The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 45
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“It’s been hours. Everything is here, Pascal. Her purse, her camera, her suitcase, everything. The only thing I can figure is they thought she was me.”
“What does the note say?”
She read it to him, the words no more enlightening the tenth time than the first. Francie was gone, captive by thugs.
“And have you called the police?”
“I called the dog’s owner. To find out who they were. I talked to them on the phone before, that’s how they found me. I told them I lived in Malcouziac. Anyway, a cop was there. He said the owner had been held by two men, then attacked. They wanted the dog.”
“They were waiting for someone to call with information for the reward,” Pascal said. “And you did.”
“But I told them I didn’t have the dog! Why would they take Francie?”
“The criminal mind isn’t logical, chérie. So they will come back tonight?”
“I guess. Albert is going to stay with me. They gave him a note too, with even stronger language. Now he’s in danger because he’s my friend. Just like Francie, because of me.”
“Keep things locked tight. I will send the gendarme over to keep an eye on you.” He paused. “What are these emails you send me?”
“Sent to Gillian. I have to find her. She has the dog.”
He told her he would call later and make sure she was all right. She wanted to ask him where he was, was he close enough to come here, but she bit her tongue. She would have to make it through the night with only an old priest at her side.
An hour later, as purple light crept over the bastide wall, Albert arrived at the front door, a bottle of wine and a baguette in hand. He wore khaki trousers and a white shirt, part of his fencing uniform. Giving her bisous on both cheeks, he set the food on the table. Merle locked the shutters behind him, double-checking the padlock.
The evening stretched out in front of them. Albert had brought a book and settled in to read on the horsehair settee. Merle went through Gillian’s emails, searching for something, anything, to lead them to her. Night fell and she locked the kitchen door. Albert dozed, his book slipping to his round belly. Merle looked at the sky out the window in the kitchen, the stars shining in the velvet night. Shadows crept across the garden.
Pascal called at eleven. Assured that everything was calm, he told her the two emails had been sent from different places. Net Buddy was in Florida, outside of Tampa. There were several on the Gulf coast. That was the email in May with the “meet at the usual place” message.
The other address was more intriguing, from inside France, a village near the Italian border, north of Nice. It was remote up there, full of hermits and smugglers. The Internet café was a single terminal in the back of a convenience store, known to authorities as a useful spot for criminal activity.
“What about the message itself? Any ideas?” she asked.
“Pastis? The drink of course but also the name of bistros, hotels, and cafés.”
“Is there one near there?”
“In fact, in Nice there are three. Café Pastis, Bistro Pastis, and outside, in an old chateau in the hillside, Hotel Pastis.”
“So they met in Nice. Maybe.”
“Could be. But not much of a trail there.”
“If Gillian is in Nice. . .”
“Maybe. For one day. Could have been a week ago.”
Merle sighed. “I have to find her, Pascal.”
“Does she use a credit card?”
“Maybe. But I—wait, I have her cell number.” She searched through her phone and found Gillian’s number that Francie had called. “She didn’t answer and it sounded like she may have it turned off.”
“We will track her. She will turn it on.” His voice lowered. “I don’t like you there alone, blackbird.”
“Albert is here.”
“Very comforting. He can poke them with his epée.” He sighed. “I cannot leave here now. Maybe in one day, or two. Come to me, chérie. You should not be alone.”
“I’m all right, Pascal. I saw the gendarme on the street earlier.”
“And your boyfriend? Is he with you?”
“No. He has an ankle bracelet so he doesn’t wander.”
“Perfect. Come to me and he cannot follow.”
She promised to think about it. She couldn’t really plan anything, could she? Not with Francie’s fate in the balance. She set down her phone and watched Albert snore. When the knock came on the door, she almost jumped out of the chair. Albert woke with a start, his book dropping to the floor.
“Quoi? Qui est là?”
Merle put a finger to her lips. Another knock. Then the scratch of wood. She saw the paper being pushed through the crack in the shutters. Merle realized they could see her easily in the light, though she couldn’t see them. She ran up the stairs, opening the window over the door. As she eased the shutters open, she saw the top of a head, a man in a dark cap. His face was hidden by the brim. He stood at the shutters, peering inside, then looked around, dried his palms on his pants, and ran down rue de Poitiers into the darkness. No sign of the gendarme in any direction.
Downstairs, Albert stood unsteadily in front of the settee, his glasses askew. Merle went to the door. She scooped up the note and relocked the door. Under the floor lamp by the settee, she smoothed the paper against the cushion.
“What does it say? Is your sister all right?” Albert whispered.
Bring the dog to Montpellier in two days.
We will tell you where tomorrow.
“Montpellier?” Merle repeated.
“It is to the south some ways. On the Mediterranean.”
“Yes, I—Where is Francie?” She wrapped her arms around her sides, tightening against her ribs. She felt in danger of flying into pieces. “Why haven’t they said anything about her?”
“We should talk to Monsieur le Gendarme. He will know what to do.” Albert had more faith in gendarmes than anyone.
