Blame it on Paris (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 7)

by Lise McClendon

  Francie bent down to spot Dylan in the back seat. “Are you stalking me again, monsieur?”

  “From afar, as usual.” He opened the trunk and threw in her bags, slamming it closed. “Come along now. I have coffee in the cab.”

  On the back seat sat a cardboard carrier with two coffees, two croissants, and one yogurt parfait with blueberries. Francie swooned a little. “Where have you been hiding, you lovely man?”

  They drove south, the opposite direction from Charles de Gaulle Airport. Francie had a feeling she knew what he was up to, but sipped her coffee silently, letting him enjoy his moment. Isn’t that what men wanted? To surprise you, to get you to show your true feelings without pretense? Well, she would do that. After all the wrong turns and roadblocks in Paris, things had worked out better than she’d ever imagined.

  Dylan took a bite of croissant and looked out his window. What did he think would happen next, when they got home, back into their busy workaday lives? Her tiny apartment awaited her return. Would it seem tired and cramped? Would she work such long hours if she knew she could meet him for dinner somewhere? Would she slack off as a lawyer now? She hoped not, but in some little place in the back of her mind, she hoped she would. She was midway through her forties. She wanted a little more on her tombstone than ‘If only she’d spent more time at the office.’

  They wound out of the city into the suburbs. Was this near the Fresnes Prison? It looked familiar. Then, suddenly, the taxi stopped.

  “Where are we?”

  “Let’s find out.” Dylan grinned, enjoying his mysterious morning.

  They climbed out then Dylan talked to the driver who smiled as he took the money Dylan offered. He turned off the cab. On the sidewalk Francie realized Dylan was carrying a paper grocery sack. With his free hand he took hers and led her into a park. They walked up a wide set of stone steps to see a beautiful three-story château, well-preserved from the 18th or 19th Century. Around it were wide green lawns, gravel paths, everything low, minimal, and tidy in the French garden way.

  “This is so lovely,” Francie whispered. There were few people at this hour, some joggers, a few families with kids, a clump of tourists.

  “This way,” Dylan said. He took her hand again and they walked around the château with its blue mansard roof and elaborate brickwork. Apparently they weren’t going inside.

  On one side of the château, trimmed hedges kept walkers on paths to an enormous water feature. “Voilà,” Dylan said, “the Grand Canal.” They rounded the northern end of the elongated pool and down the other side. The park around the château was vast, stretching in every direction one could see, if you got a glimpse through the hedges. They turned into an alley lined with trees just coming into leaf, a glow of lime green shimmering above them.

  Francie decided to just keep quiet and play along. She had an idea, especially since he’d brought food in that grocery bag. This had to be a picnic, or pique-nique as the French call it. Their last lovely meal in Paris, al fresco on the grass.

  He stopped suddenly. “Close your eyes. Can you do that? Can you let me lead you into this next space?”

  “Okay, but if I fall on my face it’s on you.”

  He took her hand again. “I won’t let you fall, Bennett. Trust me.”

  They slowed, walking carefully. Francie didn’t really like this part of the surprise. She felt stupid, walking with her eyes shut. But the sun felt warm on her face, a little breeze on her cheek, and— what was that smell? She relaxed, letting her ears and nose do the work.

  The sound of birds in the distance. Children playing. Water burbling. Tennis balls? Oh, this is kind of nice.

  “Okay, now we’re going onto the grass so take it slow.” Dylan hooked his arm through her elbow. “Easy does it.”

  They didn’t walk far then he stopped. “Ready?”

  “More than ready.”

  “Open your eyes then.”

  She blinked, trying to make sense of the lush color that surrounded them, a rosy glow. They stood under the spreading branches of a flowering pink tree, a cherry tree with ridiculous puff balls of petals, one of dozens that stretched out in every direction. She turned, mouth agape, as the petals floated down on her head. She put out her hands to catch them, laughing.

  Dylan set the grocery bag on the ground and beamed at her.

  “You sneaky devil,” she cried. “Look at all the pink trees. It’s like a fairy land for princesses. It’s amazing. Thank you.”

