The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

We drove a couple of miles down a narrow lane, lush with fennel growing wild on either side. The heady aroma was even more pronounced now, a mixture at once sweet, musky, and spicy, like some divine elixir of the gods. We passed a man pedaling a bicycle, a large basket on his back, with thick leather straps over his shoulders. He waved at Luc. We turned off onto a dirt road and drove another mile or two. I sat gulping the fragrant air, intoxicated by nature’s redolence. I looked at Luc, so comfortable in his element. Sensing my gaze, he turned toward me and smiled. “You like it here,” he said. It wasn’t a question. I nodded, deliriously happy. “I knew you would,” he said.

  Eventually we turned into a gravel driveway and pulled up in front of a two-story stone house. A plump woman wearing a white apron over her navy dress came down the front steps. “Bonjour, monsieur Luc. Welcome back.” As soon as Luc emerged from the truck, she kissed him on both cheeks.

  Luc introduced me. “This is Madame P. She runs the place. Couldn’t do a thing without her.”

  “Oh, don’t talk such nonsense,” Madame P. said, but she was clearly pleased. She made a big fuss over me. “Imagine coming all this way from California!” She made it sound as if I’d undertaken a perilous journey. After being assured that I was neither hungry nor thirsty, Madame P. showed me to my room on the second floor under the eaves. It was perfect in every detail. Its sloping ceiling was low, as was typical in a house built two hundred years ago when people were a good deal smaller. The high bed was covered in a hand-sewn quilt. Filmy white curtains hung over the leaded glass window, which had a panoramic view of the fields behind the house. An armload of fresh lavender stood in a glass jar on the painted white dresser, perfuming the air. “I hope this suits you, dear. Monsieur Luc said he had a very special guest coming. Well, I’ll leave you to unpack.”

  I washed my face at the small porcelain sink in the corner, brushed my hair, and decided that unpacking could wait. Before descending the stairs, I peeked into Luc’s bedroom. It was a little larger than mine and had a similar leaded glass window, but without curtains. The big iron bed nearly filled the space. Stacks of books were piled on the whitewashed floor. A reading lamp was on a small table to the left of the bed. No lamp on the right, I noted. Maybe that meant he never had overnight company. Or, more likely, when he did, reading was not a priority. I went downstairs.

  “Ready for the tour?” Luc asked. “Oh, these are for you.” He handed me two small brown envelopes. “Seeds from last year’s sucrine lettuce crop,” he said. “It’s a favorite around here.” I tucked the packets in my pocket and followed him through the grounds almost reverently, feeling I was being afforded a glimpse of paradise that at any moment might be snatched away. It was all so . . . so . . . alive was the word that came to mind. Raised beds were bursting with voluptuous cabbages, red-veined chard, and moist-leaved kale. Pole beans covered trellises in flowery cascades. Borage, mint, sage, and lavender spilled over the edges of beds and onto the paths. A small crew of workers went about the business of watering and weeding, their rubber boots crunching on the gravel. Luc led me to the orchards, where leafy apple, peach, and pomegranate trees hung heavy with fruit. Birdsong filled the air. The flower gardens brimmed with huge drifts, and every turn in the path revealed another treasure: butterflies hovering over a wide bowl of water set on a rock, a tiny chair and table tucked under the shade of towering clematis, a tumbledown shed with grapevines scrambling over the top. Every so often we came upon another plump cat sunning itself. I had never seen anything quite this wonderful.

  Next was the chicken pen, which was the size of my entire backyard at home. A flock of about two dozen hens gathered around Luc’s feet expectantly, parting as he walked among them. “Sorry, ladies, you already ate,” Luc told them. He unhooked two baskets hanging on the fence and gave one to me. “Come,” he said, “let’s gather some eggs. I’ll cook you an omelet for dinner.” We entered the coop, and Luc showed me how to reach into the nesting boxes and feel under the straw. I found two still-warm eggs and held them in my hand, marveling at their perfection. I had the irrational urge to take them home and display them. Eating them seemed irreverent somehow.

