The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 59
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“You have to get him to retire. That behavior is ridiculous, Troy. It makes you and the firm look unprofessional.”
He shook his head and changed the subject. “The problem is he’s right about the French. The envoy that came to the firm was classic, a powdered bureaucrat who sniffed and looked down his nose at us. Basically told us we were covering up a crime.”
“Were you?”
He stared at his shoes.
“Did McGuinness know what Weston Strachie was up to all those years ago?”
“It’s possible. But they’ll never get anything out of him. I never have.” Troy touched her arm lightly then withdrew his hand as she glared at it. “Merle. I just want to warn you. The guy from the consulate said some heavy-hitters are after something. I don’t know what, but the point is these guys have the French government doing their dirty work. That’s how connected they are.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?” Merle felt her color rise again, the heat of anger, as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “What the fuck, Troy.”
“They brought a French cop. Some special detective, not your run-of-the-mill. They mean business. Don’t discount the French government. McGuinness is right, they are relentless.”
Merle stepped back, disgusted with his obvious fear. The events of the last year had changed her. Made her braver, stronger. Made her acknowledge an inner courage to face the worst, the death of her husband, unwelcome secrets, false accusation, imprisonment. She knew what she could do in the face of a threat but Troy Lester, cosseted and pampered since the day he went off to his Ivy League university, trembled at the very idea of a threat, a nebulous one at that. How had he handled confrontation, the life-blood of law, all these years? With a shiver and a load of flop sweat? A sheen had broken out on his expansive forehead.
She dug her phone out of her pocket. “Wait. I want you to ID somebody.” She scrolled through her Christmas photos until she found one of Pascal serving oysters. “Is this the French cop?”
Troy squinted at her phone. “You know him?”
“Is that the man who came to the firm with the envoy?” she repeated.
“Yes, Merle. That’s the one.”
The screech of the brakes against the rails woke her from the memory, her pulse pounding in her temples. She swallowed hard and got out of the car, hoping the cold air would cool the anger she felt. The train disgorged passengers. There was Pascal, pausing, looking for her. He spotted her and smiled, waving over the heads of the other travelers as he made his way across the parking lot.
“Chèrie,” he whispered, kissing her on both cheeks. “Merci. The train is late again.”
They drove in silence for a mile then Pascal asked, “How was the meeting with the lawyers?”
“Fine. Except they made Amanda cry.” She tried to keep her voice light but her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly they ached.
“She cried?”
“That old man, the lawyer, is the devil. Seriously. He ought to be ashamed of himself.”
Pascal nodded. Merle could see that out of the corner of her eye. He glanced at her then back to the road as she turned off into their neighborhood. He wanted to say more. He wanted to know what went on at the meeting, what juicy secrets had been spilled. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
She felt a well of disappointment rise up in her. A tidal wave like grief, like the end of hope. By the time she pulled into the garage she couldn’t speak. He said something and she pretended not to hear. The crash of waves in her ears was a death.
He had not come back to America to see her, to touch her, to kiss her, to make her French food. He had come back to spy on her, to get information out of her. It was so like before, when he had used her and her rooftop to spy on bad actors in wine country. She’d fallen for it again. She slammed the door to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, mortified by her own stupidity.
In her mind, the old mind that trusted and hoped and dreamed, she moved to France and lived a sunny, warm life with Pascal. Now that it was gone, this dream, she could see it so clearly: sitting in her garden, holding his hand as they sunbathed and drank white wine. Taking the train to Paris together, going to museums, laughing, eating ice cream. Meeting his sisters. Lying in clean white sheets next to him, the golden sun on their naked bodies.
What an idiot.
A knock came on the door. Pascal said, “Is everything all right, chèrie?”
She swallowed hard. “Just a headache. I’m going to lie down for awhile.”
“Feel better, blackbird.”
Chapter 12
The thundercloud rumbled inside her, threatening. Even as she tried to keep her temper, to rationalize his betrayal— that was the way it felt— to see both sides, she lost that battle. Even talking to Annie hadn’t helped. Curled in a ball on her bed she tried not to whimper as she punched in Annie’s number on her cell.
“He’s working here, just as we suspected,” was the way Merle began.
“Pascal? What’s he doing?”
“Investigating Harry’s father, like we thought. Can you believe it? The French government sent Pascal over here to dig up dirt on the poor man.”
“Weston Strachie was a lying, cheating, abusing son of a bitch. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”
Merle told the story of Troy Lester identifying Pascal and Landon McGuinness the Turd scaring Amanda, making her cry, about the “quite horrible” possibilities ahead.
“That’s it?” Annie asked.