  They spread out a tablecloth he pulled from the bag, sat on it, and popped open a bottle of champagne. He’d even brought flutes. He made cuts into the sides of strawberries with a pocket knife then hung them on the rims of the glasses. He poured the bubbly, brought out cheese and olives, dabbed her chin with a paper napkin.

  “You thought of everything, Dylan Hardy,” she said, sipping champagne as a breeze blew another snow shower of pink over them. A petal landed in her champagne. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you remember your grandmother and her weltschmerz? You told me about that once upon a time.”

  Dylan’s eyes sparkled. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “Do you still have those, um— bouts of world-weariness?”

  He sipped champagne. “Once in awhile. But now I’m usually too busy enjoying the good life to get tired of it. I mean, look at this. Pretty hard to get world-weary when your world includes this.” He looked up at the vast pinkness. “Magical, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “This is the real magic of Paris.”

  “The magic of second chances?”

  She smiled. “Dylan Hardy, you are a certified romantic. There’s no going back.” She kissed him lightly. Then she held up her flute and tapped it against his.

  “As wild and improbable as they may be: here’s to second chances.”

  Epilogue

  Four weeks passed before there was action on the criminal charges levied against Reece Pugh in Paris. Bureaucracy, that French invention, moved at a glacial pace. He remained in the rat-infested prison. In the interim a full-blown investigation began into the activities of certain officers in the Brigade des Stupéfiants and their superiors who may have looked the other way as crimes were committed. The Police Nationale commissioners and government officials above them had tired of the litany of contemptible breaches of the public trust and were dropping the hammer on the policiers. The newspapers were full of outrage.

  The week after Francie and Dylan flew out of Paris, Officer Milo Soyer was arrested. Three days later the charges were announced: tampering with evidence, confiscating evidence, using deadly force in an unwarranted fashion, falsifying official documents, dereliction of duty, and on and on. He was released under house arrest. The investigation was so involved and controversial, he would not be tried until January the following year.

  Merle and Pascal kept Francie up to date on the details of the investigation. They returned to the Dordogne where spring had arrived. The wisteria bloomed in the walled garden and the pear trees were dotted with sweet-smelling flowers. Francie wrote a little piece in her blog, Lawyrr Grrls, to tell her gang what was happening, both at home and abroad, but no one commented. Her blog was officially DOA.

  On the Friday before Memorial Day the offices of Ward & Bailee Esquire were quiet. Joshua Ward had recovered from his heart problems— his diagnosis was a stroke; he was doing barely okay. He announced his retirement, setting up a frenzy of sharp elbows among the senior partners. Everyone wanted to rename the law firm in their honor.

  And today Francie was moving fast, trying to get things wrapped up so she could spend the long weekend having fun. She’d been exonerated in the sexual harassment case, all charges dropped, but Greg Leonard wasn’t going quietly. The investigation of his dealings with Alice was still ongoing. Somehow the executive committee didn’t feel his actions were serious enough to be labeled sexual harassment. They appeared to be unreturned affection to some of the male partners. They didn’t even make him take a leave of absence
, just sent him to the opposite end of the building to work. Francie however got a restraining order against Greg for Alice. She was still nervous at work but with Francie at her side, Alice soldiered on, purple hair and all.

  When Francie had first returned six weeks earlier, Greg was the first person she saw as she entered the office, striding across the secretarial pool, a brief clutched in his hand. Francie paused, wondering for a moment what to do, then called out to him.

  “Greg.” He glanced at her, ducked his head, and kept walking. “Mister Leonard.”

  He stopped then. A couple heads turned toward her.

  “Can we talk for a moment?” she said. “In the break room.” She spied the secretaries watching and picked one she liked. “You come too, Louise. We don’t want Mr. Leonard to feel anxious.”

  They stood in a semi-circle near Greg’s favorite appliance, the ancient refrigerator. Louise, an older woman with steely gray eyes, looked calm. She knew the whole story— Alice told Francie it had been office fodder for weeks— and was unflappable. Greg on the other hand had turned pink and jittery.

