It was only three days since they’d talked on the phone yet here she was. Francie didn’t like waiting to do things she wanted to do. She had broken up with her latest fling, a lawyer in another firm in Greenwich, because he wanted her to move in with him. “Too much, too fast, even for me,” she said, smiling over her glass of Champagne at the outdoor table. “Oh, these bubbles. You were so right, Merle. Coming back to France cures everything that ails you.”
Merle opened her mouth to tell Francie what Pascal had said about that but her sister was already off on another topic. They discussed the family, Tristan at college, Willow doing some senior project about Twitter, how their father was doing health-wise (good), and more. Merle realized she had missed Francie, even though she always said Francie wore her out. Now her larger-than-life presence was so appreciated.
They were in the Peugeot, halfway back to Malcouziac, before the topic of Pascal came up. Francie had paused in her ramblings and a seriousness fell over them.
“So. Pascal. Where the hell is the cad?”
Merle shrugged. “I wish I knew.” She told Francie about the winery in Sancerre where Pascal had arrested a vintner fifteen years before. “I think he’s the one that threatened him.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. The owner of the winery is Adrien Delage, I looked that up on their website, but I don’t know how long he’s owned it.”
“Then tomorrow, we fly. Two detectives, armed with their wits and their law degrees.” Francie patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him. Wherever he is.”
“But first,” Merle said, glancing at her sister, “we have reservations at a very special restaurant tonight. It wasn’t easy to get in. It’s only open to the public for two weeks a year.”
“Sounds marvelous.” Francie lay her head back on the seat. “Oh, France you lovely country, I couldn’t quit you.”
By nine o’clock that evening, nestled in a cozy corner of the restaurant’s stone townhouse, the two sisters had to stop talking and eat. The food at La Petite Étoile was the stuff of dreams: colorful, inventive, delicious to the point of ecstasy. The delicate, mouthwatering amuse-bouches, smoked foie-gras with various colored salts, the noix Ste-Jacques— scallops— with citrus notes, the lamb, the strawberry melange, the deconstructed cheesecake, the homemade ice creams; it was too much and absolutely just right.
The drive home was lit by stars— appropriately— big and small. The moon rose, nearly full, as they rounded the last hill and Malcouziac came into sight. Merle sighed in relief as she locked the Peugeot, shouldered one of Francie’s bags, and led the way through the city gates. It was good to be home, and with a sister at her side she felt optimistic about her projects. Especially the main one, locating her missing boyfriend.
In the morning they sat in the garden, drinking espresso, and called Pascal’s cell phone again. According to her own phone Merle had called him twenty-two times in the last two weeks, not too bad considering how anxious she was about him.
“It goes straight to voicemail.” Merle set her cell on the table that had replaced the stolen one. It was similar, green metal, but didn’t have the patina of the vintage one.
“So he’s turned it off,” Francie said. “Because he’s undercover.”
“I’ve tried all times of day, early morning, the middle of the night, lunch time. It’s the same, Francie. His phone is dead and he hasn’t bothered to plug it in?”
“Maybe he lost it.”
“Okay, sure. But he didn’t get a new one? He’s a cop. That’s how he communicates.”
“Maybe the people he’s investigating took it.”
“Same as losing it. He gets a new one.”
Francie adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. She was fair and freckled and worried constantly about her skin. They’d all reached that age, Merle mused. She turned her back to the morning sun, feeling it warm her neck.
“So, what do you think? His phone is dead and he’s— what? Injured? Tied up? Unconscious? Even— dead?”
Merle tensed. That was exactly what she was thinking. But hadn’t wanted to give that possibility a voice. “Is that too whacky? Paranoid?”
Francie frowned. “What about his family? Doesn’t he have sisters? Maybe they’ve heard from him.”
“I don’t know their names.”
“Then let’s go break into his house. Come on.”
