Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 51
Chapter Forty-Two
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 silence on all fronts just like her father. Nato was a very unpleasant boy who grew into a thug 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. She would never see him again.
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 turned and 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 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 was 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 and sighed. 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.’
Chapter Forty-Three
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 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 greenspace 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.”
She looked back at the car, the only one in the lot by the road. She jumped to her feet as if being upright would help her hearing. Gillian looked over, the dog straining on the leash under a small tree. “A tip?” She tried to recall anyone paying attention to the car. “From where?”
“Someone in Caveirac. She’s hoping for the reward. I spoke to her. The gendarme in the Lot sent her on.” His voice dropped. “It’s the woman you were looking for, Merle. Madame Biondi.”
Merle swore under her breath. “She didn’t waste any time.” Turning in her own granddaughter. Classy. “Do you have any idea where the call from the kidnappers came from?”
“Possibly west of Arles, up in the hills. Merle, go to the police headquarters in Arles. I will meet you there.”
She was throwing cheese and bread crusts into the paper bag. “I have to get Francie. The dog is the only way.”
“The police have something to work on now, thanks to your call. Let us do our work, blackbird. Be safe. These are desperate men. They have kidnapped your sister. You can’t go into those hills alone and expect to just hand over the dog, can you?”
Merle bit down on her molars, trying hard not to tell him to stop being such a chauvinist. He wasn’t one, or at least not more than most Frenchmen. She swore again then covered the phone and called Gillian. “I have to go, Pascal.”
Back in the car Merle consulted her map again and plotted the route to the train station. Gillian looked at her curiously but asked no questions. Five minutes later Merle pulled into an alley near the rail station and put the car in park.
“Hand me your pack,” she said. Gillian gave it to her. Merle took out the bottle of water, the dish, and the bag of dog food, throwing them into the back seat. She zipped up the day pack and gave it to Gillian. “Get out.”
The younger woman frowned. “What do you mean?”
Merle took the dog’s collar, pulling the animal up into her lap. “I mean, you’re done. Say goodbye to Aurore and get out of the car. Did you bring your wallet?”
Gillian’s nostrils flared. She squinted at Merle in the twilight. “What the hell?”
“Your grandmother turned us in. The cops are looking for this car. For us.”
Gillian frowned. “She wouldn’t.”
“I guess she wants that reward.” Merle gave her shoulder a little shove. “Get out of here. The cops are going to think you stole her. Unless you aren’t in the car and don’t have the dog.”
She opened the door. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me. Worry about Francie.”
* * *
The light in the sky faded to black as Merle wound her way out of Arles. The dog had curled into the passenger seat after a frantic yipping episode as they drove away from Gillian. Merle patted her head, using Gillian’s words: “Calmez-vous, petit.” Be quiet, be calm, little one. The dog looked at her with big brown eyes, listening, then miraculously fell asleep.
She had plotted a simple route, on the backroads out of Arles, the slow streets, off the motorways. Across the Rhône once, then again, merging into traffic on bridges then off again onto the old byways. Under the train tracks and over a canal, the moonlight flashing on the surface of the water. Barges lined up, pleasure boats and working craft. She left them behind, circling Saint-Gilles on the Chemin du Vin and on to other chemins, the old roads lined with farms and crumbling churches and storefronts boarded and abandoned.
West, toward the hills.
As she drove Merle’s mind whirled with the events of the last two weeks, from arriving in Paris with her sisters, Tristan, and Gillian, to the awkward moments on the hike, the arguments over whose turn it was to buy the wine, the late-night laughing and bouncing on beds like children. The birthday party for Merle and Elise, complete with chocolate cake and candles. The truffles, the foie gras, the wine. The annoyance with Francie at first, her whining, her princess-ish reluctance to walk faster than a stroll, her long morning beauty routine followed by her long evening beauty routine, hogging the bath tub.
And Francie unwound during the trip, let her hair down literally. Her pigtails as she left that last time, her auburn hair bouncing. Her blog. That was a surprise, that Francie could be so incisive, so shrewd. And cutting, of course. Witty barbs were her forté. But she was more than that. The blog was obviously an outlet for her bitchiness but it also offered advice to young women lawyers. In an early post, before the trip, she’d called them the ‘slave class.’ Some women hope working eighteen hours a day will ingratiate them in the partners’ eyes. Male law grads did it too, of course, but it was different. Subtly and very un-subtly in the bastions of male power. Francie understood that thin line between being admired and being taken advantage of.
Francie: talking on the phone, waving her hands around, pacing the gravel walks of the garden, making her points with a kiss of sweetness and a jigger of don’t-cross-me. She really should be on the stage. She didn’t know who Gillian really was. Would the entire firm find out? Would the girl nobody knew now be seen/clothed differently, a real person, warts and all? Would she even come back from France? Start her life over with her real name? Or re-create herself with a new name, a new identity?
Merle would tell Francie everything. She wished she could tell Annie. She was the one who’d broken through the wall of secret identities. But her oldest sister still knew nothing about the abduction. She heard her parents’ voices from this morning. It was all Merle could do to keep it inside. All her life her sisters had been there for her, helping her, prodding her, maddening her, encouraging her. But she had to do this alone. Just like Francie was alone.
Bucket of balls, case of courage.
Merle smiled, remembering happy days together, their voices over the years cheering her on, as she merged into a crowded roundabout, dodging a rusty Deux Chevaux and a sleek Mercedes, hoping to make it out alive. She missed her exit and made another round, whipping her head from side to side, changing lanes, turning sharply. She would go round and round until she found her sister.
