The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 86
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“And neither are you, Jinty Arbuckle.”
Chapter 35
Wednesday
Paris
Pascal smoked a cigarette outside the Policier Nationale headquarters in the center of Paris, waiting for Yves to emerge. He checked his watch. His colleague was twenty minutes late, nothing really. Yet Pascal was anxious. He wanted to get on with this, find Bruno and Elise, get the goods on the little man, and make sure Elise was all right.
He hadn’t told Merle about this plan, in case it all went badly. He didn’t know Elise that well, but from her behavior this week in Scotland she seemed to enjoy playing the wild one, tweaking her nose at her more conventional sisters. Pascal didn’t see Merle that way, as conventional. American, yes, and definitely not French. But he supposed the youngest of five had a certain license. She could play the rebel and they would pat her on the head. He just hoped her wildness hadn’t got her in over that pretty little head.
He brought up the photograph on his phone. The humiliation she must have felt stabbed him again. He hoped Elise hadn’t read the comments on the blog which were lengthy and in six or seven different languages. The photo had been posted to Facebook and Twitter, strangely enough, as if the people in it had no rights to privacy. The French took privacy very seriously but that wasn’t the case everywhere. The top comment, in French, read: “Watch where you’re going, idiot! You’re not in Kansas anymore.” The next, in German: “American whore! Looking for gold in pigeon shit hole.” They got increasingly vile.
He clicked off his phone and stamped out his cigarette. Where was Yves? He glanced around at tourists taking photographs with their phones like the one of Elise, and mothers with children in strollers, students in tight jeans, old men tottering along.
He suddenly wondered how he could have left Merle behind in that tiny, smelly little cottage with no one but Goat Queen Irene for company. Irene, who had a good heart, frequently smelled of the barnyard. Pascal visited but infrequently, and often at a distance. Merle could be here, basking in the golden sunshine of Paris, wearing something sexy and short, showing off her lovely legs, enjoying spring in the City of Light. Why had he not brought her? He wanted to spend every free moment with her. He knew that now even though it was impossible.
He realized in a flash that he’d left Merle at his place for an unconscious reason: to keep her there, to himself, as long as possible. If she was in Paris she’d be distracted by— whatever. Museums, bridges, meals, other men. He wanted her to himself. This was not a pleasant realization. He couldn’t keep her hostage. She needed to make her own decisions. She would soon go home. She promised to come to the Dordogne again in mid-summer, a month or two away, but what would he be doing then? He had an idea it would be a busy summer, as it always was in the south.
Then she would go home. Her home, far away across the sea. He could already feel the empty ache of her absence. It was slightly ridiculous, he admitted to himself. And yet.
Yves Souci emerged at last from the blocky yellow stone edifice. He paused, checking his watch, and looked around for Pascal. He raised a hand in greeting and headed to where Pascal stood by a lamp post.
They walked to a nearby café and found a table on the sidewalk, under an umbrella. Yves was always concerned about sunburn. He was very fair, a Norman from the north coast. Pascal had spent the night on Yves’s sofa, in his cramped apartment in the 14th. Now they ordered salads and a small pitcher of rosé. As Pascal sipped his wine he thought of Merle again, alone, drinking rosé with the goats.
He leaned forward, knowing he was making too much of this situation but unable to dial back his impatience. “What have you found?” he asked Yves. “His address?”
Yves’s eyebrows jumped. “Last known, that’s all. He doesn’t own a flat.”
“No? I assumed.” Pascal looked at the scrap of paper Yves pushed across the table. Pascal turned on his mobile and entered the address, squinting at the map. “I hate this tiny thing. I will get a new one next month, I hope.”
“Remember when we all wanted tiny phones?” Yves shook his head. They were the same age, and had trained in the acadèmie together. It seemed like, and was, decades ago. “Do you ever see—” He waved his hand, trying to remember.
“Clarisse?” His ex-wife. “No.”
“Pity. I try to stay friendly with the exes,” Yves smirked. “You never know.”
