by Michelle Wan
“That may be putting it a little strong,” said Guy in the careful manner of his profession. “At any rate, it’s been most distressing. For us, too. We Verdiers, you see, are related by marriage to the de Bonfonds through my four-times-great-aunt Odile. An infanticide in the family. Well, you can imagine. Naturally, we want to find out the truth.”
“So do we,” said Mara in a tone that made the husband pause momentarily to look at her.
“Our concern, of course,” Guy went on, “is that the de Bonfonds will attempt to sweep things under the carpet.”
“Christophe would much rather Baby Blue had nothing to do with his family,” Mara conceded. “But then, since you’re related, I suppose you feel the same?”
“Pas du tout. Crime must out,” cried Mariette, smug in the knowledge that it was someone else’s crime. “You do know he’s gay, don’t you?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Julian objected. In fact, the little man had somehow always struck him as asexual.
“Oh,” she said, “not that we care. It’s nobody’s business, is it? But it just shows the kind of person he is.”
Julian found himself disliking the nouvelle-blonde.
Guy made a noise, a judicial clearing of the throat. “All we’re saying is, the child was obviously murdered, and it would be best for all concerned—I speak for everyone in Sigoulane—if the child were identified once and for all as a de Bonfond—”
“—bastard,” inserted Mariette.
“—and the matter laid to rest.”
“Of course, it will blacken the family’s reputation around here even more, if that’s possible.” Mariette leaned across confidentially toward Julian, offering deep cleavage. “You saw how much the villagers hate them.”
“I saw that someone broke a window and had a go with spray paint. It all seemed a bit over the top to me.”
“Ah”—the lawyer wagged a finger in the air—“that’s because you don’t understand the underlying dynamics.”
“I understand the other winegrowers in the valley, your father included, wanted the de Bonfonds to expand their chai to give them local processing and storage, and the de Bonfonds turned them down.”
A gruff voice spoke behind them. “It was a reasonable offer.” Guy’s father, Michel, had come quietly into the room. Julian remembered him as the wiry old fellow he had seen talking to Antoine in front of the pavilion. He was wearing the same clothes: dungarees, a plaid shirt, and a floppy black beret which he now took off and tossed onto a table. “We said we’d help build the addition and pay a lower fee for use, or they could build it and we’d pay a higher usage fee. They were expanding anyway. Would have been worth their while to add a few square meters.”
“Except that Pierre and that sister of his wanted it all their way,” said Guy with feeling. “They wanted the growers to contribute to capital costs and pay the higher fee. It’s their way of squeezing people out because they want the land.”
It wasn’t what Denise had told him. Julian wondered which was the true story.
“For some people, land—le terroir—is a commodity,” Michel said. There was anger in his voice. “Especially Denise. She has no feeling for it, no respect. The character of a wine comes from the soil. She thinks with the right tinkering she can produce something the land was never meant to give. Antoine understands terroir, but he’s not the way of the future. Nor am I,” the winegrower added with an overlay of bitterness. It was the age-old conflict between nature and technology, in which some survived and others got buried.
Introductions were made. Michel Verdier shook hands with Mara and Julian without any real show of friendliness. He helped himself to coffee, preferring a mug to a demitasse, and sat down in a rocking chair by the window.
“It seems to me,” Julian said bluntly, “that no love is lost between the Verdiers and the de Bonfonds, however you view it.”
Guy, looking cagey, opened his mouth, but Mariette upstaged him. “The de Bonfonds have done despicable things.” She fairly bounced with outrage. “Land-grabbers, all of them. Tell them, Guy.”
Michel cut in. “A quoi bon? Why rake over old history?” The rockers of his chair grated harshly on the floorboards.
The lawyer said, “What my wife said is true. The treachery of the de Bonfonds goes back a long way. You see, in the 1800s, because of a reversal of fortune, the Verdiers came to owe the de Bonfonds a large amount of money. When Tante Odile married Dominique de Bonfond, the de Bonfonds agreed to settle both the debt and the dowry in return for the Verdier house, although we retained the lease on the property. Stiff terms, but still acceptable to our family, if only the de Bonfonds had kept to the agreement.”
