The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 61
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Pascal retreated to the sitting room and eased into an armchair by a window. He listened to a frantic message from Antoine Girard, wondering where he was and what had happened to Mateo. He deleted it. If Girard was so worried he could have picked up the beast himself. He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. He hoped he didn’t have to eat lunch with Le Coquin. The thought of it turned his stomach. Maybe he would go after all.
Another message was more informative. His superior at the Police Nationale had discovered that Abel Clement, the name sometimes used at wine auctions, was a pseudonym for Denis Toulemonde, a French national living in New York. Toulemonde was a wine consultant for rich players and his number was unavailable. But he was also, the Capitan exclaimed, a certain nightclub singer who parodied female jazz singers.
The bathroom door opened with a crash. Mateo emerged, damp, hair toweled and uncombed, but looking better. His face had color again. He wore jeans, high-top basketball shoes, and a fashionable suede jacket that would not keep him warm. He glanced at Pascal while putting on an expensive-looking gold watch.
“Ah, Pascal, is it?” He began pawing through his clothes again, looking for something. “Call me a cab. I have a lunch appointment with a special lady. She may not wait for me, you know?”
“I heard you singing Blossom Dearie, am I right?” Pascal asked, ignoring the order. It was the same song the drag queen had sung, well-known in France among jazz aficionados.
“Was I? The taxi. S’il vous plaît,” he added bitterly, as if asking the help twice repulsed him.
“If Napoleon at Waterloo la la. . .” Pascal made himself actually sing. In a falsetto. He hoped there were no hidden cameras.
Mateo grinned, amused. “Had an army of debutantes. . .” He swung his hips like a schoolgirl. “To give those British the ooh-la-la.”
Pascal watched Leblond make an idiot of himself. The more he played babysitter the more he’d get to see this. But he made himself say the words flat and tunelessly: “He’d have changed the history of France.”
Mateo let out a gust of a laugh. “Too bad Bonaparte was such a stick, eh?”
“Have you ever seen that man who plays a woman— what’s her stage name? The one who sings the Blossom songs? She does that one.”
Mateo straightened, focusing on Pascal now, giving him a good look up and down. “You’re a fan then? I should have guessed. Those boots.” He shuddered dramatically.
Pascal tried not to smile at the jibe. “I’m trying to find her other persona, the wine consultant. For our investigation into your family’s suspect vintages, the reason both of us are here in New York.” Pascal waited for him to acknowledge his mission. It didn’t happen. “Monsieur Leblond, do you know Denis Toulemonde?”
Mateo hesitated a second too long. “Who’s that?”
“The singer in real life. The wine consultant.”
“Quoi? What?” Now he appeared genuinely confused.
“You didn’t know? The drag queen’s real name is Denis Toulemonde.”
A creeping redness appeared at his collar. He glanced back into his pile of clothing. “I have no idea who you discuss.”
“The Police Nationale believe Toulemonde is connected to the fraudulent vintages your estate is so eager to discover. And you know him, don’t you?”
Mateo found the Rémy Martin, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and growled, “Did you call for that taxi?”
Chapter 17
The Soho restaurant was French, of course. Tucked into a side street she’d never seen before, Merle stepped inside and stopped as the familiar scents of French cuisine hit her like ocean waves: garlic, bread, rich sauce, grilled meat, mushrooms, lemon, chocolate. Somehow they mingled, tantalizing, marching together into her psyche to send her back to the countryside. She closed her eyes for a second to picture Les Saveurs, her favorite restaurant in Malcouziac, in all its duck fat glory.
The holiday season and all sorts of work-related business luncheons had prevented her from actually going on a date for months. A date: that was a funny word at her age.
Then there he was. Pascal stood at a table, wearing the same striped shirt from this morning, waving his napkin at her. The hostess saw him too and led her through the white tablecloths and clinking flatware. He kissed her on both cheeks and a third for luck, pulled out her chair, took her coat, and settled her in. It felt good. His manners, after the embarrassing months going out with ridiculous James, made her feel safe and respected. If that’s what manners were for, there should be classes.
He looked different. It was that he was smiling, really smiling, looking around the big room with its crowded tables and bustling wait staff, chest out, enjoying it all.
“It’s very French,” Merle said, putting her napkin in her lap as the waiter poured water into goblets.
“I’ve ordered the wine,” Pascal said. “They have a nice list.”
It appeared just like that, a bottle of red, a Château Margaux, on the arm of a young hipster in a white jacket. “Are we celebrating?” she asked. That wine was expensive, no matter what year.
He squeezed her hand, silent until the sommelier had finished pouring their glasses and vanished. He picked up his glass, looked in her eyes, and said a simple “Santé.” Their glasses clinked.
