by Susan Finlay
“Good idea,” Alain said.
“How will we contact each other if we find the girl’s parents?” Charles asked.
Alain hesitated, then pulled out his mobile and tried it. “My mobile isn’t receiving a signal. Anybody else had any luck?”
Several people shook their head.
“Okay. Let’s figure on meeting back here in two hours. If we don’t find the parents by then, we’ll call the gendarmes.”
CHAPTER THREE
MAURELLE PUT ON her jacket and went outside. Standing in front of the café, she waited as people trickled out. Simone was one of the first to exit. She carried the child on her hip and looked as if she wanted to strangle someone. Maurelle guessed that she was angry with Alain for giving her a task she really didn’t want. Alain had assigned Maurelle the task of searching the eastern end of the village and checking in with shop owners, which was fine with her. Her only problem was that Jonas Lefèvre had volunteered to go with her, probably so he could hit on her again. Poor Lilllian. Did she know what a womanizer her husband was?
Jonas hadn’t come out of the café yet. He had been talking to Alain when Maurelle left. She looked around, trying to decide which way they should go. Jonas, she knew from past experience, wouldn’t make any decisions. He preferred to let others take the lead, unless he had something to gain.
Where she stood was close to the center of the hill’s elevation but at the west edge of the village, on rue de Rennes, the single-car-width cobblestone lane situated on the second tier of the hillside in front of the café and across the street from the town hall. It was the intersection where the road would switch-back onto rue Corneille and run down to the bottom tier, if they chose to go that way. That last tier was where most of the village’s businesses were situated. The local school, an empty store, and the bookshop where Maurelle worked were on this second tier. Chateau de Reynier was situated in between the two tiers, reached by a steep driveway up from the lower tier, or by stairs down from this level. From her vantage point she could see rooftops, glimpses of the river, and the road that ran parallel to it. She wondered how the businesses on the flat side of the village, directly across the over-flowing river, had fared overnight. Had they flooded?
When Jonas appeared, Maurelle said, “Since we’ve already spoken to Jean-Pierre, I thought we should head down to the main street. What do you think?”
“Whatever you say. Point me in the direction you want and I’ll be at your service, you know that, don’t you?” It wasn’t so much what he said but the way he said it and the way he leered at Maurelle that immediately set her on edge. Everything with Jonas was sexual.
“Why do you keep talking like that, Jonas?” she asked as they walked down the slope. “You’re married, I’m married. Nothing’s going to happen between us.”
“That’s the problem with you rosbifs—you’re too closed.”
Maurelle tensed up for battle. She’d heard that term before and knew that rosbifs was derogatory slang for English roast-beef-eaters.
“The French have a much more open attitude,” Jonas said. “Sooner or later men will sleep with their friends’ wives or girlfriends and women will sleep with their friends’ husbands or boyfriends. That’s how it works here. No one expects it otherwise. Have you not noticed that women are insanely jealous and suspicious? This is a good thing—it makes them spend most of their time trying to look good so they can keep their mates.”
“And then, other men are attracted to them and hit on them.”
“Ah, yes, you have noticed. So you see there’s no point in fighting it.”
Maurelle just shook her head. Of course she’d seen ‘how it worked’ for herself. But she wanted no part of it. Let them have their flings if they must. She wouldn’t judge, as long as no one lured Dave away. It didn’t take a genius to notice a few women trying, but Maurelle was sure Dave hadn’t fallen for it. At least almost sure. After being cheated on by her previous boyfriend back in England, she wasn’t so naïve as to think it couldn’t happen again.
“Leave me out of your sordid little affairs, Jonas. You’ve plenty of women. Sometimes I think you’re trying to acquire a harem.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was smiling that pouting smile, his chest puffed out like a rooster. God, this bugger was proud of himself. Granted, Jonas wasn’t bad looking—tall, with slicked-back brown hair and hazel eyes— but still she couldn’t understand why so many women put up with his disgusting laissez-faire attitude. His business frequently required him to travel to sell and deliver his products. She could well imagine him hooking up with women all across the countryside.
