The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 72
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Chapter 12
Thursday
Kincardie House
The rain was still coming down in sheets, pounding the roof slates and the hillsides, when the Bennett sisters climbed out of bed the next morning. Merle had finally slipped under the duvet as silver light began to peek over the Highlands, showing the devastation outside, the flooded yard, the huge tree struck by lightning, the roof tiles scattered over the grounds. Disheartened she gave up her vigil. Pascal had taken over the small bed and she wedged herself in next to his warm body, thinking that staying in bed with a Frenchman during rainstorms was never a bad idea.
But he was up early, swearing in French at the scene outside. “Merle! Wake up! The wind must have risen in the night. There are trees and leaves everywhere. Sticks. How do you say— branches.”
Annie arrived then, falling into their room without knocking, blinking hard. On her heels came Elise, looking rosy, then finally Francie, looking green. They all talked at once, exclaiming about the wind that had kept them awake, the power that didn’t work, the water that no longer flowed from the faucets. Merle shooed them all out, telling them to get dressed in something warm and meet downstairs in fifteen minutes for breakfast.
“You have a plan, blackbird?” Pascal asked, smiling. “What is on your list?”
“I don’t have a list,” she protested. “But a plan? We have to get the generator working. And clean up the mess. The staff will need help. Bring the new raincoats.”
Sausages, eggs, and coffee waited on the sideboard as usual. They ate by candlelight in the dim dining room. “Very romantic,” Elise cooed.
“Speaking of, where is the little man?” Francie asked. She looked like hell this morning, her mascara from yesterday smeared on her face and her hair uncombed. At least she’d changed into jeans and a sweater.
“Francie, shhhh.” Elise widened her eyes. “He’s very sensitive.”
“In my experience, Elise,” Francie continued, even louder, “all short men are sensitive about being short. It’s one of those short man things.”
“He didn’t go out in the storm, did he?” Pascal said. He’d wolfed down his breakfast and was on his second cup of coffee, looking no worse for wear. Merle squeezed his knee under the table. He ignored her. “Our little Bruno wouldn’t try to be a hero, would he?”
Elise frowned. “Why would he go outside? Of course not.”
“Still lounging in silk pajamas and smoking jacket then,” Francie said, unwilling to give up the topic.
“For your information he wears nothing to bed.” Elise giggled.
“A charming picture,” Pascal muttered.
“But perhaps too much information,” Annie said. She looked bright-eyed this morning and whatever turmoil she might be feeling didn’t show on her face. Her hair was pulled loosely back and she had put on some makeup, out of character for an old bohemian but she looked pretty. She asked almost casually: “Has anyone seen Callum? I can’t get through on his mobile.”
“Isn’t he back?” Merle asked. Annie hadn’t checked his room yet. “Well, go.”
After Annie’s footsteps on the stairs faded, Merle whispered to Pascal: “I hope everything’s okay there.”
Francie was listening. “What everything? Are Annie and Callum having problems?”
“No,” Merle said. “Of course not.”
“Maybe she’s mourning the death of her singlehood,” Elise said. “She told me to sow as many wild oats as possible. ‘To get while the getting is good,’ unquote. And I always listen to my big sister.” She smiled broadly.
“Loud and proud,” Francie said, rolling her eyes.
Merle shrugged and went back to her sausages. She wasn’t going to discuss Annie’s doubts about getting married, even with her sisters. That was up to Annie.
“Besides she’s not mourning anything,” Francie added. “She told me that he was the man she’d always been waiting for, and she got all dewy-eyed when she said it. Who knew she was such a romantic?”
A shutter clattered against the house then, swinging around and banging into the window opposite the dining table. The sisters jumped in unison then smiled at each other.
“Remember those old novels you gave me, Merle?” Elise said. “What was that one about the girl who was engaged to some weirdo who lived in a creepy old house just like this one? She explores around —”
“Jane Eyre,” said Francie. “Except she wasn’t engaged to Mr. Rochester.”