“Ha!” scoffed Mariette.
“The agreement was that Odile and Dominique’s eldest son would marry one of his Verdier cousins—Hugo and Eloïse, as it turned out.”
“They were engaged until that putain Henriette entered the scene,” Mariette cut in.
Guy shot her a severe look. “Had they married, their children would have inherited both properties. It would have brought the two families and the estates together in a very satisfactory way.”
Thereby getting back for the Verdiers what went out with Odile, Julian thought. It was somehow always about land and property.
“Our family brought an action against the de Bonfonds for breach of promise, but the ruling went against us. We always suspected that Dominique de Bonfond bribed the court. Tante Odile was on our side of course, but by then Hugo had already married Henriette, there was nothing she could do, and a settlement at that point would have meant money out of hand for the de Bonfonds.”
“But that’s not all,” interrupted Mariette. “Tell them about the tontine.”
“Water under the bridge.” Michel favored his daughter-in-law with a look of distaste.
“At least let me put the record straight, Father,” Guy said. “You see, before the war, my grandfather Guillaume Verdier and Hérault de Bonfond, Antoine’s father, bought a parcel of land together. Twelve hectares—”
“On the west side of the valley, which just so happens to be the most productive part of the Coteaux de Bonfond vignoble today,” put in Mariette with a sniff.
“They bought it en tontine, which, if you’re unfamiliar with the term, is a simple arrangement whereby the property, on the death of one party, goes to the survivor. During the war, both fought in the Resistance. My grandfather was caught trying to blow up a German supply depot. He was sent to a detainment camp in Périgueux and reportedly shot in March 1943, so the land went to Antoine’s father as the survivor. Then Hérault was killed in a skirmish outside Allas-les-Mines nine months later, in December. However, the next year we got word that my grandfather had not been shot. He had been deported but had managed to escape and was still alive.”
“Listen to him. Not even born, and he tells it like he was there.” Michel’s voice was laced with the bitter irony of a man so long used to drawing the short straw that he had come to see the faintly funny side of it. He rose stiffly and refilled his mug.
“That meant,” went on the irrepressible Guy, “that my grandfather had survived Hérault, which of course reversed the tontine. My grandmother approached the de Bonfonds on the matter—”
“She just wanted some kind of redressement.” Michel stirred in sugar. “A half-share, not the whole parcel. After all, both families had suffered enough.”
“Those grasping avares wouldn’t give up so much as a sou!” Mariette was unable to contain herself any longer. “Not them! ‘Land is land,’ they said. ‘It can be bought or inherited. Not given.’ ‘If Guillaume is still alive,’ they said, ‘let him come forth to make his claim.’”
“And did he?” asked Mara.
“No,” replied Michel. His tone was hollow. “He was one of many who never returned.”
“But he was a hero of the Resistance, let me assure you.” Guy went over to a table and returned with a photograph framed in silver. “This is hi
m. Taken before the war. Ask anyone in the valley who knew my grandfather. A man of courage. A man who risked his life for others. Did you know there’s a special plaque dedicated to him in the square? That, at least, is something those de Bonfonds can’t take away from us.”
Mara and Julian saw a stout young man in his thirties. The round face, topped by curly, sandy hair, was the less fleshy precursor to Guy’s, except that it was distinguished by a broken nose that tilted comically to one side.
Guy said, “Well, you said you wanted information on the de Bonfonds. There you have it. Land-hungry and shameless. As for Baby Blue, Christophe will have a job accounting for the child in his family history”—he looked intensely gratified at the prospect—“but, then, I’m sure he employs minions to deal with that kind of thing.” He smiled blandly at Mara.