“Look at yourself, Maurelle. You have become one of the most beautiful women in all of Reynier. Well, not at this particular moment, perhaps. You look more like you did when you first came here. But usually you go out of your way to brush your hair ‘til it shines and smells delectable. And—”
“Stop it, okay. We have work to do.”
On rue Corneille, walking in brooding silence, they passed deserted stores, each still displaying their ‘Ferme’ signs in their windows. The hanging signs over the post office, gift shop, butcher shop, wine and cheese shop, and general store swayed in the wind which, though it had died down considerably, was still blowing unpredictably through the village.
They stepped over debris littering the road, skirted broken flower pots, and walked around large pools of water. When they reached the general store, a strong gust grabbed hold of the store’s yellow canopy and tossed it ferociously, creating a deafening cacophony that startled Maurelle and caused her to momentarily freeze in her tracks.
“A bit jumpy, aren’t you?” Jonas said. He laughed and made scary faces at her.
Before she had a chance to answer, another swirling gust whipped her long hair around, sending strands of thick dark-sable curls over and into her eyes, nearly blinding her. Struggling to regain a modicum of control over her hair, she discovered it had become hopelessly wind-tangled. She reached up and combed through the tangles with her fingers. Jonas watched the whole performance with a sardonic smile, but she resisted the urge to smack him—barely.
Near the edge of the village they approached Reynier’s lone petrol station, advertised by a cracked, deteriorating signpost with peeling sun-bleached paint. The sign and the pumps looked as if they pre-dated the automobile, and they always reminded Maurelle of her grandfather back in England and his antique cars that he loved until the day he died. At first glance she thought the petrol station was closed up tight, but then she caught sight of a man in a red shirt and navy overalls—Yves Rousseau, the eighty-year-old owner. Still working and still sprightly as ever, he was standing near the turquoise-white-rust colored petrol pumps.
“Hello,” she yelled.
Yves looked up. Maurelle and Jonas walked over to him.
“Did your home survive the storm?” Maurelle asked.
“Ouais. But I was afraid it would take the roof off. I’m sure glad these pumps are tucked in here. Could have been a real problem, all the hail and wind, otherwise. Ouais, a real problem. What brings you two out and about?”
Maurelle used to get confused when someone said ouais, until Dave explained that it meant ‘yeah’.
“Maurelle here found a baby—well I guess a toddler might be the right word. We don’t know who she belongs with. May have been abandoned. The town’s putting together a search party.”
“Well, I’d be happy to ask around for you, but my legs aren’t much good anymore for running ‘round the hills. So you tellin’ me nobody knows who the kid is?”
“That’s right. You didn’t happen to see anybody new around here yesterday, did you?” Jonas asked.
“Hmm,” he said, rubbing his stubbly grey beard. “Memory’s not so good these days, but I’m pretty sure I remember fillin’ up a tank yesterday. Most people ‘round here fill up their tanks themselves.” A blank look came over his eyes, and he scratched his head. “Oh, I was telling you about the woman, w
asn’t I? A young woman. Pretty, she was. Those are the ones that catch my eye, even at my age.” He raised his eyebrows, grinned and shrugged. Maurelle couldn’t help but smile. “On second thought, it mighta been the day before.”
“What kind of car was she driving?”
“Little car. Renault. White, or maybe beige. I don’t know. It was a light color.”
Maurelle bit her lip. He could be describing a quarter of the cars in the area. “Do you know where she went?” she asked.
“Ouais. Drove around town a couple of times, turned and went uphill on the main road, and then back down again. Don’t know what happened after that, as I had another customer pull in to the station.”
“Thanks, Yves,” Maurelle said. “If you remember anything else about her, please let us know.”
He jerked his chin. “Ouais, sure.”
THEY HAD PROCEEDED to the eastern edge where a road bisected rue Corneille. To the right it was the main road leading up the hill to the upper level of Reynier where the church ruins were located, and to the left it crossed over the river by way of an ancient stone bridge. This was the road Yves had mentioned. The woman might simply have been passing through Reynier. If they continued on rue Corneille for another three-and-a-half miles, they would wind up in the market town of Belvidere.
“I think we should cross over the bridge,” Jonas said. “What do you think?”
