Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  “It was thrust upon you?”

  “Difficult times. I was in the seminary. I was to become a priest.”

  That was a new one. Pascal wiggled his eyebrows involuntarily. “An honorable calling. It must have been a horrible choice.”

  Adrien took a deep breath, straightening his back for a moment. “In some ways, yes. But in others, very simple.”

  “How so? Pardon, monsieur. I find the tales of wineries, their histories, fascinating.”

  “My father was a passionate vintner. A genius, some would say. I continue using his formulae to this day.” He went back to his task, stepping sideways down the row. “But in other ways he was— well, challenged. He was a poor businessman. It has taken these fifteen years for me to put the winery back on the right path.”

  “To profit, you mean?”

  “To profit, to sustainability, to stability. He ruined many things when he was here. That was the easy part of the decision to leave the seminary: I was needed. Even if I knew nothing of winemaking. Which I did not. I was like the children you spoke of. I wanted a different life, in a city, helping the pious and the poor.”

  “It must have been difficult for you. Even though you were so needed.”

  “In many ways, yes. An emotional upheaval, in a way. And a physical one.” He spread his calloused hands out to Pascal. “It is demanding in every way.”

  Pascal examined the man’s hands, noting the scars. Was the time right for the ultimate question? One never knew until they asked.

  “Did your father stay on and help you?”

  “No. He left. Also by force.”

  Pascal waited a few paces down the row. “By force?”

  “He is un malfaiteur, monsieur. A criminal. He plundered all the accounts, borrowed from gangsters. Left us destitute.” He turned to glare at Pascal now, his face pink with anger. “You wonder why we have no workers here? No one will come. All the citizens here think they will not be paid if they labor for my harvest. They refuse to do business with me. I sell all my bottles before harvest, monsieur. You are wasting your time here. I must sell them all as advance shares so I can hire Moroccans and get the vendange completed, buy the bottles, the labels, all of it. Without the foreign workers, I have nothing. Nothing.”

  “Your wine has an excellent reputation, Monsieur,” Pascal said gently. “May you have many successful harvests.”

  Fifteen

  Malcouziac

  Two elderly women stood in the middle of Rue de Poitiers in the morning sun, faces close, screaming at each other. Merle paused, carrying her bag up the street. She recognized the round profile of her neighbor. Madame Suchet and the other woman were waving their hands, pointing at the vandalism, talking loudly, arguing. Her heart sunk; they were angry about her house.

  They wore the usual matronly outfit of well-pressed dark dress, thick stockings, and heels. Merle could only pick out a few words: malade, pas sympathique, mon fils, vandale: ‘the patient, not sympathetic, my son, the vandal.’

  She walked slowly toward the women, hoping they would calm down. They were similar in age. Madame Suchet must be in her 70s. The other woman also had gray hair and was thinner with more wrinkles but full of vim and vigor. She lashed out at Madame S like a pro, or a lawyer.

  Merle set down her bag by the padlocked front shutters, jingling her keys to distract the women from their fury.

  It didn’t work. Madame Suchet saw her but ignored her, looking back at her opponent, her hands on her ample hips and wagging her head. The other woman pointed a finger at her, poking it close to her face. This appeared to be escalating. Soon they would be at blows. Merle stepped up to the two and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “Mesdames, please. Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can talk about it without shouting,” she said during a pause in the ranting.

  The thinner woman shrugged off Merle’s hand angrily. “Do not touch me. You do not have permission to touch me.”

  “Excusez-moi.” Merle bowed her head apologetically.

  “Do not speak to my friend like that,” Madame Suchet spat. “She is not your inferior.”

  The other woman straightened proudly, eyes blazing. “And you are not my superior.”

  With that she turned on her heel and pranced angrily down the street. She reached a townhouse halfway down with peeling burgundy shutters, yanked open the door, and disappeared. The door banged shut.

