who are you? Have you stolen my dog?”
“I told you,” she said, worried where this was going. This was not the owner; she was sure of that. Possibly a relative or someone helping the owner. “We found her by the side of a road. But now she’s gone. I just wanted to tell you that we think we saw her and she was okay.”
“Where has she gone? She ran away?”
Or something. Merle looked at the top of the tree. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Three days ago. We didn’t see the poster until after she disappeared. I’m sorry.”
“Where do you live? By your accent, you are an American?”
“We’re, ah.” She paused. They probably just wanted to know where to look. “We’re in Malcouziac.”
“And the dog was with you before she so expertly slipped away?”
This was getting seriously weird. “I’m sorry. I hope you find her. Good-bye.”
Francie and Elise were standing there, watching her.
Merle set the phone down. “Well, that was strange.”
“What’s going on?” Francie asked.
“The article Tristan found about the truffle dog said that an old man near here owned her. That he was in his eighties.”
“So?”
“That wasn’t an eighty-year-old on the phone. He spoke French with a strange accent. And he was very suspicious. Lots of questions.” Merle looked at them, a sinking feeling settling hard in her stomach. “Like he was out looking for the dog or somebody who took her.”
“Maybe it was his son. They’re probably scouring the countryside,” Elise said. “They don’t want to pay that huge reward. They just want the dog back.”
“You look worried,” Francie said to Merle. “Do you think they’re going to come over here and shake us down? We don’t have the stupid dog and you told them everything.”
“Not about Gillian.”
“We need to find her before they do,” Elise said.
“They don’t even know she has the dog,” Francie said. “They don’t know she exists. Let’s just find Gillian so she can avoid getting thrown into the Bastille.”
As they went back into the house, Elise said, “At least we know one good thing about Gillian. She didn’t take the dog to get the reward. She just loves her. She really does want her to be safe. If she was after the reward, she would have turned the dog in by now, right?”
Francie sighed. “Then what the hell is she doing with the thing?”
Hector and Milo got tired of stealing eggs. Milo quickly bored with early morning raids on Jean Poutou’s hen house, and Hector grew weary of cooking them on the tiny camp stove. It was a relief the morning the old man confronted them in the barn and they were given no choice but to give up their hay berths for soft beds in the farmhouse, strong-arming the old man and confiscating his shotgun.
The old woman was a problem. She didn’t want to cook for them and Milo was worried she would poison them. But food was food, as long as it wasn’t eggs. The truffle business had given the old couple a comfortable living, it appeared, a full larder and overflowing freezer, and Hector felt it was his right to have a part of it.
But not the reward. They’d given up that idea when Signora Dellapiane had called them and offered the same amount, the ten-thousand euros. But locating the dog was proving difficult. In the end, waiting for someone else to turn in the dog for the reward seemed the best plan.
The signora hadn’t been all generosity. There was anger in her voice, and if he wasn’t mistaken, desperation. She needed this dog. And if they didn’t bring it to her, she threatened to call the authorities in Italy and France and tell them that Hector and Milo stole the dog, that she’d heard them planning it. Give up their identities. Make them live on the run at best, or in jail at worst.
And no money. That was what Hector thought the most about. He had decided he would give some to his sister. Her little Angelina was so sick. Something the local doctors could not cure. They needed money to go to Rome for hospitals. Without his share of the signora’s payment, Angelina might die. He thought of the little girl at night before sleep. He had no wife. No children. Angelina was all he had.
