The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 83
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“You aren’t the killin’ sort of girl, Jinty. Anyone can see that.” Ms. Barra found her nice face at last, all sympathy. Her voice too. “Why are you willing to spend years in jail for someone else?”
“But it was all an accident,” Jinty blurted. “I pushed her, she fell. What happened in the puddle isn’t my fault.”
“No, because you didn’t push her, isn’t that right? You left her at the pasture gate. Just like everyone else. You didn’t even see Vanora Petrie after that, did you? You looked for her, you were concerned. Both you and the cook wee worried about her. But you didn’t find her, did you? You were tucked up in bed like the good girl you are.”
Jinty felt the heat in her face like a flare of sunshine. Was she a good girl? No, she wasn’t good, she was horrid. And she was a woman, almost as old as her attorney, for sure. They could be friends, schoolmates. She searched Glynn’s face for something— recognition, salvation, understanding.
“You didn’t push her, Jinty,” Glynn whispered. She held out her hand. “Just squeeze my hand and I’ll know.”
Chapter 30
Tuesday
France
Merle opened her eyes, blinking against the sunrise coming through the dusty panes. Where was she? Her mind grasped, foggy. Home? The stone house in the Dordogne? Scotland?
The rustling next to her sent a shock wave through her and she startled. Then the snoring resumed, soft like a puppy. There was Pascal’s shoulder, bare, a little hairy, and pale above the tan line on his bicep.
She let out her breath, relaxing as it all came back. She was in Pascal’s small cottage, high on a hill in an extinct village. A hamlet, he called it, but his house appeared to be the only inhabitable dwelling, a wooden farmhouse from before the war. An ancient sink on legs, crumbling plaster, windows that leaked, walls gray with age. He’d done little to it, he said, and she believed him. It was rustic, authentic, and gorgeous. Not unlike its owner.
She sat up, glancing back at him, sleeping soundly. Outside birds twittered in the gnarled fruit trees. Yes, a person could definitely sleep here. It was so peaceful. Pascal said he liked the location because he could see in every direction in case someone was trying to sneak up on him.
She lay back down and pulled the quilt over her shoulders. What had come over her? She wasn’t usually this spontaneous. Francie had pushed her into it, told her she wasn’t needed nor indispensable. Told her to go have a fling. Flying to Toulouse with a few hours notice, leaving Pascal a text message to meet her at the airport. It shouldn’t have worked. The flight should have been too expensive. He should have been too busy to meet her, working somewhere. But it went off like she’d planned it for months.
And maybe, she thought staring at the pink blossoms of the cherry tree as they drifted to the ground, she had planned it. Somewhere in her turtle brain, the place where she put things out of sight so they won’t interfere with what’s front and center, there had been a plan.
Somewhere behind the chaotic nonsense of everyday life. In a heavy steamer trunk, under a moth-eaten mattress, behind a broken mirror, things percolated into dreams. In this dream/plan she ran away from her New York City busy-ness, away from her big Connecticut house with its dreary corners and heavy drapes, from her pool guy and her lawn service and her junker of a minivan, away from the struggles to maintain dignity and probity, long after anyone cared. The life where she fixed her makeup in the cramped train restroom that smelled of urine, where she shoveled snow in winter and struggled to balance her checkbook alone in the cold, dark kitchen.
In this dream she no longer had to wear heels or power suits or leave her son on his own in the evenings while she picked at exotic food with people she despised, all in the name of ‘development’ of relationships with high-powered lawyers who were as two-faced as that lawyer joke everyone was always telling her: “How do you know if a lawyer is lying? His lips are moving.”
She knew when the dream began. She just hadn’t realized it. A couple weeks before the trip to Scotland for the Wedding That Would Not Behave, Merle and her boss at Legal Aid, Lillian Wachowski, took five male partners of a hyper-competitive, all-Harvard firm out to dinner at Per Se. Lillian said it had to be a top restaurant or they wouldn’t bother. They needed these high-powered types to give money to Legal Aid, to donate their time for pro bono work. They had to be as nice and as generous as they hoped the law partners would be.
