Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  “No, American. But I am a friend of Irene Fayette, Jacques’s cousin. She is concerned that she can’t reach him. Irene had surgery recently and can’t drive.”

  “But Jacques still drives. He has an old Renault, one of those camionnettes. He painted it red so everyone would know when he was in town.”

  “Do you have a telephone number for Jacques while he is out of town? In case there is a problem with his house? Irene gave me one but maybe there’s another?”

  The mention of Irene’s name seemed to reassure Mignon. Her shoulders lowered and she sighed. “I will see. Come in.”

  Mignon’s cottage was small and tidy with the smell of garlic in every corner. The old woman limped over to a telephone on a small cupboard. Opening the doors, she extracted a threadbare address book and leafed through it. She limped farther, to the kitchen table where she’d left her glasses, then sat down, staring at the book.

  “Here then.” She read out a number. Merle was ready with her pen and tiny spiral notebook, scribbling it down.

  Outside Merle checked the number that Irene had given her for Jacques. The same number that Mignon gave her, which she knew was disconnected. Still she punched it in, standing on the front step of Jacques’s cottage, listening for a ringing inside. There was none.

  Jacques had left his shutters open. Merle walked through the weeds as she’d done at Pascal’s and peered through the windows. It was a small place, barely four rooms. The only room she couldn’t see thoroughly was the bathroom. What if he had fallen on the floor of the bath, or in the tub? She tried the front door. Locked. She tried the back door and was surprised when it opened and she almost fell inside.

  “Jacques? Es-tu ici?”

  The back door led directly into the kitchen. It had been cleaned, the dishes in the strainer by the sink, the wooden table wiped of crumbs. She ran a finger over the table. Dust. She located the bathroom door and opened it cautiously. But it was empty.

  She decided to leave the old man a note, telling him she’d been to visit and to call his cousin Irene immediately. She set it on the kitchen table and let herself out the back.

  In her car she called Irene with the news, technically no-news, of Jacques. Irene was disappointed. “I think you should report him missing, Irene,” Merle said. The older woman muttered something nasty about ‘les flics.’

  “Irene,” Merle continued, “speaking of the police, do you remember when Pascal arrested somebody doing wine fraud many years ago? One of his first cases? He might have talked about it. I think there was a public trial.”

  “Hmmm. That one in the Sancerre?”

  “Maybe. Do you remember anything more?”

  “He was quite proud of his work, I remember that. A bit of a peacock about it, you know these flics. But he gave me no details except where it took place. He never talked about his work very much. But I remember Louise was nine years old that year, starting in a new school. It was the year my husband died. We were all still reeling from that. Pascal took Louise into the village to school a couple times. He was very kind to her.”

  “What year was that, Irene? When Louise was nine?”

  “Let’s see, she’s what—? Twenty-four now? So, fifteen years ago.”

  Merle thanked Irene and scribbled it all down in her notebook. Sancerre. Fifteen years ago. Would it be difficult to find in old newspapers?

  “One last thing, Irene. You gave me his ex-wife’s number, right? Clarisse?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did she live there in the cottage with him?”

  “Oh, yes. Pretty girl. Not much work for her around here. She wouldn’t work with the goats.”

  “What happened with them? He’s never said much.”

  “He says she ran off with her piano teacher. Somebody from Bergerac or Cahors or somewhere.”

  Merle sighed. “I see. Thank you. I’ll keep looking for Jacques if you tell me where else to look.”

  But Irene had no more ideas. She didn’t know any of his friends and all their relatives lived far away, in Paris and Normandy. Merle urged her to call them, ask if they’d seen him. If they haven’t, she should call the police.

  This time Irene said she would.

  The public library in Bergerac was large and well-staffed. It was a modern mediatheque, with rows of computers along with books. All the computers were busy when Merle arrived so she decided to inquire with a librarian about searching old newspapers. She wished she’d brought her laptop but maybe the staff would give her direction on searching when she got home.

