The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery

by R. W. Wallace

  The Red Brick Cellars

  By R.W. Wallace

  Copyright © 2015 by R.W. Wallace

  For more about this author please visit rwwallace.com

  All characters and events in this eBook, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  rwwallace.com

  Ordering Information: Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  Book cover designed by Deranged Doctor Design

  Editing by Debra L Hartmann with The Pro Book Editor

  ISBN: [979-10-95707-01-1]

  1. Main category—Fiction

  2. Other category—Thriller

  First Edition

  That Little Extra Something

  I’ve created some extras to go with the story on my website. If you visit rwwallace.com and sign up for my newsletter, you’ll get access to:

  · A map with pins for all the real locations in Toulouse where The Red Brick Cellars takes place. I’ve added pictures and comments and it will allow you to take a virtual stroll around la Ville Rose.

  · A few recipes used in the story

  Enjoy!

  A prequel to The Red Brick Cellars is in the works. I’ll be giving it away for free to my newsletter subscribers, so make sure you sign up (in the sidebar and the footer at rwwallace.com) to get the story directly in your mailbox when it’s done!

  “On rencontre sa destinée souvent par les chemins qu’on prend pour l’éviter.”

  “A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.”

  – Jean de La Fontaine

  One

  The moment Louis set foot in that corridor he would be back in the spotlight. He would be “the mayor’s son,” expected to mirror his father’s opinions and back up whatever policies had recently been passed. He’d no longer be an engineer flitting from one contract and city to the next without a worry in the world; he’d be heir to the Saint-Blancat legacy. He’d be dragged back into politics. Which was why he was standing among tables of food instead of going in to view his father’s casket.

  The caterers had prepared a feast: everything from shrimp and salmon toasts to sandwiches with duck liver, foie gras, and onion jam. On Louis’s right, three tables full of sweets and desserts were refilled by waiters every fifteen minutes. People hadn’t come here to eat, but would take a sweet on the way out.

  A steady stream of mourners and well-wishers moved up the grand staircase and filed down the hallway to the Salle des Illustres where the casket was displayed.

  Louis had been standing there for two hours, working up the courage to go through that procession.

  The line of reporters and photographers in the hallway wasn’t helping. They weren’t allowed inside with the casket, but it was impossible to get in there without passing them. When new mayor Jean-Paul Bousquets arrived half an hour earlier, the cameras had gone off at full speed for a good ten minutes.

  How would they treat the deceased mayor’s son?

  And what would it be like to actually see his father’s casket?

  Louis still suffered jet-lag from the trip across the Atlantic and felt out of place being back in France after so long in the United States. He hadn’t talked much with his mother yet, having arrived late the night before. She had been busy organizing the public wake and the funeral, and was in there right now standing vigil for her husband.

  The line of people halted for a moment—someone notable must have stopped to talk to the journalists. A woman stood looking around the room from one step inside the Salle Gervais. Her loose-knit green dress allowed the black t-shirt and leggings underneath to show through. With a wide white belt at the waist, she looked like a cheap synthetic soccer field; an unnaturally bright green with a chalk-white stripe in the middle. Her purple boots were folded down over open laces and long, curly blond hair fell down across a black leather jacket. She must have been melting in that thing; it was supposed to reach 32°C that afternoon.

  As the line started moving again, the woman closed her eyes and swayed slightly. When her eyes opened, they turned in Louis’s direction. Or rather, in the direction of the food. Taking a deep breath, she eyed the line going into the Salle des Illustres, then her gaze returned to the food.

  Once she made her decision, she was systematic and efficient. She made a beeline for the starters and popped three toasts into her mouth while filling a small plate with a variety of delicacies. She grabbed a glass of orange juice and sipped between bites.

  Louis smiled. He always enjoyed watching people with a good appetite who took an obvious pleasure in food. Not that this woman looked like she spent all her time eating. She had curves only in the right places.

  While she ate what qualified as the main course at this banquet, the strange woman eyed the paintings on the wall behind Louis. Between bites, she found the time to glower at them.

  When she passed in front of Louis to attack the desserts, he said, “Bonjour, Madame.” He brought his hand up to touch his scarf, but of course it wasn’t there since he couldn’t wear a scarf with a suit.

  She frowned at him too—he was apparently no better than Rachou’s paintings—but replied, “Bonjour.” Picking up the last piece from a dessert platter, she mumbled, “Mmm, pain au chocolat.”

  Her English accent was strong, apparent even in those three short words. Come to think of it, her being English would explain the strange clothes. Louis enjoyed the distraction she offered and decided to try making it last a little longer.

  “Actually,” he said, “since we’re in Toulouse, that should be chocolatines.” The Toulousains had their own word for the classic French treat.