“Not Jane Eyre. I do remember the classics, Francie,” Elise said. “This one was kind of ridiculous, the ending was beyond silly but I loved it. The hero was all sullen and brooding. It was so dog-eared by the time I got it I figured all of you had memorized it.”
“Most of the gothics had creepy houses,” Merle said, thinking about all the book covers. Usually a girl in a shredded white nightgown was racing up the stone steps, looking back in fright. She couldn’t think which one Elise was talking about. Maybe Merle never got that one back from her. She made a mental note to ask for it. She might need it if— well, if she wanted to read it again.
“This whole week is just like one of those novels,” Elise cried. “Dark nights lit by candles. Brooding servants. Lashing rain. A sinister force causing strange happenings and blood-curdling disasters. I wonder what will happen when the clock strikes twelve.” She made ‘woo-woo’ ghost noises.
“We will all get lunch,” Pascal said. “I hope.”
He stood up. “Now I must do my manly duty and help restore order.” He winked at Merle, grabbed his raincoat, and left.
Elise watched him then collapsed into a deep sigh. “Oh, Merle. You lucky duck.”
Merle frowned. Did Elise have a crush on Pascal? Was her sudden infatuation with Bruno a reaction to Merle’s relationship with Pascal? It was hard to come to a wedding solo. She got that. But why was Elise being so— ?
“What’s happening with you and Andrew these days,” Annie asked Elise. “I was hoping he could come to the wedding.”
Elise dropped her voice. “I told you. It’s not like that.”
“What is it like?” Francie asked, completely focused on baby sister. “He’s just not into you? You told him to fuck off?”
Elise bristled, clanking down her tea cup. “What’s it like with your flavor of the month, Francie? Ross or John or was it Ed? I can’t keep up.”
“Knock it off, you two,” Annie said without much conviction.
Merle stood up. “We need to help clean up from the storm. There’s a closet full of rubber boots in the back hall. You’ll need the tall ones, not whatever you brought. There’s a lake out there in the yard. If you need something look back there. I’ll find some garbage bags for the trash.”
“But it hasn’t stopped raining yet,” Francie protested. As if to emphasize her point the wind contributing a whistling sound, piercing the air like a train signal. “What’s the point?”
“I’m not going outside,” Elise said. “It’s nasty-ville.”
Merle threw her napkin on the table. “Suit yourselves, ladies. Wouldn’t want to break a nail.”
The dim room off the back hall was labeled ‘Boot Room’ to distinguish it from the cloakroom, the gun room, and the hat emporium, Pascal surmised. He pulled on a large pair of black Wellington boots and found two mismatched gloves. With his new mackintosh he felt as waterproof as humanly possible. The hood of the coat even had a little bill to keep the rain from sluicing straight down his face. He congratulated himself again on his purchase and stepped out the back hall door into the maelstrom. He was immediately drenched from a stream of water coming off the roof, landing directly on his head.
He jumped out of its trajectory and landed in a huge lake of muddy water, over a foot deep. It splashed up inside his raincoat and down the rubber boots. He swore, stepped and sloshed up the hill, out of the lake toward the barn. Mud, soggy leaves, and random trash covered the yard. As he reached the old stone structure wooden shakes flew into his face. The barn’s old roof was shedding shingles like dandruff.
More swearing. His right cheek was gashed and bleeding. He ignored it, struggling with the heavy barn doors, swinging one wide enough to step through, and closing it behind him. The barn was far from cozy. Rain streamed through the holes left by the missing shingles. Down one side he saw a row of stalls for animals. On the other side equipment was heaped around a rusty tractor, various motors and unidentifiable parts. He scrounged through them, looking for the generator. But nothing that looked like one came into view.
He sighed, picking up a gas can. Empty. He had flashbacks of the burning barn in Provence last summer. All for a stupid animal. Or a very smart animal, either way, he was still annoyed about the danger the truffle dog had put them in. He replaced the gas can, looking for another. A dusty red plastic one sat in the far corner, also empty.
A noise came from the stalls. He peered into each one, over the high gates. In the first one by the door stood a small white pony, nickering at him.