“Mmmm. Very good.” Merle set her glass down. “What’s going on?”
“First we order.” Heads together, they discussed the menu, talking up the merits of duck confit or warm goat cheese salad, chicken pailliard or foie gras. It all sounded good so they ordered too much, happy with their extravagance.
“All right, we’ve ordered.” Merle turned to him as he refilled her wine glass.
He looked at her expectant face. “I have had a break in the case.” She smiled and waved him on. “I— we— have discovered the real name of this singer, Bosom Drearie.”
Merle squinted. How did the singer figure into his work? She still didn’t know. “Didn’t you know it before?”
“The man tries very hard to keep his identities separate, as you might guess.”
“What is his other identity?”
“He is a wine consultant. He arranges the buying and selling of vintages for rich clients, he buys wine for them at auction, a finder if you will. If you are a millionaire you can trust the housekeeper to buy the groceries but not stock the cellar. For that you need a consultant.”
“And these clients don’t know that he’s a drag queen on the side?”
“Absolutely not. Mon Dieu.”
They paused as the mousse arrived and was tasted. Then Merle squeezed his knee. “Continuez, s’il vous plaît.”
“My superiors were aware that the singer Bosom Drearie knew how to contact the wine consultant whose name was Abel Clement. That is why we went to the nightclub, to speak to the performer. The boss didn’t know Clement was actually Toulemonde.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“First because of the difficulty finding phone numbers for the singer or Clement. Abel Clement dealt with the auction houses but left no number. That seemed strange. Why would a wine consultant be so private? Doesn’t he want business? Is he a secret criminal? Why would he not give his phone number to the auction houses he deals with? Why are all his rich clients sworn to secrecy?”
“Because he’s notoriously private.”
“Exactly. But why? I was able to track down photographs of both Abel Clement and Bosom Drearie. I had my superiors run the photos through face recognition software. An exact match, despite the wig and lipstick. But no Abel Clement anywhere. Then just today they were able to prove that Abel Clement is a fake name for Denis Toulemonde.”
“Is he a secret criminal?”
“That remains to be seen. No outstanding warrants.”
“So you’ve put them together. Is this the break, figuring out the two identities?”
“Ah, no, madame.” He smiled mischievously. “There is more.”
Over dinner he told her about Mateo Leblond, today’s airport pickup and French playboy. Merle had never thought much about the word, playboy, beyond the Hugh Hefner references. But a man who is still a feckless boy, who does not work but still plays: that was the way Pascal said it with a curl to his lip. Zee Play Boy. It sounded like a children’s toy. He also called Leblond an idiot, a rascal, a rogue, and a waste of space. He sounded delightful.
But he wound up being accidentally useful.
“The family, the Frères Celice, sent him over to keep the investigation alive. They thought, rightly, that it was going nowhere. Mateo’s father, Florentin, is just like him, a fat bully, but he is into the French aristocracy up to their eyebrows. He knows everyone, everyone owes him or wants to. He suffers no fools, except his oldest son Mateo. He has a blind spot there.”
“So he’s not all bad,” Merle said.
“Just typique, the rich who get whatever they want.”
“Back up now. Mateo helped you?”
Pascal told her he heard Mateo singing ‘Give Him the Ooh-la-la’ and asked him about the drag queen. When he mentioned Denis Toulemonde though it was obvious he was one of those left in the dark about the weekend action in sequins. But he knew Denis, that was the most important part. He probably had his phone number.
It took Pascal all afternoon, sitting in Antoine Girard’s outer office, to get someone in the Frères Celice family to give authority to extract Mateo’s contact list off his cell phone. Pascal had guessed correctly that it was a company phone. They finally agreed but wouldn’t give him all of it. The French are privacy freaks. But all Pascal needed was one number. Finally the cousin in charge of the business side of the winery— and most disgusted with Mateo for his extravagances— gave the okay.
It only took the directeur général of the Police Nationale to call, that’s all.
“Wow,” Merle said, eyes wide. “You have friends in high places.”
“It wasn’t me,” Pascal said. “The French ambassador in Washington called him. They are old school chums.”
“Of course.”
“With Florentin Leblond, I mean, the rascal’s father. No one wanted to poke that sleeping giant so they worked around him. I don’t care how they did it. I have a phone number now.”
“Have you called him?”
He nodded. “We have an appointment tomorrow.”
“What will you do?”
“Gently ask him if he is a wine scammer.” He grinned and plunged a spoon into a chocolat pot de crème.
As they left the restaurant Merle took his arm and whispered, “We’re only a few blocks from that nightclub.”
Pascal smiled. “You want to see the lovely Miss Drearie again, don’t you? You’re into that Ooh-la-la.”
