Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 8
No cottage, the house rose two stories of washed-yellow stone with a tile roof at various angles. Four windows, one extra-wide, faced the street. Only a narrow cement sidewalk with a granite curb separated the living quarters from the cobblestones. The shutters were devoid of paint, a weathered gray, an upstairs one hanging on one hinge. A high wall circled the place, starting at both front corners. The only house on the block with side yards, it was slightly grander than most yet looked abandoned.
The house sat adjacent to the crumbling city wall, six feet high here, eight there. Across most of the street it was lower, knee-high, as if a Nazi Panzer tank had crashed through. Beyond the broken wall the slope fell away into rows of staked vines. Across the swale stone-and-tile houses nestled close to the earth, thick forests darkened the hilltops, more grapes undulated with the curves of the hillsides, marching relentlessly toward wine.
They got out of the car and stretched. Merle had seen a lot of country with Arnaud between Toulouse and Malcouziac, villages along streams and on hilltops, bigger towns with gas stations, supermarkets, and modern buildings, but this land of vineyards and buttery stone was as pretty as it got. Maybe she was already biased toward the village, proprietary in a way. Maybe she was just tired.
“It’s big,” she said, taking off her sunglasses to look at the house. The day was sunny and warm in a way a Connecticut summer so rarely was. Heat reflected off the stone house opposite hers, a tidy, plain house with geraniums in pots. Next door to her house the shutters and door were freshly painted in a glossy royal burgundy. Upstairs music and a lace curtain blew out the open window while at the Strachie’s all was closed and silent.
“So you see, all these shutters are locked,” Arnaud said. He rattled the door shutter, its curved top matching the rock framework. “I can see the padlock there, through the crack.”
As Merle peered through the half-inch space between the shutters the shouting began inside. Through the inner glass she caught a glimpse of movement, a shadow. She looked at Arnaud and raised an eyebrow.
“That is the lady,” he said, sighing. He yelled back at her in French.
“What is she saying?”
“Babble. This is her house. Leave her alone.” He took Merle’s arm and led her back toward the middle of the village. “Perhaps best not to provoke her too much,” he said, though he obviously had. “She has the ear of the village now, some of the old people especially. They had no good to say of her when I first came but now? Suddenly, pfft! She is the poor old lady, the martyr.”
* * *
She heard them again, outside the shutters. Devils, trying to enter her sanctuary. Evil ones.
Sister Evangeline said God would smite them, but He was taking His sweet time. Justine called out with her own curse. Satisfied they had gone, she turned from the dark room back into the sunshine of the garden. Eden, she sometimes called it, it was so lovely. She lived out here in the summer. With the hammock stretched into the corner, the only reason she had to go into the house was to store her meager ration of food and to curse the Devils.
The batteries on the radio seemed to be going out. The music sounded faint. She must ask Sister Evangeline for more batteries. Carefully she picked at the plastic cover on the back of the pink box radio, trying to ease it off with a fingernail. She knew how things worked, she’d been around. This radio had been with her for years, a reliable friend.
The sun beat down on her head. Her grip turned moist with sweat. Her finger slipped, slipped again, and suddenly the radio lay in pieces at the bottom of the wall. No sound came from it — no music — no Piaf — nothing. She stared at the pieces. It was the Devils’ fault.
Evangeline came through the back gate, locking it quickly behind her. Justine became aware of the tears on her face from Evangeline’s shocked look.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fait?”
Justine let the sun dry her cheeks. “Batteries,” she mumbled.
Evangeline frowned at the broken radio. “It’ll need a whole lot more than that.” She took Justine’s hand. “Did you have trouble with it? Don’t worry, dear. Sister will get you another. Sister takes care of her flock.”
The woman’s hand on Justine’s bony shoulder was warm and sticky. Justine didn’t like to be touched. She frowned at the old nun. Sister E was to be tolerated. She was kind, she brought food, and a pretty rose-colored blouse just yesterday. And she kept the Devils away, those who would take Eden away from Justine.
