Birds of a Feather: 3: Fly the Nest (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 16)

by Lise McClendon

  “Oh, Mum,” Aubrey said, her voice cracking. “You are so strong.”

  Isabelle flicked her eyes at her daughter. They were misty but she blinked to clear them. “We do what we must, chérie. What we must.”

  Conor left the library first. He stopped in the middle of the front hall and heaved a breath. That was done. His parents would see to whatever must be done with Duncan. He washed his hands of the situation.

  As he stood there, regaining his equilibrium, Elise came inside, followed by Pascal and Merle. They were whispering conspiratorially until they saw him. Elise stopped next to him.

  “How did it go?” she whispered, glancing at the library door.

  “It’s done. Mum is handling it.”

  Elise put her arms around his neck and hugged him. He felt her warm breath and the chill of the afternoon on her skin. “It will be fine,” she whispered.

  He pulled back, looking at her sister and Pascal. “What have you been up to?”

  “We overheard a conversation in the hedges,” Elise whispered, eyes dancing.

  “What do you know about Pauline?” Pascal asked him.

  “Nothing,” Conor said.

  Pascal nodded. “I need to do some background work. Is the kitchen free?”

  “Let’s check,” Merle said, pulling him toward the dining room.

  Conor and Elise watched them go through the swinging door to the kitchen. Elise took his hand. “What shall we do? We have an hour before our presence is required at cocktails.”

  Conor smiled. “My mind is blank.”

  “Really? Well, I have an idea or two.” She pulled him toward the stairs. “Come on, you.”

  As they reached their bedroom door, Pauline stepped out of her room into the hall, carrying a silver tray rattling with tea cups. She held it awkwardly as she pulled the door shut behind her. Elise and Conor stared at her. She was still wearing the big black shoes and leggings, with a heavy man’s sweater that hung halfway to her knees.

  She saw them and straightened her face and posture, walking down the hall, head high. As she passed she said, “He’s fine, if you’re curious. Just fine. No need to check on him. I am taking good care of Duncan.”

  Elise frowned as she walked past them toward the stairs. “What’s she up to?”

  Conor touched her chin and pulled her focus back toward him. “I know what we’re up to. And that’s all that counts.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In the kitchen the chef and maid were working on dinner, planning something warm and comforting for the chilly winter weather. The smells were divine. Pascal paused to watch them assemble a tartiflette of cheese and potatoes, one of his favorite dishes, especially on a wintry day. Merle asked them questions like what sort of cheese they used— reblochon was the answer— and dipped a finger in the creamy sauce to taste it.

  “Monsieur?” Gini said in a small, pleading voice. “We are concerned as we have not been paid and now the general is missing.”

  “Have you spoken to your agency?” Pascal said.

  Audette nodded. “They know nothing. Did you call them about Gabriel and Sabine? I gave the other sister the card.”

  Pascal had almost forgotten about the business card. He pulled it from his shirt pocket. “Yes. Louis Bordeaux, right?”

  “Not his real name,” Gini said. “He is possibly not French at all.” Audette guessed Corsican by his accent.

  “I will call the agency, see about your wages.” Pascal and Merle sat down at the kitchen table at the far end of the room, with the view of the back. Merle looked out at the icy pond and hedgerows as Pascal worked his mobile phone. First he called the London caterer.

  The conversation took place entirely in rapid-fire French. Pascal held the phone away from his ear. The heat on Pascal’s end rose, as did the speed. He hung up abruptly.

  “Nothing?” Merle asked.

  “Something. He is upset about disappearance of Gabriel and death of Sabine, but not out of sympathy. Because the check for the services of Audette and Gini is no good. It took a few days to bounce, with the holidays and all. He has been trying to contact them but got no answer. The food bill has him whipped up as well, put on his account, thousands of pounds. They were very slow to pay for their last engagement, a soirée of some sort in May. He was angry that he had allowed them to book again and berated himself for trusting them.”

  “Did you ask how long they lived in London?” Merle asked.

  “No, but he said they had contracted with him last Christmas, a year ago. So at least a year.”

