My blackbird, how are you? I apologize for my abrupt leaving at the train. I have had to return to Paris but will see you as soon as possible. P
What did you reply to that? It didn’t actually require a reply, did it? She stared at it, annoyed. Then she was annoyed with herself. Of course Pascal had to work. He couldn’t hang around painting shutters and patching the roof the way he had when he was undercover in Malcouziac, spying on winemakers. There were bad guys to catch everywhere. Why had he gone back to Paris though? Was it Clarisse or work?
Meeting his ex-wife was probably not a good idea. When she was just a ghost from the past, the ex was a concept without much power. But as an attractive blond, with high heels and a tight skirt, she entered Merle’s imagination. Where there was often fertile ground.
Stop obsessing about lovely Clarisse. He doesn’t love her. He loves you.
That little self-lecture warmed her until the stars popped out. The very smooth and saucy Pinot Noir she’d splurged on at the store in Sulliac didn’t hurt either.
Merle took her notebook to bed. She glared at her to-do list, hoping to bully it into submission. Very few items had been crossed out yet. She was falling behind. And yet she wanted to keep writing the novel. Maybe she should it put it off until the weather turned cold?
Merde. She was going to need a source of heat in this house. Something besides the fireplace. She scribbled Woodstove? on the bottom of her very long list.
Then she turned to her notes about the novel. Carefully she re-read the chapters she’d written, making notes on the side for changes, additions, ideas. It was so comforting to live in another world where the mundane was an afterthought, where pain was just a word, where one had control of all events, and the author was a god.
She fell asleep dreaming of Odette. And Pascal. Just a little about Pascal.
Eleven
Paris
Pascal was not pleased.
Several days earlier, he had been summoned to the headquarters for Police nationale, a big buff-colored block near the Tuilleries in one of the finest ancient parts of Paris. Clean and efficient on the outside but it was never a good thing, being called back. Like being sent to the principal’s office as a student, something that happened quite often in his youth. He liked to fight, he admitted once to a headmaster. Truly there was nothing better in his youth than a good dust-up. If someone picked a fight with him, he wasn’t going to say ‘no.’ And more often than not it was his mouth that started a fight.
He’d learned to curb that tendency. His superiors at the Police didn’t like criticism, and his co-workers were too busy, often stretched to the limits of their time and abilities to solve crimes, locate perpetrators, and juggle court appearances. He’d learned much from them, and no longer, after these many years in the service, gave any of them a bad time. Some were even friends, and he trusted his life to any of them.
Still, he was not happy. The building was grim, utilitarian. Nothing about it conjured up his silly description of France to Merle, a gastronomic Disneyland of sunflowers. No flowers here. No funhouse rides. Just the smell of burnt coffee.
He found the conference room on the third floor and let himself in. He hoped he hadn’t done something stupid. But if he had, what could they do? The union would protect him. He felt a smirk forming on his mouth and wiped his lips to remove it.
The meeting, as it turned out, was a dull affair, the annual round-up of expenses, caseloads, arrests, convictions, and failures of same. The entire wine fraud division, minus a few lucky sons-of-bitches who had good excuses, was present. Some officers were commended, others berated. Pascal skated through unmentioned, and was pleased about that. The gathering of the division was held every year, after the end of the fiscal year, and somehow Pascal always found a way to miss it, even to the point of forgetting that it occurred. He was deep into field work this time each summer, looking for action in the down-time before the vendange, the harvest. A fertile time for criminals, when the anticipation of a poor harvest drove some to fraud.
Why was he not there now? How had they managed to trick him into attending this tedious afternoon? He slouched, tapped his pen rhythmically, and yawned. Finally, the meeting ended with all his fellow officers dashing from the room like freed prisoners. Pascal jumped to his feet as well. Then the director called his name.
He skidded to a stop near the door. The director, a burly man of sixty, once an ace undercover detective himself, nodded to him. “A moment, d’Onscon?”
Ah, he thought. Now I get the strap.
He walked back slowly and took a seat next to his boss. “Ça va, Étienne?”
“Can’t complain. If I did no one would listen.” He squinted at Pascal. “How is the Domaine Bourboulenc operation going? You did not answer my inquiries.”
“I’m sorry about that. I leave that cellphone in my car while I’m working, as I’m sure you did as well when you were in the field?”
The director nodded cautiously. “And—?”
“They are cagey. The grandson is the key. He is keen to be my friend and I have been cultivating him.”
“No evidence yet? Have they moved grapes to Châteauneuf?”
“Not that I’ve seen. But the vendange comes soon. I will keep a close eye on their operation.”
The director understood the wine business, its schedule, the demands of weather, the flow of events, better than anyone. He knew the harvest would not be for several weeks at the earliest, depending on the rains and cold.
“Good,” the director muttered. “Now, something else. You remember one of your first successes, the arrests made at Le Grand Vinon?” He looked at a sheet of paper in front of him. “It was before my time as director but I heard of it of course. You nabbed the scion. A nasty piece of work he was.”
Pascal would never forget. It was his first big case and he had found and cultivated the players himself, worming his way into their confidence over many months. It was in the Sancerre, a rolling terroir in the Loire Valley. He still remembered those odd little wine caves built into chalky cliffs where ancient humans had once lived. And the delicious taste of gunflint in the white wine.
