by Katie Penryn
I picked up my tea and blew on it.
“You know what day it is?” I asked him.
“September the first. Your father’s birthday.”
I took a sip of my tea but it was still too hot so I put the mug down again. “You’ll think me daft, but I’m going to sing Happy Birthday to him. I know he’s been reported missing, presumed dead, but they haven’t found his body. There’s a one per cent chance he’s still alive somewhere.”
Felix sat down on the side of my bed and took my hand in his.
“If you want to keep the hope alive, you must do so, but remember, if he’s been eaten by cannibals they will never find his body.”
I shook his hand away.
“Don’t be so negative, Felix, or so gruesome.”
“I’m being realistic. You don’t know what life is like in the territory where the Wazini hold sway.”
My father was or had been, depending on whether he was alive or not, a world famous anthropologist conducting research into the fearsome Leopardmen of the Middle Congo. My two brothers, eighteen-year-old Sam and nine-year-old Jimbo, and I had inherited his property in the French seaside town of Beaucoup-sur-mer.
Felix was my bodyguard, sent over from Africa, by my father. He had arrived as a Savannah cat but had frightened the life out of me one evening when he shifted into his man form. Not only that, he could shift to being a leopard, too. That ability had come in handy several times during the past few weeks as we’d solved three separate murder cases together.
I scooted back against the pillows and sat with my legs crossed. “I’m singing Happy Birthday, anyway. I’ve done that every year and I don’t see why I should stop because there’s a rumor he’s dead.”
“He’s been officially pronounced deceased, boss.”
“I don’t feel that he is. Now, are you going to join me or what?”
“All right. One, two, three—”
We began to sing. My voice quavered but gathered strength as Felix’s baritone bolstered me up and we reached the end of the first line.
“Happy birthday to y—”
A scratching and banging at the door broke into our ditty. Felix opened the door to find Zig and Zag, our two German shepherds, asking to be let in. With a great clacking of their claws on the old oak floor they launched themselves onto my bed.
“What’s going on?” Zag asked. “It sounds exciting.”
“We’re singing Happy Birthday to my father,” I answered.
Zig halted in her hunt for a flea on her right haunch and looked up at me. “We never met him. But we’ll sing if you like. It seems important to you.”
Sam and Jimbo appeared in the doorway.
“Can anyone join in?” Sam asked as Jimbo pushed past him and jumped onto my bed making the dogs bounce.
“What’s all the fun about?” asked Jimbo when the dogs stopped licking him long enough to give him a chance to speak.
“It’s Dad’s birthday,” I said. “Felix and I are singing Happy Birthday to him.”
Jimbo’s eyes started out of his head. “He’s alive?”
“Of course, he isn’t, silly,” said Sam giving his younger brother a push and nearly knocking him off the bed.
“He might be,” I said.
Gwinny, our long lost and recently rediscovered mother, looked in.
I caught her eye and smiled a welcome, but she shook her head and retreated.
“Everyone ready then?” I asked holding my hand up for silence. “Count us in, Felix.”
“One, two, three—” said Felix, and we four sang our hearts out while Zig and Zag howled in harmony.
It was just as well our house was the last one in the street, right on the end looking out over the perfect horseshoe bay and that the brocante, our antiques shop, stood between us and the next house.
Happy Birthday is always too short leaving one with a feeling of anti-climax so we sang a reprise twice before collapsing in a heap of cuddles and giggles on my bed. Even Sam forgot his teenager’s dignity for a few minutes and joined in.
When everyone had settled down, I reached for my tea only to find it was stone cold. Felix picked it up and said he would warm it up in the microwave. He knows me well enough by now to know that I can’t face the day before I’ve had my morning tea. He shooed the boys and the dogs out of my room and disappeared downstairs to the kitchen.