“Hello there. How are you doing this fine morning?” The horse didn’t even reach his waist. Pascal looked around for something to feed him. A bag of oats sat on a barrel. He used a metal scoop to pour oats into a feedbag hanging inside the gate. The pony almost bit his hand trying to get to them. “Hungry eh?” He patted the coarse mane.
A leak in the roof had made a muddy mess of one corner of the pony’s stall. Pascal considered. Should he move the animal to another stall? The pony seemed dry enough but what if the hole worsened, or the storm worsened? He walked to the back of the barn, looking for sky through the roof. The very last stall was the best, with no obvious roof breach. Pascal pulled open the gate, inspected the hay on the floor, kicked it a few times then forked some over from a dry pile in the neighboring stall. The water trough was full, as if waiting for an inmate.
The pony followed the feedbag hungrily as Pascal carried it from the old stall to the new one. He filled it once more. Did no one feed the poor beast? Patting the little horse he left the barn, emerging back into the littered yard.
Perhaps he should have found someone who worked here before searching for the generator. They probably had it going themselves by now. He enjoyed the drama of this rainstorm but really— enough was enough. His watch said nine o’clock. What was on the wedding agenda today? He had no idea. The ceremony was scheduled for Saturday, two days away. They would have to get busy to clean things up by then. He peered, blinking rainwater out of his eyes, at the sky. Nothing but gray and falling water. At least the wind had died down.
Merle said the chauffeur and sheepherder slept in rooms over the garage. Pascal climbed the outside stairs and knocked on the old wooden door. The rain pelted his back.
He rattled the handle and opened the door a crack. “Hello? Anyone there?” The room, one large space with two beds and dressers at opposite sides, was empty. The place was messy, the beds unmade, mud and shirts on the floor.
Back on the ground he peered into the garage through the side window. No vehicles inside. The chauffeur hadn’t returned with the Rolls Royce. Pascal turned to the gravel park: empty. Callum hadn’t returned either. If they were going to go to town they would have to walk.
Pushing his wet hands into his pockets Pascal walked down the drive to inspect the fallen tree that had taken out the power. It was a large oak, fifty or even a hundred years old or more, he guessed. It lay on its side, wide root structure now vertical. It had grown along the riverbank next to the bridge, spreading graceful limbs over the water. It made a pretty picture. He remembered admiring it when they arrived.
Rounding the smashed leaves and branches that covered the width of the drive and far into the grass lawn, he stopped, confused. Where was the bridge?
He wiped water out of his eyes. The drive ended in a muddy flow, the river rising out of its banks, streaming across the yard, rushing with limbs, shrubs, and debris. The top eight inches of a post from the bridge poked out of the water on this side. On the other side several wooden posts remained on each side, and one plank. Between the posts — nothing but roaring stream. The bridge was gone.
It had been a small wooden bridge with low sides, a single lane. Used just for the family, no doubt old and not built for raging rivers. This narrow watershed wouldn’t even qualify as a river at home, just a stream or whatever they called them in Scotland. He remembered rocks and a shallow flow about ten or twelve feet down. The bridge had only been about twenty feet across, not far. A block of cement sat just above the waterline on the far shore, once underpinning the bridge but now sideways, metal rebar exposed.
He stood staring at the water, as if sheer force of will would make it slow. He wouldn’t need his waterlogged boots to remember Scotland after all.
“Oh, shit.” Merle splashed to a stop next to Pascal. He turned to her, his black raincoat matching her blue one. He had done well, buying her this full-length mackintosh in the right size too, even if she felt like a general in the Russian Army. It was keeping her modestly dry. He was completely drookit, her new favorite word for the effect of Scottish weather, hair plastered to his forehead, raindrops on his eyelashes, lips, nose, and chin just plain wet. She noticed the blood. “You’re hurt.”
He touched the gash with a wet glove and turned back to the river. “The bridge is gone,” he said.
“So I see.”
They stood in silence for at least five minutes, coming to grips with the situation. Merle tried to think in her usual practical way. There was no worry about running out of food in the mansion. They would get the generator going with any luck and be cozy for a day or two until the river went down and they could be rescued. A glitch but nothing serious.