Chapter Forty-Four
The backroads took their toll on her nerves. The endless rows of vines, the flat, monotonous farmland, the moon over the marshes, the wrong turns. She finally had to get on a more major byway to avoid the dead-ends and unmarked lanes. Then it was a straight shot through the darkness. Every passing car amped up her anxiety. Every village had the potential for a gendarme on alert. The dog began to whine. Merle pulled into a weed-choked spot near a train overpass and let her out on the leash. She was waiting for the dog to finish, staring at the navigation map on her phone to figure out her location, when it rang.
She stared at the number. It wasn’t Pascal. It wasn’t the priest.
“Allo?”
“Merle? Is that you?” A man’s voice, and so obviously James. “Where the heck are ya?”
“Out of town.”
“No shit. You keep disappearing on me. I’m going to start taking it personally, sweetie.”
Merle winced. “How’s the legal case?”
“That’s what I wanted to tell ya. That new lawyer is the bomb. He’s been working with the prosecutors. Since the priest has vanished they can’t get him to testify so the lawyer is working on them to dismiss the charges. Pretty cool, huh.”
“Right. Cool.” Merle pulled the dog away from a bush and walked back to the car. “I’m on the road right now. Can I call you later?”
“Oh, sure. Christine went home. She likes you, Merle. She told me.”
“Great, um. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She ended the call before he could say anything else. Merle opened the car door for Aurore and threw the leash in after her. She really was a well-behaved dog, so smart.
Back on the road, Merle turned north, skirting a number of villages at the edge of the foothills. James and his annoying accent had distracted her for a moment. She had her own problems, something that never occurred to him. It was all about James Jeremy the Third. He was like many men she worked with. Not vicious or mean, just completely self-absorbed.
She opened her window a crack and blew a big sigh into the passing air. The dog perked up, staring at her. “Out with the bad vibes, Aurore.” She patted her curly head and the dog quieted again, laying her chin on the console, worry in her trusting eyes. “I have a plan, little one,” Merle told her. “You will go home soon, if all goes well.”
At nine-thirty she pulled into a dark lot by a gas station somewhere and closed her eyes. She was beyond tired, living on anxiety. Finally the text came.
Turning on the overhead light she consulted her map again. It took a moment to find Guzargues. Where was she now? She turned on her phone’s navigation, put in ‘Guzargues’ and got directions. It was only twenty kilometers to the west.
As she drove she wondered if the kidnappers knew where she was. How could they? They appeared to be idiots but she didn’t want to underestimate them. They had managed to kidnap two people. Over a hill and down the other side and there was Guzargues, a sleepy village with few conveniences. A bar was still open but everything else was dark. She pulled into the parking lot near the city hall, parked under a street light, and turned off the car to wait.
Ten-thirty passed. Merle took a photo of the dog with her phone and texted it to the kidnappers.
No answer for ten minutes, then:
So much for the bully. What would the police do if they got a message like that? She hated to think. They apparently thought they were smarter than all criminals. That was a dangerous assumption. The fiasco at the Polygone proved they weren’t that cagey. She had no choice but to wait, and she hated the feeling of being out of options.
She gathered the dog into her arms. Aurore was trembling, fear radiating out of her. Merle buried her face in her curly ears and tried to calm her. When would they call? How would they exchange their hostages? She stared out at the stone houses, the street lights, the stars. She punched in Pascal’s number even though she’d promised herself she would handle this alone.
“Merle?”
“They told me to go to Guzargues. A small village.”
“Near Montpellier, yes. Where are you now?”
“In Guzargues. I wasn’t far.” She squeezed the dog to her chest. “How will this work, Pascal? I can’t. . . . I can’t figure out how this will work.” She wanted to tell him how afraid she was that something would go terribly wrong, but she didn’t want to say that. She couldn’t. Being afraid never stopped a person from doing what they had to do. Annie always said that courage was doing what was necessary in the face of fear. Tonight she would be brave.
“They must be near there. Maybe watching from a hilltop location. I am on my way. There is a gendarmerie near the hotel de ville. Go there and wait, blackbird. Please.”
“I have to see this through, Pascal.” She pressed ‘end’ as his voice trailed off. If she talked to him any more she might lose her nerve. “Ah, petit. Calmez-vous,” she repeated to Aurore, settling her back on the passenger seat. As the dog relaxed she felt her own reserve of courage rise. “I can do this,” she whispered. “I can.”
The next message came ten minutes later.
Merle turned on her overhead light and looked at the map. The type was miniscule and her eyes were tired. Squinting, turning it to read the street names, she had just located Camp Paillas when the gendarmes arrived.
Two police cars drove up silently, lights off, gliding into place in front and behind her car. The one in front turned a spotlight on her. As he made his way toward her, with a swagger and a scowl, Merle sighed, placing both hands on the steering wheel.
The dog began to bark.
Chapter Forty-Five
The gendarmes took her and the dog to the small police station behind the city hall. Similar to the one in Malcouziac, the interior was institutional gray. Someone had painted a colorful mural on the outside walls, sunflowers, lavender, and sunshine. None of that warmth could be felt in the small, dark cell where Merle sat on the cot, staring at the floor. Aurore could be heard barking behind closed doors somewhere.
She was being charged with stealing the dog. Because Aurore was so valuable it was a major crime, the gendarmes explained gravely. They took her passport and identification, rifled through her backpack then left it with her. Merle curled into a ball, pulling her knees into her chest on the cot, and pounded the blanket with a fist. Damn Pascal. He had done this. The French police were so incompetent she wanted to scream. Pascal knew she didn’t steal the dog. Why had he told them that?
Damn him!
She jumped to her feet, fuming now. She paced the small cell, rattled the stupid bars, a caged fury. What about Francie? It made her sick to her stomach. She was supposed to be up on a hill, arranging the trade of the dog. She bent over, nauseous with anxiety, when she heard the beep. It took a moment to realize it was her phone. And that the gendarmes hadn’t confiscated it.
