The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 89
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Pascal looked at the time. There was a moment for one more phone call. Yves answered, caution in his voice.
“D’Onscon. Ça va?”
“Souci, I must file a complaint against Bruno Nordvilles-Moura. He held a woman against her will for two days.” He rattled off the address of the apartment without waiting for a reply. “Can you do it?”
“Is the woman filing a complaint?”
Pascal glanced at Elise, in a sundress and sunglasses, the picture of a happy tourist. “Yes. Her name is Elise Bennett. She is an American national. She is the woman in the fountain, Yves. The woman whose number you traced. She is free now. But I will send you her information for the formal complaint.” The flight was called over the loud speakers. “I must go. I’ll be in touch.”
Merle looked up, smiling, as Pascal returned to his seat. He tried to push the tragic events of the week from his mind and focus on her face which would be gone too soon. The tragic energy of Bruno Nordvilles-Moura and Kincardie House. All he could picture was Vanora Petrie’s blue-tinted visage as he dragged her from the muddy water. me malheureux.
Merle reached for his hand as he sat down. There was a hint of worry in her eyes. He must be still frowning. Her warm touch cheered him and brought him back to her. He leaned in and kissed her on the mouth.
“Ma chérie. Tout va bien.”
_______
Callum recognized the Detective Inspector’s blue sedan as it rattled across the new metal bridge and was surprised by the promptness of the local constabulary. He’d only returned from the hills with Mr. Craigg’s body a half-hour before. It had been slow-going, coming out of the high country with the little pony and its cargo. Callum and Annie took turns leading Annabelle. The shiltie hung her head as she stumbled on stones and often had to be coaxed along.
The second car arrived, a regulation black one with two uniformed officers. Different ones than previously, he noted as he approached them in the gravel car park. Callum wondered where his mother was, hoping she was upstairs sleeping, or perhaps in town with her friends, having tea. It was nearly tea-time, the sun lowering over the hills, slanting down the vale.
“Inspector.” Callum greeted him, and nodded to the constables. “The body is in the barn. This way.”
Mr. Grassie turned to one of the officers. “Reynolds, you take charge of the remains.” He strode off toward the barn. To Callum Grassie explained, “We were on our way here when we heard of the passing. We aren’t equipped to take him yet but we’ve called in the proper authorities. You’ll be wanting to call Lindsey Jack, I reckon.” Callum nodded at the mention of a nearby funeral director. The same one had taken his father’s body away. “He was wrapped in a blanket, you say?”
“Yes, with pennies on the eyes.” Callum reached into his pocket and retrieved the coins.
“Who do you suppose took that care?” The Inspector took the pennies, examining them briefly. “Would it possibly be this Brian Gunn?”
“I haven’t seen him to ask.”
“And where would he be this time o’ day, pray tell?”
Callum led the Inspector and second constable up the stairs above the coach house to the rooms of Gunni and, lately, Killian. They were tidier than the morning, Callum noted, and it appeared the chauffeur had cleared out. “There was a difference of opinion with the chauffeur, Mr. Yarrow. He’s gone.”
“Difference over what?” Mr. Grassie asked, eyeing the room.
“The ownership of petrol,” Callum said. “Gunni must be out in the pastures.”
The Inspector bowed slightly to Callum. “If you would leave us now, Mr. Logan. I will join you downstairs shortly.” He waved the officer forward. “Constable. Conduct your search.”
Callum was seated in the yard on a stump of another old tree that had fallen decades earlier, wondering what in the world they were searching for, when Constable Reynolds emerged from the barn. He seemed to fall out the barn door, looking frantic when he reached daylight. He spied Callum and called out, “Where is the Inspector, sir?”
Callum led him back up the stairs and knocked politely on the door. The constable couldn’t wait though, pushing him to the side and then through the unlocked door.
“Sir? Quick, sir. You best come see what I’ve found in the barn.”
Callum hung back in the yard again as all three policemen disappeared into the barn, shutting the doors behind them. He glanced over his shoulder at Kincardie House, still quiet despite a so far hour- long visit with police. He was glad Annie had gone back to the village. Her sisters were returning today and tomorrow would be a flurry of activity. His stomach churned a bit about the events of the morrow, hoping the second time was the charm.
