Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  He stopped a few paces away and looked shyly at Merle. He nodded, smiling.

  “César?” He nodded again. “Je m’appelle Merle. I am taking Louise’s place for a few days. Taking care of madame.” Her French was crap, she knew it. She waited to see if he could understand her. His slightly goofy grin, complete with missing teeth, didn’t falter. She continued, telling him Irene wanted him. He winced, shrugged, and loped into the house without a word.

  He didn’t stay long. By then it was time to help Irene to the bathroom and get her pills. When all that was accomplished, Merle said good night and left the woman to her devices.

  She’d only been on duty for four hours and Merle was exhausted. The woman must be in pain, she decided, and it was making her grumpy and demanding. Merle had never been in this situation before, and to suddenly take care of someone that she didn’t really even know was not ideal. She took a hot shower and went to bed early, hoping Irene slept through the night. It would be good for both of them.

  The next morning she found César sitting at the kitchen table, eating a peach and drinking coffee. He was still shirtless in his black apron, his chest hair popping out saucily from behind the top. He was a curious man, swarthy with thick, muscular arms and thinning black hair and deep-set eyes. Perhaps Italian with a name like César? Merle was still in her robe. She nodded to him, checking her watch. It was six-thirty and full light. The sun rose early on a hilltop.

  It seemed a little odd that Louise didn’t mention César in her instructions. She said she’d hired someone but made no other mention of him. But Irene was in charge and, apparently, he knew goats. As Merle made herself coffee he said something about it being a good morning and made milking gestures. He held up his thumbs to say all done, or all good or something. Merle gave him a vague smile and went to get dressed.

  The next two hours were busy, making and serving breakfast, getting Irene dressed, and all the chores related to helping an invalid. The woman complained about her leg, moaning when moving about, but refused to use the metal walker or crutches or even a cane, all of which perched near her bed. Merle didn’t argue. She wasn’t going to be here long. Louise could deal with her mother’s recalcitrance later.

  César appeared for lunch and Merle gave him a bowl of the soup from the night before. He used sign language and a grin to make his wishes known. Merle settled Irene back into bed for the afternoon. Her back hurt from propping up Irene.

  Tucking her in again, fluffing her pillows, Merle straightened and sighed. “Okay?” Irene grimaced, arranging her leg on another pillow.

  “Ça va,” Irene grumbled. It goes, literally. Yes, it did just keep going.

  “What’s with César?” Merle asked in French. “Is he new here?”

  “Louise found him somewhere. God knows where. But she says he’s good with the goats.”

  “Is he French?”

  “Greek. From some island. They know their goats there.” Irene gave him grudging respect.

  “I’ve been feeding him. Is that part of your arrangement?”

  “Of course. Now I must rest.” She shut her eyes. “Close the curtains.”

  Merle wandered back into the kitchen and looked at what was available in the tiny refrigerator for dinner: green beans, eggs, cheese, and something in a bowl. Her culinary skills were really not that advanced. Green bean quiche? Hmmm. And Louise had left without doing any marketing or instructions for meals.

  She popped her head back into Irene’s bedroom. “I need to go into the village for food, Irene.”

  Without opening her eyes, the woman waved a hand, a sweeping ‘get-out’ motion.

  One trip into the village should be enough for the rest of her stay as live-in helpmate to the cranky Irene. What would make the woman happy in her state of pain? Merle would buy whatever they had and figure out what to do with it later.

  The short trip down the hill to the village was a nice break. The sun shone hot and dry on the rocky hills. Irene’s farmhouse crouched low against the landscape, dark with small windows. It was getting claustrophobic. The small store in the village was more of a convenience store than a true grocery, lots of beverages and some sad looking produce. Was there an outside market here? The village wasn’t much more than a collection of houses. Limp lettuce it was then. Plus, frozen chicken and duck breasts, sausages, orange juice, and, of course, a couple bottles of wine. Maybe a little evening sip would put Irene into a better frame of mind.