  Newspapers were not online, she was told. They were housed in a backroom on microfiche and compact disks. The staff librarian who looked barely out of college told Merle they were digitizing the entire collection but it wasn’t complete yet. Merle asked for the year in question, 2002, and was relieved to find they were on CDs. She was set up at a desk with a computer reserved for newspaper searches and left on her own.

  Inputting terms ‘Sancerre’ and ‘vignoble’— vineyard— brought up a huge list of articles. She tried several times to add other terms to narrow the list down but ended up starting at the beginning of 2002 and going through every article. It took hours. Most were puff pieces about wineries and winemakers with projections on prices and reports on weather, from Le Monde, Le Figaro, Le Parisien, and other, smaller regional newspapers.

  At the very end of the list, in December, she hit gold. The summer before a vignoble had been discovered to be importing Spanish wine and bottling it as Sancerre, a serious crime. The investigation had apparently been announced in January 2002 but it hadn’t come up in her searches. By December, however, the trial was underway in Paris. She squinted at the blurry text, trying to scribble it down, word for word. In the old days, she used to make photocopies of microfiche but the librarian hadn’t mentioned a hard copy option today. She continued in her notebook, page after tiny page, writing out the French to make sure she got it correct. She scanned ahead for a name, a perpetrator. He was not named.

  One thing was clear, however. The name of the winery was Domaine Le Grand Vinon.

  When Merle parked outside the old walls of Malcouziac, it was late. She’d eaten steak frites in a greasy bistro in Bergerac while writing out a translation of the article from the library. She felt alive, on the hunt, in a way that shouldn’t have thrilled her as much as it did. Pascal was still missing but she was on her way to finding him. She knew it.

  She had coffee after dinner for the drive home. There was no chance she would sleep tonight, not with her discoveries and her worries and the caffeine. She gave up about midnight, lying in bed, hoping for a miracle. She turned on the light. She looked at her cell phone and calculated the time in New York. Which sister could she call? Annie was no doubt busy with Callum, Stasia with her family. Her two single sisters, younger than Merle, were Francie and Elise. Elise had just been here, she might not be ready for more French intrigue after the spray paint incident.

  Francie answered right away, indicating she must be home. “Hey, Merle. Comment ça va?”

  “Ça va bien.” All is well. “How are you? What’s going on?”

  Francie began a litany of complaints about her partners in the law firm, her stupid clients, the bad calls by judges, and her inconsiderate neighbors who held huge, drunken football parties every weekend.

  “I completely forgot about football,” Merle said when Francie finally ran out of complaints. “One of the nice things about France.”

  “Oh, everything is nice in France.” She sighed. “Well, almost.”

  Francie had some bad experiences in the country the year before. She rarely talked about them though. And Merle didn’t want to bring up the “cheese business,” a scheme to import exotic cheeses from France that her sister seemed to have forgotten.

  “Elise had a good time here,” Merle said. “Did you talk to her?”

  “Uh-huh. She said you got robbed.”

  “Well, an attempt, yes. But here’s the thing. Coming back to Fra
nce exorcised her demons from the spring. It was her idea, and it worked, I think.”

  “Except for being sprayed with fluorescent paint.”

  “Yeah, right. Okay, France isn’t perfect. Pascal and I had that discussion.” She paused after saying his name, the ache in her stomach tightening. Where was he? “I haven’t seen him in awhile. I’m kind of worried.”

  “What do you mean? Did you break up?”

  “I don’t think so. The last time he was here it sure didn’t seem that way. He just doesn’t answer my calls or texts. Francie, I think something may have happened to him while he was undercover.”

  “Like what?”

  “He said some guy he’d arrested years ago had talked to him, or threatened him, or something. He was strange about it, like he didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Because—?”

  “He didn’t want to scare me. I’ve called his office and they are completely stonewalling me. They even sent the local cop around to tell me to mind my own business.”

