Buy beds/furniture.
Plan bathroom.
Call Stasia in Paris.
Jean-Pierre Redier watched her leave the hardware store with a slip of paper in her hand. The American looked in both directions, gave the policeman a look as if to thumb her nose at the French state, then walked south. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and followed her.
At the corner she consulted her paper then entered a building he knew to be Andre Saintson’s, the locksmith. Andre was an old man who kept a messy shop but he was the only man in town to change a lock. Jean-Pierre waited, smoking another cigarette in the doorway to the bistro where he sometimes drank after work. This block of Malcouziac had defied all efforts by foreigners to modernize it. Three townhouses were vacant. One had been broken into and vandalized repeatedly over the years, at least since his own youth. It was a party venue for the delinquents in town. Sometimes he had to walk one home after a night of drinking, but who could blame them? There was nothing to do in this little town.
This foreigner, this American, had created a problem however. She was not to be tolerated, according to his uncle. So Jean-Pierre had the boring job of following the silly woman around and finding something else to hold her on because apparently murder wasn’t enough. French law was adaptable. A person, especially a foreigner, could be held without charges for weeks if necessary. And according to some plan his uncle had yet to inform him of, it was necessary to get the American out of the way.
The problem was the inspector. Capitan Montrose was of the old school, a methodical and rational man who wasn’t likely to look kindly on any sort of covert action like throwing the woman in jail for littering. The jails, he had already proclaimed, were too full as it was, that was why he let her out, sure that she would obey his order to stay in the village. Let justice take its course, he said in his arrogant city way. Banned from Paris, Jean-Pierre thought, or else why would the inspector be assigned to the death of a putain, a whore? There was talk that the murder had made the newspaper in Bergerac, although Jean-Pierre doubted it. No one cared about an ugly old whore, least of all city people.
The old man emerged with the American, his tool box under his arm. Andre’s face had more lines than a French road map, from his previous profession as a grape-grower. His family had once owned the big mansion, the chateau on the hill, now a winery run by a multinational insurance company. No one liked the company, least of all the local grape growers who had last year accused them of importing cheap grapes from South America and calling it French wine. Nothing proven, but resentment ran high. Last week Jean-Pierre had run across a group of farmers plotting something in the parking lot of the village. They had smiled and slapped his back as if they were just having a friendly chat, but he knew otherwise.
On Rue de Poitiers, Andre bent over the front door as the woman talked in what Jean-Pierre knew to be the worst French ever to come from the mouth of a human. He stood at the corner, saying good day to an old woman. She looked down the street and in a second had him all figured out. It was impossible to fool the old ladies in this town. His mother had known them all, and now they all knew him.
Suddenly there was the old priest, walking up to him with that stupid smile. Jean-Pierre tried to nod and turn away but the old man caught him.
“Have you found the killer yet, Monsieur le Gendarme?” Albert asked. He was the only person in town who didn’t call him by his first name and for that Jean-Pierre gave him grudging respect. He had no use for priests normally.
“Of course, Pére. But she had a Toulouse lawyer and she is out. You see? She is in the house as she wanted. She got rid of the old woman and it is hers.”
Albert’s smile fell as he looked down the street. “Madame Bennett? Oh, you make a joke. She is no more a killer than you or I.”
Jean-Pierre shrugged. Better to have lost a possible murderer to a bad system of justice, than to not have found the killer at all. “She wants the house, she seeks out Madame LaBelle at the shrine, she pushes her over the cliff.” He dusted off his hands: finis!
Albert frowned at Jean-Pierre. “Que tu est fou,” the old man muttered under his breath as he turned and walked toward the woman and Andre.
So now he would have to watch the old priest too. For an old man he had too much interest in things that did not concern him. Even his uncle the mayor had mentioned the meddlesome nature of Pére Albert who had come to the gendarmerie to plead a case for Madame Bennett. The captain had listened to him. They had some school tie. For Jean-Pierre who had not gone to university at all this was loathsome.
