The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 56
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“This cross-dressing thing, it is known of course in France. But not like the US.” He explained morosely that he was only a country policeman who knew wine and vineyards and the criminals who worked there.
“It’s not a big deal,” Merle said. “It was fun. We had some laughs. I think it was meant to be fun. Bosom Drearie seemed to be having a riot.” He continued with the hang-dog look. “Do you think your colleagues thought you would enjoy it? That you, you know, swung that way?”
His spine straightened and he hissed: “Of course not.”
She rattled her ice cubes and arched an eyebrow. “I think you’re going to have to prove yourself to your fellow officers. And me. As soon as humanly possible.”
They were groggy, spooned under the covers, when Francie and Elise knocked on their door in the morning, reminding them of breakfast plans. With all due speed and several aspirin they showered and dressed and rushed to the lobby. Merle hated to be late and with relief saw that Annie and Callum hadn’t arrived yet. She and Pascal chatted with her two youngest sisters for a moment, then the fiancées arrived.
On the street the morning had a crisp bite, frosty and clear. Pascal didn’t bring a winter coat and shivered along the three blocks to the restaurant. As they turned to go inside he touched Merle’s arm. “I have to go. Do something,” he said, glancing away.
Christmas surprises? She narrowed her eyes, smiling. Then panicked. What should she buy Pascal? How much should she spend? How personal? So many early-relationship questions, and yet here he was, off to Bloomingdales or somewhere.
She promised to call when they finished brunch and he trotted off, holding his arms close for warmth. A scarf, she thought. Gloves. Or a knit cap? No meaning in that, was there? Just: Don’t get frostbite in the USA.
The sisters were in fine form, teasing Callum about his accent and his still-unseen kilt, giddy with excitement about Annie’s wedding. They would all be bridesmaids, she’d told them, no “best” one. The word was they were going to wear tartan too but all they’d done was send their measurements to Callum’s mother. It was either a mystery or Annie and Callum were excellent keepers of secrets.
Elise, the youngest sister and the only other one to have never had a wedding, was bursting with questions. She wore a bright red Christmas sweater with a snowman design. Perhaps not her best look but Merle said nothing. Francie also kept her opinions of sweaters and marriage to herself. She’d had a rough year with the events during their walking tour. Her usual sparkle had tarnished. Merle squeezed her hand just to see a flash of her winning smile and green eyes. Even a touch of melancholy couldn’t spoil Francie’s good looks. She would always be the prettiest sister.
Number two sister, Stasia, who some in the crowd called ‘Sadie Sadie Married Lady’ behind her back, arrived from the suburbs, a little late. Snow on the tracks, she told them, then joined in the ribbing of Callum, the cacophony of Christmas plans, and the displaying of shopping lists.
“Your Aunt Amanda called this morning,” Stasia said to Merle. “Looking for you.” Stasia worked at a fashion magazine and had three kids and a husband. Capable and organized, she worked harder than Martha Stewart to make it all look easy. Today she wore her weekender uniform: jeans with a crease, a crisp white blouse, a quilted vest, and tall leather boots.
“Amanda?” Merle blinked, surprised. Since Harry had died the connection with his aunt had faded to almost nothing. Merle felt a pang of guilt. Amanda had no children of her own, only Harry and he was gone. “What did she want? Is there a problem?” She rummaged in her purse for her phone.
“I told her you were still in the city. She said it was nothing, she just wanted to chat.” Stasia laid her hand on Merle’s. “She was acting a little strange.”
Annie said, “She probably just wants to gossip about the party. Or complain about her new husband. He’s a peach. When I danced with him he sort of felt me up.”
The sisters gasped.
“It was nothing. I mean, I won’t say I wasn’t flattered.” Annie gave a wry smile. “But he is pretty skeezy.”
“Did she mention Clifton?” Merle asked Stasia. “Is it a health thing?”
“It didn’t sound serious. Call her when you get home.”
“You want to hear about strange?” Annie asked, eyes twinkling. “Pascal took us to see a drag queen last night. Her name is Bosom Drearie, isn’t that the best? I wish I had a picture of his face when she wound the boa around his neck.” They all talked at once. Except for Merle. They stared at her, the questions flying.
Merle explained that it was for his work as a policeman and that he didn’t know it was a drag revue. They didn’t believe her. Francie wanted details. She had seen Bosom Drearie years before, at a party thrown by gallery owners in Chelsea.
“She wasn’t Bosom Drearie then,” Francie said. “What a name! I heard she got fired and had to reinvent herself.” She explained that the performer called herself Fleur Chèrie then, a rough translation of Blossom Dearie. Thinner, curvier, and less hairy, she did a sort-of-straight impersonation of the singer. “Did she sing those breathy songs? She’s kind of famous in that world. You guys are so lucky. You have to know some kind of password to get in to see her, like at a speakeasy.”
“You know a lot,” Elise smirked.
“I lived downtown after college, remember?”
“Oh right, with Billy and Wayne. What are they up to?”
