The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  I leaned forward, willing her to tell me the long story. The bright matchbook caught my eye, and I glanced down at it. Stamped on the cover in white was the legend, “Bingo’s Buckaroo BBQ.”

  “Sounds interesting, Missy,” I said.

  BITTER EXPERIENCE

  Missy took another massive drag on her cigarette and expelled smoke toward the main street of Beaulieu-la-Fontaine. “Let me ask you something, Rita,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever been involved with a man younger than you? I mean— quite a bit younger?”

  I didn’t want to muddy the waters, so I said, “Not really.”

  She tapped me on the forearm with a glossy pink fingernail. “Don’t ever do it, honey. That’s my advice to you.”

  “Sounds like the voice of experience.”

  “Lord, lord.” She shook her perm. “What’s the expression? Bitter experience?”

  “Bitter experience. Right.”

  “You live and you learn.”

  “Right.”

  I hoped we’d get off the clichés and into the good stuff soon. Missy took a swallow of beer, and set her glass down on the metal table with a clank. “The things I have done for that boy, given that boy, you wouldn’t believe. To be treated like dirt. Plain old dirt.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  My sympathetic, if banal, comment finished her off. She said, “Oh, shoot,” and her eyes puddled up.

  I searched for a tissue, wondering why my current karma involved people bursting into tears in my presence. I hoped I’d finish this phase of my evolution soon.

  She took the tissue and blotted her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so upset.”

  “Sounds like you have a right to be upset.” Missy had no stauncher supporter than I.

  “Damn straight.” Anger pulled her together. “He’s nothing but a prick of a waiter,” she continued indignantly. “Bingo didn’t even want to hire him. That’s one thing he was right about.”

  I was rapt. “Who’s Bingo?”

  “My ex.”

  Some of it was coming clear. I picked up the matchbook. “He has a barbecue restaurant?”

  She gave me a wise look. “It’s my restaurant now.”

  “I see.”

  “Bingo is selling real estate in Fort Lauderdale. I ran that dude clear out of the state of California.” I deduced it had been the satisfaction of a lifetime.

  “Good for you.”

  Thoughtful again, Missy stared at the tabletop. “I’ve got a problem, Rita.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I like good loving.”

  “That’s not a problem. It’s natural.”

  “Yeah, but it gets me into a lot of trouble. You see” —she leaned toward me confidentially, causing another inch of her tanned bosom to escape from her décolletage— “I know this guy Alex is jerking me around. I can see it. I’m not stupid.”

  She seemed to want reassurance on the last point, so I said, “Of course you’re not.”

  “So why can’t I stop myself? Why can’t I tell him to get somebody else to buy his damn tickets to France, his motorcycles—”

  I couldn’t help saying, “You bought him the— a motorcycle?”

  “Sure, I bought him a goddamn motorcycle.” She drained her glass. “I bought him a Yamaha, and you know what he did?”

  “What?”

  “Dumped me in Carpentras at the hotel and rode off on it. Told me he had business to take care of, left me there by myself! On a trip that was supposed to be kind of a honeymoon.”

  “You married him?” I croaked in amazement.

  “No, ma’am! I did say I wasn’t stupid. When I say honeymoon, I mean a lot of— you know. That’s the way he talked when he suggested this trip.”

  “Has he ever done this before?”

  “Yes. Sneaks off like the sneak he is. Done it ever since I’ve known him. He says it’s business. Doesn’t show up for his shift and leaves me to make the excuses.”

  “Business? What business?”

  She shrugged, but avoided my eyes. “Business, your ass. He’s probably off screwing somebody else.” The remark was so casual I could tell she didn’t believe it. She looked around for the waiter. “Got time for another beer?”

  When we’d ordered I said, “Did he come back to Carpentras, or what?”

