The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 44
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Merle opened her eyes and re-read Elise’s email. There were two ways to go: pretend to be Francie or write as herself. She chose the second option and tapped out a note. “Merle here. Francie decided to stay on for a few more days. Will let you know her ETA as soon as possible.”
Why Francie wouldn’t write herself went unanswered. Merle opened the next email. It was from Gillian’s assistant, Jonathan Greil.
I stayed late at the office last night to dig around. I’m really worried that Gillian isn’t answering my emails. But she did return one phone call yesterday, cryptically as usual. It was on voicemail when I got into the office in the morning. She said she was staying in Europe for a few more weeks and that she would call Mr. Ward directly to explain. That everything was fine.
When I ran into Mr. Ward in the break room, he asked me if I’d talked to Gillian, and I said no, just the voicemail. He frowned like he was angry. Later in the day he made a point to come up to me in the hall all smiles, clapped me on the back, to tell me everything was fine with Gillian, that he’d talked to her and her position would be waiting when she got back. I asked when that would be, on account of being her assistant. He said he wasn’t sure but if I wanted to take some vacation that would be fine. Can you believe that? He basically told me to get lost for a couple weeks, all paid. I don’t know what to think. Old Ward never takes a day off unless somebody dies. I’m going to work next week but then, what the hell. Off to the Hamptons. Jonathan.
No real news there, except that Gillian was staying in Europe for a while. The next email was also from inside the law firm. But before she could open it, Merle heard someone knocking downstairs. She’d wondered how long it would be until James made himself known. She’d been dreading seeing him again, especially now with much bigger problems than his.
But it wasn’t James. The blue jumpsuit tugged across Albert’s ample girth as he waved at her through the glass. She unlocked the door. “Bonjour, Albert.”
He wasn’t smiling as he stepped inside. “You are all right, Merle?” He looked her up and down as if checking for injuries. “You are back and everything is fine?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
He wiped his brow, visibly relieved. “I found this letter under my door.” He pulled a sheet of notebook paper from a pocket of his jumpsuit and handed it to her. “I came right over. I was so worried.”
Merle recognized the handwriting immediately.
We have the American woman. You will cooperate or we will kill her. Say nothing to les flics or you will be next. More tonight.
Merle stared at the words in French, uncomprehending for a moment: Nous allons tuer. This was harsher than her note. She extracted it from her back pocket, smoothing them side by side on the table.
“Does it say, we will kill her?” Her voice broke.
“But it is all fine, Merle. You are home, you are safe.”
She wondered what she should tell him, looking at his kind, blue eyes. Why had the kidnappers sent him a note? Albert followed her glance toward Francie’s suitcase. He blinked nervously. “And your sisters? They are fine too?”
Merle couldn’t lie to him. After she told him what had happened and they exclaimed and hugged and worried aloud, she poured them both a medicinal glass of wine. They sat in the darkened parlor on the lumpy horsehair settee and stared at the floor.
Albert downed the last drops in his glass. “I heard two men were in town, asking about Americans. The girl at the tabac, the one with the fancy eyebrows, she tells me this yesterday. They asked about American women.”
Merle struggled to process this. “Did you meet them?”
He shook his head. “I forgot about it until this morning when this note showed up at my door.”
The kidnappers must have thought she lived alone, in which case no one would get the ransom note left in her door. Albert’s note was to get the ball rolling, get somebody to look for the dog. “Did she say what they looked like?”
“Let’s go ask her.”
Aude of the fancy eyebrows would be called a Goth in the States. She had several pierced rings in both dark eyebrows and wore heavy black eyeliner with lipstick the color of dusk. Merle had wondered why she lived in this small, conventional village, how she put up with some of them, but was afraid to ask. It didn’t pay to be nosy, even with French Goth girls.
Aude and Albert were old friends. She smiled at him and immediately turned for a newspaper. He shook his head, explaining they had some questions. He introduced Merle.
“Bien sûr. I know madame.” Her English was good.
“These two men who came in, the out-of-towners,” Merle began.
“Les inconnus,” Albert said.
“Yes? What about them?” Aude asked, snapping her gum. She wore all black, down to her fingernails.
“Can you describe them?” Merle asked.
“One tall, one short. Only one talked. The other I keep an eye on for the stealing. He may have slipped some cigarettes into his pocket.”
“How were they dressed?”
She shrugged. “Normal. Dirty.”
“What did they look like, their hair, noses, scars, anything?”
“Brown hair. Or black. Unshaven. Ugly. They talk a little funny. An accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“I don’t know. Funny.”
Merle squinted at her. “Have you seen them since?”
“No. Just the one time. I tell them don’t come back.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“They ask if I know an American woman who lives here. I say no. Pardon, madame, I did not want to give them your information. You never know.”
“Thank you, Aude, I appreciate that. What did you tell them about Albert?”
“I say, somebody who lives at his address might know an American. No names, Père.”
“Merci,” Albert mumbled, looking a bit rattled.
“Why would you do that?” Merle asked, crossing her own arms.
