by Blake Pierce
One at a time, the Rebers nodded. The woman opened her mouth to speak again, but Adele quickly beat her to it.
“Right, and how well did you know Ms. Gueyen?” She turned to Mrs. Reber. “You said you were quite fond of her.”
“Of course, dearie,” said the woman, still clacking her long red fingernails against the table. “We’re like a family here, after all. Little Ms. Gueyen was like a daughter to me.”
Adele hesitated. “Apologies, but she was in her mid-twenties. As lovely as you are, I can’t imagine you’re much older than late thirties, no?”
The woman began to laugh, a short, baying, barking sound like a horse in heat. Adele pressed her lips firmly together, trying to pass her grimace as a thin smile.
Mrs. Reber reached out across the table, trying to press a hand against Adele’s, but Adele kept her own hands folded in her lap, waiting patiently. “What a dear you are,” declared the woman, pulling her hand back when it wasn’t received. “I am nearly forty-two… Though, I’m known to keep up with the younger crowd,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at John. “If you know what I mean.”
Mr. Reber Jr. looked to his wife, frowning. “What do you mean, Margaretta?”
She waved a hand airily as if clearing an odor. “Just a little joke, Paulo—just a joke.”
Adele felt exhausted already with the exchange, and only a few moments had passed. She intentionally turned her body to face the younger Mr. Reber. His father still seemed out of it, looking over the tables, through the windows at the vineyard beyond. But the younger man seemed to be listening attentively.
“What can you tell me about Ms. Gueyen?”
“Hopefully not too much!” Mrs. Reber chortled.
This time, everyone ignored her. Mr. Reber said, “She’d only been with us for a year. Decent at her job, from what I hear. One of our older sommeliers had some complaints. But nothing that couldn’t be taught.”
“And this older employee—he wasn’t fond of her?” said John, ratcheting up his eyebrows.
But Mr. Reber shook his head. “Oh, no—nothing like that. Andre is a good friend of the family. Can be a bit critical, if you let him have his way. But he’s harmless, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Agent Renee nodded. “And Ms. Gueyen—can you think of anyone else who might have disliked her? Any complaints? Any comments from employees about enemies in her personal life?”
Mr. Reber sighed and shrugged. “Can’t help you much there. I don’t pay too much attention to the personal lives of my employees.”
“Hang on, darling,” said Mrs. Reber. She placed a hand against her husband’s arm as if to hold him back. She said, “What about the complaint she filed? The one Andre told us about? The nasty little man who was harassing her.”
Mr. Reber hesitated, then conceded with a nod. “I suppose perhaps.” He looked from John to Adele. “Sometimes Ms. Gueyen would have customers make a pass at her. Part of the job, I’m afraid in this region at her age. I’m not excusing it—but it is the way of things.”
John glanced at Adele, but she gave the faintest shake of her head. Inwardly, she considered Mr. Reber’s words, but shelved the information as useless. A tipsy customer hitting on a sommelier didn’t fit the MO. The killer was calculating, clever. Charming enough to gain Ms. Gueyen’s trust before sedating her. No, this wasn’t some drunken fool. Nor was it a crime of revenge or passion. The killer had struck in the Ahr region of Germany, and now in Bordeaux in France. They were looking for a practiced murderer, not a passionate buffoon.
After a few more questions, Adele flashed a look to John, which he returned. Slowly, politely, they began to extricate themselves from the situation, pushing up from the table and bidding their farewells.
Then, in lockstep, they left the co-owners of the vineyard behind them and moved back through the door, out into the afternoon now fading to evening and to the waiting car.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After dinner in the region and a taxi ride to the nearest motel, Adele was beginning to feel the weight of the day descend on her shoulders. It came in a sort of quiet prickle at first, somewhere near the base of her neck, then spreading to her spine. She winced, rolling her shoulders and shutting her eyes as John slid the keycard in the door.
She watched him, lowering her hand from massaging her neck and extending the same hand toward him expectantly.