  “He called and said he’d be a few more days. I said, ‘Uh-uh, buddy boy. You get your butt back here, now.’ But all the good that did was instead of being stuck in Carpentras I’m stuck here in whats-its-name, and he comes around when he feels like it. The hotel room doesn’t even have a TV.”

  “It would be in French, anyway,” I comforted her.

  “Yeah.” She dug out another cigarette. Before lighting up, she said, “I hadn’t had a cigarette for five solid weeks before we came over here.”

  The café was filling up. A group of German tourists gathered at a table and ordered ice cream. The shutters on shop fronts were being raised, the netting taken off the vegetable bins. Missy looked at her watch. “He promised to be back more than an hour ago,” she said.

  I had been lolling back in my chair, letting Missy’s confidences flow over me. At her words, I jerked in every limb. She looked at me with concern. “What’s the matter? Something bite you?”

  I made a show of rubbing my arm and looking for mosquitoes while I assimilated the idea that Alexander could show up at any second and catch me talking with his disaffected lady friend.

  She, of course, didn’t know her sympathetic new chum was now torn between an avid desire for further information and a seething urge to get away. “So tell me about yourself, Rita. Don’t let me talk your ear off,” she said.

  I improvised a brief life story, giving myself my father’s job as editor and publisher of the weekly Luna Beach Current. Fortunately, Missy was so caught up in her own problems, she’d obviously asked only from politeness. When she got a chance, she turned the conversation back to herself, saying, “Well, I sure hope you never get mixed up in anything like my situation.”

  “You had a fling with the wrong man, all right.”

  “A fling! It’s been going on for years!” She looked insulted, as if I had impugned her morals.

  Years? To my mind, the relationship had “temporary insanity” written all over it. “It has?”

  She held up three fingers. “Since before I was divorced from Bingo.” I must’ve looked dumbfounded, because she got defensive. “It wasn’t all bad. There were good times, too.”

  “There were?”

  “Sure.” She craned her neck to look down the road, and I quailed. When she didn’t see him, the good times she’d touted lost their luster. Her voice turned acid as she said, “A few good times. Very damn few.”

  I couldn’t sit here waiting for Alexander to turn up. I said, “Missy, I’ve got to run. But maybe we can get together again?”

  Her face lit up. I didn’t like myself for using her loneliness. “Great! More girl talk,” she said.

  She searched through her pile of postcards, selected a blank one with a photo of the village church, and wrote on it, “Missy Blake, Auberge de Ventoux, Room 20.” I tucked it away and said, “I’ll give you a call.” I didn’t explain why I wasn’t giving her my address, but she didn’t seem to care.

  We shook hands. As I walked away she was gazing down the road, her body taut, looking and listening.

  ON THE EDGE

  The sky, overcast and melancholy all day, darkened as I trudged up the hill. I could hardly bear the thought of another downpour. I half-ran along the forlorn gray track through tossing trees and rustling bushes.

  I couldn’t get the image of Missy, anxiously waiting for Alexander at the café, out of my mind. The rat had used her to get to France, promising sensual delights, and then had the gall to ride away from her on a motorcycle she had paid for. What made me madder, though, was her putting up with it. When he came back, in his own sweet time, would he get the kick in the
tail he deserved? I pictured weak recriminations, kissed-away tears. Then she’d be ready to buy him another cycle. I’d played similar scenes myself, I was ashamed to remember.

  Leaving aside sympathy for Missy, I was lucky her plight had put her in a mood to talk. She’d mentioned some “business” Alexander was involved in, and mysterious absences. Ask Vivien where her son was the night Carey was killed. If Alexander sneaked off routinely and had somebody covering for him, the essentials of an alibi were already in place. The first chance I had, I’d get back to Missy for more “girl talk.”

  Toiling up the hill under the lowering sky, I started to flag. The circuits were overloaded. I was sweating and out of breath. Much as I wanted to beat the rain, I had to stop and rest.

