He estimated the room to be twenty feet across. Shadowy, unidentifiable hulks sat at intervals and a glass-fronted case stood close by, to his left.
Another shiver racked his chest. If he didn’t get out of here soon his blood would freeze. He moved his legs up and down. At least they weren’t bound. One of his boots was missing. He looked right and left for it but couldn’t see it. The foot in a sock was numb. He rubbed it on his other leg, trying to get some feeling back. How could it be so cold in September? Was it still September? Was he still in France?
Thinking made his head pound. He had to stop thinking and move.
He got one knee under his body and pushed himself upright, teetering with the effort and the dizziness. He bent at the waist, waiting for his head to clear, breathing hard. His stomach felt hard, knotted, and without warning he gagged. Nothing came up, nothing was there.
He lurched to the window. It was at neck level, a high, stone sill. Why was the outside so blue, he thought, then realized it was stained glass. Was this a church after all? He squinted up at the pattern in the glass. Mostly blue, there was a design high over his head. Something round? Didn’t seem religious.
He knocked his forehead on the glass, succeeding at little but making the ache in his head increase. He cursed and turned back to the room. At least cursing felt good. He focused his breathing, trying to concentrate on what was at hand. What could help him escape.
The cuffs cut into his wrists. His own cuffs, he recalled, the memory coming back with a flash. The glove box of the BMW, the shotgun blast that opened the lock. His shock that caused him to be too slow to react to Delage.
The reflections of the blue window on the glass-fronted cabinet caught his eye. He squinted, trying to discern what was inside. It would give him information, a clue as to where he was. He dragged himself over to it, laying his forehead against the cabinet panes.
Toys? Miniatures? His mind refused to categorize the objects. Tiny guillotines? They were twenty centimeters tall, up to knee height, a collection of killing machines, the national razor as they once called it. How macabre. He frowned, disgusted. Who would collect such objects? He dimly remembered something about a fascination with the guillotine during the Revolution to the point of small replicas used by children. Or sociopaths.
Where was he? Was he being held captive by dangerous criminals, sociopaths, or worse? Was Delage in league with gangs, with the Mafia? Had he, Pascal, been sold to a criminal organization, or worse, to a psychopath? But why leave him alone here, unconscious but alive, to freeze on the stone floor? Was he really alone? Who was here? Was that footsteps? He held his ragged breathing for a moment to listen.
Silence.
His attention shifted back to the cabinet. He’d never seen a guillotine in person. It was last used in the ‘70s to execute a prisoner but was widely hated. No one had been executed in France by any means for decades, let alone by a symbol of abuse of power during the First Republic. An unexpected prickle of fear ran up his spine, just looking at the miniature guillotines and their tiny, sharp blades of death.
He blinked hard, bringing his thinking to the now. Focus. Must get these handcuffs off.
Somehow.
Twenty-Seven
Sancerre
The goat farm stretched back from the road, encompassing barns and pastures and a store where cheese was sold, fresh or aged. Francie had read about this place and demanded they stop on their way into the Sancerre winemaking region, near the Loire River. It was only nine o’clock in the morning but at a goat farm work had been going on for hours. A herd of brown and white goats grazed in the distance as they parked. Merle couldn’t complain; she could use the place for research for Odette.
After sampling and purchasing several chèvre frais varieties they took advantage of the offer to roam around, poking their heads in the chèvrerie and admiring small goats born that spring but already nearly grown. They were the playful ones, prancing around the grassy pasture.
Back on the road the sisters passed miles of vines on both sides, the hillsides terraced steeply with grapes as far as the eye could see. Winemaking was the thing here, obviously. They’d chosen a small village near Le Grand Vinon where Pascal had uncovered the fraud scheme years before. The winery was close to Sancerre, the main town in the region, but Merle thought being in a small village people were more apt to gossip about a winemaker. And gossip, rumor, and identities were what she was after.