The plumber arrived as they were leaving, causing a delay as he pointed out a potential problem in hooking up the hot water to the laundry. After much discussion Merle okayed a plan to buy a small water heater for the laundry. What was the price for clean undies? Pretty damn high but worth it.
It was past noon when they arrived at the hilltop hamlet where Irene and Pascal lived. Neither sister had been hungry after the enormous meal the night before so they subsisted on espresso. Pascal’s cottage didn’t look any different than the last time, still dusty, quiet, and empty. Francie proclaimed it quaint and began tugging on door knobs.
“I went in through the window last time,” Merle admitted, pointing out the kitchen window she’d used before. “But I locked it.”
“Well, that was smart,” Francie said, looking around the yard. She marched over to a wood-pile and grabbed a log. At the back door, she hacked at the knob, breaking it off. She put her shoulder to the old door and they were in.
“Do you do this often, mademoiselle?” Merle said, eyes wide at Francie’s command of house-breaking.
“Only in emergencies. This is an emergency, right?”
They split up to search the cottage. Merle wondered why she hadn’t done a more thorough job before. She’d been tentative, worried about Pascal’s privacy, but she was over that now. She pushed up the mattress and looked underneath it, stripped the sheets, used a broom under the bed in case something was hidden there. Meanwhile, Francie was tearing up the kitchen. They met, empty-handed, in the living room. Small as it was, with only two chairs, a television, and a few side tables, there was still a chance to find an address book, an old letter, something from his relatives.
A few minutes later Francie crowed, “Ah-ha!”
“What is it?”
“Mail in the trash.” She dumped the small wastebasket upside down in the middle of the rug.
“I think I saw this on ‘Murder She Wrote,’” Merle said as they began pawing through envelopes.
“Or was it ‘Columbo?’” Francie said, peering closely at a torn envelope. “What’s this? I can’t read French writing.”
Merle took the envelope and stared at the return address. The script was ornate and tiny. “Looks personal but I can’t read it either.” She stuck it in the pocket of her jeans. “Keep looking.”
They sifted through old magazines, bills, and solicitations, the same sort of junk mail that Americans got. Francie held up a birthday card with a big frog on the front. “Someone wrote: Felicitations, oncle. Does that mean uncle?”
Merle took the card. It appeared to be from a nephew of Pascal’s. There was more writing that would need a magnifying glass before she could read it. Merle had no idea what sort of children his sisters had, how old they were, or how close they were. It was just like his parents. She had so little curiosity about his family, his past, and felt miserable about it. What was wrong with her? Why had she never asked? On top of everything, she’d somehow missed his birthday. When was his birthday? June? July? Something like that.
She pulled the envelope out of her pocket. The card fit perfectly in it. “Bingo,” Francie said.
Merle took Francie out to see Irene’s goats before they left. Irene was out in the pasture, walking with a cane, talking to her animals. They waved at her and she squinted back, uncertain apparently who they were.
“Just a second,” Merle told her sister, clambering over the fence.
Francie followed. Irene’s frown broke into a smile as Merle got closer and said her name.
“Ah, Merle,” the older woman said, kissing her cheeks
. Merle introduced her sister and said they were still looking for Pascal. And Jacques, of course.
“These men,” Irene growled. “They run off and never tell us where they are.”
“Have you heard from either one?” Merle asked.
Irene hadn’t. She had called the police to report Jacques missing but they didn’t seem particularly interested in an old man who didn’t answer his phone. His vehicle was also missing, she’d told the cops, and that at least was something to go on.
“What does his car look like, Irene?” Merle asked.
“An ancient Renault, once red but now not so much. He told me the young Brits are always trying to buy it from him. Do you think they stole it?”
The Bennett sisters admitted it was a possibility although how that related to finding Jacques was still a mystery.
“Those nasty Brits,” Francie laughed as they made their way back to Merle’s car. “They’d probably throw an old Frenchman out on the street to get their hands on a collectible old beater.”
