“Yeah,” Ray managed through tears. “Yes. It's Vicki.” He reached for her.
Blanc grabbed his arm. “Do not touch her, merci.”
An overgrown cart path wound its way across the rocky field south of the cemetery; the closest thing to a road. Upon it, one of the Gendarmerie's cars now came bouncing to a stop. The driver opened the passenger's door and Dorian Durand, the police surgeon, looking grouchy and exhausted, climbed out. He rubbed his eyes, donned a paper coverall, grabbed his kit and started toward them.
Ray had rejoined Brandy outside the fence. They stood, crying together, but grieving separately. Each wanted to console the other but didn't know how.
Inside the burial plot. Durand paused, as Petit had before him, and raised his brow. Blanc followed his stare to the open grave.
“I'm no use if they're already buried,” Durand said. The doctor was rarely at his best in public. This morning was no exception.
If he was amused, Blanc didn't let it show. He considered telling the doctor he was usually of damned little use but decided, with the Americans present, to save it for later. He merely pointed to the tarp and said, “There.”
Durand took several steps before something else caught his eye. He paused again with a quizzical look on his face. “That's funny.”
Irritated, Blanc barked, “What is funny?”
The doctor pointed to another grave and said, “It's inverted.” Blanc stared but clearly didn't understand. Durand stepped closer and pointed directly at the carved writing. “The inscription,” he said, “it's inverted.”
Blanc nodded. He saw the writing but failed to see the significance. He had work to do and so did the doctor. Not bothering to hide his annoyance, he passed Durand, leaving him to that work. As he headed out of the cemetery, Blanc shouted for Petit to follow with the Americans.
Even in her grief, Brandy had seen significance in Durand's find. He was right. The lid's inscription was inverted. Though Felix, the tour guide, had rushed them along yesterday, she'd taken in all she could of the cemetery. And there was no doubt. Someone had lifted the cover off the grave, turned it and set it back going the opposite direction.
The interrogation room of Paradis' Gendarmerie station reflected Brandy's and Ray's misery. The couple sat on folding chairs at a scarred wooden table surrounded by four empty, dirty yellow walls. Or were they faded brown? Only God knew for sure and He wasn't there. In His place, Colonel Blanc circled like a hungry lion.
“Why are you in France?”
“For the fourth time,” Brandy said. “I'm researching my Master's Degree. Ray and Vicki came with… to keep me company and sneak in a vacation.”
“Why were you at Castle Freedom?”
“This is ridiculous,” Ray shouted. “My sister is dead. She's the victim. Brandy's been over this. We've been over this.”
“And we must, unfortunately, go over it again. How long have you known Marcel Founier?”
“You asked that before…”
“And you did not answer.”
“The way I remember it, we were interrupted.”
“And your answer now?”
“We don't know Fournier.”
“And yet, you were seen, how do you say it, 'hanging around' his shop.”
“Seen?”
“Oui, monsieur. Seen. On more than one occasion.”
“By whom?”
“Quel?”
“Who saw us? Who reported us?”
“And what were we supposedly doing?” Brandy demanded.
“None of this matters, mademoiselle. You have been seen with the scofflaw.”
Brandy and Ray stared incredulously at each other.
“Do you know Luis Socrates?”
“No. Who is that?”
“You've never met him?”
“Is he French?” Ray barked, coming out of his seat. “Because, if he is, we've already said, we don't know any of you sons of bitches!”
“His entire family was slaughtered last night. That was his father you found at the castle. His mother and sister were murdered in their home.” Ray sat again. The Colonel continued, “Luis was nowhere to be found. So we are concerned about his well-being. And, as he is himself a released killer, we are interested in his whereabouts.”
“A killer on the loose? Mass murders? Grave robbers? What kind of country are you running here?” Ray saw Blanc tense and laughed humorlessly. “Forget it; doesn't matter. We didn't do anything.”
On guard at the door, Petit laughed too. “Maybe it was the Templars.”
Blanc gouged the Lieutenant with his eyes and barked, “Get out.”
