Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  On the tourist sites she scanned the village history as a Roman site where a fort had stood. Parts of the old walls around the village remained. ‘Champart’ was a tax in medieval times, a portion paid by farmers to the landowners. Like in her novel, she mused. ‘Champartier’ was a tax collector— maybe.

  She didn’t have time to search for everything. She had to do something. Find Pascal. Was he there, in Champartier? To keep herself from flying out of control she flicked through another website of the village. There were wine tasting rooms, several of those. A golf course. There was a museum nearby, an obscure one only open during the summers. It sat on the outskirts of town, in an old chateau. It was a collection of relics of the French Revolution called Musée du paysan. Her interest piqued even as she knew she should be doing something about Pascal. Her nerves were shot. She needed to settle down and think. She bit her thumbnail. Maybe there was a detail here she could use in Odette.

  She clicked quickly through photographs of the exhibits. There were items of clothing like ‘sans-culottes,’ the baggy pants peasants wore, objects recovered from royalty, engravings and pamphlets and posters. And guillotines. Real ones. Complete with blades.

  She stood up, her heart racing. Guillotines. Pascal had mentioned them when talking about the man who had confronted him. She’d just been writing about guillotines, and had tried to find one in Paris. The crazy guy who mentioned Louis the Sixteenth, the last King of France, sent to guillotine in Paris. There weren’t supposed to be guillotines on display anywhere. They had all been chopped up and burned. But here they were. Big as— life.

  She snapped the laptop closed.

  Now. It was time.

  Thirty-Three

  It was nine o’clock and pitch dark when Merle stopped at the outskirts of Carcassonne. The fairy tale castle with its round towers was lit up against the inky sky, a dream made of stone. She was tired and hungry but needed to keep moving. She got gas and asked about a café or bistro for a quick bite. The attendant was unusually cheerful and sent her to his uncle’s establishment three blocks down the side road.

  She glanced at her phone while eating a bowl of cassoulet, a particularly good one rich with sausage and duck. The uncle was as amiable as his nephew, scurrying to her make her happy when she told him she was in a hurry. “Pas de vin?” She shook her head: no wine. He shrugged and made her an espresso.

  No word from the Nationales. Or from Pascal. The only call was from Irene and she had left no message. Sipping her coffee, waiting for her check, she called Irene.

  “Ah, Merle, there you are,” Irene said. “I thought you too had gone missing.”

  “No, just driving. How are you? How’s your knee?”

  “They say there is progress. Who knows? But I must tell you— Jacques has been found.”

  “Oh, good. Where was he?”

  “Well, it is not a pretty story, or a happy one. You are not driving now, are you?”

  “No. I’m in a café.” Merle set down her cup. Bad news was coming.

  Irene sighed. “He ran his car off the road somewhere. He was stuck inside, can you believe it? He couldn’t open the doors. All he had to eat was goat cheese for days.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “This goes on, I don’t know, maybe four days. No one sees his car. It is a ditch or something. But heaven help him, the goat cheese saved his life.”

  “He’s okay?”

  “He doesn’t remember much of anything. He was out of his head, delirious, when a farmer pulled him from the car. Didn’t know his name. He’s been in a hospital in Agen all this time.”

  Merle scribbled her name on the credit card slip, waved to the uncle, and stood to go. “I’m so glad he’s alive, Irene. Listen, I have to run. I’m still trying to find Pascal. Have you seen anyone at his cottage?”

  “Still dark as a tomb over there.”

  Worry ate at her. Back on the A61 she almost missed the turnoff to the north toward Champartier. French road markers assume you know every byway. She took the third turn on the roundabout and headed into the hills.

  She slowed and still almost missed the next turn-off onto an even narrower road, barely wide enough for two vehicles. She passed grapevines lit by moonlight, and crept through sleeping hamlets. The village of Champartier was also sleeping, its windows dark. The fabled city wall was a pile of rubble lit by a tourist sign as if it might be fascinating to night people.