But now, he had to focus on whatever was going on here. The DI obviously was looking for something particular even though Glynn Barra had assured Callum that the case was over. Jinty Arbuckle had returned from where she’d been held in Aberdeen. Glynn had brought her out. They’d arrived just before he and Annie got back from the hills with Mr. Craigg. Glynn was delighted to have gotten Jinty freed and had offered to drive Annie back to the village on her return trip.
Callum stood alone now in the middle of the yard, the wind from the hills ruffling his hair. His hands were dirty and he rubbed them self-consciously on his trousers. This week. Would it ever end? The quiet was too much for him suddenly and he turned to go into the house. Before he reached the door it opened. His mother stepped outside, shading her eyes from the sun.
“What is happening?” she asked sharply.
“It’s Mr. Craigg, mother.” He told her quickly, briefly, about finding his body in the hills, in the bothy. Then he glanced back at the barn. “But something else brought them out.”
“Something else? Is it Vanora?”
He didn’t answer. They stood near the front of the house and waited. Ten minutes passed, then both barn doors swung wide. Callum walked slowly toward the barn, telling his mother to stay where she was. He didn’t want her to see Mr. Craigg.
What had they found in the barn? The Inspector led the way out of the barn, into the afternoon sunshine. He held a plastic bag. Inside the bag was a pair of red rubber boots. Callum squinted, confused.
Then the two constables appeared, holding a man between them.
Behind him Callum heard his mother gasp, then swear like a sailor.
Handcuffed, head down, feet dragging, Brian Gunn was led to the police vehicle and put ceremoniously into the back seat. The constables listened to the Inspector for a moment then backed out, driving with care across the bridge and away.
Detective Inspector Grassie waddled slowly over to his car, set the bag with the boots on the seat and shut the door again. He walked over to Callum and greeted him and Mrs. Logan with a nod.
“Not quite finished, it appears, ma’am,” he said with a sigh. “Yon Mr. Gunn had hidden Miss Petrie’s boots in the barn, then tried to hide his own person there under a pile of straw when he saw us arrive.” He looked up at them almost fondly. “Not to worry. Just some questioning, Mrs. Logan. We’ll see what the boy has to say for himself.”
Callum glanced at his mother. She squeezed her lips together tightly, unable to speak. With a hard glance at the policeman she spun back toward the house, shutting the door behind her with a slam.
“Tough week,” Callum said.
The Inspector sighed. “No argument here.”
Chapter 40
Saturday morning
In the Highlands
The sound of the bag-pipes carried for miles on the wind, drifting down like feathers from above. Merle settled on the wooden seat of the hay wagon, smoothing the unfamiliar dress. How had Stasia done it? The dresses were incredible, simple and divine. She checked the pin that held her short-brimmed hat in place, tightened her shawl on her shoulders, and tried to breathe.
Pascal touched her arm as he passed. “See you up there. À bientôt.” He shouldered the bag of supplies and joined the other men heading up the trail to the mountain top.
Elise and Francie clambered awkwardly up the steps of the wagon in their tight dresses and chattered as they sat opposite her. “What a kick,” Francie said. “Look at that matched pair. I just learned that’s what you call matching horses when they pull your carriage.”
“Some carriage,” Elise said, curling a lip. “What would Jane Austen say? I hope I don’t get splinters.”
“After all this a couple splinters in your ass is a small price to pay,” Merle said. “Have you seen Annie?”
“Stasia was getting her ready, touching up her makeup,” Francie said. “And rounding up rain jackets, just in case.”
“Please God, don’t let it rain,” Elise whined. “We’ve suffered enough.”
Merle felt she was beyond prayers at this point. She was sure Annie, a not-so-closet Buddhist, would agree. What would be, would be. If it rained, it rained. Still she tried hard to steady her nerves, the swift changes sending all well-laid plans to the junk heap.