  Luc showed me the beehives, sited amid drifts of lavender. “It gives the honey an incredible flavor,” he explained. “Did you know that bees visit about two million flowers to produce a pound of honey?” Nothing surprised me at this point. The very act of eating now seemed profound, a celebration of the miracle of nature. Did Luc feel that way too? I wondered. Or was he just so used to all this glory?

  Luc saved the best for last. “The pigs!” I exclaimed with delight. There were three of them, nosing one another out of the way to be scratched. “This is Belle, this is Jolie, and this is Madeleine,” Luc said.

  “Are they babies?”

  “No, they’re full-grown. This is as big as they get. They’re just for fun. No bacon,” he assured me. I peered into their little wooden house, carpeted with a thick layer of straw. “They get chilly at night,” Luc said. “They’re originally from Vietnam, so they like it tropical. When it gets really cold, I put a heat lamp in here.”

  We eventually made our way back to the house, where Madame P. announced lunch. The dining room table was set with a linen cloth. “Very fancy,” Luc said, smiling. “I usually eat lunch sitting on the front steps.” Lunch was a soup brimming with homegrown vegetables and herbs, plus thick slices of hearty homemade bread. When we finished, Luc said, “I have some work to do. Feel free to take a nap or explore. There’s a bicycle behind the shed. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “It’s very good that you’re here,” Madame P. said as she and I washed the lunch dishes. “Monsieur Luc never has visitors. A young handsome man like that. Such a shame that all he cares about is the farm.” She shook her head in disapproval. “He works too hard. I tell him all the time, ‘You should hire more help.’ Well, at least now he’ll have some money, now that his sister died. He wants to expand.”

  “Oh?”

  “The parcel adjacent to this is for sale. The man who lives there is too old to farm any longer. He’s going off to live with his son. Monsieur Luc was hoping to sell a building in Amiens that he owned with his sister. He wanted to use the money to buy the land. But his sister said no.”

  I recalled Thalia mentioning this.

  “That’s why he went to see her,” Madame P. continued. “He hoped to convince her. Of course, now that she has died”—here she crossed herself—“the property in Amiens belongs to him. He’s already put it up for sale. He’s determined to buy that property down the road.”

  I mulled over this information. Well, sad as Thalia’s death was, at least Luc could now have the land he wanted.

  “You know he and his sister didn’t speak for years,” Madame P. went on. “Some silly nonsense about his father’s will. It seems the old man left everything to Thalia—his stepdaughter by his second wife. Can you imagine disinheriting your own flesh and blood? Not that Thalia wasn’t a lovely girl.” She crossed herself again. “And I can’t really say I blame the man. Young Luc went through a low period. Of course, it wasn’t his fault. He fell in with a bad crowd. And look at how wonderful he turned out in the end. If only his father had lived to see it.”

  “Oh, yes. He’s certainly wonderful.” I was eager to know more about this “low period,” but I didn’t ask. After the dishes were dried and put away, I went up to my room and changed my shoes. Then I wheeled the bike out from behind the shed and pedaled off. I was still sore and bruised, but I couldn’t resist exploring. I turned left at the end of the driveway, continuing farther on the road we had come in on. What if I never left this magical place? I wondered. What if I stayed here and became stepmother to Belle, Jolie, and Madeleine? I would grow flowers and zucchinis. And paint pictures. Jasper could be sent for. He’d adore it here. Of course, I’d have to teach him not to chase the cats.

  I groaned out loud. I was married. To a wonderful man who loved me. And here I was making plans to be Luc’s new roomm
ate. Maybe Peter and I should go to Arizona. A change would be good. I could grow zucchinis there and keep bees. But the problem was, I realized, I didn’t want to be a beekeeper with Peter because he would consider it a waste of time when you could just buy honey at the grocery store. Of course, that was no reason to not stay married to someone, I reminded myself, engrossed now in my internal dialogue. If an interest in keeping bees was a requirement for marriage, most men would be single. Women too, for that matter. You’re being silly, I told myself. But the pull of this place was potent. It spoke to me in a way I couldn’t explain, as if I’d always been meant to be here.

  I pedaled for hours, then returned to the farm at dusk, weary and content. Luc was still out in the field, talking with one of the workers. I went up to my room and read until I heard Luc in the kitchen. I went downstairs and offered to help, but he shooed me out, so I went back to my book until dinnertime.

