Evan and Elle

by Rhys Bowen

  “Not even a cognac?” She opened the corner cupboard beneath the TV. “I sink I will have one, if you don’t mind. To steady zee nerves.”

  She poured amber liquid into a brandy glass and came to sit on the other arm of the sofa. She took a sip, sighed and put the glass down on the coffee table in front of her before reaching for a packet of Gauloises. “Cigarette?”

  “No thanks, I don’t.”

  “Very wise. Feelthy habit. I should quit, but I don’t seem to be able to.”

  She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Evan wasn’t sure, but he thought she deliberately blew the smoke in his direction.

  “Show me the note you got,” Evan said. “Is it the same as the last one?”

  She pulled it from her dressing gown pocket. “ ’ere it ees.”

  Evan unfolded it. It was also written in bold letters in black marker. It just said, GO HOME OR ELSE.

  “Short and to the point.” Evan looked up to see her watching him. “It will be interesting to see if the prints on it match.”

  “Prints?”

  “Fingerprints. There were some clear fingerprints on the last note. I presume this came from the same person.”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe everybody wants me to go away. I thought it would be a good place. My friend takes zee ’oliday and says Yvette, zere are no French restaurants up in North Wales. Why don’t you open one up zere? But now I’m not so sure. I nevair expect zis kind of thing.”

  “It’s only a few extremists,” Evan said. “And the Welsh take their time to accept newcomers—especially anyone foreign. But we like to eat. If you serve good food you’ll win people over.”

  “Zat ees what I hoped,” she said. “I needed to buy a place where property was not so expensive.”

  “Did you come here straight from France? Did you have a restaurant over there?”

  “No, I once had a restaurant wiz my husband on zee coast in Sussex, but we had nozzink but bad luck. My husband died and I was in zee hospital for a while. I didn’t have zee ’eart to start again down there.”

  Evan nodded in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You must miss your husband.”

  “My ’usband? Pah! He was ’ow you say—zee bastard! Zee monster!” she said with great venom. “It was the ’appiest day in my life when I escape from ’im.” She paused, reached for the brandy glass and took a gulp. “I mean, when he die.” She slid down to the sofa beside him. “So now I’m all alone,” she said. “It ees not easy for a woman alone.”

  “No, I’d imagine not.” He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The sofa was rather snug for two people.

  “Maybe I expect too much,” she went on, her brandy glass poised just below her lips. “I sink I will make zee success because I know how to cook. And everysing starts so well too—zee newspaper come to interview me and take my picture. Zee Taste of Wales people come and eat ’ere last weekend. You know about zee Taste of Wales?”

  “They give out awards for good cooking, right?”

  “Zay say zay might nominate me for Best New Restaurant—pas mat, non? I cook for zem zee Welsh foods, you see. My rack of lamb wiz rosemary and my purée of leeks. Zay were impressed, I could see . . .” Her eyes had been alight as she spoke, but then her face fell again. “But now zis! What good ees to win zee award if people don’t want me ’ere?”

  “I’m sure most people want you here,” Evan said.

  “You sink so?” She put down the glass but the cigarette still rested between the fingers of her left hand. “I’m ’appy someone want me ’ere.”

  He felt the silk of her dressing gown brush against his hand and made to get up. “I suppose I’d better be going. There’s not much more we can do before the morning.”

  “You sink not?”

  Evan cleared his throat and went on. “I imagine Sergeant Watkins or one of the detectives will want to talk to you about the note tomorrow and then we’ll try and match the prints.”

  She put out her hand and rested it lightly on his arm. “Don’t go,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  Evan had an idea of what she was hinting at, but just in case he said, with great professional detachment, “I can understand you’d feel a bit nervous after what happened. I could telephone HQ and see if they could send up a female officer to be with you if you like.”

  There was amusement in her dark eyes. “You Englishmen—toujours le ‘gentleman,’ n’est-ce pas? It ees not zee woman P.C. zat I want to keep me company . . .”

  “I’m not an Englishman. I’m a Cymro—a Welshman,” Evan said, “and we’re even more reserved, I’m afraid.”

