Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  Glancing at her watch, Merle saw she had ten minutes before the meeting with her replacement. The lawyer was eager and bright and had excellent people skills, according to all his recommendations, a real social animal. All things, Merle realized, she lacked. Youth, no more. Energy and excitement— nope. Social animal? She was holing up to follow her imagination down a rabbit hole. Was it time to give her job to someone who actually enjoyed it?

  With a sigh she stood up, stuffed the Society NYC magazine into her purse so no one would see it, and stepped onto the sidewalk into the afternoon sunshine.

  Her last New York afternoon for awhile. What possessed Lillian to offer her the job she obviously loved so much? Would she really retire? Could it be she, Merle, was like Lillian: driven, cold, and obsessed with a hard agenda that stopped for no man or woman? Who used a non-profit job benefiting the underprivileged as a cover for unbridled ambition?

  Merle blinked, stunned by her own question. Was she that sort of person? Cold and unfeeling? Hiding under the guise of a do-gooder? The fact that she couldn’t answer that question made her wary. Maybe deep down she was lacking in some way. Her marriage had been a sham, a source of sorrow. Could France fix whatever she lacked? Was it the drug she needed to make herself whole, to make her warm, to make her human?

  Nothing would help Lillian Warshowski; she would never change. But Merle still had a chance to be a better person, to love deeply, to open like a rose in the golden French sunshine. France would heal her.

  But would she ever work in this town again?

  Two

  Paris

  The teenager was groaning again.

  It was almost a week since her last day of work in the City. Merle Bennett felt energized and alive in this town, Paris, the City of Light. It felt so natural, so right, to be back in France. Despite the summer heat and the constant drag of a seventeen-year-old, she was here, in France, where miracles can happen to your soul.

  She hadn’t given Lillian Warshowski an answer to the promotion offer. They’d left it hanging that last day, with polite hugs and good wishes for the future. The fact that the lawyer replacing her at Legal Aid was a strapping young man who flirted mercilessly with Lillian was a blessing. It made leaving much easier.

  Taking a leave of absence from work would be a joyous, freewheeling time for most people, and Merle felt that too. But her sense of duty and responsibility weighed heavily on her shoulders, especially as a single parent now, making the pleasure fleeting. The last details of closing up the house in Connecticut, doing paperwork for Tristan’s college, setting up everything to run like clockwork while she was absent; It was a headache that left her sleepless. That is until she got on that airplane.

  It took one day in Paris to forget all that. Her list of must-sees was long because of research. Things she wanted to see up close, even if she never used them in the novel. The days had been full, and this was the end of the third and final day. So naturally the teenager was dragging his feet.

  Merle Bennett stared up at the medieval building, situated next to the Seine, with newer Renaissance parts, slate turrets that glistened in the aftermath of the morning shower. The oldest part of Paris, smack in the middle of the river. Tristan was sitting on the wall along the riverbank, head in his hands.

  “Not another museum. Please, Mom. You’re killing me.”

  “Have you seen this one? The Conciergerie?”

  He didn’t look up. “Probably. Aunt Stasia took us to six every day.”

  Merle hadn’t been in Paris that time—she’d been ordered to stay in Malcouziac by the police— but she remembered marveling at the ambitious nature of Stasia’s sightseeing. And here she was, doing the same thing.

  “This is the last one. I promise.” She got out her museum passes and touched his shoulder. “You enjoyed the Hall of Mirrors and those gardens at Versailles, didn’t you? This is much smaller. Tiny in comparison. Then after, it’s that famous ice cream place. It’s close by.”

  He stood up slowly, unfolding his tall frame until she stood in his shadow. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Bribed by the promise of cool treats he entered the old building. Merle wanted to see this museum, rather obscure by Paris standards, because it was one of the few remaining buildings where events of the French Revolution took place. The Bastille was gone, torn down soon after the mobs stormed it in 1792. Versailles was all about the royals, not the revolutionaries. They had wandered around the Marais district, looking for the location of the Temple, a medieval fortress built by the Knights Templar that was used as a prison during the Revolution. Not a speck of it was to be found, torn down centuries before.

