The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  Chapter Forty-One

  Gabrielle

  Gabrielle took the familiar route at record speed. Down the twenty-one stone steps, through the vineyard, past the champagne house and onward to the miles of limestone caves cut beneath the chalky earth.

  Dusk had fallen over the vineyard. The sky overhead was caught in that otherworldly moment between day and night, where light battled the dark, but in the end, always lost the fight. Suddenly, she remembered that night long ago, when she’d hidden the champagne behind a collection of strategically placed stones. She remembered how François had seen her faulty construction. And again, when Detective Mueller had shown uncommon interest.

  It always seemed to come back to the wall, the first of her many lies.

  The panic tried to rise, to blunt her edge, to make her weak. Fear was also there, in her throat, on the back of her tongue. She was at the door now, plowing through. “François,” she called out, blinking rapidly to adjust her vision to the low light. “François, are you here?”

  No answer.

  She continued down the corridors, calling out until she reached the end. She stared at the fake wall. The lone bulb flickered, dimming the light, making it hard to see. Her eyes closed momentarily, while her mind raced. Von Schmidt had wanted LeBlanc champagne. And, it would seem, their valuables, stealing them little by little until he’d amassed a small fortune.

  Then, there’d been his sudden and vigorous support of the Nazis’ policy to rid the world of Jews. No one hearing him would doubt his loyalty to the Third Reich. But one thing Gabrielle knew for certain. Von Schmidt’s loyalty was always to von Schmidt.

  Her theory made sense.

  She wanted to rush to the police station and present her evidence. She couldn’t go to Mueller without the facts. All of them.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, penetrating her thoughts. Not François. She knew his gait. Instinct told her to keep silent. She circled around, backpedaling to her left, into the shadows, staying out of sight, pressing deeper into the dark.

  Paulette’s lieutenant stepped into the circle of dim light. He had a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He was looking for something—someone. Paulette? Not here. He would have to know not to look for her sister here. Or had this been where they’d met for their trysts?

  Then why draw his weapon?

  Gabrielle watched him shining the torch along the walls, down the hallway, up to the ceiling. No, he was not here for romance.

  She kept silent, absolutely silent. And absolutely, perfectly still.

  The beam of light slashed at her feet, caught hold, then traveled up her body and shone in her face, momentarily blinding her. “Ah, there you are.” His voice held a satisfied edge. “Your man, the cellar master, I think you call him, told me I would find you here.”

  François would have told this man nothing. He was here because he knew they kept the special champagne in this section of the cave. He’d been among Mueller’s soldiers on several of the raids. That meant, like so many before him, the lieutenant was here to rob her family.

  “Must you shine your torch at me?” She covered her face with her arm. “I can’t think properly with all that light in my eyes.”

  He lowered the torch.

  She lowered her arm.

  They stared at one another for a full five seconds, both blinking rapidly. Gabrielle took control of the conversation. “Are you here for the champagne?”

  He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “It’s not the champagne I want.”

  “My sister isn’t at home right now.”

  “No, she is not,” he said, his gaze furious, his face red. “She has turned out to be quite the disappointment.”

  Gabrielle didn’t like what she heard in his voice. “What have you done to Paulette?”

  “She is sitting in a jail cell, where she belongs for telling her lies. And now you will join her there.”

  Gabrielle stared at the gun pointed at her head. One bullet. It would take only one. To her head, her heart. A quick death. She could scream.

  No one would hear.

  “I know the truth about your mother. I know she is a Jew.” He sounded disgusted, almost petulant, as if this discovery was a personal offense. “And now the Gestapo knows as well.”

  Ice spread in her lungs. She looked at him through a haze. Her hope was gone, vanished like a mirage already faded from view. Gabrielle knew in her bones that her mother would disappear by morning. She couldn’t save her now. Maybe she never could.

  She could save the other members of her family. Not if you are dead. Not if you are arrested. “I won’t leave with you, Lieutenant. I won’t let you arrest me.”

  “You speak as if the decision is yours.” He advanced on her, his features distorting in the low, flickering light. “The females in your family are very free with their affections. What do you expect from filthy Jews?”

  Gabrielle knocked the gun from his hand, the move swift and surprising. The weapon hit the stone at their feet, a shot fired off, hitting limestone. Only limestone. Praise God.

  Eyes bulging with fury, the lieutenant lurched for the gun. She kicked it away, and watched it disappear under a rack of champagne.

  “You will regret that.” He slapped her, hard. So hard her teeth rattled. Pain bloomed in her cheek and jaw. She thought of nothing but escape and leaped toward freedom.

  He caught her quickly, a swift grab of her arm, and spun her to face him, pulling her close, closer. She beat at him with her fists, managed to get in a few good blows, including one to his face. He reared back, and she twisted hard.

  His hands slipped. She sprinted to her left, careened into a rack of wine bottles. Several toppled from their nest, the glass shattering at her feet. She lost her balance and reached out for purchase. Nothing there.

  Falling. She was falling. She waved her arms. Caught her balance.

  He wheeled around and came for her again.

