Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 47
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 10,000 Euros for it. It’s apparently sort of famous for truffle hunting.”
“What the hell? 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’s so-called illness.
I hope I don’t get it, whatever it is. There was some asshat hacking on my flight, spreading germs near and far.
I did a random google search on Gillian and deep inside was a Flickr account, you know, photos. It’s encrypted or 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 long shot 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. No more emails, on hers or Francie’s account. No more leads. 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. One less thing to worry about.
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.
James and a short blond woman stood outside, behind the glass panes. Merle walked slowly to the door. This must be the ex-wife. She couldn’t remember her name. She pulled herself up to full height, took a big breath, and opened the door.
“Good morning,” Merle said brightly. The woman smiled back, warily. James threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Finally. I’ve been over here a dozen times, Merle. Worried sick.”
“Really? You were worried about me?” Nonchalance seemed the way to go.
“Stuff has been happening and you were— wherever you were.” James frowned, smoothing his wrinkled shorts and yellow polo shirt. “This is Christine, my—”
“Ex-wife,” the woman said, smiling, filling in his pause. Dressed in white capri pants and a striped sleeveless top, she looked like the suburban mom she was. “You must be the Merle I’ve heard so much about.” She held out her hand. “Nice to finally meet.”
Merle shook her hand, finding herself feeling strangely favorable toward his ex. Beneath her cap of blond hair she had kind, intelligent blue eyes. Merle invited them in, settling them in the garden and busying herself making espresso on the stove. Finally she brought out a tray of coffee and cream. “No delicious French pastries, I’m afraid.”
“We’ve had our share already,” Christine said, cradling the demitasse cup in her hands. “Stress apparently makes you crave butter.”
They’d met with the new lawyer in Bergerac on Christine’s trip south from Paris. James complained long and loud about the trouble he had getting Michel Redier to let him leave the village for half a day to pick up his ex-wife. As they talked in the garden, James back in his rapid, scattershot manner, how he explained the incident to the lawyer, with Christine in her supportive blandness, Merle felt herself drifting off. She had lost interest. If indeed she had ever cared about James and his stupid sleepwalking episode. What did he expect her to do for him now? He’d gotten himself into this pickle. He was a lawyer and he had a good French one. She just wanted them to leave so she could get on with finding Gillian and Francie. Could the women be together? Had Gillian been kidnapped too? No. Nor was Gillian behind Francie’s kidnapping, she was pretty sure about that. They were friends, colleagues. It had to be those crooks who stole the dog in the first place. That was the only explanation that made sense, if anything made sense.
She was in the kitchen getting more coffee when the shadow passed the front window. For a moment Merle froze, thinking she had imagined it, delusions brought on by paranoia. They got very few passersby at the end of rue de Poitiers. Then a dark figure stopped in front of her door and peered through the glass. A large man, dressed in black, muscular with broad shoulders, apeishly long arms, a cigarette dangling from one hand. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore sunglasses. Tipping them onto his forehead he cupped his free hand around his eyes and saw her. In a flash he moved out of sight.
Merle set the tray down on the stove, heart thumping. She glanced back into the garden where James and Christine sat talking. He was waving his hands around, telling her she ‘just didn’t understand.’ Merle crept through the dim living room, past the dining table, beside the window. She checked the window latch then turned and flipped the deadbolt on the door. If only she’d locked the door shutters. She waited, looking for movement out in the street. The houses were built right up to the cobblestones in this old village with no front yards or sidewalks. She could see the large, broken stones at the end of the street, and her rental car parked next to them. She leaned out to see Madame Suchet’s step, her flowerpots overflowing with color, across the street.
She listened, looking at her watch, for a full minute, then unlocked the front door and carefully stuck her head out, looking one way, then the other. The man was gone.
“Merle?” James and Christine stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her. He said, “What’s going on?”
She turned, trying to smile. “I just, ah, thought I saw somebody I knew. Can I get you more coffee? I’m sorry, I got distracted.”
“We’ve had enough. Thank you,” Christine said. “Jim has some things to show me around the village, don’t you?”
“Ah, yeah. Sure. Can you meet us for dinner tonight, Merle? I thought Christine would like Les Saveurs.”
“I’m sure she will. I’d be happy to join you.”
A girl’s gotta eat. She locked the door behind them.
