Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

“Too bad we didn’t run into the son,” Francie said.

  “I doubt if he would have told us anything. His reputation is already tarred by the business with his father.”

  “Right. Oh, man, all that wine! Merle, stop! I need to pee really bad. I’m just going to sneak into those bushes.”

  Before Merle could look around for passersby Francie plunged into the tall grass, through some shrubs, and behind a tree. Merle unlocked the car and aired it out while she waited. In a moment her sister emerged with a big grin on her face.

  “Look what I found,” she said, setting a burgundy French beret on her head. “Isn’t it a kick? I feel très Français!”

  Merle smiled then stepped closer. The hat looked familiar. “Is that— Let me see it.” She held out her hand.

  “Finders keepers,” Francie said, dancing backwards.

  “Seriously, Francie. I don’t want to wear it, just look at it.”

  “Look at your mean face. Oh, all right.” She handed it to Merle.

  Merle turned the beret over and looked inside. There, in a messy ring on the inside band, was a trace of sticky white powder. She touched it with her finger and pulled away a gob of it. She put her nose inside the beret and breathed in.

  Merde. The scent of Pascal.

  They took the beret home the next day. They got no more leads in the Sancerre but both Francie and Merle vowed to come back for more winery tours. It was a beautiful area, like so many in France, that demanded closer examination and a leisurely drinking plan. Another summer for sure.

  The food— especially the goat cheese— was amazing, Merle thought, still in a rich haze from the dinner the night before, another extravagant feast. Francie had actually stopped eating through the third course, a real sacrilege. Merle cleaned her plate down to the last smear of sauce, in the local manner. They both refused dessert and were served them anyway.

  “How do you stay so thin? I think I gained three pounds,” Francie moaned, throwing her suitcase into the house. “I need a nap. I read that taking naps helps you lose weight.”

  While her sister slept upstairs Merle watered the plants in the garden and checked on the plumber’s progress. He was nowhere to be found but had finished much of the work, from hooking up the washer to installing the water heater and connecting the drain. Merle had concocted a plan to use the gray water from the washing machine to water plants, now that the cistern was gone. That wasn’t in place yet as it involved installing a large drum outside the laundry building to hold the water. The plumber assured her he knew all about it; he just hadn’t gotten around to it.

  She set Pascal’s beret on the mantel. Where the hell was he? Why was his hat in the bushes? Where was his car? She dialed his number again. Straight to an overstuffed mailbox.

  Francie had emailed her the photograph of Léo Delage. Merle downloaded it to her phone and stared at it. How had he changed? Why did the field workers call him ‘affreux.’ She looked up the word to make sure she correctly understood it. Yes: ‘frightful’, ‘horrible.’ But in what way? She opened the old photograph on her laptop and blew it up large. M. Delage looked normal, respectable, broad-shouldered, with a large nose and dark hair, like a million Frenchmen. How had he changed in prison?

  She did a search on his name again. Zip. He’d been in custody and out of the country for fifteen years. If only she’d had more time to question that guy at the vineyard.

  A knock on the front door startled her. She saw the gendarme’s uniform before she opened the door. It was the same one who had lectured her about bothering the Police nationale and she straightened her shoulders for another onslaught of French mansplaining.

  He glared at her seriously, his hand on someone else’s arm. “Monsieur le gendarme,” she said, peering out to see who else had arrived. It was another man, younger, maybe twenty-five or thirty. He wasn’t happy.

  “Madame.” The gendarme had gotten a haircut, very short and militaristic. It made him look a little fascist. “I present to you— your vandal.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The young man being held by the gendarme frowned at Merle. He turned back to the cop to sneer at him. Merle crossed her arms and stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

  “Is that so?” She pointed to the front of her house, still a riot of colorful paints. “This is your handiwork?”

  He didn’t answer. He wore baggy black pants and a ripped blue t-shirt. He had longish hair that was a greasy brown with a low widow’s peak in the front. She had to admit he looked the part. What she remembered of the vandal were his muscles and his height, both of which matched. Oh, and his eyes. Blue: check.

