Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 50
“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 one-story 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, 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 her 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?”
Merle sat down on a worn armchair. “A glass of water would be fabulous. What a great place you have here. I often wondered what it would be like to live in France. Do you like it? I think I would adore it.”
The old woman was in the kitchen, running water into a glass, and didn’t answer. She returned, handing Merle the water. “Who did you say you were?”
“A lawyer with your granddaughter, Gillian. Back in Connecticut.”
The old woman stiffened. Her demeanor had changed. Her features shifted and she no longer made eye contact. “I don’t know who that is.”
“You don’t know your own granddaughter? Is she here?” Merle downed the water and set down the glass. “I thought I saw her out back.”
“Who?”
Merle stood up, making the old woman take a step backwards. She tipped her head, trying to look both non-threatening and threatening at the same time. Lawyer stuff.
“You may call her by a different name, Mrs. Biondi. Giulia. Your son’s daughter.”
The old woman was blinking hard and fingering the edge of her apron. “I don’t know anyone by either of those names. I d-don’t have a son. You’ve got the wrong person. You must leave now.”
Merle picked up her backpack from the floor and unzipped it. She took out the wrinkled picture of Gillian and the dog in Loiverre. “We call her Gillian. But before all the, ah, bad stuff went down, you called her Giulia. Such a pretty Italian name. Here she is with the dog on our walking tour. We had such fun. She’s crazy about that dog, isn’t she?”
The old woman’s mouth dropped open as she glanced at the photograph. She couldn’t speak. An old clock in the corner ticked off the seconds. Merle waited. Time was her weapon of choice. Thirty seconds passed, then another thirty. An eternity. A trickle of sweat made its way down her back. Finally Merle whispered: “Is she here?”
The old woman’s face was white. She grabbed the back of a chair for support. She glanced up then looked toward the back of the house.
Merle tiptoed across the tile floor, her running shoes squeaking. A short hallway ran to the left. Two doors were open, a bedroom and a bath. Two doors were closed. She turned back to Mrs. Biondi. “This way?”
The woman was mute. Merle stepped up to the first door, turned the knob and looked inside. An office with a computer, rolling chair and lounger, venetian blinds shut. She looked behind the door and moved on. The second door creaked as she opened it. In the dim lighting she made out a bed, lamps, dressers. Nobody behind the door. She paused, wondering if she should search the closet, when the barking of a dog somewhere came through the house.
She froze in the hallway. There. Outside.
She retraced her steps through the tidy kitchen to the back door. She wondered again about the grandfather. Was he waiting with a machete in the garage? Merle straightened her shoulders, throwing open the kitchen door. The heat blasted her face and chest. She stepped into it, leaving the door ajar.
The two outbuildings, from this angle, were not identical. One was a two-car garage, its gray metal door shut. The other looked the same from the side but from the front it was obviously an apartment or vacation gîte with a pot of geraniums and a wooden bench by the door. At the very least a workshop. Big enough for a woman and her dog.
The green shutters on the building were shut on the south and west sides. But to the east, the front, the door had no shutters, only a lace curtain. Merle sidled up to the side, close against the stucco, and stopped to listen. At the house Mrs. Biondi stepped onto the patio. She had a fierce look on her face now, as if Mount Vesuvius was ready to blow.
Go back inside, old woman. She doubted Gillian would try anything, but whatever happened might be traumatic for her. Merle didn’t need a heart attack on her hands. She waved as if pushing Mrs. Biondi back inside but the woman put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth.
“Giulia!” Mrs. Biondi had found her voice. She called once, gathered her breath and yelled again at an even higher register: “Giulia!!”
Merle’s heart skipped in surprise. She stepped back from the edge of the door, around the corner of the building. Inside, there were footsteps, scrabbling sounds, woofs. The door opened and a brown and white dog rushed out, streaking toward the old woman who backed into the house. “Shoo! Get away!” She batted her hands at the dog which only seemed to make it bark louder.
And finally, Gillian. Running after the dog, calling to her, speaking another language. Italian? French? It happened so fast. Merle stepped away from the house.