Eduoard Petit had been a gendarme for sixteen years and the Colonel's friend for twice that long. When Blanc yelled, you were wise to respond.
He pulled the interview room door closed regretting the remark and nursing a scowl. He was immediately accosted by a local newspaper reporter loitering at the counter. Petit's scowl deepened.
As looks went, Aimee Laurent was just about right; tall without lankiness, curved without voluptuousness, fair without being blonde. 'Awkward… but pretty' her admirers agreed. But… she attacked her day with ceaseless energy and good humor; just what the gendarme officer didn't need at the moment.
“Lieutenant Colonel Petit.” Aimee leaned with her notepad and pen. “What can you tell me of the events at Castle Freedom?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Oh, Lieutenant Colonel, that is not the way. The bodies… how many?”
“No comment, M. Laurent.”
She tilted her head, letting a lock fall over one eye, and clucked her tongue. “Come, Petit, you must say something?”
He lit a cigarette and blew smoke to the ceiling. “Just between us?”
Aimee studied Petit. He was not a man with whom one makes deals. But she needed a story. “For a start. Oui. Just between us.”
Petit took another drag; exhaled. “I suspect,” he said, leaning to whisper in her ear, “that you have a lovely body. Further investigation will be necessary.”
Aimee clicked her ballpoint, fighting the temptation to jab it in his eye.
The door to the interrogation room came open, saving Petit's vision, and the reporter watched as the Colonel led a young couple out. “Go back to your hotel and stay there,” he told them, sounding near exhaustion. “You will hear from me.”
The big tattooed man appeared hesitant to leave. But Blanc was unwavering. Finally the man, and the small woman who accompanied him, allowed themselves to be ushered out the door. Aimee was all eyes.
Laurent's interest did not go unnoticed by the Colonel. In a low voice, he told Petit, “Get me the file on Marcel Fournier.” Then he entered his office without acknowledging the reporter.
“Colonel…” Aimee called out.
“I do not hear you. I do not see you.” Blanc closed the door.
Aimee twisted her lips. Then her frown became a smile and she hurried from the station.
Sixteen
On their first visit it had been too dark to see the police station. Now, in the light of day, Brandy saw it for what it was, a gray building on a gray cobblestone side street. A perfect home for Colonel Blanc with his missing empathy and AWOL sense of justice.
Ray just got their rental unlocked as an excited female shout got their attention. “Hello. Excuse me. Voyons. You know someone killed last night at the castle?”
They took in the tall drink of Perrier who'd kicked them both without lifting a foot. “What the hell kind of question is that?” Ray demanded.
The girl seemed genuinely confused. “I'm sorry?”
Brandy squeezed Ray's arm to halt a rise in temperature. She took in the woman who'd addressed them in accented, but impressive, English. “We just passed inside,” Brandy said. “Who are you?”
“Aimee Laurent. I am with the Presse Regionale. I write for Le Courrier Paradis; the local paper.”
Ray pulled open his car door. “We don't have anything to say to a rep
orter.”
“If I offend you, I am sorry,” Aimee said, afraid she'd ruined her chance. “But if you expect help from this Gendarmerie you are wasting your time.” The American shut the door again and leaned on the car. He was listening now. “I could be a friend. You need a friend here.”
Brandy frowned. She wasn't the jealous type but she knew Ray. She stepped between them and their proposed friendship. “So, Aimee, what is it you want?”
“The same as you… to discover what happened at the castle.”
Ray wanted nothing to do with a reporter – or anyone. He intended to return to their hotel room and pass out. And did just that. Brandy, on the other hand, needed human contact and accepted Aimee's invitation to walk, talk and lunch at a local café.
Paradis during the day, Brandy found, was a lively village featuring everything from the quaint to the modern; butcher, baker, candlestick maker, and a massive central park all within minutes of each other. There was an open air market where locals sold fresh produce and wines (with samples for tasting), a pub called The Cave featuring ales and wines (with samples for tasting), council fêtes with music, dancing, fireworks and wines (with samples for tasting).