  What now? She had no plan. Just ‘find Pascal.’ He had to be here. It wasn’t even that hard to admit, her “planlessness.” What did that mean? She had learned to follow instincts at last, to go with her gut? Even as she pondered that new wrinkle she rejected it. And yet, here she was, looking for her Frenchman without a plan.

  She pulled into the town square parking area under some mulberry trees. Where were the police? It was after midnight, the streets deserted. She rolled down her window and strained to hear sounds of sirens, boots, anything. A bird called from the forest beyond the village. That was all.

  Did Pascal have business here, investigating local wineries? He said he was working in the Languedoc but if he said where she couldn’t remember. His BMW was found here. That had to mean he was nearby. It was the only clue they had.

  She stretched outside her car, looked at the dark houses and starry sky in each direction then began wandering the narrow rues of the little village, up one street and down another. It was built into the hillside and the streets were steep above the central plaza. It seemed abandoned, with no lights in buildings and very few streetlights. Where did the people live?

  When she reached the eastern side of the village she saw faraway lights in farmhouses, tucked into vineyards beyond. The air was warm here, the Mediterranean climate. Even in October the smell of harvest and the last of summer’s fruit clung to the air. Somewhere a dog barked, a door slammed, an engine started.

  When she turned to go back into the village a large hulking structure caught her eye, above the village, in the trees. There was at least one spotlight on it, highlighting a tower. Was that the former chateau, now museum? She found the website on her phone again. It had a link to a map. She oriented herself to the north, holding the phone at the right angle. That had to be it.

  The chateau, or museum, or whatever, sat high on the hillside, a shadowy presence. She found the road to it after a number of wrong turns, and began to climb. The forest that blanketed the tops of the hills began here and the moonlight faded into shadows. Piles of fallen leaves lined the roadsides. It smelled of pine now, and leaf mold. The dark deepened, setting her even more on edge as she walked slowly, peering into the trees for things that go bump.

  At last she rounded a bend and came to a high wrought iron gate. Beyond the gate sat the chateau. There was a sign: Musée du paysan: fermé. Ouvert du 1er avril au 30 septembre. It was open April through September. Now, in October, it was closed, padlocked with a huge chain across the opening of the gates. Merle rattled them for good measure and threw out a curse to the dark manse. It rose three stories of chilly nobility, all gargoyles and gothic windows. The spotlight she saw from the village lit up the tip of a four-sided tower.

  She sighed. This was ridiculous. She was in the middle of nowhere, on a wild goose chase. She could see far into the valley from here. The trees must have been removed for the gentry to have a better view of their fiefdom. The village of Champartier was a dark mass. She looked out over the vineyards. From the south headlights approached, at least three vehicles. Then, out of the silence, the doo-wop wail of a siren. It blared then abruptly stopped.

  The police? She should go talk to them. She was turning back to the museum for a last glance, in case she had to use a spooky old chateau as a setting, when the sound of glass shattering broke the silence. She startled. Where was it from? Then more glass, the clink of it hitting slate, sliding to the gravel, muted by distance. Somewhere inside the gates, she couldn’t tell where. She couldn’t see any movement or broken windows but the moon had gone behind a clo
ud.

  “Hello?” she called, rattling the gate again. “Is anyone there?”

  Another hail of glass was the answer.

  She called again. No one replied. Was Pascal in there? With the guillotines? Was the whack-job in there too?

  She examined the padlock, wondering if she could break it. The lock was shiny and new, although the chain it held was black with rust.

  She cursed again, turned back toward the village, and ran.

  As she turned the last corner, skidding to a stop in the central plaza, the police were shining a large flashlight into her car. There were three of them that she could see, two in navy gendarmerie uniforms and one in jeans and a sports jacket. They straightened as she approached in the dark, on guard.

  “Arretez!” one yelled at her: Stop!