  The trees near the road had thinned out, and on my left was a strip of rock-strewn meadow that bordered the bluff. I picked my way across it, searching for a place to sit down. When I didn’t find one, I settled for standing at the edge of the slope to admire the view while wind rushed in my ears and cooled my face and body. Far below, in the checkerboard of vineyards and farms, trees and tile roofs, a group of toy-size men were playing something— soccer, probably— on an open field. Watching them dash to and fro in the fading light, I thought their game would be rained out soon.

  I was unaware and totally unprepared when the blow came. Without warning, I felt a powerful, painful thump between my shoulders, jerking my head back while sending my body flying forward. My knees gave, and I careened wildly down the slope, thinking only of keeping my feet under me so I wouldn’t smash headlong on the rocks.

  Out of control, I stayed upright until about halfway down, when I lost my footing, fell painfully on my knees, then pitched forward to the ground.

  Not being able to breathe, even for an instant or two, is a horrible sensation. I made hideous grunting sounds, and as soon as I could wheeze I scrambled sideways into the shelter of a low scrub oak. Now that I could smell again, I smelled thyme everywhere. I must have crushed a bush of it when I fell. Fragrant and terrified, I peered through oak leaves to the top of the slope, expecting to see Alexander’s menacing figure on the way down to finish me off. I licked my lips and tasted earth, felt grit between my teeth. My knees were killing me, and I gave up surveying the hilltop to inspect them. My favorite white cotton pants were ripped, and I could see that my knees were badly skinned.

  This must be how it had happened for Pedro. Except where he went over the bluff was steeper, more lethal. I didn’t know where to run to, wasn’t sure I could run at all. My hands cupped over my injured knees, I stared up at the point where I’d been pushed, as if danger could come only from there. Then I realized that was dumb, and I swiveled my head around fast enough to send pain shooting through my neck. Whiplash. Whiplash, and nobody to sue.

  I crouched beneath the oak. I didn’t hear footsteps, but it was hard to hear anything above the noise of the wind. The sky was darkening fast. I couldn’t stay here. I had to get back to Mas Rose.

  I pulled myself to my feet, uncertain whether I could walk. I hurt all over, but after a couple of tottering steps I saw that I could. I was afraid of the road, though. Someone could be waiting up there, out of my view, ready to swoop down when I climbed over the top. Better to stay down here and work my way along the slope. The going would be more difficult, but at least I had cover.

  Nearly paralyzed with stiffness, I made slow progress at first, hobbling from broom shrub to boulder to scrub oak in a half-crouch, peering cautiously at every moving branch. As time went on and I saw no one I loosened up and went faster. Rain began pattering down. Eventually, human nature being as adaptable as it is, I began to feel natural scurrying along like a crippled animal, across a darkening landscape as foreign to me as the moon.

  Now I could see Mas Rose. Yes, I was probably running toward my attacker, but where else could I go? As I had pieced it together, I thought Vivien had told Alexander I was suspicious of him. Instead of meeting poor Missy, he hid out and waited for me. I wouldn’t give him such a good opportunity next time.

  With Mas Rose in sight, I felt safe enough to return to the road. Through the increasing drizzle I turned in at the gate. Alexander’s motorcycle was parked beside the shed, a tarp spread over it. I wondered how long Missy had waited at the Relais de la Fontaine. The kitchen was dark, which was unusual, and everything was quiet.

  I climbed laboriously up the stairs. I wanted a hot bath. Maybe Marcelle had mercurochrome or something for my knees. I’d skinned them a lot when I was a kid, roller skating. I wasn’t a great skater, and the sidewalks in Luna Beach were cracked and uneven anyway. The stiffening scrapes brought it all back.

  I walked into my bedroom. It was dark, and I could hear rain through the open windows. A white figure stood by my worktable. It moved toward me, and I started to scream.

  LONG DURESS

  The figure cried out, “It’s Blanche!”

  Of course it was Blanche. I sagged against the wall and felt for the light switch. When I flipped it, I saw her standing by my table, eyes wide. She was wearing a cream-colored raincoat. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she gasped.