  When Merle returned with the groceries an hour later— she had taken a coffee break at the boulangerie and treated herself to a chocolate croissant— she noticed the front door was standing open. She startled, looking around the yard. Where was César? Had someone come while she was out?

  She hurried inside. Nothing seemed out of place in the sitting room and kitchen. No humans to be seen. She rushed to Irene’s door, still closed. A low moan came from inside and she pushed the door open. Irene was lying on the floor by the bed, writhing in pain, and cursing.

  “Oh my god, what happened?” Merle said, helping her to a sitting position, then hoisting her up onto the bed with a grunt from both of them. “Are you all right? And your leg?”

  Irene batted away her hands, still cursing. At least that’s what Merle thought the words were, spoken with such venom. She stepped back.

  “Get my pills. And ice.”

  Merle did her bidding, wrapping some ice cubes in a dish towel and getting her a glass of water and her pill bottle. Irene gulped down a pill and scooted back onto the bed, swinging her bad leg gingerly into position with her hands. She arranged the ice pack then fell back on the pillows and covered her face with her hands in a dramatic fashion.

  “Irene?” Merle whispered. “Are you okay?”

  “That bastard,” she spat. “That Greek bastard.”

  “César?”

  “Of course, César! What other Greeks do we have on the farm?” Her damp eyes were fierce and angry.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “I heard him. Out in the kitchen, searching all the drawers. You must check. Go look in the bottom drawer by the sink. Bring me the wooden box!”

  Merle backed out into the hallway and hurried to the kitchen. All the drawers in the large Welsh cupboard by the sink were closed, the doors, too. She kneeled down and began opening them, one by one. In the bottom drawer was a box that looked African, carved and inlaid with mother of pearl. She carried it back to the bedroom.

  “Donne le moi. Give it, give,” urged Irene, holding out her arms. Merle handed it to her and had a sinking feeling. She never should have left Irene to go to the grocery. She never should have gone anywhere. If César had stolen something it was her fault, for leaving Irene and the farm undefended.

  The box was empty. Irene cried out in pain and fury, covering her eyes again. Now she wailed, sobbing that all the money from the last three markets was gone, that the Greek bastard was a thieving connard and that she was going to starve here alone, abandoned by her daughter, her friends, and, while she was at it, La Republique.

  Merle eased onto the side of the bed, hoping to comfort Irene somehow. The woman was nearly hysterical, pounding her fists into the bedding and ranting on about thieves and Greeks. Where had Louise found the man?

  Louise. Of course, Merle must call her immediately. But first she had to put her groceries away, make some dinner, and get some calming wine into Irene. She went to open a bottle of Provence rosé from the shop, a cheap one but she liked it. She brought Irene a healthy pour and sat with her as she sipped it gratefully, her face wet with tears.

  “What should I do?” Merle asked. “Call the police?”

  “Yes! They will find la crapule.” Whatever that was. Irene got angry for another minute then it went away. “They are so far away, and I don’t even know the man’s last name. I fear he was illegal. I didn’t ask.”

  “Maybe Louise knows. Where did she find him?”

  “Who knows?” Irene closed her eyes, defeated but at least calm.


  “Did he have a car?” Merle had seen an old van, the little white ones everyone used in France.

  “I—“ She shook her head. She grabbed Merle’s arm in alarm. “Il a volé la camionnette. He has stolen the van! Go see— oh, I know he has stolen the van.”

  In the yard Merle looked around, trying to remember where the small white utility van was usually parked. A square of yellowing grass next to the barn was a clue, as were the tire tracks through the dirt, but no van was there. Was it parked in a barn? She looked in the goat shed. It was empty, and fragrant. All the goats were out in the field, munching grass.

  Oh, no. No, no, no. Who would take care of the goats?

  Merle had another sinking feeling as she made her way back to the farmhouse. Louise really needed to come home.

  Because there was no way in hell Merle Bennett was milking goats.