  She put her hands up, fear making her shiver. Would she get shot here in Nowhere, France? “Excusez-moi. Je m’appelle Merle Bennett.” That elicited no response. She switched to English: “I called Nationale. Are you here to find Pascal d’Onscon? I am his friend. Someone is breaking windows up in that museum and I think it might be him.”

  By now several villagers had stepped outside, watching the action. One plump, older man in a dressing gown waddled over and announced that he was the mayor. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” What’s happening.

  The plainclothes cop, a solidly built, close-cropped man, obviously in charge, told the mayor they were looking for a missing person. He gave the mayor Pascal’s name and a general description. It apparently meant nothing to the white-haired gentleman just out of bed. The cop gave him the usual spiel, to call if he heard or saw anything about the man. The mayor turned to go back inside.

  “Wait!” Merle yelled. “Attendez!”

  The mayor nearly tripped in his slippers. “Comment?”

  The head policeman began to speak but before he could say two words she called out again in her halting French: “Who is in charge of the museum? Who has the keys?”

  The mayor stared at her, confused. In the pause another man came out of a doorway. Tall and lanky he stepped under the streetlight like his moment in the sun had come. He said in a booming voice: “I am the caretaker. I have the keys.”

  Merle rode with the plainclothes cop in his car, the caretaker in the back seat. “Do you know Pascal d’Onscon, monsieur?” she asked the cop.

  He nodded, his face grim. “We have worked together, madame.” He glanced at her. “We will find him.”

  “Before it’s too late,” she said in a whisper as she crossed her fingers.

  “He is very experienced, madame. One of the best.”

  “He is,” she whispered. “One of the best,” she repeated like a mantra, trying to breathe.

  They parked at the gates and the caretaker attempted to open the padlock with his many keys. None of them worked. He shouted about the padlock, demanding to know who had changed it and why he hadn’t gotten a key. The policeman motioned to one of the gendarmes. “Up and over,” he commanded. “Give him the keys.”

  Reluctantly the caretaker turned over his key-ring. “Which one for the front?” the gendarme asked. Armed with that information he used the caretaker’s shoulders to climb onto the stone pillar that held the gates and drop down inside on the grass. He grunted and rose with a limp. The policeman urged him on.

  “Can’t we all go over the wall?” Merle asked. “Is it safe to just send one gendarme?”

  The policeman squinted at her. “Non, madame. You cannot go.”

  “Send the other gendarme. He might need help.”

  The second gendarme was a young, soft-looking fellow, barely tall enough to qualify for the corps, and carrying some extra pounds. He looked alarmed when the policeman motioned for the caretaker to push him over the pillar as well. It was an even less graceful entry, complete with somersault on the lawn.

  “Get up, man. He’s in,” urged the policeman.

  The first gendarme had unlocked the front door and was looking back, waiting for his comrade. They hesitated, then stepped inside the museum. In a moment they were back out.

  “The power’s out.”

  “It’s shut off for the season,” the caretaker said.

  “Use your flashlights,” the policeman suggested helpfully.

  “Tell me,” Merle said, tugging on the caretaker’s sleeve. “Is there a room with lots of windows? Not on this side. I heard glass breaking.”

  The tall man furrowed his brow in thought. “The old chapel? It has stained glass windows. It’s where we keep the Louisettes.”

  “The what?” the policeman asked.

  “Guillotines,” Merle explained. “Tell them to check the chapel. What’s it called now?”

  “Soulagement Béni. The Room of Blessed Relief.”

  The policeman and Merle both stared at him, hoping they heard that wrong. “I did not name it, madame.”

  “Call them,” Merle urged the cop. He made the call to the gendarmes who sounded like they were bumbling around in the dark. “What floor is it?” she asked.

  “First. West end on the back,” the caretaker said.

  “What does that key look like?”

  “There is a pass key for all the rooms. It has a little green spot on it.”