“They would not leave the tabac. They stay and talk, push away the customers, read the magazines, never buying. They smell bad. Finally, I tell them your address, Père, just so they will go.”
They thanked the clerk and stepped back into the small plaza. The metal tables and chairs outside the tabac were deserted. Here was where Merle first met Albert, where he took her under his wing, became her friend. Here he was, helping her again.
“I wish she hadn’t done that. I think you should leave town for a while, Albert. Go visit that brother of yours in the Languedoc. Work on your tan.”
The old priest was startled, then shook his head. “No, no, no. I will stay with you in case they come back.”
“Visit your brother, Albert. See how his grandchildren have grown.”
“I could not leave. I would not enjoy myself.” He took her arm, leading her through the streets. “I will stay with you tonight. We will face whatever comes together.”
Merle bought two jambon sandwiches at the boulangerie and she and Albert walked back to her house. They ate their very late lunch tensely in the garden. Merle thought about last summer when Albert had been badly injured because of her. She couldn’t allow him to get hurt again, no matter what happened to Francie. She had to talk him into leaving the village. Maybe after tonight. Because she felt marginally better having him with her.
Albert had a fencing class in the early evening. He went home to prepare. Merle retrieved Francie’s iPad from upstairs and sat in the shade of the acacia tree, reading the last email. It was from Gillian’s assistant, Jonathan, again.
Ms. Bennett. Is everything okay over there? I haven’t heard from you in awhile. I’ve been looking through G’s emails because I don’t have much else to do. Take a look at the one from May 8 marked ‘Legal,’ and again, more recent, June 25. These are not law-related as far as I can tell. J.
Merle went back to the file marked “Gillian mail” and scrolled through to May 8. The email was from someplace called Net Buddy.
Ms. Sergeant,
Once you are done with the paperwork for the lawsuit can we meet at the usual place.
S.
Not much to go on. Her name was misspelled. Why had he thought that was not law-related?
Merle found the email from June 25. It had a subject line of “when” with “xxx” in the “from” box and was from another Internet café, this one called Webi.
‘Buono. Saturday. Pastis.’
Italian, English, French. What did it mean? An assignation for Saturday? Where? And who was she meeting? Merle went back through the emails. None of Gillian’s outgoing emails since she left for France were saved at the firm. Either she wasn’t using that email address or she wasn’t sending emails. This lone email from the 25th was important, cryptic as it was. It had slipped through the cracks, maybe sent by mistake to the law firm.
Merle went back into the house and poured water into a glass. If only she knew more about computers, about the Internet, about how to trace an email. Pascal would know or know who to ask. She paused, staring again at the iPad. She opened her phone, scanned her contacts. She’d sent him email before but not from her phone. She sent him a text asking for his email address to send him something.
Then a short note to Jonathan. This time she did pretend to be Francie; it was just easier. She told him she was fine, staying in Europe for a few extra days. And to please continue to send anything fishy on Gillian’s account.
Then another email to Francie’s boss, Mr. Baillee, asking his forbearance for another week of vacation, that she’d caught a bug and didn’t want to spread it to the entire East Coast and didn’t she have some sick days coming? Merle tried not to beg too much; it was so un-Francine.
As she clicked “send,” a knock on the front door rattled through to the kitchen. Merle poked her head out and saw it was James. Gulping down the water, she straightened, girding her loins for manfriend drama.
“You’re back,” he said, stepping inside. “I came by last night but no one was here.”
Merle waved him back into the garden. “I decided to stay over up there.”
He nodded, too preoccupied with his own problems to get the message. “I hit the sack early. Didn’t get much rest in the slammer.”
She folded her arms and feigned concern. “What does Redier say?”
“Not much. He didn’t do much in court, did he? I’d get another lawyer if I could. Do you think I should? What happened to you last summer? Wasn’t there somebody else involved, a real lawyer?”
Merle bit her lip. She had told James all about last summer, several times, and didn’t want to do it again. “I can give you a name. If you aren’t satisfied with Redier.”
“How would I know? The whole justice system is completely different over here. No plea deals? What the hell is that about?” He was wound up, jittery.
“Can I get you something? Water? Wine?”
He agreed to a glass of white wine. She poured two glasses of wine and put some of Francie’s cheese on a plate with some grapes. Semblance of normality. Francie should be eating her special cheese. Merle set the tray down on the green metal table. James waited to be served, biting his nails in the shade of the west wall. Merle handed him a glass.
“You have the guy’s name? The other lawyer?” James gulped wine. “Where’s he located? Nearby? Somebody in that town, what is it, Peri-goo?”
“He’s in Bordeaux.”
“Is that close?”
“Not particularly. But it’s the capital of this region. You want me to get it right now?”
“The sooner the better. This Redier is jerking me around. I have vibes about people. You know that about me, Merle. I get a bad one off that frog.”
Back in the house Merle did a search on Francie’s iPad for her criminal attorney from last summer, scribbled down his information on the back of an envelope, and once back outside, handed it over.
James stared at the number. “He’s good, you say? He got you off?”
“It didn’t come to that.”