  “So, Greg, do you have anything to say to me?” Francie asked.

  He glared at her, lips clamped shut.

  Francie felt her anger rise. “Nothing? How about ‘I’m sorry. I’ll never lie about you again, Ms. Bennett?’”

  He rolled his eyes. “Okay, sure. Whatever you say.”

  Louise was glaring at him. “What did you say about her, Mr. Leonard?”

  Francie raised her eyebrows, waiting. He squirmed, then sighed.

  “I made some shit up, okay? Can’t you take a joke?” he said angrily.

  Francie fumed. “That’s what sexual harassment is to you— a joke?”

  Louise put her hands on her ample hips and scowled. “It’s no joke to me.”

  Greg bolted out the door. They could hear him stomping down the hall. Francie and Louise looked at each other. Louise raised her eyebrows, smiling. “Not long for Ward and Bailee, is he?”

  At four-thirty that day in late May a few associates were at their desks, plus some secretaries and one or two partners, the non-golfing ones. Voices from the lobby drifted over the pool of desks to Francie’s office. She looked up, through the doorway, and saw two men following the receptionist through the open space. Something made her blink and stand up.

  A flutter went through her. She recognized it as both fear and readying for battle. Was she being served? Arrested? Don’t these things usually happen on Friday afternoons? She licked her lips and squared her shoulders.

  “Ms. Bennett?” the receptionist said at the door. She was young, and very efficient. “I have Harlan Pugh and his son, Reece, to see you.”

  Francie startled for a second. Then came to her senses: “Yes. Of course.”

  Harlan Pugh led the way, stepping into her office. He was a burly man, wide in the torso but trim. His head was shaved and he had a salt-and-pepper goatee with the air of a hard-charging businessman. He wore a checked shirt and a navy blazer with khakis and loafers.

  “Miss Bennett.” He stuck out his hand, his expression unreadable and voice gruff. “Harlan Pugh. Nice to meet you.”

  He waited a few beats for her to process this and move around her desk. They shook hands. “Mr. Pugh.”

  “Harlan, please.” He turned to the younger man. Francie would never have recognized Reece Pugh. He was taller than she remembered him from prison, taller than Harlan, standing straight and proud in a totally Tom Ramey fashion, hands clasped, feet defiantly apart. His face was scarred but healing. His dark brown hair had grown out but was still short with an inmate vibe. She noticed for the first time his blue eyes, so like Tom’s. They were clear now, sober.

  “Reece,” she whispered. “You’re home. I’m so happy to see you.”

  She stuck out her hand to him. He took it and pulled her in for a hug. Then pushed away, embarrassed. He hung his head. “Thank you, Miss Bennett. For everything.”

  Francie couldn’t speak for a moment. She’d had the same reaction when she visited Claudia the week after she got back from Paris. So many words seemed tied up in her throat, things she wanted to say. She swallowed. “There were so many people pulling for you, Reece. If only you knew.”

  He glanced at his father. “Sami told me. He— he wrote me a letter.”

  “Did he? He wrote to the French police too. He turned out to be a good friend.”

  “In the end,” Harlan growled.

  Francie tipped her head. “That’s the only time that matters, isn’t it?”

  “I blame Paris,” Harlan continued. “If he’d just stayed here all this would never have happened.”

  Reece sighed. “You can’t blame a city, Dad. You wanted me to see Europe, remember?”

  Francie said, “Paris does have its charms. And a few bad pommes.” To Harlan she whispered, “That means apples,” as if she was a French expert. She looked at Reece. “How is your mother?”

  “Better, thanks,” he said quietly. “Every day.”

  “Having Reece back home has made a big difference to her,” Harlan said. Francie frowned at him. “Yes, I have apologized, as I do to you as well. I am a general ass, Miss Bennett, but I do try.”

  “Keep at it. That’s all any of us can do,” she said. There was a pause. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Harlan took a check out of his pocket and put it on her desk. “It’s my understanding that you incurred some expenses in France that went unpaid. Please accept this as a token of our appreciation.”

