Love & Death in Burgundy

by Susan C. Shea

  “Where did you find this?” she asked instead. “Have you shown it to the police?” She hoped not. If she could figure out who had written it, so could they, and Jeannette would find herself in a heap of trouble. She had probably been hanging around here all week, looking for a way to create some mischief.

  “It was under a stone outside the door early this morning when I went out to look at the garden, which is in desperate need of work. I cannot think where the gardeners are. Do they think because Albert is dead that the bushes have stopped growing?”

  Good, thought Katherine with an internal smile, Adele was recovering. She was glad. The shock of her husband’s death and her relative isolation here might have crushed her elderly neighbor. It was good to hear at least a portion of her normal personality reemerging.

  “I am reluctant to show it to anyone until I know who the American it speaks of is. I wanted to check with you first.” Adele spread soft cheese on a cracker while giving Katherine a bright glance. The ammonia vapor from the cheese’s rind caught in Katherine’s throat and Adele’s implied meaning had a similar effect.

  “I can’t imagine why you think I would know. There are only me, Michael, and Penny in Reigny. You can’t think one of us snuck into your house.”

  “I hardly know what to think. I do not know if it is serious, or who wrote it. But it bothers me, as you must understand.”

  “Adele, you’ve been too wrapped up in the personal nature of this tragedy to be aware of it, but there are as many rumors flying around Reigny as there are residents. Believe me, you don’t want to hear them. But the theme, with a few imaginative exceptions, is that it couldn’t be someone who lives here who disturbed Albert. It must be an outsider. That leaves almost everyone in Burgundy, France, Europe and—yes—us few Americans too. I wouldn’t pay much attention to this, really I wouldn’t.”

  Adele gave a distinctively Gallic shrug, turning her palms up and spreading long, bony fingers, and let the subject go as she allowed the paper to drift out of her hands and back onto the table. However, her good-byes were cool and there was no talk of a next visit when Katherine took her leave.

  Katherine wasn’t interested in a leisurely farewell chat either. She was appalled that Adele could entertain the notion that she was somehow implicated merely because she was American. She was determined to find the girl and give her a severe scolding. The note had succeeded in creating distance between Katherine and Adele, which left Katherine with exactly no one in Reigny-sur-Canne she could count as a friendly acquaintance.

  * * *

  Sure enough, the teenager appeared out of nowhere as she left the Bellegardes’ driveway. Jeannette searched Katherine’s face uncertainly as she came up to her. With more shyness than she usually demonstrated, Jeannette entwined her arm with Katherine’s. But Katherine shook her off and said, “Jeannette, you have some explaining to do. Walk back to the house with me,” and didn’t respond to the girl’s attempts to make her smile as they walked.

  “Now,” Katherine said, shutting the garden gate behind them with a bang and pointing Jeannette to a wicker chair, “why did you worry Mme Bellegarde with that note, and why did you pretend you saw one of us at their house the night Albert fell?”

  Jeannette looked up at Katherine from under her eyebrows but said nothing. She chewed her lip and rubbed the little metal thing she’d been carrying around lately.

  “Don’t pretend it wasn’t you who wrote that note. You’ve created an embarrassment for me and Michael, not to mention our friend Penny. Tu comprends? What were you trying to do? Answer me, child.”

  “No,” Jeannette said, startled. “I didn’t mean you. I saw a car—” She stopped abruptly, a look Katherine couldn’t define sweeping over her face for a second before it was replaced with one of shame. “Desolée. I only wanted to help, and I could never talk to a flic. Papa would kill me.”

  “Talk to a policeman about what? What car? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But even as she said it, Katherine remembered the girl skipping out of the wild growth next to the Bellegardes’ driveway the morning after the tragedy. “You saw something? It certainly wasn’t Michael or me. What is it you thought you saw?”

  “I know what I saw,” Jeannette said in a sulky voice. “It was Brett’s papa’s car. I saw it, but I don’t want Brett to know, you understand?”

