The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 47
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
But now Hector was finishing his sorry tale. “The police were everywhere. I could see them, talking on their phones, all over the shopping center. They think I am stupid but I see them. I have a nose for polizia. The old man, that priest, must have called them. I told him no flics but he must have called.”
“And the dog? Was the dog there?”
“There was a dog all right. But not our dog. They tried to trick me. Then another dog ran up and upset the basket with the animal sounds. No, no truffle dog. No Aurore.” He sobered, seeing the scowl on Gianluca’s face. “I am sorry, signore.”
Gianluca’s temper was rising to a boil. He lashed out, smacking Hector hard across the face. “Idiot. You are worthless!” Hector took a step back and opened his mouth to speak but Gianluca slapped him again. “You will get the priest and bring him here. He has ruined everything for us. We will make him pay.”
“Sì, signore.” Hector fished the keys to the truck out of his pocket. His cheeks glowed.
Milo stood hunched in a corner, trying to be inconspicuous. Gianluca glared at him through slitted eyes. “Are you giving her a five course meal?”
“No, signore, only sausage and roll.” He still held the unlabeled wine bottle by the neck. “And a small sip of wine so she can sleep. She says she is awake all night on the straw mattress.”
“It will not kill her to stay awake,” Gianluca growled. Hector remained frozen in place. “What are you waiting for? Go get the priest.”
Hector shuffled out the door. They heard the truck’s engine turn over. Gianluca pulled out a wooden chair and sat down. He wore peasant clothes and they itched, the baggy pants now dirty. The woman called out and Milo straightened, at the ready. He glanced at Gianluca. “Go see what she wants.”
Taking the woman was a mistake, he saw that now. It seemed simple at first, based on Hector’s tale. He couldn’t put his finger on what went wrong except the American was not what he expected. She was pretty with large bosoms and a mouth that wouldn’t stop. His wife was the same way, talk, talk. Luckily, he couldn’t understand the American. If she would just be quiet, he could show her some of his special Italian hospitality. The thought was there but he wasn’t sure the will was. Slapping her was easier than fighting her with his cock. It would be nice to put her in her place, but he had bigger problems. He had to figure this out or lose his land. He didn’t need distractions like that.
Milo came out of the room with the empty plate, poured a glass of water, and went back. The woman was tied to the bed, she wasn’t going anywhere. It had been four days with her. Too long. Gianluca was tired and surrounded by stupidos.
He went to the doorway. Milo stood next to the bed, watching her drink the water, a simple-minded pleasure on his face. The woman was disheveled, her hair tangled. She stared at Gianluca as she sipped slowly. As she handed the empty glass to Milo, she smiled at him. “Grazie, Milo.” She looked at Gianluca in the doorway. “And fuck you, signore.” She smiled sweetly as she said it.
His English was bad but he knew what she said. His temper spiked again. He took a step toward her. He needed his anger now, he was so tired. He hadn’t slept either. But she couldn’t speak to him that way. He raised a hand and she scuttled back onto the bed as far as she could with her ankle rope. He roared at her, raised his hand higher, just to see her cower and shiver. He wanted her to beg forgiveness, to take back what she said. But there was defiance in her eye.
He slapped her, not as hard as he’d slapped Hector, but enough to make her cry out in pain. Milo squirmed, backing away. The woman began to speak then closed her mouth, her lips tight against her teeth. A spot of blood formed on her bottom lip.
Gianluca felt his anger dim. He had hurt her, frightened her. This was good. But it would not help find the dog. He hoped that she would know where the dog was hidden, but so far they’d gotten nothing from her. He told Milo to get out, backed away himself, giving her one last disdainful glare before locking her in for the night. He had made up his mind.
He must call for an enforcer from home.
Pascal didn’t return to the hotel that night. Merle stayed up until one, watching the moon shadows creep down the street. At ten he had texted a cryptic “working late” but nothing more. He didn’t owe her an explanation. He didn’t owe her anything. She had eaten the food from the grocery store and worked on the iPad for hours, then crawled under the covers, defeated.