The dog was under control, barely, dancing around as Gillian held its collar. Mrs. Biondi crossed her arms, annoyed. Gillian said, “It’s okay, Nonnie. Shhh, Aurore. Calmez-vous, petit. You shouldn’t yell like that, Nonnie. It scares her.”
Mrs. Biondi was staring over her shoulder. Gillian turned, flinching as she saw Merle. “What are you doing here?” The dog twisted out of her grasp.
“Hello, Gillian. We’ve been so worried about you since you disappeared.” Merle crouched down to the dog’s level and was rewarded with a sloppy lick to the cheek. “Ah, sweet dog. She remembers me.” Aurore was clean and soft. She still had a bare spot where she’d been injured but it was healed now. Merle rubbed her curly head then stood, getting her first good look at Gillian. She looked no worse for her adventures, in khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a Mets t-shirt, hair pulled back in a thick ponytail. Her cheeks were rosy from the sun. She crossed her arms and stuck out her chin.
Merle stepped close to her and whispered. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Forty-One
Slumped in a chair in the darkened apartment, Gillian stroked the dog’s ears, her eyes facing the floor as if she was a child being chastised. Merle couldn’t blame her. She’d been found out and her beloved dog discovered. Above all her Big Secret, the identity she’d kept underground since she was fifteen, was out, whether she realized it yet or not. Merle wondered how she would feel if the burden of such a secret was chucked. There had to be an element of both release and anxiety. You didn’t change your identity unless there were some very bad people after you.
The apartment behind her grandmother’s house was sparsely furnished with cast-offs, a sagging bed, a rickety table with one chair, dishes in the sink. They sat in a small parlor with only a dusty plastic houseplant separating it from the bedroom. The parlor chairs were upholstered, holes worn in the arm rests. Merle was surprised at how depressing it was. Something about Gillian had said ‘class’ and ‘self-respect.’ It had not said ‘yesterday’s hamburger grease.’
“How did you find me?” she asked in a small voice.
“Through your grandparents,” Merle said. Gillian looked up. “Yes, I know who you really are, Giulia.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s the government. What can I say? It was a good run. What, twenty-five years? You didn’t expect to stay under the radar forever, did you?” Merle gave her a small smile. She needed Gillian soft and pliable. “But this is not about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s about Francie. Remember those Italians in Malcouziac? The ones at the café? They kidnapped Francie. She’s being held somewhere, a captive, because they want this dog. You know she’s worth a lot of money.”
She nodded, petting the dog’s fuzzy muzzle.
“Did you see the reward poster?” Gillian nodded again. “Then you know she doesn’t belong to you. She was stolen from an old man who was beaten and almost killed.”
“By who?”
“Probably the same Italian dirtbags who kidnapped Francie and stole the dog in the first place. She got loose from them, that’s when we found her. They went back to the farmer to wait for somebody to return her for the reward. But nobody did.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Gillian looked angrily at Merle. “She’s not for sale.”
“She’s a dog, Gillian. A highly-trained dog, no doubt sweet, but a canine. She’s worth thousands of dollars, even more if you’re a truffle hunter. People buy and sell dogs every day. It’s not like human trafficking.” Merle added that because Gillian was getting a little incensed at the whole idea of money exchanged for dogs.
“To me she’s priceless.”
“To me too. Because she will get my sister back.”
Gillian tossed her head, her thick hair grazing her shoulder. “It’s all set. In a week I’ll have all the paperwork. And I’ll take her home.”
“She doesn’t belong to you, Gillian, no matter how much you love her.”
“I can’t give her back. I won’t.” Her words were strong but her voice was faltering.
“Look at me,” Merle said with steel in her voice. “Do you want me to tell my mother and father that Francie’s best friend at the law firm chose a stray dog over her life? Are you going to bring your dog to Francie’s funeral and tell everyone that your little lost dog was more important than Francie? That you let my sister— your colleague, your friend— die?”
Gillian kept her head bowed, silent.
“How’s that going to work, Gillian? Or should I say Giulia, daughter of ‘Max’ Biondi, racketeer and convicted felon and no doubt the sweetest Mafia Don to ever grace Long Island.”
