Where Secrets Reside

by Susan Finlay

  “Love you also.” After he hung up the phone, his mind ruminating about his wife, their dinner and later the delicious sex, he turned to business. He remembered their dinner at Le Belvidere Restaurant a few nights ago when the owner of the restaurant, Adele Raison, had reported Gabrielle Thibault’s abandoned car parked in front of her business. A young waitress with blonde hair tied in a long ponytail had led them to a table next to the front window. Of course she might not be the same woman who had spoken with Luc Olivier behind his restaurant in Reynier, but this was a coincidence that he couldn’t ignore.

  The restaurant, if he remembered right, didn’t open until evening, so he looked through his files for the telephone number of Adele Raison. He called her at home and told her he needed the names, addresses, and phone numbers of her employees.

  “I don’t understand,” Adele said. “They weren’t here when the car was parked in front of the building. I was the last person to leave on Tuesday night. The car was not there when I left. I was the first to arrive on Wednesday afternoon.”

  “I know, but I need to speak with a waitress who attended my table when my wife and I dined in your restaurant Wednesday night.”

  “Yes, I remember who waited on you. Was there a problem with the service? If so, please talk to me.”

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just need to ask her some questions about something related to the case I’m working on.”

  Finally, and with great reluctance matched only by her curiosity, she gave him the name, address, and phone number of the waitress.

  Goddard recognized the street name she gave him. It was only a few blocks from the Gendarmerie. He stood up and told Durand and Michaud where he was going and then left, stepping out into warm bright morning sunshine.

  He walked toward town centre but avoided its already crowded marketplace by following deserted back alleys. Some shops had back entrances off the alleys, but he knew from experience that most people preferred to use the main doors along the town square. Chantal even chastised him once when he tried to leave a shop by the back alley. She said he was being uncouth. Well, perhaps, but he couldn’t help it; he just didn’t like crowds.

  A few minutes later, walking along the street of a residential neighborhood, he began looking for the address. He spotted the house on his right. It was old and small but seemed well-maintained. He walked to the front door and rang the bell.

  A moment later a middle-aged woman opened the door. “Yes?”

  Goddard assumed she was not an early riser, still in nightgown and a somewhat tattered robe. “Hello Madame. I’m looking for Yvette Girard.”

  “One moment please, may I say who is calling?”

  “I am Captain Goddard, of the Belividere Gendarmerie.

  “Oh my lord, is Yvette in trouble?” she asked, looking suddenly alarmed.

  “No, nothing like that. I just need to ask her a couple questions.”

  Still looking rather dismayed, she closed the door. When the door reopened, the blonde waitress appeared. Today, her hair was loose and straight, part of it draping over one shoulder. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

  At least she was dressed, he noted. “Are you Yvette Girard?”

  She tilted her head and looked him in the eye.

  “Yes, I am. I remember you. You were at the restaurant a few nights ago with your wife. Didn’t know you were a gendarme.”

  He nodded and gave his name, then said, “I need to ask you questions about Luc Olivier.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the owner of Chez Olivier in Reynier.”

  Goddard watched her body language closely. She looked away for a moment, then touched her ear. To his trained eye, it appeared she was trying to decide whether to lie or not.

  “I—I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Not a very convincing liar at all. “You didn’t go to see him two weeks ago? At the back door of his restaurant.”

  She looked up with her mouth open, taken by surprise, then quickly clamped it shut.

  “I have a witness who described you. I can bring you in and have him identify you, or you can tell me what you know about Luc Olivier.”

  “I—I told you I don’t really know anything about him.”

  “That’s not what you said.”

  “I’ve maybe heard the name. He’s in the same line of business as my boss.”

  “Why did you go to see him?”

  She put her hand on her cheek. “I might have gone to get something for Le Belvidere. Madame Raison often sends me on errands. Sometimes I have to buy supplies. Maybe we couldn’t get what we needed. Yes, I vaguely remember a day when I had to buy something from a local restaurant owner.”

  “My witness said you addressed Luc Olivier as Bertrand. “If you didn’t know him, why did you call him Bertrand?”

  “Uh, I have no idea. I don’t think I did that, but if I did, I must have been confused.”

  Goddard sighed.

  “Who is Nina? If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “Why are you questioning me about these people? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Are you aware that Luc Olivier is missing?”

  “What? No.”

  “We’ve been looking for him for questioning because one of his employees was murdered. He left his restaurant two days ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

  Yvette gasped and leaned back against the closed door.

  “I don’t know anything about his disappearance,” she said. “I swear I don’t. Who—who died?”

  “A waitress by the name of Felicia Beaumont. Did you know her?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Who is Nina?”

  “She’s my aunt. Nina Girard. She owns a restaurant in Paris.”

  “And who is Bertrand?”

  She hesitated. Then her shoulders slumped. “He was Nina’s boyfriend. I don’t know all the details about what happened. All I know is that they broke up and he left Paris—with the business’ money and the restaurant equipment.”

  “And Bertrand is Luc Olivier?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know his last name. You should talk to my aunt.”

  “Why did you go to see Bertrand?”