But tomorrow was Friday and two days would make it Saturday, Merle realized with alarm. The wedding day. This wasn’t good. All of Mrs. Logan’s plans, the flowers in the church, the cake, the reception, the band hired for Scottish country dancing, the big dinner at the Hydro Jack and Bernie were throwing for Annie and Callum tomorrow night, the ugly dresses, the honeymoon reservations: the list of botched events went on and on. As if planning a wedding in a foreign country wasn’t difficult enough. Adding a weather bomb to the situation was just the kicker.
“Is it slowing down?” she asked him, blinking at the clouds.
“Not that I can tell.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “The best-laid plans, n’est-ce pas?”
“Annie says she didn’t want a big fancy wedding anyway.” Merle glanced around the yard as he’d done. “Callum didn’t come back last night. He’s on that side.” She gestured at the far side of the flooded riverbank. “Is that some kind of sign? That they aren’t supposed to get married?”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Marriage is overrated, don’t you think? A medieval practice. The French haven’t believed in it for years.”
“Because you don’t believe in divorce. Still Catholic after all that enlightenment crap.” She glanced up. “You got divorced though.”
“I did. Abandonment is frowned upon by the French state.”
“As well it should be.” She snuggled closer. “You definitely got divorced. Right?”
He frowned at her. “What is this? You think I am lying?”
“No, I— that woman, Miss Petrie. The housekeeper. She said she heard you were still married. I didn’t believe her. How would she know?”
He stepped away and swung to face her, angry now. “What are you speaking of? Petrie, the one who drinks whisky for breakfast?”
“Someone must have told her that.” She reached a hand out but he stepped farther away from her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I listened to her. She’s nobody.”
He blinked hard. “This smells of little Bruno. The French love their intrigues. I must find out who he is. He is trying to upset things between us. Why? Do you know why?”
“No. Unless he’s got the hots for me.” She smiled, thinking how ridiculous she must look, stringy hair in her eyes, tight hood on her head. She licked rainwater off her lips. “I do know his last name though.”
The tension eased in Pascal’s face, replaced by determination. The hunt was on, that look told Merle. She needed to assuage his fears, to distract him from his obsession with the man. That was why she’d searched Bruno’s designer coat, after trying unsuccessfully to sneak into his room last night after dinner when he and Elise were missing-in-action. His door was locked. But his black Lemaire coat with the ridiculous batwing cape, left in the downstairs coat closet, had revealed a small sewn-in label: Bruno Nordvilles-Moura, with a telephone number.
“I’ve heard that name,” Pascal said, listening hard in the downpour.
“You think he’s a criminal on the run?”
Pascal smirked and took her arm. “Come. We need hot chocolate or we will drown.”
Chapter 13
Kincardie Hydro
Stasia left the kids with Rick in the café, eating breakfast and moaning about the weather. A rainstorm had to be the worst case scenario when traveling with teenagers. A rainstorm and underage drinking. Rick had confessed that Oliver and Willow had been allowed wine with dinner. One glass? Two, three? she had demanded, incensed that her husband could be so stupid. This would open the door to all sorts of problems back home. She didn’t worry so much about Willow. She was in college and made her own decisions. But from the look of Oliver this morning, dry mouth hanging open, bloodshot eyes, he’d had more than ‘a glass with dinner.’
She would get into that with Rick later. Now she had to round up everyone she was responsible for: her parents, Mrs. Logan, even Hugh and Davina. She’d made a promise to Annie and Callum to keep an eye on the gang over here at the Hydro. Somebody had to be a grownup this week.
The previous evening had been fun for exactly five minutes. Just getting Jack and Bernie into the car, the tense ride in the mud and rain, the color of Jack’s usually rosy, smiling face, the worried look in Bernie’s eyes. They were so tired from the overseas flight. Unusually so, Stasia thought, but what did she know about the effects of jet lag on a 78-year-old body? Bernie said Jack was up in the night, sleepless, his rhythms out of whack. Well, join the party, Stasia thought, rubbing her own tired eyes as she climbed the stairs to their room.
