The small airport where they landed clung to the Atlantic coast of France. The blue ocean stretched out before them as they taxied in to the terminal. They were outside some town, Francie couldn’t remember which one. At any rate the spa was isolated in the dunes somewhere.
“It specializes in some kind of seawater therapy called—“ she checked her phone in the cab as they sped away from the airport. “—thalassotherapy. I guess that means seawater. Like taking the waters.”
Merle chuckled. “Like you always say: ‘A little sea bathing will set me up forever.’”
“Too bad we don’t have time. And it’s probably freezing. And we didn’t bring swimsuits.”
“Maybe there’s nude sea bathing here,” Merle whispered.
“There will never be enough time for that.”
The cab dropped them at the elegant entrance to La Bonne Vie Atlantique, inscribed in gold lettering against stone walls. Merle got the taxi driver’s card for the return trip and promised to call him within the hour if he could wait nearby.
It was a short walk in a chilly sea breeze, down the manicured gravel drive to the main building of the health spa. It sat right on the ocean, surrounded by low dunes covered with clumps of blue-green grass. To one side a swimming pool with rows of lounge chairs was surrounded by glass walls. The patio on the other side was empty of diners at the tables and chairs. Umbrellas stood wrapped in a shed, waiting for summer.
They pushed through the glass doors to find a typical hotel-type lobby with a reception desk manned by a young man in a green uniform tipped with gold braid. He greeted them with a polite smile, a quick glance at their lack of luggage, and a ‘bonjour, mesdames.’
“Bonjour, monsieur,” the sisters said in unison. Merle glanced at Francie and urged her to go first.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Parlez-vous anglais?” Francie said with her terrible accent.
“But of course, madame,” the man replied in English. “How may I help you today?”
“This is a rather delicate situation,” she explained, moving in closer to the desk and lowering her voice. “We are lawyers from the US. We are informed that someone we’ve been looking for is in residence here. Now, I understand this is probably a privacy concern for you. You can’t tell us who is staying here, I assume?”
He blinked soberly. “No, madame. I cannot.”
“I understand. There is no particular problem. The person is not in any legal trouble, nothing like that. We’re here on a private matter. We just need to speak to him about his memories of a time when he was a student in Paris.”
“We’ve just flown in from Paris,” Merle added. “To see him.”
The man swallowed nervously and glanced around for help. None was in sight.
“It will only take a few minutes away from his therapy time,” she added.
“Hardly five minutes,” Francie said. When the clerk didn’t answer again but didn’t toss them out either, she pressed on in a low, intimate tone. “We can wait until he has a free moment. But—“ she glanced at her wrist watch. “Not too long. His name is Sami. He’s been here awhile. You must know Sami.”
His brow wrinkled. “Sameh?”
“His real name. Of course.”
“Do you have his schedule there? Or can you ring his room for us? Tell him two American ladies wish to borrow a few minutes of his time,” Merle said.
“I bet he hasn’t had very many visitors, has he?” Francie said. “Maybe he’s ready for some new faces?”
The clerk turned away, stepping to look into a back office. It must have been empty as he came back, shrugged a little Gallic shrug to himself, and picked up the phone. Merle squeezed Francie’s hand in victory.
They could hear the phone ringing on the other end. Just as Francie counted eight rings and figured Sami must be getting some weird seawater treatment, he picked up the phone.
“Allo, Sameh? This is Paul, at the desk,” he said in French. “Are you having a good day today? Feeling okay?” He glanced at Francie, then at Merle, who smiled back encouragingly. “Good, very good. Sameh, you have a visitor, if you are feeling up to it. Two actually.” He paused, listening. “They are two ladies. In the lobby, asking for you. No, not family. Americans. Yes. I don’t know. They want to talk, they say. They seem nice enough. No, not dangerous. Okay.”
He set down the phone. “He says he will come find you. You should wait in the lounge. Let me show you.”
The clerk led them through a door and down a hall to a small sitting area facing the outdoor pool. Floor to ceiling glass windows let in the brilliant light. They sat down on green velvet chairs and waited.