  “I—I told him I was going to tell Nina where he was.”

  “If he didn’t pay you?”

  She hung her head down.

  MAURELLE WALKED ALONG a residential road in Belvidere toward the bluff where the ruins of the old Belvidere Chateau sat high above the village. She’d gone there last year because it allowed visitors a birds-eye-view of the whole area. She found the vista and the ruins calming. That’s something she needed right now as she contemplated her next move. She’d checked out of the hotel in Belvidere, gone to eat breakfast in a café in the market square, and then wandered around, trying to sort through her problems and make a decision. She didn’t know yet if she was going home today, but she hadn’t brought much cash with her.

  Looking ahead, she saw an elderly woman watering flowers planted in big red pots on the same side of the street where Maurelle was walking. The woman, skinny and droopy and wearing a scarf over her head, looked more wilted than the flowers. Across the street from the woman, a middle-aged man and a young woman were standing outside a house, talking. The young woman went into the house, and the man turned and began walking toward the street. Maurelle gasped as she recognized him—Captain Goddard of the Gendarmerie. Certain that he hadn’t seen her yet, she ducked into a doorway and waited for him to walk past.

  When she was sure it was safe, she let out her breath and came out. Looking around nervously, she began walking. At the end of the road, she turned and walked up a steep winding path. She stopped part way and gazed down at the town below. Green grass, tall trees, and shrubbery abounded. Greenery even draped over the town’s ancient brick walls.

  At the top of the hill, next to the ruins, she stopped and rested, winded from the steep climb.
The view from here was spectacular. She could see many of the quaint old houses through the trees, with their tall brick chimneys and grey slate roofs, and people on bicycles and motorbikes zipping around on winding roads, a couple of them barely missing nearby pedestrians. In the distance she could make out a modern chapel. Looking behind her she saw a gaping hole in the wall of the old chateau, where part of the wall had toppled and the remainder of the stone wall lay in a pile beneath the hole. The roof of the chateau had long since fallen in, but some remnants of broken timbers and slate roofing still remained, making entry hazardous.

  She found a grassy spot and sat down, remembering she’d sat in this same area last year and had also looked down at the town below. She had come here after retracing her steps to look for a necklace she’d lost, a necklace from her mother. It wasn’t until that following morning that she’d figured out the necklace had been lost on the first day she’d met Dave inside the general store in Reynier. She hadn’t thought of that initial meeting in ages.

  She had just come back to Reynier from Belvidere after purchasing a travel guidebook at a bookshop. Strolling along Reynier’s main road, the smell of cooking food from a local restaurant taunted her growing hunger, but not wanting to enter a crowded establishment, she had made a quick stop at the general store for snacks to eat and for some to tuck into her duffel bag for her long trip to her next destination, wherever that might be.

  Knowing her way around the store from past visits, she’d breezed past the canned goods and bottled beverages and headed toward the back where breakfast foods and assorted snacks were shelved.

  She had selected several snacks and then spied a small selection of British sweet biscuits on the lower shelves. As she’d knelt down to browse through the boxes, she’d heard a commotion, but before she could move out of the way, someone or something careened into her, partially burying her in a jumble of lightweight cartons that had cascaded off the shelves.

  Stunned and not entirely sure what had occurred at first, Maurelle had looked up to find a man staring down at her, causing instant panic that she fought to control. Looking down to avert eye contact, she caught sight of his grubby white gym shoes with crudely spliced-together shoelaces. The unexpected sight of his awful shoes distracted her momentarily, causing her to smile in spite of her sudden panic.

  The stranger, now her husband Dave, had asked her if she was all right, and then he had extended his hand to help her up.

  Trying to appear calm, and feeling anything but, and realizing that she was now the centre of attention in the midst of a scene far worse than her earlier faux pas in the Belvidere bookshop, she’d taken his proffered hand and allowed him to help her to her feet.

  After she’d admitted her embarrassment to him, the man had smiled and shrugged. “I don’t think it was your fault. Those kids were clowning around. One of them ran into me a few minutes ago.”

  He had paused, his face growing pink, making her wonder why.

  “I’m sorry you became a casualty, as well,” he had said with a distinctly non-native accent.

  A bit calmer, she had taken a moment to appraise him. He was tall and attractive, had wavy hair the color of dark sand, and he possessed a charming smile. His speech and his clothing made her decide he was an American.

  She thanked him for his kindness, and thought she needed to say more, but something about the way he was studying her with a curious intensity unnerved her once again. She had quickly looked away, focusing on a chance to escape. The opportunity had arisen when the shop clerk, appearing to survey the damage, had distracted her rescuer.

  So much of her life had changed and improved since then, yet here she was, again running away. Sure, last time she’d been in more dire straits—living, like a troglodyte, in a cave. God, how had she ever survived?

  The night after the general store incident, realizing her pendant was missing and having spent the rest of the day retracing her steps to search for it, she’d been headachy and despondent as she began her journey back to her temporary cave home. In the shadowy twilight, she had walked across a field from Belvidere to the east end of Reynier, up a short stone staircase leading up from the lowest level near the bridge, and had tromped west past the museum until reaching the woods on the hillside.

