Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 48
Christine frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Maybe he’s dropping the charges,” Merle said. “On the other hand he moves around from village to village. He might just be hard to locate.” She leaned back in her chair and asked Christine, “You live in New Jersey, right? Do you know the town of Florence?”
“I have a cousin who lives there.” Christine glanced at James. “What’s this about?”
“Just curious. I was wondering what sort of place it was.”
“Very small. It’s downstate, near Trenton.”
James added, “We drove through there once, on the way to Philadelphia. Stopped to see Eddie. It’s very Italian, I remember. Fredo this and Spumoni that.”
“Of course it is, Jim.” Christine rolled her eyes at Merle. “When you call a place Florence, you know it was founded by Italians. That part of the state is thick with them.”
Merle hadn’t thought of Florence as the Italian city. She went to Florence, Italy, years ago, after college. James -- whose ex-wife called him Jim -- squinted at her. “What’s the connection? You thinking of moving?”
She smiled. “Who knows?”
When Merle returned home from dinner an email awaited containing a link to Gillian’s online folder of photos. Elise’s hacker friend was an evil genius. Nestling into bed with the iPad Merle opened the last album of photos. Possibly the last day Gillian had been in Malcouziac.
The first group of photos were roses in bloom around town, growing out of impossibly small holes at the bottom of downspouts and next to the church steps. Merle looked for shots of buildings and people, something recognizable. A photo of Place de la Victoire, the central plaza, with its old fountain, was first. Gillian had gotten creative, taking a variety of angles, reflections off the water, the spray against the sky.
Merle felt her eyelids droop. It was close to midnight. Then a rattling downstairs sent a cold shiver down her back. She sat upright, listening. The night air coming through the back window was moist and warm. A sliver of moon hung over the hills. There: a scraping sound, metal on metal. She threw back the sheet and swung her feet to the floor. It was coming from the front of the house. She stood up, looking around for something to defend herself. Next to her bed was Francie’s camera. She grabbed as she tiptoed into the loft.
Quietly she padded to the window that overlooked the front door, at the top of the stairs. It was locked, the shutters closed. Easing the latch she swung back the glass. The shutters were trickier, brittle and creaky. The sound was louder now.
With one hand she raised the old wrought iron latch and pushed open both shutters an inch. Leaning out she could see two men on her step, doing something to her door. She raised the camera and turned it on, pointing it down, then pushed the window shutters wide. They were miraculously un-creaky tonight. The business at the front door continued. Whispering, sawing, elbowing. Merle positioned the camera right over them.
“Hey!” she yelled. The flash of the camera went flick-flick-flick as she held the button down. The men looked up in surprise, dropping their tools, pushing each other as they ran down the street. Merle kept shooting as they skidded around the corner and out of sight.
A light came on at Madame Suchet’s house. Her front door opened an inch and she peered out. Merle called from the window:“C’est okay, Madame. Dormez-vous.”
Downstairs Merle stood in front of the door, rechecking the locks. On the threshold between the door and the shutters lay a hack saw. The thick chain that held the padlock on the shutters hadn’t been cut through but she could see the link they had been working on, a silvery notch on the rusty chain. It would have been easier to unscrew the hasp that held the chain, she thought, retrieving the saw. She laid it on her dining table and relocked the door.
Common thieves? She wanted to think so. She stared at the hack saw, a dirty, rusty tool with a grubby, notched wooden handle. Fingerprints were probably impossible. She sat on the horsehair settee and looked at the screen on the back of Francie’s camera. The first shot caught them in the act, but just the tops of their hats were visible. In the second, the man in the back looked up. He wore a black knit cap, dark t-shirt, and jeans, and looked suspiciously like the thug. She clicked the next shot, holding her breath. The man with the saw glanced up so quickly she caught only a third of his face but his hair stuck out from his hat. It was black. He was shorter than the thug, older and stockier. But she had no idea who he was.