Still, she couldn’t help but step back, away from Sister’s humid grasp. What did the old nun really want, her mind shouted. Why had she showed up here? Who had told her to come, that Justine needed help? Did she hear it directly from above?
“I’ve brought you something,” Sister E said, smiling, holding a paper bag. Her hair made her look like a man, Justine thought, a friar really, with the short, bowl shape. And so gray, very sad. Nuns disliked their hair — why was that? Hair was meant to be adored by all, even God loved hair or he wouldn’t have put so much on the angels. Justine patted her own locks, once famous for blocks and blocks, all the way to the Gironde. She felt pity for Sister’s plainness, her ugly shoes and baggy trousers.
“What?” Justine said.
Sister reached into the bag and pulled out a small bottle of pills from the pharmacy. “Some pills to help you sleep. See? One before bedtime,” the nun said.
“I sleep fine,” Justine said. She eyed the small bottle warily. The Sister was trying to poison her now?
Sister E looked at her, making her squirm. Justine felt like she was under a microscope. “The American is in town. I know how that upsets you,” the nun said. “Just take one at bedtime.”
Justine hesitated then took it.
Sister E smiled. “I’ll clean up the radio. Okay?”
“They were here.”
“Who, dear?”
“The American. I saw her and her trained dog of Hell.”
“Did you speak to them?”
“I called on St. Joseph to curse them for their greed.”
Sister Evangeline paused, a piece of broken pink plastic in her hands. “We use the church for good, Justine. It is up to God to judge, not we humans.”
“But I prayed to St. Joseph to find me a home and he brought me here. So he must curse them.” Justine sat down on the low terrace beside the hydrangea bush. “He must.”
Sister Evangeline laid her hand on Justine’s shoulder again. “You must have faith.”
Justine looked at the bottle of pills in her hand. She wanted to have faith, really she did. But everyone wanted something from her, that was too obvious. Even Sister E. She wanted her to sleep. Why? So she could ransack Eden, steal her belongings? Was she in league with the dogs of Hell?
While Sister E was bent over the pink plastic shards, Justine poured the pills into the watering can. She smiled sweetly at the old nun.
So plain. Such a plain woman. Poor old thing.
* * *
Arnaud stood an inch taller than Merle, with longish dark hair. His olive green summer suit and starched white shirt, immaculate yet casual, set off his deep tan. His Mercedes sedan was equally well-groomed; he had carefully wiped out the leather passenger seat for her. He was well-versed in the twists and tangles of French estate law, and had given her a tutorial on the drive from Toulouse.
Outside the café under an umbrella they drank iced coffee while he smoked and made phone calls. They had an appointment with the mayor in an hour. The stone plaza was large and square, empty except for café tables. Curved arcades ringed three sides for covered market stalls in medieval days and perhaps today. A few tourists rested on benches in midday shade. The village was sleepy, almost deserted at this hour. As they drove up from the south she could see it perched on the side of the hill, surrounded by vineyards, looking like Cinderella’s ruined castle with its crenellated towers and sloping defensive walls.
Merle looked over the notes she’d made in the car. French law was confusing and yet precise. Interesting too, as it reflected a completely different set of values than American law. She'd always thought of the French libertine ways, the keeping of mistresses, the lack of matrimonial rites, as a little too loose and leaning toward men's rights over women's. But now she wasn't sure. Marriage or not, the law was clear. Maybe that was why the ceremonial was deemed unnecessary. Keeping property in the family was valued — one couldn’t cut one’s children out of a will here — it was also excruciatingly complicated. And therefore, expensive. Lawyers like Arnaud did not lack for work.
He would only be here today. She couldn’t expect him to stay and hold her hand. He had found her a small hotel that was stuffy and cramped but would do for the week she planned to stay. Tristan, Stasia, and Oliver would be enjoying their first day in Paris. They'd gone to the airport together but Merle flew alone to Toulouse. By Saturday she hoped to have her business wrapped up and join them. She had debated about bringing Tristan here, showing him his grandparents’ home, giving him a little history. But Paris beckoned. The countryside had no chance.