They’d flown in yesterday from Toulouse and rented a car in Aberdeen, arriving at the Hydro in time to hear the news of the death of Mr. Craigg. It was shocking that so many deaths had come during their stay in Scotland. Merle felt guilty about all the drama her family seemed to have brought with them— death, storms, heartache. Was it their fault that Vanora and Mr. Craigg had died? Was there some cloud hanging over the Bennetts? Pascal reassured her, reminding her that death was part of life, that there was no stopping tragedy. That if police work had taught him anything, it was that the random nature of human existence called out for acceptance of endings.
Merle had had endings. She didn’t want more. But there was no rejecting life, not if you wanted to live it fully. And she did. She so much wanted to embrace every random lovely thing that happened, to savor and rejoice in the good in the world. Pascal said that to embrace the lovely things one had to accept the ugly as well.
Taking the bad with the good sometimes made one’s head spin. Hard on the heels of the announcement of the passing of Mr. Craigg was the announcement of this special event for Callum and Annie. Maybe a wedding, maybe just a party, its exact nature shrouded in Highland mist.
But Stasia wasn’t very good about secrets. When she brought out the redesigned bridesmaids dresses it was obvious this ‘event’ wasn’t a farewell picnic. The dresses amazed all the sisters, even Francie. Stasia had gotten rid of yards of taffeta leaving a slim navy skirt, trimmed away the awful sleeves and snipped the gargantuan bow, fashioning an elegant tartan top with scooped neckline, slim sleeves, and a tiny metal buckle on grosgrain ribbon at the waist. All those years at Gamine weren’t for nothing. Merle’s dress fit perfectly, down to the length of sleeve she liked, hitting right at her wrist. Stasia also found them all navy flats, little straw hats, and matching pashmina shawls.
Merle tucked her shawl closer as they waited, the driver of the wagon holding the horses’ halters and stomping his feet. Tristan should be here, she thought. He would love this. She missed him so much.
The weather was sunny but brisk. Only a few wispy clouds scudded over the hills. It was just after eleven in the morning and the birds were noisy in the trees by the river. For a moment Merle closed her eyes and tried to just be there, in the Highlands, with her family. No expectations, no worries, no thinking about tomorrow. Just feel the wind on her cheek, the sun on her hair.
Be here now. Why was it always so hard? She bit her bottom lip, tuned out the chatter of her sisters, and listened hard to the high wind in the trees, thinking clearing thoughts of sunrises and ocean waves.
The front door of Kincardie House opened. Mrs. Logan and Mrs. MacKeegan made their way across the yard. They both looked coifed, in their Sunday best, although the cook carried a pair of rubber boots, just in case.
The driver helped the older ladies up into the wagon where they sat next to Merle. Cordial nods all around, then silence.
“Fine day, innit?” Mrs. MacKeegan said finally. “Lookin’ bonny, y’are.”
“You look very nice yourself, Mrs. MacKeegan,” Merle said. And she did, with her hair out of its usual cap, copper shot with silver and curled properly, accenting her rosy cheeks. “Isn’t this fun, out in a wagon?”
Fiona Logan raised her eyes skeptically but was mum. Her face revealed nothing. They fidgeted in silence for a few more minutes then at last Annie and Stasia appeared at the front door, carrying canvas bags over their shoulders. Annie was wearing her long raincoat and leather hiking boots that Merle recognized from years past. What dress was she wearing? Merle couldn’t tell. Her hair was loose down her back. Stasia wore what the other sisters wore, the redesigned bridesmaid’s dress and shawl. And an angry expression. Merle sighed. There was always one sister who was pissed off. Today it was Stasia.
The driver, wearing a Highland kilt himself with a black shirt and heavy boots, helped Annie up onto the seat next to him in the front, then Stasia into the back. They stashed their bags between their feet and the driver snapped the reins. With a jerk, and a gasp from Mrs. Logan, they were off.
Jack and Bernadette Bennett had volunteered to go up on an earlier run of the hay wagon. They would help get things arranged for whatever was happening. They had left the Hydro right after breakfast with Pascal and hadn’t been seen since. Merle wondered if Hugh and Davina were coming. No sign of them either.
