Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  “When will Pascal be back?” Albert asked.

  “I’m not sure. He’s working somewhere.” She smiled. “You know how he is. Top secret.”

  They talked a little more about goings-on in the village. A fête, a new pharmacy, the Thursday market. Merle invited him to her house for dinner the next night and he accepted. Maybe he would remember the stranger between now and then.

  Or maybe she’d see him herself.

  Léo Delage waited in the shadows near the old arcades, where pigs and chickens were once sold. Now it would be specialty lettuce and foie gras and fine speckled eggs, he supposed. He wasn’t interested in the fine foods of France. They had lived in his dreams for many years. But no more.

  He watched the American come out of the café and look around. He’d been following her since morning when he’d made his way from his old van where he’d spent the night. The car park for the village was tucked away outside the ancient walls. No one bothered him there. It had not been convenient that she recognized him at the café. He had been foolish, too bold, to bring his co-workers to that fancy restaurant the previous week. He’d had to make himself scarce that night but no matter. He was acting on instinct now.

  The search for the man in the straw hat, the one who drove the green car, had been laughably easy, once the little man— l’imbécile, Antoine-Luc, got drunk and started ranting and prancing in the village. Getting him drunk had been fairly straightforward, though expensive. Then the grandson of the vintner told him the man was a wine buyer named Paul Duguay from Lyon. There was, naturally, no such person.

  Léo knew that policemen often used false names similar to their own, and he knew the name of his nemesis. He knew he had the right man. Pascal d’Onscon was not listed anywhere either, of course. As a policeman, he would be very careful about that. He did, however, give the grandson a mobile number. And that was his mistake.

  The police thought criminals were stupid, and, it was true, many were. But Léo Delage, he was different. He had two years at the École nationale supérieure agronomique in Toulouse before he was called home to learn the wine trade at his father’s knee. He knew how to find someone, just as he knew how to hold a grudge, how to honor vengeance, and how to fight like hell.

  That policeman had no grande école education. And he thought himself so superior.

  The woman walked briskly in her short summer dress, past the fountain, to the west out of the plaza. Léo pushed himself out of the shadows, watched her disappear, and followed.

  Ten

  The vandals came back.

  Merle had been coming and going through the alley, working on the gate’s handle, patching broken slats, repainting the gate, installing a cheap new metal bistro table and chairs, finding a nursery for new plants. She was so obsessed with (yes, obsession was one of her issues) on returning her garden to its past glory that she didn’t see the damage in the front right away. It took Madame Suchet tapping on her front door to get her to notice.

  Her neighbor was wringing her hands and muttering in French, a pitiful grimace on her kindly face. Merle was confused but tried to calm her. Mme Suchet pulled her outside and waved her arm at the front of the house.

  The vandals had used different colors this time: yellow, blue, and green. They weren’t quite so artistic as last time, or tall, concentrating their mayhem on the ground floor walls. Several of the tags looked like symbols but of what, she couldn’t tell. What the hell was wrong with people, Merle thought, covering her mouth with a hand to keep from cursing aloud.

  “I am so sorry, Madame Bennett,” Mme Suchet said. “I did not see them again. At least you had not completed the cleaning yet or there would be another cost to you.”

  “Yes, that’s lucky,” Merle mused, feeling anything but lucky in this unlucky little ville. “Now I really have to talk to the police.”

  “Oh, absolument. We can hope they will catch the bad men. Whoever they are.”

  “Do you have any idea who might be doing this?” Merle asked.

  Mme Suchet shook her head, biting her lips as if trying not to speculate. Merle waited her out. “There has been some talk, in the village.”

  “About what? A certain person?”

  A Gallic shrug. “I will ask at church. Someone must know.”

  Merle reassured the woman that she would take care of it. Mme Suchet told her the police were now stationed in Sulliac, a larger village ten miles away. To the east, she explained, pointing to the west helpfully.

