The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 87
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Francie stayed for dinner although she had told her mother and father she’d join them at the Hydro. She felt like celebrating, but watched her wine. One glass, that’s all, her good angel intoned. Callum and Annie seemed like their old selves, touching hands, heads together, whispers, sly smiles. That left Francie to talk to the old bat, Mrs. Logan. But even she was superficially pleasant, even while giving her son and Annie little darting glares.
Mrs. Logan’s final participation in Jinty’s case was after-the-fact but important for Francie. It dotted all the i’s. Fiona knew of the family connection between Jinty Arbuckle and the sheep man/cousin. She admitted that she hoped when she hired Jinty that Gunni’s carousing would be corralled. You couldn’t really expect a Scotsman to not drink and cut loose once in awhile, Fiona conjectured, feeling generous. But she agreed with her late husband’s old friend, Gunni’s grandfather, that she needed someone to stay through the winter and keep tabs on him. That was where Jinty came in. She could stay and watch out for bad behavior. The cold and isolation could be hard on a man. Just look at ol’ Craigg, cantankerous old thing. He hadn’t performed any caretaking duties for years, since his arthritis had gotten bad. It seemed like a win for everyone, Fiona Logan said.
Had Gunni done something bad that night? Had he and Vanora had an argument, a pushing match— or worse? Had he hit her? Neither Fiona nor Francie knew. They didn’t think so, and neither did the police. But they’d probably never know. The sheep were Gunni’s main concern and no one saw him after Pascal left him in that far pasture, counting his herd and looking for strays. He may have disliked Vanora, but really, who didn’t? Even Mrs. Logan said she would likely have fired the woman before the summer was out. Her drinking, laziness, and insubordination were legendary.
Francie wouldn’t have used those words herself. The dead are gone. They couldn’t defend themselves. Vanora’s reputation wasn’t going to improve, not after falling down drunk in a mud puddle. But it wasn’t helpful, or nice, to have people disparage you after you’re gone.
Francie left the three of them at the dinner table, foregoing her dessert. “Must run,” she explained vaguely. In truth she was dying to drive triumphantly through the glen, pedal to the floor, wind in her hair, shouting at the top of her lungs: Jinty is free! Freeing someone was an incredible feeling. Exonerating them, repairing their reputation, taking away the stain of guilt, giving them back their lives: it felt like a whole new bright, shiny world.
She loved Scotland.
Francie realized, rounding the last hill as the houses appeared, lights twinkling in windows, that she wanted more of this. Not Scotland necessarily, it was too damp, but this feeling of justice and righteous exoneration. It was exhilarating. She could eat it up like cake, like chocolate cake with curls on top.
Why not? She could change her focus in law. No one could stop her. She could forget all about childish spats between neighbors, hideous prenups, frivolous lawsuits, business contracts, and incorporations.
She would defend the innocent.
She would find the truth, and free those unjustly accused.
She knew it suddenly, absolutely. She would make a difference through the pursuit of scumbags who prosecute the innocent. She would save them, give them back what meant the most to them, their families, their dignity, their lives.
As they say, one life at a time.
Chapter 37
Thursday
Southwest France
The gravel crunched under the tires of the BMW as Pascal pulled up to the cottage. It was late morning and the birds had quieted in the trees. The gravel was covered with pink petals from the cherry trees. He cut the engine and felt the fatigue and relief settle into his bones. Everything was still.
He nudged Elise. Curled into the passenger seat she opened her smudged eyes, blinking against the morning sun. Her tongue woke up, sticky. “Where are we?”
“My place. Merle is here.” He snapped off his seat belt and opened the car door. He waited for Elise to wake up and step out of the car then they went together into the cottage.
The night had been long. They were exhausted. It had begun at ten o’clock the night before when Pascal had finally reached Elise on the mobile number. He had told her to leave it on, to stash it somewhere, and they would trace the signal. She put it in a wastebasket in the bathroom, under the plastic liner. She didn’t know where she was staying, having arrived in the dead of night and been locked inside ever since. Except that day at the Tuileries, of course, their first day in Paris when she realized what an asshole Bruno really was. After that he’d basically held her captive in the dank apartment. A friend’s, he said. His own was being renovated, he said.