  “For heaven’s sake, he had business there. He told the gendarmes. He called on M. Albert long before anything happened.”

  “No,” said Jeannette stubbornly. “I saw him late in the night. He was there. Then, later, I found something outside.”

  “Found what?”

  “Nothing,” the girl said.

  “Nonsense. Either you did or you didn’t.”

  “Rien, nothing. Never mind,” Jeannette said, her voice rising. “I wanted to tell Brett his papa was there, but I was afraid. He will be angry at me if I say what I saw to the flics.” She looked up at Katherine, worry furrowing her brow.

  “I don’t believe it. This is one of your pranks, a way to stir up trouble,” Katherine said. “You probably think it’s funny. Really, you let your imagination get the best of you.”

  Katherine was angry, angry at Jeannette’s fibbing, but also at Adele’s chilly behavior, Mme Pomfort’s snobbery, and most of all at Michael for saying so many hurtful things last night and for leaving then and again this morning without a chance to talk it out.

  Jeannette started to protest, but Katherine cut her off. “Enough. I don’t want to hear any more excuses for your behavior. Honestly, you’re no better than—” She stopped abruptly. Instantly she wished she could take back what she had been about to say about Jean. It was cruel and unfair. “You will go to Mme Bellegarde’s and apologize for upsetting her, and when she tells me you have, we will talk again.”

  Jeannette jumped up, knocking the chair over. “Merde,” she yelled, “you have no right to tell me what to do. You’re not my mother. You’re like the rest.” A small sob escaped her. “You do whatever that old witch Pomfort says. You’re afraid of her, like the others.” And she ran down the steps and out the gate, bawling as she went.

  “Now I’ve done it,” Katherine muttered. “But the girl turns everything into high drama.” Not unlike me at her age, she thought. Maybe that’s why I have a soft spot for her. Katherine didn’t believe the girl’s fantastic tale for a minute. J.B. was a respectable businessman who was going to make Michael a star—well perhaps not a star, but finally a respected singer-songwriter with royalty checks coming in. They needed J.B., and it was ridiculous to think he could be involved in Albert’s death. Maybe Brett had rejected Jeannette’s romantic overtures and this was her attempt at payback.

  Groaning at the messiness of people’s emotional lives, she opened the door so the dogs, who had been whining ever since they heard her voice, could burst out, looking around them to see who else was occupying their leafy yard. The big black dog looked up at her through shaggy bangs as if to ask what was going on. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she said out loud. “Rejection as usual.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Of course, Michael came back. He wasn’t a schoolboy running away from home. He drove up in the early afternoon, mumbling something about a tiring rehearsal. At first, they were wary of each other, talking about the need for a trip to the butcher’s for more beef bones for the dogs, and getting Emile to mow the grass, and if either had checked the mailbox at the far end of the driveway. When Katherine couldn’t stand it anymore, she filled his coffee cup and gestured him to his customary chair before pushing the yellow cat off her beloved chaise. “Let’s not fight, Michael. I’m no good at it. I’m sorry for anything I said that upset you. You do whatever you want and I’ll support it.” She took a deep breath, then held it to see how he’d respond, if at all.

  He looked down at his cup for a moment. She didn’t expect a real apology. That was beyond his stubborn self. So, she was surprised almost into tears when he said, “You’re the wisest per
son in the world, Kay, and I’m a fool not to listen when you tell me what to do. I told Betty Lou and J.B. this morning that I’m in. All the way. We’ll do this tour even if it means standing on street corners playing for quarters. Which I sure as hell hope it won’t,” he added, looking up with a tentative grin.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Love you too,” Michael said as he grabbed his guitar from the stand and picked out a chord. “Always have, always will.”