“It’s gorgeous here,” Merle said softly. “This could cure a few of the things that ail me.”
“Maybe what we’ve really been missing all these years is a good detox at a health spa at a French beach.”
“I wonder if that’s why he’s here,” Merle whispered. “A detox?”
Francie shrugged. “Whatever it was he should be done by now, right?”
The sisters sat back in their comfortable armchairs and watched the horizon, the white caps on the waves, the sea grass bending in the breeze, the gulls hanging then diving. It was a mesmerizing beach show, just for them. They were silent, lulled by its beauty.
When the young man appeared in the doorway they didn’t see him, caught up in the beach scene. He had to clear his throat to get their attention. Francie flinched, turned toward him, and stood up. She smiled, blinking the sunlight out of her eyes.
Merle rose slower, letting her sister take the lead.
The man was medium-height, thin, and clean-cut, with black hair, wire-rim glasses, and a dark complexion. He looked wary and slightly hunched but was obviously no more than twenty-five. He wore khakis and a polo shirt with flip-flops. He took a tentative step into the room, looking nervously between the women.
“Sami?” Francie asked. She stepped toward him carefully, stopping several feet away so as to not scare him off. “I’m Francine Bennett.” She stuck out her hand. He shook it quickly then put his hand back in his pocket. His green polo shirt had an insignia for La Bonne Vie Atlantique on it.
“Sit down, will you?” she said, backing away and waving at a free chair. Before he sat down Merle also introduced herself. He gave her a nod in reply.
Sami perched on the edge of a green chair that half-faced the sea-viewing windows and half-faced the sisters. He looked sideways out the windows as if the scene calmed him as it had Merle and Francie.
“My sister and I were just enjoying the view. I bet you don’t get tired of that,” Francie said.
“You’d be surprised then,” Sami said. His voice was surprisingly deep.
Merle raised her eyebrows at Francie. The younger sister continued, “You’re probably wondering who we are. I’m a lawyer in the US. I was sent over to Paris to help your roommate, Reece Pugh, by his parents. He’s still in prison, awaiting his trial on the drug charges.”
Sami’s head spun back toward her, his dark eyes suddenly hot. “What do you want from me?”
“Do you get the newspapers here?” He shrugged, distracted again. “If you did you might have heard about this policeman by the name of Milo Soyer. He shot and killed somebody last weekend. A young Australian who worked at a teahouse near the University. His name was Eli.”
His attention was back. “With the— the reddish hair?”
“You knew him, I guess. Well, he got shot supposedly trying to sell heroin to that undercover cop.” Sami frowned, looking at his palms. Francie went on: “You know Milo Soyer, don’t you? Is he the one who gave you the drugs to put under Reece’s bed?”
“No!” Sami jumped to his feet and stepped to face the windows, head bent. “I don’t know anything about any drugs.”
Merle grimaced, offering silently to take over. Francie waved her on. “All we want to know, Sami, is what Reece was up to. Was he selling drugs around the University?”
“I don’t know,” Sami sa
id quietly.
“Drugs scare me,” Merle said. “I stay away from them myself.”
Sami half-turned toward her. “Me too.”
“It must been terrifying, that raid on your apartment. Did they just knock on your door or what?”
He shrugged, staring out at the sea again.
“And then getting your stuff searched. Did they mess up your things, throw everything out on the floor like in the movies?”
“Sort of.”
“I hate people touching my things. If that happened to me I bet I’d just ask them what they’re looking for and point it out. You know, just to get it over with.”
Sami turned then and sat down again, staring at Merle and ignoring Francie. “They asked if we had drugs. I said no. I don’t have anything to do with drugs. They mentioned my brother.” He glanced at Francie then. “Do you know my brother?”
“No,” Francie said. “What’s his name?”
“Idris. Idris Amoud.” He spoke the name gently, with awe. “My older brother. You don’t know him?”
“Is he famous?” Francie asked.