  Following a rough path along leaf-covered chalky hills, she arrived at her secret route, which mostly avoided human contact.

  The summer night air had been cooler than usual and carried the scent of rain, adding to her somber mood. On the incline, ivy, nettles, and blackthorn thickets partially hid the white chalk limestone gravel that could be slippery, and the night sky created shadowy areas that hid the thirty to sixty meter drops and overhangs, making her night travel more than a bit hazardous. The ground leveled off at one of the hill’s many outcropping where a small pond reflected the moon’s glow. It was usually there in the evening and night that she sometimes took comfort in listening to the chatter of the local toads.

  Her ears had perked up suddenly because of a loud rustling sound from below. She’d looked around to find the source of the sound but had seen only peaceful houses below, the light from their windows twinkling like fireflies. The Trizay River, a ribbon at the base of the hill, shimmered as moonlight danced across meandering ripples. Finding nothing amiss after several moments, she resumed her trek past a row of lavender bushes. That’s when she had lost her footing and had almost fallen down the hillside.

  Recovering, she’d pulled herself up and sidled warily past a narrow ledge, making her way into a copse of fig trees fraught with ensnarling branches that resembled arms threatening to reach down and grab her, entangling her in their net. The trees signaled her entry onto private property of several troglodyte dwellings, renovated cave houses.

  Mostly hidden, the homes scooped out of tufaceous limestone were hard to see during the day, but during the evening, golden light from the dwellings’ windows revealed precisely where the cave homes lay hidden.

  The following day, when she had again encountered Dave, he had returned her necklace. He’d found it on the floor after the incident in the general store.

  A sudden cool breeze brought her back to the present, pushing away old memories. She reached into her pocket for her mobile. Did she dare call her father? Would he talk to her? Her mum had told her that her father was married when he was involved with her, and he’d wanted nothing to do with her once she had become pregnant. He’d told her he was not going to break up his family no matter what. Kate and he had stayed in touch over the years but at a bare minimum. Maurelle had only seen him once, when she was ten years old and he had been visiting a colleague in London. It had been a stiff, formal meeting over tea and expensive cakes which she had been too nervous to enjoy. Maurelle sighed and punched in the phone number. The only way she’d know for sure was to call.

  “Allo,” he said.

  “Hello, Father. It’s Maura. Maura Barrington.” Silence. She held her breath. Had he hung up?

  “How did you get this number?”

  “I, uh, my mother gave it to me shortly before she passed away. This is you, father? Georges Marceau?”

  “It is.” He fell silent again, then coughed. “Sorry, you caught me by surprise. It must be, I don’t know, at least a half dozen years since I heard from Kate. She’s passed on, you say?”

  “Yes. She had a brain tumor.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Quel dommage.”

  “Thank you. I’m calling because I could use your help. You’re a law professor. You know a lot of people in England. I wondered if you might know anyone in Scotland Yard.” She hesitated. “As a law professor, I mean.” She screwed up her eyes. What else could she mean?

  “I do.” He sounded hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he liked admitting that. “Why? What do you need?”

  “Last year I was suspected of murdering someone. I didn’t do it, and the real killer was found and convicted. But now—” She could hardly trust herself to speak.

  “What?”
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  “Well, now my husband has told me a neighbor of the victim claims to have seen me at the crime scene. I don’t know what to do. Should I go back to England? If I go back there, will I be arrested?”

  “Where are you?”

  “In France. I live here now.”

  “You could go to the local police and have them contact Scotland Yard. They can find out more than I can, I’m sure.”

  “But they could arrest me if they contact Scotland Yard and find out I’m wanted for questioning, couldn’t they?”

  “That depends. Do they have some concrete evidence against you?”

  “I don’t think so. But I did run away when they began the investigation last year. I was afraid.”

  “I know. The police questioned me at the time because they were looking for you and thought I might know where you were hiding. Running away was a rather stupid thing to do.” He sounded perturbed—sounding as though chastising an especially slow student. “Look, I can’t help you. I suggest you turn yourself in and face it like an adult.”

  The phone went dead and Maurelle covered her face with her hands. Calling her father was a big mistake, only deepening her depression. She thought about her pregnancy. What kind of mother was she going to be? She could hear her little son or daughter coming home from school moaning because his or her friends were taunting about having a multiple-murder suspect for a mother, that is unless the taunt was even worse, having a mother in prison.

  She sat there for another hour, thinking, and then finally pulled herself to her feet and started slogging dejectedly back down the hill, occasionally stumbling on rocks, roots, or clumps of grass. At the bottom, she stopped to get her bearings. Where was the Gendarmerie from here? Okay, Captain Goddard had walked straight down rue Allard and he was probably heading back to the Gendarmerie. She turned back onto rue Allard and walked along the road for a while, stopping abruptly when she spotted René Lamont standing on the corner looking directly at her.

  Did he remember her from the dinner party at Jeannette’s house? Should she wave, or should she pretend she didn’t recognize him? Before she could decide, he waved, then walked across the street and headed toward her.