“Of course. Fifteen years ago.”
“The son, the one masterminding the fraud, was one Léo Delage?”
Pascal nodded. He would never forget the nights spent playing cards and drinking with the man who was at least a dozen years older but acted like a reckless lad, boastful and careless. And he would also never forget arresting him with a team of uniformed police and their dogs. The trial was short but vicious.
“He received a ten-year sentence as I recall.”
“And got out in eight. Ten was a bit long.” The director smiled, softening the criticism. All policemen liked a good, long sentence for their arrests. “And then he disappeared for awhile. We assume he went overseas because we lost track of him.”
“Good riddance,” Pascal said.
“Oui. But four months ago, he returned to France.”
A chill went down Pascal’s spine, causing the hairs on his neck to rise. “Did he?”
“He entered through the port of Marseille. He used his passport, though it was expired. They confiscated his documents but he jumped the gate there while the officers weren’t looking. He got lost in the crowd.”
“This was four months ago?”
“In April. We only heard about it in a quarterly report where the names, or possible identities, of persons entering the country illegally are listed. As you imagine it takes some time to track down the names. Their identities are often faux. Most have no papers at all. The refugees for instance.”
Pascal frowned, trying to calculate the risk of the man he’d arrested all those years ago. Would he still be a threat? “Where was he for those years?”
“We don’t know. A man like this, he may use several names, with more than one passport. He made a lot of unsavory friends in prison, I’m told.”
Pascal pushed through the doors, out into the s
unshine. Paris hummed along, warm and humid, a bit of odor blowing off the Seine but looking no worse for its criminals, terrorists, and scam artists. Tourists snapped photos, mothers pushed babies in strollers, it was calm and unsuspecting.
And seemed, in that moment, to hold danger behind every well-trimmed shrub and polished streetlamp.
The director didn’t have any wise words. He didn’t tell Pascal what to do about this potential threat, the man he’d once befriended and betrayed. Pascal knew how he’d feel if someone spent months pretending he was your pal only to suddenly turn you in to les flics. He had a pretty good idea how Léo Delage was feeling, after spending eight years behind bars for his part masterminding a classic counterfeit wine swindle.
Not happy. Not happy at all.
The question was whether that unhappiness had simmered so long that it had hardened into contempt. Or revenge. Or hatred.
Or all three.
Where was Léo Delage now? Still in the Marseille area, working as a dock worker where no one asks questions and the shipyards are run by organized crime? Or back in wine country, using his skills to rehabilitate himself? If Pascal had to guess, Léo had wandered home. Possibly he was working at his old winery, although that was forbidden under the terms of his sentence. He wasn’t to set foot on the place, let alone work there. His son now ran the business, the director had told Pascal, and was doing a fine job of running it into the terroir, so to speak. He had left the seminary and his dream of the priesthood to try to save his inheritance. But maybe with Papa home from his travels things were looking up.
Maybe it was time to pay a visit to the Le Grand Vinon again. Yes, a sip of Sancerre, full of mineral and citrus, shining gold as the sun, well, that would go nicely too.
Twelve
Malcouziac
Merle had been working her way down her to-do list, replanting her garden, having the door shutters cut down, applying paint remover to her stone house, installing new locks, and discussing projects with Laure Thibaud’s husband, the contractor. She was feeling good about her progress. She had two weeks before she would head home to get Tristan situated at school and was working hard to get things rolling for when she was gone.
Then someone named Louise Fayette called. It took a moment for Merle to remember Irene’s daughter, Louise. The neighbor of Pascal, Irene raised goats and had let Merle help with the birthing— actually called ‘kidding’— last May. Merle had never known Irene’s last name. Louise, normally a quiet, shy college girl, was agitated about something and her English was failing her.
“Je— I cannot do it,” she stuttered. “It is too much.”
“Slow down, Louise. What is too much?”
“Ma mère, my mother, she has, um— surgery. On the leg, the knee.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is she all right?”
“Ah, oui, as bossy as ever. But she must stay off her leg for four weeks more.”
“That would be hard.” Irene was an active though plump woman of indeterminate age. Louise was college-age so Irene was probably not sixty yet. Apparently, they mostly did everything on the goat farm themselves. “Who is milking the goats?”
“C’est moi, bien sûr. I do it all, madame. But I must go back to college. I have found someone to do the work on the farm until my mother is back on her feet. I am worried though. She will not use the crutches. She will not stay in her chair.”
Merle made some sympathetic noises. What did Louise want?
And there it was: “Can you come? Just for three days or so? Cook her some meals, make sure she eats and stays off her leg? I am so worried she will need surgery again if she doesn’t behave as her docteur says. I have asked everyone who lives near here and they are so busy with harvest and such. Her sister lives far away, in the Savoie.”
“Oh.” Merle looked at her notebook, sitting on the new metal garden table. Would she have a chance to write there? Irene couldn’t be that much trouble. She’d been meaning to go see her. And it was just three days. “Of course I can come, Louise. When do you need me?”
