The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery

by R. W. Wallace

  Catherine leaned back a fraction to get some distance between them. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Louis,” she said.

  His face fell. “No? Why not?”

  Because she had watched her ex-husband die mere hours ago and she’d feel like she was cheating on him. Because Louis was too good looking for his own good and Catherine didn’t want to go there. Because he was a politician in the making and that would be the death of her career if they got involved. Because she wasn’t sure if it was just a friendly invitation or if he wanted it to lead to something more.

  She replied with the safe reasons. “Because as a journalist, it won’t do for me to be seen too much with you. My boss might demote me back down to the celebrity column. And because of Maxime.”

  Louis studied her, probably reading the other reasons from her expression. He nodded. “Fair enough. But I will invite you out for a cup of coffee one of these days. I assume you are allowed to have friends?”

  Relieved he wasn’t offended, Catherine gladly accepted. She looked up just as the first body bag was carried out of the house and toward a waiting van.

  Forty

  “Have we employed le Midi Républicain to do our communication for us?” Louis’s mother asked when he came down for breakfast. She held up that day’s newspaper where a picture of Louis covered the bottom of the front page. The headline read, “Saint-Blancat Turns his Coat, Socialist Party Thrilled.”

  Pulling a grimace, Louis fell into his chair at the kitchen bench. He had been afraid the news of his going to a meeting with the Socialist Party would get out, but since he hadn’t seen any reporters yesterday, assumed he was in the clear. The photographer must have had quite the lens to have stayed out of sight. So now Toulouse even had paparazzi.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” his mother asked. Luckily, she didn’t seem ready to kill him, only disappointed. Her green-brown eyes looked at Louis expectantly through her red-rimmed glasses. “I am not fond of reading things I don’t already know about my children while I drink my coffee.”

  “I’m sorry, Maman,” Louis replied. He got up and leaned over to kiss his mother on the cheek. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I just wanted to go to one meeting to see what it was like. I wish I had told you about it before it made it into the papers, though.”

  “Yes, that would have been better.” She put the paper down and settled into her own chair with her cup of coffee. “Now tell me all about it.”

  “Can I have some breakfast first?”

  “No. Talk first, chocolate later.” Her voice was soft, containing no rebuke.

  Louis gave in. “I don’t care if the Republican Party is a democracy. I hardly agree with anything they do, so joining them and then never being listened to didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Not that what they’re doing is awful; it just doesn’t feel quite right.” He grabbed hold of a tassel from his scarf, twining it around his forefinger. His wonderful mother bought him a new scarf again—the third since he’d come back to Toulouse. “Mouad has been telling me about how they do things in the Socialist Party, and that rang more true with me. So I wanted to see for myself.” He pointed at the discarded newspaper. “I didn’t know someone took pictures.”

  “And why did you feel you had to keep this a secret from your family?”

  Louis threw up his arms in frustration. “You’ve all been with the Republicans since the beginning of time. I didn’t know what kind of reception I’d get.”

  His mother studied him over her cup. Louis could see a trace of disappointment at the corners of her eyes, but all in all, it wasn’t so bad. He’d been afraid she would yell at him and throw him out. Which reminded him, he had work to do today.

  “I’ll be looking to get an apartment somewhere soon,” he said. “I only need to find some sort of job to get some income, then I’ll move out of my old room and not be a bother.”

  His mother sat up straight. “You will do no such thing, young man.” She placed her empty cup on the bench and fixed Louis with her stare. “You will stay right here. You do not have a wife, or even a girlfriend as far as I know, to look after you, so you’ll need me.” Looking at the empty kitchen counter in front of Louis, she must have realized she was currently neglecting said duties. She got up and started warming up milk for Louis’s hot chocolate.

  “I’m capable of taking care of myself, Maman,” Louis said. He was happy to see the chocolate was coming, but a little disappointed in his mother’s lack of faith in his abilities to live alone. “I survived ten years in the States without any female help.”

  She shot a frown at him over her shoulder before dropping a handful of chocolate into the simmering milk. Sugar followed. “Are you going to join the PS?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your life will be nothing like the one you had on the other side of the Atlantic. There, you were just loafing around, never holding onto a job for more than six months. Now you are in politics. You will need to focus all your energy on that. I will take care of the rest.”

