by Serena Kent
“He certainly is. I would.”
Penelope smiled to herself. She knew Frankie well enough to know she was all talk these days. It had long been a source of some surprise to Penelope that, despite her friend’s flamboyance and apparent appetite for the good things in life (including men), Frankie’s marriage to Johnny was rock-solid and had survived longer than most relationships. Hers included.
“Apparently he’s one of those men who gets bored easily. He’s done all sorts of things, from working in television to setting up a property company. Divorced. Two children who live in Paris with the ex-wife.”
Not for the first time, Penelope wondered how Frankie did it. She had found out more in ten minutes than Penelope could ever have done. “But we digress,” she said.
“From what we know about Avore, then,” recapped Frankie, “the dead man was an unpopular drunk. No one in the village liked him, but even so they tried to help him. He still went to prison for assault. Louchard hated him. Plenty of people, including Avore’s wife, are delighted he’s dead, by the sound of it.”
“Why would a wife stay with him?”
“Women stay for all sorts of reasons, Pen. You of all people know that.”
“Did they have children, then?”
“We don’t know, do we?”
They ate in silence for a while. Frankie loaded her bread with yet more perfectly ripe Camembert and closed her eyes in bliss as she bit in. Penelope luxuriated in the cloudless blue sky and the monumental ridged hills beyond her own sweet olive grove.
“We could go up to the mairie ourselves,” suggested Frankie. “We might even see the mayor and his lady friend.”
“Bit stalkerish.”
“Not at all,” said Frankie with a straight face. “There are all sorts of things you need to get sorted out. Like a postbox at the end of the track, for example. Once you get that done, it’ll only be natural for you to get talking to whoever’s there. I’ll be with you if you need a translator. You never know what we might find out.”
12
LUCKILY, THE DELIVERY VAN WITH the beds arrived just after two o’clock. As soon as it left, Penelope and Frankie decided to walk into the village. All was quiet, except for the incessant jittering of the cicadas. They reached the end of the track, stared at the badly maintained Avore house, and turned onto the main road that wound up the hill. The views across to Mont Ventoux and the far side of the valley were truly majestic. It really was a very special place, Clémence was right.
They were approaching a sharp bend opposite the cherry orchard when suddenly the red Mini Cooper scorched past them. Penelope had a second to register the lady driver’s pinched expression before she was pushed with some force into the ditch at the side of the road. Frankie fell on top of her, still with her hands on Penelope’s back.
“Are you all right?” Penelope said, gasping.
“Yes. Are you?”
“I think so. Not one of our more elegant manoeuvres. Crumbs, Frankie, that was close. I think you just saved my life!”
“I think we can safely assume that lunch with the mayor didn’t go too well,” said Frankie.
They checked themselves over and dusted themselves off. Below where they stood on the bend, they could still make out a red blur hurtling down the road towards the town.
They walked on cautiously.
The village was still practically deserted, save for the old man reading La Provence, who appeared never to move from his seat by the boules pitch under the plane trees. “He was there when I arrived last week,” said Penelope.
“Is he dead too?” asked Frankie.
“Not funny. That’s today’s headline.”
Based on this evidence, they refrained from checking a pulse as they passed, and only jumped slightly when he suddenly rustled the newspaper and muttered a guttural “Bonjour, mesdames.” They returned the greeting and walked on to the mairie.
The post office was closed, they were informed when they presented themselves at the counter. It was always closed in the afternoon, said the cheerful chubby woman behind it. Thanks to Frankie’s linguistic skills, though, they established with the help of a woman at an adjoining desk that it was only closed for letters and parcels. A discussion about the process needed to establish a postbox was permissible.
The plump woman introduced herself as Nicole and explained that she would register Penelope’s details with the post office, though it was difficult to say when a postbox would actually be forthcoming.
“What is your address?” Nicole started tapping on a computer keyboard.
“Le Chant d’Eau, St Merlot.”
The hands froze above the keys. Nicole looked up with the utmost sympathy. “What a terrible thing to happen—and so soon after you arrived.”
“Yes, it was.”
“You intend to stay at this property?”
“Yes, I do,” said Penelope, with more firmness than she felt.
“What are people saying about it in the village?” asked Frankie, drawing a mark of respect for her impeccable French accent.
“Well,” began Nicole, “most people think that Manuel Avore was an accident waiting to happen. They are not surprised, to be honest. He was not a nice man, not at all. Though I hate to speak ill of the dead.”
Penelope strained to keep up with the woman’s outpouring and the twang of her Provençal accent.
“How long had Manuel Avore been out of prison?” Frankie pushed on.
“A couple of weeks.”
“And had he upset anyone in St Merlot since his return?”
“So . . . let’s say that his wife was not very happy to see him again! She thought he was going to spend longer behind bars. M. Charpet was not pleased either, because Manuel was trouble and had often stolen garden equipment from him. M. Louchard, the same. He found his car tyres slashed after he confronted Manuel and forced him to hand over the stolen goods.”
“Don’t forget Jacques,” said the other woman.
