Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 49
“Right. Thanks.” She hung up, already pulling into traffic. She checked the gas guage: 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 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 name. 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 her mother 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 mangled. 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. Pascal had a bad taste in his mouth, thinking about King James. As yet he couldn’t see any connection. Pascal 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 well-modulated.
He looked at his watch. If Merle was in Cahors when they first talked she’d likely be in Caveirac within the hour. He had no faith that the dog or Gillian would be there. It seemed unlikely that the American still had the dog. She could easily have sold the truffle dog on the black market as she was worth, he estimated, 25-thousand Euros. Some officers scoffed at such a figure, especially after seeing the dog’s photograph. She was no show dog. But in his line Pascal came across some expensive wine scams, the sort that make you wince at the greed and stupidity of buyers. A proficient, well-trained truffle dog could easily make that much for its owners in a single season, possibly many times that. Truffle prices in the spring were nearly 2000 Euros per kilogram, $1200 per pound. Hot summer weather without soaking rains was predictor of a bad crop this winter and even higher prices.
A young officer down the table shouted: “We have found the priest!” Pascal stood up, rounding the large conference table. The officer, a short man named René Hellenes, was speaking rapidly to the captain. “Seen last night, or possibly two nights ago, at a gasoline station in Montauban. The priest inside, tied up. Two men with him, not identified.”
A flurry of excitement was quickly dampened when it appeared the vehicle was the same one found abandoned outside Arles. No trace of the occupants. Hellenes went back to his computer.
Pascal stepped up to the map tacked to the wall, looking at the routes and possible hiding spots around Arles, Montauban, Malcouziac, and now, the village of Caveirac. He examined the pencil sketches of the two men wanted for beating the old man in the Lot. They looked very much like the two in the photograph that Merle had sent, now blown up and posted next to the sketches. Unfortunately they hadn’t been located in any criminal database. Another photograph was tacked up, the abandoned farm truck, dirt covering the lower half, the hubs, the bumpers, license plates removed. It had been far off a paved road but that wasn’t very helpful.
Carefully Pascal stuck a blue-headed pin in the center of Caveirac. So close to Nîmes, just 8 kilometers, probably a bedroom community for the larger town. He turned to find the captain watching him. He cocked an eyebrow in question.
“The sister of Mademoiselle Bennett has some new information. The American who took the dog has relatives in the village of Caveirac. Grandparents.” Pascal gave a half-shrug. “As far as we know the kidnappers don’t have this information.”
“Or they would have the dog themselves by now,” the captain said. Pascal nodded. “Question the grandparents anyway. See what they know.”
Pascal went back to his chair on the far side of the table and got out his phone. He thought of Merle, driving there like a mad woman. Was she hoping the element of surprise would work in her favor? Would calling these Americans tip them off, make them run? Were they very old perhaps, non-French speakers, or just easily frightened? He put his phone down and stared blankly at his computer for a moment. He went back to the report from Paris about the old couple. No telephone number was listed anyway. Maybe they were part-time residents, or simply very careful. He did another search for ‘Biondi’ in the province, then in all of France. Nothing promising.
He picked up his phone again and rang the number of Claude LaFleur, the gendarme in the Lot, the one closest to the case of the assault on the dog owner. It took a few tries to find him, out in the field.
“What news of Monsieur Poutou?” Pascal asked. The gendarme had shepherded Madame Poutou through the process for the sketches of the assailants and had taken the old couple under his special care.
“He improves. They expect to release him from the hospital in a day or two.”
“Do you see anything strange around there? Anything related to le chien de truffes, the truffle dog?”
The officer said all was quiet in the area since the assault. Madame Poutou was staying with a relative nearer to the hospital but the gendarme had been driving by the farm each day to make sure everything was secure and that someone was feeding the chickens.