After Merle checked her email and found nothing more from her sisters, she finished watering the garden and did a little cleaning in the house. Finally she went out the garden gate, down the alley, and around to Josephine’s front door. The old woman was dressed impeccably as usual, in pearls, a red top, and blue skirt as if she was anticipating Bastille Day. She greeted Merle warmly and sat her down in a green brocade chair while she disappeared into the kitchen. It was no use telling a Frenchwoman you weren’t hungry and not to bother setting out a spread. Quel horreur. How rude.
Josephine Azamar had lived in Merle’s house briefly, during the war. She’d only returned to the village recently, after her second husband died. The bond of the house’s secrets was strong between the two women. Merle took her tea gratefully, with a slice of pound cake.
Josephine adjusted her white and red scarf, tightening the knot, before taking her own cup of tea. Merle waited then asked, “Have you’ve talked to Albert?” Josephine shook her head and said not since he left. “Did he say when he’d be back?”
“A few days, I believe.” She frowned. “I’m not sure.”
They chatted about the hot weather, the grape crop, her grandchildren in Paris, her great-grandchildren in America. She’d had a rich adventure of a life. It was no punishment to listen to her. But Merle fidgeted. Finally she made her excuses, thanked Josephine, and left, walking up to Albert’s house.
His door shutters were old like hers, repainted yearly until the thick blue filled every crack. Even the hinges were blue now. Not a sound from inside. She looked at the edges of the door. A small white corner of paper stuck out by the upper left hinge.
She leaned on the door but that made the crack tighter. She wedged a finger into the middle and pulled on the shutter, holding onto the note with her fingernails. Finally it loosened enough so she could inch it to the top and over. It fell to the stone step, a tightly folded square.
She held her breath and opened the note. The writing was different, blocky and childlike.
Meet on the plaza under the west arches.
9 pm. No police. Come alone.
Was this left last night? The night before? She looked around frantically for someone to ask, someone to show the note to, but the street was deserted. At least Albert was safe, in the Languedoc with his family. Merle hoped he stayed there for a long time.
‘No police.’ What if no priest came to the rendezvous?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Merle called Pascal and left a short message about the note. She told him she was back in Malcouziac as he requested. She tried not to sound as anxious and lonely as she felt. She sat down in the shade of the acacia tree and tried to think. When no new action suggested itself she went upstairs and lay on her bed, the iPad at her side. Tired as she was, sleep was out of the question. Her mind spun with scenarios, none of which made any sense. What had they planned to do to Albert? What would they do to Francie?
She put on her running clothes and headed out the back gate, putting the string with the large key around her neck and her cell phone in its usual snug spot against her chest. The afternoon air was still and scorching. She rounded the corner and headed out through the old bastide gate, setting her sights on a hilltop where the remains of an old hamlet rotted away gently into the soil. As she got to the top of the hill, out of breath, hands on her hips, her cell phone rang. It was Pascal. She stopped in the shade of a gnarled apple tree.
“What’s happening?” she blurted out without a ‘hello’ and gasping from the exercise.
“We’re still looking for her,” he said solemnly. “No news.”
“Shit.” She wiped her face with her t-shirt. Jesus, it was hot. She was sick of these French cops. “No leads? Nothing?”
“There have been some leads about the farm truck. We have pieced together the probable license plate. It is not French, we know that much.”
She blinked. “Is it Italian?”
“Possibly. It is white and we can see the blue stripe on one side but the other side is covered with mud or something.”
“Gillian speaks Italian.”
“Yes, okay.” He sounded distracted.
“So focus on Italy, that’s what I’m saying.” Merle was aware that she was giving him orders and looked up at the blue sky between the branches of the apple tree. She wasn’t going to apologize for her tone. Francie had to be found. “Elise thinks Gillian posted some photos online. They may help if we can recreate her last day in Malcouziac.”
“Help? To find Francie?”
Merle dropped her head. He was right. What would finding Gillian do? She had probably sold the dog by now. But Merle had to do something or she would lose her sanity. “If we find the dog we can make the trade. That’s my goal now, Pascal, while the police try to find her.”
He grunted, unimpressed, she supposed. She told him about the note left at Albert’s door. “What about this new note? I didn’t get one, just Albert.”
“We don’t know when it was put in the door, yes?”
“Yes, it could have been days ago.”
He told her to keep it for analysis and to call if another one showed up. He had to go. She didn’t blame him. He sounded tired and frustrated; so was she. She stuck her phone back in her bra and headed down the hill.