  “But the same fire burns underneath, I sink?” She crossed her legs and the tip of one bare toe touched his leg.

  “I really should go,” he said. He was finding the room uncomfortably warm.

  He tried to stand up, but her hand put pressure on his arm. “Why do you deny that you would like to stay ’ere wiz me tonight? I can see in your eyes zat you desire me—and what is wrong with zat? You are a healthy young man and I—I am a woman of experience. And we are both alone and unattached. It would be very good, I assure you.”

  “I’m sure it would . . .” Evan managed to extricate himself from her grip. “But I’m really not the kind of bloke who . . . I don’t go in for casual . . . I mean I’m sort of dating a girl.”

  She laughed at his embarrassment—a deep throaty laugh. As she leaned back on the sofa Evan was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing anything under the robe. Get out of here now—he could hear the warning voice echoing through his head.

  “You are engaged to zis girl?”

  “No—it hasn’t got that far yet.”

  “In France it is considered de rigueur that a man has a wife and a mistress, and maybe a girlfriend as well. Besides—who ees to know if you stay ’ere tonight?”

  Evan laughed shakily. “Everybody. You don’t know North Wales yet. Everyone will already know that I was called down here. They’ll all know the exact time that I get back.”

  “So zat ees what worries you?” She got up, too, and moved closer to him. “Your fine, upstanding reputation wiz zee citizens? Then it doesn’t have to be the whole night, if zat’s what you want. In fact I’m sure we could be very quick if you wanted to, and no one would ever know . . .”

  “I’d know,” Evan said. “And it really wouldn’t be fair to the girl I’m seeing, would it?”

  “She’s a lucky girl, zen.” Madame Yvette put her hands on his shoulders. “I hope she keeps you satisfied?” Without warning she moved her hands to his face, pulled him toward her and planted her lips firmly on his. Then she released him again. “If you ever change your mind, you know where you can find me. And I’ll show you the difference between a girl and a woman.”

  She gave his cheek a playful pat. He had no recollection of how he got down the stairs and out to his waiting car.

  Chapter 8

  By the end of the week the investigation was apparently no further along. At least if it was, nobody had bothered to tell Evan, who felt his isolation, stuck in the Llanfair substation with nothing more to do than warn Rev. Parry Davies that Mrs. Powell-Jones had complained about his van blocking the street again. Evan could only presume that none of the prints had been identified and that no more fires had taken place. However, he reminded himself that the last two had happened at weekends. This weekend he was going to be on the alert.

  On Saturday morning the women of Llanfair assembled again in Madame Yvette’s kitchen. Yvette looked around at the group.

  “I see zere are not so many ladies zis time. Zay are perhaps busy?”

  “Their husbands won’t let them come,” Betsy said bluntly.

  Yvette was instantly alert. “Zay do not like it zat I am here? Zat I am zee foreigner?”

  “No, it’s nothing to do with that,” Betsy said. “They didn’t like the French food.”

  “Not like zee food?” Yvette put her hand to her breast. “Zat
is zee same leek purée I serve to zee Taste of Wales judges and zay say it was magnifique.”

  “It wasn’t what they were used to, I think,” Bronwen said gently.

  “And it wasn’t enough,” Mair Hopkins added. “My Charlie had to make himself a couple of cheese and pickle sandwiches when he’d finished what I’d cooked for him.”

  “Ah. It ees not enough? Je comprends. Nevair mind. Today we make zee classic boeuf bourguignon and zen zee éclairs—I guarantee zay will satisfy all ’usbands.”

  They began chopping vegetables and cutting beef into cubes.

  “It’s just like a lamb cawl, but with beef,” Mrs. Williams muttered to Mair Hopkins. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about, personally.”

  “Zen we take zee red wine,” Madame Yvette said, lifting the bottle. “A Bordeaux would be preferable, but any red wine you have around zee house will do.”

  Mrs. Williams looked horrified. “We’re chapel! We don’t have wine around the house!”

