The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery

by R. W. Wallace

  Maxime didn’t say anything, only watched her eat. Catherine took her time enjoying her tea and cake, but when the last crumb was gone, she glared at Max. “Are you going to put the house up for sale or do I have to take care of it?”

  Real sadness made its way into his expression: a sign that he’d started to take her seriously. “Fine,” he said while he turned his empty cup on its saucer. “I’ll put it up for sale. But you let me know if you change your mind, all right? It’s going to take awhile.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said with a forced smile. “And don’t worry, I won’t change my mind.”

  Seven

  Glasses clinked as Louis sat the meter of pastis down on the table. The “meter” was a meter-long plastic holder with ten glasses, all filled with the anise-tasting drink. Louis chose Chez Tonton, one of many popular bars on place Saint Pierre, as the setting of his plot to foil Audrey’s plans for him.

  Mouad, Louis’s best friend since they’d started playing soccer together when they were ten, looked down the long line of glasses and sighed. “Which one of these did you imagine me drinking?”

  “This one,” Louis said and went back to the bar to bring a glass of apple juice for his friend. As if he’d forget that the man was a Muslim and didn’t drink alcohol.

  “Merci,” Mouad said, raising the glass in salute.

  Louis picked up a jug of water and mixed the first glass in the line of pastis. The transparent golden liquid turned yellow and opaque; the ice-cube clinked hollowly against the glass. He brought it to his friend’s glass and drank it bottoms-up. The burning sensation of the alcohol mixed with the refreshing taste of anise and cold water in his throat. The anise also brought back strong memories of nights out with friends when he was a student. He relaxed a little as he pulled his chair up against the front wall of the bar and let himself fall into it.

  Students occupied most of the tables around them. Their neighboring table was shared between three young men in their twenties working on a meter of pastis of their own and two brunettes who couldn’t possibly be out of high school yet, giggling over something on their phones. A few cars drove below the canopy of plane trees just outside the bar, but place Saint Pierre was all about drinking tonight, as always. Raucous laughter drifted across the square from one of the other bars and two dogs barked at each other for the right to pee on a bush lining the street.

  Mouad eyed the nine full glasses and sipped his juice. “You’re getting drunk all alone tonight?” The streetlights from the center of the square reflected in his dark-brown eyes. His nose was as big as Louis’s, perched above thin lips, currently pinched together into a severe line.

  “That’s the plan.” Louis downed another glass. He set both empty glasses back in their slots. He’d have to slow down soon, but wanted to start out strong.

  Looking out at the Saint Pierre Bridge spanning the Garonne River at the other end of the square, Mouad shook his head. “You’re getting drunk on purpose? Why?” He turned to Louis, serious. “You’re not drowning your sorrows, are you?”

  “Nope. I’m drowning my ambition.” Louis drank half of a third glass. The alcohol was starting to fuzz his brain. It was time to slow down just enough to stay in control. The pastis in all the remaining glasses was turning opaque because of the melting ice. They matched the bar’s neon signs on the wall above them. “Actually,” he mused as he looked into the murky yellow liquid in his glass, “I’m drowning my sister’s ambition.”

  Mouad looked like a kid’s soccer coach getting ready to listen to a parent’s opinion on tactics for the next game. “Please. Do tell me how you getting drunk here tonight has anything to do with Audrey’s ambition.”

  The third glass went back into its slot, empty. Louis needed something to nibble. Leaning out to get eye-contact with the bald man at the bar, he signed his need for snacks. A waitress arrived with a plate of salted chips and peanuts. “Merci, Mademoiselle,” Louis said with a smile. He shoved a small handful of peanuts into his mouth before she even turned her back to greet a group of giggling girls. The bar appeared to be full, so patrons arriving at this hour drank their beers standing.

  Louis turned to his friend patiently waiting for an explanation, glass in hand. He hadn’t changed much over the years, though his hairline was on its way to the top of his head. Mouad was the type of guy who had seemed old even in his teens. Always so serious about everything. Except soccer. When they played, it was all laughter and faking injuries whenever they were tackled. How a man behaved on a soccer field said everything one needed to know about his character. Mouad was fun, talented, and big on fair play.

  Fourth glass in hand—though he didn’t drink it yet, his head was starting to feel fuzzy—Louis said, “Audrey wants me to back her up in her stupid quest to become the next mayor of Toulouse. She apparently thinks I have automatically become interested in politics because Papa died and I’m back in town for a few days.” Louis tried to think back to what his sister said exactly. “Actually, I’m not sure which one of those it was. In any case, she’s wrong, but won’t believe me when I tell her so.”

  Mouad shook his head in exasperation. “I’m not sure if you getting drunk tonight will prove to her that you don’t care about politics.”

  “Ah!” Louis pointed a finger in the air, glass still in hand. “But it will. Her press conference is tomorrow morning, and I won’t be there because I’ll be home in my bed, sleeping off my hangover. Also,” he added as he studied the people at nearby tables, “I was hoping someone would recognize me and report back to Audrey that I am more interested in pastis than in the Republican Party.” Louis had a history for winding up in the papers for the most idiotic of stunts. For once, he hoped that might work in his favor.

