The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 46
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
‘Votre reservation est confirmée. Nous vous accueillerons le jeudi 27 Juin, pour deux nuits. Merci de votre visite.’
Gillian had made a reservation somewhere in France for two nights, last week. Merle read it over three times, wondering why the hotel name wasn’t listed. Had Gillian scrubbed it somehow? Had she meant to delete it and it ended up in spam? Merle forwarded it to Pascal, asking for another Internet Provider search.
This was the first solid lead since Gillian turned in the rental car in Toulouse. Someone had written to her from near Nice, but had she actually gone there? Merle did a Google search for “hotel pastis” and up came dozens of hits, chief among them the Peter Mayle novel and a ritzy joint in St. Tropez. She searched for “café pastis” and again, hundreds of mentions of the concoction on menus popped up.
Maybe it was a clue, not a place. Somewhere they’d met for a pastis, that foul-tasting anise drink, milky green and only palatable when watered down massively. Merle had one, and only one, years before. But the French loved them, especially in the south.
If it was a clue, it was useless to her. Merle stared at her notes then dialed the Hotel Pastis in St. Tropez. Putting on her best sweet-sounding voice, she tried to wrangle some information out of a clerk who sounded like she was born with a posh spoon up her ass. Client visits are “utterly” confidential.
Merle kept at it, searching the Internet and Gillian’s emails until exhaustion and the sun in the west window warming the room caught up with her and she curled into a dead sleep on the bed.
Dinner was late at an inexpensive bistro. Merle insisted on paying, she told Pascal upfront. He was offended, she could tell. But she wasn’t a penniless gypsy or a kept woman. She squeezed his knee between courses, making him forget to be angry. She kept her phone on the table until Pascal recommended putting it in her pocket. The waiter was disapproving. But Albert didn’t call before they walked back to the hotel through narrow streets in the glow of streetlights.
In the room she turned to Pascal. “I’m sorry this isn’t Périgueux again,” she said. “Not as much fun.”
He kissed her and said, “We will always have Périgueux.”
She smiled. “Such a romantic.”
“I am French. We invented it.”
He was back in his uniform, black T-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle jacket. She buried her nose in the leather of the collar, smelling him, memorizing it for the long winter ahead. She didn’t want to think about winter or home. But she was practical. It would come; she would go home. With Francie. Definitely with Francie.
They were standing there, arms around each other, nuzzling and making wishes, when the call came. Merle jumped, pulled her phone from her pocket. “Albert?”
“Oui, c’est moi. I am okay.” His voice was shaky.
“Did something happen?”
“I must tell you, c’est vrai? D’accord. I am walking home from dinner with Father Cyril. He has a room in the back of the church now.” There was the sound of a cork popping and the glug of liquid being poured.
“Albert? What happened?”
“Pardon. I need some wine to calm down. So, I am walking by your rue and a man runs around the corner and knocks me down. L’heurt. Boom. He spins away, disappears down the street.”
“Oh my god. Are you all right?” Last year’s attack, the gash on his head, came flashing back.
“Oui, oui. I land on my derriere. Quite a large target. No harm done. Just the pride.”
“I’m glad you’re okay.” Merle raised her eyebrows at Pascal. “Did you find a note in your door?”
“I dust myself off and walk home. And voilà, in the crack of the shutters, the letter. I will read it to you. ‘Meet at the center of the Polygone, 1800 hours, tomorrow. Bring the dog.’”
“I need to get a pen, Albert.” Pascal handed her a pen as she grabbed her notebook on the table. “Can you read it again please? Slowly. And spell that place.”
She wrote it carefully, then read it back to him. She spelled back “Polygone,” pronounced like “polygon” but French: po-lee-gawn. Albert added, “I am now thinking it is a good idea to visit my brother, Jean-Paul.”
“Yes, Albert, please go. Fencing can wait. Be safe.” She thanked him and turned off the phone.
Pascal was frowning at her notebook. “The Polygone is a grand hall for shopping. What do you call them in America?”
“Shopping mall?”
“Yes. Very busy that time of day.”