Sami gave a little smile then. “Well, yes. He’s a terrorist. He worked for the Islamic State in Syria, then he came to France.”
“Oh.” Francie frowned.
“Is he in prison, Sami?” Merle asked.
He nodded. “He blew up a grocery store. Five people were killed.”
“Oh,” Francie said again, remembering her fears in Paris.
Sami’s hands began to tremble and he bit his lip. Merle said quietly, “It’s okay, Sami. We know you’re not your brother. Even if the police didn’t.”
He was blinking back tears. “He tracked me down. That one you said, that Milo.”
Merle and Francie exchanged a look. Merle continued: “When was this?”
“About a month before— before the raid. Then a week before he came by the apartment when Reece was out. Late at night, you know. Nobody saw him.” A tear escaped, tracking down his cheek. He brushed it away angrily.
“What did the policeman want, Sami?”
“He said— he said— he said I had to help him or he’d find something on me, something that proved I was a terrorist like my brother. They would take my passport and send me to prison. Or I’d have to go back to Tunis, leave school and all my— all my—“ He bit his lip again, the stuttering taking over his body. His shoulders shook now, his feet bouncing.
Merle got up and kneeled in front of his chair. She offered both her hands to him, not touching him but offering comfort. He took a breath to stop his shaking, looked at her hands, and grasped them tightly in his.
She whispered softly: “You’re all right, Sami. You’re okay now. Your family sent you here to this beautiful place, right? They were completely right to do that, to get you some quiet, some time to think, to have some peace. You had a terrible shock.”
His watery eyes were locked on Merle’s. He swallowed and nodded. “The quiet is good. Then it drives me to madness.” He cracked a tiny smile.
“You’re doing so well, Sami,” Francie said. “Telling us all this took a lot of courage.”
Merle squeezed his hands. “Did the policeman give you the box of drugs to put under Reece’s bed?”
Sami nodded. “He said I had to help him,” he repeated. “I didn’t know what was in it— in the box.”
“He’s a very bad man, Sami. He killed Eli too. Eli didn’t deserve that.”
“No. He was always nice to me.”
Francie could have kicked herself. She never asked Eli if he knew Sami.
A young dark-haired woman in a nurse’s uniform appeared in the doorway with a concerned expression. “Ça va, Sami?”
Sami dropped Merle’s hands and wiped his face again. “Oui, ça va bien, Eva.”
Eva looked hard at Francie and Merle then disappeared. Merle stood up and returned to her chair. “Are you all right, Sami?” she asked. He nodded, his shaking diminished now.
Francie added softly, “We don’t want to upset you. I’m sorry if we did. But if Reece is innocent of these drug charges, and you know how the drugs came to be under his bed, then you might have to make a statement to the police.”
He looked frightened at that. “How is he?”
“Not so good actually. That prison is pretty rough. And they won’t let him out before trial because he’s a foreign national.” Francie almost mentioned the terrorists and murderers in that prison but stopped herself. Maybe Sami’s brother was in there with Reece. “It would really help him if you could make a statement to the police.”
“How—how— how would I do that?”
Merle said, “You don’t have to leave here to do it. You could just write a letter, explaining it all. Could you do that? We heard you were a very good student. You probably wrote lots of papers in University.”
“It would be just like that,” Francie said. “An essay on what really happened.”
“And the policeman— Milo— would never see it. He’s going to prison himself, for what happened to Eli. And a bunch of other crimes,” Merle said, hoping she was right.
“A letter. That’s all? Where would I send it?”
Merle dug into her purse and pulled out one of Pascal’s cards. “This is my friend, a policier. He’s the one who discovered what Milo was up to, making false arrests and all. If you send your letter to Pascal d’Onscon at this address, he will make sure the right people see it.”
“Is that possible, Sami?” Francie asked.
He nodded as if trying to convince himself he had the guts for it. “I’ll do it.”
Merle stood and the others followed. “Can we do anything for you, Sami? Send word to your family? Are they in Tunis?”
“Yes, but I speak to them often.”
“That’s good.”