Merle grabbed her phone. “I’ll call Pascal.” She stopped. “Wait. Did they leave you a note?” They hurried out through the garden, the alley, both gates. Inside Albert’s yard the sweet smell of ripening plums was thick on the night air. He opened his back door and led her through to the front, where he’d found the other note.
Unlike hers, his door shutters fit perfectly together with no cracks. “It wasn’t until I unlocked the shutters that I found it on the street.” He fiddled with his padlock and there it was, wedged by a hinge.
“Lock up,” Merle reminded him. They walked back to his kitchen table and examined the note under the light.
“It’s the same,” Merle said. At least they didn’t mention killing anyone.
“They must know we don’t have the dog,” Albert said, frowning at the scribbles.
“They’re counting on us to find her.” She turned to the priest. “And we will.”
Albert let Merle out his back gate, watching the alley as she went through into her garden. “Bon soir, Albert,” she called over the wall.
“Bon soir, Merle.” His gentle voice floated on the breeze. She locked the doors tight and stood in the silent house. Again she thought she didn’t like being alone here. She wanted to go to Pascal. But Francie. Where were they holding her? Was it close by? They were here in Malcouziac. Why make the exchange in Montpellier?
Two men, the gendarme LaFleur had said, held the dog owner and his wife at their farmhouse. These guys must be scary in some way, threatening, violent. They had weapons or were cruel with their fists. By their notes though, not educated. Some kind of demands must be on them. Why else would they kidnap a woman just to get a dog? A very expensive dog but still, not worth a human life. Maybe that wasn’t the way they looked at it. The dog owner may recover or not.
Merle sat down at the table, stared at the cold fireplace, and tried to reason like the kidnappers. They want the reward money. They needed the dog. They go to the owner’s house, hold him against his will, waiting for a call about the dog’s whereabouts—so they can return the dog to the owner for the reward? That made no sense. They are burned at the owner now. He knows who they are. Unless they got a third party to return the dog, get the reward, and give it to them. Would the third party be Francie?
There had to be something simpler than this. Was money not their object at all? If they didn’t want the reward, they must be selling the dog to someone. Maybe Aurore was worth much more to a truffle hunter.
Merle sighed, glancing at her watch. It was nearly one but Pascal answered. “They were here. One guy, with a note. Same note at my house and at Albert’s. The gendarme disappeared.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“It was too dark.”
“Read it to me.”
She read the short sentences. “Why Montpellier?”
“It is a city. Easier to approach unseen in a crowd. Maybe they plan an escape by sea.” He paused. “I am near there. Come, blackbird.”
“I have to wait for instructions. I have to be here tomorrow night.”
“Albert will get a note. He will call you. Chérie, these are criminals. Stupid, dumb dog thieves perhaps, but without a conscience or they wouldn’t have beaten that old man and taken your sister. I have called the gendarmerie in St. Paul, where the dog owner lives. The old man is still unconscious. But the wife has given them good descriptions and an artist is working on sketches.”
“And then what?”
“Then the heat comes down on them. The sketches go out to every village, every city. All the gendarmes in the area will be watching for them. Police will be looking for them. And they become much more desperate.”
“Jesus Mary,” Merle whispered.
“Come here, blackbird. Pack your suitcase right now and get in the car.”
Merle sank to a chair, her head in her hands. “It’s so late, Pascal.”
“You are right, you need a clear head. Get up with the birds. I will text you directions. Promise me, blackbird. Promise you will come in the morning.”
The route Pascal had chosen through the hills of southwest France, stony and barren and sometimes impenetrable, could best be described as “scenic.” Avoiding Toulouse and the highways, he’d mapped a back roads trail. Across into the Quercy and through many Cahors roundabouts, it wound along the Lot River. Slow going, with tiny villages, but picturesque with arched bridges and crumbling yellow stone and mossy tile. From there, she plunged away from civilization into a Parc Naturel full of pine trees and a place for “Le Camping.” There was plenty of time to worry as the morning sun glinted off the lazy river and shot through the pines.
She slept for three hours. After Pascal hung up, Merle found Jonathan had sent Francie another email. No news to report, just a friendly missive. Something about it, about the Francie everyone liked, the one admired for her beauty and wit, almost broke Merle’s heart. She’d too often dismissed Francie because she was pretty and flaunted it. She was more than pretty, she was a knock-out. Was she jealous of Francie? She was much younger and always would be, and it was hard to hold her beauty against her. It was amazing she hadn’t remarried after the airline pilot fiasco. Men swarmed around her but no one was special enough to snag her. That model from last year, the pretty boy—she’d tossed him aside after a few months.
At two a.m., Merle realized she hadn’t found Francie’s cell phone. Did she still have it? Merle pawed frantically through her sister’s suitcase. The phone was tucked into a side pocket. Three new text messages: a general hello from their mother, one from the law firm okaying her for sick leave, and one from somebody named Jason: hey, babe, what’s shaking, sweet cheeks? Francie’s text from Toulouse was her last.
At three, Merle wrote Albert a note, explaining she was going to find her sister. She asked him to get help from the gendarme if he felt anxious and to please consider going to his brother’s house. Before she left, she would slip it into his door. Then she’d climbed the stairs and attempted sleep. She lay on the bed, watching the moonlight on the bedroom ceiling, every muscle tense, her head pounding. An owl in a faraway tree hooted.