“I do know,” Pascal said, feeling sour as usual at the topic. “Are you with someone now?” Not that Yves was ‘un playboy’ except in his own mind. His fair skin had wrinkled badly and his blonde hair was shot with white. Still, advancing age never stopped a Frenchman.
“Bien sûr, mon ami. Her name is Amandine. She is a model.” He was quite proud of himself. “She is crazy about me.”
“Bravo.” Pascal raised his wine glass to Yves. Be nice, he told himself. You need him. “And what of this Bruno Nordvilles-Moura? What do we know about him?”
“His record of arrest and imprisonment, as I have said. His family is an old one, some Italienne in there and perhaps a former Count somewhere to the north but penniless, I’m told. Nothing left for the profligate. I don’t know what he’s up to now. Still digging around. He’s been banned from the wine trade but that doesn’t mean he won’t stick a toe in where it doesn’t belong. We will find out.”
“And is someone actively looking into that?” Pascal knew how these things worked. No one would look twice at Bruno unless someone raised a flag.
“Well, you, my friend,” Yves crowed.
Pascal shook his head. “I want to stay out of this. It’s personal.”
“Ah?” Yves nodded. “A woman. Of course.”
Pascal smiled. “Can you help me? I hate to ask you for more favors, Yves. But it is rather urgent.”
Yves wiggled his eyebrows. “Of course it is, you sly fox. I will do my best.”
Bruno’s last known address was beyond the Boulevard Périphérie, the ring road that marked the old city walls around Paris. They had been torn down centuries before but the stigma remained, you were ‘inside’ or ‘outside.’ In Bruno’s case he was far from any view of the Seine, as he had claimed in Scotland. His view, if he had one at all, would be of Les Puces, the flea market that operated several blocks away from his Rue du Plaisir address.
The street had not been aptly named. The only pleasures evident here were the selling of tired furniture in open doorways and garage spaces, and even that looked more flea-bitten than pleasant. The number for Bruno was a white house with a boldly blue metal shuttered door. Pascal banged on it. It wasn’t apparent if this was also a garage, or a large shuttered doorway. The two-story brick buildings were well-kept for the area, their front fences painted bright colors of the desert.
He moved to the indigo gate, half shuttered behind the wrought iron, also blue. It was locked. In the tiny garden were children’s toys, a small tricycle, a ball, a folding chair. He called out: “Allo? Il y a quelqu'un?” No point in announcing the police in this neighborhood.
Although an upstairs window was open, no one appeared. He looked for a buzzer but didn’t find one. He walked down the street to the open garage where oriental rugs were stacked on end. “Allo? Monsieur?”
A door opened in the back and a man appeared. He was dark-skinned, wiping his hands on his pants, smiling. “Bonjour, monsieur. What can I help you? You would like a rug today?”
His French was stilted, accented like many in the north of Paris. He looked over Pascal and his eyes rounded. He knew Pascal was police. No point in even saying it. His smile froze.
“I am looking for a man who lived three doors down the street.” Pascal brought up the website picture on his phone, the only recent one he had of Bruno. He zoomed in on the laughing face. “This man. Bruno Nordvilles-Moura. Frenchman. Short.” He held up his mobile. “Do you recognize him? He lived in the house with the blue fence.”
The man relaxed a bit, squinted at the screen, bent closer. “No. I am sorry.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“Since summer past.”
“And your name, monsieur?”
The man blinked nervously. “I am Persian, sir. Like the rugs.” Pascal merely nodded, waiting. “Habib Rostam. Monsieur.” He bowed slightly.
Pascal clicked off his phone. “Who on the street can help me, Habib? Do you know who lives in the house with the blue fence?”
“I only know family here. We keep to ourselves. I am sorry, monsieur.”
Although he returned to the house with the blue fence Pascal got nothing from Rue du Plaisir. He knocked on more doors, stopped a car, talked to a pedestrian, an old woman, went round to the small grocery on the next block. No one remembered Bruno, or they weren’t talking.
