“Family connections get complicated very quickly,” I said. “Ma Mère’s sister Marie, whom everyone calls Grand-mère Marie, is my Uncle Gérard’s mother-in-law.”
“I knew there was a connection.” She put a fat strawberry on her plate absently. “Well, Ma Mère did not have Karine spend her time on her knees praying. Instead, she sent her off into the village as a volunteer to work in the school, and in the clinic, and so on. And she met a boy.”
“Pierre Dauvin?” I asked.
‘Yes, Pierre,” she said with a knowing smile. “And soon she was as in love with Pierre as she had been in love with God’s work a month earlier. But they were just babies, so it was impossible. Ma Mère suggested to us that what Karine needed was to see the world, to have some adventures so that she could burn off some of that passionate energy, and also discover what her true path in life might be. And so we left poor Jean-Paul to his studies, and my husband and I took Karine on a grand tour. A safari in Africa, a visit to Machu Picchu, a hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon; it was glorious for the three of us.”
“And she forgot about Pierre?”
“No.” Suddenly she grew serious. “Young people are capable of intense and abiding love. I believe that there was a very special bond between those two. But it was your grandmother who advised us to keep Karine away. She never said why, but she assured us there was good reason. When we returned from our adventures, we sent Karine to school in Scotland. It was there that she fell in love with painting and found her calling.”
I made a mental note to grill my grandmother as soon as I got home about why she warned Mme Bernard away from Pierre.
“And how is Pierre?” she asked out of more than simple curiosity.
“Busy,” I said, searching for neutral words to describe what he was busy with. “One of the students working chez Martin this summer had an accident overnight and he’s looking into it.”
“A local girl?”
“No,” I said. “She was studying archeology in Paris, l’école du Louvre. I don’t know anything more about her.”
“She was badly hurt?”
I said, “Unfortunately.”
“Quel dommage,” she tsk’d, sounding sincere. And then she moved on to other topics
We talked about my work for a while, the strange world of television production. And about Mom and my dad, and even a bit about Isabelle, whom she had known through Uncle Gérard. She told me about her husband, who never quite recovered from the effects of tuberculosis he picked up in a German forced labor camp when he was a teenager during the war. She made sure to tell me that she was too young to remember anything about the war, though the experiences her parents suffered through during that awful time still lay over their entire generation, what’s left of it, like a black pall. And would until the last who remembered had perished. I knew from listening to my grandmother that, sadly, what she said was true.
The sun moved lower in the western sky and I began looking for the right moment to take my leave. We had met. I liked her. I hoped she approved of me. I hadn’t spilled anything on my mauve dress. We had established that she was not above meddling, but I wasn’t worried that she had anything to meddle with where I was concerned. Jean-Paul and I were friends and lovers, but, so far, that was as far as it went. And we were not children.
I was just about to mention that I had a long drive ahead, when the curtains at the open French doors moved aside and Jean-Paul himself walked through. My stomach did the usual happy flip that happens whenever I catch sight of him, but I thought that he looked especially handsome that afternoon. He was tanned and fit, wearing a perfectly tailored suit perfectly; he looked as comfortable as he would if he were wearing old shorts and sneakers instead. I knew he had been in meetings all morning, but his white dress shirt was still crisp and his tie still had a perfect knot.
“Ah, here you are,” he said, draping his suit coat over the back of the chair next to me as he leaned over to kiss his mother first, and then me. Before he sat, he scooted the chair closer to mine. Taking my hand, he asked, “Have we solved all the problems of the world yet?”
“Not a one,” his mother said, obviously delighted to see him. The maid appeared with a teacup and a fresh pot of tea, which she set in front of him. As Mme Bernard passed her son the plates of fruit and cheese, she said, “So, have you surprised us to prevent us from telling each other tales about you?”
“Too late for that, yes?” He laughed as he loosened his tie and opened the collar button of his dress shirt. “No. I decided that there was nothing happening in my meeting that could be nearly as interesting as seeing the two of you. So I fled.”