The tiny two-chamber bed-and-breakfast they’d found online was part of a vineyard, tucked into the rafters of the old house. It wasn’t fancy but both Bennett sisters were satisfied. They would be close to the winemakers, guests in their home. Questions could be asked about Adrien Delage easily, they hoped.
The hosts were as friendly as they hoped. A young married couple with a baby, they were incredibly busy however, with the winery, the harvest, the guests, the tastings, the employees, and, of course, the baby. There was little time to gossip and it was too early in the day for wine-tasting. The sisters took a quick look around the winery, admiring the modern equipment, then went into the village for lunch.
“This is the place,” Francie said, consulting her guide book about a bistro. “It says all the local winemakers hang out in here.”
“Prospects!” Merle exclaimed, parking the car on a side street.
“Gossipy, drunk prospects.”
The bistro in the auberge Francie picked out was the main building on the tiny village street, taking up most of a block. The sun shone bright on the stone facade and the 1950s plastic signage. It looked like it hadn’t changed in fifty years, which Francie declared an excellent sign.
The restaurant was packed with men and a few women, many of them on the business of winemaking, or so it appeared. A large table at one end seemed communal, grizzled old men with scarred fingers lined up on either side, feasting on olives and bread. The rest of the room was groups of four or six, serious as they examined the color of wine in their glasses or poured over papers.
The sisters snagged one of the last tables, near a window overlooking a side garden. The flowers were dormant, trampled by sun and rain over the summer. Merle took a seat next to the window though, just for the sunshine. Francie read through the menu like her life depended on picking the best, most exotic local tastes.
After they ordered Sancerre blanche and quenelle de brochet (pike dumplings) and beef cheeks in red wine— Merle let Francie order for both of them— they sat back and examined the room.
“See anyone you want to strike up a conversation with?” Merle asked quietly. “An English speaker. That narrows the playing field.”
“Yeah, none of those vineyard workers, I guess.” Francie nodded toward the communal table. She squinted, catching the eye of an attractive man in a blue suit who raised his glass to her. She nodded coyly and looked away. “Does he look British?”
“He looks single, at least for today.”
“Who am I to judge?” Francie sipped her wine delicately. “Is he watching?”
“Reel him in.” Merle glanced over at the man, who was dark like Pascal but more refined and slender with a precise haircut. She’d never seen Pascal in a suit of any kind, let alone a sleek-fitting one, in a shirt with French cuffs and an orange tie. He sat facing them. Sitting across from him was another businessman in a gray suit.
Francie crossed her legs. She had very nice legs and wore red espadrilles. Then she tipped her head back and laughed at nothing at all, loudly, throaty, a sort of movie star move. She had a nice neck, Merle had to admit, and was well practiced in the ways of mating. Her V-neck sweater, also red, was cut down to there. Merle laughed, too, for the heck of it.
“You minx,” Merle said, grinning. “Here he comes.”
But before the man in the blue suit could stand up and button his jacket, the waiter stepped between them, carrying two glasses of buttery white wine. “Compliments of Monsieur Tallerand.”
He gestured toward an elderly man seated at the bar.
He was short and hunched over, wearing a navy blue beret. He doffed the beret with a grin and bowed toward them.
“Oh,” Merle said, returning the nod. “Tell Monsieur merci beaucoup.”
The waiter vanished, leaving the path open for the man in blue. He looked a little chagrined at their luck with free wine, and at himself being empty-handed. Merle and Francie sipped their new glasses of wine, even as their original ones were more than half full.
“Delightful,” Francie said, eyes sparking.
“You’re going to have to do something to get that guy to approach now,” Merle whispered. She looked at Monsieur Tallerand at the bar, still looking at them, a little sad now. “I’ve got it. I’m going to thank the old Frenchman.”
She rose and took the new wine glass in one hand, smoothing her skirt. “Be back in a few.”
“Work it,” Francie whispered.