Somehow Lillian got a reservation for the five lawyers and the two of them. Merle usually tried to get at least one female partner to attend, but it hadn’t worked out tonight. She sat in the middle of this crowd of suits, boxed in, while Lillian sat at the head of the table.
The men ordered lavishly— champagne, six bottles of wine, seven courses over four hours— as only high-flyers on someone else’s dime will do. Lillian, who was ten years older than Merle but sharp and relentless in every way, began to fade around the fifth course. She told them to have a great time and that Merle would pick up the tab, then slipped away to her nice warm bed on the Upper East side. (Lillian’s husband had made a fortune in the ‘80s on Wall Street and hadn’t worked a day since, unless watching your stocks was a job.)
Despite having to cab to Grand Central, catch the last train, and drive home to catch a few winks before making the reverse trip at dawn, Merle had to stay at the table. She clenched her jaw, sighed inaudibly, and told herself she’d done it before. She’d paced herself with the alcohol but the partner sitting next to her hadn’t. A burly man whose good haircut couldn’t quite disguise his lack of manners, he kept throwing his arm around her shoulders and grinning down her dress. She would wriggle away and he would do it again. She made a point of checking her watch every ten minutes but nobody got the hint.
Finally the restaurant had cleared out except for the six of them. She kept her cool, found the maître d’ to pay for the meal. Please add the appropriate service charge and call me a cab, she told the discreet young man. Then she found her coat and returned to the table.
The partners were stretched back in their chairs, legs splayed, ties loosened, faces rosy, sated on fine wine and gourmet food. A couple of them looked pretty rough, including ‘Handy Dan,’ her seat mate, Dan McCoy. Somehow he lurched to his feet when she announced she had to catch a train.
“It’s your lucky day! The LB is right downstairs,” Dan crowed.
“Ah, the Luxury Barge,” another partner explained.
“The stories that back seat could tell,” someone cackled.
Laughter, then someone must have seen her confusion. “His Bentley Mulsanne. How many are there, Dan?”
“Just a handful. Not many can afford them,” Dan declared proudly. “Like riding on a cloud. My driver will take you to the station,” he said, pulling out his phone.
Merle told him no. He insisted. She resisted. He insisted more. The back and forth with a man who rarely heard ‘no.’ Amusing if it wasn’t so annoying. The youngest partner, possibly sober, was watching all this.
“Kindly ask Dan to cease and desist,” she said loudly.
“He’s just being a gentleman, Merle,” said the young lawyer whose name was Mick or something. She squinted at him. “He’s worried about your safety.”
“I called a cab.”
“Then let me walk you down. Please,” said McCoy who was getting squishy around the eyes now. He was the type of man who would hate her in the morning, no matter what happened tonight. She knew the type, and more besides.
“All right. You come too,” she said, pointing at Mick. She had to get out of here. “I’ve got fifteen minutes to get my train.”
She allowed Dan to take her elbow and point her into the elevator, as if she, not he, needed navigational guidance. He kept it there, massaging her arm, as they silently descended to Columbus Circle. He tried to get her into his car again on the sidewalk. Was she going to have to fight him off? She pulled her arm away, trying to keep her anger in check. Mick finally put his hand on Dan’s shoulder.
“She’s got this,” Mick said. “Let’s go back up and have a cognac.”
She found out the next day that the two partners were locked out of the elevator because of the late hour. No cognac after all, such a shame. Lillian didn’t ask what time the party broke up. She didn’t want to know.
The firm made a generous donation to the pro bono fund, and pledged hundreds of hours by their very junior people to help in Legal Aid cases. Lillian was pleased. She bought Merle flowers.
Later Francie had been green with envy that Merle had dined at such a magnificent food palace as Per Se. She wanted to know all the details. Merle couldn’t remember one dish. Only the encounter with a slime-ball.
But last night, in a small village bistro in the outskirts of Toulouse, she ate the most amazing foie gras, and lamb shanks in orange, and a chocolate soufflé. She held Pascal’s hand as they shared airy morsels of deliciousness.
She would never forget that meal.
Pascal rolled toward her and draped his arm over her. She entwined her fingers with his and felt a deep calm. New York City was so far away. Could it stay that way? No, no thinking like that. Stay here. In the moment.
