by Betsy Draine
“I swear, I’ve let my cooking go,” Roz confessed. “I’m been so busy with the neighborhood center. But I do love good food, and I think that now I’ll have more time for it.”
“You mean, you’ll make more time, now that Marianne has renewed your interest?” Toby asked.
“Well, yes, but what I was thinking is that I’ll actually have more free time now. I’m expecting the center to close.”
“But,” I replied, “isn’t there a possibility of saving it, if your brother’s bequest comes through?”
“We did talk about that, didn’t we?” Roz seemed surprised to remember she had been so self-disclosing. “Well, yes, if we get the bequest Tom planned before he died, we’ll be able to buy the building. If not, there’s no way for us to keep up with the rent increases. The problem is that Tom never put the bequest into his will, and Dotty can’t make up her mind whether to honor his promise. I’ve asked Tom’s lawyers to explore options with Dotty’s lawyer while we’re away, but when we return my sister-in-law will have to make a decision. For now, everything’s in limbo.”
“Maybe it will all work out,” I offered, optimistically.
“I hope so. But Dotty and I have been talking about it, and she doesn’t really see the value of a neighborhood center. It’s hard to get her to think of anything but herself,” Roz added, with a note of bitterness.
“Maybe she needs to see the programs at work. Have you given her a tour?” I asked.
“No, and that’s just what I’ve been thinking. When we get home, I’m going to take her there and show her the classes for single mothers and the day care operation.” She caught herself. “Not that Dotty is exactly maternal. It might do more harm than good.”
As the conversation continued, Marianne pulled up a chair and joined us for dessert. It was clear she and Roz had been talking about Dotty earlier, for she already knew the details and was clearly incensed. “It’s a scandal what your sister-in-law is trying to do, ignoring your brother’s will. Why don’t you let me speak to her about it?”
“Marianne, you’re my oldest friend, but please don’t interfere. I’d like to handle this my own way.”
“I know you. You won’t say anything. I wouldn’t keep quiet if someone were trying to tarnish my brother’s legacy. I’d fight.”
“I know you would, but please do as I asked. I’ll fight in my own way.”
“You’re too nice; that’s the trouble,” sputtered Marianne. “To think of it! What did your brother want? Only to help the charity you’ve worked so hard for all these years, not to leave all his money to you instead of his wife. There still will be plenty left for Dotty, am I right?”
“I do have lawyers working on this, Marianne, believe me.”
“Lawyers. Once you start with them, it never ends. In France, we would settle this matter within the family.”
“Marianne, please don’t make things more difficult than they already are. I’m asking you as a friend.” The finality of her tone put an end to the conversation.
“Very well,” said Marianne, rising from the table. “But you know how I feel.” She strode brusquely off to find the others, who had moved on to the next event.
Roz let out an exasperated sigh. “She’s been at me about Dotty ever since we arrived. I know she means well—I couldn’t imagine a friend more loyal than Marianne. But her idea of forcing a confrontation would only make things worse. I know Dotty, and she doesn’t like to be pushed.”
I nodded. “Do you suppose Marianne feels so strongly about your sister-in-law because of the way she feels about Guillaume? I mean, she dotes on him, anyone can see that. And the idea of Dotty coming between you and your brother Tom, even after his death, must strike her as intolerable.”
“You may be right. And it has felt pretty well intolerable. But I haven’t given up on convincing Dotty to honor Tom’s bequest, and I don’t want to stiffen her resistance by fighting with her while we’re over here. That’s what I’ve told Marianne, and she’ll just have to trust me on this.” Roz pushed her chair back from the table. “Come on, let’s see what’s next on the schedule.”