What the hell was she doing here in France? This was supposed to be a fun sister trip. It was, for a while, before it all came crashing down.
She got up and called Annie again. Still no answer. She left a message this time. “Call me.”
Now, on the road, driving was at least action, forward movement. The landscape flattened out east of the pine forests heading into Rodez. Cow pastures, horses, and vineyards filled the fertile land between the hills. She stopped for gas and coffee in Rodez on Avenue de Montpellier, overlooking the river. She drove southeast through another forest, a park, then more hills. The Peugeot chugged along as she merged onto the toll road near Millau, the espresso keeping her awake.
She reached the outskirts of Montpellier and pulled over to call Pascal. She could hear the relief in his voice as he gave her directions to a hotel near the center of town.
The moist Mediterranean air warmed her face. Montpellier was a big city, almost as large as Toulouse but prettier with palm trees and the smell of the sea. She got lost inside the city twice then there was Pascal, waiting on the sidewalk.
“What does this dog look like?” Pascal asked as they settled in their chairs for lunch. The bistro was in the old part of Montpellier near a large, open plaza. Merle felt the coffee buzz drain away and munched on her third piece of bread. He said, “Maybe we can find a similar one.”
He hadn’t been able to get any more information about Gillian’s whereabouts or the kidnappers from the various agencies. The sketches hadn’t come in yet.
“A wavy coat like a poodle. Smallish, maybe eighteen or twenty inches. A little curly hair on the face and head. Brown and white,” Merle said.
“Have they seen it, these thieves?”
“The photograph in the newspaper and on the reward poster.”
Pascal sat back in his chair. “I wonder.”
“What?”
“Someone snatched the dog, right? Took it from its cage. Who do you suppose did that?”
She squinted, putting it together. “Same two?”
He shrugged and drank some wine. He wore an actual white dress shirt with his collar open, with black slacks, a black leather sports jacket, and cowboy boots. This was as dressed up as she’d seen him. He must have some high-level official business here. And yet he was at lunch, with her.
He twirled his fork. “I’m thinking they are clowns, right? But they manage to get the dog from the owner’s kennel. Put it in their car or whatever. Then, somehow, the dog escapes.”
“After they take out the ID chip. Did I tell you that? The vet thinks that’s what her injury was.”
“Okay. Then the dog runs off and they are in big trouble with whoever they are stealing the dog for. If that is right, they have seen this dog. They know the dog. It would be hard to fool them with another.”
“You think it was a contract thing?”
“Without a doubt. Some trufflier saw that article and needed a new dog. The truffle business is very—” He made a slashing motion across his neck.
“Cut-throat.” Merle shivered, thinking of Francie. Their lunch came, chicken with haricots verts for him and steak frites for her. Despite her nerves, Merle attacked her meal, ravenous. Even Pascal was impressed. “Poor starving American. It is good you have someone to buy you meals, penniless gypsy.”
He had to go to work. He gave her his hotel key, told her to make herself at home. It was a small family-run hotel on a narrow side street in the Vieux Ville. The old town was all walking streets, cobblestones wheeling out from the plaza. She carried her small bag from a community parking lot three blocks away and slipped up the stairs to the third floor of the hotel.
Pascal’s room was utilitarian and plain, a threadbare blue spread over the blankets on the small double bed, a cramped bathroom, and a table with one chair in the corner. Merle spread out her laptop, the iPad, and her notes on the table. She took out her phone and called Albert.
“Mon Dieu, je suis très inquiet!” His English was failing him, that’s how upset she’d made him. “I do not see the note until after I am at your house for long minutes, knocking, thinking you too have been taken by the bad men.”
“I’m sorry to worry you, Albert. I had to leave very early or I would have called. I’m safe, and I want you to be extra careful. Can you please consider going to visit your brother tomorrow?”
“I am just an old man. I know nothing about this business.”
“But these men don’t know that, so be careful. They should leave you another note tonight. Call me when you get it, all right?”
He agreed, calm now. He had fencing practice with his summer club again—all week. He couldn’t leave. She gave him the hotel’s phone number in case her cell phone didn’t work. He muttered a little, scolding her again for frightening him, and hung up.
Pascal had told her they would need to involve the Policier Nationale very soon. A kidnapping was serious business and they couldn’t handle it themselves. As an officer, he had some discretion but the time would probably come as soon as they found out the rendezvous point.
Merle stared at the cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. She didn’t want to involve the police. She couldn’t explain it really, just that her experiences in that department didn’t inspire confidence. The longer Francie was held, the less the chance they would find her, or find her in good shape. If the police got involved, everything would slow down. It just made sense to Merle: leave the cops out of it. One more day and they’d know where the exchange point was. Francie would be there and Merle would get her sister back. She had to.
In the meantime she would search for Gillian. She opened Francie’s email again. Jonathan had written again.
Ms. Bennett. I heard you’re sick. I hope it’s just that “French Flu” you hear about when people go to Paris and don’t want to come home. I found one more email. It was in Gillian’s spam folder.
Merle downloaded it. It was again from a strange IP address and in French.