Louise sighed in relief. “Merci beaucoup, merci, madame. Can you come tomorrow?”
It was late afternoon the next day when Merle rolled up the hill where Pascal and Irene lived in close proximity but idyllic isolation, in an area full of fruit orchards, pastures, and a vineyard or two, outside of Toulouse about fifty miles. Once again her GPS had saved the day, and her new Peugeot was a steady companion, its new tires crunching through the dirt and gravel in the approach to the goat farm.
Louise was packed and more than ready to leave, springing to her feet, thrusting a list of instructions at Merle, and giving her a quick hug before making her escape. She would return in four days, she promised. Merle frowned. She’d said three days but what was one more? The young student jumped in her compact car and roared away to her university in Toulouse in a cloud of dust.
Merle set her bag down and shut the door. She hadn’t even gotten inside and she was in charge of the invalid. She listened for signs of life and when she heard none, poked her head into doors leading off the hallway in the back of the house. In the first one she found the woman, snoring slightly, propped on pillows, with one leg in a brace. Merle shut the door quietly and went to unpack.
According to the scratched-out instruction sheet, Louise had given her a bedroom in the back, a spartan space suitable for monks and housemaids. At least Merle thought this was the bedroom described hastily by Louise. She looked into the other room and it seemed to belong to Louise, with clothes and perfume and lipstick and books strewn all over.
Back in the roomy country kitchen, Merle got out her notebook and tried to work while the house was quiet. She got a little done, stood to stretch, when Irene’s voice screeched from the back: “Lou-lou! Où es-tu?”
“Bonjour, Irene,” Merle said, pushing open the bedroom door. “C’est moi, Merle Bennett.”
It was then that Merle remembered Irene spoke no English. This could be interesting. But good immersion into French. Or a disaster of miscommunication. Take your pick.
Irene looked haggard and disheveled, her graying hair out of its customary bun and spread over the pillow. She pushed herself upright and stared at Merle.
“Who are you? What have you done with Lou-lou?” she demanded in French. “Get out of my house! Lou-lou!”
Merle introduced herself again and told Irene her daughter had to go back to college for a few days. Why hadn’t Louise explained it all to her mother? What would happen, Merle wondered, when the term began? Would Irene be mobile by then? How long had it been since her surgery?
“I’m a friend of your neighbor, Pascal. We met in the spring. I helped with the births of the baby goats, remember?” Merle smiled gamely. What the hell had she gotten herself into?
Irene fell back against the pillow. “Oh. Yes, Louise told me you were coming. How is Pascal? We never see him these days.”
Merle relaxed. “He’s fine. Working somewhere. He works very hard.”
Irene swept her arm at Merle as if to say, right, sure, he works hard. But not as hard as I do.
Which was probably true. Irene must have worked herself into a state and then hurt her leg or knee or something. She was hungry, she exclaimed. “Bring me some water and some cheese,” she demanded, closing her eyes.
Merle scurried around the kitchen, finding a wooden tray at the ready and putting a glass of water and un peu de fromage on it. When she returned to the bedroom she found she was required to help Irene into a true sitting position, arrange many pillows, find a new pillow for under her knee, set the tray on the side table, search for her pills, and many other directives.
By the end of the first evening with Irene, Merle understood Louise’s rush to leave. Merle already felt like a handmaiden to a queen, and a most unpleasant one at that. She had heated up the soup that Louise left for supper but it wasn’t hot enough for Irene. It wasn’t spiced correctly and there was no bread on her tray. The woman ate in bed, staring out the
window of her bedroom at the barn where the goats were milked. Merle would have liked to go out there but she didn’t think she should leave her patient. Maybe tomorrow.
When she went to get the tray, Irene told her to turn on her bedside lamp. The weak glow was barely enough to read by but Irene put on small reading glasses and demanded a magazine that she could have reached herself. Merle smiled patiently, handed it over, and picked up the tray. One meal down, eleven to go?
“Where is César? I must speak to him.”
Merle paused. “Who is that?”
“César! Bring him in. I must speak to him about tomorrow’s milk delivery.”
Irene might have explained who this person was and Merle missed it. Irene’s French was very brisk and laced with patois. Merle went to the door and looked for someone working in the goat shed or pastures. Flashes of Odette and her injured man danced in her imagination. The evening was still, a tender purple in the sky, the birds twittering in the fruit trees that lined the drive, and the occasional bleat of a faraway goat.
She stepped into the twilight. She’d forgotten the views from this hilltop, the sunset now charming the western range of trees and vineyards. A pink light caught a chimney top; there must be a house on that far hill, sheltered by ancient trees. It was so quiet, almost sacred, this rarefied moment of calm.
Then Irene hollered from inside the house, yelling for César. Merle straightened up and repeated his name at volume.
A man appeared from the goat shed. He was short, wearing a black apron that went almost to his shoes. He had a bandana tied around his head. He waved at Merle and waddled over slowly as if his knees or back hurt. As he got closer Merle realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. The apron front hung over his bare chest then was criss-crossed and tied in the front. It looked like leather and was well-worn, the sort of thing a blacksmith might wear. If you ever ran across a blacksmith these days.
Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6 Page 9