  The information was relayed to the gendarmes. The three outside the gate waited anxiously, some more than others. Could it have been a bird? Beer bottles? Or her imagination? She laid her forehead on the iron bars, trying to breathe.

  They heard a noise, like a muffled crash, through the open door. “What was that?” Merle asked.

  The policeman pulled a gun out from under his jacket while staring at the entrance to the museum. Merle was both relieved and shocked by the sight of the weapon.

  “Go behind the pillar. Both of you.”

  Merle and the caretaker stepped to the right, behind the wide stone pillar. Merle stood in front with the caretaker looking over her shoulder toward the museum. He patted her back kindly. “C’est okay, madame.”

  Not much consolation, a rangy janitor at her back. What was happening inside? There was another sound, then the clatter of footsteps. The policeman raised his gun as a figure emerged. It was gendarme number one.

  “There’s a man in here. He pushed Silvio down the steps.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s got a twisted ankle—“

  “The suspect.”

  “Ah, he went toward a side door.” He pointed to the west. “That way.”

  “Go upstairs and find Officer d’Onscon. Find the Salle de Soulangement. You have the keys?” The gendarme nodded and disappeared inside. The policeman glanced at Merle. “Stay here, behind the pillar. Both of you.”

  The policeman eased away from them, walking carefully along the fence, stepping over bushes and around trees. The western wing of the museum was not long and from this angle it appeared small. But in the purplish dark it was difficult to see anything.

  The policeman melted into the forest. Even the glint of moonlight on his firearm faded. Merle shivered. “Are you cold, madame?” the caretaker whispered. “Would you like my jacket?”

  She shook her head. “You’re very kind, monsieur, mais non.” She couldn’t keep her languages apart and didn’t even try. Where was Pascal? What was happening?

  A ruckus erupted inside the building: footsteps, shouts, doors slamming. Men’s voices, loud. She couldn’t make out any words.

  Another door slammed, closer. From the east side of the building, opposite from the direction the cop had gone, a figure emerged from the shadows, limping toward them. Merle peeked out then shrunk back in the safety of their shadow. The caretaker grabbed her shoulder and pushed her against the pillar.

  He was at the gate. Merle didn’t dare look at him. She knew who he was anyway: Léo Delage. He was unlocking the padlock with a key, that was obvious. It was also plain neither she nor the caretaker were going to tackle him. Would he get away? Calling for the policeman would only call attention to them. She c
ould feel the caretaker breathing in her hair and the tremble in his hand on her shoulder. She willed them both to stay still.

  “Hey!” someone yelled from the museum building. “You— stop!”

  Delage slipped through the gate. The overweight gendarme half-ran, half-limped from the front door, slamming through the gate and pausing to look around. Delage had vanished into the shadowy forest.

  “That way,” Merle shouted, pointing into the woods. The gendarme took off, crashing through underbrush.

  The gate hung open. “Come on,” Merle said, pushing it wider and motioning to the caretaker. “Hurry. Show me the way.”

  In the upper hallway the caretaker led the way to the end of the corridor where the taller gendarme stood, fiddling with the keys. He looked up helplessly and the caretaker grabbed the key-ring, quickly locating the pass-key and inserting it in the door. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion to Merle. The tinkling of the keys, the distant shouts, the shadows in patterns on the walls. She watched, waiting, as finally the door swung open.

  The interior of the room was dark and cluttered with glass and debris. A huge cabinet lay flat on the floor. Moonlight streamed through the high broken windows. Merle stepped inside after the gendarme, her shoes crunching on broken glass. The gendarme shined his flashlight around, the beam glittering on the glass. The room was in chaos, furniture down, broken things everywhere.

  “Pascal?” she called tentatively. “Are you here?”

  The gendarme pointed his light at the tall wooden structures and muttered a curse before he crossed himself. She stared at the horrible guillotines with their gruesome blades. Her stomach lurched and she gasped. But no blood there. No bodies. “Pascal! Where are you?!”