Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 40
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.
Hector enjoyed the Poutou’s modern bathroom and took long baths, stretched in the clawfoot tub. He strutted through the Poutou farmhouse, picking up china trinkets to get a rise out of the old woman. He demanded she wash their clothes after she turned up her nose at their odor. She was plump and hysterical, making her face turn red with anger was amusing. It broke the boredom of waiting for a call.
And finally, just as hope slipped away, a call. He slammed down the ancient telephone receiver. The old woman (he couldn’t be bothered to remember her name) trembled in her apron, shrinking into a worn armchair covered with flowered fabric. Her gray hair had come loose from its pins, floating around her fat face. Milo was outside with the old man while he did his chores. Feeding the chickens, watering the vegetables: such an exciting life.
“Never answer the telephone. Did I not tell you?” Hector stood over the woman menacingly. He raised his hand to slap her. Mostly to make her quake in fear. “If you answer it again I kill your old man. Do you hear me?”
She bobbed her head, chin quivering.
“Go finish the dinner. And remember you will taste it before you serve it.”
She scuttled into the kitchen. Hector tried to think. He pulled out his map book, fingered through to the Dordogne. Where was Loiverre? Had the American lied about that? At least at the start she believed he was the owner. He hadn’t played it well. He should have squeezed out a few tears.
He and Milo had been in Malcouziac, just a few days ago. All the villages ran together in his mind, a mishmash of half-timbers, cobbles, and stone. He was sure they had been there, the bastide town with the broken wall on one side. Asking around about the dog, trying not to attract attention. Listening to other diners at cafés. Reading lost and found posters. It hadn’t been much but it was all they had. To think they had been so close.
He wanted to leave. But what about the farmer and his fat missus? Would they call the police? Thinking was his specialty, as he told Milo often. But now the facts seem to leak out his ears. What would they say? That they were forced to cook for guests? Held captive by olive pickers? Would the cops laugh at the old people, or hunt them down like dogs?
He would have to take that chance. This lead, this phone call, was the first thing in days. He had been worried the dog had been stolen by truffle hunters who recognized her from the newspaper. But now it appeared she was just on the loose, running around the countryside. They must find her, and fast, before someone else recognized her from the reward poster.
The old woman was in the kitchen. Hector stepped up beside her at the stove and looked into the pot of boiling chicken. The herbs were fragrant. He would miss the old woman’s cooking, he had to say. He opened the refrigerator and stuffed cheese into the pockets of his jacket. She was watching him. He squinted at her, daring her to speak. She turned back to her pot.
Two apples from the bowl on the table went in with the cheese. Hector stuck the book of maps in his back pocket. He would look up these tiny villages later. He went to the front window and looked for Milo. He trailed after the old man coming out of the barn. Poutou limped along, not so fat as his wife, but with one bad leg and terrible eyesight. His thick glasses glinted in the sunshine.
Hector picked up the shotgun and a box of shells from the table by the door. He could hear the old woman in the kitchen, the clink of plates and silver. Time to go. His fingers twitched on the gunstock.
At last the latch lifted and Poutou and Milo stepped into the front parlor, bringing in a gust of wind full of fresh-cut hay and chicken guano. Milo turned to shut the door and saw Hector standing there. Hector shook his head: Quiet, you filthy son of a bitch. Poutou didn’t notice him, pausing by the pegs to struggle out of his jacket.
Hector took his chance, stepping up behind Poutou, raising the stock of the shotgun above his head. Bringing it down hard on the skull with a thunk. The recoil of the blow surprised Hector and he stumbled backwards into a tray of cut glass dishes, sending them crashing to the floor.
The old woman rushed into the room. When she saw Poutou lying there, bleeding, out cold— not dead, Hector hoped— she rattled off some patois neither of the Italians understood. Hector regained his footing, the shotgun half-hidden behind his leg.
“He must have lost his balance. Fallen into the table,” he said, pointing to the broken glass and upturned tray. “I will get my truck. We can take him to the doctor, madame.”
She continued to make a fuss, on her knees by the old man. Blood reddened her hands, making her squeak like a pig. Hector motioned Milo out the door. On the threshold Hector spoke in a kindly voice to the old woman: “Be patient, madame. I will return.”
Hector shut the door behind them and turned to Milo. He pointed with the shotgun. “Run.”
Chapter Twenty-One
* * *
Lawyrr Grrl
Where a woman can grrowl about the legal profession
* * *
BLOG ➪ Cherchez la femme
Tagged Some Serious Shit
Posted June 25
Drama ensues, lawyrr grrls. That Girl has flown the coop. And I wouldn’t really care, except that I brought her on this adventure and she is my law colleague. She’s as close to a friend as I have at the firm. I’m not sure she has any other friends. Can I just go home without trying to figure out why she took off with a rather expensive mutt in tow? Not in good conscience, which is something I’m trying to improve in myself. Lawyrrs need a good conscience, even when— especially when— things get hinky.
So I’ve spent the morning working my plan. How to find, track, cherchez this here femme. The last we heard she was in Toulouse, so that’s where I pick up the trail. I have to take my baby sister along because her French is much better than mine, and god knows we are going to be dealing with people who won’t speak English if their lives depended on it. Oops. I just told you where I am, didn’t I? Yes, in la belle France.
I’ve found out two things about my disappearing colleague: 1) she has a European cell phone that she never told us about, and 2) she called in to the firm two days ago and cleared her calendar for an extra week, telling them she was having a wonderful time and wanted to extend her vacation. No one thought much of it. It’s coming up on fourth of July holidays, everyone who can is taking time off. I’ll be back next week, of course, picking up everyone’s slack. As is my joy in life.
I’m going through her correspondence, trying to figure out where she’d go. A diligent lass, she rarely used her work email for anything else. But my source inside the firm discovered a hidden digital folder inside the mail server (I told you not to ask) that includes cryptic messages from accounts with names like XK3#% and 99b@*Z= -- pretty sure those are not their real names. The messages themselves seem coded, and fascinating as hell: ‘The sparkles on the lake twinkle in the moonlight’ and ‘Once a barfly, always a marigold.’
But I don’t have time for coded messages. I have to find That Girl and help her clear her name (another don’t ask moment) so we can all go home and resume our thrilling Lawyrr Grrl Lives. We may be whiners but we get the job done.
As baby sister says: we will be sleuths!
Chapter Twenty-Two
Merle waited all morning for a call from James or his lawyer. The house was empty again, and too quiet. Francie had snatched the keys to the new rental car as soon as it was delivered early in the morning. She and Elise packed their bags and took off on the trail of Gillian. They headed south toward Toulouse, they said, where she’d last been spotted.
Standing in the living room gloom, Merle made an addition to her to-do list: Scrub the wax off the wood floor. She pushed the table against the fireplace, stacked the chairs on top of it, and wedged the little sofa under it. The small tables and lamps she took upstairs then filled her bucket with soapy water, found the big brush, and set to work.
An hour later it was clear elbow grease and dish soap weren’t going to cut it. She traipsed over to the hardware store to ask about a wax removal product. They sold her something, who knows what, plus pink rubber gloves. The product was smelly and she dug out her bandanna to cover her nose and mouth like a bandit.
At noon there was still no word from Redier. Stretching her back in the garden, she stripped off her gloves and called him. The receptionist said he had gone to Périgueux. Yes, to see about Monsieur Silvers. No, she didn’t give out his mobile number, that was not done. But she would mention that Merle had called.
The scrubbing was therapeutic. Her shoulders burned, back and forth, in and out. It was like walking: repetitive, slightly boring, but meditative and progress was made. Hard work at times, easier at others. Concentration on the work at hand. Merle had never really been one of those women who clean when they’re anxious. But she could see how it worked, the fixing of the immediate when the other was out of control. She switched hands, worked on, tied towels around her knees for pads, switched hands again.
Still she couldn’t get Gillian out of her mind.
Where would she go? Who was she keeping Aurore safe from? Was she in danger herself since she had the dog? Francie thought so. The red-head was prone to the fanciful, that was true. She should have been an actress. Merle smiled, picturing Francie pace in the garden as she charmed information out of Gillian’s assistant. Francie was good, she could talk a turnip into soup as their mother used to say. But her French was bad. Despite being named Francine, she had taken Spanish in school. Elise’s was decent but she hadn’t practiced it much on the tour, letting her older sisters do the talking. Merle hoped they didn’t get into any trouble. The new rental, a Peugeot, was spotless and had less than 200 kilometers on it. At least that would be functional.
Stop worrying, Merle told herself, attacking the wax with renewed force. Francie and Elise would poke around Toulouse for a couple days, eat some great French food, and come back. They’d take the train to Paris on Saturday and fly out on Sunday as planned.
She sat back on her heels, feeling the ache in her arms. The voice of the man on the phone, the one who said he was the owner of the dog, played in her head: Where do you live? Your accent. American? Why had she told him about Malcouziac? But the dog was gone. She couldn’t help him now.
At three o’clock Michel Redier called, finally. He had miraculously recovered his English fluency. “I have seen your friend, Monsieur Silvers, madame. He is well and sends his regards.”
His regards? “Tell me how he is doing, really.” Merle walked into the sunshine and pulled the bandanna away from her chin. “Is he in good spirits? Is he being treated well? Is the food okay?”
“Yes, yes, madame. Be assured we treat everyone fairly in this country. With human decency, no torture.”
“Okay.” It was hard being American sometimes. “What’s going on with his case?”
“He will be presented with his charges in court tomorrow afternoon. Then we will see what happens next.”
“What do you think will happen next?”
“He may have to stand trial, madame. The charges are very serious. The judge in his case has seen many futbol riots. He does not tolerate hooliganism. But these are things that are yet to be decided. There is no point speculating. The facts will speak for themselves.”
He rang off, excusing himself as he was driving. Merle stared at the phone. Would Father Cyril be in court with his messed up face? Unbelievable. James might actually be headed for a French prison for throwing a single punch. And what could she do about it? She had no standing in France. She wasn’t his relative or his lawyer. Should she call his ex-wife? His children? His parents? She didn’t know any of them, or their telephone numbers. Who else? Father Albert? Cyril was his pupil, his fellow priest, his friend. The American consulate? They were in Nice, hundreds of miles away.