“Isn’t that enough? He didn’t come over here to see me. I’m just a convenient extra.”
“Come on, that isn’t true. Besides couldn’t the French government have sent anyone? He isn’t the only one in the wine fraud department. He’s out in the boondocks, not even in Bordeaux or Burgundy.”
“So?”
“So he probably volunteered because you asked him to come for my party. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you, Merle.”
The word ‘love’ wasn’t bantered around much in the Bennett family. It was freighted with anxiety and vulnerability and danger. It played hide-and-seek, never completely visible. Was it a child’s game for the gullible? Or did it really exist? Merle was never farther from that answer than now.
“He’s never said,” she said quietly.
Annie snorted. “Jesus, girl. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
Was it? She had no answer for that. The sunshine of his affection she’d felt that night in the Hilton had clouded over, obscuring everything. “Why didn’t he just tell me about the investigation? It’s my father-in-law he’s after, dead or not. Doesn’t that mean I should get the courtesy of information?”
“He’s a cop. They all play it close to the vest with civilians. You’re on a need to know basis.”
Pascal had kept Merle out of things in France, telling her the facts only when it was absolutely necessary. It hadn’t always worked out well but it wasn’t exactly his fault. But this felt different. He had come here saying all the right things, winding her up, making her— dream. That was just cruel.
After Annie hung up Merle felt worse, churning with doubts about both Pascal’s motives and her own feelings. Did she want him to say he loved her, to put her on the spot, to make everything more difficult from now on? She wasn’t sure she did. She wasn’t sure she could trust him, or her own emotions. It was much easier to just be a lawyer, to be rational, to do things by the books, using those unwritten rules of behavior, no strings attached. The rules smoothed over the awkward bumps of living. Was life supposed to be easy? Wasn’t it just intrinsically hard, all these choices and feelings and changes and tragedies dumped in your lap? If you accepted that would it make coping with all the chaos easier?
She stared at the ceiling and was inclined to hear: No, but maybe it helps.
At nine o’clock Merle washed her face, pinched her cheeks, and brushed her hair. She emerged from her bedroom to the smell of pizza coming up the stairs. She took the steps slowly, still unsure what to say to Pascal but feeling calmer. The little nap had helped. Time to summon the inner lawyer and get the facts.
The living room was quiet. No sound of pinging or shooting from the television in the family room. She wondered where Tristan was then stopped short as the figure of Pascal emerged from the corner of the sofa. He set down a book beside him on the cushion and took off wire-rimmed reading glasses, slipping them into his chest pocket. Merle blinked. Reading glasses?
“Bon soir. Feeling better?” He started to stand but she waved him down then curled into the armchair opposite him.
She nodded. “Much. What are you reading?”
“Un polar. How do you say, a police novel. Mystery in Italy. Not bad. A little silly. It was the only thing in French I could find. Travel is hard for the reader.”
Merle leaned back against the old cushions which felt safe and warm in a cold world. “What’s the plot? Policeman goes undercover to get information out of so-called lover?”
He smiled. “No, he’s got more lovers than brains really—” He stopped mid-sentence as the penny dropped. He stared at her, squinting. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. She felt too tired to fight now. The anger had fled, leaving her empty.
Pascal sat forward, arms on his knees. “Come out with it. Are you upset with me?” She bit her lip, frowning at the cold hearth. Was the fire really gone? She thought she might cry. “I thought you were upset earlier, in the car. Talk to me, Merle. Tell me my mistakes.”
His voice was soft, slightly hurt, which made her anger rise again. What had she done to hurt him? He was the one—
She took a deep breath. No. Rationality, Merdle. Reason. “Did you come to America to investigate Weston Strachie?”
Pascal looked into her eyes then dropped his head. “That’s what you think?”
“The evidence suggests it. You’re working for the French government. You’ve been to the law firm to get documents.”
“I came for you, blackbird.” He met her eyes again, his dark and mysterious in the silent house.
“Just for me?”
“Just for you. I made my air reservation then my superiors in Paris find out. They know I am familiar with the lost wine. I did not tell them about the auction. But they find out.”
Merle swallowed. It was as bad as she suspected. “They want the money.”
“Certainly but how do you say? That ship has sailed.” He moved over to a chair next to her, leaning in. “That is not the issue. It is a winery. One of the big, old Bourgogne estates. They have many tentacles into government, so many friends. When they want something done they just pick up the telephone and—” He snapped his fingers. “Done.”
“But they want the money. They’re going to try to get it back from me.” She was shaking now as the reality of it all hit her: the lawsuit, the college money. She would lose the house. “They will sue me.”