  Without turning her head from the food, the woman looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. They were a clear gray-blue and could have been, under other circumstances, very beautiful. But right now, Louis received only ice-cold arrogance. “What’s it to you?” they said.

  Louis shrugged and suppressed a smile. “You don’t approve of the paintings?”

  Again, she glanced at him, though continuing to devour pastries from a newly arrived serving tray. After ten years in the States, Louis hadn’t lost his accent. It was such an asset for breaking the ice at parties or picking up girls. However, it didn’t seem to have much effect on this woman. Of course, if she lived in France, the accent wouldn’t be a novelty for her.

  The woman wrinkled her nose. “They’re a little too…romantic for my tastes.”

  Louis smiled for the first time in three days. “Well.” He bent down as if to tell her a secret. “This is where the weddings used to be performed.” He waved a hand toward the three paintings behind him, gloriously illuminated on such a sunny day. “In his paintings, Rachou has depicted love at twenty, forty, and sixty. Eternal love and all that.”

  The woman finished off her glass of orange juice whi
le she eyed the paintings, then shook her head. “That girl”—she pointed to the Love at Twenty painting—“is clinging half-naked to an idiot going off to war. If she loved him, she would let him do what he needs to do and stop whining. If he loved her, he wouldn’t be going off in the first place.” Those ice-blue eyes darted to meet Louis’s gaze, daring him to challenge her assessment. “That woman”—she pointed at the forty-year-old—“is sitting at home doing nothing while I assume her husband is off fighting a war. We’re not getting better. And that one—”

  How was she going to insult the sixty-year-old?

  “—the husband is finally back from war, but this time she’s fully dressed and doesn’t really look like she cares whether he’s there or not. He looks like a statue.”

  A barrage of flashes going off in the hallway reminded Louis of why he was there, and his smile dropped away. “Well,” he said to his English companion, “perhaps we should go into the Salle des Illustres so you can tell me if that is at least more adequate for wedding ceremonies?” And if he could go past the journalists with this strange creature at his side, perhaps she could divert some of their attention.

  She eyed the queue inching past and nodded. She set her empty glass on a table and rubbed her hands down each side of her skirt to dry them. “You’re allowed to move around?”

  “What?” Why should I be restricted to stay here with the food?

  She frowned. “You’re not security?”

  A bark of laughter escaped Louis. A few people in the queue looked their way, but nobody seemed to recognize him. Laughing out loud at his father’s wake might not be quite the thing to do. Though his father would most likely have approved. He had requested in his will that they hold a party and dine at his wake.

  “You think I look like security?” He smiled at the Englishwoman. “I guess the suit I bought for graduation ten years ago doesn’t quite cut it anymore.” Louis owned several suits, of course, but they were all in storage back in the States. In his rush to get home, he hadn’t spent much time thinking about what type of clothing he’d need.

  A blush started high on her round cheeks, but she fought it down quickly as she flipped her mass of blond, curly hair back over her shoulder.

  Together they squeezed into the queue in front of an elderly lady leaning on a cane. She didn’t seem to mind them cutting into the line. As they started down the hall leading to the Salle des Illustres, Louis offered the Englishwoman his arm and an ironic smile. A sardonic smile of her own graced her full lips and she slipped her hand around his elbow. She emanated a faint scent of lavender, reminding Louis of childhood vacations in Provence.

  With only a few meters to go, a journalist recognized Louis. “Monsieur Saint-Blancat! Quand êtes-vous rentré à Toulouse?” When did you get back to Toulouse? “What do you know about the mayor’s death?” They all turned toward him and flashes went off as though they were the Beckhams at a charity match.

  Louis’s companion gave him an accusing look, but she kept her head turned away from the photographers, letting her hair cover most of her face. Good, it would give them a mystery woman to look into. Louis curtly shook his head at the journalists, and then they put the paparazzi behind them.

  The line of mourners hugged the wall all around the majestic room. The casket stood in the middle, covered in a French flag and the region’s Occitan flag. The yellow twelve-pointed cross on red background covered the lower half of his father’s casket. A brilliant ray of sunlight slanted in through one of the many tall windows making the cross almost golden.

  Before Louis could take in more of the details, a tall police officer blocked his view. Stooping down slightly to look Louis in the eye, he murmured, “Bonjour, Monsieur Saint-Blancat. Can I ask you to come with me for a moment? I have some information pertaining to your father’s death that I would like to discuss with you.”

  Two

  Catherine talked to one man at the wake, and it was the son of the deceased mayor. Nervous, she let her hair hide most of her face. How close had those photographers gotten? Would anyone from work recognize her? If she had known who the handsome man she’d taken for security was, she would never have approached the journalists while on his arm. She was here against the express orders of her boss.