  Odette and the Great Fear

  part three

  Dawn was breaking over the eastern hills when Odette straightened her back, stretching, and massaged her painful hands. Milking took hand strength she never realized, and obviously never had. Sustained clenching of the fists, the squeezing down of the teats, the endless teats: it was tedious labor, probably why it was usually given to women. She frowned at the goats as she untethered them, one by one, and led each one back out into the pasture to graze. They were slave masters, these goats, demanding creatures.

  She was sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of milky chicory, warming her sore hands, when she heard the shouting. One of the farmhands, an older man with a bad limp, was excited about something outside, calling to Monsieur Daguerre, the farmer. He came at a trot, with another man at his heels.

  Odette stepped to the window. The three men rounded the goat shed and walked quickly toward another barn. Her heart skipped when she realized they were heading directly to the old fruit store where she had hidden the man. My man, she thought possessively. My patient. No. What were they going to do to him?

  She ran outside, following them around the milking shed. When she rounded the corner of the weathered fruit store she saw the three men standing in front of the open door, the very door she’d opened last night. The wheelbarrow sat next to it. She hadn’t put it away last night.

  She pushed aside a man from the village visiting M. Daguerre. He was dressed like an important man. She apologized but moved in front, peeking over the farmer’s shoulder. Why hadn’t she moved the man this morning? First thing, she should have seen to him, brought him more food, moved him somewhere safer. But the goats… the damn goats needed milking.

  The farmer crouched down on his haunches and touched the man’s neck. “Warm,” he said quietly. “Not dead, Alfred.”

  The man with the limp, Alfred, stepped closer. “No? Ah, bon.”

  “He is injured, monsieur,” Odette said. “Look at his leg.” Better that they think he wandered in on his own.

  M. Daguerre brushed bits of straw off the man’s leg, exposing the stained bandage. “Come. We must take him into the house. Madame will nurse him.”

  It took the four of them to carry the man across the yard into the house. Odette might have mentioned the wheelbarrow but instead took his bad leg and brought up the rear. The man didn’t wake. His skin was very pale, almost blue, and he looked like death. But maybe they could warm him up and treat his wounds. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  There was much commotion inside the house with the arrival of the unconscious stranger. The house maid, Perrine, was a silly thing but she set about boiling water and taking the man’s boots off. Madame Daguerre set up a folding cot near the big fireplace, stoking the flames with more logs. The men lifted the patient carefully onto the canvas cot and grimaced at the poor devil. They left, satisfied they had done everything possible for him, even though all they’d done was move him.

  Madame not-too-delicately cut the leg off his trousers, exposing a gaping wound congealed with blood. The treatment of the wound made the man come round, groaning and thrashing in pain. Odette held his shoulders down while Perrine took his feet, letting Madame clean and do whatever it was she did to the wound. It looked like a gunshot to Odette, a round hole similar to the musket ball wounds she saw in Paris. But she kept her speculation to herself.

  The next days went by in a whirlwind. Odette still had to milk her goats, get the milk to market or to Madame Daguerre’s oldest daughter who made the cheese at her own farm down the road. Madame herself was chief nurse to the man they simply called ‘L’Etranger,’ the stranger. They asked him his name several times while his eyes were open but he was out of his head with fever.

  Between milking chores Odette tried to help with the nursing. On the third day, in the night, the man’s fever broke. His eyes were clear that morning as she arrived after milking to wash at the pump. She turned to him, drying her hands, and was surprised to see him eyeing her back. His eyes, she couldn’t help noticing, were an intense dark blue.

  “You look better,” she said, smiling. His skin had color again. “Feel better?”

  He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the kitchen with its smoky fireplace, whitewashed stone walls, and small, leaded windows. It was a pretty space to Odette, although rough. Was he used to something more grand?

  “Where am I?” he said, his voice scratchy. “Where is this?”

  “You’re in Périgord, monsieur. Is that where you were headed?”

