by Susan Finlay
He moved away from her, feeling suddenly sick. He wanted to believe she was innocent. He knew she was a terrible liar. But he wasn’t the best judge anymore. Once, he had believed he could always tell—plenty of officers got that way, sure they knew who was guilty and who was innocent. He’d found out the hard way that he didn’t always know, and it had cost him his job. The silence that developed between them was like a dense fog, enveloping everything in its path and making him feel like he was drowning.
Angry at himself but unable to maintain control, he blurted, “I should have known. Grand-mère and Simone warned me about you. I’m a trained detective.”
Maurelle didn’t respond.
“My only explanation is that I tricked myself into believing I knew you.” He chuckled dryly, without humor. “I don’t even know your name. It’s not Maurelle,” he said, “that’s for damn sure.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “I knew you were in some kind of trouble, but I convinced myself that it wasn’t anything serious.” He stood abruptly, cracking his head with a loud thunk on the low ceiling for the second time in two days. “Ow, damn it!” He clapped his hand to his head, rubbing it. Pulling his hand back, he bent forward, turned slightly to his left, and carefully edged his way around Maurelle until he reached the cave opening. He ducked out and left, leaving her alone with her anguish.
Ten minutes later he entered his grandmother’s house, stormed up the stairs, and walked straight into Maurelle’s room. He grabbed her bags and carried them away.
“What’s going on?”
Dave swung around. His grandmother stood outside her own bedroom, watching him. He sighed and felt some of his anger slip away. Instead of taking the bags to his room, he had another idea.
“Let me put these away, first, and then we can talk.”
Grief threatened to overwhelm Maurelle, but she bit her lip and suppressed it, closing her eyes and steeling herself. She sat alone, unable to move or even make a decision about what to do. The conversation had gone wrong like everything else she’d ever done. She’d shamed her mother, blown it with her boyfriend, messed up her job, messed up her life. She closed her eyes and pictured Jared—his long legs, slender body, blue eyes and blonde hair. Young enough to look innocent, old enough to get into trouble—and to drag her with him. The head teacher had questioned her about the relationship, having heard the rumors—who hadn’t by then? She knew she had to stop it all, otherwise her life would be ruined. After the murder, she had to escape. What choice did she have? Ha. Her life was ruined anyway.
Her tears, unbidden and unwelcome, flowed freely until eventually worn out, she slipped into a fitful slumber.
She awoke lying on the hard cave floor, her face caked with white limestone dust that had formed a paste-like mask that itched. At first wiping at the mask half-heartedly with one hand, she soon gave up and focused instead on her situation. The mouse that had been rummaging around earlier, startled her momentarily as it darted past her into a crevice. Maurelle shook her head. I’m just like that mouse.
Earlier in the day when she had sat in the hospital with Dave, and later at the café, chatting about normal things, movies and music and books, she had almost felt light-hearted and optimistic, having lulled herself into thinking her troubles were disappearing and that maybe, just maybe, she could stay in Reynier.
Her naiveté had once again caused her to let down her guard. She would never be free, let alone carefree and happy. Her only option now was to go back to Fabienne’s, somehow sneak in, and grab her duffel bag. After that she would vanish, change her name again, and change everything about her appearance. This time she would cut her hair, change the color, rent a flat, and work out of her home where she wouldn’t have to deal with the public. Maybe she could teach English somewhere, private tutoring. Oh right! Scratch that.
She forced herself to get up and clean her face as best she could.
Peeking out of the cave, she was relieved to see no gendarmes waiting to cart her away. She slowly made her way back into the village and to Fabienne’s house.