Arnaud set his phone on the table. “Pardon, madame. Business never stops. You should feel lucky you are not that woman I am speaking with. Her husband had two mistresses over the years, and three other children besides their own. Now that he is dead she must share the family villa with five children.” He held up all fingers of his manicured hand. “And the kids don’t even know each other. Can you imagine the troubles?”
“Will she buy out the children?”
“Possibly. She will try. But as you know, money in hand is not the same as stone walls.”
“Yes, well, there is one more child, as Ramon must have told you.”
He nodded and had the grace not to comment. Merle had tossed the subject around in her mind. She had to tell Courtney, for Sophie's sake. It would be dishonest not to. She would tell her when they sold the house for lots of money. Courtney, who had called once and been given ten minutes to complain, had enough on her plate. She didn’t need these headaches now.
“American law is much different,” Merle said. “You can leave whatever you want to anyone you want. Even leave your house to your cat.”
He laughed and stubbed out his Gauloise. “A cat would be easier to deal with than Justine LaBelle.”
The hotel de ville, city hall, was an unpretentious, tidy stone building, recently scrubbed, with geraniums blooming on the windowsills. The French flag flew over the door.
As Monsieur Rancard introduced them and the clerk went to fetch the mayor, he took Merle aside. “I will speak for you. ”
“But I can speak for myself. I’m prepared,” Merle protested. She had taken several years of French. Awhile back.
“In French?” Now he raised an eyebrow. He said something fast and complicated in his native tongue.
“All right,” she said. “But you must tell me exactly what he says.”
The mayor came through the swinging gate. He was a tall, thin man, with thick gray hair and an imperial manner. His eyebrows were large and wiry, his clothes timeless and elegant. His slender hand was cool to the touch and he did not smile at her. He invited them back into his office, holding the gate for them both. His office was large and sunny with flowering plants on the sills and maps everywhere.
The mayor's name was Michel Redier. He and Arnaud talked in clipped tones to each other, with Arnaud gesturing to Merle passionately. The lawyer’s voice rose as he got shakes of the head from the mayor. Suddenly Arnaud stood and leaned against the desk to get closer to the stony-faced mayor. Merle was impressed but wondered if this was for her benefit alone. The mayor didn’t seem to care. He sat back and crossed his arms.
After ten minutes of this, Arnaud returned to his chair and was silent. Was this a cue for her to speak? The mayor leaned forward and spoke in low tones.
Arnaud listened silently, his eyes narrowed. When the mayor finished Arnaud jumped to his feet, shouted, and stomped out of the office. Merle looked at M. Redier who finally was beginning to smile. She shook his hand and said goodbye.
Outside, Arnaud paced back and forth on the sidewalk, flinging his arms around, talking to himself. Merle waited in a spot of shade by a rose bush that grew out of an impossibly small square of earth by a downspout. Eventually Arnaud ran out of steam and looked at her. “Pauvre con! If he thinks that is common behavior — ” He threw his hands up, disgusted.
“What did he say?”
“Stupid peasant. He thinks you should pay him to evict your squatter!”
Merle thought about that. “How much?”
Arnaud’s face was red. He stuck his neck out. “You will not pay him! It is your house, legally. And that means he is your mayor. The gendarme is your gendarme. What have you been paying taxes for all these years?”
“My husband, you mean.”
“You, your husband — it is your money already paying their salaries. It is bribery, plain and simple. And there are principles at stake. You will not pay him one centime, Madame. Not one franc!” He held up one finger.
“Not one Euro?” she said, smiling.
He waved his hands again. “If he thinks I am so low, so ineffective as to have to bribe village mayors, he does not know who I am — Vous ne savez pas qui je sais, monsieur!”
People looked at him curiously, waving and mumbling to himself, this well-dressed man so obviously from out of town. But they looked at her the same way, with bright-eyed curiosity and whispering. It was a small village; they had probably all heard about the dispute over the house. She smiled at a few old women who looked stunned and scurried away. Across the street she saw a man staring openly at them. As Arnaud calmed down, the man, an elderly fellow in a blue jumpsuit and black beret, came toward them.