He looked at her hand, then up at her, then back to her hand, then gave her a high five.
“No,” she snapped, “my keycard, where is it?”
John paused, his mouth half open. He glanced at the card he’d just used, toward the open door on the second floor of the small motel, then back to her. A couple of tasteful pieces of simple art hung above a chocolate-wooden divider lining the hall. The carpet was surprisingly clean and the air smelled a bit of disinfectant—which, in Adele’s estimation, was a significant improvement on most motels she stayed in for work.
John winced.
She stared. “You’re joking—you only booked one room?”
He coughed delicately, then glanced over his shoulder again. “I thought…” he said, trailing off.
“I’m taking the bed,” she said, firmly. “I hope you know that—I’m taking the bed!” Then she marched past him, into the room, snatched the keycard from his hand, and shut the door behind her, slamming it in his face.
She stood in the small motel room, glancing around. She spotted the side door leading off into a bathroom, a closed window with open blinds peering out into the street flickering with headlights. She heard a quiet tapping on the door.
“It was an honest mistake!” the voice called.
“Bite me,” she retorted.
A pause. “If you’d like.”
Adele rolled her eyes. “You just can’t resist, can you? And there I was, about to open the door and everything. Hope that hallway is comfy!”
A more insistent tapping on the door. “Adele, there are two beds! I made sure.”
She glanced back at the room, noting that at least on this count he’d been right. Then, rolling her eyes and turning, she opened the door and allowed her partner to enter the room, sidling past her with the quick, coy movements of an alley cat. He winked at her as he did, and said, “My feet are very warm—don’t worry.”
Adele glared as he moved over to one of the beds, placing his laptop case and a small backpack next to the nightstand, and flopping onto the mattress.
“John, if I’m given any evidence as to the temperature of your feet tonight, I’ll put a bullet in both of them, understand?”
For a moment, he just grinned at her, but something in her tone and gaze seemed to give him pause, because his shit-eating grin faded to a docile look of supplication and he nodded quickly, crossing his finger over his heart and extending the smallest digit. “Pinky swear,” he said. “This was all a misunderstanding. If you’d like, I could go downstairs and see if they have a second room.”
For a moment, Adele was tempted to make him do just that, if only to inconvenience him a bit, but then the sheer weight of the day settled on her again, and once more she reached up to rub her neck. She shook her head, sighing softly as she approached the bed and flopped onto the vacant mattress.
Adele heard the sound of an opening fridge door, and saw a sliver of orange light stretch across the length of John’s outfit as he fiddled with the mini-fridge next to his bed. He withdrew a couple of small containers which, in Adele’s experience, were always overpriced and under-proofed.
He wiggled one of the small containers toward her. “I’m a sommelier too,” he said. “Want me to give you the tour of our fine collection?”
“John, you’re an alcoholic; there’s a difference.”
In response, he popped the lid on one of the small containers and downed the contents, emitting a sigh of contentment. “Words hurt,” he added, before peeling off the top of the second container and gulping it in one swallow as well.
Adele leaned back, c
losing her eyes, still in her suit and shoes. Slowly, with sluggish motions, she kicked off her shoes, knocking them onto the ground over the edge of the bed. She watched as John downed a third bottle—likely doubling the price of the room by this point.
“John,” she said, groaning, “I need you coherent for tomorrow.”
“I’m always cohea-rain,” John said, fake-slurring his words and adding a hiccup for good measure.
She sighed. “The real tragedy,” she said, “is that you think you’re funny. Could you at least hit the lights?”
“Anything for you, American Princess.”
Her eyes were still closed, but she heard the sound of John hopping off his bed and taking long strides toward the other side of the room. Then the lights dimmed, and Adele was left curled in her bed, facing the large window through which streetlights still buzzed. To her surprise and appreciation, John moved over to the window as well, without being asked, and lowered the blind.
“That good?” he asked, some of the humor from his tone having faded.