Merle laughed. She knew a few nasty Brits but also some nasty Americans and French. Nasty knew no boundaries.
Even in La France Profonde.
They had planned to go find the winery in Sancerre today but the lead on the envelope and possible relative changed that. They returned to Malcouziac and by five were seated in Albert’s garden under his plum tree. It was chilly with the sun gone but the tea he brewed for them helped.
Merle hadn’t seen her neighbor in awhile. She’d been busy, or running around the countryside. Now that she had her own vehicle she didn’t have to borrow Albert’s Deux-Chevaux. But she felt bad about not checking up on him. What if he disappeared one day like Jacques? She made a promise to check on him at least every other day for the rest of the time she was in France.
Merle grabbed the old man’s hand. He squeezed it, a thin smile on his face. “How have you been? I’m so sorry I haven’t seen you in awhile.”
“Oh, I was in Paris,” he said. “Valerie had a concert. She plays the violin in a student orchestra.”
“I would have loved to have heard her play,” Merle said. She got out the card with its envelope. “This is strange. But I can’t seem to locate Pascal. We found this in his house and were hoping you could help us read the address.”
Albert pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and brought the envelope close to his face. “Eustace, Avenue Fumier, nineteen, Victoire. There is a postal code as well.”
“Where is Victoire?” Francie asked.
Albert shrugged. “After the Revolution many small towns changed their names to Victoire, Liberté, Marat, and so on.”
“What is Marat?”
“One of the first martyrs of the Republic.”
“We’ll look up Victoire,” Merle said. “Now the card.”
He squinted at the inside of the card where the greeting was written. “‘Congratulations, uncle. Fifty is a good number on you. Thank you again for the check at Christmas. I bought a—’ What is ‘PlayStation’?”
“Video game player,” Francie said.
“Ah. ‘I bought a PlayStation and have been shooting many police on it, ha ha. Don’t worry, I won’t shoot you. Have a nice birthday. Jean-Louis.’” Albert curled his lip. “What is this, a joke?”
“The teenage boy version of a joke,” Merle said, taking the card back. “He’s just playing games, Albert. I doubt he means any harm.”
Francie was anxious to leave. They thanked Albert and Merle promised to check in the next day. “You have my mobile number, right? Call me for any reason.”
They crossed the alley and through the gate into Merle’s garden. Francie grabbed her arm. “Pascal is fifty! Who knew?”
“Not me,” Merle admitted. She had thought him much younger. Didn’t he say his sisters teased him about their age difference? Was that a joke on her?
The plumber was wrestling with the water heater in the laundry, trying to wedge the little unit into a corner. They listened to him curse for a few minutes then went inside.
“What should we do now?” Merle asked.
Francie was sitting at the dining table with Merle’s laptop open, tapping on keys. “We know the little fucker’s name and town. We’ll find Pascal’s sisters, or one of them.”
In a moment they were looking at the French Facebook profile of one Jean-Louis Eustace. They were pretty sure it was the right one since he stated his school was Lycée Bellevue in Victoire, a town in northwest France, not far from Rennes.
“He looks like a real peach,” Francie said, staring at his profile picture. He had Pascal’s dark hair but otherwise was a greasy mess with sunken cheeks, heavy eyebrows, and a sneer.
“Teenage boys all look sketchy,” Merle said. “How old is he?”
“Fifteen, I think.”
“Awkward year. Now how do we find his mother?”
Francie clicked something on the page. “Well, we could call him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He seems to be asking girls to call him. Look at that— a photo with his phone number.”
Jean-Louis stood with a poster in his hands featuring a phone number. He made a little ‘call me’ gesture with one hand, and smirked.
Merle wasted no more time. She dialed the number in the photograph. The boy answered with a gruff: “Oui, allo.”
In fast French, as fast as she dared, Merle explained she was looking for Pascal d’Onscon who she’d been told was his uncle.
“Comment?” He switched to English. “Who is this? Speak English.”