He moved against her. “Shall I make coffee first?”
“Yes, please.”
Within an hour they had coffee, got dressed, and he had vanished in his old green BMW, off to meet his team in some Mediterranean village. He apologized, and kissed her plenty, but had to go. They didn’t make it back to bed.
She nestled into an outdoor chair, a weather-beaten thing with no paint. Pulling a blanket off the bed she wrapped herself in it for protection from splinters, and sat in the shade, drinking coffee and watching birds in the garden and bees in the fruit trees. Once or twice (or a few times) she found herself making lists of what she could do today, then she pushed the thoughts away as treason. She wasn’t a list-maker in France. She was a dreamer.
She looked for her cell phone. She’d left it inside. What was Annie doing today? She’d never gotten to talk to her about Callum again. His last answer— that happy smile— seemed like a good sign. But with Annie, who knew. Could she call Francie? Or Stasia? Would they know?
Thoughts of her sisters passed through her mind like embers from a dying fire. Together the five of them were like a small bonfire: feeding off each other’s energy, burning bright, a center of energy. Now, apart, the coals were stirred and fire died down. Where was Elise, her mind asked, unwilling to let the heat go. Was that little twerp doing something bad to her? Was he stealing her money?
The sun moved and lit her face. Enough. Today is just today.
Pascal returned at seven that evening, carrying bags of food. All cooked and prepped, he said as if she had expected him to cook for her, or vice versa. His presence, his arrival like this at the end of the day, returning to her, was the fulfillment of a silent promise. He would not forget to come back to her. He would not be too busy to remember. He spread the feast on the outdoor table: a seafood pot au feu, a baguette, haricots verts, a tart. And wine, a chilled rosé he remembered she liked.
He looked like his day hadn’t gone as well as hers. The skin around his eyes was puffy and in the late sun she saw strands of gray in his hair. He looked tired. She felt guilty for her long afternoon nap. She had spoken to no one, done nothing but read a novel, sleep, and walk around the orchard that surrounded the cottage. Visit the goats over the fence, pick wildflowers, sniff blossoms.
“You look rested,” he said, smiling.
“I did nothing today. Zilch. Just like old times.” In the Dordogne they had practiced doing nothing, a venerable French tradition according to Pascal, that involved wine, food, occasional coffee, occasional sex, and the gentle buzz of bees in flowers. Nothing more.
“Including— ?” He pointed to her t-shirt and mimed taking it off. “Au naturel?”
They had done some nearly-naked sunbathing in the walled garden. “I was waiting for you for that.” She checked the cloudless sky. “It looks like we’ll get another beautiful day.”
He grinned but tweaked his shoulders as if they ached. “There is a new task. In the Languedoc. I am sorry.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Oui.”
She waved a piece of bread. “You told me you had to work. Don’t worry about me.”
“But I asked you to come to France and now— what will you do? I may be gone two or three days.”
A buzzing in her ears reminded Merle she didn’t do well without a plan, a list, a bunch of chores at minimum. For one day, sure, she could dream. Then she needed to be busy like some people needed to breathe. She frowned at the remains of her lovely dinner. What would she eat while he was gone? There was an old bicycle here but no car for her. How far was the village store, the café?
His eyebrows were scrunched with worry. So she smiled. “What’s around here then? Is the village nearby?”
“A kilometer, down the hill. Not far. There’s not much there, I’m afraid.” He ducked his head, checking her eyes. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? Maybe come with me?” She could imagine the welcome she’d get from officers in an undercover situation, or whatever their ‘task’ was.
“I’ll be fine. I have two novels to read. If I get lonely I’ll talk to those cute goats next door.”
He perked up. “Ah. Did you meet Irene? She tends the goats and makes the cheese?”
“She makes goat cheese right there?” Merle loved goat cheese.
“Ah, oui. It is very intriguing. And not stinky, I promise.” He stood up. “Come. We will go meet Irene.”
The cottage where Irene lived was hidden around the knob of the hill and down a lane lined with flowering trees in pink and white. Apples and plums, he said, as she exclaimed at their beauty, walking hand-in-hand down the drive. The evening was warm, the sky was turning golden, blushing like a baby.