  Louis hung his head. “Maman, I’m not running for mayor. I’m signing up with a political party. I want to stay updated about what’s going on and perhaps have my say in some matters, not to mention participate in keeping Toulouse a good place to live. But I am not a politician.”

  A cup of steaming hot chocolate appeared in front of him. His mother gave him a half-smile.

  “But you will be,” she said. “You are a Saint-Blancat through and through. Blood will come out. And I have nothing better to do since your father passed away.” She turned to the sink to wash the few dishes that accumulated from her own breakfast. “I never cared much about the name of the political party. I care about Toulouse, as you do. I will resign from the Republican Party immediately and follow you to the Socialist Party. This should be fun.”

  Thirty-five years old. Living at home. Having his mother follow him around everywhere. Should be fun indeed. Louis hid his smile behind his cup.

  Forty-One

  Catherine stared down on Maxime’s grave. Her shirt was soaked on the shoulder from her mother-in-law’s tears. Some of the mascara stains may have been from her own tears. She didn’t even bother to clean up her face. With as little sleep as she’d been getting over the last week, she looked like a ghost who’d had the brilliant idea of putting on makeup under the eyes instead of above them. And in any case, she was too tired to care what anybody thought.

  Everybody else had left for Madame Marty’s house, but Catherine wanted some time alone with Maxime.

  “I’m so sorry to have brought you into this,” she whispered. Maxime’s name shone new and golden beneath his father’s. “You deserved so much better.”

  Marie-Pierre Ezes had been correct in one regard: it did help to talk to the dead. But standing here on a grave was just fine. No need for mummification, thank you very much.

  Catherine drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry our marriage didn’t work out, Maxime. I’m pretty sure it was mostly my fault. You deserved to find someone who loved you and was not simply infatuated. And I’m sorry I misinterpreted your offers for help. I never appreciated how noble your intentions were. Your mother told me earlier how frustrated you were about that. Guess we weren’t all that good at communicating, huh?”

  Considering communication was her job, how was that for irony? Catherine kept her promise to Louis and had not written a word on what happened in those cellars. The favor he owed her would have to be a big one because that article had cost her a promotion. Arnaud was promoted above her for his work on the Saint-Blancat murder—despite the numerous errors and idiotic extrapolations he’d made. That promotion should have been Catherine’s.

  She couldn’t stop rewriting her article in her head. It would have been brilliant and insightful, and would have earned her that promotion. There was also a good chance it would have helped her exorcise some of the demons keeping her up at night. What did she get out of that deal with Louis, anyway
? She almost got killed—twice, lost a dear friend, didn’t get the article, and didn’t land the handsome guy. All she got was loneliness and tears.

  She missed Maxime deeply now that he was gone. She’d lost her safety net. Despite all she had made him suffer, she had known she could always count on him if she needed anything.

  Perhaps she should have accepted Louis’s invitation to dinner after all.

  The police looked into how Madame Ezes had gotten her hands on Catherine’s old cellar. The decision to buy the house was made by Bernard Gallego, the deputy mayor in charge of the urban development plan. He was arrested and admitted to being part of Madame Ezes’s plans. As it turned out, his wife had terminal cancer and he was seduced by the idea of being able to visit his deceased wife while working through his grief. Catherine had no sympathy for the man himself, but her heart went out to the woman who was close to dying while her husband went to jail. And it wasn’t clear if she was aware of her husband’s plan to have her mummified in the bowels of the city.

  Catherine couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to stay on display like that. The funeral was mostly for the people left behind, and she still had no strong opinion of whether she wanted to be buried or cremated. But to have your body put away in a peaceful place and not played with like it was a puppet seemed much more proper. A person should be confident their body wouldn’t be messed with after their death.

  Catherine bent down to give a last kiss to Maxime’s grave, then turned to follow the other mourners.

  Forty-Two

  As Louis swilled back the last of his hot chocolate, Audrey barged through the front door. “Is this some kind of joke?” she asked Louis, holding up that morning’s newspaper.