  Madame Suchet was pink from the shouting. She took a deep breath. “I am sorry, Madame Bennett. I did not expect that to happen.”

  “Who was that?” Merle looked down the street. She didn’t know any of her neighbors on the opposite side of the street, except for Madame Suchet. “Come inside. You need to sit down.”

  Merle poured Madame Suchet a glass of water. She offered wine but her neighbor refused it. They sat at the old wood table, the only remaining furniture from days past. It was worn and a bit greasy, but held too many silent memories to discard.

  She waited for Madame to speak. When she didn’t Merle had to ask, “Was that about me?”

  “No, no, madame. It— ” She glanced at Merle, looking oddly guilty. “She was angry. And rightly so as I blame her son for the vandalism.”

  “Her son?”

  Madame S nodded. “He is not well.” She tapped her temple. “He comes and goes.”

  “I’m sorry.” At least she would know who her vandal was, even if his mental state meant he would not be charged. That was fine with Merle. She’d already given up on the whole business and moved on to paint removal. “What’s his name?”

  “Thierry. He was a sweet boy but he is not well,” she repeated. “And his mother, she does not deal with him so well either. She gives him money and then what does he do? He buys paint.”

  “You saw him then? Painting?”

  “One of my friends saw him in the hardware store, buying spray paint. What am I to think?”

  “Ah.”

  “I apologize. I do not wish to argue with my sister, especially so loudly out on the street. She loves her Thierry and cannot stand for anyone to say a word against him.”

  Merle blinked. “Your sister?”

  Madame Suchet nodded sadly. “We are very close. Like twins.”

  As she escorted Madame to the door Merle remembered something that had hit her years ago, on her first trip to France as a college student. The entire family had traveled together to Paris, making for some memorable moments of too much togetherness. One day, Merle had gone for a walk on her own. She found a park and sat on the bench in the sunshine, much the way she did in New York when the crush of humanity threatened to overwhelm her. She was enjoying the calm when an old gentleman sat down next to her. He had a small dog on a leash and glanced at her before unsnapping it from the dog’s collar and letting it run free. It was a small poodle of some kind, maybe a mix, an energetic, talkative dog. The man talked back to it, in French, and miraculously, the dog understood French. He came when he was called— in French. He stood up and begged— in response to his French command.

  She felt so stupid for her surprise. Of course, dogs learn commands in whatever language their masters speak. It was one of those wake-up moments that taught her she needed to see more of the world, open her eyes to other cultures. It had taken quite a few years to get back to France but she hadn’t forgotten the lesson of that dog and his master. Everyone is the center of their own story, their own life, and when you think the world revolves around you, you need to think a little harder, open your heart, open your mind.

  She’d never considered, not consciously, that there would be mentally ill people in France. But of course there were in all human cultures. People whose disability was social or emotional or deeply psychotic. It didn’t matter what nationality you were. France might be a drug to naive American women, all sunshine and wine and lavender, making her happy and calm— but she could hear Pascal’s laugh now, telling her she was being ridiculous. France didn’t cure anyone of their problems a
ny more than a dog could speak Chinese.

  Unless you were in China, then of course, they barked in Mandarin or Cantonese.

  Two sisters, shouting at each other in the street. Making each other angry, pointing fingers. Two sisters who are very close, like twins; it made Merle laugh. Only someone very close would stoop to yelling at her sister in public. Or give her a slap across the face to get her to snap out of whatever was troubling her, as Merle’s sister Stasia had once done. Merle could see her own sisters pointing at her, their eyes alight, laughing like hyenas, if they had heard Madame Suchet.

  After she unpacked her small suitcase from her stay at Irene’s and checked that the gate was still secure in the garden and that the new door shutters were working properly, Merle opened the refrigerator. It was a small one, and mostly empty. She’d left all that food at Irene’s— which was fine. But now she needed to re-stock the larder.