  Also, it had rained.

  At least today was sunny. Until they stepped inside the Guards Hall of the Conciergerie, an enormous, shadowy room with fancy gothic ceiling arches like hot air balloons suspended from the sky. It echoed, eerie and empty. Leaded glass windows lined the sides. Tristan said in a loud voice: “Another church?”

  “A prison. They called it Death’s Antechamber. Everyone who came here was sent on to the guillotine.”

  “Cool. Do they have one here?”

  They had a blade but no guillotine structure. The French had a complicated relationship with the humane beheading of their people. They hated the guillotine now even though it was used until the ‘70s. No more though. Out of sight, out of memory.

  It only took twenty minutes to see the dungeons of the Conciergerie and they were back on the quai, overlooking the river, hoofing it back down the Île de la Cité to find les glaces. With ice cream in hand, Tristan’s grimace lifted. “When is Pascal coming? If he is coming.”

  It was a good question. Before they left home, her boyfriend, if you can call a 40-something man a ‘boy,’ said he would show them around Paris. Then he bailed at the last minute. Merle had been texting him but he wasn’t answering. He’d gone completely silent.

  “I guess he’s working.” Pascal couldn’t talk about his undercover work. That had to be the reason. It couldn’t be that he’d gone cold on their relationship. Could it? Their affair— or whatever you called these things today— was so sporadic, a week here, then months would pass, then another week somewhere else.

  “Right,” Tristan sniffed. “So much for Pascal, huh?”

  Merle frowned at the pavement as they walked back across the bridge to their hotel in the Marais. Was it the end? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like Pascal was busy and couldn’t answer. But maybe she was deluding herself. They’d had some romantic times. That weekend in Brantôme for instance. She’d never forget that. But the excitement was hard to keep going across oceans.

  They were both professionals. He was a policeman attached to wine fraud. She was a lawyer attached to— what was she attached to? Her son, her job, her country? Her son at least. And he was going to college. He didn’t need her any more. She felt suddenly— again— bereft. And very alone. There were BIG LIFE THINGS happening that she was apparently not ready for.

  Tristan threw his free arm around her shoulders. “Sorry I’m such a grump.”

  He read her so well. “I’d probably be a grump if I had to play tourist with my mom, too. In fact, I was.” She’d come to France for the first time with all her sisters and her parents, the year she graduated from high school. Just like Tristan. But instead of seven squabbling relatives they were just two. Tristan’s father should have been here. Harry had been gone two years now. Sometimes, with Tristan, the loss was still fresh. Harry had missed so much, and Tristan, despite what he claimed, missed his father very much. “Did I ever tell you about that trip?”

  He nodded, licking melting ice cream. “You got lost at the Eiffel Tower.”

  He didn’t want to hear it again. “Have you thought any more about your major?”

  “You mean, am I going to do pre-law?”

  “No! Really, Tristan, don’t go into law. It’s boring, tedious, and soul-sucking. Unless you want to.”

  He laughed. “This family
. So transparent.”

  They were all lawyers, her grandfather, her father, all five sisters. The youngest generation was unformed as of yet. Merle secretly hoped none of them became lawyers. It was time for an engineer or an astronaut or a shoe salesman in the family. Anything.

  Their last dinner in Paris was a casual one: no fancy French food for Tristan. He wanted pizza on the sidewalk near the Centre de Pompidou and he got it. He laughed, as he always did, when the waiter asked “Gaz? No gaz?” and replied, please God no gas.

  “Did you ever call Valerie?” he asked with an edge in his voice, emboldened by his mother’s compliance to his whims.

  “I talked to her mother.” Valerie was Albert’s grand-niece. Albert was their neighbor in Malcouziac, a retired priest and teacher. Valerie and Tristan had a little summer fling last year. “She’s doing an internship in Brittany. Something about oysters.”