  The dress she wore—her favorite—hadn’t been out of the closet since her first day in Toulouse. She’d been dressing in drab, matching clothing like everybody else in this place. Her choice of outfit was fueled by the idea that people would see the outfit and not the woman underneath. But how well would that work if her picture was in the paper tomorrow?

  Her stomach growled with appreciation. She might have eaten too much of the buffet, but after going almost twenty-four hours without a real meal, hadn’t been able to resist. It was her reason for being here today—the invitation sent out to all citizens of Toulouse advertised free food.

  She felt the man next to her tense when a police officer approached and asked if he could step aside to discuss something.

  “Can’t we do this at another time?” His strong jaw was set and thick black eyebrows drew together above deep-set dark eyes. He had what Catherine liked to call a French nose: a little above average in size and slightly hooked. She had always felt a strong nose reflected a strong personality. His hair was short, dark brown, and fashionably ruffled. On top, it was long enough to show the beginnings of a curl or two.

  What was his name again? He was less talked about than his sister since he had lived abroad for the last decade. However, he had ended up in the newspapers regularly while he was a student in Toulouse, and the mayor mentioned him from time to time. It was the name of a French king, but which one? Henry? François? No, Louis. Louis Saint-Blancat.

  The police officer shook his head with a sad mien. “I’m quite sorry to impose on you now, Monsieur Saint-Blancat. We have not been able to reach you since you arrived in Toulouse yesterday, and we have some important subjects to discuss.” The man was working way too hard at looking understanding and apologetic. He probably learned it in a class. Catherine pitied the people who drew this clown to give them bad news. Which might be what was happening here—though the old mayor was already dead, so how much worse could it get?—if the man ever got to the point.

  Louis squared off against the police officer, clearly ignoring the fact that the other man was about a head taller. “I’m here to pay my respects to my father, Monsieur. If you wish, we can talk after the funeral.” He took a step to the right to resume a place in the queue, and Catherine moved to follow.

  The police officer placed his hand on Louis’s shoulder, holding him back. “I really am sorry, Monsieur Saint-Blancat.” Annoyance didn’t mix well with humility; he looked like he was constipated and blamed it all on the man in front of him. “We do not wish to be seen by the journalists at your house for fear it would cast suspicion on your father, Monsieur le Maire.”

  Catherine leaned a fraction closer to Louis. They wanted to keep something from the journalists? Well. If they wanted to keep information from her, she was all the more keen to hear it. She let her eyes wander to the open windows and the glorious place du Capitole outside, hoping her feigned indifference was credible.

  Neither of the men paid her any heed. Louis shrugged off the hand on his shoulder and said in hard tones, “Suspicion? What exactly are you suspecting him of? He was the victim here, surely? He is the one lying dead in that casket over there, isn’t he?” He pointed toward the covered casket at the center of the room.

  Catherine felt a slight tremble in the arm she was still holding on to. All the faces in the room were turned in their direction instead of looking at the casket. The reporters had taken notice as well, and she stepped slightly back to hide behind Louis’s profile.

  “Please do not excite yourself, Monsieur Saint-Blancat.” The tall officer grasped Louis’s shoulder again, which didn’t do a thing to calm him down. “Of course your father was the victim. But there were some”—he wobbled his free hand in th
e air—“let’s say, strange circumstances around the position in which he was found.”

  A middle-aged lady across the room pointed at Louis as she whispered something to her husband.

  Catherine wished she could take notes. Were the police really hoping to keep this kind of information from the press? She was already composing the article in her head.

  The police officer nodded toward her. “Perhaps you would like to let your friend move along?” He gave what was surely meant to be a meaningful look to Louis.

  “My friend,” Louis replied in a tone that clearly said he was nearing the end of his tether, “would like to pay her respects to Monsieur le Maire, as would I.” He grabbed hold of her hand on his arm, probably to make sure she didn’t take off in fright.

  As if that tall idiot could scare her away from this story.

  With an exasperated look at Catherine, the police officer turned back to Louis and whispered, “Your father may have been taking bribes, Monsieur. His body was set up in a scene making it very easy to interpret in this manner. Out of respect for our boss, we would like to keep that fact quiet while we investigate his murder.”

  Louis squeezed Catherine’s hand so hard it hurt, but she didn’t say anything or so much as move a muscle to make sure she wouldn’t be sent away. There had always been rumors of the extravagant and charismatic mayor taking bribes, but nothing was ever proven. Everybody liked the man. Catherine suspected no one particularly wanted to look into these accusations. What would Toulouse be like without Pierre Saint-Blancat? They were about to find out.

  “What exactly do you want from me?” Louis said through clenched teeth.

  “We only want to talk to you about your father,” the police officer said. “To see if you have any information that could help in the investigation. So far, we only have the statement of the highly unreliable witness who discovered the bodies.”

  Bodies? Plural? There really was a story here, and the police had managed to keep it from leaking to the press for two whole days.