“Yes, good idea. Others will be checking out the area around the old church. Perhaps on the other side of the river, Monsieur Fontaine will have his coffee shop open. If he does, he may have customers we can talk to.”
They crossed the street. Up until now, businesses had blocked most of their view of the river. Near the intersection, the businesses ended and an empty parking lot afforded a magnificent view of the river. The river was churning and moving fiercer than Maurelle had ever seen it. Trees along the river had toppled on both sides, some having fallen into the river, their roots hanging on to the banks. Gouges in the river bank indicated some trees had been swept away in the current, some having formed temporary dams in spots, the water lapping over the tree trunks, straining to push them further down river. River levels were high, overflowing the banks and covering what used to be grassy areas, especially on the lower side. Halfway across the gently sloping arch of the bridge, she and Jonas were forced to stop because water was running over the bridge on the other end. Standing at the railing, Maurelle stared at the flooded street on the flat side of town. “I guess we’ll have to check out this area once the water level goes down,” she said loudly, trying to be heard over the sound of the rushing water. “For now, we can look more around on this side of the village where the ground is higher.”
SIMONE JOSTLED THE baby on her hip as she trudged along the muddy trail leading to Marie Devereaux’s house. The baby was screaming in her ear and Simone was half tempted to set her down and let her fend for herself. Maybe that’s what the girl’s mother had done. She couldn’t really blame her if that was the case.
When she finally arrived at Marie’s, she shoved the squirming child into Marie’s hands.
“What is this?” Marie asked.
Simone explained what had happened.
“Come with me. I’m sure I can find something for her to wear.” In Aurelie’s bedroom, Marie set the little girl on the floor and opened the armoire, pulling clean clothes out, rifling through the shelves and drawers to match size and gage appropriate warmth, looking a bit harassed from the screaming child sitting next to her.
She frowned at the open bag of diapers. “I hope these won’t be too big for her. Aurelie is a bit bigger. I suppose I can make them work.”
“How old do you think the child is?”
“Aurelie is eighteen months.” She looked from her daughter who was standing in the middle of her bedroom, to the little girl sitting on the floor near her. “I would have to guess she’s a few months younger. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”
Marie picked up the girl and laid her down on the changing table, peeled off her clothes and diaper, cleaned her up and placed a dry diaper on her. Then she dressed her in some of the clothes she had chosen that Aurelie had outgrown. Once she was finished changing her, Marie placed all of the girl’s clothes and the little bead necklace she wore into a plastic bag and took it to her laundry area.
She went back and picked up the girl and asked Simone to get Aurelie. With children in tow, they walked into the kitchen.
“So no one knows who she is?”
“Not anyone who was in the café,” Simone said. “We haven’t gone door-to-door yet. I guess that’ll be the gendarmes’ jobs.”
The little girl was sitting in Marie’s daughter’s high chair drinking a bottle of milk while Marie’s child, Aurelie, played with toys on the floor. Simone stared at them, feeling completely out of place.
ALAIN GROANED INWARDLY. How the hell had he gotten stuck with Paul for a search partner? Of all the people in the café, Paul was the last one Alain would have chosen as a partner for anything. No particular reason unless you counted the laziness and egotism he knew about from their long history.
He could kick himself for not assigning Paul to a team upfront. It was his own damn fault for leaving the man till the end—not that Paul exactly pushed himself to the forefront. Usually he was happy to be centre of attention, but this task obviously didn’t interest him.
“Where are we heading?” Paul asked.
Alain twisted his mouth. He’d given out assignments and told everyone he would search the caves nearest to where Maurelle had found the little girl. Didn’t the man ever listen?
Probably shouldn’t have jumped in and taken charge. That’s what I get for trying to impress Simone.
Normally, Dave Martin would be the rescuer, so to speak. That’s one of the things Simone admired about Dave and one of the things that made Alain envious, even though he counted Dave as his best friend now. For once, with Dave out of the country, Alain had a chance to shine and make his girlfriend admire him for something.