Merle glanced again at the man in blue. He’d sat down again, jaw tight. She paused on her way to the bar and caught his eye. His chin rose, his eyes flicked back to Francie. Mission accomplished.
Feeling like a femme fatale in a film noir, Merle approached the old man, setting her glass on the bar. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur. Pour le vin. C’est magnifique.”
He was as wrinkled as a prune, his skin like leather. When he smiled, waves of skin rose on his cheeks and under his watery blue eyes. His eyebrows, tangled gray affairs, lifted comically. She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Merle Bennett.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her in for cheek kisses. They were as juicy as you might expect from an old lecher. He told her to sit down— please.
“I saw the two most beautiful women in this bistro and I said, ooh-la-la, they must taste the best wine in the region. My own wine of course.”
He tipped his head coquettishly, making her chuckle. “It is like butter, monsieur. Lovely.” She sipped it appreciatively. “What is the name of your vineyard?”
With such an opening the old man fell in with enthusiasm, regaling her with stories in colloquial French about his winery named— she thought— Domaine Tallerand, begun in the 19th Century by his grandfather or someone, wiped out, down to the ground, three times and replanted. The Nazis were mentioned with loathing then the topic moved on to his grandson who now ran the vineyard. He was very smart, very capable. Monsieur was very proud and now he could spend his days here in the bistro, drinking the fruits of his labor, literally.
They chatted for awhile, Merle letting the old man ramble while she sneaked looks over her shoulder at Francie. The man in blue was talking to her but not sitting down. Why didn’t he sit down? He was being polite, she supposed.
After ten minutes Merle cut to the chase with Monsieur Tallerand. “Do you know the winery, Le Grand Vinon? We might go there for a wine-tasting. Is it a good winery?”
The old man stared at her, hurt. “Why not Domaine Tallerand?”
“Oh, we will go there now that we’ve met you, of course. We’re planning a little tour, several places. I’m making a list. Is Le Grand Vinon worth a visit?”
He shrugged and twirled the stem of his wine glass. “They’ve had some good vintages.”
“But…?”
He sighed. “There is still a cloud over them. Their reputation.”
“From what?”
“Franck’s son, he would now be an old man, not as old as me, but old. And he was bad. Went to prison.” He glanced at her. “You never know about people. But this one, Léo, he was evil. He smelled of it.”
Merle flinched inwardly. It was rare to hear someone baldly called ‘evil.’ “Is that Adrien Delage’s father?”
The old man nodded and gulped his wine. “Adrien is a good boy. Not a good winemaker though. He doesn’t have the passion. His wine leaves me flat.”
Merle gulped the wine. She’d had enough. “Which way to Domaine Tallerand? Maybe we will see you there.”
The old man blinked and gestured to the south. “On the hillside. You can’t miss it. The best-tended vines in the region.”
She thanked him again and turned back toward their table. The man in the blue suit had disappeared. Francie sipped her wine, a cat-like smile on her face.
“So?” Merle asked.
Francie shrugged. “He got my number. I told him I couldn’t possibly see him later but he insisted.”
“Is he British?”
“Oh, no, madame. He is very, very French,” Francie purred.
Merle laughed. “Something comes over the Bennett girls in France. They get positively lovestruck.”
She told Francie what the old man had said about Le Grand Vinon. The current owner was definitely the son of the man Pascal arrested.
“What do we hope to find out there? What’s our mission possible?” Francie asked.
Merle looked out the window. “Something to help find Pascal. Anything.”
“Do you think this Delage has done something to him?”
Merle shivered. “I hope not.”
Twenty-Eight
Although the afternoon was a scorcher the Bennett sisters headed over to Domaine Le Grand Vinon with their new information, anxious to see what, if anything, could be gleaned. They had a name: Léo Delage. Francie had downloaded a photograph of Delage she found on the Internet. His arrest and trial had made a splash in local newspapers and someone had taken a decent photo of him as he walked into court in a suit and tie.