  She locked up again and walked toward the town square. She’d forgotten it was market day but the bustle of vendors and customers carried down the cobblestone streets before she had them in sight. She paused to buy a baguette and a couple croissants from a bakery stand, some green beans and a zucchini from another, and some goat cheese from an attractive display tended by an elderly man in a beret.

  She picked up a small round of goat cheese dusted with herbs. “Where is your chèverie? Close by?” she asked, smiling at the man.

  “It is not mine,” he said, shaking his head. “My family has the goats. I am simply the salesman. Here, please, try a bit.” He pressed a small cracker smeared with goat cheese on her.

  “Do you know Irene Fayette, near Villefranche?” she asked after tasting the cheese. Maybe all goat farmers knew each other.

  The man straightened proudly and grinned. “Mais oui. She is my cousin. You are acquainted?”

  Merle launched into her best French, explaining she had just seen Irene and had been helping her while she had mobility issues after her knee surgery. He expressed surprise and dismay that his cousin was having problems.

  Merle introduced herself and they shook hands. His name was Jacques. He wore the blue workers jumpsuit that Albert often sported while picking plums, and kept his black beret at a jaunty angle. He was adorable.

  “These are Irene’s beautiful cheeses. I am her traveling salesman,” Jacques explained. “I go to the markets from here to Issigeac.”

  Merle wondered if Jacques had heard about the theft of the cheese money. It was probably not the time to bring it up. She saw he had a blue cash pouch with a zipper. He kept it under his arm.

  She paid for three small rounds of goat cheese and wished him many sales. He lifted his beret in farewell then turned his attention to another customer with his ready smile.

  Merle set the cheese on top of the vegetables in her market basket, bought some sausages, and headed home. She hoped Pascal would call, or arrive, tonight. In time for dinner, please, she thought. It would be nice to have him at her table again.

  She waited until nearly nine to cook dinner but Pascal didn’t show up. No call either, which was getting to be the norm. She cooked for one, cleaned the kitchen, and took her notebook to bed. Her notebook was not as much fun as Pascal in bed, she thought, frowning, as she pulled the white quilt back. She opened the shutters to let the moonlight stream into the bedroom. She’d painted this room a warm peach color and it glowed in the evening light.

  With a sigh, she propped herself up on the pillows, got out her pen, and flipped her notebook open.

  Time to escape to the days of the guillotine again.

  Odette and the Great Fear

  part four

  The goats were docile the day she prodded them up the hill toward the chateau. She had a desire to see it again, to see if her memory of the rainy day was accurate or she was having strange dreams of shadowy spaces for nothing. And then there was the Count himself, with that nasty scar on his face. It was intriguing to think of him in duels at royal estates, even if it was something more mundane that had maimed him. She thought she wanted to know what had happened, but maybe she didn’t. She was still a bit afraid of le comte. Everyone in the village feared him. His temper was said to be vicious.

  She trudged up the hill, holding her skirt up to keep it out of the mud. Since the rainstorm, she’d learned a few more things about the Count. He was the son of the old count but he didn’t really like being a noble. He wanted to do something worthwhile, to help society, so he had gone to Paris and joined his friends at the Commune after the storming of the Bastille. He knew many fancy people, it was said with awe. Odette had no use for elites, even the ones who were now crafting the new republic out of thin air. Their hearts might have once been good but time had passed and they were different now. They had lost their focus and were fighting amongst themselves over idiotic things like men always did.

  Was the count like that, she wondered, poking a bush with her stick and knocking off the last of autumn’s orange leaves. She paused to admire their color against the black earth. If she were an artist she would paint them, so bright and tiny and perfect. But she was not an artist nor was she likely to become one. Her future was murky. All she knew was she probably couldn’t stay on as the goat girl forever.

  What did she dream of doing? She straightened and looked at the sky. It was so blue today, like a perfect lake, bottomless and clear. Was the future so endless? All lives came to an end. She must find out what she’s meant to do with hers, before it was too late. She thought again of the march to Versailles, the women so dedicated and brave that she felt part of something bigger than herself, bigger than selling thread or goat-herding. Bigger than finding the next meal. But what did that mean now, when the women and men of the uprising no longer had a voice?