  A rustling of papers sounded. Francie said, “Are you by yourself? What’s your schedule?”

  “I’ve got a couple more months here. I’m scheduled to come back for the holidays.”

  Francie swore under her breath. “You know it’s only September. Okay, look. I can come next week if I move some stuff around. I don’t have any court dates or actual dates or anything.”

  “What? No, you don’t have to come over, Francie. I wasn’t suggesting… I was just, you know, grousing.”

  “And you never grouse, Merle. I’ll call you back in the morning. Go to bed.”

  Merle leaned back against the pillows. Francie was coming, even though she hadn’t asked her, or even needed her. Francie, who was braver than Merle and at least as brave as Annie. Together they would figure this out.

  Her head was still buzzing, even with the relief of knowing she’d soon have a sidekick to help her. Merle grabbed her notebook and pen and set down her phone.

  She needed the distraction of a faraway time.

  Odette and the Great Fear

  part seven

  Odette took a last look over her shoulder at her goats, tethered together on the side of the hill facing the chateau. She would not be long, she promised them silently, hoping no fox or boar came along and got them tangled in a frenzy. She crossed her fingers behind her back and knocked on the heavy wooden door.

  She had learned something back at the Daguerre farm, that the Count was once a priest. He was the second son and had gone into service to the Lord while his older brother was groomed for inheritance. When the revolution broke out he had cast off his robes and joined the friends of Robespierre who were fashioning the new laws of the Republic. His brother had died last year of cholera or something, the rumors varied, and now the second son had the half-ruined chateau and the inheritance.

  The footsteps approached. This section of the manse was intact as always, according to the Daguerre’s, but they recounted with relish the destruction to the chapel and adjoining wings after the first flush of the revolution. Someone had set fire to it, and the ensuing bonfire was a cause for much celebration. It was while fighting that fire that le Comte had been badly burned, the cause of his disfigurement.

  Odette straightened, queasy with anticipation. The Count was a terrifying figure, with or without his scar. The maids at the farm had peppered her with stories about his cruelty. It was all idle gossip. Surely. He was stiff and formal but he didn’t scare her. Not much.

  The heavy door swung open and an elderly man escorted her into a drawing room off the main hall. She was told to sit. A large clock ticked off the seconds and she became restless. How long was she to sit and wait? Her flock could be in distress. She went to the window, pulling back a musty drape. The view was stunning, the sun piercing the gloom, the orange of the autumn leaves set a glow. But her goats were somewhere in the mist, out of sight.

  “Mademoiselle,” a voice behind her said. She turned to see the Count, now without his long coat and top hat, standing just inside the door. “I’m glad you could join us. If you would come this way—” He gestured toward the hall.

  He led the way to the dining room, a grand room that had seen better days. Wallpaper peeled from the upper edges of the high walls, near the ornate carved ceiling where a sooty chandelier hung. The table itself was elegant with curved legs and twelve high-backed chairs. Odette followed the Count down the left side, admiring the silver and candlesticks and white linens. When she was halfway down the table she registered the presence of someone else, a man, sitting at the end of the opposite side. She faltered at the sight of Ghislain, upright and seemingly healthy. And as handsome as ever.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, nodding. “You will forgive me for not standing. My leg is not as it once was.”

  She blinked, flustered, muttering something inane. The Count pulled out a chair opposite Ghislain for her then seated himself at the end of the table. A maid appeared with a tray, carrying a silver teapot and china cups. Odette was grateful for the distraction of pouring and stirring.

  After introductions where she learned Ghislain’s surname was Leclair and he learned her full name, the Count sat back silently, sipping his tea. It seemed he had arranged that the two of them would meet again. He seemed quite pleased with himself.

  “Pardon, monsieur,” Odette said finally. “Have you been here all these weeks? Since you appeared in the woods near the farm?”

  The Count spoke then. “One of my workers found him. Half-dead near the river.”

  Ghislain smiled. “Half-dead but half-alive. The Count has been so kind as to allow me to stay here and mend.”