It had taken several hours for Yves and his colleagues to get the permissions and trace the signal. Even then it was a vague clue, a city block. When Elise finally returned to the phone, at nearly three in the morning. Bruno had returned, drunk, and was comatose. She called Pascal again and they worked out a plan for her to signal him. The apartment buildings in that district were four and five floors, with shutters and grates over the windows, no way to escape that way. But Elise followed his instructions, opened the shutters and the blinds, left a light on in a bathroom facing the street, and waited. It took Pascal three false turns and then finally— victory. He saw her face in the window. After signaling her to remain in the apartment he waited below on the street, in his car, vigilant. He caught the street door after Bruno left in the morning and ran up the stairs, calling her name. He found her behind the door in two tries. Pascal had to break down the door but it wasn’t his first time. His shoulder barely hurt. They went to the railway station immediately, and now here they were, far from the clutches of the little Napoleon.
Elise’s hair was wild. She hadn’t bathed for days, since before her fall into the fountain, and out of spite Bruno had hidden her suitcase. The first thing she did at Pascal’s was head for the bathroom for a hot shower. He checked the bedroom. Merle wasn’t there. He looked in the orchard, on the patio, but she wasn’t there. He called her phone. She didn’t answer.
On the kitchen table a mess of paper and pens and dirty wine glasses and plates lay in jumbled heaps. A mess unlike Merle, he thought, a little worry beginning. He looked at the open notebook covered with scribbling, dense sentences in her terrible handwriting about someone named Coralise. Was this a case she was working on? Did she do that sort of thing?
He waited impatiently for Elise to clean up. When Pascal had found her that morning they searched the apartment for her suitcase. They found it in a back closet, hidden under a pile of old linen. Why Bruno had to further humiliate her by keeping her smelling of pond scum was a mystery. Perhaps the sisters were right, he was a pervert.
Elise emerged from the bath with wet hair and a smile on her face. She wore white slacks and a red blouse and looked more rested than he felt. The drive from Avignon was longer than he recalled.
“That was heavenly,” she said. She looked around the house, the kitchen in disarray, the bed with a lump of blankets, the underwear on the floor. “Where’s Merle?”
“Come. Let’s take a walk.”
When they entered the barn at Irene’s cheverie they paused to let their eyes adjust to dim light. Pascal called out in a low voice, “Merle?” but there was no answer. He stepped farther in, Elise at his heels.
Irene had told them she was in here. She’d been a bit mysterious about it though. Both Irene and her daughter were calmly drinking espresso in the kitchen so it appeared there no ongoing births. Unless Merle had been trained as a goat midwife already.
They found her curled into the straw in a stall, a small goat in her arms, the nipple of a bottle in his mouth. Both Merle and the kid had eyes closed, sleeping like, well, babies. Elise bumped into Pascal when he stopped to stare down at them. She gave a little gasp.
“Oh my god, that is precious,” Elise whispered. She pulled out her mobile phone, found in her suitcase, and snapped a photo of her sister cuddling a goat. She covered her mouth, giggling.
Pascal squatted down, sitting on his heels. Merle looked so peaceful, her hair hanging over half her face, her lips fluttering in a light snore. The kid, a buff and white little beast, all knobby knees and kitten ears, opened one brown eye and twitched. He sucked fiercely on the nipple and squirmed. Merle patted his back, eyes still shut. “It’s okay, Henri. Je suis ici.”
The little goat relaxed at her voice then spied Pascal again.
“Moi aussi,” Pascal whispered. He touched the kid’s soft nose. Merle opened her eyes then.
“You’re back,” she said sleepily, jostling the kid in her arms. She blinked up at Elise. “You too. Oh, thank god. Here.” She handed the goat to Pascal and stood up. He took Henri, juggling him and his bottle like a basket of bones.
“Careful,” she warned. “He’s just a baby.”