She stood up, summoning her courage. There was nothing in the house to steal. Still the feeling reared its ugly head: ‘this-house-is-for-guests.’
She couldn’t stay here alone. Not tonight.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Forty-two. Forty-three. The pain was excrutiating. Francie grunted to finish forty-five sit-ups on the lumpy straw bed in her ‘deluxe single.’ She took a breath, unhooked her feet from the metal rail at the foot of the bed and rubbed the spot where the rope was tied to her ankle. She’d recovered from the initial shock and humiliation of being held captive. For five days she’d slept little. Then she’d discovered the simple exertion of sit-ups twice a day expended enough nervous energy to let her rest at night. And couldn’t hurt her cheesy waistline.
So far her captors had been, well, not decent but not indecent either. She couldn’t understand them and didn’t know what they wanted. Presumably this was a ransom deal. Her father would come through with the cash eventually. They were keeping her fed, mostly, and wall-eyed Milo slipped her enough wine to keep her from completely losing her shit.
But damn. This was getting old.
And then, the surprise last night, the arrival of Father Cyril. At first she thought he was connected to the kidnappers somehow. She didn’t trust him. But he swore in several languages, it appeared. He thrashed around until they tied him to a chair and gagged him to keep him quiet. She heard most of this through the locked door but saw glimpses once or twice when Milo brought her something.
Francie assumed the kidnappers got tired of her — or irritated that she didn’t know anything or wouldn’t talk or wasn’t fluent in Italian — so they turned to a new victim. Why kidnap a priest? Would the Vatican pay a ransom? Maybe, she thought, he knew the answers to their questions that she didn’t.
She pulled her knees up and hugged them. Her clothes smelled awful but there was nothing for that. The little stone room, her prison, was stuffy with only a small window high on one wall. It smelled of hay and horses. This must be a barn. She’d awakened here, roped to the bed. The last thing she remembered was struggling with some man in Malcouziac. He put a cloth over her mouth and nose and knocked her out. It made her sick for a day or two, whatever it was.
By the golden glow of sunlight on the window it must be late afternoon. Voices came through the door but she couldn’t tell who was talking. Had they taken the gag off the priest? What was his game anyway, pressing charges against Jimmy Jay? That was a bizarre night. If only she’d known how completely bizarro things could get.
Gillian and her stupid dog. Was that how it all started? Was all this somehow connected to Gillian? To the lost dog? But what did Cyril have to do with that?
No answers, just the whirling of her mind. God, she was bored. If only she had a book to read, anything. Or her iPad. The square of sunshine lit the scratchy blanket as she lay back. She would write a blog post in her head. Anything to not go totally bonkers.
* * *
Lawyrr Grrl
Where a woman can grrowl about the legal profession
* * *
BLOG ➪ Cherchez moi
posted no clue bluesday
Forget the cheese, mes amis. Le fromage is delightful and delicious, but right now I need a different sort of search. For me. Yes, Lawyrr Grrls, I am lost.
* * *
[Hold on. This is depressing. She hadn’t crashed on a desert island, for godssakes. Sooner or later someone would find her. Merle would be looking at least.
Start again. Ahem.]
* * *
The search for That Girl, my colleague, has turned up nothing. It’s like she disappeared, willingly, willfully. Not that I can totally blame her. The last few days walking through the French countryside with my sisters I considered never going home again. Never staring at a towering stack of documents waiting to be parsed and analyzed. Never sitting through another tedious meeting or twelve-hour deposition. Never again going before a judge to explain why a man’s wife wasn’t due a penny of his fortune because she had too many wrinkles.
Life seems vast and thrilling, full of opportunities. A smorgasbord of choices to entertain you while you count your birthdays. I’m an optimist, that’s how I roll. But is this accurate? Your opportunities whittle down as you make choices, follow paths, find a mate, put down roots. And while limiting you, these are things you desire, these conventional life choices, sometimes more than you ever realized. Having too many possibilities can be paralyzing. Why fight the biological urge to have a home filled with people you love?