  Katherine was speechless. Other than when he proposed and on their wedding day, she wasn’t sure he’d told her that outright. She knew he would lie down in the road and get run over for her, but an old rocker cowboy didn’t talk about love. She tucked it into her heart to replay at the times that would surely come when he was grouchy or distracted. It was enough.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent talking about the investment. He didn’t like it, but Michael admitted he saw the point in having Katherine skip the traveling. He was worried about the money, but J.B. had assured him they could do it for less than a twenty-thousand-dollar share, and that J.B. himself would put up more than that, so they’d have a kitty going into the booking period. They ought to see some early profits from sales of the CD even before the tour was complete, thanks to the social media consultant J.B. worked with and the favorable contract he was ready to sign. Betty Lou had agreed to postpone taking her share of the CD profits until Michael had recovered half of his investment. It all sounded good, and Michael was more enthusiastic by the hour. He said J.B. was already submitting the paperwork to protect the new songs Michael and Betty Lou had written. The best thing, Michael said, now smiling broadly at Katherine, was that J.B. was serving as Michael’s manager without charging him a percentage, at least not in the first year.

  “It’s a win-win,” he explained. “J.B.’s been looking for a new talent, Betty Lou for a fresh take on her repertoire, and I’ve been sitting on my ass waiting for something to come to me.”

  Katherine was happy to see Michael so energized, relieved that their horrible falling-out was repaired. She puttered in the kitchen and the garden as Michael expanded on the partnership with the Hollidays, his doubts gone and his faith in the venture expanding. But Jeannette’s story, as far-fetched as it was, kept replaying in her head. “It was Brett’s papa’s car. He was there.”

  It made no sense. J.B. had no reason to sneak around the château late at night. He’d been shocked to hear about Albert’s fall the next morning, and had been quick to volunteer the information about his business with the old man. If the police had found even a shred of evidence linking him to Albert’s death, they would have pounced on it, given that the alternatives were Nazi assassins, tourists, or Gypsies, most of the latter having been chased out of the country recently by politicians.

  She was about to suggest they treat themselves to an early dinner at the simple auberge they passed each time they drove the back road to Vézelay, when the familiar sound of the Hollidays’ big SUV, followed by slamming doors, alerted them that the new business partners had arrived.

  “Mike, Kathy, we come bearing gifts.” Two hearty laughs preceded them and then the Hollidays were opening the back door and wedging themselves into the little kitchen, their arms filled. “Foie gras, bubbly, and some of the smelliest damn cheese these Frenchies can make.” J.B.’s voice filled up the house and sent the dogs dodging past them into the garden. “We’re goin’ to celebrate the right way, partners.”

  When she glanced at the dogs, she noticed Brett for the first time, hanging around the door, picking at a finger, a sullen look on his face. It was the same look he always wore, and she wondered, not for the first time, if it was a special burden to be the son of such dominating personalities. For their part, the parents ignored him as they descended on Michael and Katherine. Their good cheer and the volume of their enthusiasm left no room for other conversation until glasses had been procured, plates set out on the patio, and the feast arranged on a small table pulled out from the living room.

  Katherine turned again to Brett, slumped deeply in the wicker chair his father had reshaped with his bulk. Katherine thought he looked worried about something under that attempt at a stone face. Darting back and forth from the house to set up the impromptu meal, she rummaged in the refrigerator for a soft drink, Michael’s weakness on hot days. She opened the kitchen door and called out, “Thirsty? Hungry? There’s plenty of food.”

  Brett looked up and opened his mouth, but his father beat him to it. “Hell, he’s always hungry, aren’t you, boy? Now, you take that soda,” he called, not moving from the table, “and do what I asked, you hear?”

  Brett’s face flushed but he didn’t say a word other than a mumbled thanks to Katherine as he grabbed the bottle and slunk off down the steps and out the gate.

  “I hope you weren’t sending him on a shopping errand to the café. Their supply of groceries and hardware is pitifully thin,” Katherine said as she came back to the table. “I once needed some milk and they didn’t even have that. Not ’til the next day’s delivery.”

  “I sure do miss the Winn-Dixie,” Betty Lou said, sighing dramatically. “And the prices. Lord help me, who would pay what they charge for a simple bag of grapes?”