  There was only one problem. Merle had no car. In the past she’d borrowed Albert’s ancient Deux-Chevaux, a classic Citroën that offered a wrestling match with the gear shift rather than an easy drive. But Albert had told her that his 2CV was out of commission and it was too costly to fix so he was just letting it gather dust until he could decide what to do with it.

  The day had arrived. Merle Bennett would buy a car. It was time. She’d be in France for months this trip and would often have the need for her own wheels. She’d have to find a place to park it, a garage or at least a permanent parking spot outside the walls. She glanced up at the mess the vandals had left her and hoped they wouldn’t do the same to her as-yet-unknown vehicle. She had calculated this cost into her trip and hoped to spend no more than € 5,000 on something that had four tires and an engine.

  A small used car lot crouched by the only gas station in Malcouziac, about a quarter mile outside the old walls. Close enough to walk to, that was key. Merle took a few more photographs of the vandalism for the police, changed into slacks and walking shoes, and headed toward the southern gate of the village as her watch turned eleven.

  The ESSO station was an eyesore, a slab of cracked concrete and asphalt with antiquated pumps, a dilapidated garage where two vehicles were up on lifts, greasy spots everywhere, including on the scalp of the man who greeted her. Jean-Paul, last name not required, was middle-aged, short, and swarthy, a highly-oiled individual of the used car salesman species. He wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and a thin black tie, and walked over to her briskly as she looked at his magnificent selection of autos.

  Merle recognized the type of salesman, even though she’d never bought a car before. How embarrassing, at her age. She had no idea what to look for, how to deal with pushy salesmen, how to negotiate, how to avoid getting swindled. That last was impossible, she decided, watching Jean-Paul bounce on the balls of his feet and rub his hands together. To him she was fresh meat. He strung a rapid line of French together.

  Did he speak English, she asked yet another French person. Thankfully he did.

  Seven vehicles graced the side lot where weeds and grass went untrimmed. Most were fairly late models, no real clunkers, she assumed, seeing Peugeots and Renaults and a couple of British Vauxhalls with the steering wheel on the wrong side. Those were out, so now there were just five.

  Jean-Paul steered her to the most expensive one, a black, heavy-bodied Mercedes that looked like it had seen a few mafia wars. It reminded her of her lawyer who’d helped her navigate the inheritance of Harry’s house, and his flashy Benz, and not in an appealing way. She moved on, asking him about the next, a late-model Citroën in a lovely shade of blue. At €12,000 it was too much. Jean-Paul was delighted to explain the size of the engine, the number of miles on the odometer, and other, faintly pertinent details. She kept moving.

  The last three were more ordinary French vehicles, two Renaults and one Peugeot. She pointed to the cheapest one, a Peugeot with several dents. The faded sign in the window said €7,500. Over her budget but the cheapest car on the lot. Obviously, she knew nothing about car prices.

  Jean-Paul shook his head sadly.

  “No, no, madame. That will not do. It has been in a crash, you see. My manager said not to sell it under any circumstances. Not until it is safe to drive. You need something immediately, no?”

  “Yes, but— Why is it out here with a price on it if it’s not for sale?”

  He continued his lament. She could see what he was up to,
trying to get her to buy something more expensive. But now she really wanted that Peugeot.

  “What year is it?”

  It was seven years old, maybe more, he said, and the odometer was not reliable. It said just 70,000 kilometers but was no doubt wrong. That was too low. Someone had fiddled with it. Besides, it had been a horrible crash. Lives may have been lost, he suggested vaguely. He nudged the side mirror to demonstrate. It wiggled slightly.

  “How much will the repairs cost?”

  “Oh, many thousands,” he said, frowning. “At least four-thousand Euros, I am guessing.”

  Merle rounded the car which was dark gray and creased with long, horizontal scratches as if the owner lived down a narrow road in a forest. There was a large dent on the right rear fender, plus a smaller one on the driver’s side door. The tires looked new. She opened the door and stuck her head into the passenger side. Someone had cleaned it with a fragrant potion. The seats were worn but clean and not terrible.

