Might as well start here, Jennifer thought to herself, and pasted a non-threatening smile on her face as she walked toward the bar.
"Excusez-moi," she began, and the man quickly pivoted to look at her.
"English," he said, the question showing in his eyes.
Jennifer shook her head, still smiling. "American."
"Ah," the waiter said, nodding as though her answer explained everything. He wiped his hands on a bar towel draped over his left shoulder. "Now, we are closed."
Jennifer understood his meaning, even if his accent was terribly thick. It was usual for restaurants in this area to close for several hours before they’d open for dinner, often at seven in the evening or later, when things had cooled a bit and people felt like eating the evening meal.
"I was hoping you'd help me,” she said. “My GPS isn't working, and I'm trying to get to Chateau Mersau. Can you point me in the right direction?"
"Chateau Mersau?" He looked at her sideways as he put the dirty glasses on his tray. "Why you want to go there for?" Before she had a chance to answer he continued. "That place is..." he paused, apparently trying to find the right derogatory word in English. "Broken. Old. Sad." He shook his head and picked up his tray. "A young woman should not go there. I have a room you can rent, with wee-fee and a good bed. You stay here, not the chateau."
"Wee-fee?" she asked, and he looked at her as if she was slightly dense.
"You know. Wee-fee. For internet. For Facebook."
Ah, Jennifer thought. Wi-fi. She suppressed a smile, enjoying learning the local pronunciation of the word.
"Thank you, but I am on business and I need to stay at the chateau." Her GPS actually was working just fine, but it never hurt to scope out the locals and see what she could learn. "Why did you say the chateau is broken?"
The man gave a grunt of disgust and was shaking his head as he walked back toward the cool darkness of the bar, Jennifer trailing behind. "No family there. No owner there. Nobody there but..." His English failed him for a moment as he struggled to think of the word. Finally, he sighed. "Nobody but old wine and sad workers."
"For a long time?"
"When owner died. Sad before that." He set the glasses in a small sink behind the bar and wiped his hands on the towel over his shoulder again. Glancing toward the rows of liquor bottles, lined up in three neat lined behind the counter, his face perked up. "You should have a drink now, I think,” he suggested, and set a clean glass on the bar, waiting for her order.
Tempting as his offer was, Jennifer left without a drink, the bartender's words still ringing in her ears. She eased her Peugeot back onto the main road, which looped around the village in a lazy arc before finally straightening out on the last stretch before her destination.
Watching the GPS and glancing at the road, it was less than two miles before Jennifer came over the crest of a hill topped by neat rows of grapevines. Sprawled in front of her, like an old dream long forgotten, was the chateau.
It could’ve been a scene painted by some artist centuries before. The huge house was set in the middle of surrounding hills and vineyards, and was ancient. A set of four rectangular buildings made of weathered tan stone were connected together to form a large square with a front gate. A crumbling outer wall marked an outer boundary, with two enormous, leafy trees spreading shade over most of the earthen surface of the courtyard. If she'd been farther away and had squinted at the property, Jennifer might have said it looked noble, obviously a site where someone of good fortune lived. The closer she drove, though, the more visible the neglect and lack of repair was. The main yard was littered with broken barrels, rusting farm equipment, and an ancient truck that sagged from overuse and lack of care. The house’s roof was covered with curved red tiles, some of which had come loose and were out of place, and a couple that had fallen to the ground and shattered. The main gate, made of wrought iron and speckled with patches of peeling paint, hung awkwardly from its hinges and was propped open by blocks of firewood wedged underneath each side. Pigeons were nesting in the top of a broken brick column holding a derelict sign announcing the chateau’s name.
Jennifer threaded her car carefully through the narrow opening, pulling to a stop underneath the nearest shade tree. As she turned off the ignition and got out of her car, a large, pale dog popped his head out from a nearby shed and gave a single bark before slowly walking back into the building.
Apparently, the watchdog’s lack of enthusiasm was enough to get the attention of two of the workers, who rounded the open door. Both were wearing gray overalls, and from the resemblance between them and the difference in their ages, Jennifer made a quick guess that they were related, and probably father and son.
