“That will bring them in,” murmured the mayor into Bruno’s ear.
Then a man with long white hair, a beard and a scholarly air asked if they had any special facilities for those suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.
“Let me answer that,” said a middle-aged man who had been standing to one side. “I’m Dr. Jean-Michel Dumouriez, and I’m the chief medical consultant here. I visit each day, and I’m permanently on call to support our local resident medical team. Of course we have arrangements for our guests with any kind of serious illness to be treated privately in the most advanced facilities available. To my surprise, we have seen no case yet of the kind you mention. I suggest this may be because of the lively social and intellectual life that we offer our guests. What’s more, the spa, gymnasium and gardens we provide help our guests keep in the best possible physical condition.”
Beside Bruno, the mayor raised his hand and called out, “I have a question, and perhaps an indelicate one.” Since he was one of the better known local figures, his intervention caused a small stir.
“Many of us will remember what happened to the stock markets and in some cases to our savings in 2008, and in other years of financial turmoil. I’m sure I’m not alone in suspecting we may have another crash or crisis in the not-too-distant future. What happens to those who find themselves no longer able to afford your considerable fees?”
“Thank you for that important question, and I’m sure it will be on many minds,” the director replied smoothly. “We’ve arranged with a leading insurance group a solution under which our guests may use current savings or the sale of shares or property to buy an insurance policy. This would cover the residential and medical fees, or the fees in a specialized medical facility, for the policyholder’s remaining years.”
“How would that work, exactly?” the mayor asked.
“Each solution has to be tailor-made to the individual taking out the policy, depending on their age, medical condition, disposable funds and so on,” the director went on. “Many of our guests have life insurance policies that are due to pay out in the not-too-distant future. Depending on the date and amount, these funds can be applied to the new insurance policy. This removes all cares and concerns about the guest’s right to a stable, comfortable residence with us for the rest of the guest’s life.
“And now,” the director continued, “let us invite you to take a glass of champagne and some canapés, and we thank all of you for your interest and your visit.”
As he spoke, waitresses in long black skirts and white dress shirts with black bow ties entered the room bearing silver trays with glasses of champagne, mineral water and fruit juice, followed by several more carrying trays of mini vol-au-vent, Vietnamese nems and open-faced sandwiches of smoked salmon and foie gras. No expense spared, thought Bruno. He and the mayor helped themselves and began circulating around the room, greeting several acquaintances and political colleagues of the mayor and hearing how impressed they all were.
Bruno made his way across the room to greet Nathalie and Philippe and asked quietly, “I know why Philippe is interested in this place, but what brings you here, Nathalie?”
“Given rising longevity, it’s an interesting concept. Brosseil told me about this event and suggested that if the new home is a success, the organizers might be looking to expand and start looking for new châteaux. That’s where I come in. And what brings you here, Bruno?”
“I came to keep the mayor company, and I think I’d better get back to him.”
He returned to find the mayor surrounded by a group of colleagues, all discussing the director’s remarks, the way he’d handled the questions and whether the place would prove a lasting success.
“I was particularly impressed by his response to your question, Mangin,” said another former mayor. “Trust you as a former member of the Senate to get to the heart of the matter, how to afford it and what happens when the savings run out. And the way this damn government is running the economy, that could happen to many of us.”
“Thank you,” the mayor replied with a slight bow. “But I’m afraid the director moved on too quickly with the champagne before I could ask my follow-up question. And as you know, old friend, the follow-up is often the one that addresses the crucial and the unanswered point.”
“And that is?”
“What happens to our heirs, to our sons and daughters and grandchildren? Such a policy may take care of us for the rest of our days, but it clearly threatens to leave our heirs without the kind of inheritance that most of us here enjoyed, whether in land or houses or as life insurance policies. I inherited my house and a tidy sum from the thrift and generosity of my own parents. And so did you, my dear colleague,” said the mayor, fixing his questioner with a stern eye.