So he would keep his eye on Albert too. He had nothing better to do, or so his uncle would say. He was only one man, one simple gendarme for the entire village. But his uncle promised a cut of whatever he had planned, so Jean-Pierre would keep both eyes open.
Chapter 17
Merle handed the old man the big skeleton key. “Does this fit?”
The locksmith examined it, hobbled out to the back gate and tried the key in the keyhole. It was too big.
“Desolé, madame,” he mumbled. Their communication was limited. Merle was tired and her French wouldn’t come. She resorted to hand gestures. It had taken him quite awhile to get the idea that she wanted her locks changed. He’d done the front and back door and now he wanted to know about the garden gate.
“Please. Oui,” she said. But he held out his hand again, as if he wanted the skeleton key, and mumbled something. She had no idea about the key to the gate. Except that Sister Evangeline had one. She’d seen the nun lock up the gate from Albert’s garden.
Andre fumbled around in his bag and tried a few things to open it. He couldn’t do it today, he possibly said, as he waddled back out through the house. With her new key she locked the door. Another trip to the hardware store netted a new padlock for the door shutters, this time accessible from the outside. She locked up and waved at Madame Suchet on her stoop.
Back at her hotel Merle put through another call to the U.S. Embassy. This time she got a live person and requested help with her legal situation. She was given a name and number of a functionary at the Nice consulate, but when she called there the phone rang unanswered. Next she called Stasia’s hotel in Paris. Tristan answered the phone.
“Mom! Why haven’t you called?” He sounded worried, very unlike a fifteen-year-old.
“Sorry. Are you having fun?”
“Yeah. But I’ve seen enough churches for awhile though. And rose gardens.”
“A person can never see too many rose gardens,” Merle said. “Listen, I have things to do here. The house is sort of a mess. Would you like to come down?”
“I thought you were coming here.”
“I could use your help. The house is awesome, Tris. Much bigger than I thought. It just needs some TLC.”
“Is it a mansion?”
“Not that big. But it’s got a beautiful garden. A huge fireplace. I could use your strong back, kiddo. We could work together. Just till time for camp. I miss you, honey.”
He probably missed her too, she thought after hearing tales of Oliver buying beer and being grounded by his mother for a day. Stasia had waltzed them through six museums and eight cathedrals, Napoleon’s tomb, the Louvre twice, and a bateau mouche — her schedule was like the Bataan Death March.
Stasia got on the line and the sisters worked out the details. Stasia wanted reasons, which were faked. Tristan would take the train to Bergerac tomorrow.
The inspector shook his head so slowly she wasn’t sure if he was nodding off or saying no. Merle had tried to explain that she needed to pick up her son tomorrow in Bergerac and bring him here. She had perhaps said she needed to see him instead of get him. Conjugating verbs was a pain in the ass.
Finally she was sure he said no. Stay in the village. That is the bargain.
Albert might know if there was bus service from Bergerac or how much a taxi might cost. The gendarme followed her from the police station, his insolent face and boot steps everywhere
she went. The old priest came to the door in his fencing jacket and tight white knee-pants. He had been practicing with a student in the alley because the school was closed today.
“You look very —“ she wanted to say ‘jaunty’ but said, “— professional.”
He waved his hand. “A glass of wine?”
Merle sat in the garden while he poured her the dark, oaky wine, a black Cahors. She hadn’t eaten anything since the croissant at the jail. In a moment he was back with some of the cheese she’d left him a few days before, still wrapped in its paper.
“You are so kind, Albert. I don’t know to thank you.” He didn’t answer, just smiled. “What did you think of the house?” She’d taken him inside while Andre worked on the locks.
“The garden is so lovely.”
“You don’t have a key to the garden gate, do you? Andre couldn’t get it open.”
“Sorry, no. You should get Evangeline’s.”
“She’s gone, according to the inspector.” Merle set down her wine glass. “Is there a bus here from Bergerac?”
“Once or twice a week. I am not sure of the schedule.”