  “Oh, no. Claudia paid me. I had an agreement with her—“

  “Please, Miss Bennett,” Reece pleaded. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  Francie nodded, touched. She looked from father to son. “Nothing than this—“ She waved a hand between the two of them. “—could make me happier in this moment.”

  Watching their backs as they walked away, she thought of Tom Ramey, her lost love. Tom who barely got to know his son, who tried to help, who failed in so many ways that make us human. Tom, who she’d forgiven finally. She could never hate him again, not after his gift of life to Claudia and Harlan.

  Tom, who died too young.

  Her eyes were a little cloudy as her cellphone buzzed on her desk.

  “Hey, Bennett,” the text from Dylan read. “When are you getting here? I’m starving again.”

  Aren’t we all starving, Francie thought, grabbing her red trench coat. We’re hungry for whatever fills the emptiness, be it a flowering cherry tree or a sunset in a magical city.

  She shook her head. She was being flighty again. She gazed out the window of her office and revised that thought.

  We’re starving for love, justice, connection, purpose: for whatever makes us whole.

  Read an excerpt of the next Bennett Sisters Mystery: coming Summer 2019

  A BOLT FROM THE BLUE

  Chapter 1

  The Dordogne

  The village was not really that— there was no town square, no post office, no store. Not much of anything but overgrown lots and sparse stands of trees. It was approached carefully, with forethought, through the backwoods and down narrow roads, winding around hummocks and along streams. The place was on no maps, if you can get a map detailed enough to show these dusty two-tracks. A hamlet, something Francie somehow associated with small ham sandwiches— ridiculous, yes— that’s what it was. A mere hamlet: a collection of a few houses of varying sizes, on acreages with falling-down barns and grass up to your knees.

  Francie wound her way to the hamlet on the ever-smaller roads, following the GPS directions from her phone. Otherwise she’d have been lost for days, driving in circles down shaded lanes, far from civilization. She’d once marveled that cosmopolitan France, land of manners and fashion and cuisine and sophistication, could have such neglected backwaters. Where were the house-flippers and Brits on the prowl? These places seemed untouched by modernization, although she did spot electrical poles along the way and hoped for at lea
st minimal lighting inside the mansion she’d been assigned to open.

  The duty had sounded delicious and mysterious, evoking a girlish curiosity that Francie was glad to find she hadn’t outgrown. To outlive curiosity, to be jaded about the unknown and undiscovered, would be tragic. So here she was, deep in the Dordogne, far from vineyards and goats, far from, well, people. To open an old woman’s manse, a family house no one had cared about for nearly forty years.

  Putting aside visions of rats and pigeons, she stood outside the stone house, dangling the keys. Of course she was curious. She’d read about apartments in Paris that had been boarded up after the Great War and never touched for sixty years, museums of a long-gone time. Would this old house be so fabulous? Or simply disgusting? Merle’s cottage had been more filthy than delightful at first.

  She tried to stay upbeat, searching for then finding the key to the rusty padlock on the door shutters. She had to put her weight on it to get it to budge, but finally it gave way, turning and springing open. Double doors with small glass panes and lace curtains stood inside the shutters. Another key. She rummaged through the tags for the right one.

  The house was much larger than Merle’s cottage, although, as the crow flies they weren’t far apart. Francie hadn’t known what to expect. The old lady came from a family of aristocrats, what was left of them in secular, socialist, post-Revolution, post-Napoleonic, post-war France. Deposed dukes, landed gentry, they remained today, living amongst us, although their wealth was often tied up in land and houses no one wanted, or their fortunes gone forever along with their heads.

  Two stories high, the mansion’s roof sported fancy gables with odd-shaped windows indicating a third floor under the slate roof. All shuttered and smothered by vines. The wooden shutters were a soft, peeling rose color. Maybe once they’d been burgundy but many summers had faded them. The yard was a flat, dry driveway overrun with weeds. Dry, prickly thistles scratched those who dared to enter. A half-dead tree stood guard, its leaves yellow and black.