  Louis sighed. “You should have come twenty minutes earlier, Audrey. I could have had this conversation only once.”

  His mother said nothing, only went to do la bise with her daughter, then took Louis’s empty cup and brought it to the sink to wash it.

  “You’re with the Socialist Party?” his sister insisted. She was standing too close, apparently smarting for a fight.

  “Yes.”

  “How could you do this to me?” Audrey slammed the newspaper down on the kitchen island. It now held two, neither of which had been read beyond the front page.

  “To you?” Louis sat up straight in his chair, but didn’t go so far as to stand up. He didn’t want to tower over his sister and give the impression he was threatening her.

  “This undermines my campaign so much there might not be a point in even trying.”

  Louis looked to his mother for support, but she was busy washing his cup. “If you hinged your entire campaign on me,” he reasoned with his sister, “it’s not really your campaign, is it?”

  Audrey’s brown eyes narrowed at him and she flexed her jaw. “Of course it’s my campaign. I’ve been working for this for years. But people will recognize Papa in you, so I need you to back me up.”

  “You’re not going to get it,” Louis replied. “You’ll have to manage on your own. Which I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with.” She had, after all, been active in the Republican Party for at least fifteen years already. She had lots of responsibilities and was a serious candidate to be at least a deputy mayor if the Republicans won again at the next election.

  Audrey jabbed a finger into his shoulder. “You’re a disgrace to this family. If you want to fight me, so be it. But I’ll beat you just like I did when we were kids.”

  Bristling at the insult, Louis shoved her hand away. “I’m a head taller than you now and probably twice your weight. You don’t want to fight me now.”

  Audrey gave a dry laugh. “I’m not going to physically fight you, idiot. We’re not kids anymore, unless you hadn’t noticed. We’ll fight for Toulouse. And like always, I’m years ahead of you in this game. You don’t stand a chance.”

  Louis stood up and walked to lean against the windowsill for some distance from his sister. “I’m not running for mayor, Audrey. I signed up with the Socialist Party. We’re not exactly enemies.”

  Audrey shook her head at him. “You really are still a child.” She leaned over and gave their mother a kiss on the cheek, then walked toward the door. “We’re on opposite teams now. And I’ll beat you. Like I always do.”

  As she left the house, Louis’s mother set the cup to dry. That thing must be clean enough to be considered sterile by now.

  “You could have helped, you know,” Louis said to her.

  She waved away the accusation. “It would have made no difference. You’ll need to fight your own battles. I’ll be here in the background when you need me.”

  Louis stared out the window at their garden patch dappled with sun shining through the browning leaves of the plane trees lining the street.

  He apparently signed up to go to war, but was surprised to discover he looked forward to it.

  Thank You!

  Thank you for reading The Red Brick Cellars! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it. If you enjoyed the story, please leave a review—you would make my day.

  I’ve created some extras for you 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 story 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. You can have a glass of diabolo menthe or tortellini with blue cheese sauce, just like Louis and Catherine.

  The newsletter signup will of course also ensure you’re informed of any upcoming books and free stories.

  Would you like to know how Louis came by his scarf? I’m currently working on a novella which covers both the acquisition of the scarf and his very first involuntary apparition in the local newspaper. 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!

  About the Author

  R.W. Wallace grew up in Norway, but has lived almost half her life in Toulouse in South-Western France. Since books were always more enjoyable in English, that is the language she chose for writing. Fascinated with Toulouse and its history, it became the natural setting and inspiration for her stories.

  She divides her time between a busy city life in Toulouse and a laidback country setting at the foot of the Pyrenees with her better half and two miniature versions of herself.

  The Red Brick Cellars is her first novel.

  You can connect with R.W. Wallace on

  - Twitter: @rwwallaceauthor,

  - Facebook: www.facebook.com/rwwallaceauthor

  - Email: rwwallaceauthor@gmail.com.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Diego, Pål, Heidi, Lena, and Cédric for reading the early versions of this story. A special thanks to Stéphanie who surprised me by reading the whole thing in record time, finding plot holes and coming up with brilliant ideas despite it being written in English.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-S
ix

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Thank You!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments