Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 42
Within minutes they were ushered into a room at the top of the property, in a separate building connected to the main house by winding gravel paths. A large water wheel plied the stream, cascading cups of water as it made its lazy rounds. The stream itself was fairly wide, some ten feet, with two arched bridges over it. The mill the water wheel serviced was an ancient stone building that now housed the dining room, the young man showing them their room told them. He gave Pascal a knowing smile as he bowed out.
Merle stood at the windows that overlooked the stream, bridges, and water wheel. Roses bloomed on both sides of the stream, and other flowers, foxglove, daisies, lavender. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, sparkling on the water. It was like a fairy tale, this view. An old painting. A dream. Then some very real arms circled her from behind and a convincing set of lips touched her neck. She turned away from the landscape. If this is dreaming let’s sleep awhile.
As they kissed she slipped her hand down the back of his pants, cupping a buttock. That caused a whole series of clothes-rending events, bouncing on bed situations, and thrashing on sheets scenarios.
She’d never been so comfortable with a man. He made her laugh and made her wet at the same time, something she once thought impossible. She used to be so serious. Everything was proper and planned. Her sexual experience wasn’t extensive, being married for twenty years to a man who had other interests. Before her marriage she had three or four boyfriends, none very serious and at least two whose technique in the bedroom failed to impress. Pascal, in contrast, had numerous tricks up his sleeves— or would if he was wearing anything.
His tongue explored her breasts, down her stomach, between her legs with enthusiasm. He stretched her arms above her head and held them there with one hand while he rocked her gently under him, slowly bring her to climax. Only then did he move hard and fast for his own enjoyment.
They lay on the scented sheets, examining the glazed ceiling, watching the play of light reflecting off the water skip across the plaster. A clock ticked in the bathroom and she tried to block the sound. How she had needed this, needed him, a man who saw her only as a woman. No games, no intrigues. Last summer there were moments when he had tricked her, led her on, yes, even lied to her. But this summer all was forgiven. She had learned to take Annie’s advice and be right here, right now. The past didn’t matter; neither did the future.
She took his large hand in hers and examined his palm. The scars on his fingertips, the thick calluses of hard work, the muscled wrist, the curls of black hair, it all fascinated her. He was a wunderbeast, strong, fierce, full of secrets. If only she could read palms, find out if his lifeline intersected hers for more than a few nights, a few summers. But that wasn’t very ‘right now,’ was it? She let a long, satisfied breath escape her mouth. It was all good. She wasn’t the Calendar Girl, obsessed with time anymore. She would let it have its way with her.
No more lifelines and to-do lists, no more rigid Merle. She laid his hand on her stomach, spreading his fingers wide. This is what she wanted, what she craved. A life full of love and acceptance, warmth and . . . maybe some wine.
Pascal rolled toward her and nuzzled her ear. “This is mine,” he whispered, moving his hand lower, roaming over her hipbones, hair, thighs, claiming it all.
He was ready for another go. Oh to be young. She pulled her fingers through his hair and kissed him long and hard. The afternoon sun lit up the windows, languid and golden, bright with promise. There was nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.
She could hear her sisters now: Carpe diem, Merdle.
* * *
After a late, leisurely dinner where Merle was too blissed out to eat (the only explanation for picking at truffled pasta) she and Pascal strolled back to the room, pausing on the bridge to gaze at the water. The moon wasn’t up yet. The stars were bright, leading the way. She was just about to point out Cassiopeia when a shooting star blazed across the sky.
“Make a wish,” she said.
Pascal squinted. “Got it.”
“What did you wish? You can tell me.”
He took her hand and led her over to the gravel path and the steps. “Then it won’t come true. The best secrets are those kept in your heart.”
“Next to me? Am I there in your heart?”
“Bien sûr, chérie.”
As he turned on lights in the room, Merle closed the drapes. She heard a beeping. In her sex-and-wine haze it took a second to recognize it as her cell phone. A text from Francie.
She debated telling Francie she wasn’t actually at home, wasn’t missing her sisters, and wasn’t the least bit lonely. But wasn’t that the beauty of the cell phone? You could pretend to be anywhere, in church or court or on the moon, when you were actually rolling in the lavender with your French amour. Let them think she was pining away. There was a crazy sort of satisfaction in being underestimated.
Pascal called her name. He was stretched out on the bed, naked, sheets thrown in a pile. He patted the empty spot on the bed next to him.
“Come sing to me, blackbird.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
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Lawyrr Grrl
Where a woman can grrowl about the legal profession
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BLOG ➪ Cherchez my French ass
Tagged Cheese, Brie, Fromage, diet, Camembert, Delices de France,
weight loss, Chevre, French Kiss, and more cheese
Posted June 28
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Remember that scene in ‘French Kiss’ when Meg Ryan pigs out on cheese on the train and then realizes she has lactose intolerance? Well, that, my friend, is me— except for the gas. Just the piggie part. Oh lord, c’est totally moi. One of these days I will turn into a big old wheel of cheddar and be rolled away to the Mold People’s Home.
But enough about my addiction. The Sisterhood of the Traveling France winds down. We’re three down, two to go, it’s the fourth quarter or ninth inning or something. No sixth wheel found, no dog recovered.
That Girl is officially on her own. I have no idea where she went, why she left, or what she’s thinking. She may have relatives in Italy, according to a sleuth back home but time’s up. Without more to go on I have to throw in the towel.
Come home, girlfriend! We need you to second on the Morrison lawsuit!
Ta ta.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was well past noon by the time Pascal pulled his BMW up to the bastide stones at the dead end of rue de Poitiers. He parked behind the new rental car, the gray Peugeot. The drive home was bittersweet for Merle. It felt in a way like an end and a beginning, holding hands in the car like teenagers. He had to go south again for his work at some undisclosed gorgeous location. And she would go home soon too, although she might have to extend her vacation to attend James’s trial. Maybe some relatives will come over for support, Pascal said. Work on that, he recommended.
Pascal was jealous, she realized with a smile. She could hardly ignore his comment about claiming her nether regions as his property. And today at breakfast he had made more disparaging comments about James’s behavior. Merle could only agree. Slugging a priest on your first day in a foreign country? Not the best entrée into a society that prided itself on civility. And that was, despite several revolutions and beheadings of monarchs, mostly Catholic.
“Pranking the Pope would have been better,” Pascal said. “Cyril is a man of God. That will not go down well in court.”
Pascal called James ‘your little friend’ and ‘King James the Third.’ Merle knew she should tell Pascal that she and James were finished. That she was going to break it off, whatever ‘it’ was, as soon as they got back to the U.S. But she should tell James first. It was only fair. And what if she was wrong? What if Pascal wasn’t jealous of James and was only helping her and, well, fucking her for old times sake?
As Pascal opened the car door for her and walked her to the house she felt a little lost. “When will I see you again?”
“Very soon, chérie. Very soon.”
He gave her a quick kiss and turned back to his car. She stood there stupidly, holding her keys and her heart in her hands, until he roared down the street and was gone. For a second she tried to will him to turn around, to come back to her. Then she came to her senses -- stop it, Merdle, you live an ocean apart -- and unlocked the door.
Her sister’s roller bag sat inside the door with her briefcase on the edge of the table. “Francie? I’m back.” The house was quiet as a dormouse.
Merle unlocked the back door and poked her head into the garden, calling again. Then she went upstairs, a knot of worry in her gut. Her sister was at the market, that was it, or running some errand in the village. On one of the beds in the loft lay Francie’s purse and her iPad. Would she go out without her purse? Maybe she just stuck some money in her pocket.
Merle tried to relax, slipping out of her dress and the stupid red shoes and into shorts and a t-shirt. Maybe she’d go on a run while Francie was out. Maybe Francie was on a run. Who was she kidding? Francie didn’t exercise, that was clear to everyone on the walking tour.
Back downstairs Merle got the cheese plate out of the fridge. Francie must have been cheese shopping because there were some new and different ones. Merle cut off a wedge of Delices de Pommard and washed it down with Perrier. She located her running shoes with the socks still stuck inside, and pulled them on. After locking the back door, she pocketed her key and opened the front, glass-paned door. A slip of paper lay on the threshold. She’d missed it somehow on her way in.
Francie left a note. “Good girl,” Merle whispered.
It was a cheap sheet of lined notebook paper, written in French. But Francie didn’t know French and why would she— ? Merle read the words, covering her mouth with her hand.
We have the American woman. If you want to see her again, give up the dog. We will contact you tonight.
Frozen in place she tried to comprehend what had happened. The night before she left, those men, pounding on the door, asking about the dog. Had they come back? Why had they taken Francie? Who were they?
This had to lead back to her call to the dog owner. Where was that phone number? She spun around, searching the room, still a mess from her scrubbing. She ran into the kitchen, frantic. Where was the reward poster? Then she remembered the number would be on her phone.
In the living room she dug her phone out of her purse. She wound back through the calls, trying to remember when she’d contacted the dog’s owner. She tried one. Michel Redier answered. She hung up.
She tried another. It rang a long time then finally a man answered in a gruff voice.
“Allo, bonjour, monsieur,” she began in French. “I am looking for the owner of the dog, Aurore. I spoke to him several days ago.”
“He is indisposed. Who is calling?”
“I talked to someone there about finding the dog and taking it to the veterinarian.”
“You have the dog?”
“No, I’m sorry. She ran away again. May I ask who this is?”
“Claude LaFleur, Gendarmerie. The owner of the dog has been attacked, madame. He is in the hospital. We are investigating. If you can help, if you know anything about the situation, we would appreciate it.”
She tried not to gasp, to control her emotions. The thought of Francie, with such men, made her throat catch. “I--I talked with a younger man. I don’t know who he was. He seemed a little suspicious. I told him we found the dog, that we took her to an animal clinic then helped her heal for a few days before she ran away again. I told him I lived in Malcouziac. He showed up here night before last, very late. I heard them outside but I didn’t let them in.”
“What happened, madame? Continuez, s’il vous plait.”