  The gendarme shook him. “Answer the lady.”

  He glared at them both silently. Merle said, “Are you a Communist?”

  The man curled his lip in disgust. “No.”

  “But you did this? Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “You sprayed me and my sister. You ruined our clothes. This will cost me thousands to clean off my house.”

  The gendarme shook him again. “Apologize. You will help clean her house or you will land in jail.”

  The man’s dark eyes flicked nervously between them now. Finally, he said in a low voice, “I am sorry, madame.”

  Merle wasn’t sure she believed him. “What’s your name?”

  The gendarme shook him again. “Claudio, madame,” the man said. “Claudio Droz.”

  “Let me see your hands, Claudio,” Merle demanded. He glanced at the cop then spread his hands, palms up. He had apparently given up at this point, sneer or no sneer. “There, just like mine.” She pointed to fluorescent orange paint in the deep creases of his palms. “It’s hard to clean, isn’t it?”

  The gendarme explained how the cleaning of the paint off her house would work. A citizen volunteer would supervise Claudio but only the guilty party would actually do the work. He would arrive each day at nine in the morning and work until the volunteer agreed to stop for the day. At least three hours per day, the gendarme reminded Claudio.

  “If you work longer, you are done sooner. But you must show up every day until it is done. Every day.” The cop pulled Claudio to attention. “Starting tomorrow. He works whether you are here or not, rain or shine, madame. The volunteer will arrive with him, and approve all the work. Bonne journée.”

  Merle stood in the street and watched the gendarme half-drag Claudio away. How had they found him, she wondered, then realized it didn’t matter. Justice, in the form of cleaning the facade of her house, would be hers. She wondered how long it would take.

  Was Claudio spending the rest of his time in jail? She didn’t know how work-release or restitution or whatever they called it worked in France. And who would be the volunteer to keep Claudio on task?

  At 9:05 the next morning, as Merle and Francie left for Bergerac to meet the train, they found out. They stepped into the street among ladders and buckets and scrubbers on long poles. And there was Albert with Claudio.

  “Albert!” Merle cried. “Are you the volunteer?”

  The retired priest was bright-eyed with a stern, schoolteacher’s expression as he spoke to Claudio in a low voice. He kept talking for a moment, making sure his point was taken, then turned to the sisters. Claudio moved to a ladder and began to stand it up against the house.

  “Yes, I am,” Albert said proudly. “It is one of the things I do for the village.” He stepped closer to Merle. “This is the first time I have been called upon. I am a bit nervous.”

  She patted his arm. “Call me if you need me to back you up.” She glanced at Claudio and remembered his cackle as he sprayed her and Elise in the dark. “Be stern.”

  Madame Suchet stepped out of her house. She watched the commotion for a moment then stepped down to talk to them. “Is that Claudio Droz?”

  “Oui, madame,” Merle said. “He has confessed to the vandalism and is working off his sentence by cleaning it.”

  “Very good,” Madame S said approvingly then went to ta
lk to Albert.

  The sisters drove the farm roads to Bergerac, going slowly to take in the last of the vendange, the grape harvest, and various grains being cut as well. They were quiet, even Francie.

  At the station Merle waited on the platform with her sister. “What will you do?” Francie asked. “About Pascal.”

  Merle shook her head. “I’ve run out of ideas.”

  Francie looked distraught. She hugged Merle tightly. “You’ll think of something. Keep pounding.”

  Driving back from the train station was as usual Merle’s lowest moment of the week. But at least her house was getting cleaned by the vandal himself and she didn’t have to pay for it. But what about Pascal? She couldn’t think of another angle. Where was he? Why didn’t he call?

  Maybe it was time to take a break, think about something else. Like the French Revolution and a goat herder. What was that girl going to do?