“Who’s he?” asked Penelope.
The door to the mayor’s office opened, and Laurent Millais strode out. “Yes, thank you Nicole and Marie-Lou, that is quite enough!” He looked so devastatingly handsome in a blue shirt that matched his eyes that Penelope let out an involuntary sigh. The sequin heart across Frankie’s chest visibly rippled.
“Bonjour, Mme Keet. Madame . . . ?” He nodded towards Frankie.
“Frankie Turner-Blake. Enchantée, extremely enchantée.”
The mayor gave her a havoc-making smile that Penelope suspected was a tried and trusted weapon in his armoury. “Please do not believe all the village gossip. We are all very friendly here.”
“I do hope so,” said Frankie, with a nauseating simper.
Behave, Penelope mouthed at her. “Have you heard anything more about the police inquiry?” she asked the mayor.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Perhaps we could talk it through,” proposed Frankie, bust still glittering. “It would be very helpful to go over everything that has happened.”
“I regret that will not be possible. It is now a murder investigation, but we will no doubt remain in contact. On other matters, I have asked the electrician to come and see you as soon as possible. You should wait at your house.” The mayor turned to Marie-Lou. “I am going to see the priest now. Would you get the building applications for me to look at when I get back, please?”
He picked up a cream jacket from a peg by the entrance, said goodbye, and walked out to a dark-blue Mercedes convertible in the car park. I bet he bought it to show off his eyes, thought Penelope. What a smooth operator he is.
They watched him drive off, and then began the walk back.
“He can remain in contact with me any time he likes,” said Frankie.
“Frankie!”
“What? No wonder old Clémence was upset she wasn’t getting any of that today.” Frankie gurned lasciviously.
“You look like Danny DeVito when you do that.”
Her friend was unabashed. “So is he off to see the priest to salve his conscience with a timely confession? From what Clémence told me this morning, there’s a fair bit to atone for.”
* * *
THE ELECTRICIAN was waiting for them when they returned. Contrary to Penelope’s expectations, service really was excellent in France.
“Didier Picaud,” he introduced himself. He was a stocky young chap in his late twenties, wearing a T-shirt and knee-length shorts. His coarse brown hair stuck straight up as if he had just plugged himself into a live socket. He walked jauntily around the house with a full-wattage smile.
As one of the younger generation, he was also keen to practice his English. “There are always problems in these old houses,” he said with a slight American twang.
Penelope showed him the fuse box in the kitchen cupboard.
“It is all good, madame. See this?” He pointed to a small sticker she hadn’t even noticed, which read “JRM Électriciens.” “Our company. My family has a long association with this house, and I will gladly continue the service.”
“That’s good news, thank you,” said Penelope.
He started pulling out fuses and blowing on them.
“So, your family has lived in the village for many years?” said Frankie.
“Maybe even centuries.”
“You must like it here, then,” said Penelope.
Frankie cut to the chase. “You and your family must have known Manuel Avore—what do you think about what happened to him?”
If Didier Picaud was taken aback by her directness, he didn’t show it. “Bof! Obviously it was terrible, but . . . it was not surprising that he died. Something was always going to happen to him.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Penelope.
“He made difficulties, always. Even after three years in prison, a good long sentence that was supposed to teach him a lesson, he came out ready to steal and drink and fight, same as ever.”
“He was in prison for assault—is that right?”
“Yeah, he hit some debt collectors.”
“Did you have disagreements with him?” asked Frankie.
“We all did.”
“What was yours?” Frankie ploughed on.
“He owed me some money.”
“An unpaid bill?”
“He said he could not pay after I fixed an electrical problem at his house. He said I should do it for free, because everyone knew he had no money and he would make trouble for anyone who did not help him.”
“That’s extortion, then. Like asking for protection money!”
Didier Picaud looked up from a meticulous check of the trip switches. He did not seem to mind digging in for a gossip, which was exactly what Penelope had been hoping for. His lively brown eyes shone. Perhaps he was pleased to have a chance to have a look around and check out the new arrival. Though that worked both ways, Penelope reminded herself. She was sure that she and Frankie would also be the subject of a great deal of village chat.
“It was more for his wife that we helped Manuel Avore,” Picaud continued.
“Yes, what about his wife, who stayed with him?” Penelope shook her head. “How could she bear it?”
“Ah, poor Mariette. She is a nice woman. Very religious. She tried to help him to change, and she thought she could do it. She suffered. He hit her, and she allowed it. And nothing changed. It was very sad.”
“But she’s all right now—at last,” said Penelope.
“Yes, she is all right. Though she feels capable of his death.”
“Capable? You mean you think she might have done it?”
“No, you mean coupable, don’t you?” butted in Frankie. “The word in English is ‘guilty.’ Guilty because she never managed to stop his drinking and destructive behaviour.”
“Yes, exactly.” He pulled his mouth down in a gesture of sympathy.