  “Anything for a soldier of the revolution,” the Count said. He stood then, set down his tea cup, and walked to the door. “You will excuse me. I have matters to attend to. I will return shortly.”

  As soon as he left, the maid returned, refilled their tea cups and offered a plate of shortbread biscuits. It had been two years since Odette had tasted such a delicacy. She dipped them in the hot tea, closed her eyes, and savored the melt of the biscuit on her tongue.

  “He feeds his people well,” Ghislain offered, watching her.

  “I see that. It has been too long. I’m sorry— I—” She blushed then, which only complicated her feelings.

  “No need to apologize for enjoying the finer things.” Ghislain was clean-shaven now and ruddy, the color back in his cheeks, his dark hair clean and combed over his collar. He didn’t wear his uniform but a green jacket and white shirt with a stiff collar, like he might have borrowed from the Count. Of course he had, she thought, smoothing the skirt of her muslin gown, washed so much it was almost transparent.

  “No? You have been converted to the noble cause?”

  He laughed then, his eyes crinkling and his white teeth flashing. “No, mademoiselle. Just eating their food. Besides, the Count is on our side. He was in Paris with Robespierre. He did well to leave though. Things are bad in the city. The new government is chaotic and vengeful.”

  Odette listened carefully. “You were there, in Paris lately?”

  “In the summer.” He looked away, his brow darkening.

  “Before you deserted?”

  His gaze spun back. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re a soldier and you’re not with the troops. Pardon, monsieur. It seemed obvious.”

  His shoulders sunk a little in defeat but he didn’t answer. He stared into his tea cup instead. Odette felt she had insulted him but didn’t know how to make it right.

  They ate in silence. When the maid returned she took away their dishes. Odette dabbed the fine linen napkin to her lips. “Is he returning? I should go see to my goats.”

  “Don’t go,” Ghislain said desperately. “Please.”

  Odette’s eyes widened at the emotion in his plea. “But I must, monsieur. I have duties.”

  “I’m sorry, of course.” He held her gaze and she felt her stomach turn over. “Of course yo
u must go. But will you come back? Another day, not too long in the future? The Count is very solicitous to all my needs but I keep thinking of you by the fire. It was so cozy and warm. I liked it better there but I couldn’t stay. You see that, don’t you? Say you understand.”

  “I understand the food is much better here, and there are servants to see to your wound, I suppose. You must have a large room with feather pillows and a grand view.” She leaned closer to him and whispered. “Are you in hiding?”

  “Until my leg is strong and I figure out what to do. I may go south, to Spain. The republic is hard on men. Many will die in these wars.”

  “The Spanish are fighting near the border. It would not be safe.”

  “Then Bordeaux and the sea perhaps. Safety is elusive, Mademoiselle Odette.”

  He said her name with such gentleness, she wanted to cry.

  “Of course I will come back to see you, Monsieur Leclair. If you wish.”

  “I wish one thing, that you call me Ghislain.”

  “All right— Ghislain. It sounds like the name of a gallant knight.” She smiled into his eyes.

  His voice was as soft as a breeze. “Just a man, mademoiselle. Just a man.”

  Twenty-Five

  Dordogne

  Francie Bennett flounced off the train in Bergerac, wearing skin-tight flowered jeans and a t-shirt that didn’t hide a thing. She threw her arms around Merle and they hugged there at the station for a long minute. Francie exclaimed, “God, it’s good to be back. Look at you, all relaxed and tan. It’s still so warm here. I’m starving. Let’s get lunch.”

  As usual, Francie talked a blue streak, exclaiming over everything from Merle’s dented Peugeot to the salad in the café to the workers in the vineyards, bent over their harvesting tasks. Francie was a loud enthusiast of almost everything and being with her was overwhelming and cheering for Merle. You didn’t have the energy to worry and mope when Francie filled all the space with her chatter and enthusiasm.