Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

  “D’Onscon, entrez.”

  Girard settled himself behind the large desk, folding his manicured hands on the blotter. He spoke a formal Parisian French befitting his ‘grand école’ education. Pascal preferred policemen, a more practical lot. They didn’t wear cuff-links. Girard’s sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. The little man had done well for himself in New York.

  “Have you found him?”

  Pascal shook his head. “He has gone to a great deal of trouble to separate his two lives. The wine connoisseur half of him has no online presence. He deals strictly on a person-to-person basis with his clients and they like it that way.”

  “He goes to wine auctions. You can reach him there, no? Or through one of the auction houses?”

  “I visited the auction houses. He is known to them but he rarely goes to auctions in person. He uses a proxy or buys over the phone. He hasn’t been to an auction for five years. And I believe, monsieur, he is using an alias with the auctions.”

  “This name, this —” Girard consulted the top sheet of a neat pile of papers. “Abel Clement, it is a fraud?”

  “There is no such person, monsieur. We have tried everything, all the data banks, and pffft.”

  “You can find a mobile number, non? The auction houses gave you that at least.”

  “They cite privacy but I think they are as much in the dark as we are. When they speak he calls them. We have no authority here. We cannot subpoena records.”

  Girard’s jaw clenched. “Then the… other half. He, or do we say she, is a public figure.”

  “I have hit a brick wall, as the Americans say. His friends are protective.”

  The envoy’s eyebrows bobbed. “I saw him once. Many years ago.” A tiny smile cracked the starched face.

  Pascal returned the look. “Entertaining, non?”

  Girard cleared his throat and straightened. “The family in Bourgogne is most concerned. They have the ear of many in government, d’Onscon. They are threatening to send Mateo over, the rascal, to make it all public, a formal investigation. We have no need of such a display right now. He is known for his— his extravagances.”

  And recklessness, Pascal thought. Mateo Leblond, the eldest son of the eldest cousin of the famous wine-making family, was known in the French press as Le Coquin— the Trickster. He was a fat, loud, amoral party boy who acted like the rich salaud—swine— that he was. His exploits were well-documented in the French papers. Now the family business was up in arms, pressuring the government for action. Just the prospect of them letting Mateo Leblond loose on the New York nightclub scene was enough. They must find the wine distributor, whatever his real name was, who wears a pink boa and sequin dress on weekends, before Leblond makes an idiot of himself, his family, and France on American soil.

  “And the woman, the relative? What do you discover from her?”

  Pascal stared at the soft pinkness of the envoy’s face, the scent of his aftershave cloying and sweet. He felt a sudden desire to smash his face into the blotter. He pictured the blood draining down his face and it made him feel good. “She knows nothing. It happened before her time. Before she was born, before she married into the family.”

  “But you have interrogated her?”

  He tried not to bristle. Don’t tell me how to do my job.

  “In good time, monsieur. In good time.”

  Eleven

  The two-thirty train from the City was late. The trains often were in this direction, when home was the major destination. Merle leaned back in the worn blue seat of the mini-van and was struck with rancid French fry smell that wafted from the back. Jumping out she slid open the side door and angrily gathered up McDonald’s wrappers, odd gym socks, gum wrappers, and a pizza box, stomping over to the station to deposit them all in a trash can.

  The afternoon was cold again, the light already behind dark clouds in the west. She thrust her hands into her coat pockets and walked back, checking the track for the still-missing train. She got back into the driver’s seat, her breath fogging the air. Rubbing her palms together briskly she checked her watch for the ninth time, took a deep breath, then closed her eyes.

  The meeting with the Weston Strachie’s lawyers had been enlightening, in a way. Troy Lester wasn’t sure what the French were fishing for exactly as they refused to say. But McGuinness, the old S.O.B. who considered Merle an interloper and had no memory of meeting her the year before, shook his old head ominously. “This could be quite catastrophic, my dear Mrs. Wilson,” he said to Amanda. He used her old name and she didn’t correct him, blanching visibly. “Quite, quite horrible.”

  Amanda reached out and grabbed Merle’s arm. “What?” she squeaked. “What is horrible?”

  “These French, they’re tireless,” the old man said. “They never forget a slight. They have been known to hunt down thieves and murderers to the ends of the earth.”

  “Really, now, sir,” Merle chided. “There are no thieves or murderers here. What is the point of upsetting Mrs. Wilson? Do you have facts?”

  The old lawyer wore a baggy brown suit, double-breasted, voluminous across what apparently had once been his Daddy Warbucks paunch. He walked fitfully, in jerky steps of three, then paused and launched forward again. He threw himself into the largest chair in Amanda’s living room without being asked to sit. His younger partner, Troy Lester, was an old beau of Annie’s. Now as bald on top as the old man, he at least had a respectable fringe around the edges.

  Last year Merle would have said Troy would age into a Landon McGuinness the Third, his Yale socks and rep tie faded but adequate for the stuffy, conventional law practice. But today Troy went surprisingly casual if conservative, a blue V-neck sweater over a chambray shirt with pressed khakis. No tie in evidence. He shook Merle’s hand warmly like she was an old friend. What was he up to? He smelled suspiciously like Old Spice.