  At the work table Gini began to cry. Audette put an arm around her. To Pascal she said, “She has been sending money home for her mother. She is confined at home, unable to work.”

  Merle found her purse and pulled out her wallet. To Pascal she whispered, “I have two-hundred Euros.” He nodded. She got up and walked to the table. “It is not what you’re owed, I’m sure, but it will help a little.” She pushed the bills toward the women, huddled together.

  Audette moved the money closer to Gini. “There. See? Not so bad, cousine. People are caring.”

  Gini wiped her eyes and stared at Merle. “Oh, madame. Merci.”

  “Pas de quoi, petite.” Merle returned to the table. “Did the caterer have their address?”

  “He hung up before I could ask. I will try another route.”

  Pascal turned back to his online search as Aubrey opened the swinging door. “The constables are here.”

  Two policemen stood in the drawing room, near the fire, the Inspector and the younger constable. Richard and Cecily sat nearby, with Evans and Isabelle on the sofa. Aubrey hovered behind her parents. Pascal and Merle joined them mid-conversation.

  The Detective Inspector was speaking. “So the oysters are of course not to blame.” He nodded at Pascal. “Sir. We were just discussing the preliminary results of the autopsy. Madam Tatou died of internal bleeding from what appears to be a knife wound.”

  Merle looked at Pascal. This was unexpected. He asked, “Where?”

  “There was blood on the ground near her as well. It had soaked into the ground then frozen. In the hedges.”

  “I meant where on her body was she stabbed?”

  The DI, Badan Powe, shifted on his feet and glanced at each of them. “In the thigh, ah, the groin. The femoral artery was severed. A clean cut.”

  A silence then, as they contemplated such an injury. “Knife attacks are up in the country,” the constable stated.

  “’Tis true, they are. But if a killer wants to do the deed he takes whatever he can use,” Powe stated. “Again, my condolences.”

  “And was the weapon found?” Pascal asked.

  “No, sir. But the examiner theorized it was a common kitchen knife with a short blade, a paring or steak knife. Small but sharp. And deadly in the right circumstances.”

  Evans stood up. “So you think it could have been an accident? Someone who just wanted to scare the woman with a small kitchen knife? Or maybe she was opening an oyster and it slipped?”

  “I dinna say that,” Powe said. “No knife was found with the body. We don’t know the motive yet.”

  “Could it be in the pond?” Aubrey wondered.

  “Pardon, monsieur. I have done some search, as you say, legwork, if you don’t mind,” Pascal said, raising his eyebrows. “I know it’s your bailliage.”

  “Go on,” Powe said.

  “It appears Gabriel Tremblay is not as wealthy as we supposed. We found news accounts calling him a ‘casino magnate’ in the south of France, worth millions. But that was perhaps an old story. He has run out on some responsibilities in London. He has been living there for at least one year, not in France as we supposed. Not apparently managing his business interests there, which may be nonexistent at this point.”

  “You think he is broke? Skint?”

  Pascal nodded. “Madame Tatou’s jewels are missing from their room. We assume he has also stolen Monsieur Richard Albion’s prized antique Jaguar t
hat disappeared from the garage in the night. From what we can deduce, Tremblay returned here last night, gathered up his belongings and the jewels, and drove away to points unknown.”

  The Inspector blinked a few times and addressed Richard. “Have you reported the car stolen, sir?”

  Richard said he had, that morning. “The Jaguar is a classic. One of a kind. Quite expensive. My insurance has also been made aware.”

  The DI glared at the constable who shrugged. “We will put out an all points warning if the lads haven’t done it yet. You think he will leave the area— go back to London or take a ferry? Go to an airport?”

  “Anything is possible,” Pascal said. “He has no ties to the area now that his copine, Sabine, is dead. He didn’t endear himself here. But he has very little in the way of resources unless he sells the jewels or the car. Unlikely he can use credit cards.”

  Richard moaned, still mourning.

  “He could pawn the jewels in Cardiff easily,” the constable said. “No questions asked.”