  The conversation from the surrounding tables buzzed agreeably in Louis’s ear. He couldn’t make out any specific words, but everything was laughter, friendship, and youth. The bars on place Saint Pierre were famed for receiving a great number of the Toulouse students any night of the week. Louis had always preferred Chez Tonton for its view of the square and its meters of pastis.

  Mouad popped a peanut into his mouth. He took his time chewing, not taking his eyes off Louis. “You’re an idiot.”

  Louis raised his glass in a mock toast. “That’s the general idea, yes.” He downed the drink. Four down, six to go. Judging by the way his world turned when he closed his eyes at this point, it might not be a great idea to finish the whole meter by himself. He sat back to take a break from the alcohol.

  “Did you hear that they’ve canceled all sorts of festivals over the last two years?” Mouad said, eyes on his drink. “It feels like Rio Loco is the only one left.”

  Louis glowered at his friend. “What do you mean canceled? Weren’t enough people showing up?”

  “Oh, they were all great hits. Especially the ones in the more difficult neighborhoods.” There was a challenge in his serious eyes. “But this city council has different priorities from the previous one, I guess.”

  Louis sat back and shook his head. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw someone taking a picture of him with a phone. Was it too much to hope that it would end up on social media somewhere? “You’re telling me my father stopped a bunch of festivals since they weren’t in line with Republican policies?”

  Mouad nodded and steepled his fingers under his chin like he always did when testing Louis’s viewpoint.

  Despite the fact that his father died less than a week ago, Louis wasn’t about to defend the way he did politics. In fact, it had been the biggest factor in his decision to work abroad. He often agreed with his father that something needed to be done on one subject or another, but they rarely agreed on the means to achieving results. Louis had, for the most part, omitted to voice that to his father. For this festival thing, he guessed the reasoning was to save the city money since they always contributed to sustaining the festivals.

  Louis put his hands up in surrender. “I won’t be defending his polici
es, even now. Those festivals were a great way to bring tourists to Toulouse and to make the population happy. Not to mention the cultural impact.” He shook his head. “It’s like canceling soccer practice to save money on renting the field—it’s not going to help you win any matches.”

  Mouad flashed two rows of bright white teeth. “I’ve missed you, Louis.”

  “Feeling’s mutual,” Louis replied, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. It felt good to be home, hanging out with friends, being allowed a minimum of physical contact without anyone jumping to conclusions, and enjoying a night out with hundreds of drunken students.

  “There’s one point where I agree with your family, though,” Mouad said, all serious again. “You really ought to get involved in politics. It’s where you belong.”

  Louis retrieved his hand, disappointed that his friend was turning on him. He grabbed the fifth glass and took a sip. The ice-cubes had almost melted. He’d have to speed up if he didn’t want to end the night drinking warm pastis.

  Mouad caught Louis’s eye. “But I don’t agree with them on how you should go about doing it. You don’t belong in the Republican Party.” He studied Louis for several seconds. “You should come with me to a meeting with the Socialist Party; you’d fit right in.” In presidential elections, there would always be one Socialist finalist and one Republican finalist, except that horrible year when Jean-Marie Le Pen from the extreme right Front National made it through the first round. Louis’s family had always been on the Republican side, going generations back.

  Louis looked up into the canopy of the plane trees and pulled on his scarf with his free hand. “You might not want to be associated with the Saint-Blancat name much longer.”

  “How so? What have you done?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Louis replied. “But the police searched our house this morning and left with a box full of papers and Papa’s laptop. They were following up on that article in le Midi Républicain.”

  “So you think they found proof of corruption?” Mouad stared at Louis, but there was no accusation in his voice.

  Louis drew a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I hope not. But I think the Saint-Blancat name will be tainted by this affair no matter how it turns out.”

  Mouad waved away the idea with the flick of a hand. “All politicians have rumors and accusations flung around on a regular basis. It’s inevitable.”

  Louis leaned forward in his chair. “But what if it’s true?”

  “Then your father’s reputation takes a hit.” He raised his glass in Louis’s direction. “But you are your own man, Louis. You don’t have to repeat your father’s mistakes. If indeed he was involved in corruption.”

  If he couldn’t even convince his best friend that he wasn’t made for politics, shouldn’t that be proof enough that he should stay clear? Nobody would ever buy a word he said.

  Two women made their way among the tables on the terrace. As they approached the door next to Louis’s chair, he recognized the blond woman taking up the rear.

  “You!” he yelled much louder than planned. Blood flowed from his brain when he jumped up and his stomach was decidedly unhappy with the sudden movement. Eyes closed to keep the dizziness at bay, he cursed that fifth glass. He should have set a slower pace. After two deep breaths, he opened his eyes and stared balefully at the Englishwoman from his father’s wake.

  The journalist.

  “Bonsoir,” she said, looking at Louis as if he were a dangerous animal out of its cage. The woman’s friend also stopped at Louis’s outburst and hovered in the doorway.

  “You took advantage of me,” Louis said. Then he winced. What a stupid thing to say. He had to figure out where his wits were hiding and get them back, straight away.