The address was probably years old. Bruno had been in the countryside, at the winery of his friends, for at least two years as they planned their scheme. Pascal walked back to the Porte de Clignancourt Metro station. He was wearing the new boots he’d bought in Scotland and missed his old, rain-ruined ones. His feet hurt.
At least the weather was fine. Merle would have enjoyed it.
The call from Yves Souci came as he emerged at Châtelet and walked through a nursery vendor’s potted plants toward the river. The Seine smelled a little bad today, fishy. A breeze picked up from the North, fluttering awnings and ladies’ skirts.
“You ready for this, eh, d’Onscon?” Yves asked.
“Ready for what?”
“He’s working for us.” Yves laughed. “Yes, he is working for the Wine Fraud Division.”
“Bruno Nordvilles-Moura?”
“The one and only. He has been pressed into duty. That is how he got out of prison early. Nobody tells me anything around here,” Yves complained.
Pascal sat on a bench in a little green space. “What is he doing for us?” It was hard to imagine him as a useful creature.
“They sent him to the U.K. He was undercover as a winery expert. That is not his real name, you know.”
“But his arrests, those were in his name?”
“They have arranged things so we can see, but not for general consumption. You know their intrigues, Pascal. They love nothing better than to obfuscate. And who suffers? We who are supposed to be working for them, with them.”
Pascal swore. The administration of the Policier Nationale was just like other branches of government, full of twisted motivations, dark schemes, and old friendships. Most of the time they worked, but every so often it was just a pile of crap.
“Whose brilliant idea was it to send a known scam artist, a con man, undercover?” he asked.
“Oh, I did not ask,” Yves said flatly. He sighed.
“So that address you sent me to, where no one knew him?”
“Phony as the river is long.”
“Did they tell you his real name? Where he lives?”
“I’m sorry. I cannot.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
“My hands are tied, Pascal. Someone high up is pulling the strings on this one. I did hear one thing. That he has returned to Paris because he believed his cover was blown in Scotland. He was to look for indications of origin irregularity. Like French grapes in their own bottles there. Why would anyone do that? It’s all nonsense. But they say he felt exposed and feared for his safety.”
Pascal looked at the clouds. “Well, I nearly pounded his head in.”
“Bien sûr.”
“Can you tell me who he is working with? Anything, Yves.”
“Dommage. From the top, mon ami.”
Pascal stared at the greenish water flowing to the sea, a slow, inexorable march to oblivion. How would he find Elise now? He wanted to go back to Merle, curl up in bed and smell the scent of her neck. He could get the next TGV, be in Avignon by eight. It was just as well he hadn’t told Merle anything. She wouldn’t be disappointed in him.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his mobile still in his hands. What more could he do? He would text one of the sisters, see if they’d heard from Elise. He scrolled through his contacts. Callum. He would call Callum.
The Scot answered quickly. “Pascal! We were just talking about you and Merle.”
“Ah, yes? Something nice, I hope.”
There was a scuffling then Annie came on: “Pascal? Is Merle there?”
“No, I am in Paris on business. She is in the south. Annie, have you heard from Elise?”
“I think Francie has. Hey, Francie. Tell Pascal what you heard from Elise.”
It was hard to keep up. So many sisters and they sounded one like the other.
Francie said, “Hey, where are you? Is it sunny and warm?”
He didn’t want to talk about weather. “Did you hear from Elise? I think she is in Paris.”
“She is! She texted me this afternoon. Just a little check-in so I wouldn’t worry. After last summer when I got snatched by those dog-nappers I got a little fierce about checking in. I’m proud I got through to her on that.”
“Where is she?”
“With that douche-bag, Bruno. She didn’t sound that happy, to tell you the truth. She was doing that fake enthusiasm thing. Lots of smiley emojis.”
“Does her mobile work? Did she text from it?”
“I think so. Wait, no, it was a new number.” Footsteps, jangling keys. “Here you go. Ready?”
Pascal put his phone on speaker mode and tapped in Elise’s phone number. “Merci. I may check in on her while I’m in the city.”
“Are you coming back, Pascal?” Francie asked.
“Probably not. But it was very nice seeing all the sisters. I hope your father does well. À bientôt.”