  At the top of the hill she stopped, rounding up her goats for a chomp on the thin grass. Was this the count’s land? The villagers said he tried to keep them off it for many years, or make them pay a tax to graze their animals. But the top of any hill should belong to the people. It should be for everyone, to let their spirits soar. Let the nobles have the bottoms where the rich soil grew plump grapes and golden wheat. The people would take the high ground.

  She sat down on a log under a withered tree and shut her eyes for a moment. Sleep was a luxury on the farm. There was never enough of it. She felt the sunshine on her face and smiled. Where was Ghislain then? How far had he gotten on that bad leg? Had he jumped in a wagon and disappeared forever?

  Something made her feel that he would be back. She wanted him to heal and come back for her. It was a wild, ridiculous thought but she was still a girl, despite all her troubles.

  A shadow crossed her face, taking away the warmth of the sun. She blinked and opened her eyes. A tall man stood over her, staring. The silhouette of him against the sun, his hat, his long coat— she stiffened, struggling to her feet. She tugged at her skirt and curtsied.

  “Monsieur le Comte,” she stuttered.

  Now that she was standing she could see the Count’s face better, that horrid scar dragging down one eyelid. He had no expression, not anger or revulsion or haughty disregard. He said nothing, just nodded at her. He was not even middle-aged, she realized, examining his good side that was smooth with youth. He turned slightly to hide his bad side, something he probably did unconsciously.

  “Pardon, monsieur. I am from the Daguerre farm. I do not know the hills so well. Am I in the wrong place with the goats?”

  “I remember you,” he said quietly, staring at her in an intense, uncomfortable way. “That day in the rain.”

  “Yessir. Thank you again for giving me shelter. It was most kind.”

  He waved a hand impatiently. He glanced at her black and white goats, back to her, and stalked off down the hill, his hands thrust into his pockets.

  What an odd man. A sad one. The villagers all thought him ugly, a monster of sorts with that scar, someone who demanded outrageous rents and taxes and had done something sinful, something against God Himself, to be s
o disfigured. Odette didn’t think he was a bad person. Anyone could get a wound under the right circumstances. He probably was in a glorious battle of some kind. You shouldn’t judge someone by their outward scars, should you? But she never argued with the villagers. They were gossips like all country people. All French people, to be sure.

  Three days later, in the village, she learned more about le comte. A story was circulating that he was harboring a thief, a deserter wanted by the Army. The villagers also feared the Army. The new Republic was conscripting any able-bodied man, and some who were barely old enough to leave their mothers. The Army was preparing for war on all fronts, with all comers. The hated Army together with the hated Count; it was the perfect rumor.

  She heard the news from Estelle who sold eggs. The girl knew someone who knew someone who’d seen the deserter at the Count’s chateau, eating duck sausage in the kitchen. Odette’s heart thumped. Was the deserter Ghislain? Why was the Count helping a deserter? Odette decided to tell Estelle her story. It would get around the village, she was sure, but she had to know. She whispered to Estelle that she’d found a strange man in their woods with an injury. Was it the same man? Oh, yes, Estelle was certain it was. He was a very bad man. He’d stolen from the Army, it was said, and was on the run. They would catch him soon and cut off his head.

  Why didn’t someone relieve the Count of the traitor? Turn him in to the Army. But the villagers were as afraid of their local noble as they were of the Army. Besides, the gossip was delicious. The stories swirled and formed, then punctured and re-formed. Why deny a favorite pleasure with unnecessary action?

  That night Odette indulged in her favorite pleasure, dreaming about Ghislain. He climbed the rose trellis outside her window and tapped on the glass. She let him in then sucked the blood from where the thorns had cut his hands. He was grateful.