Merle hugged Elise. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Elise put on her brave face but it cracked a little. “What a wanker.”
“But you’re not hurt?” Merle turned her, checking all sides. “Or here?” She patted her heart.
“Just feeling stupid.” Elise grimaced.
“How did you find her?” Merle asked Pascal who was now nuzzling the goat to his own nose. “Where were you?” she asked Elise.
They looked at each other as if pondering the tale. Elise said, “He called me. I was in Paris, locked in an apartment but I had no idea where. I sent a text to Francie and Pascal was able to trace it. We had to use signals.” She smiled sadly. “At least he didn’t have to wear a blue coat and march me down the aisle.”
Merle smiled at another Lydia reference from Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice would always be with them, one of the touchstones of their lives. Were they somehow acting out their destinies in the shadows of those fictional sisters? Elise could be Lydia if she wanted but Merle was pretty sure she and boring, sanctimonious Mary had nothing in common. But just in case she made a quick promise to be less judgmental. Elise had escaped her French Wickham. It was enough for today.
“Pascal is no Mr. Darcy anyway,” Merle said.
“Are you sure about that?” Elise smirked, watching him cuddling the goat. “But what have you been up to? Nursemaiding goats?”
“Just kidding.” Merle smiled. “That’s a joke. Kidding is like lambing, but for goats.”
Elise knelt down and took Henri from Pascal’s arms. “He’s adorable. Is he yours?”
“No. I guess he could be, if I was staying. Irene only keeps the females, for the milk and cheese. She sells the males. Isn’t he adorable? I’m in love.”
Pascal stood up and watched the women fawn over the kid. It was the hormones, he guessed. Maternal instincts. He didn’t tell them that Irene sold her male goats to a farmer who raised them for restaurant fare. Let them love for awhile.
Merle led them outside the barn. She showed her sister where the other kids were hanging out in the pasture, dancing in the spring grass, where some of the bique-chevreau, mother-baby pairs were isolated, bonding in sheds. Henri was returned to his mother who sniffed him but appeared disinterested, munching clover as if nothing had happened. She had another young one. Perhaps she was overwhelmed.
Back in the farmhouse Merle introduced her sister to Irene and Louise and they accepted a small cake to take home. Elise exclaimed about the blooming fruit trees, buzzing with insects, all the way back to the cottage. Merle floated along in a sort of suspended ecstasy from the goat cuddling, holding Pascal’s hand with a beatific smile on her face. But Elise was a bit odd, he thought. It was as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t been held against her will. As if he hadn’t had to run his foot and shoulder through the door to rescue her. Pascal shook his head. He didn’t understand women but he understood putting evil behind you and moving forward.
They stepped into Pascal’s cottage and Merle immediately began apologizing for the mess. “I’ve been working on something. I was up all night, in a sort of fever, then I went over to help at Irene’s.”
She was gathering up her papers, putting glasses in the sink. Pascal touched her arm. He repeated her words, softly: “It’s okay. Je suis ici.” He gently placed her arms behind his neck and pulled her into him. She glanced at Elise, a little embarrassed, as he kissed her. He whispered, “I missed you, chérie,” in her ear.
They ate the cake, a classic quatre quarts pound cake, dense and sweet, as Elise told the story of her three days in Paris. It wasn’t a pretty one. She had been lonely and verbally abused by the goujat, Bruno. As they suspected he had rifled through her wallet and absconded with her cash and credit cards. Merle said they would cancel them in the morning. Elise wasn’t too emotional. Embarrassed, yes, but no tears. She asked Pascal how he had known she was in Paris. He waved off the question but she kept asking. Finally, too tired to fight, he showed her the photo on his phone, her dripping in the fountain, lingerie on display. Merle snatched the phone from her, staring.
Elise’s face reddened. “How the hell?”
“The Tuileries,” Pascal said.
“It’s a public garden,” Merle said gently. “Anyone can take a photo. And then the bastard posted it.”
“What website is that?” Elise demanded, recovering from her shock.