* * *
At Les Saveurs James and Christine were already seated, drinking wine poured from a large, brown earthenware pitcher that reminded Merle of the ‘Little Brown Jug’ of American song. It was one of the country touches to the high-end tourist eatery. As Merle stepped through the tables she remembered sitting right there with Pascal on the night he offered to whisk her away from Malcouziac. They ended up making a beach vacation in the garden instead but you always remembered where you were when something happened between you and the man you—
“Have a seat, please,” James said, standing. He and Christine sat across from each other at the table, leaving Merle with an awkward choice. She sat next to James out of courtesy. Somehow she’d rather be friends with Christine. Odd how easy it was between them, the ex-wife and the so-called girlfriend. Wine was poured from the pitcher, a cool rosé.
“Good choice,” Merle said as they clinked glasses. What had she been thinking: between you and the man you love? She didn’t love Pascal, not exactly. Did she? “Have you been here long?” She checked her watch. She was rarely late.
“My fault,” Christine said. “My inner clock is off. I get hungry at weird times.”
“We had a small plate, the meats and cheeses,” James said, smacking his lips. “All gone. Sorry!”
“This heat kills my appetite,” Merle said. “But not for wine.”
They ordered after a long discussion about the various dishes. Merle found she’d sampled almost all of them. It made her feel like a local, someone who belonged here. Then the memory of that thug at her window made her stomach go sour. She glanced around the room at the diners. Happy couples, lots of foreigners, blond Dutch and booted Germans: nobody dark and suspicious.
They had finished their first course, cold shrimp for Merle, when she checked her watch. It was five until nine. Was tonight the night the kidnappers wanted to meet Albert? What was the meeting about? She wiped her mouth, setting her napkin next to her plate.
“My stomach is feeling a little off. I’m going to get some air,” she told the Silvers’s who hadn’t stopped talking about James’s legal problems since she arrived. They squawked in concern but she assured them. “Ten minutes of brisk walking usually does it.”
The plaza was not quite dark, evening stars glowing in the twilight. The old market colonnades, a series of covered archways, stretched along two sides of the plaza. In the center was the ubiquitious French fountain, tall and moldy, the water still now as the light faded from the sky. A lavender glow shone from the cobblestones as couples walked arm-in-arm through the warm night. Merle let her eyes adjust to the shadows.
Walking slowly -- but not too slowly -- to the left, she approached the south end of the arcade. These buildings were some of the oldest in town, weathered stone, two- and three-story, at least four-hundred-years old. They stretched in an unbroken line, shoulder to shoulder though the styles didn’t mesh. Some mansard roofs, some tile. Some half-timbered walls in the English style. She paused and leaned into a doorway without a sign or plaque. She’d often wondered what went on in these old buildings. They were probably uninhabitable.
She pulled her wrist up to her face: nine o’clock on the dot. A foursome entered the plaza on the far side, laughing on their way to dinner. A couple with arms wrapped around each other walked the other way. Then silence. Her watch ticked. Merle bit her lip, trying to be still and patient. A single man came swinging through, hurried, slightly drunk. Silence again. A dog barking in the distance, yip yip. A car engine. A garbage can. A door slamming.
Ten after. She had to go back. She didn’t want to tell them about Francie or Gillian or the dog. They had their own problems. She mostly didn’t want James involved. This was a family matter. She sighed, defeated, and returned to the restaurant.
James and Christine were drinking red wine now, the bottle open at the table. Maybe wine was all they had in common these days. Merle slipped into her chair and apologized. James said, “We told them to wait on our main courses until you got back. Ah, here they come.”
“Feel better?” Christine asked. “I get tummy things when I travel.”
Their stomachs appeared to be functioning quite well as they attacked their main courses: filet of roast duck, l’agneau en coque d’argile, a lamb dish baked in clay, and for Merle, the fish of the day, dorade royale. By eleven they had cleaned their plates, sampled the cheese, shared a crème brulée, and enjoyed a coffee.
“That was amazing,” Christine said, eyes wide. “How do you keep your figure, Merle, with all this fabulous food?”
“Merle’s a jogger, Christine,” James said pointedly.
“And a worrier,” Merle added.
“Worrying doesn’t help my waistline,” Christine replied. “You’re not worried about Jim, are you? Should I be concerned that my children will never see their father again?”
“I wouldn’t be,” Merle said. “The French are very strict though. Keep apologizing and you should be fine. They like it when you grovel. They will make you pay somehow, James. Probably just by sending you home and telling you to never come back.”
“Really?” James said. “You don’t think they’ll put me in jail?”
“For a fist-fight? No.”
He looked relieved. “The lawyer from Bordeaux called this afternoon. He said the priest didn’t show up for a meeting with investigators.”