With a sigh of relief she said, “My name is Merle Bennett. Your uncle, Pascal, is a friend and I am trying to find him. He is missing.”
After more arguing she got the boy to give her his mother’s telephone number. He hung up unceremoniously.
“Got it,” Merle told Francie, waving the slip of paper.
“Call her. Quick.”
Merle was already half through the number. “Madame Eustace? My name is Merle Bennett. I am a friend of your brother, Pascal.” She spoke in a slower French now, trying to calm herself.
“Ah, dear Pascal. How is he?” The woman sounded sweet and motherly.
“I hope he’s good. But that’s the thing. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. I’m worried. Has he been in touch with you?”
“No, no. Not for some time have we talked. Who did you say this is?”
“Merle Bennett. Pascal’s friend from America?”
“Oh, yes! Merle— the blackbird! Bien sûr! It is so nice to make your acquaintance at last. You are in New York City?”
“No, I’m in France now, in the Dordogne where I have a house. Pascal has been here to visit me a few times, and I’ve been to his house, but now— nothing, no replies for three weeks or more. I was hoping you might know where he could be. A friend’s house, another woman perhaps, another relative?”
Madame Eustace— first name unknown— had no idea where her brother was. The other sister who lived outside of Geneva, Switzerland, had called only that morning and said nothing about Pascal. A half-brother who Pascal had never mentioned to Merle lived outside the country. Their relationship was not a strong one. Madame apologized, got Merle’s number in case Pascal turned up, and rang off.
Francie stuck out her lower lip. “No dice, huh.”
Merle sat down with a thump. “I guess they’re not very close. Or maybe Pascal is secretive with everyone, just like he is with me.”
“You think he’s secretive?”
“A little. It comes from being undercover, I think. He’s opened up a lot more to me lately but for a long time I didn’t even know where he lived.”
Francie was looking at the laptop with sudden interest. “What’s this? Odette and the Great Fear. Is that your novel? Oooh.” She made to click on it and Merle jumped up, pushing the laptop away.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
“Come on! I want to read it.” She made another attempt at the computer.
Merle
snatched it away, closed it, and put it under her arm. “It’s not ready. Or finished. Lots more to go. And— and I’m not sure anyone’s going to read it. Ever.”
“Oh, pooh, party pooper. Hey!” Francie brightened. “Got any wine?”
Twenty-Six
The first thing Pascal felt, before anything else, was the cold. His entire body was stiff and whatever he was lying on— face-down— was hard, slick, and frigid. He twitched, aching. He couldn’t feel his hands, or his feet. He twisted one shoulder up off the surface and found he couldn’t move his arms.
He opened his eyes, blinking into a darkness that revealed little. He lifted his head, peeling his cheek off the stone. It was a floor where he lay, a cold, polished stone floor. To his right a blue ray of light sliced the darkness.
Struggling to a seated position he confirmed his fears that his hands were cuffed behind his back. He tried to wiggle his fingers, get some blood flow in them, but he couldn’t even feel that. He moved his feet inside his boots, the pain and numbness battling. At his back a stone wall rose two or more stories. He could barely make out an ornate wooden ceiling, its arches meeting in a high dome.
He was panting with the effort of sitting up. He blinked hard, clearing his head, shaking it until the action proved a mistake. His head hurt on the left side, above his ear. What the hell had happened? Where was he?
The last thing he remembered was Delage holding the gun on him, an old double-barreled shotgun, the kind farmers used on crows. Where was that? Somewhere south of Sancerre, in a barn. Pascal remembered the hunger, the sips of water, but little else about how much time had passed there. Was that Léo Delage who had fed him the bits of stale bread, or someone else? His memory refused to say.
He brought his mind back to here, now. What had happened over the last days was immaterial. Now he needed to get free, get away from here. Wherever ‘here’ was. He shivered violently. An old chateau? A church? Somewhere in an old building, a solid structure with an ornate roof.
Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6 Page 19