He hung up and dialed Elise. It rang four times and disconnected. No voicemail. He looked at the number again. It was a French mobile number, not a US one. Had Bruno given her his phone? Or bought her a burner?
He stood up. It was nearly six o’clock. He had just enough time to get someone to trace a mobile signal before they all went out for aperitifs.
Chapter 36
Wednesday
Scotland
Francie handed Callum back his mobile phone. They sat in the drawing room at Kincardie House where outside the late afternoon sun shone on the trees by the river, turning them on fire, and glinted off the cars in the gravel parking area. Gunni and Killian had finally towed the enormous oak tree out of the drive this morning. All day, according to Callum, the whine of the chain saw had permeated the air. It was finally quiet.
She frowned, thinking about the call. Pascal was worried about Elise. She could tell. He didn’t call to chat.
Annie and Callum were drinking wine by the cold fireplace. This room looked so different today compared to the night after the storm, the night the power was out and Vanora went missing. That night, by firelight, through a haze of cognac, everything looked a bit magical. Tonight the red upholstery looked faded and worn. The walls appeared dusty, the wood paneling cracked. The paintings of ancestors and various stags of yore looked a bit sad, like they didn’t understand all that they lived and loved was over and done.
Francie sat back in the little flowered chair and stared at Elise’s text. It was short and simple, with lots of smileys. So why did it seem like her little sister wasn’t happy? There was no clue there. It was just a feeling. The main point being that if Elise was having a blast with her new boyfriend, running around Paris, she wouldn’t have bothered to text. She would have been too busy being a fabulous Parisian, drinking Cristal and Instagramming the night away, full of parties, celebrities, and shoes. That was the crux of it. Elise wouldn’t be thinking about her sisters. She’d be off having the time of her life.
Francie switched her phone off, remembering when they were so cut off out here, so truly ‘powerless.’ What the hell was going on with Elise?
“What did Pascal want?” Annie asked from across the room. Francie moved closer, to a straight-back chair by a side table. “Is Merle having fun?”
“He was in Paris,” Francie said. “He seemed worried about Elise.”
“Our wild child. It does seem a bit nuts to be running off with that bore Bruno.”
More like perv. “What does she see in him?” Francie mused, shuddering.
Callum poured Francie a glass of wine. She took it then checked herself, setting it on the table. “Speaking of Bruno,” Callum said. “I got a call from Hugh. Their Scottish wine scheme has been nixed by the organizers or the government or somebody. The winery is apparently, and quite predictably, I may say, a no-go. Hugh has lost that work. He has plenty, of course, but he was counting on that being a multi-year income stream.”
“So Bruno is out of that money too?” Annie asked. Callum shrugged.
“That’s too bad,” Francie said. “But seriously? A vineyard in Scotland? It’s not warm enough here for grapes, is it?”
“A doolally plan, I told my brother,” Callum agreed. “But Bruno was doing all sorts of temperature and soil samples and other tests, scouting the right aspects of hillsides, analyzing the drainage. They thought he knew what he was doing.”
There was a pause that stretched until Annie squinted at Callum. “Bruno never seemed like the scientific type.”
“No.” Francie laughed and took a tiny sip of wine and pushed it to the back of the table. “Is your mother joining us, Callum?”
“She’ll be down for dinner. You’ll stay, won’t you?”
She checked her watch. She’d been expecting to hear from Glynn Barra by now. It was getting late. “Let me just make this call.”
Outside Kincardie House Francie dialed Glynn’s number. When she returned to the drawing room, the atmosphere looked brighter, the colors clearer.
She smiled at Callum. “I need to speak to Fiona.”
The dismissal of charges against Jinty Arbuckle, through her retraction of the confession and inconclusive forensic evidence, lightened the atmosphere at dinner. The death would likely be deemed an accidental drowning, according to authorities. Glynn Barra had given Francie the good news, congratulated her on getting Jinty to talk, but said the paperwork wouldn’t be finished until morning. One more night in the slammer for Jinty, but then she’d be free.