  “This flight makes him a suspect,” Powe stated. “A warrant for his arrest will be drawn up. Please refer all sightings or communications to me directly.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Isabelle mounted the stairs in a fog of melancholy. The police had gone to the carriage house to look at Sabine and Gabriel’s room then hike down to the pond again for another look. The way Sabine had died sounded quick but brutal. She would have bled to death within minutes with a deep cut into a major artery, unlike most knife wounds.

  But her mind was elsewhere. Her oldest son was not only an alcoholic but also an abuser of women. He had laid hands on his own brother’s girlfriend, either out of lust or revenge. It didn’t matter which. She had to think it was an inferiority that Duncan must feel toward Conor. Strong, handsome, successful in his own right, famous as well, Conor must make Duncan feel small and wretched in comparison. Still, no point in using excuses where none would do.

  She paused, hand raised at Duncan and Pauline’s bedroom door. She took a breath, released it, and knocked. Footsteps approached. Pauline opened the door an inch. “Bonjour, Isabelle.”

  “How is he?”

  “He is well, better. Sleeping.” She glanced over her shoulder at the mound under the quilts in the bed.

  “I need to see for myself now, Pauline.”

  The girl was hesitant. What was she afraid of? Isabelle put her foot in the gap so she couldn’t close the door. Their eyes locked for a moment, a power struggle that the younger woman lost.

  Isabelle pushed the door aside as Pauline stepped back. At the bedside Isabelle touched Duncan’s shoulder. “Hé,” she whispered. “Duncan. Coucou. Roll over so I can see you.”

  His response was to throw the blanket over his head and moan. She pulled it off him, down to his shoulders. He wore an old gray knit shirt but was still on his side, facing away. “Onto your back now.” She kept her voice gentle. “Please, Duncan.”

  Pauline walked to the far side of the bed and tipped her head to look at him. “It’s your mum, Dunkie. She cares about you.”

  With a sigh and a heave, Duncan flung one arm over and rolled onto his back. Isabelle frowned at his greasy hair, four-day beard, crusty mouth and nose. His skin was gray and his eyes were closed. “Look at me,” she demanded.

  Duncan’s eyes fluttered open and he squinted. “Is it daytime?”

  “Barely,” Isabelle said. “I want you to shower and come down for dinner in exactly half an hour.” She checked her watch. “It is now five-thirty. Meet me in the drawing room at six o’clock. You too, Pauline.”

  At the door she turned back. “Sit up now, Duncan.” She waited for him to sigh again and struggle upright. “Legs over the edge.” He obeyed, revealing white ankles and toes dangling above the floor. “Clean yourself. You smell.”

  Isabelle was two doors down the hallway when Pauline called to her. She waited for the girl to skip to her. “Qu'est-ce que c'est?”

  Pauline put on a brave smile. Isabelle noticed again how very pale and thin the girl was, with her cheekbones protruding and those narrow shoulders. She looked emaciated. Modeling was a terrible profession for personal health.

  “I was wondering. Could I eat dinner in my room again? I am really not dealing with all this very well.” She wrung her hands. “I feel so anxious.”

  “About Duncan?” Pauline nodded. Was the girl on medication? Or drugs maybe? Isabelle looked at her pupils but it was too dim in the hallway. “D’accord. Make sure he showers and wears something decent when he comes down. And you’ll have to get dinner in the kitchen yourself.”

  Dinner was immaculately prepared by Chef Audette— a huge beef roast, the tartiflette of potatoes and cheese, two vegetable dishes, and much bread. It was all enjoyed but you wouldn’t know by the sour faces around the table. Bree and Sally were pouting and sending eye daggers their father’s way. Conor and Elise sat close together, whispering. Richard seethed, stuffing food in his mouth mechanically as he hunched over his plate. Evans wasn’t much better, waving his fork around the way he did when he was having an internal discussion. He could barely look at his older son. Cecily looked at Isabelle now and then as if wondering what was going on but said nothing. Aubrey, Freddy, and the children were the only bright spot, chirping away with Pascal who fascinated them with his accent and engaged them on the subject of birds.