The two walked on rue de Rennes toward the chateau. A few steps past it, they turned and headed up the steep stone staircase connecting the tiers. At the top of the stairs, they turned right and made their way into the wooded hillside where most of the caves and troglos, the cave dwellings, were located.
Outsiders rarely knew that ancient troglos were hidden behind ordinary house facades or shrouded by overgrown greenery, even in the center of town. They often didn’t notice the gaping holes leading into the cavern. Most tourists drove right on past the village without ever realizing the unique world hidden within its limestone hills. From what Alain heard, even some of the locals weren’t aware that the caves were all inter-connected, like a giant labyrinth. As a little boy he had heard stories about the old days when cave-dwellers had lived and worked inside, traveling through the tunnels from their homes to their work, some of them never seeing daylight. That was something that had always intrigued him. Of course things were different now. The caves were no longer mined. They were mostly vacant or had been converted into luxurious troglo homes. But they were still interesting.
Alain and Paul trudged through the mud on the third tier, both sliding down more than once as they tried to climb up the hill. Now Alain understood why Maurelle had looked so muddy. They decided to stay on the path, avoiding the muddier parts, wherever possible keeping to the drier spots.
They stopped at each cave along the hillside and spoke with residents in some. But when they came upon uninhabited caves, one of them would turn on his flashlight and go inside for a brief search. More often than not it was Alain who got stuck with that job. When they reached the most famous cave in the area, the one recently nicknamed ‘Maurelle’s Cave’, Alain noticed the branches normally covering the entrance appeared to have been cut and pulled away. That’s odd. From what he’d heard, after the initial story and subsequent naming almost a year ago, few people came out to see it anymore. Couldn’t have been the storm. The branc
hes would not have been pruned away in this fashion. “Do you want to check this one, Paul, or should I?”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait out here and have a smoke.”
Of course Paul would. No surprise there.
Alain flipped on his flashlight and stooped down. It was one of the few caves around that still possessed its original opening. He stooped and went inside and then stood up straight. Shining his light this way and that, he jerked and nearly fell backwards when his flashlight illuminated a woman lying in a pool of blood. Regaining some of his composure, he stepped closer so he could check for a pulse, but the smell of blood suddenly brought up his gorge, sending him running out. Outside, he almost retched.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“There’s—there’s a body in there. And blood. Lots of blood.”
CHAPTER FOUR
CAPTAIN PASCAL GODDARD, the new chief of the Belvidere Gendarmerie, a transferee from the Province region, stared at the rock wall with a four-foot tall hole directly in front of him. He would have to tramp through the mud to reach it. He shook his head and ran his hand through his short auburn hair. Normally he wouldn’t be concerned about a bit of mud, but he was wearing his best tailored gray suit and spit-shined black shoes today. Not having anticipated making a trek through mud, he had left the rubbers for his shoes back at the office. Oh well, shoes can be cleaned. Hopefully the mud is not too deep. He shaded his eyes from the sun, trying to ascertain the number of distinct footprints in the mud. From this distance—twenty feet or so—it was hard to tell.
It had taken almost an hour after the call had come in to the Gendarmerie before crews finished clearing away fallen trees blocking the roads. Goddard and his men had to wait until then before they could descend upon Reynier. When he’d first arrived in town twenty minutes ago, he’d driven as close as possible to the cave, which he assumed was the gaping hole he’d seen on the second level of the hill, near the eastern edge of town, but he didn’t see anyone around it, nor a place to park. He’d parked in Chateau de Reynier’s lot. Two local men had come to meet him as he exited his vehicle. They introduced themselves as Alain Delacroix and Paul Lepage, the men who’d found the victim. Goddard had scrutinized both men. Alain Delacroix was tall and sturdy, probably in his mid-thirties, with medium-brown hair that was an unruly mess of curls, and brown eyes behind silver-framed eyeglasses. Paul Lepage, on the other hand was lean and muscular with black hair and blue-green eyes, early to mid-thirties at a guess, sporting several days’ worth of stubble on his face, and he seemed disinterested in all the activity, as though he would rather be elsewhere. Delacroix had explained that a local woman had found a small child alone somewhere out on the hillside, causing the villagers to form a search party to look for the child’s parents.