My thoughts returned to my father and that led me on to my great-grandfather. One of the reasons my father had bought our house Les Dragons was that my great-grandfather had been an advisor to the French Resistance in the Bordeaux area during World War Two. The first of September had been an important date in that war. It marked Germany’s invasion of Poland and that lit the fuse for the war in Western Europe.
“Why are you looking so glum?” asked Felix as he returned with my tea.
I gave myself a shake. “Nothing much.”
“You’re not feeling blue again?” he asked me.
“Only a little—with my father gone.”
Felix put my tea down and opened the shutters letting in the sun.
I smiled at him. “But then again, how could anyone be blue on a day like this?”
We drank our tea in an atmosphere of peaceful companionship until a ruckus broke out below. The dogs barked frenetically. Felix looked out and down to the cobbled street.
“It’s Izzy,” he said, “in her bright red sports car. And here’s Garth following along behind in his capacity as bodyguard.”
“Oh good,” I said jumping out of bed. “We haven’t had a chat for ages.”
Izzy was Isabella Tointon, world famous movie star. She and her equally famous husband had bought a château a few miles up the coast, Château Briand. Her husband was away filming in Los Angeles until Christmas. Izzy had stayed behind to oversee the renovation of their new home. We’d met up briefly a few days before at midnight when Felix and I had summoned the High Council of the Guild of White Witches at a dolmen north of Château Briand. Izzy, not being supernatural, didn’t know I was a white witch or what we’d been doing there on a dolmen close to her property. We all liked Izzy who never threw her fame in our faces.
“I wonder what she wants,” I said to Felix as I hurried into my bathroom to wash and get dressed.
“Probably wants some girl time,” he said, picking up my mug and leaving the room.
*
When I walked into the kitchen Izzy and Garth were sitting around our kitchen table drinking coffee. Izzy was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen with long blond hair and blue eyes and the sylphlike figure required by an A-list star. Garth had been in the British Special Forces although he had never specified which one. He was devoted to Izzy in a Platonic fashion. He wore his hair en brosse, a tad longer than a crew cut, and he had the muscles to back up his profession. He called Izzy boss. Felix had picked up his irritating habit of calling me boss from Garth.
Izzy looked up with a smile at my entrance. “Hope you don’t mind us dropping in so early. We’ve brought lunch for everyone to celebrate the start of the season.”
She waved her hand at an oddly shaped wooden basket standing on the kitchen counter beside a brown paper bag and a brown cardboard box.
I walked over to have a look. The box held six bottles of wine. I drew one out to read the label. It was already chilled. Muscadet — one of the traditional dry white wines for drinking with seafood. And in the bag, dozens of lemons.
“Oysters,” I said in a tone of marvel when I saw the shells through the slats in the basket. “You’ve brought us oysters. Of course, it’s the first of September. The first day of the first month of autumn, a month with an r in it.”
Izzy laughed. “I couldn’t resist. I only eat oysters when there’s an r in the month. I know people say it’s safe during May to August, but I’ve never been convinced. Those are straight off the barrow at the end of the Esplanade.” She pointed at the basket.
“How many did you buy? There are loads here.”
Garth broke in. “Izzy insisted on buying a whole bourriche—that’s twelve dozen.”
“Twelve dozen,” I gasped. “How are we going to eat all that?”
“I thought we could invite Audrey to join us when she shuts The Union Jack for lunch. And Sam could invite Emmanuelle.” She was the eighteen-year-old daughter of the mayor, Monsieur Bonhomie. Although she and Sam were not officially boyfriend and girlfriend, they hung out together. “With eight adults and three kids, we’ll get through them in no time.”
Sam nodded and left the kitchen to call his friend from the hall.
The Union Jack was a shop facing the end of our street. It catered for British residents and holidaymakers who were missing their traditional treats like Bath Olivers or Marmite. We had given a home to Audrey when she ran away from her abusive husband with her two children, Wilfred and Simone, and had recently set her up as a shopkeeper.
Gwinny topped up the coffee cups.