  He flopped back on the cot as if disgusted with the countryside, or just Périgord, then threw back the blanket covering his injured leg. He poked at the bandage experimentally.

  “It was a bad wound. Madame Daguerre, the farmer’s wife, treated it with various pastes and poultices.”

  He wiggled his toes, poked some more, and covered his leg again. “And who are you, mademoiselle?”

  “My name is Odette. I, too, came down from the north, escaping the violence.” He glared at her accusingly. She was a stranger too, a foreigner from the city who didn’t belong here, who had memories from terrible times. Did he not remember her wheeling him out of the woods into shelter? “Pardon, monsieur. I make too many assumptions.”

  She turned away, folding the hand towel over the edge of the sink. Now that the man was cleaned up, his face washed, his hair tied back with one of Perrine’s blue ribbons, now that he was awake and alive, his eyes seemed too bold to Odette.

  “I did come from the north,” he said finally, without detail, she noticed.

  “And what is your name, monsieur? You have been with us four days and we know not your name.”

  “My name is Ghislain. That is all I can say.”

  “And why is that?”

  He smiled. “Because you have only given me your first name.”

  For a man only recently out of his wits he had gotten them back quickly. How old was he? Impossible to say but no child. He was tall and, if not for his injury, no doubt hale and hearty. His shoulders looked very strong. She offered him soup and bread and helped him sit up on the cot to eat it. He asked for more.

  “Did you make that yourself, Odette?” he asked, lying back again, eyes closing. “That delicious stew?”

  She took the dishes to the sink. “No, monsieur. I am the goat girl. I herd and milk the goats. I do not cook. Of course, I know how to cook—”

  But he was asleep again, snoring, his hands laced over his blue coat. She adjusted his blanket. His eyelids were bluish and delicate, papery thin, a dark beard growing on his robust chin. She watched his chest rise and fall, like clockwork, reassuringly. In another time, another place— well, no spilt milk, ma petite. This was the time they had. If the last two years had taught her anything, it was that this moment, this present time, could be all anyone had on this earth.

  At supper that night the whole staff of the farm, some seven of them including Perrine and another young girl who helped in the house, talked to Ghislain, exclaimed over his recovery, joked and poked him, and generally treated him like a curiosity, something from a traveling
show. He seemed to enjoy the attention, charming the women, but gave them few details of his journey except to say that there was much fighting in the streets of Paris, street by street, block by block. The news sheets had been full of it, even though they were months old by the time they reached Périgord.

  No one, not even Perrine who tried with all her might, could get Ghislain to tell about his part in the fighting, or how he ended up in their fruit store with a hole in his leg. Was he a partisan? Was he a soldier? Was he brave? Did he kill the other man? Did he lose his horse somewhere? What sort of hat did he wear? The questions went from serious to ridiculous. Did he crawl into their fruit store? Where had he been previously? How long was he there? Odette stayed silent on that note. He didn’t remember her part anyway.

  Too painful to recollect, he said of his travels and travails. His wound was also off-limits as a topic of discussion. Madame Daguerre demanded he tell her if it was a knife or a musket ball or the horn of a cow or a sword blade or a pitchfork. But he did not, would not answer. This made the Madame a bit angry. After all, she had worked hard to nurse him back to health and felt she deserved answers, a juicy bit of story to explain her sacrifice to her friends, to burnish her nursing reputation, to make both of them a little heroic. But he said nothing. That made Madame curious. Her eyes narrowed as she walked away from him that night, hands on her hips. Odette could see her mind whirling: he is a fugitive, a criminal, a deserter. Someone with something to hide. Even a murderer on the run.

  And perhaps he was. It was not up to Odette to say.

  But the next morning when she got up in the dark, made her way out of her hard bed under the rafters, stepped down the many stairs, tossed the piss-pot outside, pushed through the kitchen toward the door, glancing where he slept, Odette knew one thing about Ghislain, her stranger.