Give Him the Ooh-la-la
A Bennett Sisters Mystery
Lise McClendon
Thalia Press
Contents
Give him the Ooh-la-la
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
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About the Author
Give him the Ooh-la-la
a Bennett Sisters Mystery
*
@2014, by Lise McClendon
Thalia Press
USA
All rights reserved
One
The vast, booming lobby at the New York Hilton near Times Square was an unlikely spot for Merle Bennett to meet her four sisters. Five days before Christmas, the twinkle lights were on overtime, wrapped around every skinny tree and lamp post, winking their hearts out. The cheer of the season had worn as thin as the skiff of snow on the sidewalks. Desperation ran rampant during the countdown to the day. Merle felt the same way: frazzled, weary, buzzing with both anticipation and dread.
What could make you this crazy? Her sisters were in town. All of them.
Merle and her sister Stasia worked in Manhattan. Merle’s job at Legal Aid kept her hopping all over, wining and dining lawyers for philanthropic reasons. Mostly a great job, she loved the challenge of pressing the right buttons to get the white-shoe firms to donate their time for pro bono cases. But the end of the year and a few extra days off couldn’t come fast enough.
For the three other sisters — all five were trained attorneys — coming into the city offered excitement and glamour. And this trip was a special one. Tonight was the engagement party for their oldest sister, Annie. She was finally, at 55, tying the knot. Her wedding would be in her fiancé’s homeland of Scotland so for many of their relatives, elderly and otherwise, tonight was the one moment they would have to size up Callum Logan and wish the couple well.
Merle paused in the marble lobby. Corporate gray reigned right, toward a series of low-slung sofas, and left, to the elegant reception desk. A smartly-dressed valet stepped forward and asked if he could help. He walked her to the house phones, hidden behind a row of twiggy sculptures decorated with more ever-loving twinkle lights.
Hand on the receiver she looked at her watch. It was nearly winter solstice. Four-thirty in the afternoon. Already dark outside, damp with a promise of snow in the air. She took a deep breath, calming herself, and picked up the phone.
It rang seven times, not that she was counting. Then: “Allo?”
A sharp intake of breath, involuntary, then a warming in her toes. “Pascal?”
“Ah, chérie.” His voice changed, warming. “You are here?”
“Downstairs,” she answered. “Should I come up?”
He chuckled and said he would be right down. Merle hung up the phone and tried to arrange herself on a hard tweed sofa. Just his voice could rattle her. Maybe that was why she was so nervous. Pascal d’Onscon, her hot summer fling in France, was now all too real in the clear, cold winter of New York. Would it be the same? Was their connection based on the golden sunlight of the Dordogne, the rivers of wine, or simply the other worldliness of a summer abroad where time seemed to stand still in the face of lavender and roses?
Was it real? Not just that; she was the practical one, rational and wise. Right? She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate. The question really was: Was this thing with Pascal something with a future?
The way he made the calendar in her mind just evaporate was an issue. Annoying to lose what she considered her best quality, that laser focus, in a flash. She needed to stay on task, at least through tonight and then Christmas. There was too much to do.
She was staring at her palms, reviewing her to-do list and life-line, when she smelled him. A mix of cigarettes, wine, lavender soap, and hair oil, it caught her, sending her back in time, making a rush of warmth suffuse her skin. She looked up. He took her hands, pulling her to her feet.
And kissed her.
She pressed into him, enjoying the charge his lips gave her. Then her mind came back. She squirmed, alarmed at this public display, so natural in France but the subject of famous photographs in New York City. But he held her tighter, breaking off to whisper in her ear: “Ah, blackbird, I’ve missed you, chérie.”
Merle felt the tension drain out of her. For a moment it was like they hadn’t spent the last five months thousands of miles apart. They were dancing in the garden and he was explaining for the first time that her name meant ‘blackbird’ in French. [Blackbird Fly] The dream that was her little village in France was right here, right now.
Then her gyroscope righted itself. The wind outside was bitter. The streets were slick with ice and taxis honked incessantly. People streamed through the revolving doors, strangers in fur coats and three piece suits, bustling, jostling, staring. She pulled back and smiled at him, smoothing his shirt front. “How was your flight?”
“I slept all the way. Upgraded to première.” He wiggled his unruly eyebrows.
“First class? Lucky you.”
Pascal wore his uniform of black t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, with a leather sport coat, also black. He hadn’t shaved for a couple days and the dark stubble burned Merle’s cheeks. They sat down and talked about their last few months, his cases, a trial, a wine scam he’d cracked for the Police Nationale. She glossed over her news, frivolous in comparison, but brought him up-to-date on Tristan, her son, who was adjusting to his new school well and had made the junior varsity basketball team.
“I’m so glad you could make it to Annie’s engagement party,” she said after an awkward pause. She glanced at him curiously, taking in his curly black hair and sharp, unreadable eyes. He met her gaze.
“But you wonder why I am here?” He scooted closer, cupping her knee above her winter boots. “Is it a problem, is that it?”