“You’ll stay for dinner?” Mme Bernard asked him. She turned to me. “Maggie?”
Before I could say anything, Jean-Paul answered for both of us. “Maggie has a long drive home, Maman. Unless she is prepared to spend the night…”
“Another time, I would love to,” I said. “I enjoyed having this afternoon off from my work, but I do need to get back.” I did not add, or else Pierre Dauvin would send out a search party.
Mme Bernard did not seem disappointed, but she was gracious about hiding any relief she may have felt. “You will come back, Maggie. Soon I hope. And you, my son?”
“I will have to be happy with simply seeing your sweet face, Maman, before I leave as well. A friend dropped me off on his way to join his family in Deauville for the weekend. I need to be in Paris early tomorrow. So, Maggie, do you mind driving me to the train station in Caen? It’s on your way.”
“If I can find the station,” I said. “I’ll probably miss it and have to keep you.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” he said, squeezing my hand.
Good-byes were brief. On our way back through the house, the maid handed Mme Bernard Grand-mère’s basket, now full of roses with the stems wrapped for travel.
“Thank Élodie for me,” she said. “Both for the lovely gifts and for sharing her lovely granddaughter.”
At the front door there was a farewell round of les bises. I gave Jean-Paul the car keys, and as he opened my door for me, I saw a very familiar overnight bag on the floor of the back seat.
“Am I really dropping you at Caen?” I asked as he pulled out onto the road.
“Yes,” he said. “On Sunday night.”
“So,” I said, “your meetings today were boring?”
“Au contraire. Generally, quite interesting. I was invited to a Euro Zone summit to talk about counterfeit labels.”
Part of Jean-Paul’s role as consul general to Los Angeles had been promoting and protecting French trade with the United States. A consistent headache was the flow of cheap knockoffs of expensive French designer goods out of Asia and into the ports of the American West Coast. Jean-Paul had worked in tandem with American Customs, Homeland Security, the French government and various French trade associations to identify counterfeit labels and keep them out of the marketplace. Just for research, we went to quite a few swap meets on weekends, looking for fakes. And always found them.
“There was a bit of a contretemps at the meeting,” he said, “when one of the German delegates overheard one of ours, a hard-assed old rightist left over from the Sarkozy era, saying that it was time for Germany to pay for the cleanup of their own trash. This remark came about when a press release was distributed affirming that the remains found on your family estate yesterday are, in fact, German military.”
“He said, trash?”
“Close enough.”
“Just how deep do anti-German feelings still run in France?” I asked.
“I think it’s a generational issue,” he said with a shrug as he dodged an oncoming car making an unsafe lane change around a slower one, a road boulder going only maybe eighty miles per. “For the people who remember the war, those feelings are as profound as their memories are long. But younger people don’t seem to share the animosity; the issues are not theirs. I suspect that the German response to the sort of
insult that the French delegate lobbed is a matter of generation also. An older German in such a meeting would know that he is still expected to wear his nation’s guilt like a hair shirt, and he would have kept his mouth shut. It was a young man who made an issue of the comment.”
“How did this dust-up end?”
“To smooth the waters,” he said, reaching for my hand, “I was asked by the committee to speak with the mayor of your village about perhaps making sure that the remains are treated with dignity.”
I was surprised. Very. “Do you know Gaston Carnôt?”
“Is he the mayor?” When I said he was, he shrugged. “Not yet.”
“Tell the truth, Monsieur Bernard,” I said, seeing a wicked gleam in his big brown eyes. “You volunteered for this little job, didn’t you?”
He laughed. “Why would I do that?”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind when I tell you what’s been going on.” I told him about Solange. And about the night before, and the bones this morning. He listened, as he always does, with great interest, asking questions from time to time. When I finished, he pressed my hand against his lips and then rested it on his knee.