"Bonjour," she said, walking toward them and smiling. Just as she was about to reach her hand out in greeting, a little brown lizard, as long as her index finger, scampered across the top of her foot at breakneck speed, and she gave an involuntary shriek as it ran off.
There was a bark of laughter from the younger man, much to her disgust, then a quick, quiet discussion between the two men. Finally, the older one looked at her, a stern expression on his face.
"Bonjour, madame. Assurance?" he asked.
Jennifer knew 'assurance' was the French word for 'insurance', and she nodded.
"Oui, mais je suis une mademoiselle." Yes, but I'm a Miss, not a Mrs.
At this statement, the younger man drew himself up to his full height and gave a broad grin, showing teeth in need of some serious dental care. Apparently, he approved of Jennifer’s answer that she was unmarried.
The older man elbowed him in the ribs, without even looking over his shoulder. Apparently, he knew exactly how his companion would react to Jennifer's clarification. He gestured for Jennifer to follow him, ignoring the younger man's muttered comments as he clutched his side.
Jennifer grabbed her briefcase and followed close on the man's heels, catching a heady whiff of lavender as she walked toward the main part of the house. She was surprised when her guide ignored the double-doored main entrance and walked her around the side of the building. He grabbed the doorknob on a simple plank door and pushed it inside, then turned to make sure she was still following.
As soon as she stepped into the room, Jennifer felt right at home. Unlike the neglected exterior of the chateau, this room was well-used and well-loved. It was a huge kitchen, full of the smells of warm dough and melted butter, with racks of blackened pots hanging from pegs near an enormous fireplace. Dark wooden beams ran the length of the ceiling, and a long, battered table was set in the center, with several baskets of fresh vegetables on top. At a rectangular stone sink a plump lady with gray-streaked hair, obviously a cook, was washing a bunch of fresh-picked carrots, their bright green tops still intact. She looked over her shoulder at the two people intruding into her domain and turned off the running water.
The man spoke so quickly in French to the cook that Jennifer couldn't catch a work of his machine gun patter, so she stood quietly, waiting. The woman's faded green eyes fixed on Jennifer, as though trying to decide whether to feed her or kick her back out to the courtyard. Finally, she sighed.
"I didn't think you were coming until later tonight." The words were full of frustration and a lovely British accent that was completely unexpected. "I’m so sorry, but I don't have your room quite ready, Miss Peetman, but if you can give me half an hour I'll be sure it's all spic and span for you."
Jennifer smiled and shook her head. "Oh, that's no trouble at all," she said, sticking out a hand and shaking the cook's soft, damp one. "I'm sorry if it's any bother, but it was my understanding that the owner was wanting an inventory of the site as soon as possible, so I came here straight away."
"That’s fine, I’m sure,” the cook said. “I'm Sally, and I'll be making sure you have everything you need, Miss Peetman." She gestured at the man, who was standing by the door, eyeing a tray of croissants that was cooling on the counter. "That's Martin DuBois. He and his son Bernard are in
charge of everything to do with the wine production, so you'll see them all over the place. Did you meet Robert, our handyman, yet, or anyone else?"
"No, just the DuBois men."
Sally said something in French to Martin and he gave a great grin, before grabbing four croissants and hurrying out the door. Sally watched him go and gave a chuckle. "I'd say he was going to get fat, as much as he likes my cooking and is here in my kitchen all the time, but he's one of the hardest working people you'll ever meet. All that butter and extra calories just seem to burn off." She glanced back at Jennifer. "Got much luggage?"
"No, just a weekend bag in the car." She wasn’t the best at starting small talk, but she made an attempt. “It’s certainly beautiful land around here. Must be nice living in Provence.”
Sally chuckled. “Oh, it’s beautiful all right, but you should see it when the mistral comes in winter. It will blow you right off your feet. About blows the spots off the cows.”