She stood facing the front door and wondered what time it was. Had they gone to bed? The streets were deserted, and most of the windows of the houses were dark, including this one. Placing her ear up to the door she listened, hoping the dog wasn’t there to betray her. Not hearing anything, she carefully turned the doorknob, pushed the door inward as quietly as possible, and glanced around. Silently, she stepped through the threshold, leaving the door slightly ajar to expedite her escape. Although the living room was dark, light fanned out of the kitchen, making her stiffen. She held her breath and moved slowly toward the stairs, placing her left hand on the baluster. She froze when a male voice, Dave’s, drifted out of the kitchen. She heard her name, which produced in her an overwhelming need to know what Dave was saying.
She quietly edged closer to the kitchen entrance, almost knocking over a vase with an umbrella in it in the process.
“How could I have been so stupid? I convinced myself that I was drawn to her because she needed my help, but that wasn’t entirely true. I needed to prove something to myself.”
“Why is this crime important to you? Do you think she killed that boy?” Fabienne asked.
“Damned if I know. But I don’t want any part of it. I’m done with helping women like her. I’m done with helping people hide from justice. And I’m done with the judicial system that half the time doesn’t work. People getting off on technicalities, while others get convicted of crimes they didn’t commit. Dirty cops, bosses controlled by politicians, money speaks louder than truth, I’m really sick of it all.”
“It isn’t always that way, surely,” Fabienne said.
“Enough of the time.”
“What has that got to do with Maurelle?”
“Everything.”
Confirming her fears, Maurelle wheeled around and tiptoed up the stairs to the bedroom she’d stayed in.
She opened the door and peered inside. She dared not switch on the light but luckily the moon outside was full, casting enough light through the sheer window curtains to let her see around the tiny room.
Carefully, she moved toward the chair in the corner of the room where she had left her duffel bag. In the darkness, she stubbed her sandaled toe on the edge of the bed’s walnut footboard and almost cried out in immediate pain, but caught herself in time. When she reached the chair, the bag wasn’t there. She scrambled frantically about, searching every inch of the room and the wardrobe and even under the bed, though she knew logically it wouldn’t fit. It was gone. She dashed out of her room and into Dave’s room, rummaged through his wardrobe, and emerged five minutes later empty-handed.
She stood in the hallway, debating whether to search Fabienne’s room. But when the grandfather clock downstairs chimed, her heart jumped, sending her instead flying down the stairs and out the front door. She didn’t bother closing the door behind her.
She didn’t look back. Maurelle ran blindly through the shadowy streets, past the café, past the general store, past the post office, without a destination in mind. All she knew for sure was that she couldn’t stay another minute in Reynier. She was an outsider here—everywhere. And without her money and belongings, she had nothing. She had earlier considered dumping the duffel bag, knowing that she could replace most of the contents. But she would have taken her bumbag which contained her pendant and the guidebook she was going to use to plan where she’d go next. She would have taken her identification documents—just in case. Most of all, she would have taken her cash, which could have bought her the basics for survival and maybe could have allowed her to rent a shabby flat in some remote place where no one would care whether she fit in or not.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dave closed his eyes as if that would shut out his thoughts. He reopened them when his grandmother sighed. Fabienne was sitting in the chair across from him, and her wrinkled face and drooping body made him regret all over again dragging her into his problem. “Why don’t w
e call it a night?” he said gently. “We aren’t going to resolve anything now. I’m too damned tired and confused.”
Fabienne yawned and nodded. She stood slowly and picked up her bifocals from the dining table. Strands of her white hair fell loose from her chignon and strayed into her face like bees fluttering around a flower, making her use her hand to swat them away.
Dave thought of his grandmother’s beloved roses that she grew in her garden; she too was a delicate rose, only she had wilted a little tonight because of stress and lack of sleep. If he hadn’t been so focused on her appearing too well to have cancer, he might have noticed sooner how much she’d aged and how vulnerable she now was. Even five years ago, she’d been more energetic. He thought back to the day she, Connie, and he had walked the three-and-a-half miles to Belvidere on market day, stopping periodically to rest. They had shopped for hours, eaten lunch, and walked back home again. Fabienne had been tired, but not much more so than he and Connie. Now, Fabienne got tired simply walking through town on those big shopping days.