She sat under the acacia tree and pulled off her other rubber glove, throwing them both on the ground. She could think of only one person who could help. It was time.
* * *
It was seven before Pascal returned the call. Merle had stripped three-quarters of the living room floor. The stairs were looking bad now. They were next. But first a quiet evening in the garden, goat cheese salad, wine, and a little freaking out over her wayward American friends.
“You sound worried, blackbird,” Pascal purred.
“James is going to be arraigned in court tomorrow. Should I go?”
A pause then, “Are you serious? On what charges?”
“Assault and battery, resisting arrest, public intoxication. I wonder if Redier even mentioned that he’d taken a sleeping pill.”
“Michel Redier? Le Maire?”
“The very one. He might be the only lawyer in town. The gendarme gave me his card. Believe me, if there had been anyone else.” She sighed. “What should I do? Can we get him out of this?”
“Where is this arraignment then?”
“Périgueux. They transferred him there. I haven’t seen him since he’s been arrested.”
“What time is the court?”
“Afternoon. That’s all I know.”
“I will meet you there. Text me as soon as you know the time.”
Merle let out a long breath as she rang off. She looked at the sky, the blue fading into twilight. She wasn’t alone. Pascal would be there.
Then she remembered she didn’t have a car -- again. She could borrow the Deux Chevaux from Albert again. But she’d borrowed it so often,and it was unfair to presume that it would always be available.
She dialed Michel Redier’s office. It was late but possibly he would be there. It rang and rang; he was gone. But he had called her from his car. She scrolled back through the call log, hoping he didn’t block his number. There it was: the three o’clock call.
“Oui. Allo.” He sounded gruff, annoyed.
“Monsieur Redier, it’s Merle Bennett. I’m calling to find out the time for Mr. Silvers’ arraignment tomorrow.”
“Sixteen, uh, four o’clock.” It sounded like he was at dinner. She better make this quick.
“And you’ll be going to court, I assume?”
“Oui. Bien sûr.” Of course.
“If you don’t mind I’d like to ride along with you. To Périgueux.”
“It will be very brief, madame. A matter of minutes.”
“I understand. But I’d still like to go.”
Voices in the background, chatter, forks, laughter. Then a terse: “If you wish. I will leave at eleven.”
* * *
Merle put out her navy dress for court and tried on the only dressy shoes she’d brought, red ballet flats. Without hose they were sticky and uncomfortable but she didn’t have anything else. If she had time in the morning she would check out the women’s shop in the village. Most of the clothing fit only tiny French women.
She stood at her upstairs window watching the garden in the moonlight, feeling a slight movement of air, too light to be called a breeze, flowing up from the vineyards below. The rows of grapevines hugged the hillsides, undulating like a snake. What had this land been like before wine? Grass? Rock? There were still some hills like that, untouched pastures full of piles of native stone thrown around like giant’s toys. Despite James, or maybe because of him, she felt the incredible chance events that led her here. She was grateful, and lucky, to have lived this long, to have had these moments. Fifty years, she thought with a shiver. At least Harry made it to fifty. What would the rest bring? Would there be someone to love, grandchildren, a man in her bed and in her heart?
Stop now. She heard Annie’s voice: Right here, right now. Merle closed her eyes to listen to the village going to sleep, the yip of a dog, the snap of a rug, the flat pop of a door slam. Far away, a cow complained. Closer, a car door thunked. It was like a incantation, a spell that put the village to bed each night, softly, willingly.
The night air blew a little more, ruffling the lace curtain. She was trying to decide if she would leave the window open despite the occasional bat or bird who flew in, when the knocking came from downstairs. She startled, the magic of the evening gone. Were Francie and Elise back already?
Tiptoeing down the stairs Merle edged around the pile of furniture. The shutters on the front window and door were both closed and locked. Being here alone she wasn’t taking any chances. Moonlight shone through the side window. Her shadow stretched across the stripped planks. She stepped quietly up to the side of the glass-paned door.
Someone was out there, pounding.
Merle leaned in front of the door to see through the inch-wide crack between the ill-fitting shutters. By the size, a man.
“Madame? Madame! Êtes-vous là?”
Definitely a man, one who didn’t know her name. Not her sisters, someone they sent, or even the gendarme.
There was whispering, low and conspiratorial. Two men maybe. Merle moved over to the window. But the shutters were the originals there, with a tight fit without any sight line.
“Madame?” He continued in odd, unsophisticated French. “We spoke on the phone earlier. About the dog. My sweet little dog. My Aurore. I am so worried. Please, madame. Can we talk please?”
Merle froze. He had found her. She pressed her back into the wall, a chill down her arms. They had tracked her from her information and her accent. Easy enough since she was the only American woman who lived in Malcouziac.
“You know about the reward, madame. It is very large. Ten-thousand Euros, a small fortune for some. I can give it to you if you tell me where the dog is.” A pause, more pounding. “I know you are there, madame,” he said menacingly. “I can see you.” Then the hissing of the other person, an argument, words jumbled and strange.
