The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 85
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Her heart was beating wildly. No Liaisons Dangereuses, no French farce, this story would be set in the countryside with real people, high on a hill in a remote chateau. The Dordogne? In winter, cold, bare branches on trees. Unhappy loners, tragedy, lost in their misery. Maybe a ferocious storm, a weather bomb, would hit, like in Scotland.
Or. . .
Out of bed, in a frenzy, she rifled through her bag for her notebook and a pen. In the kitchen she poured herself a large glass of rosé and sat at the small table.
She opened her notebook, ripped out her to-do lists, and began to write.
Chapter 33
On the TGV
France
Pascal locked his car in the lot at the modern Avignon railway station, bought a ticket, and jumped onboard the last car of the high-speed train, the TGV. He’d torn across the coast on the A9 from Agde. Before he could find his seat the train pulled out, heading north to Paris.
He found his assigned place in the third car forward, next to a young woman with a baby. On his seat the child was laid out, legs wiggling in the air. He kept walking through the car, looking for somewhere to land. As the train reached maximum speed he was tucked in next to an empty seat, by the window, in première class. He’d have to use his badge to remain but he had no worries. No more passengers would board. This was a direct route, no stops. Ah, French trains. They were the best.
The light was fading from the flat, vineyard-filled Bouche de Rhône as they climbed into the Massif Centrale. The day had been long but productive. The team that came together in the small coastal town of Agde, full of holiday makers, sailboats, and sandy beaches, had worked hard. Two officers were already embedded undercover at the winery. The evidence of fraud, of switching native grapes with imported ones, was unmistakable. Not unexpected here on the Mediterranean coastline where boats could come and go with little oversight. A long-time smuggler’s haven, a backwater far removed from the chic resorts of the Côte d’Azur.
But not far from the eyes of the Policier Nationale. This particular winery had been under suspicion for a couple years, since their prices seemed too good to be true. Then they won a wine-tasting contest that brought them more publicity and the prices went up like a rocket. Good for business, bad for gangsters. The investigation would break in just a few days, with multiple arrests.
At dinner Pascal had received a reply on one of his inquiries about the other matter. His team was deep into their buckets of moules when the email arrived on his mobile phone. Attached to the email from a friend in Paris was a newspaper article. Another one about Bruno Nordvilles-Moura. He clicked open the attachment.
The screenshot appeared to be an article on a website of some sort. Something called Français Pour L’amour, or ‘French for Love.’ It was written in a slang French used by young people and immigrants. And perhaps tourists. The article’s headline read ‘J'ai Dit Ne Pas le Faire’ or ‘I Said Don’t Do That!’
He recognized the locale of the photo, the Tuileries, the famous gardens in central Paris. In the large fountain near l’Orangerie, where children often sailed colorful boats and office girls sunned themselves, a woman stood up to her knees in water, drenched to the skin, dripping from her arms, her blue skirt, her hair. Her white blouse was nearly transparent, her black lingerie visible. Hair covered much of her face, dark brown strings to her chin.
The email from his colleague read: “Is that your man on the left, behind the green chair?”
Pascal left the table on the outside patio and found a dark corner inside the restaurant. He squinted, enlarging the photograph on his tiny, ridiculous phone. Behind the green chair stood a man in a hat, laughing, one hand on the back of the chair. It looked like Bruno but it was hard to tell.
He took a close look at each person in the photograph, school boys, couples, elderly women, before returning finally to the woman in the fountain. With a shock he realized it was Elise Bennett, Merle’s sister. That was her chin, with the dimple. And floating in the water was her yellow sac à main, a bright sunny handbag. He remembered it because it was quite expensive, an Hermès. Possibly a knock-off but recognizable all the same. He wanted to examine it in Scotland, check for authenticity, but never had the chance.
And there was Bruno, standing back, his chest concave from laughter. His ugly face contorted in glee. Pascal felt a familiar hatred pulsing up from his chest.
Bruno.