Merle shut her eyes. “It’s my sister. I— I got a note. She’s been kidnapped. They want the dog in exchange for her.”
The gendarme was very calm, and made her repeat what happened when the men came to the door, everything that was said on the phone.
“Are these the same men who attacked the dog’s owner?” she asked, her heart pounding. Just saying the word kidnapped was too much. And attacked. It was unreal. Breathe, Merle.
“Possibly. It appears the owner and his wife were held captive in their home by two criminals who wanted the dog. The reward is very high. It has attracted attention.”
“I saw the poster. But what should I do? My sister, she—” Merle gulped, trying to slow her breathing, to remember Annie’s advice for not hyperventilating in court. Hold your breath, let it out slowly. “She’s with them. And I don’t have the dog to exchange.”
LaFleur took down all her information and said someone would be by the house to talk to her shortly. The local gendarme, she expected. What help could they expect from him? She had to call Pascal. He would know who to bring in. Someone experienced.
Oh my god. Poor Francie. Was she hurt? Afraid? Merle bent over, a visceral pain in her gut from imagining her sister in distress, tied up, bleeding. No. She couldn’t believe it. Francie was strong and smart and beautiful. She would talk her way out of it. Wouldn’t she?
How could this have happened? If only Merle had come home last night, instead of letting Pascal lick her from head to toe. It was her fault. She should have been here. But last night couldn’t have been a mistake, could it? It was too flat-out wonderful. She didn’t know what was happening here last night. So whose fault was it? Was that important? She wasn’t above putting blame on Gillian. If she hadn’t run off with that stupid dog, none of this would have happened. If she hadn’t stopped to pick up the dog by the side of the road and hadn’t insisted on rescuing her from the vet.
Where the hell are you, Gillian?
The dog. Tartuffe, actually Aurore. Merle pictured the little thing, sweet and timid, limping around the garden. If she could find the dog and give it to these miscreants. Then Francie would be safe.
The dog was the ticket. She had to find the dog.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Annie wasn’t answering her cell phone. Merle tried to remember her schedule, where she was today. Annie worked in Pittsburgh for a non-profit environmental group. She was often on the road, lobbying or arm-twisting or filing briefs in various courts. She’d flown home several days before. Merle frowned; she’d forgotten what day it was. Saturday. Right. Maybe it was today Annie flew home? Merle was losing her internal calendar just when she needed it, and it freaked her out for a second.
She paced in the garden, mentally listing all the things she could do to find Gillian and the dog. Calling Pascal was on the list, on the top actually. But she balked at involving him without getting her head around what was going on here, getting a strategic plan in place. She’d just asked him for a favor, and he’d come through with flying colors. And she’d repaid that favor, she thought, smiling to herself. But no. Must not think about Pascal’s butt. Must find the dog. To find Aurore she had to find Gillian. To find Gillian—
What did Francie know exactly? She’d talked to Gillian’s assistant in the law firm. The emails. Merle rushed inside, up the stairs. There was Francie’s purse and iPad on the bed. Merle turned the tablet on. A blogging site popped up, a control dashboard for a blog called Lawyrr Grrls. Merle stared at it. Did Francie write this blog? Without telling us?
An internet connection box popped up. Francie had cell service on her iPad and never told them, making them run around town to poach wi-fi. Merle tapped on the latest blog post at the top of the list and read it quickly. Yes, Francie was writing this, about their trip, about Gillian. Merle went back to the list of posts and read each one, back to the beginning of the walking tour.
Initially pissed off because her sister was baring family details, Merle had to smile at her sister’s style. She was funny and sarcastic and right on about practicing law. And she concealed enough details that it would be hard to make an identification. Merle re-read the last few posts about Gillian’s disappearance, and a draft that Francie had saved but not posted. It chronicled her time in Toulouse with Elise. Merle skimmed it, looking for Gillian details. They had tried to investigate at the train station and came away empty-handed. They asked at Avis and EuropCar rental agencies and were turned away. They used a photo of Gillian to show around. Merle pawed through Francie’s purse and found a wrinkled 8-by-11 sheet, printed with a photo from the trip, Gillian holding Aurore, the day they found her, on the square in Loiverre. It was blurry.
Setting aside the tablet Merle went methodically through Francie’s purse. Her wallet, camera, pens, tickets, receipts, gum, mints, granola bar, a tourist brochure of Toulouse, a pamphlet of a cathedral. Merle set them all out on the bed then picked up the camera and turned it on. She flicked through the photos. Francie had taken hundreds on the trip; at least 50 in Toulouse. There was Elise by a fountain, pigeons on a lawn, a bridge and river, a church steeple, a sunset, lots of food on plates, wine bottles, sexy men. Then, one of the train station from the outside, from inside the lobby, a woman behind glass at a ticket window, a sour-faced Avis agent with her mouth open, a man at EuropCar with his hand up, shielding his face from the photographer. Making friends near and far, that was the Bennett girls.
Merle clicked forward through the photos. She stopped on one she couldn’t see very well, a white rectangle of something. Taking the camera into her bedroom, Merle downloaded all Francie’s photos to her laptop then searched through them. There, on a table with a fork.