Pascal asked him to call if he saw anyone suspicious. He took his jacket off the back of his chair. He had to move, to do something. Could Gillian Sargent be meeting these miscreants to pass off the dog herself? What if Merle got caught in the middle of it? Why had Gillian taken off with this expensive dog? Why didn’t the grandparents have a telephone?
As he shrugged into his jacket the captain gave him that look again.
“Going to check out Caveirac myself, sir.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When the tall priest walked into her room that morning Francie was confused. Why was Father Cyril, the gangly, stoop-shouldered priest with dandruff, walking free now, palling around with the Italians? His eyes still bore the shadows of Jimmy Jay’s punch plus some fresh scrapes. His black jacket was dusty, his slacks wrinkled. He slouched in behind the major domo, the slick, gray-haired slapper, the chieftain of this band of nincompoops. Behind him Milo and the other unshaven malcontent lurked in the doorway.
She scooted back on her bed, pressing against the wall. The rope burned on her ankle where it had rubbed the skin raw. She crossed her arms and threw back her hair, glaring at the chieftain. He stepped aside and let the priest move closer, muttering something.
“Miss Bennett, I presume?” Father Cyril squinted at her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
The priest glanced at the older man and raised his eyebrows. “They seem to think I know something about this lost dog. I believe they have mistaken me for Père Albert. I have tried to explain.”
“Good luck with that. You speak Italian?”
“Just a little. One of the men has French. Hector, I believe is the name.” The priest looked around the room. “May I?” He pointed to the end of her bed.
“No, you may not. What’s going on? I haven’t been able to talk to any of them.”
“They believe you know know the whereabouts of this dog. The truffle dog. Yes?”
Francie frowned. “The dog we found by the side of the road?”
The priest gave the chieftain a small nod. “That’s the one. The one you took to your house in Malcouziac. It belongs to these men.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“Come, come, Miss Bennett. The dog was sheltered at your home.”
“What home? You mean my sister’s house?”
The priest startled, blinking madly. He glanced at the chief then out the door. “Mademoiselle, what is your full name?”
“Francine Eloise Bennett. What’s yours?”
“You own a holiday house in the Dordogne?”
“No. My sister owns a house.”
“What is your sister’s name?”
“Merle ‘Danger’ Bennett. What’s going on? I’m not going to let you and your friends kidnap my sister. She had nothing to do with that dog. The dog was snatched by another woman. She ran off with it. She even stole our rental car.”
Father Cyril stared at her. “Repeat that please. Slower. The dog was—?”
She obliged him and waited as the information was relayed through two languages. The chief was now yelling at the men in the doorway.
“Did they think I was Merle?” She gave the chief a sneer. “Just like they thought you were Albert.” She laughed. It was just too much, these imbeciles. The chief stepped closer with a thunderous look and raised his arm. The priest took hold of his arm and forced it down.
“Who is this woman, the one who took the dog?” Cyril asked.
“Her name is Gillian Sargent. She disappeared without a trace.” She frowned again. “Why don’t you call my sister? She might know where the dog is by now.”
“You have her phone number?”
“No.” The number was in her phone which she obviously did not have. Merle had to find Gillian. She had to get the damn dog for these morons. “Have they been to her house? She should be there.”
The priest said something to the chief which was translated by the man Hector. “She is not at home,” Cyril said.
“Why are you here again?”
“They wanted Père Albert but got me instead. Possibly not the brightest of criminals.” He smiled brightly to the men. “How can we find your sister, Miss Bennett? You and I should help each other. They will not let us go until they get the dog. She is worth many, many Euros. They appear to be sparing no trouble to find her.” Cyril lowered his voice. “I believe the big man is a wealthy truffle merchant.”
Francie squeezed the bridge of her nose, thinking. “Father Albert must know how to find Merle. Do you have his number? Call him.”
There was a flurry of Italian and French. Cyril fished his cell phone from his trouser pocket. They looked at it until a button was pushed and Hector took the phone. After twenty seconds of ringing he handed it back and said: ‘Non.’
