The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 52
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
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 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 good-bye to Aurore and get out of the car. Get on a train and go somewhere.”
Gillian’s nostrils flared. “What the hell?”
“Your grandmother turned us in. The cops are looking for this car. For us.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“I guess she wants that reward.” Merle gave her shoulder a little shove. “Get out of here. They 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 back roads 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 princessy reluctance to walk faster than a stroll, her long morning beauty routine followed by her long evening beauty routine, hogging the bath tub.
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 women lawyers. In an early post, before the trip, she’d called them the “slave class.” They hoped working eighteen hours a day would 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 as a real person, warts and all? Would she even come back from France? Start her life over with her real name? Or reinvent herself with 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 secrets. But her oldest sister still knew nothing about the abduction. Their parents’ voices from this morning rang in her head. 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.
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.
The back roads 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 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 startin’ to take 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 disappeared, they can’t get him to testify so the lawyer is working on them to dismiss the charges. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Right.” Merle pulled the dog away from a bush and walked back to the car. “I’m on the road. Can I call you later?”
“Oh, sure. Christine went home. She likes you, Merle. She told me.”
“Great, um. I’ll call 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 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.
Drive to village of Guzargues. Await instructions
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.
If you want the dog, release my sister. Bring her to Guzargues and leave her unharmed in the center of town
No answer for ten minutes, then:
If you want to see your sister again, follow instructions. No negotiations
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 that. She had no choice but to wait, and she hated 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 ornate 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. 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.
Drive north on Camp Paillas. Take the third right turn. Drive to the top of the hill. You will see a lantern by the road. Stop and await instructions
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 a road called 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.
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. 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 ping. It took a moment to realize it was her phone. And that the gendarmes hadn’t confiscated it.
They took her ID. Why not her phone? More incompetence. She looked up and down the empty hallway. Another ping. She scrambled through her backpack, searched the pockets of her pants, then her shirt. It was in a chest pocket, almost in plain sight. She pulled it out and stared at it.
Proceed to the top of the hill immediately if you value your sister’s life
Merle tried not to groan. How was she going to get to the hill? How was she going to turn over the dog? What was Francie doing? Was she okay?
She sat down on the cot again and willed herself to think. Calmez-vous, she told herself. She needed to buy some time. She texted again.
Seem to be lost. Very dark
When she looked up, the less swagger-y gendarme, a young recruit by his fresh-faced looks, was standing outside the cell. She pushed the phone under her leg but there was no chance he hadn’t seen her texting. He said something complicated in French, with an unusual accent, and she shook her head.
“Je ne comprend pas.” She asked for a translator. It was nearly midnight. It would take some time to find one. He nodded and disappeared through the hall door.
Why hadn’t he taken her cell phone? It made another beep.
They texted: Give your location
She replied, If I knew that I wouldn’t be lost
Then the battery died.
Merle closed her eyes. Hadn’t she plugged it in? The dog got tangled in the cable in the car. Unfortunate beast at the center of this mess. She bent double, lowering her head to her knees, trying to think how this might go, how to get Francie away from those criminals. How frantic her sister must be, how scared.
She must have dozed off. She’d hardly slept for days. The crack of the metal door in the hallway made her jerk awake. She dropped her phone to the cement floor. Cursing she snatched it up and hid her hand behind her back.
“Blackbird? Are you all right?”
The sight of Pascal sent a flood of relief through her. His black T-shirt and wrinkled jeans, his cowboy boots, his broad chest and tanned face: she’d missed them. Then she remembered he was the one who had her arrested. But the young gendarme had his keys out and was unlocking the cell door. Merle stood, her head still fuzzy with sleep. Pascal stepped inside and took her hand. “Come on now. We have to find Francie.”
In a back room, sitting around a table, he explained that he had her arrested so she didn’t go meet the kidnappers on her own. She opened her mouth to protest and he raised his hand. “I know you think you can handle everything yourself, Merle. Oh, I know.” He smiled wearily. She sat back. This wasn’t about her pride. This was about Francie. “We have a helicopter coming.” He looked at his watch. “In fifteen minutes.”
“They texted again,” she said. “I need to plug in my phone to show you.”
Pascal went to the door and called something to the gendarme. He turned back to her. “What did they say?”
“The third right turn off Camp Paillas. Go to the top of the hill where a lantern sits by the road.”
A gendarme arrived with a phone charger. Merle plugged it into the wall and her phone. Pascal said he’d be right back and disappeared, shutting the door. Merle checked her watch, waited three minutes, then turned on her phone.
There was one more text.
Bring the dog to the lantern at the top of the hill and stand in the headlights at exactly 1 a.m. or your sister dies
Merle burst out of the room. One a.m. was less than a half hour away. She opened the hallway door to the reception area and stopped short. The room was full of policemen with large guns, and a woman with a small beagle on a leash. The woman looked at her then down at her black slacks, white blouse and dark jacket.
Pascal turned from a lecture he was giving to the officers. “Go back inside, Merle.”
She held up her phone. “There’s another text. I need to be at that hilltop with the dog at one.”
Everyone looked at their watches and shifted uncomfortably. “Wait in the room,” Pascal said. “Plug in your phone.”
“They said—or my sister dies.” She looked at Pascal. His cheek muscles clenched. Then her phone beeped again. She read the text. “And now they say—the priest dies with her.”
Pascal stood in front of her. “They’re bluffing, Merle. Francie and Father Cyril are their only cards to play. They’ll never get the dog if they harm them.”
“Maybe they’ve given up on the dog. Maybe they know you’ve got a bunch of cops ready to arrest them.”
“Then they wouldn’t be texting you, would they? They would just run.” He touched her arm. “They want the dog. Trust me.”
“So what’s the plan? Another switcheroo? Because that worked so well last time?” Merle glanced at the woman with the dog. She wore a wig, brown like Merle’s hair. She frowned at Merle as if she didn’t understand. “How is this person going to communicate with the kidnappers?”