  “Do you have the keys?” She held out her hand.

  He shook his head violently, almost angry now. He refused to let her start the car and got red in the face when she insisted. He glanced back at the garage, put his hands on his hips in a comical fashion, and told her unequivocally that this car was not for sale.

  Merle had had enough. She thanked Jean-Paul and hiked back up the hill in the noon-day sun, sweating through her shirt. She’d hoped to find something she could live with but obviously buying a car wasn’t something one did willy-nilly. She was much too practical to just buy anything a man like Jean-Paul pushed on her. Maybe there was another used car business nearby with more reputable people.

  As she reached her fancifully decorated maison de ville her cellphone rang. It was Madame Armansett, the English teacher. She was pleased to offer her tutoring services. Perhaps Madame Bennett could come by her home this afternoon to discuss the fee?

  Happy to have at least accomplished that item on her list, Merle had a leisurely lunch in her garden and a quick shower before going to the Armansett residence. It was a lovely townhouse similar to hers but more modern with window boxes, green shutters, and spotless off-white stucco. The teacher opened the door, dressed in a tight, short-sleeved blouse tucked into a full skirt, a get-up that could have served June Cleaver well. Her makeup was flawless, her platinum hair done to perfection.

  “Madame Bennett. Sit please. We meet again under more, shall we say, optimal circumstances.”

  They arranged themselves in parlor chairs covered in a riot of paisley. Sunshine poured through the windows, setting off the gleaming wood floor. The sweetness of lavender floated in the room. Merle had a moment of house envy.

  They discussed schedule and fees, both of which seemed reasonable to Merle. They would meet twice a week here at the teacher’s home unless one of them was out-of-town, then arrangements would be made. All was completed in minutes, no refreshments offered or required.

  Merle stood to leave. “I could have used you this morning,” she said, smiling. She liked Jacqueline Armansett, she decided, who was just a more formal person than most Americans. Maybe one day they’d be on a first-name basis. “I need a car but they wouldn’t sell me one.”

  Madame blinked. “Where was this?”

  “At the used car lot by the gas station. I assume the station owns it? I talked to Jean-Paul, do you know him? His English is pretty good.”

  The teacher straightened up, nostrils flaring. “I’m afraid I do know him.” She stared at Merle then raised a finger. “One moment.” She walked into the kitchen and spoke softly to someone. A man followed her out, wiping his chin with a napkin.

  “My husband. Madame Bennett.” They shook hands. His name was Hervé. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a neat graying beard, wearing a suit. “She needs to buy an auto. She has talked to Jean-Paul.”

  “I see.” Hervé spoke excellent English. “Madame, the ESSO is mine. Perhaps I can help.”

  And so it happened that Merle bought the Peugeot for more than she wanted to pay but much less than the sticker price, out from under Jean-Paul who had designs on the vehicle for himself. Merle couldn’t hear what Hervé was yelling through the glass windows of the station, but it wasn’t good. She didn’t see Jean-Paul again.

  Hervé assured her that the car had not been in a crash, that it had very low mileage plus new tires and shock absorbers. The only thing necessary was the dents pounded out. Perhaps a paint job. She didn’t care about dents. Compared to her old mini-van at home this car was a palace on wheels. The financial arrangements were made, a complicated overseas financial transaction involving two banks plus several translators and currency exchanges. In two days she was the proud owner of a beat-up Peugeot the color of low-hanging rainclouds. Her first car purchase at fifty-one years old. She was so proud.

  The morning after she took possession of her vehicle, Merle set out to find the police station in Sulliac which appeared to be more like twenty miles away and to the south. Apparently Mme Suchet had never actually been there. At any rate Merle had GPS on her phone because the roads in this section of France were poorly marked with little white arrows pointing to this town or that highway. Too bad if you weren’t going that far or didn’t know what the big city was in the direction you needed to go.