Gillian winced then tried to look defiant. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And you won’t tell anyone. Even if it is true, you got that information illegally. Nobody will believe you.”
“Watch me.” They stared each other down for a moment. Then Merle said, “I bet old Max still has enemies out on the Island. No, wait. He’s got friends. Friends who’d love to find your mother and get reacquainted.”
She sounded like a character from ‘G Man.’ But it worked. Gillian slumped against the head of the dog, arms around its neck, and began to wail. “I love you, Aurore. I won’t let them have you.”
But the die was cast. Her crying ended as quickly as it began, as if it was an act. Maybe everything about Gillian was an act, from her name and her background, her law degree, her fancy clothes, and her love of dogs. Maybe she identified with stray dogs, lost and alone in a big, bad world. At this point Merle didn’t care. Gillian could win an Oscar. It didn’t matter. Because they were going to exchange the dog for Francie.
Tonight.
* * *
It took close to an hour to get Gillian into the car. She had to explain, and argue, with her grandmother for a long time. Merle held the dog, listening to Gillian say she was going to return the dog to her owners, that she realized someone else loved Aurore as much as she did and she should go home. It was mildly convincing. Nonnie took it in, frowning, letting loose some Italian, then threw up her hands in surrender.
Gillian wanted to pack a bag but Merle would only let her bring dog food, water and a dish for the dog. They weren’t spending the night together. On the way out Gillian strapped a leash to Aurore’s collar. “Likes to follow a scent,” she muttered darkly.
They all piled into the front seat, the dog between Gillian’s knees in the passenger seat. She put on her seat belt and sighed as Merle started the engine and turned on the air conditioning. Merle didn’t have much a plan for here on but she didn’t want Gillian to know that. So far she hadn’t asked many questions.
“Where’s your grandfather?” Merle asked as they got on the road.
Gillian stared at her, stone-faced. “None of your business.”
Merle shrugged and drove back through the village. As she turned toward Nîmes Gillian said softly, “He died two years ago. I hadn’t seen him for years.”
Merle glanced at her. “I’m sorry.”
Nîmes was larger than she expected, with suburbs and highways going in every direction. She got lost and wandered into the old part of town, rounding the ancient Coliseum with bullfighting posters, passing a columned Roman Forum, then righting herself to go south. The afternoon sun beat down on the streets. Outside the city Merle pulled into a parking lot to consult her map again.
“Where is she? Francie,” Gillian asked.
“If I knew that I wouldn’t need the dog, would I? The police have been looking for her for days.” Merle glanced over, hoping to see some regret or responsibility on the other woman’s face. But she was just petting the dog, her face placid.
“I had a dog when I was a kid. Her name was Trixie.” Her voice was wistful.
“Did you have to leave her behind?”
She nodded. “She was a Jack Russell. Little but with so much spunk, so much heart.”
“Like Aurore,” Merle said. She looked on her phone for a message. Nothing. She stared at the last call, the priest’s number. Maybe they could trace it. She called Pascal and it went to voicemail. Quickly she explained about the call, giving him the number and where she was when she got it. She knew something about triangulating cell calls but wasn’t sure they did that in France, how fast they could do it, or how well it worked.
“Did you bring your phone?” Merle asked Gillian. The small day pack containing the dog food sat by her feet. “I know you have one. We’ve been calling you.”
She reached into a zipped pocket and pulled out a small phone. “Does it do text?” Merle asked.
“Of course.”
“Turn it on. Then text to this number.” She showed her priest’s number. “Say this: ‘Ready to exchange the dog. Tonight. Send location.’
“My number is blocked. They won’t be able to reply.”
Merle squinted at her. “Okay. Add ‘Text Merle.’”
Gillian worked her thumbs quickly. “Is that it?”
“Let me see it.” Merle read it over. “Send it.”
She watched Gillian to make sure she sent it then looked at her watch. It was close to four-thirty. This would be over soon. She could hear Francie’s voice: ‘I feel like you’re near.’ The courage and the trust in that moment. A shiver went down Merle’s back as she steered the car out into traffic and headed toward Arles.