She was packed, standing at the door at seven-thirty when it opened. Pascal looked tired, drawn, and a bit surprised to see a woman in his room.
“I was just going,” she said.
“To breakfast? Wait for me to shower.” He looked at her bag. “Can you wait?”
She nodded and sat down again at the table. There were things she couldn’t do, like trace IP addresses and phone numbers. Otherwise, the police were bungling it, in her opinion. That mechanical barking and bunny rabbit? It was so stupid it infuriated her. But she would keep her opinions to herself for now.
Pascal came out of the bath and dressed quickly. He towel-dried his hair and was ready in ten minutes, waving her out the door and down the stairs. At the same café where she’d had lunch the day before, he ordered them coffees and omelets. Merle set her bag on the floor under her chair, waiting for him to speak.
The coffees arrived, café au lait for her and a double espresso for him. He tested it then downed it in one gulp.
“We have been out all night, looking for her,” he said, his voice raw. “We got a hit on a traffic camera but only a partial number.”
“What kind of car?”
“A camionette, a small farm truck.”
“Where did it go?”
He shrugged. “We lost it. They must be somewhere close by. We looked in the hills. Everywhere within a fifty-kilometer radius.”
She sighed. It wasn’t his fault the brass pinned their hopes on a mechanical rabbit. “What now?”
“Keep searching. Have they contacted you again?”
“Albert hasn’t called.”
“You should go home then. Wait for them to contact you again.”
She frowned at her omelet. She wasn’t hungry enough for a five-egger, today or ever. Hadn’t he begged her to come here? Said it was dangerous at home by herself? But she wouldn’t argue. She pulled out Francie’s iPad. “I sent you this email yesterday. It’s another IP address we could trace. From Gillian’s email.”
He pulled out his phone. “I sent it in.” He scrolled through messages. “It is a small hotel, a gîte, outside of St-Émilion. Close to Bordeaux.”
“I know it. Famous wine.”
“It’s called La Rosette.” He looked up. “You will call there?”
“Or you can.”
“I will do it. Please, the best thing is to go home and wait for communication from the kidnappers.” She nodded, biting her lips. He pushed away his plate and wiped his mouth. “I must go. We will find her, Merle.”
She blinked then, feeling the emotion, the strain of the last few days, rise to her cheeks. He stood up and touched her shoulder. “Go home, blackbird. I will call you.”
She retraced her route across the hills and mountains to the Dordogne, wondering at every turn if Francie was somewhere nearby. It was an awful feeling, this helplessness, this knowing that someone you love is possibly hurt and afraid and you aren’t there. The omelet churned in her stomach, and high on a mountain, Merle got out of the car and tried to vomit. Instead the pine scent cleared her head. Anxiety would not help her find Francie.
Soldier on, Merdle. If only her brave sisters were here to help.
She reached Malcouziac by one in the afternoon and unlocked the house, looking for notes. The one with the instructions for the exchange at the shopping mall was the only one on her doorstep. Upstairs she packed more clothes into her case, throwing the dirty ones on the bed, and grabbed water and cheese and grapes from the refrigerator. Her car packed again, she drove around the block to Albert’s.
He didn’t answer the knock. She walked down to Josephine’s. The old woman came to the door dressed to the nines as usual: white hair coiffed, necklace sparkling, in a melon-colored skirt and blouse. “Madame Bennett, bonjour, bonjour,” she said, smiling.
Merle gave a hasty greeting. “I’m sorry, I’m in a rush. Have you seen Père Albert?”
“Oui. He gave me some plums. He said he was leaving for some days to visit his brother.”
Merle gave a sigh of relief and thanked her, excusing herself for not coming in. She backed the Peugeot down to the main street and headed west, toward St-Émilion.