We strolled down to the town gardens, where an outdoor lunch was just breaking up. Marianne had reassembled our little group there. She gave a slightly disapproving nod to Roz but then resumed her tour-guide patter. Gesturing toward the tables, she explained that the core celebrants—such as people staffing booths or doing craft demonstrations, dancers, and musicians, as well as everyone in traditional costume— had been invited to a communal meal. We may have enjoyed the finer cuisine at our lunch, but they seemed to have had a more boisterous time, for all were merry and ready to start the next activity, the Court of Love.
We couldn’t understand the words in Occitan, but Marianne explained that by tradition the nobles of the area—today, the queen and her consort—would settle romantic disputes according to the rules of courtly love. The other main activities of the afternoon were musical. At the back of the garden, there was a low stage, where three women played ancient instruments in their laps, and a man strummed a guitar. At the side of the garden, a costumed mother and son played accordions under a tree, with spectators surrounding them. A group of young girls, from eight to eighteen, danced together in facing lines. Couples were also dancing, with the women holding up their skirts with the left hand.
It was hard to pull ourselves away when Marianne said it was time to find Fernando’s van. “If you want to return later, you can do that,” she announced. “With this heat, I’d advise coming back after dinner for the outdoor ball. That will start at nine.”
By the time we found the van, it was mid-afternoon, and we had wilted. We were suddenly a quiet group, glad to cool off in the air-conditioned car.
Back at the château, we freshened up by splashing cold water on our heated skin. Toweling himself dry, Toby said he needed a real soak in the pool, but I wanted a nap, so we parted ways. I must have fallen deeply asleep, because when I woke to the ringing of my phone, I was befuddled. At first I didn’t recognize my brother’s voice.
“Is that you, Nora?”
“Eddie—I’m surprised to hear from you. Is anything wrong?”
“No, everybody’s okay. I just need your help. It’s about Angie’s new boyfriend. I’m looking into his background.”
My stomach knotted. “Eddie, I’m not sure it’s such a good thing for us to be all over Angie’s love life. There’s such a thing as being overprotective. Did Mom put you up to this?”
“No. If she had asked me to, I wouldn’t have. Angie asked me.”
“You’re kidding. Just yesterday she told me to mind my own business about Hank.”
“Maybe she decided she didn’t want opinions, just facts. And since I work in I.T., she knew I could get facts fast.”
“So what did you find out?”
“Before I tell you, I want to say I don’t really go for this business of family members knowing every detail of each other’s lives. I wouldn’t be doing this search if Angie hadn’t asked me. And I wouldn’t be telling you the results if Angie didn’t want me to.”
“I’m with you on the principle. But what do you need to tell me?”
“I have a question. Do you remember Jack Havens from high school? He was in your class.”
“Sure do. I had a few dates with him in my junior year. He was a football player and a real charmer, but too slick for me. He wound up with the prom queen.”
“Did he ever get into trouble?”
“There was something in senior year about running a gambling pool or throwing a game and getting paid off by a gambling pool, or something like that, but it all got hushed up.”
“That’s consistent with what I found out. Jack has all kinds of liens against him for unperformed contracts and defective work when he was a builder, and he served time for conducting an Internet con on elderly people.”
“What’s this got to do with Angie and Hank?”
“Jack Havens is Hank’s older br
other, and Jack is living in Hank’s apartment right now. That’s where he took refuge when he got out of jail last spring.”
“So, what’s the conclusion here? That Hank has a slimy brother, or that in high school I had bad taste in dates?”
“More to the point, Angie’s boyfriend has a con man living with him. The older brother may be teaching Hank how to run a scam with this motorcycle-moving service. Or he may be using his influence over his younger brother to run a scam without the kid knowing it’s a scam.”
“Have you told Angie?”
“Yes. She’s met Jack, and she knows he’s been in jail, but she believes Hank’s story that Jack was framed. She thought you would remember Jack as a football star, an all-around great guy. You were supposed to be the glowing character reference.”
“If Angie already knows that I knew Hank’s brother, why didn’t she mention that when we talked on the phone?”