Irene was making dinner when they arrived at the low stucco house with at the orange tile roof, a classic French farmhouse with a sagging, low porch across the front. Pots of red geraniums sat on the steps. The smell of garlic exploded as her daughter, Louise, answered the door. She was petite, about 20, with long, brown hair and a shy demeanor. She ran quickly for her mother.
“She must be home from university,” Pascal whispered. “I’ve only seen her once or twice in many years here.”
Irene emerged, smiling broadly at Pascal and wiping her hands on her apron as she greeted them with standard cheek kisses. He introduced Merle. The short, plump woman had a wide face and short blonde hair that ringed her head like a crown. She wore a plain blue dress and muddy rubber boots that seemed out of place in a kitchen. Her hands looked strong and capable. She threw them up and exclaimed in rapid French to Pascal, something along the lines of long-time-no-see.
Then she rattled off something to Merle. She blinked, hoping Irene spoke a little bit of English.
“Merle est un américaine, madame,” Pascal explained. “Elle ne parle pas trop de français.”
“Un peut,” Merle said, wincing. She spoke a little French but not fast enough. A pity. “C’est dommage.”
Irene paid no attention to all that, smiling in a friendly manner, patting Merle’s arm, and continuing in rapid-fire French. Pascal replied, equally fast. They went on like that until Irene called for Louise to come out of the kitchen. That much Merle could understand.
The young woman stepped back into the room. Her mother took her arm and pulled her forward, talking to her in a low, insistent tone.
Louise blinked, nodding, although she looked slightly terrified. To Merle and Pascal she said, in halting English, “Welcome. My mother says that tomorrow the madame can help us with the— chèvrerie?”
“The farm,” Pascal said.
“Yes. We have six chèvres, the goat, the mamans, who will soon give the birth. One naissance, ah, birth, comes, came early today. Madame may help, if she wish,” Louise said, looking skeptically at Merle.
Merle smoothed her spotless white slacks. Her fingernails, though the polish was still chipped, were way too clean. Louise was looking at her own nails, ragged and dirty. She smelled sweet, like she had just taken a bath. She probably thought Merle was a — what was that Scottish word? — a toonser, a city slicker. And she’d be right.
Pascal glanced at her, eyebrows jumping. A glint of amusement shone in his eyes, as he pictured her, no doubt, rolling in hay with nanny goats. He’d had his sheep moments in the Highlands. Was it her turn to wrestle furry beasts?
“Oh,” Merle said. “Gosh. That would be amazing. I would love to help, if I can. I mean— je ne sais rien — I know nothing— about goats.”
Irene waved her hands and laughed, chattering. Louise even smiled. “It’s okay. We will help. The mamans, they do the work most of the time.”
“Okay.” Merle felt a little burst of usefulness. She would watch some baby goats— what did you call them? Kids. She would watch some kids being born. That would be something she didn’t get to see often, or ever. She would take photos for her sisters. They would be impressed, wouldn’t they? Or horrified. She was such a damn toonser.
She smiled at Irene, nodding. “Merci. I’ll come over tomorrow— demain— then?”
Irene chattered and Louise translated: “Mama says come early. At five o’clock if you are up. Things happen early on the goat farm.”
Chapter 31
Tuesday
Scotland
The crazy weather of the previous week had completely cleared, blown out to sea by a high pressure system that beamed sunshine down on the Highlands, making the world a steam bath of heather and wet leaves. Stasia Bennett stepped outside the Hydro, clutching her notebook, and was startled by the glare off the last of the puddles.
“Crikey,” she muttered, having decided that a week in Scotland was long enough to adopt some British phrases. “Bloody blinding.”
She glanced around, hoping no one had heard her. No doubt she sounded ridiculous. The hotel valets had gone missing, off setting up cricket or something. Two horses came down the path from the barn, carrying children who looked frightened and delighted, as children often were. Hers were almost grown. Willow was so confident, with a boldness that astounded Stasia at times. She rarely showed fear any more, or delight for that matter, although Oliver could still be counted on for a shout-out for sporting events. He got that from Rick who would never cease being a boy about sports.
