The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 57
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“Well, that was no big secret. I’m sorry she was so rude.” Merle stared at the water again, its glitter gone flat in the midday sun. “I can tell you—”
Pascal held up his hand. “C’est privé, I understand.”
He didn’t look upset or angry. Could she still read him? If Merle discussed what Amanda had told her she would have to tell him what Troy said, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She had to find out if he was the French policeman in question.
Tristan had a holiday program at school that afternoon where he dressed as a six-foot-three elf and grinned like a happy maniac. Pascal stayed home and invoked the “Yule Rule:” Ask Me No Questions and I’ll Tell You No Lies. After dinner Merle invoked it herself and shut herself in Harry’s old office. She’d repainted it a sunny gold and put up new photographs of the Dordogne and Tristan. She’d blown up one she loved, the stone house with its blue shutters, the pear tree growing against it, its tiny green fruits like dollops of hope.
She’d cleaned out the desk and found a silk flower arrangement for the corner, claiming it as her own. The file cabinets along the wall were another story. They were full of Harry’s secrets and deals and she had no idea what to do with them. Would they be important someday? Were they just trash? They sat, gathering dust.
At eight o’clock she sat behind the large oak partners desk and made a few notes on a sheet of paper. Then she called Troy Lester. As it rang she asked herself if she really wanted to know this information. Before she could figure that out, he answered.
“Merle. Good to hear from you,” Troy said, seemingly sincere.
“I got your message. And, well, what the hell.”
“Don’t worry about it. They were in and out. We handed over on small file. Not much there.”
“What didn’t you send me last summer?”
He hesitated and she knew she’d guessed correctly. “A few more invoices, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
“You kept copies, I assume. So fax them to me.”
He promised to fax them first thing tomorrow. Then realized the office would be closed. She said, “Just tell me what they said then. And who came from the consulate.”
“All we had were invoices with lists of wines he was importing. The envoy’s name was Girard, I think.”
“What about the policeman? What was his name?”
“Didn’t catch it, sorry.” She asked him to describe the policeman. “Ah, medium to tall. Dark hair. We didn’t chat.”
“Was his name d’Onscon?”
“I don’t remember. Is it important?”
“What did you want with Amanda Wilson?”
“She called you?” He sighed. “The old man’s idea. I didn’t want to upset her but he insisted.” Weston Strachie’s original attorney from the early fifties, Landon McGuinness the Third, was pushing ninety but still went into the office every day, upsetting as many people as possible.
“What do you want with her?” she repeated.
“Weston was her brother. It’s possible he left her something that the French might want to look at. We just need to make sure.”
“Something like what?”
“It’s a wild goose chase. It’s been fifty years, for godssake. Don’t worry about Amanda. We’ll be gentle.”
Merle looked at her palms, still searching for her future. “What about the wine I found in France, Troy? I told you about that. The auction.”
“What about it?”
“Can the French government lay claim to the proceeds somehow? Prove that Weston did something illegal then seize the money?” It made her nauseous to think about it, the legal entanglements if the government of France sued her, and the financial nightmare whether she won or not.
“I don’t see how they could know about that, Merle. Even if they find out, the wine is gone.” He took a drink of something. If Pascal was involved, they did know. Troy continued: “I have a feeling somebody with a lot of pull is behind this. That they’re doing the bidding of some powerful individuals or businesses. Wineries, for instance.”
“So it’s not the government, like a criminal investigation?”
“I’m not getting that sense. Would formal, uptight Republic of France be so casual as to send a low-level diplomat and a scruffy-looking cop? The court order was, well, we could have fought it. But the man is dead. He doesn’t have attorney-client privilege any more and there was next to nothing in the files.” In the background someone began playing the piano and singing started. They listened to the wailing of a Christmas tune. Merle felt cold suddenly, as if the future yawned hollow and threatening.
“When will you be calling on Amanda?”
“McGuinness has it on his agenda for tomorrow. Christmas Eve, can you believe it? I’ll try to stall him but you know how he is. A stubborn old son of a bitch.”
“Fax the documents as soon as possible, Troy.”
Chapter 8
By ten o’clock the next morning— the day before Christmas— the kitchen was a disaster. Flour, icing, six pans, three mixing bowls: apparently it took a village of utensils to make a bûche de noël. If Merle wasn’t so wound up about the possibility of the French government making her pay back the hundreds of thousands of dollars she’d made on the wine she’d found in her house in the Dordogne she would have stopped. As it was, making the mess was therapeutic.
A bûche de noël, a cake shaped like the yule log that once fed every fire in France over the Christmas holidays, was simple in the books. A sheet cake, a ganache, almond icing, chocolate icing, cool it, roll it, slice it, make it look like a piece of a tree. The pictures in the cookbooks were amazing. When Merle found out Pascal was joining them for Christmas she’d decided to make one. She hadn’t thought it would take all day.