“What about your studies, Sami?” Francie asked. “I talked to one of your neighbors in the building and she said you were set to graduate at the top of your class.”
He looked guilty. “I want to finish. Very much. My family counts on that. But to go back to the University in Paris seems impossible to me. As you see, I am not myself, even now.”
“But you will be one day soon. You will conquer this, Sami. I can tell,” Merle said, smiling. He gave his lip a bite in response.
“What if—“ Francie said. “Isn’t that University affiliated with one in the US? Is it Indiana? Maybe you could finish there.”
“Ah,” Sami said with some surprise. “I never thought—“
“We’ll do some legwork for you,” Francie said. “Won’t we, Merle?”
“Of course. And write a recommendation letter if you need it. We’ll send you some information from the University. Then you can decide what you want to do.”
Sami walked them back to the lobby where they all shook hands and wished each other well, while Paul, the front desk clerk, looked on suspiciously. They’d passed two workers in the hallway who both asked Sami if he was all right. Everyone at La Bonne Vie Atlantique was very protective of Sami, with good reason. He reminded Francie a bit of Alice, a fragile person, smart and good but prone to nerves and flashes of tears.
May they both have better years.
Back in the taxi, heading to the airport, Francie remembered a roadhouse in a village they’d passed through that morning. She took a moment to choose her words in French then asked the driver to stop so they could get some sandwiches to go. He made her repeat herself several times before he understood. “Arrêtez dans le village? Pourquoi, madame?” Merle kept her mouth shut and shook with silent laughter. They bought the driver a ham sandwich and a Perrier, to his shock and gratitude.
“Thank you so much, Merle,” Francie said as they ran down the jetway to catch their flight. “You were so tender with Sami. The way you talked to him and held his hands. It was a sight to behold.”
“I’m glad it all worked out. All this day needed to be one hundred percent incredible was some naked sea bathing,” Merle said, buckling her se
at belt on the airplane.
Francie laughed. “Can we all go out to dinner tonight? To celebrate and everything? Fully clothed, of course.”
“Bien sûr, ma chouchouette.”
Thirty-Two
Parc de Sceaux
Champagne.
Strawberries.
Fromage.
Somehow Dylan Hardy had worked out where the cherry trees were still blooming. He must have spies, that’s all Francie could guess. At dinner on Friday night with Merle and Pascal he never said a thing until they were alone on the sidewalk outside the apartment in the Marais.
“You. Me. Tomorrow morning at eight,” he said cryptically.
“What— luggage lessons? We have to pack in the morning, Dylan,” Francie said, yawning. They’d had a wonderful, extremely delicious, stupendously French dinner at some old-school place. Could it have been Maxim’s of legend? Maybe not, but it was Maxim’s understudy for the role. They’d had foie gras and six other courses.
She dropped her forehead onto his broad chest. “What a day.” She was exhausted but happy. She’d called Claudia Pugh before dinner and told her that good things were happening for Reece very soon. That the chances were that his charges would be dropped. She didn’t have time for details but she wanted to cheer up the poor woman. She’d left a message with Yvon Caillaud who had already left for the weekend. She told him she would correspond with him as soon as she knew what was going to happen with the narcotics policier. She’d posted a written note to Sami Amoud, thanking him and encouraging him to write that essay about Milo Soyer.
“But there is one more thing.” Dylan pushed her back and tipped up her chin. “Eight in the morning. Be dressed and packed.”
“But— “ He laughed and sauntered off. “That’s too early for our flight, Dylan.”
“Get cracking, Bennett,” he called.
So she’d thrown everything into her suitcase the next morning, brushed her hair and teeth, hugged her sister and Pascal and thanked them for everything, their hospitality, their sleuthing, the wine, the new/old boyfriend, then stood on the sidewalk at five minutes to eight. A light mist hung in the air but the sky was blue. The gloom had finally lifted in Paris, portending sunshine and summer, now that she was leaving. A taxi glided up from the end of the block.
Blame it on Paris (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 7) Page 23