That thought made him walk over to her and wrap his arms around her. Feeling closer to her than he had since his arrival here, he whispered, “Thank you, Grand-mère. I’m sorry to burden you with my problems. I didn’t—”
He wanted to say more, but he choked up. He hadn’t felt this way since his break-up with his wife, and he wondered how much he had been holding back.
“You can talk to me anytime,” Fabienne said. She patted him on the shoulder, leaned back, and looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry I’m such a busy-body. I gave you a hard time about that girl, and you were only trying to help her. You couldn’t have known what she was hiding.”
Dave opened his mouth to say something, but she held up her hand, shushing him.
“I know you, dear boy. I know that you beat yourself up because you let down your guard and trusted. But you shouldn’t worry. You still have your instincts intact. Your problem is that you also have a good heart and a desire to believe the best about people, even though you’ve seen more than your share of bad people through your police work. That’s part of what made you a good detective.”
He wanted to believe what she was saying, but he’d always prided himself on his instincts, his objectivity and his bulldog attitude toward finding the truth, until . . . . He shook his head. He wasn’t sure anymore that he possessed any of those qualities.
“But I have a lifetime of experience,” Fabienne continued. “I don’t have all the answers you need but I will listen. I may give you advice, if I can. Do with it what you will.”
Dave smiled, kissed her cheek, and hugged her again, stroking her hair.
“Grand-mère, I’m sorry I’ve been mean and difficult lately. Here I am a guest in your home, and I’ve been behaving like a spoiled little boy.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, shrugging hers shoulders. She wagged her hand at him as she moved toward the living room. “I was wrong too.”
Dave grinned. “I wish I could say that makes my behavior acceptable, but I can’t really do that. I’ve been a stubborn fool.”
Fabienne stopped and spun around to face him. “Well, I can’t imagine where you get that from,” she said.
Dave chuckled. He followed her into the living room and bumped right into her when she stopped abruptly.
“Did you leave the door open?” she asked.
Following her gaze, he saw the wide-open door.
“No, it wasn’t me.” He switched on the lights and searched the main level of the house. Finding nothing, he said, “Wait here. I’ll look upstairs.” Before he left, he looked at his grandmother’s ghostly white face. “Don’t worry,” he added, patting her hand reassuringly. He dashed up the stairs, switching on every light and searching the second floor, room by room. When he was done, he ran back down the stairs and headed toward the back door.
“Where are you going?” Fabienne called.
“She’s not here. You should go on up to bed. I’m going to get something out of the cellar.”
A few minutes later, he arrived at the tiny cave in the back portion of the house, a cave similar to the ones many residents had in their houses. As with most of these, it was used for storage. He flipped on the lights and pulled out the duffel bag that he’d hidden earlier, leaving the sleeping bag. When he re-entered the main house, he locked the doors so Maurelle couldn’t sneak back in.
“Is that hers?”
“I thought you were going to bed. Everything is fine. Maurelle must have come back to get this, but she’s gone now.”
“Are you going after her?”
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
Relief spread across Fabienne’s face. She kissed his cheek before climbing the stairs to her room.
Dave picked up Maurelle’s sneakers which he found near the front closet and put them in the duffel bag. Afterwards, he switched off the lights and climbed upstairs, closing his bedroom door behind him. He put the bag down on his bed and sat down. Taking a deep breath, he unzipped the bag and began unpacking it, laying her clothing in neat stacks on his bedspread.
After her clothes, shoes, and handbag, he found a fanny-pack with her necklace tucked inside, along with some coins. Digging deeper in the duffel bag, he found a cloth toiletry bag with deodorant, shampoo, make-up, perfume, and dental floss. Loose in the duffel bag were maps, a guidebook, two magazines, and three paperback romance novels. He set those items on the floor near his feet. Next, he found two small purple flashlights and he shook his head, smiling. The kind of flashlights he would expect her to have. His hand hit the bottom of the bag, but something wasn’t right. He glanced at the outside of the bag and then the inside. It had a fake bottom.