Jennifer had heard about the fabled strong wind, the mistral, of Provence. She was going to ask about more it when there was a small whimper from a doorless cabinet next to the fireplace. Glancing over at the shadows inside, Jennifer caught a glimpse of two round, brown eyes staring at her, and a sober little face watching her every move from the safety of a wicker basket wedged in the cabinet.
Sally gave a low cluck of encouragement and a tiny French bulldog poked his head out, his eyes still locked on Jennifer.
"It's okay, Orly," Sally said in a soothing voice, and after a moment or two the little dog slowly walked out from his hiding place. His serious eyes were still watching Jennifer as he edged toward the cook, his oversized ears perked up in curiosity. He was constantly monitoring Jennifer's every move, as he ducked behind Sally's legs.
"What a little cutie," Jennifer said, having a sudden flashback to the new dog her friends Amanda and James had adopted right before Jennifer had left Ravenwood Cove. Benson was a perpetually happy yellow lab who’d been happy to lounge in Jennifer’s kitchen, too, never far from where a tasty tidbit might fall off the table. He'd even gotten along with Oscar, the huge orange cat who had previously ruled the bed-and-breakfast as official greeter, and who finally deemed Benson acceptable to stay at the Inn.
"She's not going to hurt you," Sally said softly, reaching down to pat the hesitant puppy. "He's just kind of shy," she explained, straightening up and turning on the faucet so she could wash her hands. "Orly was the runt in the litter. I got him from one of our neighbors, and they were going to put him down because they thought they couldn’t sell him." She gave an angry tsk-tsk, then turned the faucet off. "Can you imagine? I only took him in because of that, but my cat doesn’t like him, and the other dogs here at the chateau are mean to him. He's constantly being badgered by them and once even was bitten, so he has to stay inside with me all the time. Poor little mite."
"That's terrible." Jennifer crouched down and softly whistled at the little puppy while holding out her hand in front of her. Orly looked at it, then looked up at Sally with his big, pensive eyes. After a moment, he slowly toddled out from behind Sally's legs and sniffed Jennifer's fingers, then accepted a head scratch, his eyes slowly closing in doggie bliss.
"He likes you," Sally said, smiling as she dried off her hands and pulled out a mixing bowl. "You know, I think dogs are the best judge of character there is, so you must be a good person."
Jennifer didn’t know what to say to that, so she continued to pet Orly. Finally, she said, "I have to admit, I hadn't expected to run into someone who spoke fluent English here at the chateau. My French is pretty bad, so I'm thrilled to have someone to talk to."
"Oh, I'm about as English as you can get, dearie," Sally said with a smile. "I'm from a little village called Titchfield, down in the south of England by Portsmouth. Ever heard of it?"
"I’m sorry, but I can't say that I have. Have you been here a long time?"
"About twelve years. The weather's better for my joints than in England, and the people are nice. When I ran out of money I wound up at Chateau Mersau.” She looked sideways at Jennifer. "Well, if your French isn't up to snuff you'll have an interesting time of it here. Some people speak a bit of English, and some don't speak a word. If you need some help, you come ask me and I'll be happy to translate.”
Orly apparently did like Jennifer. He gave a happy sigh and flopped down on the stone floor, rolling over onto his back and accepting Jennifer's tummy scratches. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth as he closed his eyes. If Jennifer had to bet, she'd say he was definitely smiling.
"Alrighty. Let's get you sorted. First things first. Room."
Jennifer shook her head, then gave Orly a last pet before standing up. "I appreciate it, but I'd like to get started with inventory right away, if you don't mind. No hurry about the room. I can put my stuff away later."
"Oh, that's fine," Sally said, looking surprised. "What do you know already about the chateau?"
Jennifer pulled out a sheet of paper from her briefcase and sat down at the long wooden table, spreading the page on the tabletop in front of her. "Let’s see. I know there are over 90 hectares of land here, mostly planted with grapes for wine production. I know the oldest section of the house was built almost seven hundred years ago, on the site of a church that had been abandoned after it had a fire. The property includes water rights to the river and also has two deep wells. I've got a basic layout for which buildings are for farming, barns and storage and such, and which are part of the house." She looked up at Sally. "I think I'd like to start with taking some photos of the outbuildings and fields, if that's all right. Maybe go out and walk around a bit."