He had finished his wine. “Can you—?” He held out his glass. Merle bit down on her molars. For somebody who loved French wine, he sure hated France.
Refill in hand, he started up again like a machine wound too tight. She’d seldom glimpsed this aspect of James Jeremy the Third, the steel-trap mind of the lawyer, the questions shotgunned out without a pause for answers. He questioned Redier’s record, his cronyism with the judge and various people in court, on and on. He circled back to Father Cyril.
“What does he hope to gain from filing charges? Is his job in danger? Is he a pedophile? Will his face heal faster? Will he regain his dignity?”
“He did look pretty bad.”
“Like somebody who fell down the stairs? Worse than a fist to the schnozz? Right. Looked pretty suspish to me. Maybe he did a little extra work to make it look worse? Do you think after the criminal case he files civil charges against me? Tries to get some money? Is that his angle?”
“Maybe. I don’t know how that works in France.”
The questions rolled on. Could Cyril claim loss of wages? Medical bills if he has socialized medicine? Loss of dignity? Loss of complexion? Did he lose eyesight? Where was he from? Why was he here?
“Did you bring a laptop with you?” Merle asked.
“Of course. Plenty of correspondence to keep up on, especially with them holding me over.”
“Does your family know?”
He sagged, his manic energy flagging. “I had to tell the ex. My youngest was expecting me back for her birthday party. That’s not happening, at least for old pops. The ex gets all up in arms, says she’s coming over to help lead the cavalry. I told her, help with what, buying shoes? ‘Because that’s all you’re good for.’ Not true, not true, I didn’t say that. But she’s bleeding me dry with child support.”
“Is she coming over?”
“Tuesday. Is that tomorrow? What’s today? Whenever Tuesday is. Couldn’t stop her. Never could. So I’ll have that hot mess on top of my other troubles.”
Merle felt herself smile. His ex would keep him busy and distracted. “Why don’t you try to find something out about Father Cyril? Google him.”
James whipped his head toward her. “They have Google here?”
“They do. It’ll be in French, but you can tell it to translate for you.”
He stood up suddenly, poured the rest of his wine down his throat. “God love Goo—” Rapping on the front door. James froze. “You expecting somebody?”
Merle stood slowly, trying to stay calm. “Maybe.” She looked at her watch. Could it be Albert returning? Or was it the men who had Francie? She turned toward the kitchen door.
James took her arm roughly. “Wait. Don’t answer it. It could be for me.” He pulled up his pant leg and showed her his electronic ankle bracelet, glowing green. “They made me wear this. Can you believe it? Bastards.”
“But you’re allowed to roam around the village, aren’t you?”
“They didn’t say exactly. Or I didn’t understand it.”
They walked on tiptoe over the crunchy gravel and up to the side of the kitchen door. From there you could see straight through to the front door. The shutters were open. She peeked around the edge of the doorframe.
“It’s the gendarme,” she whispered, feeling strangely like a child playing cops and robbers.
“He’s a double bastard.” James took her arm, holding her against the house. The leaves from the pear tree poked at her neck. “Stay here. He’ll go away.”
More knocking. They waited a few minutes until it stopped for a good stretch. Merle chanced another look. “He’s gone.”
“He’ll be back.”
Was the gendarme there about Francie or James? She hadn’t told him Francie was missing. She didn’t want to tell him. Not because it sounded so awful, though it did, but because James was really only capable of one full-blown incident at a time. He had his hands full with himself.
“You should go,” she whispered. “Slip out the back.”
Merle watched him skip sideways down the alley, trying to make himself small against the back walls of her neighbor’s gardens. In his cargo pants and Jets T-shirt, he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous but he’d probably get back to the hotel all right. He paused at the street, gave her a thumbs-up, and darted out.
Albert should be back from fencing practice soon. She knocked on his back gate but there was no answer. Retreating into her own yard, she locked the garden gate, hung the key inside the kitchen, and sat down at the table to worry.
After five minutes she got annoyed with herself. Francie was out there somewhere, scared, vulnerable, maybe hurt. Something had to be done.
Pascal had sent a text with his official police email address. Merle turned on Francie’s iPad and forwarded the two strange emails on to Pascal with a note asking if he could trace them. She poured herself another glass of wine and found his reply when she got back.
“What’s this about, blackbird? Your boyfriend’s business?” She texted instead.
MBennett: Can you talk?
He replied to the affirmative and she dialed. His voice warmed her. “What are we drinking, chérie? Is this—what do they call it—the drunk dial?”
Merle set down her wine glass. “No. This is serious, Pascal.”
“King James the Third?”
“No, it’s Francie. My sister. The one with the—” Big tits.
“Red hair. I remember, blackbird.”
“Someone left a note under the door. She’s been kidnapped by the men who want the dog.” Merle gulped a breath, then a slug of wine.
“Slow down, chérie.”
“They were here Thursday night. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t open the door, but the lights were on. They knew I was in here. They wanted to know about the dog. Then when you dropped me off, all of Francie’s stuff was here but no Francie.”
“She didn’t just go for a walk?”