“They got married in Massachusetts last year.” Francie turned to Merle. “I would love to get some drag queens to do a benefit. There’s one next year, can’t remember exactly what for, some charity. Can you help me? Do you have her number?”
Merle shook her head. “Ask Pascal.”
Francie looked thoughtful. “I’ve seen pictures of her. Is she, like, too out there? Really campy? Chubby?”
“Camp, yes. But she’s not fat,” Annie said.
Callum laughed. “You try pullin’ her outa that dip. Damn near threw my back out.”
Chapter 6
The train rolled out of Grand Central with a wheeze, a fog blowing up in the cold afternoon wind. Merle’s feet ached and she kicked off her shoes as soon as she’d settled into the seat. Pascal crossed his arms and closed his eyes. They were both tired.
After two hours battling the holiday crowds Merle had returned to the Hilton. Pascal hadn’t answered her call after brunch so she plowed forward, duties to be done. Like most busy women she did much of her buying online but there were a few last minute items to buy in person. She wasn’t an extravagant gifter; she hadn’t been brought up that way. Her parents were New Englanders, thrifty and sensible. Her mother Bernadette was from Massachusetts and often told stories of getting an apple and a small chocolate bar for Christmas. Her five daughters fared better and her grandchildren better still. But Merle had to remind herself sometimes to not be such a Yankee tightwad. She thought her visits to France had changed her in ways large and small, but maybe not.
Pascal had met her in the lobby with his suitcase, no shopping bags evident. If he had a gift for her she hoped it was from France, not Bloomingdales. She eased back in her seat on the train, wondering what he might have brought her, smiling to herself as she pulled out her phone. She worked through her voicemail. Troy Lester, a partner in Harry’s old law firm, was next to last. She hadn’t heard from him for months and was glad of it. What could he want now?
“Merle.” He cleared his throat dramatically. They hadn’t gotten along well when Lester’s firm administered Harry’s will and its decrees. A small matter of gambled life insurance funds and the Other Woman. “Troy Lester here. Sorry to bother you but there’s been a... an inquiry here. I thought you should know. The French consulate sent over an envoy and a policeman this afternoon, to look at Strachie senior’s, that is, Weston’s files. They weren’t specific, something about wine that never got delivered. Can’t see how it’s anything after all this time, what— fifty-plus years, my god. Ridiculous and yet, they were here.”
He paused. “We had to cooperate, give them what we had. They sent a court order for records about a month ago. Mostly the stuff you saw last year, business invoices. So... happy holidays.”
Merle shut down her phone and stared out the window. Happy holidays to you, Troy Lester. The land was blue in the dying light, patches of dirty snow and glistening puddles dotted the streets and hillsides. The French consulate. An envoy and a policeman. She glanced at Pascal, his mouth ajar, eyes shut. A French policeman? Of course. Who else to look at the ancient invoices of a wine distributor but a French policeman who specialized in wine fraud?
Full dark had fallen by the time they got to the house. No lights welcomed them up the driveway. Merle tried to clear her mind of worries about the investigation and showed Pascal through the house. He was suitably impressed by its American size (huge!) and gravitas (lovely wood!) She had already decided to put him in the guest room for Tristan’s sake. Tris was crazy about Pascal but she wasn’t sure how he’d react to them sharing a bed right down the hall from his room. And Troy’s news had made her realize she needed a little distance to think.
The television blared in Tristan’s room. Merle knocked, told him they were home, and went to the kitchen to rustle up something for dinner. Pascal took a shower then helped her make a salad. He and Tristan gossiped about his new school and basketball then went off to watch something on MTV.
The kitchen was quiet except for the dishwasher’s hum. Merle sat at the table by the window. Frost etched the night scene as snow began to fall. She loved this time of year, the peaceful snowflakes falling, the lights, the gatherings. She pulled her sweater tighter and stared at her cell phone. She had Troy Lester’s number from last year. But it was late on a Saturday. She called Annie instead.
Her oldest sister was also her closest. Annie answered immediately, concern in her voice. “Is everything all right? Did you get home?”
“All fine. Pascal and Tris are bonding over Jersey Shore.” They laughed then Merle lowered her voice, serious. “Troy Lester left me a message. He says the French are investigating Harry’s father’s wine business.”
“After fifty years? What the hell.”
“They sent a consulate official and a French policeman over to the law firm.”
She hesitated then asked, “Pascal?”
“I don’t know. Should I say something or just let it go?”
“Say something, of course. No, wait. You might be jumping to conclusions. You should talk to Troy first, find out if it was Pascal. And what the French think they’re going to find. Are they going after the money from the wine?”
Merle’s stomach flipped. She’d found a stash of wine in the Strachie family house in the Dordogne last year, and sold it at auction. That money would send Tristan to college and give his half-sister a nest egg for her own education. Merle had set up the trust for little Sophie, now five years old. It wasn’t a lot of money but it would help. Would the French government take money from children?
“I hadn’t thought of—” Merle stuttered. “Do you think they can? Do they have rights to it?”
