Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  The proprietor was in the house, she said. She hesitated, looking Pascal up and down, then agreed to see if her brother could be disturbed. Pascal gave her a quick version of harvest workers for hire then followed her back to the house. He waited patiently in a sitting room, looking at dusty photographs on the walls of harvests past. The room was cooler than outside but still warm and musty, the shutters closed against the sun.

  Finally, the old man, Henri Gagne, shuffled in, wearing a plaid bathrobe over ancient undergarments. He was bald with wiry white eyebrows and a thousand wrinkles. He and Pascal shook hands and made small talk the way people do, especially country people. It was rude to dive into business without polite chatter, at least out here in the Languedoc. The sister brought them ice water and a plate of crackers. Henri was on a strict diet, she apologized. Pascal had seen him drinking wine and eating cheese the last time but he said nothing, just bit into a stale cracker.

  They sat on the upholstered chairs by a shuttered window. Dust puffed up from the seats in little clouds. Pascal explained again who he was— his nom de guerre was Pablo this time— and launched into a lament about harvest workers. Finally, the old man asked where he got his, offering Pascal an opening.

  After a long-winded discussion on the good and bad aspects of hiring foreigners, especially Africans— Henri was as opinionated as any codger— Pascal let the conversation lag for a moment then added, “And what about trucks? To transport the grapes to market?”

  “We have many trucks,” old Henri said, waving a hand. “So many. My sons love the trucks. Some break down but still we have enough. You have trucks?”

  “Oh, yes. We are set as well.”

  “Drivers though, hmmm.” The old man rubbed his chin. “Last year I had to use some young ones and they got lost and barely made it home for dinner.”

  “Do they have to go far?”

  “Oh, perhaps. Sometimes we sell to wineries a hundred miles away.” He squinted at Pascal then cackled. “Don’t tell les flics!”

  Pascal laughed. “Your grapes must be in high demand.”

  “Oui, oui. Of course. They are the best Bourboulenc grapes in all the Languedoc. And the grand domaines know it.”

  “I have heard this,” Pascal said. “If only my vineyard had your terroir, and expertise. Maybe you could send one of your sons over one day? After the harvest, to instruct me on the best practices?”

  He stood up but the old man stayed in his chair, staring blankly at the opposite wall where a vase of sunflowers sat wilting. “If they remembered half what I taught them I would be surprised.” He looked sad, despite crowing about his vineyard seconds before. “I pity the future. When I am gone— pfft! It all goes with me.”

  Pascal promised to call about the workers. They said ‘good day’ and Pascal stepped back outside into the blazing heat. He hobbled around the mas, running through what the old man had said. He had his confirmation but he still would need to arrange a sting of sorts where they caught the trucks on their way out of the AOC, or actually in a neighboring area. It would take some manpower to get that done.

  He was looking at his phone, thinking of who to call to make this happen, as he walked slowly down the drive and turned left at the pavement. He had straightened from his elderly crouch and lengthened his stride just as the man emerged from the hedgerows.

  “Look at you!” The man was laughing. “That hat! You are ridiculous.”

  Pascal stopped, almost to his car. The man stood between him and safety inside the vehicle.

  “Can I help you, monsieur?”

  “Can I help you, monsieur,” the man repeated mockingly, using an odd voice, one that made Pascal’s neck prickle. He had heard this voice before. The man stepped closer, out of the shade of the tree, and Pascal saw his scar, a long vertical injury that cleft his left cheek, pink and jagged with tissue. It was hideous and made the man all the more awful. It was hard to see past his scar, to imagine what he looked like before.

  “You know who I am,” he said, not as a question. “You sent me to prison, back before this.” He gestured at his face. “Who will you nab this time? Whose life will you ruin?”

  “You mistake me, monsieur.”

  The man stepped closer still so Pascal could feel his hot breath and smell the stink of his cotton shirt and see the spittle on his cracked lips. It was, ironically, the smell of the man that brought all the memories back, so that his reply was unnecessary. Nevertheless, it was spoken, and not in a friendly manner.