You don’t have that urge? You’re just fine on your own, tripping the light fantastic and keeping it loose and fresh? Good for you. But consider that you will not be 30 forever. You will not be the lovely flower you are today in 25 years. You will have gray hair, bad knees, insomnia, a shot liver, and— baggage. The weight of your wild, take-no-prisoners youth may drag you down, keeping you from being anywhere near ‘fresh.’
Yes, you can fly solo all the way to the grave. Many have before you, many will follow your path. Many have no regrets (or wouldn’t tell you if they did.) If it’s for you, if you’ve thought hard and long about it, as much as you have about any complicated malpractice lawsuit featuring eight surgeries and sixteen defendants, then brava.
Just make sure it’s your decision, not your non-decision. Choose out of fear if you must, but choose.
⌘
Where was this coming from? Francie stared at the wooden beams. Was this how a person cracks under strain? Hallucination by introspection? Was she thinking she had blown it with Richard? That she should have given him a second chance, had the babies, done whatever it took to keep him? She closed her eyes. No. He wasn’t the one, the cheating bastard. Was she thinking she should find somebody else, someone to grow old with? Maybe, a little. She’d certainly run through enough hottinghams. And 40 was in the rearview mirror.
But she wasn’t thinking about herself. She was thinking about Annie. The matriarch in the family of girls, a shining beacon of all that was virtuous, wild, and free. How Annie had glowed when she finally confessed about her boyfriend. A little surprised, maybe even embarrassed, that she felt so deeply for him. What a wonderful thing. What was his name? Callum. A very sexy name.
A vision floated into her mind, Annie and Callum. Maybe he was wearing a kilt, maybe not. Whatever, he wore an enchanted smile when he saw her. He picked her up at the airport, hugging her tightly as they reunited. The sun on her hair, his arms around her. A simple, happy moment. No drama, no pretense. Just love.
Francie clung to that, the knowledge that goodness exists in the world, that love is possible at any age, as the sun lowered in the sky, the room darkened, and the voices began again outside the door.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Merle awoke with a start, wondering where she was. By coincidence she had been given the same room in the Hotel Quimet as last year. This room. Malcouziac seemed to be giving her a message: you’re not safe here. She sat in the short bed with its questionable bedspread and rubbed her eyes. It was after midnight when she’d checked in. She’d brought only small valuables: camera, iPad, jewelry, sunscreen. She’d go back for her clothes this morning, right after she figured out what to do next.
Francie had been missing for days. Capable, smart, and brave but she might be getting despondent after so long. Merle dug out her phone and called Pascal. She left a short voicemail asking him to call. Her voice sounded even and strong. She would join the police search, one way or another.
She packed her backpack and headed downstairs to the dining room. It was just seven and only two groups of tourists were at breakfast. No James or Christine, she noted with relief. She ordered coffee and picked up yogurt and an orange from the buffet. Eating quickly she lingered over her coffee and turned on the iPad. The French frowned on technology at the table but she was alone. And goddamn it, her sister was missing.
Both Elise and Annie had written. She opened Elise’s email first.
Hi Merle & Francie: Hope you’re feeling better, Francie. I wanted to point out one photo in that Flickr stream that seemed out of place with all the pretty ones. It’s #526, the two men at the café table. Check it out. Miss you! E.
* * *
She’d never finished looking at the photos last night. She went back and scrolled to the photo 526. It was the sidewalk café on the Place de la Victoire. Right before it, a shot of coffee and croissants on a plate. This was where she’d seen Gillian on that last day, on the plaza. Merle recognized the wrought iron tables. There were two photos of the men. They were dark-haired and tanned, one large, one small. The small one had a weak chin, wide-set eyes, and shaggy hair that covered his ears. The larger guy had broad shoulders with a large nose and drooping eyes.