“Thanks,” she murmured, then pressed her cheek against the pillow, twisting until she was lying on her side.
“Ah, a side sleeper,” John speculated. “I should have known.”
“John,” she mumbled into her pillow.
“Yes, Adele?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Evening had conceded to night, and darkness stretched into its maturity. Thankfully, John was a quiet sleeper. Adele’s own mind worked restlessly, spinning thoughts keeping her awake for an hour, two… At last, muttering to herself, she went and retrieved one of the small bottles John had offered earlier. He’d left it out for her, on top of the fridge.
Tiptoeing around his bed, she moved back toward her own and tipped back the drink, wincing against the sudden bitter surge, but then flopping back into the bed. As she did, she glanced over, allowing her eyes to linger along John’s form. He’d switched into sleeping clothes at some point, and the soft fabric of a T-shirt outlined against his muscled body.
Through hooded eyes, she looked him up and down, faintly wondering if the motel room had a shower.
But she was simply too tired to think in this vein for too long, and eventually, the magical elixir found in the motel room’s mini-fridge did its work. Drowsiness gave way to sleep, and sleep to dreams…
…A cool hand holding hers. Quiet whispers of encouragement, murmuring, “You can do it, cara—I know you can. Don’t be afraid.”
Seven-year-old Adele stared at her mother, her eyes glazed in a thin film of tears.
Elise Romei, Sharp at the time, smiled sweetly at her young daughter, one hand gently pressed against her shoulder. “Do you not like the swimsuit?” she said, softly. “We can get you another if you’d like.”
Young Adele just shook her head, sobbing quietly. She could feel the other children in the swimming class looking at her, and she could feel the instructors watching too. But it didn’t matter. None of them understood. They wanted to throw her in that horrible pool. It was so deep, and scary, and smelled funny.
Adele hid her face in her mother’s shoulder, still crying.
Elise stroked her daughter’s hair, whispering softly into her ear. “You’re so brave, my cara. You’re so brave. You’re one of the bravest people I know.”
“I’m not brave,” Adele said, through hiccups. Her voice cracked.
“But you are,” said Elise. “Because I can see that you’re scared. And yet you’re still here. You haven’t asked me to take you home. Do you want to go home?”
This was far too big a question for Adele to answer. She simply clung to her mother, still sobbing.
“You want me to let you in on a little secret, darling?”
Adele’s head shifted up and down against where it pressed to her mother’s shirt and cheek, making the soft scratching sound of hair on fabric.
“I get scared sometimes too. Very scared. Do you know what I do?”
Adele shook her head.
“Would you like to know? It’s a secret, but I think I can trust you.”
Little Adele could still feel the eyes in the swimming area fixed on her. She didn’t want to be on the swimming team anymore. It seemed like a good idea when she’d signed up, but now she was having second thoughts. Her father wanted her to be in a sport. But Adele didn’t like the water. She didn’t like the smell of it, and she didn’t like the way the other children all splashed around, pushing water into her eyes and nose. It stung, and she hated it.
“What secret?” said Adele.
Her mother’s hand still stroked her hair, cool against her forehead, and Elise leaned in, kissing her. “When I’m scared, I think of you.”
At this, Adele pushed away from her mother, looking through her tear-stained eyes. She wiped at her bleary vision and wrinkled her nose in confusion. “I scare you?”
Elise laughed. “No, but I think of you when I’m scared. Because you make me brave.”
“How do I make you brave?”
Elise smiled at her daughter, affection emanating from her gaze. “Because when I think of you, I remember that there is good in the world. I remember that something makes it worthwhile. And I remember just how much I love you. Perfect love casts out fear. Something your father says. I think he heard it from a radio preacher once.” Elise chuckled. “Whatever the case, when I love you, when I think of you, I don’t feel so scared.”
Adele tilted her head to the side just a bit, still looking at her mother. “I’m still scared.”