  “You and me, we are enemies. I never forget— how could I? It stares at me in the mirror every day, the crime, the harm, the self-righteous vindictiveness, what you have done to me in the name of justice. There will be justice but it will be my justice this time.

  “I will have my revenge, and I will vanquish you.”

  Eighteen

  Malcouziac

  “Honey? Are you there?”

  Merle took the cellphone from her ear and stared at the display, making sure she was still connected. “Tristan?”

  “I’m here. Can you hear me?” His voice was faint.

  Merle picked at the orange paint in the lifeline on her palm. Was it some kind of a sign, that her lifeline glowed with fluorescent paint that was impossible to remove? Vandalism stained her life? She sighed and walked from the kitchen into the garden. The sunshine was bright, and very welcome.

  “Yes, I hear you. Listen, there’s been some new developments here.” Merle had worried about what to tell him about the spray-paint attack. She’d decided to just lay it out. “You know your aunt Elise is here? Well, she and I got into a scuffle with a guy with a can of spray paint night before last. He’s the one who apparently did the graffiti on the house.”

  “You confronted him? Mom!”

  “More like he confronted us. We were coming home late and he appeared out of the dark. He sprayed paint on me and Elise.”

  “What a —“ He cut himself off.

  “I think I know who he is. Madame Suchet says he’s a guy who lives down the street and is mentally ill.” Merle still wasn’t sure if it was Thierry or not. “The police are in the next town over now so everything takes forever to work out. Elise and I went over there yesterday and filed the complaint. But there wasn’t an officer around.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, we’re fine. Just cleaning orange paint off ourselves.” Merle sat in the shade of the acacia tree, on the low stone wall. “But I can’t leave today. If I go now the whole thing will just get swept under the carpet. The vandalism on the house, the assault, everything. I feel like I’d be running away. And if I wait and go in a couple days it will be too late to take you to college.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He sounded mildly disappointed.

  “Elise has to get back to work and she’s had enough of France for awhile.” That was an understatement. She’d railed all night and most of yesterday, scrubbing paint from her face, neck, ears, arms, chest, hair, and legs. She was furious, and Merle didn’t blame her.

  “You’re not coming back?”

  “It was a tough decision. I’m sorry. But— will you be all right? Aunt Stasia and Uncle Rick can take you to college. Stasia will get everything organized in your dorm room.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I told you before, you didn’t need to come back from Europe just to drive me down.”

  “Are you sure?” Merle knew in her heart she was doing it just for herself. That Tristan didn’t really need her to hold his hand, to do the big send-off which would probably include tears.

  “It’s cool. Everything is already in boxes and ready to go. You wouldn’t believe how busy Aunt Stasia is, buzzing around like a general, giving orders and making sure everybody has every hairbrush and calculator and spiral notebook in the world. She packed toilet paper, just in case. She’s even got me set up with razors and shaving cream. I still have, like, three hairs on my chin but she’s convinced I’m going to need them any minute now.”

  “She’s a dynamo
.” Her sister was the ultimate organizer. She probably made binders full of lists and emergency information for her daughter Willow and for Tristan. They both were going to college this fall. It was Willow’s final year and Tristan’s first. That they would be just sixty miles apart at their respective colleges was a comfort. The fact that Merle would miss seeing Tristan shave for the first time cut into her heart though.

  “I really wanted to get you settled,” Merle said.

  “It’s crazy to fly back for a couple days. It probably costs a fortune. We’ve got this dialed. Hey, how’s Pascal?”

  That was a good question. She hadn’t heard from him in awhile. “He’s busy working somewhere. I don’t see him much.” Which was a shame. Where was he? She’d texted him yesterday about the spray-paint assault and hadn’t heard back.

  “Well, tell him I’ve been practicing those moves he showed me and they are killer.”