In one they were talking, the taller man waving his hands around. In the next photo he read a newspaper while the small man drank coffee. Why had Gillian singled them out? They didn’t look like tourists. They were dressed similarly in navy shirts and black jackets. Their fingernails looked crusty and their beards unshaven.
Could one of them be the man with the hacksaw? She got out Francie’s camera and looked at the photo again. The coloring was right but otherwise she couldn’t tell.
On the iPad Merle enlarged the second photo to read the newspaper. Only a headline was readable: “America per lanciare Marte spedizione.” Was that French? She read it aloud in a whisper. Italian?
Merle plugged the phrase into an online translation program. Well, Gillian hadn’t taken an expedition to Mars. But yes, it was Italian. They were reading an Italian newspaper. So they must have been speaking Italian in the café. And Gillian overheard them.
Merle felt her hope rise. Gillian spoke Italian. She might be in Italy. And these two Italians, who looked like shady operators, might be involved in Francie’s abduction. She shot off copies of the two photos to Pascal’s email, explaining the connection. Why didn’t he return her call? Where was he?
The waitress came by and cleared dishes from her table. Merle ordered another café au lait. She’d be buzzing but that’s what she needed today. Her mind wanted to make some connections, she could feel it as she stared out the window. Would the two men be identified by the photos? Were they in some criminal database? Were they still in France? Was there a way to track them?
She sighed and clicked on Annie’s email.
Merle: You won’t believe this -- and let’s hope the NSA isn’t monitoring our email. I found out Gillian Sargent was in WitSec as a juvenile. I know, don’t ask about my methods. Her birth name is the only thing I got: Giulia Biondi. Lexis-Nexis to the point: Twenty-five years ago a Long Island mob boss named Renato ‘Max’ Biondi was indicted for racketeering and a shitload of other stuff like tax evasion, obstruction, perjury, and narcotics. He went to prison and is still there. He had a 15-yr-old daughter, a 22-yr-old son, and a wife named Carole. The wife testified for the government against her husband. She and the daughter disappeared after the trial but the son went into the life. He wound up in prison, convicted of conspiracy, promoting gambling, and money laundering twelve years ago. He was released on parole last year and lives in Florida -- where everyone knows it’s easy to stay clean.
It gets better. Max Biondi’s parents didn’t take witness protection and were harrassed so badly they emigrated to Europe. To France. Anthony and Lucy Biondi.
Go get ‘em, Merdle.
A.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Merle was careening through the second roundabout in Cahors, watching the direction signs, when Pascal called. She nearly hit a farm truck but managed to pull off and answer.
“Allo, blackbird. How are you today?” His voice was back to smooth and sexy.
Merle babbled for a minute, bursting with information, about Gillian, her grandparents, Francie, the men in the café. “I just know she’s gone to her grandparents. It makes perfect sense, why she was so secretive all the time.”
“Whoa there,” he interrupted. “Where are you?”
“Driving to Montpellier to join you. I’m in Cahors. I have to talk to the police, Pascal. Did you get the photos I sent? Of the men at the café?”
“Yes, I got them. But you should not go to Montpellier.”
“She’s my sister, Pascal! I’m done sitting around waiting for the Keystone Cops to find her. If they won’t—”
“Stop, blackbird. I meant, the investigation has moved. We are in Arles.”
“Arles? Have you found her?”
“Not yet. But the truck used in Montpellier was abandoned outside the city here.”
Merle wrestled to unfold her guidebook map. Arles was east of Montpellier, around the coastline of the Mediterranean. “Okay, I’m headed that way.” She tossed the map onto the seat. “I need you to do something for me, Pascal.”
“Yes?”
“I need an address of two Americans living in France. Their names are Anthony and Lucy Biondi. Possibly Italians but they should have American passports. They emigrated to France about 20 or 25 years ago.”
“And they are?”
“Gillian’s grandparents.” She didn’t want to beg. But she would.
“Biondi, got it. I will call as soon as I find anything. And you call me when you get to Arles?”