“Sue you? No, no, blackbird. They only want information from you, about Weston. You are his relative. They think he left you something that shows he perpetrated a fraud back fifty years ago.” Pascal took her hand. “Stop the worry now, blackbird. I would not let them do that to you.”
“You have that power?”
“Bien sûr.” Of course.
She smiled despite her shivering. He was so sure of everything. “Bien sûr,” she whispered.
“Do not worry about this, blackbird. I have to jump here and there for the envoy but he is a petit officier. It is only because he is in America he thinks he is a big man.”
“But what— what is this about? What does the winery want?”
He shook his head. He was going to push her aside again, she could tell before he opened his mouth. “Because I am involved, you know there is a scam. La fraude.”
“From fifty years ago?”
“Apparently.” He was rubbing her hands between his, warming them. Distracting her. She stared at him until he looked up.
“This is my family, Pascal. Can I trust you? I need to know, about you and about Weston. Whatever I feel about him he was Tristan’s grandfather. And you— if we have something, or might have something— ” She stumbled to a stop, the words frozen in her mouth.
Pascal frowned. “You can trust me, blackbird. Always. I will not hurt you. But, chèrie, this is just boring government stuff.”
She stood up, pulling him up with her. Stepping over to the sofa she sat again, patting the cushion to indicate his place next to her. “Sit down, Pascal. Tell me everything.”
Chapter 13
Over the next hour Pascal walked her through the evidence suggesting a scam by Weston Strachie many years before. It began with the vintners. Their winery, Domaine Frères Celice, was a venerable estate nearly four-hundred years old, situated in northern Burgundy in an area known as the Golden Slope: Côte d’Or. Within this region was an even smaller one, Côte de Nuits, the home of some of the world’s most expensive land and vines. There, under a limestone ridge facing the sunrise, sits the grand chateau, complete with turrets, and the military-straight rows of grapes of Frères Celice.
The frères, the brothers of old, were long gone. Today four male cousins ran the company. Only one was named Celice but they married well and were wealthy beyond imagining. Their grandfather was one of France’s most important politicians between the wars. He had warned the French about the power of resurgent Germany before the invasion in 1940, when no one listened to him. Grand-père became a hero of the Resistance, saving his famous winery from destruction in the process.
Now the Frères Celice owners, savvy businessmen and friends to presidents and relatives to generals, were incensed. A series of rare bottles of vintages just after the War had surfaced. These Celice bottles had been sold one at a time, at small auctions or private sales. Before these recent sales no bottles had been sold, or even located, for decades. How could this be? The Celice family suspected fraud.
“Because nobody had sold any for years?” Merle asked.
“They keep a very close eye on their stock, new and old,” Pascal said. “Wine business, and wine fraud, is a high priority in France.”
He explained that the family, with the help of the French government, had traced the bottles to New York City. No one had actually seen a bottle though, as they all went to private buyers, some for more than $30,000. It was quite possible, the French thought, that these innocent millionaires had bought something very ordinary, not the extremely expensive and deliciously smooth wine as labelled.
Quel scandale.
“How would that happen?” Merle asked, then remembered the winery where she worked as a guide in the Dordogne. On the off-hours they were filling bottles with cheap wine and slapping fancy labels on them. “Like my friends at Gagillac?”
Pascal nodded. “That is the usual. It is easy now with fancy printers. The labels can be aged in the oven or with a hair dryer. They look authentic in every way. Sometimes they use old paper and glue in case it is analyzed but that is rare. The rich, they don’t care. They drink the wine and toss the bottle away, thinking they are so superior for buying something so expensive.”
“Even the non-rich do that.”
“Most buyers have no idea if a winery even produced wine in the year on the label. It is simple to put one over on them.”
Merle asked, “What does all this have to do with Weston Strachie then? Did he import Frères Celice wine?”
“Not according to his records. But there is some thought that he did, or said he did.”
“Pretended he did then switched it with cheap stuff?”
Pascal glanced at her, his face stony. “Would that surprise you?”
Nothing Weston Strachie had done would surprise her. Not now.
The talk of wine made them thirsty. Pascal found a bottle of champagne someone had brought for Christmas, the good stuff, the Veuve. He had been eyeing it for days. He popped the cork and poured them each a flute. Merle had missed dinner so she put together a salad with goat cheese and they sat in the kitchen. Pascal tipped his head, watching her. She chewed a bite of lettuce and swallowed.
“What?” she asked.
He cast his eyes down. “You said you didn’t trust me.”
She set down her fork. “You make it hard, Pascal. You don’t tell me anything. My mind goes on hyperdrive. I’m back at the window on the second floor, finding your binoculars. Feeling—”
“Betrayed,” he said.
“Like I don’t even know you.”