“And what will our children say of us when we devour the patrimony of the family, perhaps built up over several generations, to finance our own declining years in luxury? And what if we die the very year that we move in? So my final question is this: If we devote all our savings to a place such as this, how on earth will we sleep at night, knowing that our own children will find it hard to forgive us? I for one don’t want to think of them standing over my grave and cursing me for my selfishness.”
Chapter 12
Bruno returned from his morning run with Balzac the next day and from long habit switched on his radio, toaster and the kettle for his coffee, in that order. He gave Balzac two of the dog biscuits he made himself, loaded fresh coffee grounds into his cafetière and put a spoonful of honey and crumbled a third of a cinnamon stick into his mug. By the time he’d pressed down the plunger, the radio delivered the news he’d been waiting for. The third item was Philippe’s story in Sud Ouest about charges being filed against an insurance group for the neglect of two hundred sheep and lambs at one of the last hill farms in the region. The newspaper was quoted saying that the charges came after “a highly unusual sale and insurance deal by the farmer to buy lifetime residency in a luxurious retirement home.”
“Obviously there was a problem here because of the unexpected death of the farmer, Monsieur Driant, who lived alone and whose body was not found for some days,” came the emollient tones of Sarrail, the Périgueux notaire. “Monsieur Driant had undertaken to complete all the necessary paperwork for the sale of the farm and livestock, but his unfortunate death interrupted that process, as we shall explain to the court. Suitable arrangements for the livestock are being made.”
Best of all, thought Bruno, was the procureur saying that the legitimacy of the sale of the farm might have to be reconsidered, given that the rules on the sale and care of livestock had apparently been ignored. He couldn’t help grinning as he loaded Balzac into his van and set off to exercise the horses. He was looking forward to reading Pamela’s copy of Sud Ouest.
Bruno pondered what Sarrail might mean by “suitable arrangements.” At Pamela’s place, he scanned Philippe’s detailed story, spread over two inside pages, with photos of two of the lambs looking sickly in Maurice’s arms. The animal protection society was demanding criminal charges against the neglectful insurance company. The Jeunes Agriculteurs were vowing to warn every farmer in the region against these “predatory financial groups,” and the mayor of St. Denis was quoted warning against “luxury retirement homes that finance themselves by disinheriting whole families.”
“Do I detect your hand behind all this?” Pamela asked, reading over his shoulder in the stables. “I heard something about it on the radio earlier.”
“Me?” asked Bruno innocently. “It’s the free press doing its job.” He checked Hector’s saddle girth and mounted. Then, with an idea forming about the fate of Driant’s sheepdogs, he suggested that they take the horses on a different ride today, up to the plateau to call at Driant’s farm to see what was happening to his sheep.
Thirty minutes later, they dismounted and hitched their horses to a fence post at t
he farm. Two men whom Bruno didn’t know were trying to persuade the flock of sheep and lambs to climb a ramp into a livestock truck. On the truck’s door was the logo of an abattoir at St. Astier, some fifty kilometers away. Driant’s two sheepdogs were stretched out on his porch, watching the vain antics of the men as the sheep wheeled and sprinted away, evading all attempts to load them. Balzac, who had followed the horses, went across to the porch to renew his acquaintance with Driant’s dogs, then lay down beside them to watch.
“You’ll need good sheepdogs for that,” Bruno told the two men as they turned and eyed him and Pamela. Except for his riding cap, he was in police uniform.
“We can’t do anything with those two dogs on the porch,” one of the men said, coming forward to shake hands and introducing himself as Henri, owner-driver of the truck. He presented a printout of an e-mail from Constant’s insurance agency, ordering the sheep and lambs taken for slaughter. “Your dog seems to know them. Can you do something?”
“I wouldn’t know how to work those sheepdogs. They were trained by the farmer who used to live here. Are you planning on taking his sheepdogs, too? And what about the chickens?” Bruno asked.