  Luc had prepared a fluffy omelet filled with sautéed wild mushrooms. “Oh my God, this is incredible,” I said at the first bite.

  “Fresh eggs,” he said. “There’s nothing like them.”

  There was salad with shaved fennel, more of that amazing homemade bread, and wine. Lots of wine. I could be very happy here. I imagined how it would feel to go upstairs and climb into that big iron bed. With Luc.

  “Well, I’d better head upstairs,” Luc said, interrupting my thoughts. “I need to be up early. No more lounging around like in the city.” He walked over to my chair and kissed me on the forehead. “Bonsoir,” he said. “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yes, everything is perfect.”

  CHAPTER 29

  A panicky phone call from Julien at seven in the morning altered my plans to spend the day exploring Chantilly. “We’re leaving for Marseille today,” he said urgently. “I don’t know why, but Jerome changed the schedule. And Marcel tried to keep me from going, so I’m sure there’s something important happening.”

  “We’d better go today, too,” Luc said when I told him. “We can drive. It’s long—seven hours—but this way we can leave immediately instead of going to Paris first and changing trains.” We hurriedly packed our bags, downed some coffee, and were on the road in Luc’s Peugeot.

  At his suggestion, I took the wheel so he could phone the hotel and revise our reservation. Unfortunately, the place was completely booked for the night. As we headed south, he made call after call in an attempt to locate available rooms on short notice.

  This was it, I told myself. Finally, we were on the way to expose Marcel. We’d catch him red-handed receiving whatever illicit merchandise was arriving from Africa. And then the police—even Detective Hernandez—would have to suspect him of murder. I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to call him, but I wasn’t about to stop now. I could talk to him once we reached Marseille.

  “OK, I finally found a place,” Luc announced as he put his phone in his pocket. “It’s not in a good section of town, though. But it’s only for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll move.”

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “And it only has one double bed. I hope that’s OK with you.”

  “Sure.” I tried to sound as casual as if he’d just told me the hotel didn’t offer breakfast, but my voice had a strangled quality. I drove in silence, forcing myself to think about Renata—any topic other than the prospect of climbing into bed with Luc. How was she connected with Marcel? And why was she blackmailing Thalia? I couldn’t come up with any satisfactory explanation.

  After several hours, we stopped to fill the gas tank and eat a quick lunch, then Luc took over the driving for the remainder of the trip. The sun was directly overhead now, and the interior of the car was roasting hot. Opening the windows at least created a breeze, but the air was heavy with heat. I was developing a fierce headache.

  We finally pulled into Marseille at four thirty. Even at this hour, the heat was still palpable. As Luc had warned, our hotel was in a seedy neighborhood, the buildings covered in graffiti and the alleyways lined with overflowing trash cans. A smell of fish hung in the air. At least we weren’t far from the waterfront, which was where we’d need to meet Julien.

  My headache was in full force as we entered the dingy lobby, one bare light bulb hanging down over the front desk. The man behind it smelled of alcohol and sweat. An electric fan was pointed at him, which only served to spread the odor throughout the lobby. Luc checked us in, while the man ogled me. “Enjoy yourselves,” he said. “We are very discreet here.” I glared at him, which only seemed to amuse him. “Stairs are through that door,” he said, inclining his head. “Elevator is broken.”

  We lugged our bags upstairs. The room smelled musty, but at least it looked reasonably clean. The lone window faced tall, gray buildings across an alley. I pulled the curtains closed, unpacked my aspirin, and swallowed three.

  Luc went into the bathroom to get cleaned up. I lay back against the pillow and closed my eyes. It was too hot to even think. My mind drifted, until the sound of Luc’s ringing phone startled me. I made a move to answer it, but Luc beat me to it, dashing out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. “Allô? Oui. Nous sommes arrivés. À l’hôtel.” He turned to me. “It’s Julien. Do you have a piece of paper?”

  I got paper and pen from my bag, feeling flustered at Luc’s half-naked presence. His torso was hard and rippled from all that manual labor. Luc scribbled on the paper, then hung up. “I have directions to the warehouse. We’re going to meet him in the morning. He’ll call us.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Let’s relax tonight. Have a nice dinner. There’s a seafood place I want to take you to.”

