The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 51
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
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 stiffed. 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 backward. 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. 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 as Mrs. Biondi stepped onto the patio. She had a fierce look on her face now, as if Pompeii 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.”
Slumped in a chair in the darkened apartment, Gillian stroked the dog’s ears, her eyes facing the floor as if she were 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 were 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 gîte behind the 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 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. 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?”
“Remember those Italians in Malcouziac? The ones at the café? They kidnapped Francie. She’s being held somewhere 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 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.”
“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.” Gillian acted 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 the halls of Sing Sing.”
Gillian winced then tried to look defiant. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And you won’t tell anyone. 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 Long Island. No, wait. He’s got friends. Friends who’d love to find your mother and get reacquainted. How is Carole?”
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 take 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 of a plan from here on, but she didn’t want Gillian to know that.
“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 its 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 on the other woman’s face. But she was just petting the dog, dreamy-eyed.
“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.”
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.
Lucy Biondi stood at the window, watching the two women talk in the back. They seemed to be arguing, gesturing at the dog and each other, voices raised. She didn’t want to know. She’d had enough of this drama. Giulia had been here for over a week, demanding secrecy on all fronts just like her father. Nato was a very unpleasant boy who grew into a brute and a villain. Yes, he was her son—her only son—but she’d long ago wished for a different one. He had shamed her and the whole family. He was dead to her.
The dog was doing its business now on her lawn. Her carefully tended lawn. She bit down on her molars and made herself be calm. Giulia said the dog was special, had talents or something, but all he or she appeared to do was run around barking and shit on the grass. Lucy rolled her eyes in disgust. If they left, it would be none too soon. She loved her granddaughter of course but being here only made things more difficult than ever. She saw much of Nato in Giulia, in her looks, the stubbornness, and even meanness.
The women and the dog went inside the cabana. Tony had called their holiday rental a “cabana” and the name stuck. It made them a little money and cost very little. He had loved having guests back there, even if he couldn’t speak their language.
Lucy walked through the living room. She pushed aside the curtains to see the woman’s car outlined against the hedge. She glanced to the backyard again then slipped out the front door, taking a pencil and scrap of paper in her apron pocket. In the olive grove she pretended to check them for the crop although everyone knew it was too early.
Under the oak tree she paused, wiped the sweat from her eyes, and drew out the paper and pencil. Gray Peugeot, four door. She wrote down the license number. Shoving the utensils back in her apron, she scurried through the afternoon sun, back into the cool air of her house, locking the door tight behind her.
In the kitchen she shuffled through the mail on the table. At the bottom was the reward poster Giulia had brought, the one for the dog. The one that made Lucy think Giulia had stolen the dog herself, although she denied it. She said she loved the dirty old thing, that someone else had stolen it. As if that were an excuse. Lucy looked at the poster, thinking what ten-thousand euros would mean. She could travel again. Go see her sister in Florida. Not live like an outcast, a fugitive in a foreign land.
She leaned against the table. Ah, Tony. Would that we never had to leave New York and all our friends. But, as he said in a rare correct use of French, “C’est la vie.”
The park on the banks of the Rhône River was dry and weedy, the perfect place to hide in the shade and let the dog have a break. They’d stopped at a grocery and bought goat cheese and a baguette and an assortment of olives and sat on the ground. Gillian got up to let Aurore sniff every tree. She walked with her on the leash. She was too precious to run free.
Merle had debated where to wait for the kidnappers’ text. The outskirts of Arles seemed the best bet. According to the map, the interior of the ancient city was a rabbit warren of narrow streets and awkward plazas. A quick getaway would be impossible.
The Rhône was wide and lazy here. Upstream, the remains of an ancient bridge, complete with imposing white lions, watched over the water. The banks of the river were mostly built up with high stone walls to control flooding, with walkways along the top. This tiny green space was a rare wild area.
An hour passed slowly. Merle tried not to keep looking at her watch but her inner calendar did the job of ticking the minutes. At seven, as clouds gathered in the western sky, obscuring the sunset, Pascal called.
“Are you in Caveirac?” His voice was tight, anxious.
“No, Arles,” she said. “Did you get my message about the phone call from the kidnappers?”
“Not until half an hour ago. I was on my way out of the building to meet you in Caveirac and I got caught in a meeting with my superiors.”
“Were you able to track the call?”
“Not yet. The permissions take the longest.” He caught his breath. “What are you doing in Arles?”
“Waiting for the text. I have Gillian and the dog.”
“I know. Listen. There was a tip about the dog. Your rental car was identified. The description of the car and the license number have been broadcast. You’d best come in, Merle.”