  The conversation drifted on like this while Katherine reveled in foie gras on chewy bits of baguette and inhaled the Crémant’s bubbles, which tickled the roof of her mouth. Maybe when the album won a Grammy Award, she would buy real Champagne again and life would be more like this and less about cassoulets and leftover veal stew. Maybe they could get screens for the windows and have the slates on the studio roof replaced so her canvases didn’t get damp in the rain.

  She was drifting off into a happy vision of a future garden with proper retaining walls when J.B.’s voice brought her back to the present. “That little brat is sneaking around somewhere, you can count on it.”

  “Who?” she said, catching some real venom in his tone. “Brett?”

  “Brett’s bad enough, but it’s that little—pardon me, Kay—cock tease, the one with the frizzy hair, I want to catch up with.”

  Katherine’s hand froze on the way to the cheese plate. “Do you mean Jeannette?”

  “Yes, I do. I assume that’s her name.”

  “What’s she done?” Katherine asked after clearing her throat and washing down a moment of anxiety with some wine.

  “Someone plastered my car with eggs last week when I drove through town, and I know it was her. She’s been tryin’ to get Brett’s attention for weeks now, but this is the last straw.”

  “Now, J.B., don’t get so upset. You don’t know it was her, and she’s company for Brett. He has nothing to do around here.” Betty Lou’s soothing voice did nothing to calm her husband. “She loves riding over for lunch when she has a bike at her disposal. I think she’s practicing her English on Brett.”

  “She’s practicing something, all right. I just want a few words with her, that’s all. She needs to stop pestering us. As far as I’m concerned, we can’t get out of this place soon enough. Finding a house with a recording studio was great, but we’re going to have to get back to the States to get this CD done, right, Mike?”

  “Not until I swan around on the Riviera first,” said Betty Lou with a warning chuckle. “I swore I wouldn’t do another damn CD unless I got my week on the gold-plated Riviera, and I mean to do it. Heading right to the casinos in Monte,” she said, winking at Katherine. “You ought to come with us.”

  To Katherine’s ears, this was an alarming statement. With whose money did Betty Lou plan to gamble? She glanced at Michael, but he appeared not to be taking any special message from it. She also wondered about the “another damned CD” comment. This was hardly that. It was everything to Michael, and to her. The bread tasted dry in her mouth, and she found she had no more appetite.

  “J.B.,” she said, looking into her glass, “aren’t you looking to build a studio in the States? I kind of remember that’s why you were talking with Albert.”r />
  “Hell, I’ll talk to anybody, Kay. Mike knows that.” He guffawed and reached out with his knife to touch Michael on the hand. “You knew the guy was loaded, right? Saw his name on one of those lists of the richest people. It sure was a surprise to find out he lived right here.”

  “You knew that before we booked the house,” Betty Lou said. “Don’t you remember, you showed me on a map—”

  “That’s backward, darlin’. Coincidence, but could have been big for us. What do you know about the widow?” he said, leaning toward Katherine. “I mean, assuming she inherits, do you think she’s much of an investor? Maybe I should call on her. Old Albert was ready to sign up, make some money with us. Damn shame if some Gypsy thief got to him first.”

  Katherine shook her head as she looked at J.B., keeping her expression bland. His mouth smiled but his eyes were digging into her, probing for something. Did he think she doubted his business acumen? Was he worried that she had cold feet about his contract with Michael? He surely didn’t know about Jeannette’s note or her accusation. She wanted—no, needed—to have confidence in this man who was about to take a big part of their savings, and whose promises to Michael had raised his hopes and exposed him to more potential hurt than anything in the years since his break with Eric and the Leopards.

  “I wouldn’t know. Adele and I are merely neighbors.”

  “But she called you when she found the body, right?”

  “After she called the sheriff and her daughter.”

  “What about the daughter? She interested in music? I’ll bet she thinks Mike’s pretty cool.” He winked at her, a habit that had begun to grate on Katherine. Who winks at people, anyway, and what is it supposed to mean?