The implication caused Mara to prickle immediately. “Not me. You’ve got it wrong.” She was nobody’s minion. Not anymore. She rose and replaced Guillaume’s photograph on the table.
“But you were acting on his behalf vis-à-vis that Fournier fellow, were you not? And when you said you wanted information on the de Bonfonds, naturally I assumed …” Guy broke off, puzzled. “Then, if you’re not working for Christophe, why are you here?”
Mara hesitated. The only answer she could give him was that she was a prime suspect trying to avoid a murder charge by uncovering Jean-Claude’s killer, or at least the motive behind his death. She doubted that would go over well with a lawyer.
“Because, in addition to information on Baby Blue, I’m looking for a flower,” Julian stepped in. “I’ve only seen an embroidered representation of it, on the shawl Baby Blue was wrapped in, as a matter of fact, and I want to trace the real thing.” He addressed the lawyer directly. “Christophe’s great-great-aunt Cécile corresponded for several years with your great-great-great-aunt Eloïse Verdier. We’d like to know if you have any of Cécile’s letters. If Cécile did the embroidery, she may have written to your aunt about it, saying where she’d seen the actual flower or how she came to make a likeness of it.”
“Not Cécile,” Mariette surprised him by saying. “Eloïse. She was the needlewoman. There’s an example of her work just over there.” She wriggled out of her chair and led Julian to a large frame hanging on the wall at the far end of the room. Mounted within it was an antique square of silk, heavily embroidered with flowers. Julian was no judge of stitchery, but he could see that here was the same minute attention to botanical detail, the same subtle shading of tone as distinguished the embroidery on Baby Blue’s shawl. He promptly dismissed the impression of sour piety conveyed by Eloïse’s letters. Her needlework took his breath away.
“C’est magnifique,” he murmured. The flowers were life-sized, almost as fresh as those growing in meadows and hedgerows on a spring morning: Rosa rugosa, the simple wild rose; the many-pronged blossom of wild honeysuckle, what the French called chèvrefeuille; bright-yellow cowslip, nested in a bed of puckered leaves fashioned with cunning skill; and Aquilegia vulgaris, the deep-blue spurred cap of columbine. There were no orchids.
“The Verdiers have always been people of refinement,” Mariette simpered. “The appreciation of nature was in Eloïse’s blood.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t see the flower I’m looking for. You haven’t anything else like this?” Julian asked as he followed Mariette back to their seats.
Mariette shook her head.
“That’s too bad,” said Mara. “Then I’m afraid it really is down to any evidence we can unearth through other material. Such as letters.” She put the suggestion out hopefully.
Guy harrumphed. “You’re asking for access to personal family papers?” He glanced at his father, who sat watchfully in his chair, the rockers still for the moment. “I’m afraid, madame, the Verdier archives contain things of a highly sensitive nature, to say nothing of their inestimable historical value. For example, the documents in our possession chart the disposition of lands and buildings in Verdier hands for over four centuries. Moreover, our archives don’t just concern ourselves. They touch on the affairs of over a dozen local related families. I have an obligation to others.”
He shook his head, getting into his stride. “You as strangers don’t appreciate the intricacies of French succession law. Inheritance follows blood ties and is based on a priority system of entrenched heirs. Children before everyone. Barring issue, it goes to siblings and back up the line to surviving parents, grandparents, and so forth. Spouses didn’t count until only recently. Under such circumstances there very naturally have arisen disputes that were settled by particular arrangements from time to time. Such material is therefore highly confidential. You appreciate, of course, that we can’t allow just anyone—”
“I assume Jean-Claude Fournier also came to see you about this?” Mara interposed.
Guy turned coy. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
She took that as a yes. “Do you mind my asking what he was interested in?”
“Really, madame, excuse my candor, but it’s none of your business.”
“He’s been murdered,” she told him. “Your archives might have a bearing on his death. Did you inform the police that he’d been to see you?”