She might have also counted on a little help. But Pascal and Tristan had hatched a plan the night before and left early to go back into the city to do what all men do on Christmas Eve: their shopping. Tristan was pink with excitement this morning, bubbling with secrets. Pascal had a good effect on the boy.
Merle looked around her kitchen. She was definitely in avoidance mode. She would do anything, including clean her kitchen when this mad project was done, to avoid talking to Pascal about her suspicions. Last night she went to bed early while the men played video games into the night. She could hear them in Tristan’s room, whooping and hollering. Going to bed early wasn’t like her but there it was, avoidance at its finest. She’d made a long list of everything that needed to be done on Christmas eve. The list now stood at attention, getting splattered with gooey frosting.
With all the parts, cake and its various icings, ready for construction, she washed her hands and took a break. When would the lawyers go to Amanda’s? McGuinness probably needed his afternoon nap. It was now nearly noon but Amanda hadn’t called. Merle poured herself another cup of coffee, dialed the number, and stared out into the backyard dusted with snow.
No one answered. Merle re-dialed but still no answer.
Merle washed two pans and tried again. Same result. She called Troy Lester and got his voicemail. What the hell was happening? Anxiety ratcheting she returned to cooking, removing the sheet cake carefully from the jelly roll pan and slathering on the almond icing. Another long perusal of instructions, a deep breath, and she rolled the log, removing wax paper as she went. Placing it on a large platter she set it in the garage to cool.
She vacuumed and dusted the living room and dining room, consulted with Francie about the cheese and Stasia about the food for the evening. The families always got together on Christmas eve to exchange presents. Merle was determined to keep all the traditions going while they still had kids at home. Francie was still single unbelievably, but said she was bringing a friend. The sisters were intrigued but wary.
Two hours of cake decorating ended with a passable version of a yule log, fork marks indicating bark and green icing holly on the side. Merle quickly cleaned the kitchen and tried Amanda again. This time an answering machine picked up. Clifton’s voice: gruff and unwelcoming. Merle tried to sound pleasant as she asked Amanda to call her about Christmas dinner tomorrow and apologized for the late notice.
At four o’clock on the dot the troops began arriving. Stasia and Rick lived nearby and had so many people and platters of food they brought two cars. Their three kids each had a friend and each carried presents to put under the tree or a plate of picture-perfect hors d’oeuvres. Stasia in casual holiday chic with a green cashmere sweater and velvet pants carried in two gallons of egg nog. Rick managed the box of liquor. The party had officially started.
Arranging the food around the dining table Stasia admired Merle’s bûche de noël. “My god, Merdle. I had no idea you did cake decorating.”
“Me either. I’m exhausted.”
“Speaking of exhaustion where is that French hottie? Don’t tell Rick but—” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ve been having some naughty daydreams.”
Merle laughed. “Bad girl.” She looked around the living room, teenagers draped on chairs, adults gulping egg nog and wine. Annie and Callum had made a surprise appearance and were staying over. Francie was passing cheese samples, still working on her import business idea. Her friend turned out to be a bald, silent man whose name everyone had forgotten. He sat by the fire, sipping wine, looking reasonably content. The only sister missing was Elise who had planned a ski trip this week. Everyone else looked relaxed and happy, merry with food and drink and family.
No Pascal. No Tristan. She looked at her watch: nearly 6 p.m. and full dark outside. Where were they? Merle tried to shrug nonchalantly and say to Stasia: “No idea, chèrie!” But if they didn’t get here soon she would sic the neighbor’s gigantic blow-up Santa on them.
“Wine, Merdle. Lots of it.” Stasia said, grabbing an empty wineglass for each of them. “What’s the holidays without a little over-imbibing?”
Pascal and Tristan blew in, laughing, arms full of packages, a half hour later. Stasia placed a warning hand on Merle’s shoulder, a reminder to smile and enjoy the party. Merle felt her blood pressure rise into her temples and sit there, throbbing. She swallowed the rest of the wine in her glass and went to take their coats.
“Sorry we’re late, Mom,” Tristan said, dropping the shopping bags in the hall. “The train got delayed, then cancelled, then finally the mom-wagon didn’t start.”
“The battery,” Pascal added. “It is a dead duck.”
“Pascal bought a new one from the Triple-A guy.” Tristan looked out into the living room. “Hey, everybody, merry Christmas!” He lunged toward the food, waylaid by his cousin Oliver. A mock punching ensued.
Merle turned back to Pascal. He didn’t even have a winter coat, just the leather jacket. His neck and face were raw with cold, his nose white. “I’m so sorry about the car. Thank you.” She was always so quick to blame him. Why was that? She touched his hand. It was icy. “Can I make you something hot to drink?”
He rubbed his hands together. “If it is very strong, yes, of course.” He pecked her on the cheek then stepped back. “We are all right, with the late? I am sorry.”
She smiled. How could she resist this man? She expelled a breath and told herself to be more trusting, to use her intuition for a damn change. She knew Pascal, in a way that most people don’t know others. She had seen him in action, saving her house, saving her. He was one of the good guys.