Two and three story stone buildings, stores on the ground floor and residences above, made up the downtown. Brightly colored umbrellas formed an inviting gauntlet leading pedestrians to a courtyard filled with colorful foods and colorful vendors. Tourists in search of souvenirs, picnickers preparing for the country and hungry villagers were drawn in and surrounded by arts, crafts, fresh-bottled fruits, vegetables, and a cornucopia of foods from foie gras and goat's milk cheese to prune tarts and truffles.
At the far end of the market, the eastern boundary of the village, the charming Le Marché du Café was gracious with its outdoor eating space. White wrought-iron tables and chairs filled a wide patio, surrounded by manicured trees and connected by criss-crossing tile sidewalks. There, with the warm afternoon sun and the cold autumn breeze clashing, the women convened their meeting.
Brandy didn't feel as if she could eat a bite but, when Aimee insisted, felt even less like arguing. She ordered something 'to keep up her strength'. Meanwhile, the reporter asked questions. She kept it conversational, displaying neither notebook nor pen, committing whatever she got, to memory.
Brandy told all she knew of the events at the castle, which wasn't much. Then asked, “How did you know anything happened at all?”
“This is not America. When sirens sound in Paradis, and every gendarme is called to duty, something important has happened. I followed them. I could not get in but I got close enough to hear some things. It is terrible.”
“It is terrible,” Brandy said sullenly.
“Yes. I am sorry. For you and your fiancé. And for the Socrates family.”
“I've been thinking so much about Vicki, I'd forgotten them. A whole family.”
“Not all. The son, Luis, was not found.”
“The Colonel asked about him. We didn't know who he was talking about. This Luis; he's a murderer?”
“No.” Aimee waved the silly idea away. “He was charged with manslaughter. His girl… what was her name? Micheline… was run down and killed by a drink driver. The driver showed no remorse and escaped justice on a… technicality. Outside the court, he even laughed. Luis Socrates beat him on the courthouse steps.”
“Beat him to death?”
“Badly. He died from his injuries and Luis went to prison. I know it is not right. The knight in shining armor is gone. But does not every woman want a lover who will protect and defend her life? Or, if need be, revenge its loss?”
Despite her usual practical leanings, Brandy found herself appreciating Aimee's romantic version of how life ought to be.
“His trial,” Aimee added, “was the biggest thing to happen. Crime here is small. To write about, there is none except, of course, drugs. That is what I assumed the soldiers were for this morning.”
Aimee dropped that bomb so casually it knocked Brandy for a loop. “Drugs?”
“It is the only crime here to merit headlines.”
What, Brandy wondered, had drugs to do with sleepy little Paradis? Then Aimee's meaning hit home. Brandy's mouth fell open. “What do drugs have to do with Vicki's murder? She had nothing to do with drugs.”
Aimee smiled politely but said nothing.
“All right. I can't know,” Brandy admitted. “But I don't believe it. Vicki wasn't just my sister-to-be, she was my best friend, and she didn't do drugs. Even if she did, what would that have to do with her murder? Were these Socrates people into drugs?”
“I don't know. As I said, Luis' girl and his conviction for what happened to her killer were the first criminal death here in years; and that was over five years ago. These new murders are the only thing of importance the Gendarmerie are investigating. Before I left their station, Colonel Blanc asked for Marcel Fournier's file. That means drugs.”
The waiter delivered their meal and Brandy, grateful for the reporter's presence, smiled and let Aimee do the talking. Her gratitude was short-lived.
Aimee had suggested she order Bourride. Now, as she stared into the bowl, she discovered it was vegetables in wine with scrambled monkfish. Aimee meant well. But a sleepless night, and a devastating morning, was no lead-in to fish soup. An earlier headache and dizziness returned. Brandy pushed her bowl away and inhaled deeply.
Despite her discomfort, something Aimee said resonated. “Did you say Fournier? The tour bus guy?”
“Oui.” Aimee shoveled in a spoonful of Rouille de seiche; a stew made with squid. Like Brandy, she hadn't eaten all morning. Unlike Brandy, she was ravenous. “Tours to the castle. That is his business, eh, legitimate. But you do not earn Fournier's style of life selling tours and trinkets. So the gendarme suspect drugs.”