  “What moves?”

  Tristan laughed. “Ask him. I’m not telling you.”

  Merle talked to her son for a few more minutes then let him go. He had to finish packing and there was a party somewhere tonight. She hung up the phone and felt a little bereft. Why didn’t she just go home? To hell with the police and the damn vandal. But her sense of responsibility to her property and herself, plus flying back to the U.S. then returning in four days— a crazy trip that promised killer jet lag— kept her rooted here. If nothing else she would get Thierry the help he needed. Maybe that would make up for not helping Tristan get settled in college.

  She set the phone on the wall and put her face in her hands. Why was life full of so many difficult decisions? Was she being selfish by not going back for Tristan? She was, she knew it. She wanted the quiet, the writing time, the time to get things done on her house. She didn’t want to spend days traveling and recovering from jet lag. She wanted to be free of distractions, of problems, of other people’s lists. Even her little sister’s lists. And her sweet, loving son’s lists.

  Tristan was going to college. Although he’d gone to boarding school for years, this last year while he lived at home had compensated for many missed moments. And yet it now made his leaving that much harder. Maybe she should have gone back with him weeks before, spent these last few weeks together. But he’d made it clear he was fine, he had all those new friends, and he didn’t need her. That was what a parent wanted, right? To not be needed, to have done the job of growing a real boy, a man who could make his own decisions, who could study and read and laugh and love—and live!— with or without his mother.

  She felt the tears run down her face. Tristan was her only child. Somehow, she had done something right, she knew that. He could be any mother’s dream kid— focused, balanced, funny, and kind. If trouble came— she was sure it would, it came to everyone— they would deal with it. He would deal with it. They hadn’t mentioned Harry, Tristan’s father. He came up rarely in conversation these days but was in their thoughts often. He had loved his son as best he could. Harry would have been so proud of Tristan, Merle was sure of that.

  “Are you ready?”

  Elise was standing at the kitchen door in her travel clothes: gray yoga pants, yellow tank top, and fleece jacket with a tote bag over her shoulder. Her face was rosy from all the scrubbing and her hair was piled on her head in a messy clip.

  “Yes, all set.” Merle stood up and wiped her cheeks.

  “I wish you were—“ Elise peered at Merle. “Are you okay?”

  Merle nodded. Was speaking still necessary?

  “I wish you were going with me.” Elise took her hand. “Thanks for an incredible week. A memorable one.” They hugged. Merle felt the tears come again. Elise released her. “You can still go with me. We can work out the ticket.”

  She shook her head. “That train won’t wait for you.”

  After Merle left her sister in Bergerac, waving one last time as Elise boarded the train for Paris, she drove out of the city into the countryside, parked her car by a field of wheat, and had a good cry. Why was everyone leaving? Why did Thierry hate her so much? Where was Pascal?

  She wanted to be alone— and yet. No one wants to be alone forever, to be rejected, or disliked, or abandoned. She gulped a big breath and wiped her face off with a tissue. Transitions, she reminded herself, are always hard, no matter how well-planned and well-intentioned.

  She put the car back into gear and pulled out on the narrow blacktop. She thought about her job at Legal Aid, the offer her boss made before she left, to take over the fundraising arm of the non-profit. It would give Merle purpose, she knew that, and she also knew she needed that sort of validation. She was good at fundraising, at organization, at event-planning. And yet, there was nothing in the job as Lillian Warshowski did it that was very appealing. Maybe Merle could make it work for her though, work her magic and change it into something more satisfying. She could do whatever she wanted if she was in charge. She should write to Lillian and keep the offer fresh in both their minds. She made a note on her mental to-do list.

  By the time she pulled into the hot parking lot next to the bastide walls of Malcouziac, her head was brimming with projects, goals, ideas, and plans. She’d called Pascal from the road and left him another voice message, asking him to call, telling him she’d decided not to go home for Tristan. She’d called the police station in Sulliac and spoken to the sullen policewoman about her complaint. She’d returned a missed call from a plumber who was to start work on the old pissoir, turning it into a laundry. And she’d planned out the next chapter for Odette, where she would go, who she would see.