“It’s never a problem to see you, Pascal.” She squeezed his bicep and smiled. “Okay, I’m a little surprised that you went to the expense for an engagement party. But happy you did.”
He cocked his head and smirked. “I am only here because I am hoping all the Charlie’s Angels will do a briefcase-snapping routine, all sharp lawyer skirts and high heels. I would never miss a performance of the Bennett Sisters.”
She gave him a punch to the shoulder then led him to a small ballroom on the second floor where crystal chandeliers shone down on white tablecloths and a florist was setting up centerpieces of burgundy calla lilies. She excused herself to talk to the caterer then checked that the liquor had been delivered and the bar set up.
Reassured by text that her sister Stasia, the hyper-efficient one, was on her way to double-check, Merle let Pascal take her up to his room on the 14th floor where he had a bottle of champagne on ice. He opened his door, pulled her inside, and looked around for the bubbly.
“Merde, the service in this country,” he muttered.
“You didn’t order champagne, did you?”
He turned to her in mock dismay. “Madame. Do you suspect me of intentions?”
He sat on the bed and bounced like an eager schoolboy. “What can we do to pass the time? Did you bring a deck of cards?”
Two
It was six before Merle entered the ballroom, hoping she didn’t look too flushed. She saw Annie and Callum by the bar, talking to a group of six or eight, all holding wineglasses or bottles of Scottish beer. Callum’s family had an interest in a brewery in Glasgow and he had brought beer over especially for tonight. He was wearing ordinary trousers to the dismay of the Bennett sisters. No kilt tonight, that would have to wait for the wedding.
And there was youngest sister Elise and her new boyfriend, a tall, bookish looking man who had the temerity to be a lawyer. Elise was shorter than Merle, and curvier, but with the thick brown hair of most of them. Lots of strangers here. Annie had invited old friends from college and law school and Pittsburgh, where she’d lived for twenty years working as an environmental activist. Callum had invited his banker and trader friends from Wall Street.
Francie and Stasia stood by the kitchen door, keeping an eye on the servers bringing out trays of hors d’oeuvres. Two beautiful sisters, one a redhead and one with finely-calibrated highlights, they both stood with arms crossed, one knee poking right below their similar dresses, navy, low-cut, and tight. They even had their hair twisted up the same. Stasia caught Merle’s eye and smiled, giving her the thumbs up. Everything was fine.
All sisters accounted for, caterers smooth, bar flowing. Merle breathed a sigh of relief. This weather had worried her, the predicted snowstorm, the ice on the roads. But most things worried Merle Bennett who sometimes felt like she carried all their concerns on her shoulders. The middle sister, the pole in the center making sure the tent stayed aloft.
The party swirled around her. And the pole stands alone. She wasn’t needed anywhere.
Suddenly Pascal was in front of her with a glass of champagne, making her mood lift. He had come all the way from southwest France to see her, lovely man. The touch of him brought back their romp in his room and she flushed again. They clinked glasses and sipped the inexpensive bubbly. Pascal winced, glancing at his flute.
“Sorry. Couldn’t afford the French stuff,” Merle said. “Have you seen Tristan?”
“Yes, somewhere with that unruly cousin Oliver.”
They walked into the crowd and the social miasma sucked them in. At ten Merle was exhausted from making introductions. She grabbed Annie and Callum and Pascal and told the others ‘good night,’ that they were going downstairs to get a real meal.
Off the lobby the hotel cafe had just closed. “Seriously?” Annie frowned. “Don’t they know about after-theater diners?”
“I know a place around the corner,” Merle said. They found their coats and went out into the night with the wind slicing through them. The little below-grade bistro was French. It had helped Merle with her longing for the Dordogne this fall, with its steak frites and coq au vin. It was warm, candlelit, a little shabby, and half full. They took a table with a red and white tablecloth near the back.
Pascal ordered for them in rapid-fire French to the proprietress, a plump madame of the home country. Annie was holding Callum’s hand under the table, smiling a silly smile. She had piled her thick hair onto her head tonight, letting the wisps tickle her neck. She’d dyed it back to its rich brown color after years of letting it gray, no doubt because of Callum. She looked young and crazy happy. Her teal dress was flattering. With the colorful scarf around her shoulders the look was uncharacteristically classic for Bohemian Annie.
Callum was almost fifteen years younger than she was, just forty. He was dark-haired like Pascal but not as tall, with striking blue eyes and a sensual mouth. He appeared to adore the oldest Bennett sister, whispering and touching Annie, ignoring Merle and Pascal completely. He was adorable, Merle thought, hoping he wasn’t too young. Annie was her favorite sister, brave, honest, and everything good. She’d never married in all her fifty-five years. Until now. If Callum hurt her Merle thought she might have to kill him.
“How are the wedding plans coming?” Merle said, interrupting their tete-a-tete. “Did you find a venue yet?”
“Aye, my mother has been on a tear,” Callum said, sitting back and smiling.