“Where is it?”
“About five blocks from here in the center of town.” He looked very serious. “It is time, chérie. We must bring in the troops.”
From the first meeting early the next morning in the Police Nationale offices in a large, government complex on rue de la Vielle Poste, Merle felt a sense of foreboding. This would not end well. Pascal, a loner, was now a cog in a task force for major crimes. He had come here to investigate some huge winery in the Languedoc that was suspected of mixing cheap Chilean wine in its Vin du Pays d’Oc, the usual scam. Now he was reassigned temporarily to the task force but in an adjunct capacity, translating when necessary, a minion. A burly man in a navy uniform with a chest full of medals asked her for all the ransom notes, the details of the dog, her sisters’ information, Gillian’s information, her disappearance with the dog. Everything she had, which wasn’t that much.
There were sour faces all around the table in the lofty conference room when they realized that days had passed since the first ransom note. A curse, a brisk rebuke. She told them about the call to the gendarme at the dog owner’s home. This caused a riffle of excitement and indignation, running around, phone calls. It was a long day. By three in the afternoon, she was dismissed, told to stay in her hotel room. Grave and silent, Pascal found her a taxi. In the cab she texted him.
I will be at the Polygone when it goes down.
You don’t have to tell them but I will be there
She shut off her phone angrily. This was her sister. How dare they shuffle her off with a pat on the head? The cab let her off near the hotel. She found a café and ordered a coffee and a salad. Visions of a SWAT team and very large weapons swam in her head. How were they going to trick them? No one knew what the men looked like unless those sketches had finally arrived. Would a rough sketch be enough to recognize someone in a large, moving crowd? They could have changed their appearances, cut their hair, shaved mustaches. They could use a third party; who knew how many were in the gang. Pascal doubted they would bring Francie to the shopping mall. It was too risky. So how would they find her? He guessed there would be another note, directions to where she was hidden after they took off with the dog. They would get instructions when they passed off the dog.
But there was no dog. Merle’s stomach hurt. She had told the police that the thieves knew this dog, that no substitute would work. She ate quickly and went back to the hotel, staring at the ceiling from the bed, checking her watch. The limbo was excruciating. Being swept aside from her own sister’s fate made her feel helpless and sad. Where are you, Francie? Balling her fists against her eyes, trying to block the visions she kept seeing, she felt so frustrated. She lay there trying to force out a few tears for the entire situation.
But this wasn’t the time for crying.
The Polygone was huge, an American-style indoor mall, unlike any she’d seen in France. One end was modern, with an arched glass roof, not far from the Old Town. At five-thirty Merle watched people stream in and out then headed around the building to find another entrance. The opposite side was built with Greek touches, a pediment, arched windows, trailing vines, very dramatic.
The effect was a massive pagan temple for the worship of perfume and haute couture if a look inside the Galeries Lafayette was a clue. Bustling with clerks and shoppers, it smelled like a field of sweet flowers. Merle’s eyes burned a little as she wound through the sample counters of the huge department store to the mall entrance.
Where was the center of this monstrosity? A polygone had many sides, right? If this was one end then the center would be forward.
The mall had several levels of shops like any self-respecting suburban American mall. Lines of boutiques, some brands she recognized, others new to her, strung along the balconies as she peered up. Escalators connected the floors at intervals down the shiny hallways.
Merle checked her watch. She expected to see cops by now. She stopped at a jewelry store window to watch the traffic for single men. Most young men had their arms around women, or traveled in packs. Solitary men were rare. One passed with a small red shopping bag. Would the kidnappers use a bag like that to hand over the directions to Francie? He kept moving into the crowd. Another man dressed in a smart suit walked by, heels tapping on the marble floor. Too spiff to be a cop.
She continued down the ground level of the mall, pretending to window shop. At the far end, escalators brought shoppers down from the other entrance, the one with the glass roof. She dawdled down the opposite side. The grocery market was there, the Monoprix. It was stuffed with people, coming and going, with string bags full of dinner ingredients, wine, towels, plants, bread, shirts, cakes. She watched the action for a minute, fascinated, then pushed through the throng.
