The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 49
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
A light came on at Madame Suchet’s house. Her front door opened an inch. 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 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 who peered in earlier. 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.
Forty-two. Forty-three. The pain was awful. 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 wasn’t fluent in Italian—so they turned to a new victim. Why kidnap a priest? Would the Vatican pay a ransom?
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? But what could 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.
BLOG—Cherchez moi
posted no clue bluesday
Forget the cheese, mes amis. La 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. 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 totally blame her. After 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, a shot liver, and—baggage. The weight of your 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 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.
Francie stared at the wooden beams. Where was this coming from? 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.
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.
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.
Merle hadn’t 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?
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? 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.
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,” 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 now.”
“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 twenty or twenty-five 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?”
“Right. Thanks.” She hung up, already pulling into traffic. She checked the gas gauge: half-full. Some would say half-empty. But not a Bennett sister.
She retraced her route over the forested hills to Rodez then into Millau. She filled up the gas tank there and headed out again, her hands aching from gripping the steering wheel so tight. The phone rang again as she crossed into the Languedoc-Roussillon province.
“Pascal?”
“Can you pull over?”
Such a policeman. “Hang on.” She set the phone on the seat as she sped up, looking for a driveway on the narrow road. A farm gate with a dirt drive served. “Okay. I’m parked.”
“You have something to write on?” She scrabbled through her backpack, locating her notebook and a pen. “There is an Antoine and Lucie Biondi listed living near Caveirac. A village west of Nîmes. The number is twenty-eight, Chemin de Calvisson.” He spelled the names, the villages, and the street. She read them back, making sure she had it all correct. “May I ask what you intend to do, blackbird?”
“You may.” She was staring at the map, trying to find the village. “But you may not like it.”
“As it were,” he said with a sigh.
“Gillian might be there. With the dog. When you find Francie, I’ll have the dog for the exchange.”
“You’re coming to Arles then?”
“If I can. Find her.” Before it’s too late. Merle threw her phone on the seat and bumped off the farm lane back onto the blacktop. Before she got a half-mile her phone rang again. “What is it?”
“Merle?”
Her heart leapt into her throat. “Mom? How are you?”
“Fine, dear. How is France?”
For a second Merle thought she said Francie. She swallowed, hoping to sound cheerful and not frantic. “Beautiful. Gorgeous. Roses blooming. I’m driving around, seeing the sights, taking pictures. Touristy stuff.”
“Is Francie with you? We heard she was sick.”
“She’s better. But she stayed back at the house.” Merle pinched herself for lying. “She’s a little tired from all that tramping around we did.”
“We were hoping to talk to her but she’s not answering her phone. Her landlady called here. Francie missed her rent payment. We sent it on for her, but that doesn’t seem like Francie.”
Whispering then her father came on the line. “Merle? What’s going on over there?”
“Nothing, Daddy. Just, you know, ooh-la-la French stuff.”
“What about Gillian Sargent? Annie won’t tell me what’s going on, even after I did some sleuthing for her.”
“Gillian’s still on the lam, Daddy. I wish I knew where she was. But I have a feeling it will all work out. I mean, she’s got to come home sometime.”
“So does Francie. I don’t buy this sick thing for a second. You sound funny. You two are up to something over there, aren’t you?”
“Yup. We’re secretly working as lavender sachet stuffers.”
Her father sighed. “You’re not missing work too, are you?”
“No, I have six weeks off. Pretty nice racket, huh?”
“Tell Francie to get herself home or she’s going to damage things at Ward & Baillee. I mean it. They don’t like this sort of slacking off.”
“Are they gossiping about her at the golf course?”
“Just be careful, Merle.”
“I will. Love you. Kisses to Mom.”
The road wound along a river bottom and up over a hill. Great. Now she had her parents to worry about. Bring it on. She would take it for all of them. The worry ship was filling up. It had to land somewhere.
Pascal d’Onscon sat in the back room of the police headquarters in Arles, fingering the address he’d given Merle. Around him several officers worked phones and computers around the long, rectangular table while the captain, finally divesting himself of that ridiculous uniform, went from man to man, getting reports. The morale in the task force was mixed to bad. Some officers were pessimistic, whispering that the woman was likely dead by now since the exchange of the dog in the shopping center had been so badly botched. Others were more imaginative, piecing together the latest disappearance in tiny Malcouziac of the traveling priest, Father Cyril Fabre, with the abduction of Francine Bennett. Such a small village, these officers said, the two had to be connected. How they were connected hadn’t been discovered. Pascal had yet to mention his knowledge of the priest’s charges against Merle’s boyfriend. He had a bad taste in his mouth, thinking about King James. He had checked with the Périgueux authorities. James was wearing an electronic anklet. He hadn’t left Malcouziac without permission. He didn’t want to involve Merle even more. He could hear the near-panic in her voice, normally so clear and rational.