“We can set up a table for lunch outside on the cobbles,” she said.
“We haven’t had breakfast yet. Jimbo hasn’t come back from his croissant run to Brioche’s bakery.”
“He won’t be long. He was entering the shop as we drove past,” said Garth.
“There’s a problem,” I said. “I’ve never shucked an oyster in my life and I gather there’s quite a knack to it. Can any of you?”
Felix shook his head.
“Not me,” said Gwinny.
“Don’t look at me,” Izzy said smoothing her hair back from her face.
“Being local girls, Audrey and Emmanuelle will know how,” said Sam coming back into the kitchen.
“We can’t invite them to lunch and then expect them to shuck 144 oysters,” I said giving Sam my best big sister’s glare.
Only one person hadn’t spoken: Garth. We’d all been so busy excusing ourselves we hadn’t given him a chance.
“Garth?” asked Izzy.
He pushed himself off from the kitchen sink. “Well, I might as well admit it. In the Special Forces we had to learn how to shuck oysters and other mollusks for living off the land and sea. And we did it with our commando knives. It’s much easier with an oyster knife. Izzy bought two off the oyster man. They’re in the bag with the lemons.”
Gwinny opened a drawer and pulled one out. “That makes three.”
“Right,” said Garth. “I’ll teach Sam and one other. Who’ll it be? I’m not shucking twelve dozen all on my own.”
Jimbo came slamming through the front door with the croissants at that moment.
“Oh, please let me,” he said putting the bag of croissants down on the table and making us all swoon from the aroma of fresh buttery baking.
Garth ruffled Jimbo’s copper hair, something Jimbo hates. “Sorry, mate, you’re not old enough yet. We don’t want any nasty accidents.”
“Of course, I’ll volunteer,” said Felix. “That’ll make four dozen each. That’s doable.”
Gwinny was still rummaging about in the drawer. “I thought we had another one. Oh, here it is.” She said brandishing it aloft.
“I’d like to try,” I said. “It can’t be that difficult.”
“It’s a knack,” said Garth. “Once you’ve got it, you’ll be fine.”
“Breakfast first,” I said helping myself to a croissant and forgetting about my figure.
As soon as we’d eaten, Garth showed us how to wrap a tea towel around the hand that was going to hold the oyster.
“It protects your hand and soaks up any juice that comes out when you open the poor critter,” he said.
Felix and Sam got the hang of it straight away but I was hopeless. I couldn’t get the twist right and kept flicking off pieces of shell. Felix had to take over my failures and finish the job.
I was determined to get it right and watched Garth carefully as he shucked his tenth. He made it look so easy. I chose another one and dug the knife into the side and twisted and lo-and-behold the top shell came off and there inside the oyster lay a pearl, a real pearl. I was so astonished my mouth fell open and I couldn’t speak.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gwinny. “Have you cut yourself?”
With a slow beat of my eyelashes I held out the shell for everyone to see. As they crowded round to look I dropped the knife onto the table. The pearl lay glistening in the oyster juices. I touched it with my finger to see if it was real and it rolled out of the shell and onto the table.
Quick as a flash Felix caught it before it rolled off the table and held it up for everyone to see, rolling it round between his finger and thumb.
“Wow. You’ve found a pearl,” said Jimbo. “A real pearl. Can I touch it?”
Felix dropped the pearl into Jimbo’s palm.
Garth peered down at it as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Penzi, have you any idea how rare that is? A pearl in an oyster farmed for eating?”
I shook my head, but was sure it must be one in a trillion.
Izzy placed her hand beneath Jimbo’s saying, “Let me have a go.”
She rolled it about on her palm. “It’s amazing. It’s almost perfect and has a wonderful sheen.”
Gwinny scrunched up some kitchen towel, put it in a cup and passed it to Izzy. Izzy laid the pearl down in the roughly fashioned bed.