The wine made her melancholy. How did she, an upstanding citizen, a moral person, become a murder suspect? “I can’t leave the village. The inspector’s orders. And my son is coming down from Paris tomorrow.”
“I will pick him up. Think no more about it.”
“You have a car?”
It appeared he owned one of those curious beasts, an ancient Citroën, the Deux Chevaux. His was blue, and a bit rusty. In the morning she saw him off in it, with its roof rolled back, the bug-eyed headlamps wobbling, the bicycle tires bouncing. It barely made thirty miles an hour as it puttered away from the city parking lot. She’d given him a small list of things to buy for her: fly paper, scrub brushes, disinfectant.
At the hotel she asked the manager if she could rent two roll-aways with linens. A few minutes later, and several euros, a bell-boy helped her roll them over to rue de Poitiers. They walked back together, rattling over the cobblestones, around corners, up curbs, ignoring the gendarme. Back at the hotel she paid her bill. With her suitcase rolling behind her, she bought towels and soap, mousetraps and buckets at the grocery. At the hardware store she asked for the name of an electrician, and called him from the tabac. Giving his wife a garbled message, she crossed her fingers, dragged her suitcase along the stones, and unlocked the doors to her house in France.
She heard the little Citroën before she saw it pull up outside. Tristan looked good, tanned, rested. He explored the house, curled his lip at the mouse corpses his mother had dumped into the water tank and christened the outhouse.
“How was the trip?” She handed Albert money for gas and supplies.
“A beautiful day. This garden, madame. So lovely.” He looked around, smiling, then turned back to her with a tap to his beret. “Tristan and I talked about him fencing with my boys.”
“Really?” She laughed as her son fell out of the outhouse, gulping air just as she had. “That would be terrific, Albert. But first we have some serious work to do.”
“Jeez, there’s a lot of crap.” Tristan stared at the pile growing by the locked garden gate. Merle had dragged out the grain sacks, and the ruined armchair.
“You haven’t seen nothing yet.” Merle turned him back toward the house. They climbed the stairs and confronted the stuck, knob-less door.
“Now what?” Tristan asked. “You want some of this, Albert?”
“I have to put my car — ”
A crash. Tristan had broken the door’s hinges, flattening the old panels to the floor. Merle caught the back of his pants to keep him from falling on his face. Squawking and flapping of wings made her squawk too, as pigeons came at them, flying madly in circles. Tristan broke free and waved his arms, shouting at the birds as they beat their wings to lift that fat bellies off the crown of an armoire, windowsills, and a large hole in the ceiling. Two got by Merle and flew down the stairs.
“Shoo them out, Albert!” Merle stepped over the door and pried open the front window and flung open the shutters. “Out!”
In a few dirty minutes the room was cleared. Coughing, Merle stared up at the hole in the ceiling. Blue sky shone through a hole in the tile roof. A pile of sodden plaster had dried on the floor beneath. A window that faced the garden had two panes gone and a shutter. Tristan stood covered in feathers and white powder, hands on his hips. “Wow, this is so great. Very exotic.” He picked a feather off his tongue. “Ack.”
“Look at this.” Merle pushed open a door to a side bedroom. A carved wood bedstead and moldy mattress sat in the middle of the room. The pigeons had partied in here too, along with a mouse colony of legendary proportions. But with a new mattress, a lot of scrubbing, a luscious color on the walls? She shivered. Maybe Harry was right about her. Harry — when would she stop thinking about him?
“Awesome.” Tristan frowned. “Looks like a park in New York.”
“Having a house in France is a filthy business,” she said, leading him back downstairs to find tools and plastic to cover the holes. If only he knew how dirty it could get. She tried to put the legal problems out of her mind. Enjoy these moments. Not the past or the future. Right now. It could be over tomorrow, or next week. This time would end — but for once in her life she intended to live right here in the moment.
Chapter 18
Marie-Emilie walks up the road, her feet aching from the long day. No rides for her, not this day. Some Malcouziac farmers had slowed, saw who she was, and snapped the reins again. So she walks on.