  A long, cool shower and an evening out with no talk of murder was just what I needed.

  We drove into Old Port and walked the cobblestone streets. Luc took me to his favorite fromagerie, where we sampled half a dozen cheeses and bought a crock of creamy Saint-Marcellin. Then we ate mussels at a café overlooking the Mediterranean. By the time we returned to the hotel, I was reinvigorated and my headache was long gone.

  “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” I asked. “What exactly will we do when we find out what Marcel is up to?”

  “We’ll go to the police and tell them everything. And Julien will tell his father, of course. Then we’re finished. We’ll let the authorities handle it.” I nodded in agreement. After a minute, he asked, “Do you think Etienne is involved?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. I hope not. I’d like to think that Thalia wouldn’t have fallen for a criminal. She was pretty sharp.”

  “True. But she didn’t really spend a lot of time with him. He could have easily kept his illegal dealings hidden.”

  “I guess.” It seemed to me that if you were sleeping with someone, you’d have insight into his ethics. But maybe I was being naive. After all, Etienne was cheating on his wife, so how ethical was he, really? “I’m going to get ready for bed,” I announced.

  I took my bag into the bathroom, wondering what the correct attire would be for sharing a bed with a man who was not my husband. I finally settled on stretchy yoga pants and a tank top. The outfit highlighted everything nicely, yet I was covered up. Let him figure out what I wanted. I sure as hell couldn’t decide. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. When I came out of the bathroom, Luc was sitting up in bed under the covers. His bedside light was on, and he was reading the newspaper. He was shirtless again. Was he naked under the covers?

  “Will it bother you if I read for a while?” he asked.

  “No, not at all.” I took a book out of my bag and got into bed cautiously, being scrupulous about staying on my side. I read until my eyes were heavy. Finally I turned out the lamp on my side. Was he going to read the paper all damn night? Within minutes, I was asleep. I don’t know when Luc finally turned out the light, but it was dark when I was awakened by the ringing of a phone.

  “Hello?” Luc said sleepily. I could hear Julien’s agitated voice on the other end but couldn’t make out what h
e was saying. “Here, talk to Rae. We’re leaving now.”

  He handed me the phone, got out of bed—turns out he was naked—and threw on his clothes. He motioned to me to get up. Julien was hissing in my ear. “Marcel got up during the night and left. I followed him. I’m in a taxi. Please come right away.”

  “Yes. Yes, we’re coming.” I grabbed my purse, slipped on my shoes, and we were out the door.

  CHAPTER 30

  As Luc drove through the narrow, twisting streets toward the waterfront, I navigated, peering at the map while talking to Julien on speakerphone. “Keep going south,” I said. “Toward the water. I haven’t found the street yet. Camargue, de Gaulle . . . here it is! OK, go right.”

  The streets were dimly lit. A few bars were open, their neon signs casting shimmering reflections on the fog-damp sidewalks. At the next corner, two women wearing miniskirts and thigh-high boots were smoking cigarettes.

  “OK, your left turn is coming up. Shit. I can’t read the street signs. It should be the next one.” I was able to make out the sign just as we were driving past the turn. “That’s it! Sorry. OK, circle around and go back.” At last we caught sight of the cab. The waterfront was two blocks ahead of us now. A thin mist drifted off the water and swirled around the buildings.

  Luc grabbed the phone out of my hand. “We see you. Pay the fare and get out,” he told Julien. We stopped twenty feet behind the cab and waited. In a moment, Julien got out and ran toward our car. He jumped into the back seat. “I’m sure they went to the warehouse. It’s really close to here, straight ahead,” he said breathlessly. “The gates will be locked, but I saw a hole in the fence when I was there this afternoon.”

  As we pulled up along the waterfront, Julien said, “That’s Jerome’s car. They’re here. Park.” The shiny black car was inside the chain-link fence, along with several vans. There wasn’t anyone in sight. We all got out of the car and stood there for a moment, looking at the two-story warehouse. Foghorns sounded faintly in the distance.