La Rosette was a small bed-and-breakfast with four rooms in a renovated stable. It sat on a winding country road surrounded by vineyards. St-Émilion was clustered on a hill and famously picturesque but Merle had no desire to see it. She pulled off the lane, blocking the driveway, and knocked on the green door of the one-story stucco house. A boy of ten or so answered the door, looked at her, and called for his mother.
Maman was a plump, cheerful blonde, wiping her hands on a towel. “Bonjour.”
Merle pulled the photo of Gillian out of her bag and explained she was looking for this woman. “She has this dog with her. I believe she stayed here last week.”
The woman frowned at the photo then her face cleared. “Ah, oui, bien sûr. The police have just called about her. You are police?”
“No. I’m working with them to find this woman.”
“I tell the police she is here just one night. She pays for two but pfft. Gone.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“She speaks no French.” The woman rubbed her dish towel on her chin. “She is American, yes? Like you? She is your friend?”
“She was staying at my house in Malcouziac when she disappeared. We’re worried about her.”
“The little dog was adorable. My son, Paul, he wanted to keep it.” She called to the boy. He reappeared. Tousling his brown hair, she asked him if he remembered the dog from last week and the woman, the dog’s owner. He nodded. Maman asked him if the woman said where she was going.
“L’Italienne?” he asked.
“No, Paul, the American,” his mother said. “With the dog.”
His small brown eyebrows crimped. “She was Italian. I heard her talking on the phone.”
Merle showed him the photo. “This woman?” He nodded. The mother asked him again about the Italian. He was adamant.
Merle spoke in English then, “You know English?”
“And a little Italian,” Paul said in English. “I am eleven years old.” His accent was strong but he knew the language. “Elle parlait l’italien.”
His mother shrugged. “He is a smart boy, my Paul. He knows a little German too.”
“Did you understand what she said, Paul?” Merle asked.
He shook his head. Merle asked if anyone else who worked there might have overheard Gillian. Maman said they were a small operation, no one besides the family, and her husband worked in town. Paul wriggled away. “Do you have a registration book?”
The woman waved her into the foyer. She opened a drawer in a buffet cabinet and pulled out a red notebook. “Here: Florence Jersey. États-Unis. She paid for two nights, in euros.”
A scrabbly signature. Someone had printed the name next to it, presumably when Gillian made the reservation. She had used a false name. Merle shouldn’t have been surprised. Hotels might require a look at your passport in Europe, but these small family-run businesses probably didn’t.
“Did she show you identification?” Merle asked.
“I think so.” She squinted at the writing. “Paul might have checked her in.”
Back in her car, Merle jotted down the name: Florence Jersey. Did it have any significance or was it just something Gillian made up? Was she from New Jersey? Was that going to help find her?
Merle spent the night in an over-priced room in a one-star hotel on the outskirts of St-Émilion with hard beds and scratchy towels. She sent emails to Elise and Annie, asking if they had any more information on Gillian. She said she wasn’t ready to give up.
Her sisters were uncharacteristically silent.
Silent, that is, until 5 a.m.
Merle’s cell phone rang, waking her from a restless sleep on the uncomfortable mattress, dreaming of horrible things being done to Francie. She sat up, glad to be awake. “Annie.”
“Sorry to call so early. What time is it there?”
“You know perfectly well.” Annie never set her watch to local time when she traveled, thinking it would somehow make reentry easier.
She chuckled. “You’re right. Is it light over the rolling hills of the Dordogne?”
“I’m not in Malcouziac. I’m trying to find Gillian. She stayed in a little bed-and-breakfast place near St-Émilion.”
“Interesting. How’d you find that out?” Merle told her about Pascal tracing the IP address. “Wow. Nice to have those resources at your fingertips, so to speak. Is he there?”
“Working in the south, gossip girl. A couple other things have come up. Gillian apparently speaks fluent Italian. Not sure what that means.”
“She does look a little Italian. That thick, dark hair.”
“Sargent isn’t an Italian name, is it?”
“Could have been Anglicized. Sargento?”