“Petit said something else,” Brandy said. “Something about the Templars.”
“The Templars?”
“He may have been joking, I don't know, but he suggested the Templars were responsible for these deaths. Other than the knights buried at the castle, are there still Templars? Do you know what he was talking about?”
Two women at a nearby table, one round and red, the other lean and pale, overheard them and ogled - stricken.
“Avez-vous entendu?” the pale stick whispered. The middle of her comment was inaudible, but it ended in an excited, “…des Templiers?”
The other answered, “Mère de Dieu!,” and raised an arm, sausage fingers pointed to the ceiling, fear in her fierce eyes. Then she told her companion. “Nous allons.”
The stick dropped her sandwich. They gathered their things; the thin one without looking up, the other staring. They hurried around the tables and trees and were gone.
“That,” Brandy said, “was freaky.”
“Freaky?” the reporter asked.
“Mmm. Was it something I said?”
“Mmm,” Aimee nodded. “The Templars.”
“Colonel Blanc wasn't happy when his Lieutenant said it either.” Brandy screwed up her lips. “What gives? What have the Templars to do with anything?”
Aimee, celebrating the waiter's return, hadn't heard her questions. She oohed and aahed as he set a plate before them. Brandy studied the small black pyramid he'd delivered wondering what the excitement was about.
“It is a weakness.” Aimee cut the pyramid's shell, scooped out a creamy glob and spread it on hard bread. “Valençay; goat cheese. I adore it. Nutty. Delicate.”
Brandy poked the covering. “What's that?”
“Salted charcoal ash,” Aimee said, licking her lips. “A protection. The goat's milk is not pasteurized.”
Aimee pointed for her to dig in, but Brandy's stomach, coupled with the fear of losing a finger to the ravenous reporter's knife, gave her pause. “We were talking about the Templars.”
“Oui. I don't know. For many it is nonsense. For others… there are many superstitions here.” She considered for a moment then brightened. “Perhaps you sho
uld talk to Father Trevelyan.” She weighed the idea. “I think so. Father Trevelyan. He's…”
Brandy groaned. “Ray won't go. He's not Catholic. He's not religious at all.”
“No, no, no.” Aimee swept the objection away. “I do not suggest his religion. I suggest him. He is the priest at Saint Thomas Church here, but he… knows the history…
“A historian?”
“Oui. Merci.” She touched Brandy's arm gratefully. “A historian. He knows of the Templars all there is to know.”
“I can hear Ray now, 'I don't give a damn about their local ghost stories.' ” She considered a moment – and decided. “He'll get over it.”
“I will arrange an interview,” Aimee said, then hopefully added, “If you do not object that I should accompany?”
Seventeen
While others dined, the police surgeon starved. Dorian Durand had been performing autopsies all day; four, from what was presumably one crime. Remarkable in Paradis. Not that they were medically difficult. All the victims were so badly lacerated, bludgeoned and torn, he could safely list any cause of death – from blunt force trauma to myocardial infarction - without fear of contradiction.
What commanded extra time was the American girl's reassembly. Vicki Kramer was the only one of the four Durand had taken care to put back together. There was no point with the others. Excepting Socrates' missing son, who the Gendarmerie suspected, there were no living relatives to impress with a fancy reconstruction. The American, on the other hand, had family.
Her throat was no work of art when he finished, but it looked like a throat again. A funeral director back in the States would make it pretty. What remained of her vital organs after Durand dissected, collected, weighed, examined and catalogued his samples, were placed in one plastic bag and returned to her abdominal cavity (everything in its place). He threaded a formidable curved needle with brown, twine-like coronal suture and stitched the chest and abdomen closed.
With a few harmless bumps Durand wrestled Vicki's corpse from his exam table onto a wheeled cart. The neck support slipped and her once attractive noggin hit the cart with a thump. “Poor thing,” Durand said, as he wheeled her to the refrigerated wall. “They're lucky they're dead when they get to me.”
The Devil's Bed Page 8