“Let’s just walk over there. Francie wants his— her number or manager’s name or something, for the breast cancer benefit.”
Pascal was reluctant. He didn’t want to do anything that would scare off Denis Toulemonde tomorrow. Recognizing him from the nightclub would qualify. But they walked over the five blocks, Merle promising they wouldn’t go in. The building was dark again, quiet. Upstairs the windows were still boarded up. The block had a sad, abandoned feel.
“You stay here,” she said, patting his arm. “I’m not going in. I just want a business card from the doorman.”
Pascal backed into the shadows to watch as she stepped down to the lower level and rang the bell. She waited, shoulders back in her wool coat, purse over her arm like a matron. She rang the bell again then put her ear up to the door.
In a minute she returned to the sidewalk. “Deserted.” They walked back to a busy street, looking for a taxi. “What is the rascal doing tonight?” she asked.
“Le Coquin? I can only imagine.”
Chapter 18
At exactly 8:13 the next morning both the phone in Merle’s kitchen and her cell phone still in her bag from last night rang simultaneously. She had a cup of coffee halfway to her lips and a man at her kitchen table looking rumpled and sexy. He looked up.
“Want me to get that?” Pascal asked.
She set down her cup and dug her cell phone out of her purse. “The thing will pick up— the answer machine.” If in doubt go with the cell phone first. That was her brand new motto.
It was Francie. “Have you seen it? On Page Six?”
“Of the Times?”
“No, silly, the Post. Page Six is online now. Turn on your computer. Call me when you see it.” She hung up.
“What is it?” Pascal asked, those worry lines between his brows.
“Something in the paper. Come on.” She waved him upstairs to Harry’s office and turned on the computer.
“Probably Le Coquin. They’ll be calling me next. I think I’ll turn off my phone.”
“Were you supposed to escort him around?”
“That wasn’t happening,” he growled as they watched the website pop up. “What is it? Who’s that?”
Some Kardashian. “Never mind.” She scrolled down the photographs. Six photos down, there it was, a blurry nightclub shot of, without a doubt, Bosom Drearie. She wore the same pink sequin dress and whipped topping wig. And who was she squeezing?
Pascal groaned. “How does he manage it?”
Merle leaned closer. “Who is that? The rascal?”
“Unfortunately. He has found his special friend.”
“Where was this? How did he find her?”
“Maybe they send out a blast to everyone who signs up. Like a flash mob.”
“Do you think Mateo told her, told Denis Toulemonde, about you?”
He frowned deeper, thinking. “It’s possible. But until yesterday he didn’t know they were the same person. I suppose I shouldn’t have told him.”
Mateo looked flushed, pink and shiny with sweat. He held a vodka bottle by the neck. The caption said they were on Coney Island where an abandoned roller rink had been converted into a dance club for the night. A promoter known only as ‘AgentSecret’ was quoted as saying it was just the first of many exciting pop-up clubs planned.
Merle clicked off the screen. “Wouldn’t it be a breach of protocol to mention Miss Drearie’s other persona to her face?”
Pascal mulled that as they went back to the kitchen. “Can you take me to the train again?”
“I’m going in to work this afternoon. Can you wait for the ten o’clock train? I’ll go with you.”
As Merle dressed she called Francie back. “Sorry, I couldn’t get her number. I went by the nightclub last night.”
“And she obviously was on Coney Island.” She sighed. “Keep trying, okay? See you at the skating party tonight.”
Merle hung up, a bit startled that she’d forgotten about the skating party. Where was her inner calendar? Pascal had wiped it. Her family had a tradition of ice skating between Christmas and New Years, with plenty of cocoa for the children and other beverages for the adults. If the weather cooperated Stasia and Rick flooded their huge yard and decorated it with lights. It was always magical. This year was plenty cold enough.
Back in the kitchen she punched the blinking light on the answering machine, a relic from the olden days that Tristan mocked constantly. Aunt Amanda’s voice sputtered and began.
“Merle? Are you there? Sorry to call so early, you’re probably still in bed. Clifton came back last night. No need to worry any more. He was just out returning some gifts. Everything’s fine! Bye-bye.”
What was that about? Amanda sounded weirdly chirpy after her agonizing distress of yesterday. Well, it was good that she had Clifton back. Whatever he was up to, at least they had each other.
Pascal stood in the doorway, fixing his new scarf around his neck. His hair was still damp, curling over his collar and dripping onto his eyelashes. Merle picked up her briefcase from a chair and felt a rush of affection. It was surreal somehow, that he stood in her kitchen, this man, this Frenchman. Companionship was not to be overrated, not at any age. She was fifty already, somehow. He would be fifty one day too. Would they still have each other then?