  “Oysters!” Tristan made a face. “The French are so weird about food.”

  “They’ll eat almost anything,” Merle agreed.

  The pizza arrived, looking bland and American.

  “You liked oysters at Christmas,” she reminded him. He shrugged, stuffing his mouth. “Did you know that lots of French people nearly died of starvation back in the sixteen and seventeen-hundreds? That was part of what started the French Revolution. There was a famine. The people were hungry but the nobles had plenty of rich food.”

  “Is that why they eat anything they can get their hands on, like horse meat? Ugh.”

  “Probably. Remember Marie Antoinette supposedly said: ‘Let them eat cake’? Wasn’t her. But somebody said it. The royals were not very in touch with the common people.”

  “So they chopped off her head?”

  Merle nodded. “The revolutionaries got a little carried away. They even sent the people who started the whole thing, their friends, to the guillotine.”

  “Geez.”

  “Lots of infighting in the first republic. Chaos, really. Everyone wanted the power, and they were willing to do almost anything for it.” She thought of Lillian then and her mention of ‘power,’ and how everyone wanted it. Maybe that could figure in her novel somehow. She pulled her notebook from her purse and scribbled out a few lines about the pursuit of power.

  Tristan set down his slice. “So what’s the deal with Pascal? He can’t even come see us? Will he even be around in Malcouziac? Because, no offense, mom. I may go home early if it’s just you and me the whole time.”

  She felt the stab in her chest. “No offense?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just… you know. No Valerie. No Pascal. I’ve seen everything there is to see in Malcouziac, right? What am I going to do there? And don’t tell me about your list of chores.”

  Merle dismissed the thing she was thinking of saying, about painting and sanding and patching. “You could try fencing again with Albert.”

  “No.”

  “You have books to read.” He had a long list of books for Freshman English loaded on his tablet.

  He rolled his eyes and ate more pizza.

  “All right.” Merle crumpled up her napkin. “If that’s the way you feel. You can go home whenever you want. I’m not going to lock you in the dungeon.”

  “Or cut off my head?”

  She gave him a half-smile. The verdict was still out.

  As she handed over her credit card to the waiter, her phone blipped. A text from Pascal— finally.

  So sorry, chérie. Buried in work. You arrive tomorrow in Bergerac, oui? I will pick you up. Tell me the time.

  She texted back when their train arrived, adding a heart like a silly girl. Her mood went from the dungeon to high in the tower. She smiled as she re-read the text.

  “Is it Pascal?” Tristan asked.

  She hesitated then turned the phone to him so he could read the text.

  He smiled, chewing as he scanned it. “So he hasn’t dumped you after all. Smart.”

  Three

  Languedoc, Southern France

  Pascal d’Onscon adjusted the floppy necktie, tucking it into his waistband to keep it out of the way. In the process, the ridiculous hat fell off, rolling in the dust of the vineyard rows. The sun beat down on his neck as he bent to retrieve it, smashing it down on his head. The Panama hat didn’t fit him any better than the necktie. But the assignment here was nearly done and the clothes had done their job.

  He wandered down the vines, inspecting them in case a field worker was watching. He’d asked the propriétaire if he could go out alone and look at the grapes. The owner of the vineyard was an elderly man of the old school. Still sharp, still working hard, but he was nearly ninety and half-blind which allowed others to do as they wished. Two sons, one grandson, and other scattered relatives all worked the vineyard, a vast sea of grapevines undulating over the mostly flat plain near the mouth of the Rhône River.

  Pascal figured he’d walked nearly two miles in the last hour, up and down the rows, over to the far section of Chardonnay vines far from the offices and caves. He was finishing his inspection, tasting a grape here and there for sweetness, and deciding where to go next when the grandson appeared, skidding to a stop in front of him.

  Antoine-Luc Gagne was breathless and appeared relieved to find Pascal. The policeman squinted at him, on alert if there was an emergency. “What is it?”