"No worries," Sally said with a smile. "By the time you're done with that, it should be time for supper. Today is so warm I'm making gazpacho and grilled fish. We eat around eight, when it cools down a bit, and you’re welcome to come eat with us. Martin should be out in the barns, and his son Bernard speaks a bit of English, so check with them if you need anything."
"Will do," Jennifer slipped the paperwork back into her case, just as the cook picked up a ceramic pitcher and poured her a huge glass of water.
"It's hot already, dearie, so you may need this." She paused as Jennifer took the offered glass, then finally said, "Be careful out there. This place has all sorts of ghost and secrets, and I'm sure you don’t want to step in any holes, do you?"
"Holes?" The full glass hovered a couple of inches from Jennifer's lips as she waited for an answer from Sally.
"Oh, you never know what sort of trouble someone can step into at a place like Chateau Mersau," the cook said, an odd expression on her face before she turned and climbed a narrow stone stairway by the fireplace, supposedly off to fix up a room so Jennifer could stay.
Chapter 3
Within half an hour of walking around the property, Jennifer was already regretting wearing business clothes and carrying a clipboard and shoulder bag. She hadn't really needed the clipboard, but it made a good prop for her snooping, and she wrote things down as she walked around outside. The heat rippled across the tops of the grapevines, giving the occasional breeze the scent of sunbaked dirt and nearly ripe fruit, chicken manure, and a slow-moving river nearby.
From what she could see, even from such a cursory look around, the house and its buildings may have been terribly neglected, but the vines definitely were not. There wasn't a weed in sight or a single stray vine that was allowed to grow in the wrong place. The dark dirt between the rows was raked and groomed with the sort of attention that made it appear nearly perfect, as though even a random bug or footprint wasn't welcome on such beloved plants. Every wire and every wooden post made an absolutely parallel structure for the carefully pruned vines to grow on, and the water spigots at the end of every third row had bright, new faucets. It was in stark contrast to what she'd seen in the courtyard, with its neglected wall and peeling plaster.
Jennifer walked back toward the house, pondering all she'd seen, and trying to figure out what
information Gable would need to give him the best opportunity to buy the chateau. If he was looking for a private setting for exclusive guests the land was perfect, quiet and remote, with enough old-world grace that she could see the potential. She had no idea how much money Gable was willing to sink into the property, but it was going to have to be substantial to repair the damage years of neglect had done to the place.
Just outside the wall near the vineyard was a row of tidy white boxes, lined up under an olive tree that offered a bit of shade. Jennifer gave them a wide berth, recognizing them as beehives. Honeybees were normally pretty calm and would only sting if threatened, but she knew better than to get too close. Last spring, she'd been walking barefoot in the back lawn of the Ravenwood Cove Inn and had accidentally stepped on a honeybee who was working in the white clover. The resulting sting was the natural reaction of the bee to try to protect itself from being crushed, and she knew that, but it still hurt like the dickens and had taken a couple of days for the painful swelling in her foot to subside.
Walking the long way around to the main gate, she stopped to take a few pictures of the exterior of the largest barn, a full three stories of stone and heavy beams, probably built a couple of hundred years ago.
"Horrible, isn't it?"
The accented voice behind her was unexpected and full of frustration, and Jennifer instantly pivoted, hands raised and at the ready in case she needed to defend herself.
In front of her was a stout man with huge eyebrows and a thick gray mustache, carefully groomed and folded under. He chewed on a corner of it, then said. "The house, I mean. Horrible, non? What has happened to it?"
Jennifer stepped back a bit, trying to slow her heartbeat and calm herself after being so startled by the man creeping up on her. Looking around, she could see he must’ve come around the corner, probably from the fields, just as she had walked by the heavy stone pillar on the edge of the courtyard.
"Um, it could use some work." That’s the understatement of the year, she thought.
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