What had happened? Had she tripped and fallen into the fountain? Why wasn’t he helping her out? Had someone— Bruno?— pushed her? Had she simply lost her balance reaching for a sailboat? She looked ridiculous, humiliated. And he stood by, joining the general mirth.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Elise was in Paris, and that Pascal would find her, and save her.
Chapter 34
Wednesday
Aberdeen, Scotland
Francie Bennett sat in the waiting room at the police station where Jinty Arbuckle was being held, waiting to see her. This would be their third conversation and the first one without her lawyer, Glynn Barra. Glynn didn’t act keen on Francie befriending her client. There appeared to be some competition for the young woman’s affection in Glynn’s mind. Or maybe she just didn’t like Francie.
She adjusted the neckline of her blouse, buttoning up one more level. Francie knew she could be irritating. Intimidating at times too, when it suited her. And meddling in affairs where no one wanted her interference. But that was the way things got done, she thought stubbornly. If you didn’t push, the status quo would just float along and pretty soon Jinty Arbuckle would be locked up for the rest of her life.
Although Glynn did explain that the charge would probably not be first-degree murder or whatever the legal term was here, but more likely the American equivalent of manslaughter. Jinty didn’t claim to try to hurt Miss Petrie, just admitted to giving her a shove. A fatal shove as it turned out, but still unplanned. So perhaps ten or fifteen years of her life. Whatever the sentence it was unwarranted and unjust and way too long.
Francie hadn’t admitted to Glynn that she herself was well and good plastered by the time of the events that evening. She hadn’t gone looking for the stupid sheep. She had drunk who-knows-how-much wine at lunch and dinner, then in the evening wandered around outside with a wine bottle by the neck, guzzling more. Later she drank cognac by the fire. She didn’t even remember seeing Jinty arrive at the drawing room, when she supposedly voiced concern about Vanora’s whereabouts.
It was troubling. The devil-may-care drinking seemed perfect at the beginning of the week. Whisky tour + solo-at-the-wedding: blotto here we come. It seemed like the practical choice. And then storm hit and the power went out. Who wouldn’t turn to a nice red for solace?
But that was then. Francie made a decision. Things couldn’t go on like this. She needed to stop drinking. Or decrease anyway. A glass of wine at dinner, that was all. So far she’d been good for exactly three days and she felt much better. And kind of righteous. That would wear off but the other good feelings would remain— blissful calm, clear thinking, and a positive outlook. Well, a girl could hope.
She had Jinty Arbuckle and her impossible confession to thank for turning around her decline into alcoholism. But now, Francie thought as she opened her binder on her knees, she had to pay the girl back.
The Medical Examiner’s report had just come back. The autopsy on Vanora Petrie hadn’t shown anything unusual. Death by drowning, muddy water in her lungs. A horizontal, elongated bruise across her forehead where she had either clocked herself and had help getting clocked. It was kind of hard to imagine going down that hard in a mud puddle. But there were some rocks hidden in the water. One large rock, flat on top with a sharp edge, eighteen inches wide, was right under the surface of the puddle, the police determined.
Still, connecting Jinty to the death was still a stretch, in Francie’s opinion. They hadn’t actually linked the push that Jinty claimed she exacted on the housekeeper to the woman’s fall into the water. Jinty said she saw Vanora go down but Francie didn’t believe it. There was not much to believe in the young woman’s tale.
Francie had been poking around in Jinty’s background. She had one last interview to do, with Mrs. Logan. She wasn’t looking forward to that. Callum’s mother was such a dragon lady. Francie wasn’t afraid of her. She just knew the woman would be difficult. ‘Nasty’ appeared to be her middle name. And Francie wasn’t sure she could stop herself from saying something equally nasty about the way Fiona had treated Annie.
The matron called her name. Francie gathered her things and was led to an interrogation room where Jinty sat, prim and proper in her street clothes. She looked a little worse for wear, her hair greasy and lank, dark shadows under her eyes. But she hadn’t yet been formally charged. Was it a sign? They weren’t making her wear ugly prison garb, and they allowed Francie, her pseudo counsel, to interview her alone. Or as alone as security cameras could be.