She can see the village ahead, up the hill. Sitting on a log to rest she examines the soles of her shoes. The hole is growing bigger on the left one, almost through. The right wore through yesterday. Still she has no regrets. She has made it to the convent and delivered her message. The sisters had been understanding and given her meals. Without that food, and the loaf of bread and cheese they pressed on her for her journey, she would never have come back.
Perhaps she shouldn’t, she thinks, staring at the dark cloud passing over the city walls. But Stephan is waiting for her. He promised they would leave as soon as he arranges everything. So she gets back on her feet and walks on.
Spring is almost over and with it the rains. Soon the summer heat will return. Why is she still in this village where everyone hates her? Soon, soon, she whispers to herself. She turns the corner to her house. Someone has splashed red paint on her shutters. She touches it, still damp. Unlocking the door she tales her bucket to the garden and fills it. In minutes she has scrubbed the shutters, leaving only a shadow of stain not unlike the stain this village has imprinted on her heart. She looks down the street in the evening dusk, an eerie purple bruise of a sky. Not a soul watches, not a soul cares.
Exhausted she falls into her bed. She wants to stay awake for Stephan, in case he hears she is back. Should she go to his rooms above the bakery? She is too tired. Tomorrow is soon enough. She’s walked nearly thirty miles today.
When the knocking begins she barely hears it from upstairs. She is deep in a dream. She pulls herself up and walks down the stairs. As she reaches the floor below she wakes up and feels a flicker of happiness. It will be Stephan. He can’t wait to see her. She runs her hands through her tangled hair and pulls her dressing gown together as she unlocks the shutters.
Chapter 19
Fernand, a bandy-legged, leathery-faced old coot who smoked a crusty pipe, got to work on her plumbing needs with his homely son, Luc. They searched gamely for underground water lines. After days of searching she felt lucky to find a willing plumber at all. There was hope that a drain in the stone-floored kitchen actually led to the sewer. Merle left them to explore, and Tristan to scrubbing upstairs, to beg Monsieur le Maire to expedite her utilities. The candles and flashlights, not to mention eating all meals out, were getting old.
A waste of time with the mayor at city hall. The same with tracking down the locksmith for the garden gate. His shutte
rs were closed, his door locked. She so wanted the pile of vermin-infested debris in her garden to disappear. The only way to do that was to open the locked gate. Could she take it off its hinges? Break it down? She hated to ruin it. She stepped into the bistro across the street to ask if they’d seen old Andre. The waiter shrugged at her Idiot French and turned his back.
On the street this morning no sign of Jean-Pierre. She ducked into the alley behind Andre’s shop. Maybe the old man was hiding from her. Possibly the mayor and the gendarme had warned him about helping her. She walked up the mossy cobblestones, looking into open windows. These houses were in bad shape, in need of even more help than hers. She stopped to peer inside a vandalized house. A tree was growing in a pile of debris, right through the roof. Beer bottles and trash were everywhere. Graffiti covered the walls. Suddenly she was pushed from behind, into the doorway.
“Quiet,” the woman hissed, her fingers tight on Merle’s wrist. She was shorter than Merle with a blue knit cap pulled low on her head and brown curls poking out below. She wore large sunglasses.
“You speak English.” Merle had been mugged twice in Harlem. Strong as she was, the woman wasn’t a threat unless she had a weapon. She was slight, and weapon-less. “Let go of my arm.”
“Don’t talk.” The woman took off her sunglasses and Merle saw the bruise on her cheek, just below her eye, angry and purple. Her accent was French, but British.
“I don’t have any money. Look.” She pulled out her pants pocket with her free hand.
“Here.” The woman opened her fist to show a large key. “Take care of her memory — her garden. Whatever it is, they will kill for it. Be careful.” She pressed the key into Merle’s hand, wrapped her fingers around it, then ran out the door.
“Who? Wait!” Merle jumped back into the alley. The woman ran hard to the street. Tightening her hand around the key Merle ran down the alley to the street.
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