“My dear, my dear.” What followed promised to become something lovely, but my telephone rang. Grand-mère’s phone, actually. If it had been mine I would have ignored it. But most probably this call was either for her or from her and needed to be picked up. I asked Jean-Paul’s forbearance, and answered.
There was some “um” and “ah” on the line before a familiar voice said, “Maggie?”
“Guido?”
“Jesus, I thought I was calling your grandmother. Hell, Mag, I thought they’d hooked you up, too.”
“Who?”
“That damn Dauvin. I was in the studio, working, minding my own business, when he barged in and hauled me away, brought me down to the police station.”
“Why?”
“Solange,” he said. “At least I think that’s why. I can’t understand most of what they’re saying. But they did let me make a phone call. First I called you, but Dauvin answered your phone so I thought he had you in a cell, too. So I called Renée, and she told me to fuck off. Last resort, I called your grandmother, but got you.”
“I have her phone, and, obviously, Dauvin has mine. After last night, Renée is in an awkward position with anything that involves you. But surely she’d give you the name of a local lawyer.”
“The thing is, someone told Dauvin that I had spent the night with her. So, he calls her and asks if she can alibi me during the time frame they think Solange was killed. And she says, no.”
“Why? Was she saving face?”
“For what? Maggie, I didn’t spend the whole night with her.”
“You left Gaston’s with Renée.”
“Sure. But she’s like a guy, Maggie. She had her way with me, said thank you very much, and took me home right after.”
“When did you get in?”
“Around midnight. A little after. I was kind of upset about the whole thing. So after I got home I went out to the studio and worked for a couple of hours. When I tried to go inside later, though, the doors were all locked.”
“Did you ring the bell?”
“No. I thought you were still mad at me so you locked me out.”
“Oh, hell, Guido,” I said. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional. I thought you were out for the night with Renée. Casey heard something that frightened her, and that’s why we locked the doors.”
“What did she hear?”
“Doors. Or, a door. But there was no one in the house.”
“If it was around midnight, she probably heard me going out.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“In the studio. On the floor. On the cold, cold stone floor.”
“It was warm last night, Guido,” I said. “But I am sorry. Did you explain what happened to Dauvin?”
“Why bother? It’s not a very good alibi is it?”
“No,” I agreed. “What have you told him?”
“Nothing. Nada. Rien. Zilch.”
“Keep it that way,” I said. “I’ll try to get someone over there.”
When I ended the call, I filled in Jean-Paul on the details, though he had figured out most of it from what he overheard. He said, “I’ll make a call.”
He did. He gave whoever was on the other end a quick summary and asked to have someone go look after Guido right away. He said bon and merci a few times, and hung up. By then we were on the toll road, flowing with traffic at a conservative ninety miles an hour. I checked the dash clock; we were still almost an hour from home.
I asked, “How long do you think it will take for your friend to get to Guido?”
“Not long. He’s local. He’ll be there before we are.”
We were back on village roads, no more than fifteen minutes from Guido’s cell in the gendarme barracks when Jean-Paul’s phone buzzed. After saying hello, he mostly listened. There was more bon and merci and the call ended.
“So?” I asked.
“It looks like your Guido will be the guest of the district gendarmes at least for the near future. My friend tells me that Guido has formally engaged the local avocat—lawyer—he sent over, and that he is in good hands. On advice, Guido has declined to give a statement, and he will request that the district procureur be recused from all matters relating to his case on account of extreme prejudice.”
“That was fast,” I said.
He shook his head. “Except for the issue with the procureur, his avocat could have taken care of all that without necessarily speaking with Guido. Guido is with the lawyer now.”
“Why are they focusing on Guido?” I asked.
“First, he’s an outsider, and locals always prefer to pick on the outsider rather than one of their own. Next, someone of stature, a professor apparently, told the gendarmes that Guido had sexually harassed the young victim. Guido bears evidence that he had been in a recent fight. And, he has no alibi.”
“All of that can be explained,” I said. “But I doubt the explanations will make Guido look very good.”