  The young man with sandy hair and a guileless expression gulped a breath. “Ah, there you are, sir. I’ve been up and down the rows.” Pascal waited for him to gather his wits. “My grandfather says you are to come in for refreshments when you are finished. Or—” He consulted a wrist watch. “Right now, if you please.”

  In his fictional role as a grape buyer for a large conglomerate, Pascal felt little need to please or cajole the proprietors of les vignobles like this one. He was an honored guest at the vineyard, a sudden new member of the clan, because of his supposedly fat wallet. The growers would be happy this year. It had been a good one and unless an early frost turned everything to ice wine, everyone would make a decent return. He wiped his brow as he followed young Antoine-Luc down the row toward the main tasting rooms. It was much too hot here to entertain the prospect of an early frost.

  So, if everyone was so happy, why was the wine fraud division of the Police nationale taking a close look at Domaine Bourboulenc? There had been talk among workers, wine agents, and other spies, that the Domaine was planting cheaper varieties of grapes, fast-growing ones, and switching them at the time they sold product to the high-end wineries like the Bandols and Châteauneuf-du-Papes. Simply sending the real Bourboulenc variety out of the AOC winemaking region was grounds for an investigation. The switching of varieties made the crime much more grave.

  So far Pascal hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. He could recognize many of the 50 or 60 varieties of grapes on sight. Others he needed photographs to take to headquarters for identification. This was his third day at the vineyard and it was beginning to look like a dead end. It was difficult to catch a switch of varieties under any conditions.

  His boots were no longer black but the color of the earth, filthy, chalky. He thrust his hands in his pockets as the boy got farther ahead. At the end of the row he waited for Pascal.

  “It will be a good harvest, yes?” Antoine-Luc asked affably.

  “Should be. But one never knows.” Pascal had seen more than a few good growing years ruined by thunderstorms, unseasonable heat, and other rogue events. Grape-growing was a mercurial business, depending on unknowable factors like weather patterns, thus the unsavory nature of criminal activity to make up for lost profits. When all the stars align, many fortunes are made. When they don’t, it is often disastrous.

  The tasting room of Domaine Bourboulenc was a disused, musty room lined with empty plastic jugs and centered with a rustic wooden table. A rock propped up one leg. A dirty glass pitcher sat at the downhill end. Antoine-Luc grabbed it.

  “This way. Into the kitchen,” he gestured toward a door in the ba
ck of the room. “We are very casual here.”

  Pascal followed him through the door into a darkened space with two grimy windows. He could make out an ancient range. An old refrigerator rattled in the corner. On the other side of the low-ceilinged room, three men stood around another wooden table, drinking wine and eating cheese and fruit. The grandfather and his two sons. They smiled at Pascal and waved him over, offering him a glass of red wine.

  The small talk around the table was strictly agricultural, giving Pascal no new data for his investigation. It wasn’t until Antoine-Luc escorted him to his car an hour later that Pascal got a glimmer of information. The young man had enjoyed a glass or two of wine himself, perfectly normal. He seemed loose and happy.

  “So, you will buy many tons of grapes then?” Antoine-Luc slapped him on the back. “Of course you will! There is no better grower of the delicious Bourboulenc than right here. Everyone knows it.” He swung toward Pascal and moved in to speak confidentially. “It is true. Everyone knows it, monsieur. Even those tapettes over at Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

  Pascal eyed him. “I have some competition?”

  “Bien sûr! The fancy domaines buy our grapes for their grand cru. They are the best. If only grandpapa would ask the right price. He nearly gives them away for free.”

  “Would he sell to me at the same outrageous price?” Pascal asked.

  “Absolument! He will make you a deal you won’t believe. A steal. And, I shouldn’t say, maybe for you an even better deal than the others.” Antoine-Luc grinned at him. “I would much rather sell grapes to you, monsieur. I can tell you are a real Frenchman.”