The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 50
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
He looked at his watch. If Merle had been 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.
Carefully Pascal stuck a blue-headed pin in the center of Caveirac. So close to Nîmes, just eight kilometers, probably a bedroom community for the larger town. He turned to find the captain watching him. He cocked an eyebrow.
“The sister of Mademoiselle Bennett has some new information,” Pascal explained. “The American who took the dog has relatives in the village of Caveirac. Grandparents.” He 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.”
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 wallop plus some fresh scrapes. His black jacket was dusty, his slacks wrinkled. He slouched in behind the major domo, the 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 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. “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. You’ve been there.”
“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 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 hand. 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. “Albert must know how to find Merle. Do you have his number?”
There was a flurry of Italian and French. The chief fished a cell phone from his trouser pocket. They all 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 again.
“Ah, here.” He handed it 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 on his palm. “Bon, merci. À 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. 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!”
“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 know 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.”
The chief snatched the phone 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.
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 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 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.
“Bonjour, madame,” he called cheerfully.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” she replied although his days as a man had only begun. Gangly with a prominent Adam’s apple and a bad haircut, he rattled something off in French. She hoped she didn’t have to buy a tasting. She could see from the board they were pricey, and she didn’t want to make excuses for hurrying. Merle smiled and asked him if he spoke English. He frowned, disappointed in himself, and said no.
“Ça fait rien,” she reassured him, telling him she spoke a little French. “Je cherche une famille Americaine.” She told him she was searching for an American family who lived on Chemin du Calvisson. He brightened immediately.
“But I live on Chemin du Calvisson,” he said, smiling again. “You mean the Biondi family?”
God love small-town people, Merle thought as she ran across the hot asphalt to her car. The boy had shown her exactly where they lived. He said the house was behind high hedges and hard to spot but there wasn’t a wall or gate, to just park next to the hedge and walk around to the left, under the olive trees.
It was just as he described. Within a minute Merle had pulled off onto the verge, next to a dense thorny hedge, the sort that said “keep out.” It was well-trimmed and nearly fifteen feet tall. She grabbed her cell phone, backpack, and keys and locked the car. The hedge had an advantage to the unexpected visitor as well. The car wouldn’t be seen from the house.
She walked down the hedge to the far end where it thinned in the shade of an enormous tree. It looked like one of her oaks at home. Beyond a row of smaller, pale green trees were grouped, hanging with tiny round fruit.
The house was plain, a low-slung rancher with white stucco walls, dull green shutters, and a red tile roof. The lawn was dry and yellow. Somewhere she could hear a sprinkler going cha-cha-cha. Otherwise, quiet reigned. The blinds in the house were drawn. She walked next to the olive trees, around the side of the house. A cement patio sat blazing in the sun, a green umbrella in a picnic table tightly closed. Beyond the patio, more grass, greener here, and two outbuildings. Garages or farm sheds, she couldn’t tell from this angle. They matched the house in style but were smaller, the size of double garages. No cars in sight.
An air conditioner kicked on behind the house. Merle retraced her steps, making her way over the crunchy lawn to the front door. There was no doorbell or screen door. She knocked. She rapped again, harder, and called out, “Madame Biondi?”
Suddenly the door opened. An old woman stood there, a half smile on her wide, wrinkled face. She paused, staring at Merle as if she might know her but not placing her, the smile frozen.
“Hi, hello! Madame Biondi? Bonjour!” Merle stuck out her hand. The old woman blinked, then shook it. “I’m Francie Bennett. Gillian’s colleague in the law firm. Back home? Ward and Baillee? In Connecticut? She must have told you about it. We work together. She’s a fantastic attorney. Anyway I was just passing through and she told me about you, her grandparents, living in France. My sister has a little place near here. Well, not so near, over in the Dordogne. Do you ever get over there? It’s a ways, through the forest, over the hills. Whew, it’s hotter here than in the Dordogne, isn’t it? It must be ninety-five degrees. A dry heat but still. Hot is hot.”
Merle stopped babbling abruptly, the lilt still in her voice as if she could go on for days. She stared at the old woman, grinning like a traveling salesman, friendly as the day is long. When the woman still didn’t speak, Merle glanced behind her for the grandfather. Maybe he was out. That would be lucky.
“Sorry. You speak English, don’t you? You’ve been over here a long time, but I didn’t even think—” Merle put a hand on her throat. “Do you still speak English?”
The old woman shook herself slightly. “Yes. Of course. Won’t you come in?” Her voice was thin and reedy. She looked to be on the dark side of eighty, with wire-rim glasses and a thick shock of white hair she pulled back into a bun. She was short but sturdy, wearing a cotton shift and a flowered apron. She led Merle into the front sitting room. “You must be hot. Can I get you something to drink?”