  There was a renewed sense of purpose in her quick steps as she walked through the arched gate of the ancient ville and smiled up at the solid, golden walls of her town.

  It was like coming home.

  Odette and the Great Fear

  part five

  The letter was torn, dirty, and weeks old by the time it found Odette in the deep countryside of southwestern France. She stared at the postal scribble on the front, near her name. At least three weeks had passed, maybe four. But she had a letter from her brother at last.

  Jérome was three years younger than she was. And much smarter as well. He had been sent to school where she had not because she was a girl. Odette always wondered if she would have been as clever as Jérome if she’d gone to school, learned about the world, read libraries full of books, taken Latin, and learned to fight with swords and words. But it was a fruitless daydream. Some girls were taught at home by tutors and governesses but not the merchant class like her parents. No tailor could afford a governess for his daughter. She had been working at her father’s knee since she was five.

  She could read however, thanks to her mother’s care, so the letter was opened with excitement.

  My dear sister,

  Word has come finally from our parents about your situation and I am glad to hear you escaped unharmed. Paris is ablaze every night with skirmishes and drunken riots, things no girl should see. I hear you are safe and healthy and I hope it is so. It makes my heart glad.

  Odette had to pause and hold the letter to her breast for a moment while her eyes cleared. She had done the same with the letter from her parents. It was so hard to think of them miles and miles away, living lives she could only imagine. Would she ever see her brother again? The next part made that clearer.

  My news is complicated. I have left my college in Lyon and joined the Army. Before you cry out in protest let me tell you there was little choice in the matter. I was to be drafted within days. This way there is a possibility of a commission and thus staying out of the worst of it.

  I do not delude myself; it will be bloody. But keep me in your prayers, chérie. I go to an unknown place, a camp somewhere, tomorrow morning. I will find out my rank, my orders, my uniform, then. I wish I could tell you to write but I don’t know where I’ll be. I will try to write again as soon as I can.

  Until we see each other again, I remain,

  Your loving brother,

/>   Jérome.

  Odette covered her mouth to contain the moan. She was sitting in the village, on a stone wall by the cemetery, under a bare tree. The sun shone through the branches onto the wet leaves at her feet.

  Jérome had left his studies. He was looking at a legal career, he had a fine mind and a quick tongue, a heart for all men and women alike, all the abilities to make him a great avocat. And now he would wear the uniform of the French Army and take up weapons against… whoever they commanded. It was a fuzzy war, with Spain, maybe England, perhaps Prussia and Austria, maybe with rebels inside the country itself. Yes, France was at war with itself. That perceived weakness had brought out all the old rivals, ready to pounce on the troubled state, on the royal disaster, on the chaos of the ruling class.

  Where was Jérome now? Marching to Alsace? Off to vanquish ‘hors de loi’— outlaws of the uprising in the Vendée? What was happening with the Queen, still imprisoned in Paris with the children? How in the year of our Lord 1793, whatever the new months were called, could the King be put on trial by commoners? It had been done already and the vote, the villagers said, even included nobles who voted for death.

  The King’s fate was sealed; he was dead. It was so distant from her own life. There had been rumors that the Queen was also dead, executed by the Louisette, or ‘madame guillotine.’ Versailles and all their fancy trappings hadn’t saved them. Odette struggled to care.

  She had heard someone had lost their head on the guillotine in Périgueux, the provincial capital, but nobody knew who or what the offense was. Instead she tried to remember the names for the months that had come down from the republicans. The Convention had renamed so many things, from the calendar to the clock. She reckoned it was the time of the mist, Brumaire, what was once late October. The old names for months were ridiculous as well. Why not rename them? She was in favor of a clean slate.