“Nobody told us anything about dogs or chickens,” came the reply. “Normally we just back up to an enclosure where the sheep are kept and push them in, but these animals are running loose and we’re getting nowhere. Time’s money for me, and I’ve three more jobs to do today.”
“If I can find another shepherd to bring his own dogs, will you give him twenty euros for his trouble?” Bruno asked, taking out his phone.
The man said yes. Bruno made the call, and ten minutes later Guillaumat arrived with his dogs, and the sheep were loaded with brisk efficiency, Driant’s dogs rising from the porch to join in the fun. Guillaumat was given a twenty-euro note, and the truck drove off.
“You sure you can’t take the dogs?” Bruno asked Guillaumat, who shook his head sadly, saying, “I suppose they’ll have to go to the animal rescue pound.”
He turned to see Pamela on the porch, making friends with the two sheepdogs. The mother stayed with her. But the younger dog, after a friendly lick of Pamela’s hand, trotted off to join Balzac, who was playing one of his favorite games, running in and out between the horses’ legs. The horses accepted this patiently. Hector bent his great head down to Balzac’s level to nuzzle the dog, who often slept in Hector’s stall when Bruno stayed the night at Pamela’s. Hector then gave the young sheepdog an amiable sniff. Pamela’s horse, Primrose, followed suit. It looked as though Bruno’s idea might be bearing fruit.
“I remember you saying you were thinking of getting a watchdog for the stables,” he said to her. “They’re a mother and son, so I’d hate to see them parted. Or shot, which is what I expect the lawyers would do to them.”
“They’re good dogs,” said Guillaumat. “And the young one seems friendly with the horses. He’s called Beau, and his mother is Bella.”
“Why don’t we take them to the riding school?” Pamela said. She glanced at Bruno. “Since I suspect you planned this all along, you’ll have to make lots more of those dog biscuits of yours.”
“With pleasure.” He turned to Guillaumat. “I doubt whether Beau and Bella would follow us back. Would you do me a favor and drive them to the riding school? You might want to take some of the chickens for your pains.”
“I already told you I can’t use them,” said Guillaumat. “But there’s a couple of bantam cocks that I can take and raise for my table. Driant was particular about his hens. He’s got some Rhode Island Reds, leghorns and a couple of Golden Comets, all good layers. His cockerel is a young Gallus domesticus, a fine bird, about eighteen months old, so he’s fully mature, and the hens are used to him. He can handle ten or a dozen, no problem.”
“How about having your own chickens?” Bruno asked Pamela. “You’ve got that fine bit of pasture far enough from the house and gîtes that the cockerel’s morning call won’t be a problem. It’s big enough for a score or more chickens to scratch around and feed themselves. We can get Félix’s dad to put a fence in, and this evening I can help him build a chicken coop. And Miranda’s kids will enjoy having them, going down each morning to collect the eggs.”
Pamela gave him a wry smile. “Why do I think you’ve had this in mind all along, Bruno?” she asked. “But yes, why not? And I’m sure people who rent the gîtes will enjoy having fresh eggs. Let’s do it.”
Guillaumat picked out the bantams and put them into a cardboard box that he placed on his passenger seat. He and Bruno rounded up the rest of the chickens and loaded them into the back of the truck. He put the two sheepdogs onto the backseat of his truck and climbed in.
“Before you go,” said Bruno. “Remember you told me about that young woman you met here with Driant, the one with the foreign accent who said she was from the insurance company? Could you describe her for me, age and height, hair color, that sort of thing?”
“A bit shorter than me, very dark hair, slim build, at least from her legs, and I could see plenty of them,” said Guillaumat, seeming to enjoy the memory. “She wore a lot of makeup and had amazing eyebrows, perfect, as if they were painted on. Until she said she was with the insurance company, I thought she might have been a model, or, er…” His voice trailed off, and he glanced at Pamela as if embarrassed.
“You mean you thought she might have been an expensive prostitute,” Pamela said, smiling at Guillaumat.
“Well, I did wonder,” he said. “Knowing Driant.”