  Her hair was up in a tight braid like in her picture on that bloody article. She looked him up and down and took in the meter of pastis, Mouad with his juice, and Louis holding on to the back of his chair for support. Louis wanted to scream at her for the pity he read in her incredibly clear eyes.

  “I took advantage of the situation,” she said in her drawling English accent. “Not you.”

  “Same difference,” Louis spat. “You used the information you eavesdropped on at the wake and wrote that awful article. And you didn’t even give me a heads up.” He threw his arms in the air in frustration, but quickly put one hand back on the chair. It wouldn’t do to fall on his face in front of this vixen, even if she presented a promising contact for reporting back to his sister.

  What was her name again? The last name was Marty. Louis remembered it because he’d noted it was French—one of the most common last names in Toulouse, in fact—and reasoned she must be married to a Frenchman. Catherine, that was it.

  The woman nodded. “I would have told you I worked on the article,” she said. “But I didn’t have your number or email, and neither did anyone else at the office.” As she turned her head toward her friend, Louis noticed her pointed, elf-like ears. It was a detail he hadn’t seen the other day when her hair was down.

  Louis practically yelled, “Hah!” He dragged his wallet out of his back pocket and fished out an old receipt. “Let’s not give you that excuse in the future.” Louis looked to Mouad, who sat calmly in his chair, now halfway through his juice. “Do you have a pen?” Louis asked, leaning heavily on the table.

  Mouad shook his head, but it must have been in judgment of Louis, not in answer to his question. He opened his bag and pulled out a black ball-point pen. “You’re supposed to get her number, not the other way around.”

  “Shut up.” Louis scribbled his phone-number on the small piece of paper, then turned back to the Englishwoman and handed her his number. “Now you have it. There better not be any more inaccurate and misleading articles from you on me or my family.”

  Catherine took the number and even glanced at it before slipping it into her purse. Where it would probably swim around for a year or two before it was cleaned out and thrown away along with her morals. “Thanks,” she said. “Are we good now?” She looked to her friend, who glowered at Louis, arms crossed.

  Louis returned the scowl. He really should have let that fifth glass of pastis wait. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, but couldn’t let the Englishwoman have the last word.

  As she passed him to approach the bar, he caught a whiff of the same lavender scent she had exuded at the wake and said the first thing that came to mind. “You should wear your hair down. It suits you much better.”

  He should have kept his mouth shut. Before she could turn around completely, Louis let himself collapse into his chair. He could feel his cheeks heating. Quickly, he turned his chair so his back was to the door and the hellcat, which left him staring straight into the laughing face of his friend.

  “Oh, that was excellent,” Mouad managed between bouts of laughter. “I see you’ve forgotten everything you knew about flirting while you were in the States. What was that?” He even spilled some juice on his pants, he was laughing so hard.

  Louis adjusted his scarf and crossed his arms in annoyance. “That was not flirting.”

  “You got that right,” Mouad agreed. “But it was funny. Too bad Audrey wasn’t here to witness it.”

  ***

  After several tests of sobriety—or lack thereof—Mouad allowed Louis to walk home by himself. His friend wanted to accompany him to his door, but Louis needed to clear his head and preferred doing it alone. He gave the last four glasses of pastis to one of the neighboring tables where a group of students were catching up after two months of vacation, by the looks of it. His brain still kept going off on weird tangents, but that shouldn’t keep him from getting home in one piece.

  As he reached the short canal linking the much more impressive Canal du Midi to the Garonne River, he heard raised voices on the path in front of him. At a bend where the plane trees lining the canal rose up higher than the surrounding apartment buildings, two groups of young men argued.

  Louis had
no wish to get involved, but neither did he want to climb back up the steep bank to the road to avoid them. He put his hands in his jean’s pockets and kept most of his face buried in his black and white checkered scarf.

  “We don’t need rich snots like you telling us what to do,” a tall blond man with a severe case of acne said. He looked to be about fifteen, which probably meant he was in his twenties; all students looked younger than they were to Louis. “This city is as much ours as it is yours.” He had a short military haircut and wore a Paris Saint-Germain t-shirt with white sweatpants, which miraculously stayed up despite resting just below his butt.

  A young man from the second group, wearing a button-down shirt and pressed pants, his hair artfully disheveled, retorted, “We never go into your decrepit neighborhood. You stay out of ours!”

  Great. Louis had walked right into a social dispute. If he had to guess, he’d say the young PSG fan and his two black friends were from the Mirail neighborhood or one of the other poorer parts of Toulouse, whereas the young buck and his three equally neatly dressed friends were likely studying Financial Sciences at the Social Sciences University not two hundred meters from where they now stood. Probably kids of rich families planning on continuing the family tradition of wealth.

  “We go where we want.” One of the black giants had a low rumbling voice like distant thunder. So far there was no real threat in his voice, but his arms were crossed over his chest and he gave his opponents a dirty look. “Now get out of our way.”

  The rich boy wasn’t impressed. “How would you guys feel if we showed up on your doorstep? If we started talking to your girlfriends?”

  The black man rumbled a laugh. “Then you’d be in serious trouble. Our girls could take you pussies any day of the week.”