  “For God’s sake,” I said dully.

  She continued in a rush, “I know you hate it! Just go ahead and tell me so!”

  “Hate it?” I walked to my bed and sat down. Bending my knees was excruciating.

  When she came nearer I saw spots of water in her raincoat. “Have you been out?” I asked.

  “I went to look for you. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went to the gate and looked up and down the road. Then I came in here to wait. You had to come back sometime.” Her face was drawn and tense. “You had to come back, if I waited long enough.”

  Now it dawned on me. She was talking about The Book of Betrayal. “I read it, Blanche. I thought it was— remarkable.”

  She blinked. “You did?”

  “Yes. Extraordinary.”

  “Oh— ” She swallowed. I saw tension drain away, leaving her limp. “I was sure you’d hate it,” she breathed.

  “I certainly didn’t. I think it shows a lot of promise.”

  She sat down beside me on the bed, smoothing her raincoat over her knees, color returning to her face. I congratulated myself for being truthful and making her feel good. Outside, the rain rushed down.

  After savoring my comments she said, “What part did you like best?”

  She hadn’t even noticed that I was tattered, disheveled, and in pain. My knees would have to wait, anyway, because here was my chance. “I thought the last section was especially effective.” I limped to the table for the notebook and returned to sit beside her. When I found the place I read aloud:

  “I steal a key to a forbidden door

  And find out, in a place I shouldn’t be

  Something that would bring harm to one I love

  As well as giving dreadful pain to me.

  If I keep silent under long duress

  Can my refusal ever to confess

  Absolve me of the taking of the key?”

  Against the background noise of the rain, the words sounded eerily powerful. Blanche was obviously moved. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “That passage sounds real,” I said. I plunged. “It really happened, didn’t it?”

  She looked stunned. “How—why do you think that?”

  I had to be on the right track. “The tone changed. It’s less academic. It feels true.”

  Her hair, pulled back by the tortoiseshell combs, swung lank and damp as she shook her head.

  “It is true, isn’t it?”

  She wouldn’t look at me. “I can’t talk about it.” Her voice was tight and thin.

  “I think you want to, Blanche. That’s why you let me read it, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Do you think it’s better to jump off a cliff at Les Baux? It isn’t.”

  She clutched the neck of her raincoat as if desperate for air. “Yes, it is! Anything is better than going on
like this!”

  “Then stop tormenting yourself!”

  It was a long time before she spoke again. “Didn’t you read the poem? It says, ‘Can my refusal ever to confess—’ ”

  “ ‘Absolve me of the taking of the key’,” I finished. “Bernart didn’t answer, but I will. The answer is no. You took the key. You saw what you saw. Nothing can change that. Nothing.”

  I didn’t have many arguments left. “Look. Whatever happened, you made a poem out of it. You used it. You mastered it, Blanche.”

  At last, she looked at me. She’d probably never thought of herself as mastering anything. Belatedly, she took in my torn pants and scratches and scrapes. “What happened to you?”

  A decision was made inside me without my conscious volition. I took her by the shoulders to keep her eyes on mine. “Somebody pushed me over the bluff.”

  She knew what it meant. “Who?”

  “I didn’t see who did it.”

  I saw pain in her eyes. “Why?”

  “You know why. Because the person who killed Carey isn’t going to stop.”

  Giving each word all the weight I could, I said, “If you know something, tell me now. I don’t want to die for your mother’s memoirs.”

  Blanche closed her eyes. Rain was blowing in, the curtains billowing. She twitched her shoulders. I let her go, and she got up and closed the windows. When she returned, all expression had drained from her face, and she looked withered and old. Without emotion she said, “The key I stole was to Ross’s apartment. I took it out of my mother’s bag.”

  “The night Carey was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I was trying to be gentle, but it didn’t matter. She was beyond my reach.