“When you said a foreign accent, was her French good?” Pamela asked.
“Yes, excellent, better than mine with the grammar. She spoke with a lot of breathiness, with a sort of cough when she said the words chaque and roc. Made me remember the Algerian War, the way those Arabs spoke.”
That was interesting, thought Bruno, thanking Guillaumat and saying they’d see him at the riding school. Bruno and Pamela mounted their horses and rode back at a steady trot, Balzac bringing up the rear, with Bruno feeling relieved that Pamela had solved the problem of Driant’s dogs. The chickens had been a happy afterthought.
He thought about what they’d need for the chicken coop. He had a big roll of chicken wire at home, but he should buy some cement and metal stakes. He would need to bury the wire deep, but he could borrow a machine for that from Michel at the public works. He had plenty of planks in his barn that he’d taken years ago from a neighbor’s ruined tobacco-drying barn. Four posts of seasoned wood, ten centimeters square, would suffice for the frame of the coop, each sunk into a bucket filled with pebbles and cement. His old planks would provide the roof and walls, and there was straw in the stables. Waterproof felting would be good to add to the roof, and he remembered there was a roll at the back of Pamela’s stables. If he made a sloping roof, he could put some corrugated plastic on top and add a gutter to catch the rainwater.
Once they reached the stables Bruno took Guillaumat to one side.
“That young Arab woman who was visiting Driant, did you notice what kind of car she was driving?”
“Oh, yes, a nice one, one of those new Volkswagen Beetles, a convertible, in blue. Of course she had the top up when I saw it.”
Bruno thanked the old man and sent him on his way, then drove himself home to collect the planks and chicken wire. He stopped at the local sawmill to buy some wood and then again at Bricomarché for some bags of cement and a piece of two-meter-square corrugated plastic for the roof. By chance, the baron was there, buying lightbulbs. He immediately volunteered to help, and at once bought a junction box, an outdoor lamp and electric wire to mount above the door to the chicken coop. Bruno then picked up Félix’s father, who joined them for a promise of half a dozen eggs a week. He called Michel, who offered to bring the digging machine to Pamela’s place at lunchtime.
Bruno and Félix’s dad dug the postholes and dropped in four of the big plastic b
uckets in which Pamela bought oats in bulk for her horses. They used stones and half bricks to hold the posts in place, poured in cement and then unrolled the chicken wire to see if there was enough. It would make a generous enclosure of ten meters by twenty. Bruno left Félix’s dad and the baron sawing the planks for the walls of the coop and screwing them onto battens while he went back to his office.
He first called the prosecutor’s office and was told that Sarrail had been served with a demand that he present himself for an interview but that Constant, the insurance agent, was said to be out of town until the following week. Then Bruno called Constant’s office to find out if there was a number where he could be reached. The phone was answered by a young woman. He identified himself, saying he had good news—that he had seen the sheep and lambs taken from the farm and added that he had found new owners for the sheepdogs.
“That’s excellent news and very kind of you,” came the reply, and there was something about the way she pronounced the word “excellent” that made him think of Guillaumat’s description.
“I’ve been trying to reach Monsieur Constant about this every day since we got news of Monsieur Driant’s death.”
“Chaque jour? Every day?” she replied.
And Bruno heard it distinctly, that slight Arabic cough on the word chaque.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said. “Are you a colleague of Monsieur Constant?”
“I’m Mademoiselle Saatchi, Lara Saatchi,” she said. “I’m an associate agent here and I’m running the office while Monsieur Constant is in our Monaco office. I was the one who arranged the abattoir for the sheep, and I’m very relieved that has now been done. We’ve had such trouble with this business of the farm because of Monsieur Driant’s unfortunate death.”
“I think you met Monsieur Driant’s friend, another sheep farmer called Guillaumat, when you visited the farm last month,” he said.
There was a pause before she spoke. “Everything was handled by Monsieur Constant in person.”
The Shooting at Chateau Rock Page 10