“M. Louchard seems very . . . shy, though I am sure he is delightful when you get to know him,” said Penelope, hoping it would get back that she was appreciative of her new neighbour. “And so is M. Charpet. He is going to continue to do the garden as he did for the previous owners. I am very lucky to have them both nearby.”
“They are both . . . personalities, that is true! Louchard, he was a military man. Even now, he is the best man with a gun in the village. People have said that the army changed him. He keeps himself apart until he knows people. Maybe he is just, as you say, shy.” The electrician raised his eyebrows, however, to signify a lack of faith in this view.
“What do you think?” asked Frankie.
“I think . . . you must be a little bit careful. I think he does not like foreigners. Even French foreigners. There was some trouble, I heard, between him and the former owners of this house.”
“Trouble?” Penelope did not like the sound of this.
Picaud took a dramatic glance left and right, and moved closer. “I have heard, madame, that he shot their cat after they had an argument.”
“What kind of argument?”
He shrugged. “There are always arguments in village life. This disagreement, that insult . . . in summer the heat rises and tempers explode.”
Frankie changed the subject abruptly. “Talking of village life,” she said, catching Penelope’s eye, “does the village have its own priest?”
“No, we have no church in this village.”
Penelope took him upstairs, still chatting about this and that, for an initial assessment of the state of the wiring. He took a light switch off the wall to have a quick look behind, screwed it back in place, and turned it on.
“Voilà!” he said, as a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling lit up.
“Fantastic! Thank you so much!”
“I will come back soon to do a complete check,” he said. “It is always necessary to make sure all is in order. But don’t worry, you have power, and I think you are safe for now.”
They made up the new beds, and decided the best plan would be to spend the night at Le Chant d’Eau.
“I want to make sure you’re all right staying here before I go back to England,” said Frankie. “Now is that fridge getting properly cold? Ooh, yes, it is.” She shoved a couple of bottles of rosé in.
They collected their things from the Hôtel St Pierre and went on to M. Bricolage to buy an outside table and chairs. The flat pack just fitted into the Range Rover’s capacious boot.
As expected, Frankie was a dab hand at flat packs, and before they knew it, Penelope had a galvanised metal table and four chairs for the terrace outside the kitchen door. In double-quick time, a chilled bottle and two glasses joined them.
“Cheers, m’dear,” said Frankie. “A new start!”
“Perhaps I can pretend this is my first night here,” said Penelope. “Cheers! And thanks, Frankie. You’ve been a complete star.”
“Know what, Pen, this place is going to be lovely when you’ve got it how you want it.”
“I can’t wait to be able to have the family out. I know that they’ll love it, and it will be fantastic for the boys—all this space for running around and exploring, and the pool, of course.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, eh?”
“I’m always fond. And Lena and Justin are too, really. They took the divorce worse than I thought they would. They didn’t understand why I had to make everything so final.”
“You always loved them like your own, Pen.”
A pause.
“I did.”
“Not having your own . . . and everything.”
“No.” Penelope hoped Frankie would leave it there, but inevitably she didn’t.
“Just wasn’t to be.”
“A long time ago now. Though sometimes it seems like yesterday.”
“Nasty, that last miscarriage.”
“Thank God you were there,” said Penelope. “Though I can still see that traffic policeman’s face. Red light. Canary-yellow drag-race car. Pregnant woman, screaming.”
“T
wo screaming women,” Frankie corrected her. “I was yelling at him to get out of the way. We were an emergency. Johnny was not pleased to find his car vanished before the big race, but it showed form in the dash to the hospital.”
“Made it to A and E in ten minutes flat. Still a Surrey record, I believe.”
Frankie reached out and squeezed Penelope’s hand.
“You and David speaking again?”
“Actually, yes. Not a lot, but I saw him at Lena’s before I left, and he was remarkably civil. We laughed about the weekend trips to the zoo we used to do when the children were small. I think Zack and Xerxes’s naughtiness at teatime reminded him of the chimpanzee house.”
“Wasn’t all bad, then.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Just takes time not being angry to remember that.”
They charged their glasses and drank to that.
“If you hadn’t got angry, you never would have gone to work for the legendary Camrose Fletcher,” Frankie reminded her.
“Very true,” said Penelope.
She felt a bit wistful as she pictured her interview, which took place over a gin and tonic in Bloomsbury. Camrose couldn’t have been more self-effacing. He was tall and broad, with an athletic air that she had not expected in a man who spent his days with the dead. His hair and well-groomed beard were white, but his face was tanned and his startling cornflower-blue eyes seemed permanently amused behind black-framed glasses. They had talked about hill walking and chamber music, and he ended the meeting saying he knew she could do the job, it was just a question of whether they’d get on.
“It was the making of you, Pen.”
“You’re probably right.”
“You still in touch with him?”
“Haven’t actually seen him for a while. But, yes.”
“He never married, did he?”
“Married to his work,” said Penelope.
No matter how hard they tried, though, and despite the distracting loveliness of the views down the valley, where the hills softened in a pink and apricot dusk and the scented pines sent long purple shadows up the garden, they could not avoid talking about the events surrounding the body in the pool.