  “Facts?” the old man repeated. “Who needs facts? The French see the world through their rose-colored glasses, everything is theirs or should be. They think they invented culture. Did you know that, Mrs. Wilson? They invented western culture?” He laughed a merciless laugh.

  Amanda sucked her teeth, silent. Merle looked at Troy for help. “I don’t recall signing up for a lecture. What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “Please, ladies,” Troy said, standing suddenly and pacing in front of the picture window. “Mr. McGuinness doesn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Merle frowned at them both.

  “Be afraid, as the kids say,” McGuinness said, baring his large yellow teeth in an approximation of a grin. “Be very afraid.”

  Amanda let out a sob and began to cry in earnest, wailing into her hankie. Merle stood up, disgusted. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re upsetting Mrs. Wilson, for your own enjoyment apparently. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Mr. McGuinness.”

  In a flurry of diplomacy Troy Lester did his best to calm the waters. Merle felt the blood rush to her face as she clenched her fists, so angry with the old lawyer she almost called him Landon McGuinness the Turd, their pet name for the old fart. Behind her on the sofa, Amanda kept up the water works. Troy got the old man up out of the chair and guided him out the door, returning a moment later.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Merle,” he said, standing in the tiny entry on a rag rug.

  “You have to get him to retire. That behavior is ridiculous, Troy. It makes you and the firm look unprofessional.”

  He shook his head and changed the subject. “The problem is he’s right about the French. The envoy who came to the firm was classic, a starched and powdered bureaucrat who sniffed and looked down his nose at us. Basically told us we were covering up a crime.”

  “Were you?”

  He stared at his shoes.

  Merle continued, “Did McGuinness know what Weston Strachie was up to all those years ago?”

  “It’s possible. But they’ll never get anything out of him. I never hav
e.” Troy touched her arm lightly then withdrew his hand as she glared at it. “Merle. I just want to warn you. The guy from the consulate said some heavy-hitters are after something. I don’t know what, but the point is these guys have the French government doing their dirty work. That’s how connected they are.”

  “Is that supposed to scare me?” Merle felt her color rise again, the heat of anger, as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “What the fuck, Troy.”

  “They brought a French cop. Some special detective, not your run-of-the-mill. They mean business. Don’t discount the French government. McGuinness is right, they are relentless.”

  He was shaking, nervous. Merle stepped back, disgusted with his obvious fear. The events of the last year had changed her. Made her braver, stronger. Made her acknowledge an inner courage to face the worst— the death of her husband, unwelcome secrets, false accusation, imprisonment. She knew what she could do in the face of a threat but Troy Lester, cosseted and pampered since the day he went off to his Ivy League university, trembled at the very idea of a threat, a nebulous, unformed one at that. How had he handled confrontation, the life-blood of law, all these years? With a shiver and a load of flop sweat? A sheen had broken out on his expansive forehead.

  Then Pascal popped into her head. She dug her phone out of her pocket. “Wait. I want you to ID somebody.” She scrolled through her Christmas photos until she found one of Pascal serving oysters. “Is this the French cop?”

  Troy squinted at her phone. He tipped his head. “You know him?”

  “Is that the man who came to the firm with the envoy?” she repeated.

  “Yes, Merle. That’s the one.”

  *

  The screech of the brakes against the rails woke her from the memory, her pulse pounding in her temples. She swallowed hard and got out of the car, hoping the cold air would cool the anger she felt. The train disgorged passengers. There was Pascal, pausing, looking for her. He spotted her and smiled, waving over the heads of the other travelers as he made his way across the parking lot.

  “Chérie,” he whispered, kissing her on both cheeks. “Merci. The train is late again.”

  They drove in silence for a mile then Pascal asked, “How was the meeting with the lawyers?”

  “Fine. Except they made Amanda cry.” She tried to keep her voice light but her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly they ached.

  “She cried?”

  “That old man, the lawyer, is the devil. Seriously. He ought to be ashamed of himself.”

  Pascal nodded. Merle could see that out of the corner of her eye. He glanced at her then back to the road as she turned off into their neighborhood. He wanted to say more. He wanted to know what went on at the meeting, what juicy secrets had been spilled. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  She felt a well of disappointment rise up in her. A tidal wave like grief, like the end of hope. By the time she pulled into the garage she couldn’t speak. He said something and she pretended not to hear. The crash of waves in her ears was a death.

  He had not come back to America to see her, to touch her, to kiss her, to make her French food. He had come back to spy on her, to get information out of her. It was so like before, when he had used her and her rooftop to spy on bad actors in wine country. She was so gullible. She’d fallen for it again. She slammed the door to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, mortified by her own stupidity.

  In her mind, the old mind that trusted and hoped and dreamed, she moved to France and lived a sunny, warm life with Pascal. Now that it was gone, this dream, she could see it so clearly: sitting in her garden, holding his hand as they sunbathed and drank white wine. Taking the train to Paris together, going to museums, laughing, eating ice cream. Meeting his sisters. Lying in clean white sheets next to him, the golden sun on their naked bodies.

  What an idiot.

  A knock came on the door. Pascal said, “Is everything all right, chérie?”