  He was faster, stronger, his legs longer, his training superior. He caught her again, drove her to the ground and pinned her beneath him. “I made your sister pay for her lies. Now it’s your turn. When I am finished, the Gestapo can have what is left.”

  He was going to hurt her. She could attempt to plead and reason and beg, but it wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would stop him. That was her truth now.

  Gabrielle shifted beneath him, trying to get away. But he was so much bigger and stronger than she, and he had violence in his eyes. He slapped her again. Stars exploded behind her eyelids and she found herself begging, after all. “Please, don’t do this.”

  “Shut up.” He wrapped his fingers around her throat and squeezed.

  Gasping for breath, her lungs on fire, she threw her hand out, connected with cold glass. Not broken, fully intact. Rescue. Salvation. She closed her hand over the bottle. The champagne. Always the champagne. Her purpose. Her life’s work.

  Her deliverance.

  She twisted her wrist and, in a burst of unexpected strength, swung her arm in a wide arc. The crack of bottle to skull was deafening. He slumped forward, landing hard on top of her. His weight was unbearable, suffocating. She pushed and shoved. And then, finally, squirmed out from under him and clambered to her feet.

  His body lay still, unmoving, a huge mass on the floor. Nobody could survive that blow.

  Had she killed him?

  Breathing raggedly, she knelt beside the motionless body, sent her fingers running across his throat. His skin was warm beneath her touch. Then, there, a pulse. Thready and slow. Alive. He was alive. She was not a murderer.

  She stood, and then looked down at the lieutenant. No, she was not a murderer. But she was in trouble.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Josephine

  Josephine couldn’t find her journal. It wasn’t where it should be. She fitted the baseboard back in place and
stood. She frowned, fearing she’d misplaced it. A deadly mistake. She ran her gaze around the perimeter of the room, searching for some small item, a pen, a piece of fabric, anything, that would spark her memory, unwilling to admit, even to herself, that she’d forgotten where she’d put the book. Badly done, Josephine. She told the pages secrets, some her own and some that belonged to others.

  Anyone could have found it.

  She sank onto the bed and glanced around helplessly. As a child she’d spent her nights writing in her journal, filling the pages with her hopes and dreams. When she filled one book, she began a new one, recording details of the future she would have, wondering if her life would be a happy one, or one full of sorrow like her mother’s.

  The men in her family died young.

  But that wasn’t what she was supposed to be thinking about. A blackbird landed on the ledge outside her window, edging cautiously along the sill, as birds often did when they were on unfamiliar territory. The creature stared at her through the glass. His small dark eyes blinking at her knowingly, as if he understood she was losing her mind. He could not know such a thing. He could not know.

  She went to the window to shoo him away. Below, in the final burst of light from the sun, she saw her granddaughter moving quickly, practically running. The young woman flew across the terrace, disappeared over the balustrade, then reappeared at the very edge of the vineyard. She didn’t look right or left, only straight ahead. She was holding something in her hand, Josephine couldn’t see what it was. A man in a black Nazi uniform, the crisp red armband with the swastika visible even from this distance, appeared in the vineyard. Moving like a predator.

  Josephine had seen this man and this woman come together in the vineyard.

  The scene was all wrong.

  Wrong man. Wrong woman.

  Find the book.

  She quickly retreated from the window and began a frantic search, tossing pillows to the floor, blankets, sheets. She tore apart the closet next. Ravaged the drawers. Somewhere along the way she forgot what she was looking for, then remembered—the book with her secrets—and began searching harder.

  In the bathroom, she caught sight of her reflection and cried out as she saw the crazed look in the overwrought, unfocused eyes. The sweep of tangled gray hair billowing around her face. So, this was what she’d become.

  Grimacing, she returned to the bedroom she’d ransacked herself. It took several slow intakes of air for her to slow the wild beating of her heart. She wanted to turn off her mind, to forget that unhinged woman in the mirror. You are Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc. You are strong and capable. You are better than this.

  She emptied her mind of the panic, of the blackness creeping in until finally—finally—she was thinking clearly, coolly. With purpose. A name came to her then. Marta. Marta was the keeper of Josephine’s memory now. She would know what had become of the journal.

  Josephine swung open the door and called out into the abandoned hallway. “Marta, hurry. I need you. Come quick.”

  At least two seconds passed, then she vaulted toward the stairs, down the first flight, and the second. She couldn’t wait for the housekeeper to come to her. Marta met her in the foyer and took her arm. “What is this? Josephine, what is wrong?”

  “The book. Marta, I can’t find the book.”

  “You mean your journal. I have it. You gave it to your granddaughter Gabrielle, who then gave it to me.”

  A pounding filled her head, loud and insistent. A memory flashed. The woman in the vineyard. The man following her. The book. That incessant pounding again. Marta letting her go, turning...

  Someone at the door.

  Marta moved quickly.

  The man in the black Nazi uniform, the crisp red armband with the Nazi swastika, standing on the threshold, holding on to her granddaughter’s arm. Again, the scene was all wrong. Different man. Different woman.