“We got this resort. A water resort?” Annie said.
“A hydro, we call them. Where the Victorians took the healing waters. Just an ordinary resort now except for the ancient pile of a building that looks like a mental hospital on steroids.”
“The family should fit right in,” Merle said. “So the date is set?” She was a planner. She needed the facts so she could make airline reservations and everything else.
“May seventeenth. Callum says May is the best month in the Highlands.”
“Nothing but the best for my lassie,” Callum said, winking at her.
Dear god, Merle thought. Lovebirds. She glanced at Pascal whose lip twitched in preparation for a smile. She patted his knee under the table to remind him to restrain himself. Instead he grabbed her hand and pulled it up his leg, under the napkin in his lap. Merle straightened, batting her eyelashes in mock horror. Their early evening romp had been rushed and clearly not enough after the long absence.
As if reading her thoughts Annie asked, “How long will you be in New York, Pascal?”
“Through Christmas,” he said. He hadn’t told Merle exactly when he was leaving and now the idea that he hadn’t actually booked his return flight popped into her head.
She was frowning slightly, trying to figure that out when Annie said, “Some police business here? Top secret stuff?”
He shook his head, saying he was here for her fabulous party and a visit with Merle and Tristan. The sisters’ eyes met. There was more to it. Did it involve her, Merle wondered. Was it some ultimatum? That didn’t seem like Pascal. Business then. It really didn’t matter, did it? He was here, in the flesh. And what gorgeous flesh it was. She’d missed him this fall as she set her mind to raising Legal Aid money.
As they emerged on the sidewalk after dinner Pascal stopped abruptly. “I forgot. My brother told me to look up a friend of his.” He glanced up at Merle and Annie while Callum straightened his scarf for the fourth time. “Do you mind?”
“Where does he live?” Merle asked.
“I don’t know. But he works at this club.” He squinted at his phone. “The Black Dog. Do you know it?”
No one had heard of it which really wasn’t that unusual as they all lived somewhere besides Manhattan. Annie claimed she wanted an adventure but she’d have to change her clothes. They walked back in the cold night wind, glad to feel the warmth of the lobby on their cheeks again. Annie and Callum took the elevator upstairs.
“Is it fancy or hip or what?” Merle asked. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a club. What did people wear?
He shrugged, gallic-style. “No idea.”
She looked at her plain black knit dress and tall boots. It was the sort of outfit that fit in everywhere. Which was good since she didn’t own anything fancy or hip.
“You look lovely,” he said, pulling her toward him. “Always.”
Annie and Callum came back in jeans and warm jackets. In a moment they were all piled into a cab with Pascal in the front with the driver. The turbaned cabbie frowned but Pascal just showed him the address on his phone and off they went, south through the night and the lights of Broadway to find the Black Dog.
Three
“Did you see that get-up on Aunt Amanda?” Annie asked as they sat in traffic. “And who is that man she brought?”
Aunt Amanda had raised Harry after his parents died. Seventy-five or eighty and nothing if not flamboyant, she wore a fire-engine red dress cut deep into her décolletage.
“She clung to me like glue for half an hour,” Merle said. “I couldn’t miss it. And that’s not just some man, she married him. His name is Clifton. He’s from Florida or somewhere.” Pascal had turned to listen to the conversation and smiled at her. “It was very kind of you to invite her, An
nie.” Amanda was the sort of bigger-than-life blowhard that Annie disliked.
“Do you think she could get me a discount at Macy’s? I have to buy new clothes for Scotland.” Annie peered at Merle, apparently serious.
“Very funny,” Merle said. A former dress-buyer Amanda had retired from the department store and traveled the world before meeting Clifton. “She hasn’t worked there in decades.”
Annie recited a long list of necessities her future motherin-law had sent, from riding attire and hiking boots to teatime clothes and evening dresses. It had made her turn pale, all those clothes. Callum laughed and told her to ignore his mother. The cab lurched forward, inching in the post-theater mess. It began to rain and the driver turned on the wipers.
Finally they reached the address and looked around as Pascal paid the driver. Merle had a sinking feeling. The street was dark and deserted. The cabbie must have taken them to the wrong place. There was no sign of any kind on this block, just row houses. They were in the Village somewhere. She pulled her coat tighter and turned up her collar against the cold. At least the rain had stopped.
Pascal checked his phone again and began walking down the sidewalk, peering at numbers. Finally he stopped.
“Here it is.” He climbed up the steps to a rundown gray townhouse with several boarded windows, paused, then ran back down. “Downstairs. Here we go.”
The stairwell was dimly lit and smelled like piss. “There’s usually some kind of sign,” Merle said warily.
“Oh no,” Callum said, putting his arm around Annie. “The best places have no sign at all.”
Pascal knocked hard on the door after trying the handle. Merle found a doorbell and pushed it. They heard a blast of music from inside then footsteps. The door opened a crack. The face of a middle-aged man with a big mustache came into view.
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