  Isabelle gave Gini the nod to bring on dessert as soon as the majority were finished. Audette had made panne cotta in individual ramekins and spooned honey over it. Gini quickly distributed the dishes and clean spoons and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Duncan said little, sullenly chewing his food. No one poured him wine and he demanded some in an angry, ungrateful voice. Aubrey admonished him, told him to think of the children, but he didn’t care. He wanted wine. Conor stood up and poured him a splash of claret.

  “Aren’t you the greedy gus,” Duncan muttered.

  “Duncan.” Isabelle’s tone cautioned him. “We will talk after dinner in the library.”

  “Will we? Will I get the switch?” He sneered at his parents. “Oooh. Have I been a naughty boy again?”

  Toby laughed. “Yes, you have, Uncle Duncan!”

  “Unkie Dunkie did a naughty!” Little Michael chanted. Freddy put a hand on his shoulder, quieting him.

  “Did he poop his pants?” Toby cried.

  “Toby, stop now,” his father demanded.

  “Please,” Aubrey pleaded with her brother to behave.

  An ugly silence descended, punctuated by the boys’ giggling. At last dinner was over and everyone pushed back their chairs, eager to leave the table. Merle and Elise were the last to stay seated.

  “We should head back to the inn,” Merle said. “Can Conor give us a ride?”

  “Sure.” Elise leaned closer to her sister. “That was the worst dinner atmosphere I’ve ever had the displeasure to attend.”

  “Is it because of the Jag?”

  Elise shook her head. “They told their parents about Duncan. What he did— to me and some other stuff.”

  “Ah. That’s the library meet-up.” Elise nodded. Merle folded her napkin on the table. “I don’t want to be around when that ends. Can we go?”

  As they left the dining room to find the men, Pauline backed through the swinging door to the kitchen, carrying a plate of food and a glass of wine. She had her head down, shuffling along, until she saw them watching her. Then she straightened and put on her runway walk with a little sway from side to side, head high. She wore a fuchsia blouse with her leggings and the pink suede boots that she had apparently cleaned and repaired. Her blonde hair was piled on her head with a few careless wisps on her neck. Exactly the way Isabelle wore her hair, Merle observed.

  “Hi, Pauline,” Elise said as she passed. “Bonsoir.”

  Pauline had nothing to say.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pascal and Merle sat in the bistro at the King’s Hearth that transformed itself into a bar af
ter nine o’clock. They each had one last glass of wine as Pascal hunched over his large mobile phone, punching through websites and photographs. They didn’t know Pauline’s last name and it was more difficult than expected to find out information about her.

  “There are at least five French models named Pauline on Instagram, possibly more,” he growled. “None of them look like her. Could she have dyed her hair?”

  “Of course. Let me see.” Merle spun the phone around and tapped at some photos. The models were in various states of undress, many completely nude. “Wow. Okay. This is France.”

  Pascal swiped the screen. “Look at this one.”

  Another model popped up. She was tall, glamorous, and thin but otherwise didn’t resemble the Pauline they knew. Merle gave him his phone back. “Maybe she made up that name, or even the whole model thing.”

  “She wants to be a model? I can see that.” He kept searching. Finally he sat back and took a sip of wine. “Text Elise. See if she can find out Pauline’s last name.”

  Merle did as requested. In a moment Elise replied that she was on the case. “She’ll get back to me if she finds out.” Merle took a drink of wine. “I think I’ll switch to tea.” She summoned the waiter and requested peppermint tea. “Their wine leaves something to be desired,” she whispered to Pascal.

  He agreed. They drank in peaceful silence as a few more people entered the bar and someone put some music on. A couple began to dance.

  “Still in a party mood here,” Merle observed. After half an hour a text arrived from Elise. Merle read it out loud.

  “Isabelle says her full name is Pauline Lajoie. A perfect name for a good-time girl, right?”

  Merle spelled the last name. Pascal entered ‘Pauline Lajoie’ into his search bar. A few people showed up, mostly from social media accounts. No models. He clicked through the results until one made him stop.