“You know,” she said. “It might be a good idea to visit one of the oyster farms in the neighborhood. Darennes, the oyster farming area, is only twenty miles up the coast. We could take this pearl along and ask about its life.”
Felix turned his attention to the wooden basket and detached the label from the side. “How about going to the farm the pearl came from? Éts. Frères Marin?” He whispered in an aside to Jimbo, “That’s Marin Brothers, Jimbo.”
Jimbo couldn’t speak French yet.
“Great idea,” said Izzy. “When shall we ask to visit?”
I was about to say tomorrow when Jimbo reminded me we had an appointment with the headmistress of his new primary school the next day.
“It’ll have to be the day after tomorrow,” I said. “Saturday.”
Felix left the kitchen to make the call taking the label with him. We other three oyster shuckers carried on with our work. I must have been overexcited because before I knew what had happened, blood poured from the soft pad below my thumb. The oyster knife had glanced off the shell and stuck itself deep into my palm.
“Ouch,” I shrieked dropping the knife and oyster onto the table and sucking the wound.
“Oh dear, first casualty,” said Gwinny hurrying me to the sink to wash my hand.
Garth picked up my oyster and chucked it in the bin.
Felix came back to find everyone fussing around me. Ridiculous really. Gwinny soon had the cut disinfected and bound up. I have to confess I wasn’t sorry to be taken off the oyster detail.
“So?” Izzy asked Felix.
“Monsieur Marin says Saturday’s fine. If we arrive at 10.30, he’ll show us around and we can have lunch there. Oysters, of course.”
I hope you enjoyed this snippet.
*****
If you would like to follow along with Penzi and Felix in their next three mystery adventures, the second box set (Books 4 to 6) is on pre-order for release on 9th July 2019. You can pre-order it here:
The Witch Who Mysteries 4 to 6 : Box Set
here are the links:
USA UK
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GLOSSARY
French words and expressions:
absolument – absolutely
mes amis – my friends
amour propre – lit. self-love, used in English, self-respect
la bavette – a thin cheaper steak, skirt
bonne idée – that’s a good idea
bonsoir – good evening
BB – Brigitte Bardot, a beloved and sexy French filmstar of the ‘50s and ‘60s
une broca
nte – something between an antiques shop and a bric-à-brac shop
une casse-croûte – a snack, literally “break-crust”, meaning a piece broken off a loaf of bread
ça suffit! – that’s enough!
le cafard – lit. cockroach, the French for the blues (misery not music!)
le cantonnier – the gardener, general handyman of a village – from the word “canton” – several communes make up one canton.
Combien? – how much?
une commune – is a level of administrative division in the French Republic. French communes are analogous to civil townships and incorporated municipalities in the United States. The United Kingdom has no exact equivalent, as communes resemble districts in urban areas, but are closer to parishes in rural areas where districts are much larger. Communes are based on historical geographic communities or villages and have received significant powers of governance to manage the populations and land of the geographic area covered. The communes are the fourth-level administrative divisions of France. Each commune has a mayor.
“Dames” – ladies’ cloakroom/bathroom
déjà-vu – used in English, means “already seen”
un demi – lit. a half, used for drinks especially beer/lager meaning half a liter
deux-chevaux – lit. two-horses, a little French car Citroën with two h.p.
les dragons – the dragons
faisant les cents pas – lit. doing a hundred steps, pacing up and down
en famille – used in English; to do something as a family, together
et alors? – what next ? So ?
épuisé(e) - exhausted
la farine – flour
un gendarme – see item below, a policeman who has a military background
la gendarmerie – the station were the gendarmes hang out, roughly speaking like a police station, but the gendarmes are not policemen as such. The Gendarmerie Nationale is part of the French armed forces. It has the primary responsibility for policing smaller towns and rural areas, as well as the armed forces and military installations, airport security and shipping ports. Being a military force, the gendarmerie has a highly centralized organization structure. It is under the control of both the Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of the Interior (as far as its civil duties are concerned).