On the other side of the crowd she paused, trying to gauge where the center of the mall would be, when she saw Pascal on a top balcony with cell phone to his ear. She stepped out of his line of sight, behind a large potted tree.
This must be the center. Behind her was a clothing store for teenagers, bright colors, T-shirts. She eased into their doorway but immediately had to move to let a group of girls inside. She walked on to the next boutique, a men’s store full of ties and shirts. She looked back, trying to spot the police. Where were they? A man in a baseball cap leaned out from behind the escalator, talking on his phone: definitely a cop. In the corner of her eye she saw a women’s store directly across the hall. Turning on her heel, she made a beeline for it like a woman on a mission.
The windows of the shop were full of mannequins in various stages of undress, in panties and bras, slacks halfway down, breasts exposed. The reflection in the windows served as a mirror. Five minutes until six. Her pulse quickened. She pulled out her cell phone and checked for a message from Pascal. Nothing.
A yipping sound, a dog barking, came from somewhere behind her. She turned, looking for a dog. Just shoppers, feet shuffling, bags rubbing, laughter, far away music. She looked right, down the row of storefronts. Several stores down a woman stood alone. She wore a long blue skirt that hit her shins, a baggy, beige sweater, and red tennis shoes with anklets. Her hair was an unnatural shade of honey in a straight, blunt cut. She was thin, mousy, the kind of woman who didn’t want to attract attention, nervous, eyes darting around. She spotted Merle and looked away. Merle put her eyes forward, into the store. When she looked back, the woman was gone.
Merle followed two women into the store. They were chatting in French. She gave her standard “bonjour” to a clerk then positioned herself behind a rack of blouses where she had a good view of the central walkway.
Her phone rang. It was 5:59. She considered ignoring it, but a woman next to her smiled and said something. Merle pulled it from her pocket. It was James.
She hadn’t told him she was leaving town. If there was one thing she would change about this trip, it would be a toss-up between leaving Gillian or James at home. No, that couldn’t be true. No Gillian would mean Francie wouldn’t have been kidnapped. James was just a pest.
“James, how are you?”
The French woman’s eyebrows went up: Ah, American. Merle shrugged: sorry.
“Where are you, Merle? I’ve been over to your house twice.”
“Something came up. What’s going on?” The clerk gave her a dirty look. Merle stepped out into the hall, phone to her ear.
“I called that criminal attorney you recommended and he’s going to take my case.”
“Well, that’s good news. You can get rid of Redier.”
Something was happening under the escalators. Merle could see several sets of legs. But the center was still vacant, the occasional solitary shopper intent on getting home to dinner. A glow from the late afternoon sun hit the high windows, setting them aflame.
James was talking about his case, his prospects, his witnesses. Merle half-listened. “Uh-huh. Right.” Then, there was the dog yipping again. She whipped her head right, then left. “Can I call you later? Bye, James.” Where was that dog?
Out of the crowd the mousy woman in the long skirt strolled toward a metal bench in the center, a bundle now under her arm. Covered with a dark brown towel or blanket, it was roundish and oblong. Was this part of the game plan? In her other arm she held a large market basket which she set down on the bench. Gently she transferred her bundle into the basket and bent down to talk to it. She patted it. After a moment there was the barking again and the woman patted the bundle once more. She straightened and looked around, clutching a small purse strapped to her shoulder.
Minutes passed. The woman soothed her bundle multiple times, the barking came and went. If she had to guess, Merle would say it was a recording; it had a repetitive, mechanical sound—great if the kidnappers are idiots and they don’t actually check if that’s a real dog in there. Merle covered her mouth to keep from groaning. This was idiocy.
She wandered down the storefronts, feeling the weight of waiting. Awful thing, time. Why had she ever thought she could tame it? When things were going well, it went too fast, like when children were growing, or vacation days, nights with Pascal. She felt a visceral ache, a longing. Pascal. She took a breath and let it out. Not now. Francie was the one she was searching for, the one who was lost. The one she waited for in this temple of consumption.