He ripped it apart and found some loose items: an expensive looking man’s watch and a small box containing what appeared to be childhood trinkets. Beside those were a zippered bag and a wallet.
His jaw tightened involuntarily as he studied the driver’s license inside the wallet: Maura Barrington, 11 Willoughby Crescent, London, England; Date of Birth: March 5, 1986. Well, at least she hadn’t lied about her age or where she was from, but that didn’t make him feel better.
Thumbing through the wallet, he found two credit cards in her name and five- hundred-and-thirty Euros, roughly equivalent to seven-hundred-twenty-five U.S. dollars. Tucked into a side pocket, he found three wallet-size photos that appeared to be childhood photos of Maurelle, and two more photos of a man and a woman. Her parents?
He set down the wallet on the bed and picked up the small zippered bag, running his hand over the soft worn-leather. Slowly, he unzipped it and pulled the sides apart to get a good look at the contents. Cash. Lots of cash. He picked up the thick straps and counted. Nine altogether. Automatically, he examined the front and back bills in the first strap. They were English pounds. His years of training had taught him how to spot counterfeit bills and these looked real. Thumbing through each strap, he verified that each consisted of £20 notes. He counted the first strap: one hundred notes totaling two thousand pounds. Assuming each strap was the same, which it appeared based on the thickness and weight of them, he was staring at eighteen-thousand pounds, equal to roughly twenty-seven-thousand U.S. dollars.
So much money. It looked as though she was prepared and hadn’t simply left in a panic. Had she planned it all? But then why simply come to France and hide in a cave? It made little sense.
Simone sat on her sofa with the dog lying halfway over her lap, continuously using its nose to demand she pet him. No matter how many times she pushed him away, he kept coming back for more. The disgusting matted hair on the animal was in dire need of scrubbing and combing, but she wasn’t about to do it. After she got rid of him, she would need to fumigate her home too.
“Maman, please, can’t you keep the dog?” Simone asked.
“No. Serge is allergic to dogs. Besides, I thought you were giving it to Dave.”
“I tried. He doesn’t want him.”
“Why can’t y
ou keep him? He’d be good company for you.”
“You know I don’t like animals. I should never have adopted him. Giving this mutt to Dave backfired terribly. I think now he’s angry with me.”
Coralie said, “Give him a day or two. He’ll get over it.”
“I don’t know. He left Fabienne’s this evening with that woman. He left me standing there gaping like a . . . a . . . I don’t know what. It was humiliating. And she’s much prettier than I remember from the other time I saw her.” Simone looked toward the door, wishing Dave would come to his senses and ring the downstairs bell to let her know he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to be let in. Instead, he was probably gazing into that damn woman’s eyes and listening to her every word as if she was the only person in the world.
“Do you love him?” her mother asked.
Simone looked down at the dog. “Love? I don’t know. I’m tired of being alone. You have Serge. I have no one. I’m not desperate enough to be one of Jonas Lefevre’s mistresses.”
“Do not say such things. Do you hear? You will find someone. What about Zacharie Gardinier over in Belvidere? He would be a good catch. I’m sure he is interested. He was eager to talk with you when we saw him in that restaurant. Do you remember? It was about a month ago. I don’t know the name of the restaurant.”
“Zacharie is all right, I suppose. I was hoping for someone more . . . sophisticated.”
“Then don’t give up on Dave. Not yet. But don’t forget you’re thirty-five and still single.”
Simone groaned inwardly and wanted to scream. Did her mother—and grandmother, for that matter—have to keep reminding her of that? Maybe it was time to move back to Paris. She might have been lonely in Paris, but at least there she wasn’t treated like a visitor, a newcomer. Shouldn’t the fact that her mother grew up in Reynier have made Simone immediately part of the community? Even buying Fabienne’s café and running it hadn’t made her many friends.