“She was feeling cornered by you and Mom. So she kept her business to herself. But she began to have doubts, so she asked me to do a background check on Hank and Jack.”
“What about Hank, then. Did he come up clean?”
“Nothing criminal. But for a young guy he’s had a lot of failures. Angie tells me he dropped out of two job-training programs. I found out he went bankrupt trying to run his own coffee-roasting business. Then he was unemployed a year, until he got this job at the coffee shop. If the motorcycle scheme flops, it’ll be par for the course.”
“And what if his older brother is involved in the motorcycle scheme? His plan could be to steal motorbikes in one state and drive them in a Winnebago to another state for ‘resale’ on the black market.”
“All I can do now is to tell Angie what you remember, and we’ll see what she concludes from that.”
“Okay, thanks, Eddie.”
Sometimes it isn’t easy being a sib. Marianne always seemed to be soothing her agitated brother, and Eddie and I had our hands full with Angie. I was glad Eddie was helping out, told him so, and we were off the phone in short order.
Now wide awake, I needed a walk to work off the adrenaline from the phone call. To be ready for the heat, I changed into shorts and a T-shirt and set off along the cliff path, which was shaded and not too strenuous. I vowed to set aside Angie’s troubles. To take my mind off my sister, I steered my thoughts back to my research.
Loping down the path, I wondered whether Jenny Marie had ever painted here. The woodsy path would have been a perfect subject for her style of realism heightened by effects of light. To the left, the stunted scrub oaks of Périgord clung to the cliff and arched over the path, providing puddles of deep shade. To the right, the view to the river played in and out between those tall topiary figures I’d noticed the first morning. On the initial stretch of topiary, the figures were taken from a deck of cards: a man-sized heart, a chubby club, a fat spade, and a sharply chiseled diamond, all about seven feet high. For a moment I thought my overstimulated brain had projected me into Alice in Wonderland. And sure enough, the topiary figures at the bend ahead were a fat queen and a tall king. Around the corner must be a jack and an ace. Not forgetting to peek out between these fabricated wonders to the views of the river that they framed, I walked along slowly, feeling delighted by the effects of human artifice on nature.
As I rounded the last bend, I stopped short. Ahead of me, men in black Félibrée costume, broad-brimmed hats and all, were standing in front of the chapel, looking somber and speaking quietly. Guillaume was one. I stepped back and hid behind the topiary just at the bend. Thankfully, it was the fat queen—wide enough to hide me. Immediately I felt ridiculous. When I did have to reveal myself to the men, how would I explain why I had hidden behind the bush? Calming myself with slow and measured breaths, I peered through the needled branches, trying to find an angle that would provide a peek. Yes, that was Guillaume. And the cadaverous man he was speaking to was Marc’s uncle, Monsieur Gounot. The other four I didn’t recognize. There was something furtive about their movements. They whispered among themselves and then, led by Guillaume, they filed through the opening arch of the chapel and into its interior.
I wasn’t going to be able to see a thing from my present position. With curiosity overcoming caution, I crossed the path and positioned myself behind a scrub oak near the barred window on the left side of the chapel. The angle allowed me to see most of the interior. Although the men obscured my view of the altar, it looked a little different from my previous visit. The white linen cloth was the same, but, as Guillaume moved his hands up and down in a theatrical gesture, I saw there was an outsized book—maybe a Bible—and several napkins. A brass basin filled with water rested on a side table that had not been there before. Long white candles burned on the altar, spotlighting the book and giving a glow to the Black Madonna behind it.
I watched as the men removed their hats and began to chant in unison. Though I couldn’t make out the words, I sensed the similarity to the Occitan hymns sung in church at Domme. As the chant ended, one of the group, who appeared to be younger than the rest, was brought around to the side table. Two others, who moved with an air of authority, motioned him to draw closer and kneel. One of the men directing the youth was Gounot. He and his companion spoke some words and ceremoniously washed their hands in the basin, drying them with the linen napkins. Then, from his place in front of the Virgin’s altar, Guillaume spoke in low tones to the kneeling man, who appeared to repeat the words, as the ritual proceeded. After a few minutes, the man prostrated himself twice, then rose, assisted by Gounot.