Jinty blinked up at her silently, her dark eyes troubled and resigned. Francie arranged herself on the chair and her notes on the table before stretching out a hand. “Good afternoon, Jinty. Are they treating you well?”
The young caretaker gave her hand a quick shake then put both hands in her lap as she shrugged.
“How’s the food? Is it rank?”
Jinty squinted at her, annoyance across her eyebrows. “Where is Glynn?”
“She’ll be in to see you later,” Francie said. “She said we could talk. Is that all right?”
“Are you my counsel then?”
“No. Glynn is your counsel but I’m helping her. You know I’m a lawyer in the U.S.?”
“Like your sisters.” Jinty looked skeptical.
“Right. So I’ve heard your story about what happened that night, when Vanora went missing. And I’ve talked to the others, to my sisters, to Mrs. MacKeegan, to Killian and Gunni.” She paused for a reaction but there was none. “No one saw you outside that night, Jinty. Not after the search for the sheep.”
“Well, I was, wasn’t I? I went back and forth between the house and quarters.”
Francie nodded. “‘Quarters’? Is that what you call your rooms? It sounds sort of like the Army. Did you have any problems with Mrs. Logan, Jinty?”
“No, ma’am.”
Francie hated that practice of calling everyone ‘ma’am.’ It made her feel ancient. “You can call me Francie. I’m trying to be your friend, Jinty.” The young woman slouched deeper but said no more. “How about with Killian? Any issues?”
“No.”
“You like him, isn’t that right? Does he like you?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“He’s not easy to talk to. He almost walked out on me. Kinda cute though, isn’t he?” The young woman’s face was unresponsive, stony. Francie continued, “What about Gunni? He’s a piece of work.”
Jinty straightened then, blinking before regaining her composure. “No problems.”
“Is that so? Were you keeping tabs on Gunni? Reporting on his behavior to Mrs. Logan?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you are in charge of the staff. That’s right, isn’t it?”
No answer.
“So if Gunni did something, or Vanora, or even Killian did something that was dangerous or wrong, you would report to Mrs. Logan.”
“But no one did anything wrong.” Her voice rose a little. “Except me.”
Francie opened her binder and leafed through several pages. “Gunni is related to you, isn’t he? What is he— your second cousin?”
Jinty swallowed hard and finally nodded.
“Did you take this job to make someone in the family happy? To report back to them about Brian? That’s Gunni’s real name, right? Brian Gunn.”
Jinty folded her arms across her chest.
Francie pushed on: “Is it your grandfather you report to? Or your mother?”
She said nothing.
“Or do you go directly to Gunni’s father, your mother’s cousin? That would make sense. He’s in Australia, right? But with email and all, that’s not a problem.”
Jinty put her arms on the table and laid her head on them. Her shoulders looked small, her spirit broken. It was the biggest reaction Jinty’d had to anything for three days. Francie sensed a crack in her facade.
“What about Mrs. Logan? Does she know you’re covering for Gunni? Does your mother know you’re doing this for the family, laying down your future? Does Gunni’s father know you’re going to prison for his son? Maybe we should write him in Australia? I have his address. Brisbane, correct? Should I drop him a note? Or, I’ve got it. I can find his phone number on Google.”
After another long silent pause, Francie went on. “Gunni’s been in a few scrapes, I see. Fighting, mobbing, drinking. Glasgow’s a rough town. He went to school there for awhile, before his father took off for Australia. Then, he dropped out. Gunni ran with a crowd who liked to mix it up. He’s been doing much better up here in the Highlands. But there was one incident last year. Where is it? I have it here somewhere.”
Francie made a point of shuffling papers, trying to get the girl to look up. She didn’t.
“Here we go. ‘Breach of the peace, malicious mischief, indecent exposure, running sheep through the village without a permit, uttering threats.’ Kind of went on a little rampage, didn’t he? Maybe some Scottish ale involved? Was that when his grandfather contacted Mrs. Logan again?”