“Monsieur Rancard, bonjour encore!”
The attorney looked up, still frowning. He gave the old man a nod. “Pére Albert.” The old man looked at Merle expectantly. “Oh, yes, this is one of your neighbors. Father Albert from across the alley.”
The old man had a round face and a double chin, with black eyes and a near-constant smile. He asked her to call him Albert as he was no longer a priest. She smiled at his jowly, pleasant face. After all she had heard about French formality these two men didn’t fit that mold.
“How did it go with the mayor?” he said in heavily-accented English.
“Not well, I take it,” Merle said. “You speak English.”
“He is a buffoon, this mayor,” Arnaud grumbled. He shot Merle a look as if to say, don’t repeat that. “Are elections due soon?” He laughed nervously.
“I’m afraid he was reelected in the autumn,” Albert said. “And you know the gendarme too? His nephew?”
Arnaud burst into another string of expletives. “Conspiracy of dunces! Idiots!” He suddenly looked at his watch and said in a normal voice, “I must go, Madame. I have business in Cahors very soon. You will excuse me?”
“I’ll speak to you tomorrow?”
“Mais oui. I will call your hotel in the morning.” He hurried off toward his car. Merle suddenly felt the weight of the trip, all the plans and airplanes and time zones, crash in on her. Without Arnaud the likelihood of getting anything accomplished here seemed hopeless. Maybe even with Arnaud.
The old man was still at her side. “A coffee, madame?” he said, indicating tables outside a tobacco store, le tabac. A ten-hour nap was what she really wanted but a chat with the old priest might glean some information. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to have friends here, especially English-speaking ones. She sat in a small wooden chair while he went inside to order. He bounced back across the terrace and sat at the round table graced with a dirty ashtray.
“You have a long trip, madame,” he said, seeing her stifle a yawn.
“Yes, sorry. A very long day.”
A young woman brought out two small espressos on saucers with lumps of sugar on the side. She took a long look at Merle then went inside.
“Does everyone know who I am?” Merle asked.
The priest shrugged. “It is a small town.”
“And they’re all related, like the mayor and policeman?”
“Oh, no,” he laughed. “But they all talk. There is not much else to do.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“As a child, yes, then I went away to school, to the church. I only moved back two years ago, when I retired. I live behind your house,” he added.
“And what do you see going on over at my house?”
He leaned in, over his coffee. “I only see a little from my upper window. The old woman with the orange hair, she lives on the grounds, inside and in the garden.”
“Who is she, this Justine LaBelle?”
“Ah, you know her name. She was living there when I arrived. I see in the village sometimes. Not often.”
“She’s not friendly?”
He shook his head. “I do not believe she has friends in the village.”
“Arnaud told me that she was being protected by a nun, and some of the older people in town.”
“The nun, yes. She arrives last week. Calls herself Sister Evangeline but she does not dress like a member of an order.”
“What does she want?”
“To help Madame LaBelle. Who plainly needs help, poor woman.”
“Is she unbalanced?”
Albert sighed. “She is old, and clearly had a difficult life.”
“What did she do?”
Another shrug. “I think she has no family. So I am glad that the nun has come to help her because Madame LaBelle seems to accept her. She has given her the key to the gate so she can come and go. She comes bringing the food and the clothing.”
“Maybe the sister will take her back to the convent.”
“Peut-être. Maybe.”
“Do you think this Sister Evangeline will talk to me?”
“Perhaps. If you can catch her.”
“Would you help me set up a meeting with her? I would be so grateful, Père Albert.”
“Just Albert, please.” He drained his cup. “I will try, madame. I will try.”
A group of young men burst out of the tabac in soccer shirts and baggy pants. They smoked cigarettes; one had a beer bottle. They stopped laughing and stared at Albert and Merle. Albert looked away, ignoring them. A cocky, short-haired one called, “Vous êtes le Merle?”