  Madame Yvette smiled to herself. “Maybe zee ’usbands would not complain if zay ’ave a glass of wine wiz zair food.” Then her smile faded and she looked up thoughtfully. “When you say zee ’usbands forbid, I sink maybe zat one of zee husbands write me zee note.”

  The women looked up from their cutting.

  “You hear, I suppose, zat someone write me zee notes, telling me to go ’ome.”

  “No! My, but that’s a nasty thing to do,” Mrs. Williams exclaimed. “It better not be anyone from Llanfair who’s doing it or he’ll get a piece of my mind!”

  “Who’d do a thing like that?” Mair Hopkins asked.

  “There are people around here who’d want to get rid of her because she’s foreign,” Betsy said. “I could name some.”

  “I think Constable Evans is already looking into it, Betsy,” Bronwen said quickly.

  “Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you,” Betsy retorted. “I’ve no doubt he updates you on his cases when you’re . . . bird-watching.”

  Yvette smiled to herself as she chopped. “Zis Constable Evans, ’e has been most helpful to me. So kind . . .”

  “That’s Evan the boy scout,” Bronwen muttered.

  “And ’e ees a ’andsome man, n’est-ce pas? What ’e needs ees a woman to make ’im ’appy.”

  “That’s what I keep telling him,” Mrs. Williams said. “ ‘Time for you to think about settling down,’ I say. My granddaughter Sharon is a lovely little cook and housekeeper and a beautiful dancer, too. She’s that light on her feet . . .”

  “I think Evan can make up his own mind when the time’s right, Mrs. Williams,” Bronwen said smoothly.

  “He’ll come to his senses one day,” Betsy said. “He’ll wake up and realize what he’s been missing.”

  “Oh, you think he’s missing something?” The knife flew up and down in Bronwen’s hand and carrot slices went flying.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean birdwatching is all right, when you’re a boy scout . . .”

  “Not everybody wants to spend their nights at raves, Betsy. People do grow up,” Bronwen said. More carrot slices flew.

  Yvette chuckled deep in her throat. “You English—excuse me, Welsh. You are so afraid to talk about sex. A man and a woman desire each ozzer. What could be more natural? Why pretend zat it doesn’t exist? Your Constable Evans was so funny when ’e was wiz me zee ozzer night . . .”

  “What?” Bronwen and Betsy stopped chopping simultaneously.

  Yvette went on coating chunks of beef in flour. “ ’E was ’ere zee ozzer night—you did not ’ear? ’E say zat people will talk about us. We have a good time togezzer. How you Welsh would say politely . . . zee nice little chat, n’est-ce pas?” She gave her throaty laugh. “Now I sink ’e know zee difference between zee girl and zee woman.”

  “Evan would never . . .” Bronwen began.

  “I ’ad to trow ’im out at one o’clock.” Yvette said. She threw chunks of beef into a hot pan. “Zis ees zee secret of zis dish. Start by making it ’ot enough to sizzle.”

  “He wasn’t home when I fell asleep about midnight,” Mrs. Williams muttered to Mair Hopkins. Bronwen went on cutting as if she hadn’t heard, but her cheeks were flushed.

  That afternoon Evan strolled up the village street to visit Bronwen. He smiled to himself in anticipation—a free weekend and good weather. Maybe they’d take a hike tomorrow, or a picnic on the hill above the village . . .

  Bronwen opened her front door. “Oh, it’s you, Evan.” She didn’t immediately invite him in, but stood with her hand across the doorway.

  “Hello, Bron. We didn’t make any plans for the weekend yet.”

  “Didn’t we?”

  There was something wrong but he wasn’t sure what. “I still haven’t taken you to dinner at the French restaurant, I know. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But I think I should stick around here tonight and tomorrow. The other fires happened at weekends. This time I’m going to be on the lookout. But I thought that maybe you’d like to demonstrate what you learned at cooking class?”

  “What I learned?” She was looking at him steadily. Then she tossed back her hair. “I’m sorry, Evan, but I’m busy this weekend. I’ve already arranged to get together with some people I met at last week’s conference.”

  “Tonight?” Evan’s face fell.