“Yeah, okay. That’s probably nothing. She used another name when she checked in. Florence Jersey. Do you think there’s any significance to that?”
“Let me Google it.” A few taps later, she said, “There’s a town called Florence in New Jersey. I thought Gillian was from Colorado. That’s what she told them at the law firm.”
“I don’t believe anything she’s said. Why is there no record of her existence before law school?”
“I wondered that too. I have a friend in Colorado and I pulled a few favors. He called the law school for her background information, said they were considering her for a position. He’s an assistant DA. But they told him it was sealed.”
“What does that mean?”
“A few things spring to mind, he said. She might have a juvenile criminal record and those documents are usually sealed.”
“In her law school application?”
“She might have felt it was necessary to divulge that information. Sometimes they ask. Then she got them to seal it again. So that’s one. The other one is a little hinky but that’s how I roll. What if she’s in witness protection or was before law school?”
Merle blinked, processing that. “Probably a dead end then.”
“Not necessarily. But, yes, difficult. How hard do we want to push this? Talk to Francie about it. Is she still with you?”
“Asleep,” Merle lied. “She agrees with me. Push it all the way. We need to find her. Maybe she’s got some relatives or friends in Europe from her childhood. We can contact them, make sure she’s safe. At least see if she has a connection to this town in New Jersey.”
“What’s she going to do with that damn dog?” Annie asked. “Such a bizarre thing, kidnapping a dog in a foreign country.”
Annie still didn’t know that the dog was a truffle hunter, and very expensive. Merle hesitated, wondering how much she should say. “Listen, I found out that dog is special. There was a reward posted in town for ten-thousand euros for it. It’s apparently sort of famous for truffle hunting.”
“Truffles? That little bitch, no pun intended. She took off with the dog to claim the reward?”
“If she did, she didn’t get it. The dog hasn’t been returned to the owners. Maybe she’s just a dog lover.”
“This is getting too weird.” If she only knew. “Let me look around this New Jersey connection. I’ll call you this evening.”
Merle lay back on the pillow, feeling the soreness of her neck from driving yesterday. She hated lying to Annie. She hated lying in general, but being a lawyer had made her all too practiced at it. She justified it by telling herself that she was saving her sisters—and parents—from undue stress. They would find out about Francie’s ordeal, but only after it was over and from Francie herself, safe and sound at home. They were thousands of miles away. The middle sister was on the ground. The tent pole would take care of this.
The light was creeping around the curtains. Merle opened them then jumped back into bed. A row of geraniums bloomed across the way, blood red in the dawn. She opened her email. Elise had written to ask about Francie.
I hope I don’t get it, whatever it is. There was some jack wagon hacking on my flight, spreading germs near and far.
I did a Google search on Gillian and deep inside was a Flickr account, you know, photos. It’s password protected. Jonathan doesn’t have a password. But I know a guy who knows a guy... anyway I will crack into it tomorrow, for sure. A longshot probably. More tomorrow. E.
Merle wrote a quick note back to Elise assuring her Francie was fine. More lies, or as they say, well-intentioned pseudo-factoids. But the photos sounded promising. Merle closed her eyes for a minute but her mind was whirling with anxiety. Every day, every night, that Francie wasn’t found was another drop of hope leaking out of the bucket. How did people do this? How did a parent remain sane when their child was kidnapped?
Tristan. Her boy. Merle wrote him a short email, saying she was thinking of him and loved him. She didn’t say she was glad he was safe at home but she was. Yesterday Stasia had written saying all was well and that Tristan and his cousin started computer camp.
Sleep was impossible. The sun crept over the tile roofs, slanting across plazas and whitewashed walls and down the endless rows of grapevines surrounding St-Émilion. Birds swooped, garbage cans rattled. Merle showered and packed. She was on the road home by seven, the sun in her eyes. By nine she was back in her secret garden, watering the pear tree and pretending all was well when someone knocked on the front door.