  Josephine shook her head. The gesture served its purpose, replacing her confusion with clear thinking. “Detective Mueller, I demand to know what you are doing with your hand on my granddaughter.”

  If he noticed the angry intonation, he didn’t react. “I am releasing her into your custody. You will want to keep a close eye on her in the future. She should not be out past curfew.”

  His words confused Josephine. He’d taken Hélène away with him this morning. But was returning with Paulette. “What of my daughter-in-law?”

  “The matter is more complicated with Madame LeBlanc.” Without asking permission, he stepped across the threshold, his hand still on Paulette’s arm. Only then did Josephine notice her granddaughter’s red-rimmed eyes, her puffy cheeks, the subdued posture.

  This was not the Paulette she knew. The girl’s mouth was drawn, and she seemed incapable of walking on her own, as evidenced by her leaning into Detective Mueller as he guided her into the foyer.

  A foul Nazi should not be allowed to touch her granddaughter. Josephine quickly took Paulette’s hand. Marta moved to the other side. Together, they half carried, half dragged the girl to a chair.

  Eyes void of emotion, Paulette stayed seated, upright and silent. Unresponsive, at first, until Josephine said her name. Then, she began crying. Hot, miserable tears. The girl tried to speak, but her sentences ran together, and she made no sense.

  Nothing about this made sense.

  Mueller spoke into the confusion. “She was brought to me by her—” he seemed to search for the right word “—friend. The lieutenant wanted her arrested, but she is guilty of no crime. The Nuremberg laws are clear on this. Her mother, on the other hand, is not so fortunate.”

  “You arrested Hélène? On what charge?” Josephine demanded, then remembered the missing German. “You have news of Capitaine von Schmidt?”

  “That matter is still under investigation.” He seemed to think over his next words. “I have arrested your daughter-in-law for lying about being a Jew and for falsifying her papers accordingly.”

  He spoke the words simply. Without emotion. Josephine could only gape. Hélène’s secret was out and here this man stood, a representative of the Gestapo, calm and detached as he gave her the news.

  Was he waiting for confirmation, a confession of her own?

  He would get none of that from Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc.

  She was guilty, all of them were guilty. They had committed crimes against the Third Reich, and he knew. Somehow, he knew that they had lied and schemed to protect each other. They would lose everything now. Their champagne house, the château, possibly their lives.

  Battling furiously against the pain in her heart, Josephine held the man’s stare. There was nothing there, no indication what he would do next.

  What was he waiting for? Perhaps he wanted the women together, so he could cart them off as a family and make an example of them for their neighbors.

  Then why did he not have an entire battalion with him?

  “Where is your other granddaughter?”

  She said nothing. Only held his stare.

  “Where is Madame Dupree?” he asked again, the first signs of impatience in his voice. “You will tell me where she is,” he demanded.

  Josephine looked up into his eyes, scowling, and searched through the wreckage of her mind for something she was supposed to remember about her granddaughter. Gabrielle. Moving through the vineyard. The other man following her. “You are not the only German to come seeking her.”

  The detective stiffened. Something came and went in his eyes. Alarm? Fear? “There’s been another?”

  “The lieutenant,” she said. “Paulette’s friend. He followed Gabrielle into the wine cellar.”

  Mueller was on the move before she finished the thought. “Mein Gott. Pray I’m not too late.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Gabrielle

  Gabrielle let several minutes pass. Then she crouched down and check
ed the lieutenant’s pulse again. Thready. Weak. But alive. He was still alive.

  And still a threat.

  He could come around at any minute. Then what would she do? Subdue him again. Subdue him now. The gun. She needed to find his gun. She searched beneath the rack of champagne where she’d kicked it, careful to avoid the shards of glass from the broken bottles. There, she saw it. Her hand reached for the weapon. Her fingertips touched the metal. She could end this with a single pull of the trigger. She paused, God’s words running through her mind.

  Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.

  A variety of emotions followed the thought. Gabrielle had done things in this war of which she never thought herself capable. She’d stolen. She’d lied. She’d risked her life and that of others. She would not commit murder.

  Her throat hurt where he’d grabbed her. She touched it. Her head hurt. She touched that, too. Everything hurt. She took shallow, steady breaths. Lieutenant Weber had come to harm her. She’d fought for her life and prevailed. There was no reason for this to go poorly. Unless she panicked. She made herself think about next steps.

  Something had to be done with him.

  She could not do it alone. Her gaze landed on the wall she and François had rebuilt together. François. It was a lot to ask. The stakes were higher. The risks greater. There was no other way. We are at war, she told herself. Survival came at a price to the soul.

  The sound of footsteps spun her around.

  Too late. Detective Mueller was there, ramrod stiff, a pistol in his hand, pointed at her heart. Gabrielle watched him with a surreal feeling, even now, knowing he was everything she feared in the enemy, hated even, she found herself noting the handsome face, the athletic build, the pale blue gaze. Not hard. Not soft. But steady.

  “Let me see your hands.” He spoke in perfect French. Then repeated the command again in English with a British accent. The change in his voice was remarkable. Confusing.