  “We thought we’d have dinner together and do something tomorrow too. They were very amusing and it’s time I mixed more socially. I’ve been burying myself, shut away in this village.”

  “Oh. I thought you liked it here.”

  “Oh, I do like the teaching. Socially it doesn’t have much to offer, does it? Now if you’ll excuse me—I need to get changed . . .”

  She turned away and went to shut the door.

  “Bronwen, have I done something wrong?” he asked.

  “You’d know that better than I, wouldn’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “I really have to get ready. I have friends waiting for me.”

  She closed the door, leaving him standing outside. Evan shook his head as he walked away. What was all that about? He would never understand women if he lived a million years. He was clearly out of favor for some reason and now it was up to him to find out why. It crossed his mind that the sex-with-no-strings-attached approach offered by Madame Yvette might not be such a bad idea after all.

  The weekend didn’t improve much after that. Mrs. Williams served him a few chunks of beef and a couple of pearl onions in gravy that tasted of nothing because she refused to buy wine. Evan hung around outside the pub, keeping an eye on the street, but there was no fire. Worst of all, Bronwen was gone all weekend. Evan began to wonder if the other teachers she had met were all women.

  On Monday Evan timed his afternoon patrol through the village to coincide with the end of the school day. Bronwen was standing at the gate, chatting to one of the mothers as he approached. She glanced up, noticed him, frowned and went back to her conversation. Evan lingered around until the woman led her child away by the hand.

  “So how was your weekend?” he asked.

  “Very nice, thank you. We’re thinking of doing it more often,” Bronwen said. “It makes a change to be with stimulating company.”

  “I was thinking we never set a date to go to that French restaurant, did we?” Evan persisted.

  “Funny, but I’ve gone off French food,” Bronwen said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” She hurried over to break up a fight.

  Evan went home even more despondent and confused.

  That evening in the pub Evans-the-Meat was waving a copy of Monday’s Daily Post featuring a half-page write-up of Chez Yvette with a photo of Yvette standing at her stove, managing to look sultry and sexy as she stirred something in a large pot. At the bottom of the article was an added note that Chez Yvette had received a nomination for Best New Restaurant from the Taste of Wales committee.

  “Would you look at that?” Evans-the-Meat threw down the
newspaper as he came into the pub that night. “Nominated for Taste of Wales! How can a bloody French restaurant be called a Taste of Wales—that’s what I’d like to know?”

  “She’s using classic Welsh ingredients, so she says,” Betsy commented, pulling the butcher a pint of Robinson’s without being asked. “Get that inside you and you’ll feel better.”

  Barry-the-Bucket peered over the butcher’s shoulder. “See, what did I tell you? She’s a sexy bit of stuff, isn’t she? Good pair of knockers on her—”

  “Do you mind?” Betsy demanded. “This is a respectable establishment. We’ll have none of that talk here.” She thumped a glass down none too gently so that froth spattered onto the bar top. “In fact I don’t think I’m interested in hearing any more about that woman and how sexy she is. Nothing but trouble, if you ask me.”

  Evan had been drinking his pint, too caught up in his private depression to be interested in the conversation. Now he looked at Betsy with interest. Betsy was not one to fly off the handle like that. She usually liked to trade risqué banter with the customers. Something about Madame Yvette had upset her. He heard an echo of Bronwen’s unusually sharp retort, “I’ve gone off French food.”

  Madame Yvette—that had to be the reason for Bronwen’s strange behavior. The local grapevine must have been at work again and reported that he had visited Yvette late at night. He was stupid. He should have told Bronwen himself before the gossipmongers started.

  He put down his glass and slipped out of the pub.

  “Where’s Evans-the-Law off to in such a hurry?” he heard someone call after him. “Don’t tell me there’s another fire.”

  “More likely a craving for a little Taste of Wales,” Betsy retorted.

  A strong wind blew in Evan’s face as he ran up the street.

  Bronwen came to her door in her flannel dressing gown and slipper socks. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes darting nervously. “An emergency?”

  “It is an emergency when you’re angry with me and I don’t know what I’ve done.”

  She shrugged. “If you don’t know what you’ve done, then I can’t help you.”