But the doubts crept in. What was he doing with the French government? Medium-tall, dark hair: the description from Troy Lester fit him to a T. But was it him? And how long before he filled her in on his real mission in the U.S.?
Callum arrived with a large whisky, thrusting it at Pascal. “Twelve year. Medicinal, you know.”
Pascal took the glass and looked again at her, tipping his head in question. “Okay, chèrie?”
She took his free arm. This wasn’t the time for questions or arguments. It was Christmas Eve and he’d flown across the damn Atlantic to spend it with her and her family.
“You didn’t miss the pièce de resistance.” She led him to the dining room where the bûche de noël had a place of honor in the center of the spread. “Voilà!”
Nearly midnight. Merle wiped down the kitchen counters and filled the dishwasher with the last of the serving plates, taking time to hand wash the silver spoons and forks that she only used at the holidays. They would be needed tomorrow for dinner with her parents. Pascal had insisted on cooking. She had no idea what that would entail and it worried her a little. Harry had never cooked a dish in his life. But Pascal was another animal, wasn’t he?
She gazed into the dark yard. The sliver of moon high, glancing off patches of snow and frozen puddles, light dancing in the breeze. Pascal came up behind her, put his arms around her waist and pressed into her back. She leaned back against his neck and he kissed her ear.
“Stop now, chèrie. It is late.”
“Almost done.” She set a spoon on a dish towel and plunged her hands back in the tepid water.
“That is the motto of life, is it not? Almost done. Any time you choose, there is always that. Almost done, when you want to stop working, stop trying, stop—”
“Breathing?”
He turned her then, not caring that her hands dripped onto the floor, onto their socks, his jeans. He put them around his back and circled her waist with his, drawing her close. “What is this? You are sad tonight?”
“No.” She tried to smile. Was she sad, was she thinking of death, of Harry, of things that were almost done or definitely completely done? She shook her head. It felt like feathers. Too much wine. “Just tired.”
He grabbed a towel and dried her hands. “Then stop.”
“I still have to wrap presents. You too I think.”
“Mine are ready. Under the tree.” He nodded toward the living room. “Take off that apron and come see.”
Most of the presents were gone from under the Christmas tree. They had exchanged gifts, mostly for the kids, earlier. The room was dark, the fire just a few red embers in the grate. The tree was still lit with white lights, a happy shine in a nighttime world, a reminder of the light that would come back when winter was done. Merle had always loved Christmas, the magical tree, the sentimental ornaments collected over the years, the special sparkly things that made her feel young and silly for the way she adored them. Pascal sat her down by the fireplace, facing the tall spruce delivered the week before. Decorating the tree wasn’t as much fun as when Tristan was small but it still had its pleasures. She smiled, watching a glittery ball slowly turn and twinkle.
He stood before her then, with a small red box with a white bow on his open palm. It was square, jewelry-sized. Her heart flipped and she blinked up at him. He wouldn’t. Would he? She didn’t like surprises like that. She wasn’t equipped like Annie or Stasia to act pleased and flattered if she just felt bushwhacked. He wouldn’t do that to her. He knew her.
“For you, chèrie.” He sat down next to her as she took the box. “I wanted to wait until everyone was gone to bed. I thought Annie would stay up all night.”
“You shouldn’t have, Pascal.” Her voice sounded strange, croaky.
“It is not so much. Open it.”
She tore off the paper. Inside was a velvet jeweler’s box. She lifted the lid, a hard knot in her chest. When she saw the pendant, a fleur de lys in amber and amethyst on a gold chain, she let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. A necklace. Not a ring, not ‘so much.’ For a moment she was disappointed. If he had made the decision for them both wouldn’t it be easier? Wouldn’t it make the future certain, make him permanent? She did want a future with him, didn’t she?
The moment passed and she smiled into his doubtful face, making the worry between his eyes go away. “It’s beautiful. Is it from France?”
“Bien sûr.” He waved a hand. “Where else would one find such a lovely?”
“I haven’t wrapped yours yet,” she said, taking the necklace from the box. It was large with lots of gems, a bit showy for her style but she loved it anyway.
“I can wait,” he said. He took the necklace from her and fastened it around her neck, admiring it against her chest. “I couldn’t wait for this, for you to see it, to see it on you. You really like it?”
Then they were standing and she was kissing him, warm inside his arms. “I love it,” she whispered, and meant it, no matter what that little voice in her head was warning.
Chapter 9
Christmas day passed in a pleasant fog. Merle’s parents, Bernadette and Jack, arrived at noon with presents and entertained them with family stories while Pascal rattled and banged through the kitchen, preparing his feast. Merle had gotten the menu out of him and was stunned by his ambition. Five courses, including cheese and dessert. He had somehow procured fresh oysters and smoked salmon and duck and shopped for wine pairings. He showed Tristan how to pry open oysters, how to test to make sure they were fresh and wouldn’t poison you. There were only three cut fingers.