She could see from their reactions that they had not. Guy’s mouth opened but no sound came out. The watchfulness in Michel’s eyes turned hostile. Mariette’s mind was working, and whatever it was working on made her expression tight with fear.
Michel was the first to recover. “Why should we have? There was no connection.”
“Look,” Mara conciliated, “we don’t want to cause problems. As Julian said, we’re mainly interested in the exchange of letters between Cécile and Eloïse. But I’d also like to see anything else you have pertaining to the de Bonfonds, and especially anything you showed to Jean-Claude Fournier. We’re not asking a lot. Cooperate with us, and I assure you we’ll be very respectful of your privacy.” She left the alternative scenario to their imaginations.
The situation had suddenly become tense. Father and son exchanged a quick glance. Mariette writhed in her spandex. “Oh, what does it matter?” she cried out. “Show it to them, for god’s sake. We don’t want the gendarmes on our doorstep. What is it anyway? Just some miserable bits of paper—”
“Mariette!” thundered Guy.
“Pas question.” Michel put an end to the discussion. He did not raise his voice, yet the authority in it was undeniable. “If the police think there’s something in our family papers, let them come for them. Until then, what’s private stays private.” He rose, set his mug on the tray with a force that made the china rattle, hooked his beret from the table with a gnarled finger, and strode out of the house. They heard the back door slam. Seconds later, a car started up.
Guy and Mariette stared coldly at their visitors, clearly wanting them to go. But Julian ignored the sudden drop in ambient temperature. He had realized that it was not Cécile who would lead him to his Cypripedium. It was Eloïse. Her needlework was as distinctive as an artist’s brushstroke. He needed no further confirmation of who had embroidered Baby Blue’s shawl. He needed instead to know everything possible about Eloïse herself, where she had lived, walked, and ridden, for she, like Cécile, had also gone on horseback. However, in answer to his questions, the only thing Guy could, or would, tell him was that she had never married and that she had lived out her life on the old Verdier estate. But that was no longer in the family, hadn’t been for 169 years.
“Where is it?” Julian asked.
Mariette stared at him as if he were stupid. “In the valley, of course. Antoine has it. It used to be called ‘Les Verdiers.’ They renamed it ‘Les Chardonnerets,’ but to us it will always be ‘Les Verdiers.’” In English, it was a nasty play on words. A kind of avian one-upmanship. Chardonneret meant “goldfinch.” Verdier meant plain old “greenfinch.”
For Julian, it was the worst possible news. He knew the house all right. Les Chardonnerets stood in the middle of a viney
ard. Any orchid that might have once grown there had long since given up the ghost.
They didn’t want us poking around in their papers,” Mara observed as they drove out of Sigoulane Village. “But they were willing to let Jean-Claude have a look. I wonder if that means he found something in those archives that now has the Verdiers running scared.”
Julian gave her a sideways glance before downshifting. “You think Christophe may not be the only one Jean-Claude tried to blackmail?”
“I think he made a practice of it.”
34
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 16 MAY
The little man was breathing hard. The normally rosy O of his mouth was gray and drawn back sharply against his teeth. Unused to exertion, he struggled up the rugged slope, fighting his way through the heavy undergrowth, running as fast as his short, plump legs would carry him. The sounds of pursuit spread out noisily through the woods below him, men yelling, crashing through the trees, the frantic barking of a dog.
“Get it! Get it!”
“Over here!”
“Merde!”
Damn his luck! With so much forest all around, why did he have to run into those savages just here? Thank god there was only one dog, an awful liver-and-white Brittany spaniel. But the howling it had set up when it had scented him was bloodcurdling and sounded like a pack in full bay.
The explosion of a shotgun caused him to utter a shriek of terror. Dear god, now they were shooting at him. He knew from his boyhood hunting days what a shotgun could do. At close range, the shot entered as a solid mass, leaving a crater big enough to put your fist into. From a distance, the shot rained out, peppering the target with bloody holes. Rifles were infinitely more elegant.