“If they try we’ll sue their asses. We’ll make Troy Lester lead the charge, that creep.”
Annie made more conciliatory noises and they hung up. Callum needed her. They were still in Manhattan on a pre-honeymoon. Merle’s heart warmed to hear how much her sister was obviously in love. She took a deep breath. Everything would work out. It would all be okay.
She was pouring herself another glass of wine when Pascal returned. He asked her to pour him one.
“Who is this Jersey Shore?” His eyes were wide. “I am scarred for life.”
Chapter 7
The sun was barely up when the phone rang in the kitchen. Merle pressed the button to start the coffeemaker. “Hello?”
Aunt Amanda was on the line, voice high and tight. “Do you have a minute, dear?”
“Of course. I’m sorry I haven’t—”
“Can you come over?” The old woman interrupted. “Now?” She was whispering, like she didn’t want someone to hear her. Merle said she’d leave within the hour. Amanda lived on Long Island in the original part of Levittown. It wasn’t terribly far but would take more than an hour to drive there. Merle checked her watch, put milk in her coffee, and went to get dressed.
The Sunday morning traffic was light. Pascal had insisted on going with her, and driving her ancient mini-van that Tristan called the ‘Mom Wagon.’ She always intended to get rid of the rusty thing but since she mostly drove it to the train station and back it was still serviceable. And yes, she was a Yankee tightwad.
The weather was cold but the snow hadn’t stuck and the roads were dry. They talked about American drivers’ propensity for sloth and the hard morning light glinting off Long Island Sound. They crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge. Plunging into the Levittown neighborhoods they got lost soon after leaving the expressway. Pascal pulled over while Merle got directions on her phone.
“You have been to your aunt’s house, yes?”
“She was Harry’s aunt. They weren’t close. Mostly she came over to our house for holiday stuff.” Merle looked up, frowning. “I forgot to invite her this Christmas.”
“Well, now’s your chance,” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
After fifteen minutes of wrong turns they found the house. Amanda’s Cape Cod cottage was one of the first group built in Levittown in the late forties. Tiny and plain she’d made a few alterations over the years, building dormers and finishing off the second floor. But the siding was still a dingy white and concrete lawn ornaments seemed to have sprouted in the yard. Merle wondered how a woman with enough flair to be a dress buyer for a major department store tolerated a painted duck on the lawn.
The door opened before they could knock. Amanda wore stretchy sky blue slacks and a ruffled white blouse but her face was drawn, eyes worried. Her hair was not in its usual perfect state, resembling a sunburst today. Merle introduced Pascal. Amanda glared at him openly then waved them into the living room. Somewhere a television game show was on. She poured them both coffee and made them sit on the sofa. No small talk today.
Amanda returned, cradling her own cup in both hands. She stopped in front of a chair and stared down at them, blinking, her mouth tight.
“Is everything all right?” Merle asked.
Amanda squinted her eyes at Pascal. “He has to go.”
Pascal stood immediately, followed by Merle. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you,” Amanda said. “But not him. Not the Frenchman.”
Merle protested but Pascal shook his head. He disappeared out the front door. Merle sat down again, perplexed.
“It’s the lawyers,” Amanda said. “Wes’s old lawyers. They called me on Friday. They want to come over and talk to me.”
“About what?”
“I have no idea.” Amanda stared at the ceiling. “He’s been gone so many years, Merle. It can’t be about Wes. Is it about Harry?”
“They called me too. It’s something to do with Weston’s business.”
“What business? The imports?”
“Did he have another one?” Merle hadn’t even had time to dig out the document copies that Troy had sent her last year. All she could remember was some kind of invoices for wine shipments. She didn’t like thinking about Weston Strachie who was a bastard several times over. He’d died in an auto accident when Harry was four but the revelations of his behavior had gone on and on.
A clumping sound came from the stairs and a door opened. There stood Clifton, Amanda’s husband, in print boxer shorts and a yellow Florida State t-shirt, his long gray hair wild without the grease that normally held it in place. His face looked blurry with gray-haired jowls. He burped loudly as he came to rest, barefoot, in the hall.
Amanda sat frozen, perfectly still. The living room drapes were drawn, shadowing them. Merle blinked, wondering if Clifton knew she was here. He called out: “Honey pie, can you make me some flapjacks?” Amanda caught Merle’s eye and shook her head. Her husband turned and disappeared into the back of the house.
Amanda whispered: “You should go now.”
“But the lawyers—”
“I’ll call you when they come over.” She grabbed Merle’s arm. “Go now.”
Merle stood on the stoop. Christmas dinner, she’d forgotten to ask. She turned back to the door but hesitated. Amanda was with Clifton now. Clifton would come to dinner too, that would be understood. Why weren’t they in Florida like last year? And why did Amanda want to hide Merle from Clifton? Was she afraid of him?
She turned back to the street. Pascal sat in the mini-van, watching her. She took a breath, walked down the driveway, and got in. They were silent as he turned the key and drove back toward the expressway.