The road, such as it was, was rough. A tractor path at best, it swung past the gate to the pasture, around a pond behind the house, down a hill and back up the other side, veering north at some point toward the hill that had been pointed out as the destination. They had been warned that the wagon couldn’t make it all the way to the top. How far would they have to hike in tight dresses and skimpy shoes? Merle imagined Pascal sweeping her up off her feet and carrying her. Well, all right, she thought with a smile. That would work.
Before they left France Elise had been contrite and embarrassed about running off with Bruno, moping around Pascal’s cottage. The humiliating photograph on the internet had wounded her deeply. Her mood lasted a few hours into the evening until Pascal reluctantly admitted that her ‘boyfriend’ was actually working as an undercover informant for the French authorities. That he was working, in fact, for his department, the Wine Fraud Division. Elise exclaimed, “I knew it!” and pranced around like she’d been clairvoyant and they’d all been wrong about the evil munchkin. It was a little hard to take but Merle was so mellow from goat-cuddling and cheese-eating and gothic-romance-writing that she tuned out her little sister. Let her crow. She normally had very little to crow about to her big sisters, sadly.
Pascal had taken another three-day weekend, something the French honored with reverence. Even after a week’s vacation, time off was sacred. He was dismissive of Annie and Callum’s plans, whatever they were. A wedding? Quel déplaisant. But at least he had stopped growling, Weddings! Merle knew he adored Annie so she just smiled.
Merle noticed she was ignoring a lot of stuff that normally would have bugged her. It did help with the everyday anxiety and obsessive list-making, just blocking annoying stuff, things you couldn’t really handle or control. She took note of this wonderful detachment and tried to internalize the lessons. Was it the writing? Did losing yourself in a fictional world make the real one a little more bearable? It seemed entirely possible.
Her three days in France were a dream already. No schedule, no mealtimes, no schmoozing, no one telling her to eat something healthy— or eat something. No one criticizing her clothes, her hair, the whiteness of her teeth. No running for trains, no bumping through crowds, poked by umbrellas, no sucking up to people she could barely tolerate.
Farmers, goats, wine, time. It expanded in her mind as a little silver-lined cloud she rode on, the gothic story unfolding like a magic carpet, her heroine so tormented and brave and homely. Not comely! Homely was the thing. Nobody wanted to be comely anymore, how common. Live by your wits, lass.
She hadn’t told Pascal her plans yet. She hadn’t told anyone, a speck of nervousness bubbling up. Who was she to be a writer? She would give him a hint before they went home tomorrow. But her sisters? They could wait. She needed to discuss things with Tristan before she quit her job and went to live in the Dordogne and write her novel.
There. She’d said it ‘aloud’ to her brain. Quit my job. Write my novel— MY novel! Live in France. With Pascal.
Oh, God. It was frightening to even think it. And beyond exhilarating. Her heart raced for a minute with fear and excitement then she consciously brought herself back to the Highlands, to this moment in time. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
Francie was talking to the two older ladies. Something about Jinty, the caretaker.
“Is Jinty coming today? Is she— available?” Merle asked.
“Oh, aye. Up at dawn, she’s been. You’ll see her in a crack,” Mrs. MacKeegan said. “Thanks to your sister, we got our Jinty back.”
Francie beamed. She’d never looked prettier, Merle thought, the sunshine playing across her freckles, the little straw hat pinned on the back of her head, letting her auburn hair fly over her neck and cheeks. She clutched her shawl with one hand and reached out for Merle’s with the other.
“Thanks again for giving me that card,” Francie said. “The lawyer, Glynn Barra? Together, well, we were quite a little team of pitbulls.”
Merle squeezed her hand. “Good work. Congratulations. I knew you could figure it all out.” Francie looked really good, like sparkly-good. Her eyes were clear and bright, her complexion glowed. Was it because of her legal victory or because she cut down on her drinking? Last night at the family dinner at the Hydro she’d had just one glass of wine and told Merle confidentially she had to watch herself. Merle was so proud of her, on all counts.
“I believe Glynn will be here today,” Fiona Logan announced, sitting stiffly on the swaying seat. “She’s an old friend of Callum’s. They were quite close, you know. They went to university together.”