“Does he have a mobile?” Francie asked. Cyril stared at his phone screen again.
“Ah, here.” He handed it back to Hector. Francie could hear it ringing. Hector listened then and passed the phone back to Cyril: “Vous.”
“Albert? Cyril ici. Comment ça va?” The priest listened then spoke haltingly in French, waving his hands. He seemed to be making up a story that included Merle and her jardin, her garden. He motioned for a pen. The chief passed him one and he wrote a number on his palm. “Bon, merci. Au bientôt.”
“I have it,” Cyril said triumphantly. His hands were shaking as he punched in the new set of numbers, reading from his hand. The chief stopped him, hand on his arm, saying something and motioning to Francie.
“They want you to speak to your sister,” Cyril said, punching in the last two numbers and handing over the phone. “You must tell her to bring the dog to exchange for you. And no police. Wait.” Cyril punched the speaker button so all could hear the conversation.
“Hello? Allo?”
“Merle? Is that you?” Francie said, her heart beating fast. She felt the blood rush to her face at the sound of her sister’s voice.
“Who is this? Francie!? Is that you?”
“It’s me. Listen, I’m fine, more or—”
“Oh, my god, Francie. I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Where are you?”
“They’ve still got me. I don’t where we are, some barn. They want the dog, Merle. Have you found her yet?”
“I’m close. I found Gillian’s grandparents. I think she’s there.” A strangled sound. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Not bad for being held against my will by a bunch of brainiacs. Just a second.” Francie looked up at the men. “What now, assholes?”
Cyril spoke to Hector in French who relayed the message in Italian. Francie closed her eyes in disgust. Finally Cyril bent down to the phone and spoke: “You will receive a text for the location to bring the dog. No police.”
“Did you hear that, Merle?” Francie asked.
“Yes, I’ll wait for the text. Who was that?”
“Father Cyril, believe it or not. This is his phone. I feel like you’re close by. I don’t know why I said that, but I like to think you’re nearby, Merle.”
“Oh, Francie, I am. I’m right by your side, never forget it. Hang in there, sister. I love you.”
Cyril snatched the phone back and ended the call. The men filed out and the lock turned in the door once more.
Francie let her head fall back against the stone wall and shut her eyes. Her heart was still beating furiously. She willed it to slow down.
This wasn’t over yet.
Chapter Forty
Merle held her breath to stop hyperventilating. The call from Francie had rocked her. She had to hold it together, find the dog, make this happen. But she felt like she was flying apart in all directions. She had just come through an intersection where she had to consult her map again when the call came. Now she glanced at the map once more, grounding herself. She wasn’t far from Caveirac now, just minutes away if she didn’t get lost again.
The poorly-marked back roads were picturesque, winding through fields of poppies and waving grains. She wished she was walking them with her sisters, with Francie -- No, must not get mushy. Forward, on to Caveirac. Stay on task, Merdle.
She reached the village just after one in the afternoon. The small town seemed deserted. When she parked and got out of the car she realized why. It had to be close to a hundred degrees. The Mediterranean sun beat down fiercely. She looked back in the car for her sun hat but it wasn’t there. The name of the road she was looking for, Chemin de Calvisson, wasn’t on her map. She had to find a local. She walked down one side of the village main street, looking in shop windows. Everything was closed for lunch: the patisserie, the boulangerie, a dress shop, a pharmacy. She crossed the road. Not much on this side. A doctor’s office, real estate offices, a small hardware store, a tiny grocery, everything shut tight. Back in her car Merle drove slowly down the street. On the left rose a large stone building with a parking lot in front, something modern. She raised a hand against the sun. Maison du Vin & Tourisme. She parked and turned off the car.
A cool blast of air-conditioned air dried the sweat on her face as she entered the building. She’d been in tasting rooms like these before, a cooperative for vintners where you could taste and buy local wine. This one combined the tourist office and was staffed by just one pimply-faced young man.