Pascal clicked his phone off. He didn’t want to tell them about Facebook and Twitter. “Someone sent it to me.”
“What happened?” Merle asked. “At the fountain.”
Elise bit her lip. “It was our first day in Paris. It was okay for awhile. He was sweet, you know? We had a long lunch in one of those great sidewalk cafés. But then he started teasing me. We’d been together all day by the time we got to the Tuileries. It was late afternoon. He grabbed my purse, taunting me. Holding it over the water. He climbed up on the wall of the fountain and threatened to throw it in. It was ruined, you know. By the water. I had to throw it away.”
“Was it authentic Hermès?” Pascal couldn’t help but ask.
“Are you kidding? No. Maybe Bruno thought it was, now that you mention it. He kept staring at it. It was a knock-off, it cost fifty bucks. The real one is ten-thousand! Stasia got it for me on the street in New York. Anyway I got up on the edge too, in heels, to get my purse back. My passport was in there, credit cards, everything. He wouldn’t give up. He just kept swinging it close then pulling it away.”
“Like a child,” Pascal muttered.
“Finally he lets go, flings my purse up in the air, like somehow I could catch it. I reach for it, reach, and— splash. In I go.”
“What an ass-hat,” Merle said. “Did he leave you your passport?”
“He did actually. It’s a miracle.”
Pascal pondered telling the women that Bruno worked for the Policier Nationale, but it was too disgusting. Even as an informant, semi-official, he gave all of them a black eye. He would never get that image out of his mind, Bruno laughing at Elise, giving the crowd permission to publicly demean and shame her. With any luck Pascal would get him fired.
“Were you worried about me?” Elise asked. “I hope not. I should have stayed with you in Scotland. I shouldn’t have just run off. I didn’t want you to try to discourage me. It seemed so exciting, so bold and adventurous. I hate being told not to do things. It makes me just want to do it all the more.” She rubbed her face, hunched into a kitchen chair. “It was stupid. But I just wanted some fun, you know? A few days in Paris, with a hot Frenchman. You understand, Merle.” She glanced at Pascal then back at her sister.
Merle took her hand. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that every girl wants a few days in Paris with a hot Frenchman.” She winked at Pascal. “You just have to be choosy.”
They all took long naps. Pascal and Merle curled together on the bed as the day warmed outside, still in their clothes, hers smelling of hay and goat. Elise stretched out on the lumpy sofa, fast asleep in seconds. The phone call woke Merle. She checked the time: 3 pm.
“Stace?”
“Hi. How are you?” She sounded nervous, causing Merle to sit up in bed.
“Fine. Elise is here. Pascal rescued her from that creep.”
“Thank God. That’s good news.” She sounded distracted. “Listen, you guys need to come back here. Now.”
Merle rubbed her eyes. “Now? My flight isn’t until Sunday. I’m helping feed baby goats and— ” She almost said ‘writing a novel’ but swallowed the words. “Is it Daddy?”
“Get back here in the morning. Seriously. Bring Pascal and Elise.”
“Tomorrow? We’re out in the country somewhere, Stasia. Not close to an airport or anything.”
“So are we. Just— can you do it?”
“What’s going on? Is it Daddy?” she repeated.
Pascal rolled over and looked at her. Merle whispered, “It’s Stasia.”
“No, Daddy’s fine. Recovering. We’re all healthy. Except for Oliver who hurt himself throwing bowling balls on the grass but he’s fine. Just a broken finger. You have to come tomorrow, Merle.”
“Why are you being so adamant and so mysterious at the same time?”
Stasia sighed. “Because I’m hopeful— but not one-hundred-percent positive.” She lowered her voice. “About our favorite couple.”
Merle gasped. “No! Really?!”
“Yes, plus Francie got that Jinty girl off. She retracted her confession. Francie is high as a kite. In a good way.”
“Wow. Any other news?”
“Nothing that can’t wait until I see you tomorrow. Now get off this call and make reservations.”
Stasia clicked off, leaving Merle staring at her phone. “We’re supposed to go back to Scotland tomorrow. General Stasia’s orders.”