“He looks pretty respectable,” she said, showing it to Merle on her cell phone as they parked under a spreading tree outside the entrance to the vineyard. Merle took the phone and squinted at the photo.
“Looks are deceiving.”
Francie pulled down her wide-brimmed hat and adjusted her sunglasses. “That they are.”
The heat came off the dirt road in waves as they made their way to the tasting room. On either side of the narrow valley the hillsides rose steeply, acres of vines accessed only on foot. Dozens of terraces, a row of vines per terrace, stair-steps to the top where workers bent low, baskets at their feet, carefully picking grapes by hand.
Merle paused, shading her eyes to look up the hill. “I was going to suggest we offer to help with harvest.”
“Oh please. I have a manicure.”
Merle swatted her. “Come on, Fancy Francie.” They continued up the drive as it rose and sweat broke out on the sisters’ brows. “What was that guy’s name? The one in the blue suit?”
“Jean something. Jean-Joseph. Why do the French have so few names?”
“I think it’s a family thing. His father is probably Jean-Marie or something.”
“And why are men named Marie? That’s silly.” Francie puffed to a halt, taking off her hat and waving her face. “Hey, did you ever find out who spray-painted your house? And Elise and you, of course.”
“The cops say they’re looking into it. I’m more worried about Pascal.”
They tried to not enjoy themselves in the tasting room but it was deliciously cool, smelled like wet stone, oregano, and lavender, and was jammed with people clamoring to get a taste of Le Grand Vinon Sancerre blanche and its equally renowned (according to a British couple) Pinot Noir. The crowd had not heard, apparently, about the cloud of suspicion that hung over the winery. The sisters tasted a small glass of white then moved on to a rosé and the Pinot. By then they had almost forgotten they were supposed to be sleuthing out the winemaker.
“Let’s go look around,” Merle whispered, taking Francie’s glass from her as she pulled her out the door.
In the yard, they stopped to reconnoiter. “What we need to find is some old guy who remembers Léo.” Merle took her sister’s arm. “Come on.”
As usual the sight of Francie in her short skirt and red shoes caused a few heads to turn. A couple younger workers carrying baskets of grapes into the mixing room stopped in their tracks. Merle waved at them.
“Hey, can we look around in there?” she said in English then caught herself, repeating it in French. The two young me
n looked at each other and shrugged. Merle and Francie trotted over and introduced themselves. The men weren’t all that young, maybe 30 or 40, and Francie played them like a fiddle, flashing her smile and her cleavage. Soon they were inside the cool, dark mixing room where huge stainless steel vats sat along one wall. The set-up reminded Merle of the winery where she’d given tours near Malcouziac. And they both were places where wine scams abounded.
“Ask them about the scandal,” Francie said as they wandered behind the men down the center of the room. “About Léo.”
The darker of the two men turned back toward them. “Comment?” He looked startled. “You know about Léo?”
The other man whispered something in the vein of ‘shut up.’
“Is the scandal a secret?” Merle asked. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“It’s no secret,” the first one said. “Why do you want to know?”
“Tell them you’re writing an article,” Francie hissed in English.
“I’m a writer. I write about wine,” Merle explained to them in French. “I was curious how something like that gets going, and how nobody finds out until it’s too late.”
“Everybody knew about it,” he said. “Just like everybody knows he’s back.”
The second man blanched and spun away, walking rapidly toward the control room at the end of the room.
“He’s afraid of the boss but I’m not. I saw him. I saw the old boss.” The first guy puffed out his chest. So bold. “He doesn’t scare me.”
Francie looked at Merle who asked: “Is there something scary about him?”
“He is just an old man, and an ugly one at that.” He straightened. “Now, ladies, I must get to work.”
On the way back to the car, Merle said, “So Pascal was here, and Léo Delage was here. This was where they met, where Léo confronted Pascal— it must be. That’s the first real lead we’ve had that we’re on the right track.”
Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6 Page 20