“There was a fight?”
“The father of one of the young fromagerie workers took a shot at him.”
“Ah, yes. Guido was doing what Guido does. But what happened with the local procureur?”
“That’s procuress,” I said. “Or would you say procuratrix?”
“Neither. I think you’d just say angry woman and Guido being Guido.”
“When can we get him out?”
Jean-Paul lifted a shoulder, making my heart sink. “We’ll see. In the meantime, don’t worry. Guido will be fine. The food, I was told, comes from a very good café in the village except on market day, and any cellmates will probably be local drunks or petty thieves, not hardened criminals. It is not a high-crime area. Your ambassador has been informed, so there isn’t much more to do. Perhaps you should contact your employer before news gets out.”
“It’s four a.m. in Los Angeles. I’ll call when the sun is up.” But I took out Grand-mère’s phone and sent our producer a text: guido’s in the slam. talk later.
“Not the first time I’ve sent that message,” I said, pocketing the phone. But it was the first time that I was afraid he might not get out again. Pierre Dauvin wouldn’t let us speak with Guido on Friday night, but he gave permission for us to bring a bag of toiletries and some fresh clothes on Saturday morning.
After a week apart, I had Jean-Paul within an arm’s reach, and the interlude with his mother had been pleasant enough. But the rest of the day had been a nightmare. I wanted it to be over. We stopped at a favorite little restaurant in the village of Pirou for dinner, but I could not tell you what was put in front of me to eat. I apologized to Jean-Paul for being such miserable company. Before the cheese, he asked for the check and we drove home. That night, for the first time since we began sharing a bed, we did not make love, and nothing was said about it.
Maybe I slept, but I could
n’t be sure. Jean-Paul held me in his arms and snored softly against my neck. I had been at Grand-mère’s long enough to be familiar with the night sounds. The old house creaked as it cooled after a warm day; breezes ruffled through the trees outside. Sometimes I could hear the lowing of cows in the near pasture and the big Percheron horses snuffling at each other in the meadow beyond. I tried to lie still so that I wouldn’t waken Jean-Paul, but I was so on edge that every sound seemed amplified. When I heard water from somewhere in the house rattling through the pipes, I waited to hear a bedroom door close. Surely, Casey or Grand-mère had gotten up to use a bathroom or get a drink of water. But only silence followed.
Unable to be still any longer, I disentangled myself from Jean-Paul, took the flashlight out of the bedside drawer, and ventured into the hall. First I listened at Casey’s door. When I heard nothing, I opened the door enough to see the mound she made under her duvet. Grand-mère’s room was at the end of the hall. I put my ear against the cold wood and heard her heavy, regular breathing.
Standing at the top of the stairs, I peered down into the darkness below. All was still, except for my imagination.
“Psst, Maggie.”
I jumped even as I recognized Jean-Paul’s whisper.
“Is there something?” he asked, putting his arm around my shoulders and looking down the stairs.
I shook my head. “Old houses creak, old pipes rattle.”
“You weren’t sleeping.”
“Too restless.”
He took the flashlight from my hand and turned it on. “We’ll just go have a look around, all right? For your peace of mind.”
We went downstairs, turned on the lights, looked in every room, checked every door, every window, every tap. Everything seemed to be as it should be.
“All right?” Jean-Paul asked. “Will you be able to sleep now?”
“We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see.”
10
Saturday was market day in the village. While there was a big Champion supermarket nearby in Créances where one could buy packages of toilet paper large enough to fill the backseats of the generally tiny French cars, most locals and an impressive number of summer visitors preferred to stock up on meat, cheese, and produce at the Saturday market. Except for morning croissants and maybe croque monsieur at the tabac, local cafés and restaurants did not serve food on market day. When Pierre Dauvin gave us permission to see Guido, he asked us to pick up lunch not only for Guido but also for Jaqueline Cartier, who would be on duty at the gendarmerie and unable to get away.
Disturbing the Dark Page 10