  Odette and the Great Fear

  part eight

  The day Ghislain lost his foot Odette was high in the hills, kicking grasses and poking under alder trees for truffles with her walking stick. Her mind was in the clouds, musing about the Revolution. The word had come to the village a few days before that the new guillotine in Périgueux, the provincial capital, had been kept busy. Three men, one of them a judge, had reportedly been subjected to the blade of the Louisette. Rumors swirled about other beheadings in cities and towns all over France. A newspaper engraving showed nobles in Paris with ribbons around their necks to celebrate their connection with someone who had lost their head. Like it was a fun excursion or a costume ball and not a beheading.

  The news was disturbing. The gossips said le Comte was next. That he had collaborated with nobles like Robespierre. Odette had thought Robespierre was a young patriot, a fine, decent gentleman, but the tides turned against him.

  She looked up as the sun broke through gray clouds. Below, the chateau was shrouded in fog, vapor coming from the river on this chilly day. She pulled her long coat tighter. It was a gift from the farmer, Monsieur Daguerre, for days when she had to be outside in bad weather. It dragged the ground as she walked. It was a losing battle, trying to keep the olive wool out of the mud. She would have to clean it again tonight.

  When she returned to the farm with the goats that evening the talk in the kitchen was loud and animated. It took her a moment to realize the maids and cook weren’t discussing the Revolution at all.

  “I saw him myself,” the youngest housemaid cried. “Hobbling through the woods with a crutch.”

  “It’s only justice,” said another. “He fought for the royals, they say.”

  “Who?” Odette asked. “What are you speaking of?”

  The four stared at her. “Where have you been, girl?” asked Cook. “It’s the soldier. He’s been at the Chateau all these weeks.”

  Odette tried to look surprised. “What?”

  “Oh, yes, you won’t believe it, Odette.”

  “He lost his foot!”

  “Not ‘lost,’ you fool. It was cut off by the butcher. He was the only one with a knife big enough, they say.”

  Odette sat down hard. “That poor man.”

  “Get her some wine, child. The cold’s gone clear through her.”

  Perrine handed Odette a small tumbler of sour wine. The fire felt warm against her shins. She had been to visit Ghislain only once since the day the Count invited her for tea. It had been two weeks before and she had no clue that his foot was bad. Although, now that she recalled, he hadn’t risen to his feet on either visit.

  She listened to the idle kitchen chatter. Ghislain LeClair had lost his rosy complexion; he looked pale and thin. But he had been just as solicitous and eager for her regard. And she had felt drawn to him as if fate had set them on this path together. They sat in the drawing room, in the sunshine, and talked of dreams. He wanted to raise horses for the Army, he said, if he could no longer serve. He described his home in Brittany as lush with grass, perfect for the best horses. There was a view of the sea across the downs. He had wanted to be in the Horse Guards because he knew the animals so well, but the Army had other ideas. He kept a blanket across his legs but she thought he had both feet intact. Now— oh, she hurt for his loss. For a man— anyone— to lose a limb was too cruel.

  Where was he now? Back in the woods where she’d found him before? It was nearly winter and cold. Should she go search for him?

  “Where did you see him— the soldier?” she asked Perrine.

  “Near the road. Running across the neighbor’s orchard,” she said vaguely.

  “Running? With one foot?” Odette pressed.

  “With a cane. Have you never seen anyone run with a cane?”

  Not lately, Odette whispered into her wine.

  “Will you run away with him now, Odette?” another maid snickered. “Odette and Lieutenant One-foot, a story of true love.”

  The maids all laughed until the cook told them to be quiet. “She’s the one who found him, if you remember.” Odette looked up. She’d never told anyone about putting Ghislain in the fruit store. “I heard you two talking one morning. I think you saved his life, Odette. I really do.”

  Odette shook her head. “No. I—” The loss of him felt like a knife. Where was he?

  “We all helped him back to health for those few days. And the Count, too, if you believe what the gossips say. But you’re the one who found him, who started him on that road.”