  Sulliac was one of those ‘most beautiful villages of France’-type places, with luxuriant hanging baskets of flowers on every lamppost and a long green park next to a slow-moving river. The river itself was on the brown side of picturesque but it did make a pretty picture with ducks swimming and children running alongside. No bastide walls here, just winding avenues and more tourists than in Malcouziac.

  The police station was tucked away behind the mairie, the town hall, just as Malcouziac’s had once been. She wondered why her village had lost their gendarme. Because he was a criminal? (He was.) But that was two years ago. Was the lack of a gendarme what led to petty crime like vandalism? Their last policeman had been horrible but at least he kept his nose in everyone’s business, strutting around, discouraging crime. Merle hadn’t liked it then but it was possible she missed at least a little police presence.

  Inside the small, industrial-style building she explained in French what had happened — twice — to her house to a woman in a police uniform behind the counter. The woman was blond and attractive, with a wary coldness in her glance. She nodded, filling in blanks in a long form, asking a few questions as to when, why, where, and who she was.

  “You are not a French citizen, madame?”

  “No. I am a homeowner, however.” Merle didn’t like the way this was going.

  “Are you the sole owner of the house?”

  She started to say ‘yes’ but remembered the way the estate had been divvied up. Her son Tristan owned half, per French law. “With my son. We both inherited it from my late husband who was a French citizen.”

  “We require your son’s signature on the complaint,” the policewoman said primly.

  Merle explained he was in the United States. The policewoman said it could be mailed to him and returned, although she acknowledged that would take weeks as the government did not send by air mail. Merle got out her phone and showed the woman the photographs. She nodded gravely, as if she cared about the state of Merle’s house. “Ç’est dommage,” she muttered, eyes like ice.

  “All right,” Merle said impatiently. “Give me the form and I’ll mail it to him.” She wasn’t going to let bureaucracy keep the police from doing their duty. They obviously discouraged complaints this way, especially from foreigners. “In the meantime, does anyone need to see the damage, or, I don’t know, come over to Malcouziac to look for culprits? While there’s still a possibility of evidence lying around?”

  The policewoman pushed a slice of gum into her mouth and chewed slowly, keeping her cold eyes on Merle but not answering.

  After a long stare-off Merle turned to go. “Thank you for all your help, madame le gendarme. You’ve been most kind.”

  On
the sidewalk Merle crumpled the form and dropped it ceremoniously in a trash bin. Would they do nothing? She had filled out another complaint form.

  What Sulliac lacked in crime-fighting it had in shopping. There was a large complex with both a grocery and a hardware store just outside of town. Merle stocked up on things she couldn’t get in Malcouziac: frozen vegetables, crackers, hummus, light bulbs, scrapers, rags, and a big can of paint remover. Two large padlocks, one for the gate and one for the front, along with several potted plants that she couldn’t resist.

  As she was pulling out of town she saw a brocante, an antique shop, with a side yard full of junky household items like ancient refrigerators, chipped sinks, and rusty ironwork. Her heart leapt a little. Admiring Madame Armansett’s lovely house had made her a little crazy to fix her place up, make it shine. Harry was right, she supposed. She did love old houses, as he’d posited in his will. She loved transforming them into something they had lost. It felt like bringing back the dead.

  Wandering the enclosed yard she spotted a pair of tall shutters with curved tops, just like her original ones. The blue paint was a faint memory but they appeared intact. She picked through the appliances and doorknobs and pulled them out. They might be too tall— she hadn’t measured the doorway— but that half-round top was perfection. The owner helped her tie them on the roof of her trusty new vehicle. He cautioned her to drive slowly, not that he needed to. She could barely see the road with the shutters dangling over the windshield.

  This Peugeot car was just the best, she mused, rubbing the steering wheel as she passed a field full of sunflowers, nodding to the eastern horizon. Just like France.

  Later that night, after a light meal in the garden, after wrangling the awkward shutters off the roof of the car and getting them into the garden, after finding a place to park the Peugeot far away in the public lot, Merle heard from Pascal. It was a text, not very personal, and too short for her liking, but it was something.