Now the young man spoke solemnly to each of the older men in turn, and they nodded in approval. Guillaume lifted the Bible, carried it a step over toward the young man and twice touched his head with the book. As Guillaume turned back to replace the book on the altar, Gounot laid hands on the young man’s shoulders. A low chant went up from the group, and I still could not make out any words. The neophyte walked slowly around the little table and was kissed once on the cheek by each of the men standing. When the youth returned to his starting point, Gounot raised both hands in benediction and then washed his hands a second time in the little basin. With that, the ceremony neared its end. I was afraid the men would start back toward the château and their path would lead them directly toward me. But no, each of them now approached the altar and bent forward to touch his forehead to the skirt of the Black Madonna.
I quickly crossed the path and ducked back behind the topiary, where the men would not see me as they passed by. But that was a terror, because the topiary was perched on the edge of the cliff.
I reached into the greenery, searched for the thick trunk of the bush, and holding onto that, scooted myself to the cliff edge, confident the queen-shaped bush would hide me as long as I could hang on and keep my balance. I kept my gaze on the trunk, to which I was clinging. Minutes went by without the men leaving. I wasn’t going to be secure holding on there much longer. So I looked up again and tried to get a peek at the opening of the chapel, through the branches. The room looked empty. And the air was silent.
I shifted my weight and swung back toward the path. Leaning my head left of the bush, I verified that I was alone. I stayed still for a moment, waiting to hear or see something. But sensing I was safe, I finally stepped back onto the path and moved forward far enough to peek through the window again. No one was there. The side table and its basin were gone. The Bible was gone from the altar too. But the candles still burned. That was my proof this whole event had not been a mirage.
Instinct turned me on my heels and sent me swiftly back toward the château. I was relieved that the bend in the cliff put me quickly out of view of anyone who might still be at the chapel. Yet no one was ahead of me on the path back. How could they have vanished so completely?
11
PEOPLE DON’T JUST DISAPPEAR, and they couldn’t have come out the door. I was watching.”
“Then there has to be another way out of the chapel,” reasoned Toby. “A hidden exit of some so
rt. Let’s take a look.”
“But what if they return and find us poking around?”
“So? We’re two Americans out for a walk before dinner. We stopped in to see the chapel. Nothing unusual about that, is there?”
“Maybe not. But I’d hate to have Guillaume think I was spying on him.”
“Don’t worry, we have the perfect cover. We’re tourists. We look at old buildings.”
Despite my hesitations, I wanted to revisit the chapel, with Toby along for protection. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I said. “That there might be an entrance leading from the chapel to that cave that’s supposed to be hidden somewhere on the grounds?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” replied Toby.
There was no sign of activity as we approached the chapel, strolling as nonchalantly as we could. Inside, nothing had been touched, though the candles had burned down and were guttering. We scanned the enclosure carefully, from the left of the altar all the way around the room to its right. We ran our palms over the walls at shoulder level, searching for a gap or irregularity on the surfaces. Next we examined the stone floor, but it too was smooth and solid. We crouched down and passed our hands over the walls again, this time at knee level, with the same result. But what about the wall plaques and the offering boxes behind them? Maybe one of them concealed a spring or lever to operate a secret exit.
I shared my conjecture with Toby and voiced a fear. “It’s one thing if they find us admiring the chapel architecture, but what if they return and catch us fooling around with the offering plaques?”
“All right,” Toby offered, “I’ll stand watch at the entrance while you look around.”
“But what if they suddenly pop up from wherever it is they disappeared to?”
“We’ll hear them coming, won’t we? Look, you go ahead. I’ll keep an eye out for them. Go on, we don’t want to hang around here too long.”