Francie turned to a page. “Because that wasn’t the first time they’d spoken. Gunni’s grandfather was an old friend of Mrs. Logan’s husband. They went to school together, years ago. Isn’t that a coincidence? Or not. Seems like everybody went to school with everybody in Scotland.”
More silence.
“Then Grandad got Gunni his job, didn’t he? Just like he got you your job, by calling in a favor to Mrs. Logan. And part of your writ is to keep Gunni in line. Keep an eye on him. Discourage him from drinking too much, undressing in the rain, and creating scenes in the village. To keep him safe and sober up in the hills. Protect the family name and reputation.”
Jinty sat back then, her face reddened but still fierce. Her arms across her chest were stiff with something— fear or fury. Her mouth twisted as she said in a low voice, “So we’re related. So what?”
Francie closed her binder with ceremony. “Do you think he pushed Vanora that night? Did you see him push her?”
She blinked furiously and for a minute Francie thought she would keep up the charade. The clock ticked on the wall. Finally Jinty shook her head: no.
“Did he tell you he pushed her?”
She shook her again.
“Did anyone say they saw Gunni push Vanora into the water that night?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know if Gunni pushed her that night but you have reason to believe he might have done it, is that right?”
Jinty shrugged and looked at the side wall.
“No one saw what happened, Jinty. Not you, not my sisters, not Mrs. MacKeegan or the old guy. Nobody. Not even Gunni.”
She examined Francie’s face then, as if searching for answers.
Francie leaned toward her. “For all we know the woman toppled over and hit her head on that rock. Her blood alcohol was pretty high.” She leafed again through to the autopsy report. “Point one-six. Legally drunk and then some. Maybe too intoxicated to navigate an enormous puddle at night while balancing a plate.
“No one knows what happened to her, Jinty. Not me. Not you. Because you didn’t see Vanora Petrie after you went looking for the sheep. You cared about her, didn’t you? You were worried about her. You came back to the main house to see if anyone had seen her. My sisters went to the kitchen with you and you saw that the plate was missing. But she never made it to Mr. Craigg’s that night. She only made it as far as that puddle.”
“Where was Gunni?” Jinty whispered.
“Out wrestling sheep,” Francie said. “Pascal said he left him in some pasture. When he came by the gate, Vanora was gone. Was she at the gate when you went by?”
“No. But I looked for her after midnight.”
“And did you find her?” Jinty shook her head. Francie sighed inwardly. Jinty was fully engaged in her own retraction now. “Did you see anyone outside?”
“No.”
“You came and went through the front door, correct? Did you look at the puddle as you went by?”
Jinty blinked, hunching now. “The moon had gone down and it was verra dark. The power was out, remember.”
“So she might have been in the water then?”
Tears ran down Jinty’s face now. Francie reached out for her but she shrank back, crying hard. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“I— I called her a blootert, a drunk. She was stealin’ sips from a bottle in her apron alla time like we couldn’t see her doin’ it, or dinnae care. After dinner we were in the kitchen and she was raggin’ on about the dark and doin’ the washin’. I had jist had it with her. She turned on me then and told me to mind me own business and that all o’ you were down in the cellar, grabbing bottles like they was free and drinkin’ all the family wine.” She sobbed and brushed her eyes.
“She was right about that. We all had too much to drink that night. Except you, Jinty.” Francie let her cry for a minute then said, “Why did you think Gunni was involved? Because of the brawling?”
“Vanora hated him. She was always callin’ him a sheep-shagger, an idjit. Right to his face! She was a bossy one. She would tell him what to do and he didnae like it.” Jinty peered up at Francie with bloodshot eyes. “I saw him push her once when she was clingin’ on him. He smacked her shoulder. He doesn’t like to be touched.”
“Pascal mentioned that,” Francie said. “Gunni is an interesting individual. He is pretty anti-social. And your cousin. But not, as far as the evidence goes, a murderer.”
You could almost see the relief flowing off Jinty in waves. Fresh tears fell on her cheeks as she shook her head, a half smile twisting her lips. Her voice was hoarse as she croaked: “No. No, he’s not.”