Across from the Monoprix again, Merle decided to mingle in the crowds outside the big green doors. As she walked toward the doors, an older couple was exiting. He had the groceries, she had the dog, a little purse dog, white and fluffy. It wriggled in her arms and she was scolding it. “Tranquille, mon trésor!”
They were a good distraction. Merle turned and stepped in behind them. Over their shoulders she could see the woman with the bundle and beyond her the men under the escalators. She glanced up to see two other cops trying to act nonchalant one level up. She craned her neck, looking for Pascal and walked smack into the woman, startling everyone including the little dog, who started to yap wildly at her. The man with the bags began to shout at the woman and the dog, perhaps at Merle, obviously losing all patience. The woman, who had that fake orange hair the French love and wore an expensive cream-colored suit, tried to calm her pet. She succeeded in getting hysterical herself.
In the commotion the dog leapt from her arms, landing with a smack and a squeak on the marble, skittering with sharp nails as he got his footing. A blue rhinestone leash trailed as he barked madly, celebrating his freedom, heading south.
The woman began to squeal. The man, dressed in a suit and tie, threw down his groceries and took off after the beast. Merle stood there stunned, trying to think of something to say in French that would be helpful. Was this part of the police charade? If so it was spectacular. The man skidded as he turned and fell to his knees, cursing.
The little dog emerged on the opposite side of the center court, stopping to pant and look around, his little pink tongue hanging out. The bundle on the metal bench began to bark as if on cue. The white dog perked up his ears and took up the call, yapping as he scurried toward the bench. In a gymnastic leap into the air that caused the woman with the honey-colored hair to jump backward in fright, the dog pounced on the market basket. They rolled sideways off the bench onto the floor, the white dog on attack. Into the basket he went, pawing, snarling, biting at the bundle, barking like the little mad thing he was. He pulled the bundle out with his teeth, whipping it back and forth, then tossed it aside and went back into the basket for more.
Merle put a hand over her mouth. Laughing or crying, both were out of the question. She glanced under the escalator—empty. Likewise the balcony. The man arrived, red in the face, and pulled the dog out of the basket. It twisted and snapped as he handed the animal to his wife. On the floor by the basket lay an orange stuffed rabbit, some wiring and electronics, and a brown blanket. The woman had vanished.
Merle backed away from the scene, now circled by shoppers shaking their heads. She stepped behind the first row of onlookers, hoping the cops hadn’t seen her. Did she cause the exchange to fail by bumping into the old couple? Had the kidnappers even showed? Were they here right now? She looked at the shoppers frantically. They all seemed to be carrying bags of groceries or clothes or toiletries, smiling and congenial, enjoying the show.
Inside the Monoprix she tried to calm down. She bought a bottle of white wine, some goat cheese with a blue rind, the kind Francie liked, some hummus and raw carrots, and a baguette. Her hands shook as she got money out of her purse. She dropped some coins and said she was sorry once too often.
In the mall again, the crowd was gone, as was the basket and toy rabbit. Merle sighed. Don’t give up, Francie. Never give up
Gianluca Gribaudi had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. The Italian trufflier had made up his mind that day when Bettina refused to accept his help with the dog. He had been so kind, so generous, and she disrespected him yet again. She was an old woman; she had no business hanging onto her land and distribution connections. If she had been nicer to him, had told him the truth, he could have helped her. But now, it was all for his own famiglia.
One of his own workers had told him about Hector and Milo. There are no secrets in the Piedmont. At first Gianluca thought he might dispatch his son to bring the dog back, but the boy was busy in the city. The young people rarely wanted to help with the business any more. So off he went. It didn’t take long to find two idiot Italians looking for a dog, not with the reward posted everywhere.
But now, in the stone barn high in the hills overlooking Montpellier, he listened to Hector’s excuses and grew angrier by the minute. Milo came out of the back room once used for hay storage where the girl was confined. He had taken her some dinner: sausage and bread. And wine, Gianluca saw, frowning. The man made himself ridiculous, the way he fawned over the pretty American.