  She swallowed hard. “Just a headache. I’m going to lie down for awhile.”

  “Feel better, blackbird.”

  Twelve

  The thundercloud rumbled inside her, threatening. Even as she tried to keep her temper, to rationalize his betrayal— that was the way it felt— to see both sides, she lost that battle. Even talking to Annie hadn’t helped. Curled in a ball on her bed she tried not to whimper as she punched in Annie’s number on her cell.

  “He’s working here, just as we suspected,” was the way Merle began.

  “Pascal? What’s he doing?”

  “Investigating Harry’s father, nearly sixty years after he died. Can you believe it? The French government sent Pascal over here to dig up dirt on the poor man.”

  “Weston Strachie was a lying, cheating, abusing son of a bitch. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”

  Merle told the story of Troy Lester identifying Pascal and Landon McGuinness the Turd scaring Amanda, making her cry, about the “quite horrible” possibilities ahead.

  “That’s it?” Annie asked.

  “Isn’t that enough? He didn’t come over here to see me. I’m just a convenient extra.”

  “Come on, that isn’t true. Besides, couldn’t the French government have sent anyone? He isn’t the only one in the wine fraud department. He’s out in the boondocks, not even in Bordeaux or Burgundy.”

  “So?”

  “So he probably volunteered because you asked him to come for my party. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you, Merle.”

  The word ‘love’ wasn’t bantered around much in the Bennett family. It was freighted with anxiety and vulnerability and danger. It played hide-and-seek, never completely visible. Was it a child’s game for the gullible? Or did it really exist? Merle was never farther from that answer than now.

  “He’s never said,” she said quietly.

  Annie snorted. “Jesus, girl. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  Was it? She had no answer for that. The sunshine of his affection she’d felt that night in the Hilton had clouded over, obscuring everything. “Why didn’t he just tell me about the investigation? It’s my father-in-law he’s after, dead or not. Doesn’t that mean I should get the courtesy of information?”

  “He’s a cop. They all play it close to the vest with civilians. You’re on a need to know basis.”

  Annie was right. Pascal had kept Merle out of things in France, telling her the facts only when it was absolutely necessary. It hadn’t always worked out that well but it wasn’t exactly his fault. But this felt different. He had come here saying all the right things, winding her up, making her— dream. That was just cruel.

  After they hung up Merle felt worse, churning with doubts about both Pascal’s motives and her own feelings. Did she want him to say he loved her, to put her on the spot, to make everything more difficult from now on? She wasn’t sure she did. She wasn’t sure she could trust him, or her own emotions. It was much easier to just be a lawyer, to be rational, to do things by the books, using those unwritten rules of behavior, no strings attached. The rules smoothed over the awkward bumps of living. Was life supposed to be easy? Wasn’t it just intrinsically hard, all these choices and feelings and changes and tragedies dumped in your lap? If you accepted that would it make coping with all the chaos easier?

  She stared at the ceiling and was inclined to hear, ‘No, but maybe it helps.’

  *

  At nine o’clock Merle washed her face, pinched her cheeks, and brushed her hair. She emerged from her bedroom to the smell of pizza coming up the stairs. She took the steps slowly, still unsure what to say to Pascal but feeling calmer. The little nap had helped. Time to summon the inner lawyer and get the facts.

  The living room was quiet. No sound of pinging or shooting from the television in the family room. She wondered where Tristan was then stopped short as the figure of Pascal emerged from the corner of the sofa. He set down a book beside him on the cushion and took off wire-rimmed reading glasses, slipping them into
his chest pocket. Merle blinked. Reading glasses?

  “Bon soir. Feeling better?” He started to stand but she waved him down then curled into the armchair opposite him.

  She nodded. “Much. What are you reading?”

  “Un polar. How do you say, a police novel. Mystery in Italy. Not bad. A little silly. It was the only thing in French I could find. Travel is hard for the reader.”

  Merle leaned back against the old cushions which felt safe and warm in a cold world. “What’s the plot? Policeman goes undercover to get information out of so-called lover?”

  He smiled. “No, he’s got more lovers than brains really—” He stopped mid-sentence as the penny dropped. He stared at her, squinting. “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. She felt too tired to fight now. The anger had fled, leaving her hollow.

  Pascal sat forward, arms on his knees. “Come out with it. Are you upset with me?” She bit her lip, frowning at the cold hearth. Was the fire really gone? She thought she might cry. “I thought you were upset earlier, in the car. Talk to me, Merle. Tell me my mistakes.”

  His voice was soft, slightly hurt, which made her anger rise again. What had she done to hurt him? He was the one—

  She took a deep breath. No. Rationality, Merdle. “Did you come to America to investigate Weston Strachie?”

  Pascal looked into her eyes then dropped his head. “That’s what you think?”

  “The evidence suggests it. You’re working for the French government. You’ve been to the law firm to get documents.”

  “I came for you, blackbird.” He met her eyes again, his dark and mysterious in the silent house.

  “Just for me?”

  “Just for you. I made my reservation then my superiors in Paris, they find out. They know I am familiar with the lost wine. I did not tell them about the auction. But somehow they find out.”