  Why hadn’t she gone back to see him? It had been a busy time on the farm and she’d been pressed into duty, milking goats, carrying cheese, sorting apples, loading wagons. It was a large farm and there weren’t enough men. Still, she should have gone. She could have snuck away. She could have helped him get away from the Count, if that’s what he wanted.

  The maids said something about le Comte and she raised her head to listen.

  “They say Toussaint is very angry. That the Count humiliated him and he is out for revenge.”

  Odette turned toward them. “Toussaint is a bully. He cut off the hair of a girl in the village. He is reckless and cruel.”

  They all turned toward her. “Pierre Toussaint?” Cook asked.

  “You must know who I speak of. The big man.”

  “He is my cousin. Do not speak ill of my family, Odette. Remember you are not from here, and you are only a goat-herder.”

  The maids crossed their arms haughtily. Odette stood up, straightening. “I don’t care if he’s the King’s cousin. He tried to do the same to me. He cut off a piece of my hair. Just for speaking up for that girl. The Count stopped him from taking it all. Toussaint had no right. None at all.”

  The silence in the kitchen was broken only by the crackling of the fire. Odette glared at the cook who glared back at her. The maids began to snicker behind their hands. One whispered, “Goat-herder, goat-girl. You smell like merde.”

  “You and the Count should be careful, Odette,” the cook warned. “Very careful.”

  Thirty

  Delage left, cackling.

  The sound of the door slamming echoed off the stone floor, the arched ceiling. Pascal heard the lock turn and the bolt being thrown as the room was plunged into darkness again. He felt a mild surprise that the winemaker had shared his bottle of red with him then left him again without so much as a kick in the gut. His torture was the slow variety, Delage had explained. The kind that gives you hope then crushes your soul as it slowly trickles away.

  Pascal had lost track of the days. His head swam and the stars that floated in the darkness were inside his head. He was dying of starvation, he knew that much. His hands and feet had come back to life only to submit to the cold and lack of water again. He felt cold into his bones.

  The bitterness of the wine clung to his tongue. It was just like Delage to serve him the most vile vintage he could find, especially when water would be better. Much better. He squinted up from his place on the floor, slumped against the tall killing structure. On top of the glass-front cabinet with its
miniature execution devices sat a plastic two-liter bottle of water. Out of reach.

  Torture, indeed.

  If Delage had meant to scare him with the old guillotines, big or small, the nicks in the rusty blades where bones had chipped the steel, he was disappointed. Pascal had ceased to care. In fact, a swift death might be preferable. He understood the motive now, the reasoning behind the awful invention, madame la guillotine. He could use a little mercy, in death or whatever.

  Delage knew the history of each guillotine here. Two were from near here, wherever this was. They had decapitated priests mostly. There were three full-size models altogether, possibly the last ones in France. Most, he knew, had been cut up and burned. Why had these been saved? Surely not for Pascal d’Onscon.

  His hands were still cuffed behind his back. He had given up trying to escape the cuffs days ago, or weeks— who knew. He was too weak now to even think about escape. All he could think about was water. Delage had laughed when he placed the water bottle up there. He found himself very amusing.

  Pascal listened for the sound of a vehicle. Was Delage gone? Did he live here? Pascal made an effort to count, to one-hundred, five-hundred, two-thousand. Then he scooted across the stone, too weak to stand, toward the cabinet.

  The cupboard was heavy and old, made of thick oak with ball feet like melons. He nudged it with his shoulder and it didn’t move. How was he going to do this? He shook his head to clear it, to think. More stars circled his vision. He breathed hard, gasping.

  With a grunt he turned his back to the cabinet. There was no way to get leverage near the floor. He would have to stand.

  It took a monumental effort. He tried to get his feet underneath him, then get up on his knees when that failed. Finally, he got one knee up, his foot on the floor. He leaned against the cabinet, panting. He was dizzy with hunger. Past hunger into another realm. A place of pure survival.