Elise nodded. “I understand. Sometimes I can’t stop being scared either. But it doesn’t stay like this. I promise you. It doesn’t stay like this.”
The dream flitted across Adele’s mind, coming in bursts and spurts and images and memories, flooding her senses. It felt like she was actually there, like she could actually smell the chlorine in the air, like she could actually feel the hot shame against her back as the others stared at her. Like she could actually feel the warmth emanating from her mother, reaching out to meet the cold of the pool air. She remembered the day, and remembered turning back and eventually trying to get in the pool. That day, she had only managed to put a foot in the water. She hadn’t swum, and she hadn’t even gotten in completely. But in the evening, her mother had taken her out for ice cream to celebrate. By the end of the week, Adele had tested the deep end. By the end of the month, she’d swum her first lap, and by the end of high school, she had swum competitively, winning medals for her school.
Adele smiled at the memory. Perfect love casts out fear. She wondered if her mother remembered Adele the last time she’d been afraid. Had that been her final thought, before she been taken from this world?
The scene shifted. Adele’s eyes clenched, and she knew she was still sleeping, yet somehow, it felt different. She glimpsed tapping, dripping needles of scarlet. Blood, rolling down a path in the park. Grass stained with crimson, an outstretched hand reaching toward the roots of a tree on the side of the road. Fingers missing. A patchwork of scars, and deep gouging cuts all up and down her mother’s body. Naked, abandoned, tortured to death.
Bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding.
Perfect love casts out fear.
Fear, perhaps, but the banishment didn’t seem to work as well on serial killers.
And all that was left was a husk—a fleshy mass, a carved up piece of meat left in a ditch for Adele to recover.
I think of you.
Bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding.
I think of you.
***
Morning came, and with it some reprieve from the night terrors. Adele woke, glazed in sweat, finding her blankets bunched between her legs, one of the sheets wrapped in a twisting knot around an ankle, suggesting perhaps she’d tossed and turned in the night.
She breathed softly and opened her eyes, staring at the popcorn ceiling of the motel room, confronted a moment later by the pungent fragrance of cheap coffee which prompted a shiver of anticipation.
<
br /> “Make me some?” she called into the morning.
“Already did,” John replied. “Just keeping it warm.”
She didn’t quite smile, but was at least tempted to. She pushed out of the bed, wrinkling her nose at the creases in her outfit. She should have changed into sleeping clothes, but she’d been too exhausted from the previous day’s events.
Sighing, and smoothing her suit, she moved over to the small table where John was sitting, a steaming mug in one hand.
“You hung over?” she asked.
He snorted. “Takes more than a couple of droplets to topple this tower.”
Adele looked at him, then turned, deciding she’d rather figure out the coffee pot than Agent Renee. Sunlight dripped through the now lifted blinds, stippling her bed and the floor. John had his laptop open and was humming to himself as he scrolled through the page.
Adele sat across from him, taking a long, heavenly sip from the cheap motel-room brew.
“Anything?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
John looked at her, quirked an eyebrow. “Sleep well?” he asked, innocently.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, all humor drained from her voice like life-blood.
John seemed to know better than to press. He waved his fingers toward the screen. “I’ve been trying to find a link between our victims. I think I might have it.”
Adele took another sip, nearly searing her lips, but endeavoring to swallow all the same, refusing to be outdone by the beverage. “Yeah?” she said. “That’s good news.”
“Hopefully,” he replied. He turned the computer screen so she could see. The picture displayed an old, out-of-date website with a banner depicting a cluster of grapes.
“What is it?” she said.
“The farmer—the victim in Germany. Kristof Schmidt. He grew grapes,” John said, with a significant tilt of his eyebrows.
Adele now looked at him over her steaming cup and nodded slowly. “Wine, then,” she said. “That’s the connection. Has to be. Wine.”
“A sommelier dead in France, a grape-grower dead in Germany,” John said, shrugging. “A coincidence? Perhaps. But I dug a bit deeper.”
