Where Secrets Reside

by Susan Finlay

  “We need flashlights. The really good kind,” Andre said.

  “Lanterns would be cool if you have those,” Juliette said. “More authentic Maman says.”

  Coralie smiled at that because she and Juliette’s mom, Desiree, had camped together in the caves when they were in their early teens like these children. They, too, had carried old oil lanterns, not because they were more authentic but because that’s all they had. “I’m not sure if we have any lanterns left,” Coralie said, “but let’s have a look, shall we? They’re in the back. Follow me.”

  Twenty minutes later, the trio waved and smiled as they left the store with their flashlights, head gear, and snacks. They didn’t appear to care one bit that they couldn’t find lanterns.

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Dave said. “Why do you need me to go with you to the Gendarmerie?”

  Officer Vargas shrugged. “Orders from Captain Goddard.”

  “Are you sure he wasn’t talking about me?” Maurelle asked. She fully expected to be questioned again, especially since she and Dave had heard about his baseball bat being dug up near the bookshop. By now the whole village had heard. They may as well have announced it over loudspeakers and run advertisements on the television.

  “Quite sure.”

  Dave was standing near the door of their troglo, next to the gendarme. Maurelle had left Fabienne’s house and gone home to look for Dave. He had arrived a few minutes after she got there. He’d told her he’d heard news about the baseball bat in town and had come straight home to see if his bat was still under the bed. That was only half an hour ago.

  He looked at Maurelle. “I guess I’ll see you later, sweetie. It’ll be fine. I’m sure they just want to question me because of the baseball bat.”

  Maurelle ran to him and hugged him. He patted her on the head, then kissed her.

  “We’ll get through this, okay?”

  She looked into his eyes and nodded. He was always calm and reassuring. Still, she couldn’t shake the fear that had been with her ever since the gendarmes had come to get her yesterday.

  “MAY I HELP you, Officer?” Luc Olivier asked. He’d seen the gendarmes all over the village, but this was the first time one had come inside his restaurant. “Would you care to dine?”

  “No, Monsieur. This is a police matter. I’m here to speak with Monsieur Olivier. I have been told he’s the owner of this establishment.”

  “Why do you need to speak with him?” Luc’s hands were suddenly sweating, and heat was building up around his collar.

  “As I said, this is police business. Will you please inform him that I need him to come with me?”

  Luc glanced left, then right. No one was in ear shot.

  “I am sorry, Officer. Monsieur Olivier is not here right now. I will call him and let him know.”

  “Is he at home, then?”

  Luc nodded.

  “Do you have his address?”

  Luc rattled off an address and directions. When the gendarme left, Luc ducked out the backdoor of the restaurant and strode to his house as fast as he could. He’d given the gendarme a phony address, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “WHAT DO YOU mean people are going inside the caves?” Goddard asked. “I thought we had the caves marked off.”

  Vargas said, “We did, sir, or at least we thought we did. But when the potholing unit arrived this afternoon to search the underground environment, they found people wandering around inside—even kids playing.”

  “What! How did they get inside?”

  “The problem, I found out, is there are probably a hundred ways to enter the caves. Most of the residents with properties along the main roads of Reynier have built exterior houses directly in front of cave openings. In effect, they’ve given their troglos façades, and anyone who didn’t know better, would think they were entirely normal houses, like we did. Other houses higher up have elaborate gables on the rock face, again facades, but more obvious.”

  “Merde,” Goddard said. “I’d heard that some troglos had doors leading into the caves and that some traditional houses in the village backed up to the caves. I didn’t realize most of the houses did.”

  “To make matters worse, there are other troglos that are almost camouflaged. Some along the paths have nothing but a door flanked by a couple of windows meant to let natural light in, and many of those are covered with vines.”

  “Good Lord. So the killer could still be inside the cave system right now, and we wouldn’t know.”

  Vargas nodded.

  “What about the shops, the school, and the chateau?”

  “A few shops are also connected to the cave, but fortunately most aren’t. The school and chateau aren’t, either. However, when I went to the chateau to speak with the owners, I saw a large entryway right behind the building.”

  “We’ve parked in the chateau’s car park. I’ve never seen that. I saw one down the road from there.”

  “You can’t see it from the front. That’s the point I’m making. Most of the cave entryways are hidden.”

  “Okay, Monsieur Delacroix also explained some of the cave system to me the other day, but I suppose I still don’t understand the full extent of what we’re dealing with.”

  “I talked to several locals, and I couldn’t get a clear enough picture myself. Someone, I don’t remember who it was, directed me to the village’s museum. That proved quite a bit more enlightening. We may well need to send all of our officers there. I wrote a brief description down that seemed pertinent, if I may, sir.”

  Goddard leaned forward in his chair. “Go on.”

  Vargas pulled out a note pad and read: “Several hillside entrances in and around Reynier lead to a sort of ancient underground city made up of many kilometers of dozens of small cave rooms and several underground cave galleries known as caforts—some as huge as airplane hangars. Many of the rooms and galleries are linked together by underground stairs, ladders, ramps, alleys, and passages, and some even connect with troglos. When exploring, be sure to watch for gaping holes, wells, springs, basins, and bats. Oh, and mushrooms and a variety of orchids and subtropical plants have been grown here at one time or another. A botanist who visited Reynier years ago made an analogy of the underground city, calling it a tree, whilst the outer portions—the village of Reynier, proper—are just the branches and leaves.”

  “Ah, now that is interesting.” If Goddard had known, he would have been brought Chantal here to explore. That’s something she would like. “Has the potholing unit been able to clear the caves out?”

  “No. The best they can do is work around the people.”

  Goddard grimaced.

  “On a different matter, sir, I have Monsieur Martin here for his interview. Durand is still trying to find Monsieur Olivier.”

  “Give me a moment, and then take Monsieur Martin to the interview room. I’ll be there shortly.”

  After Vargas left, Goddard opened up Maurelle Martin’s file and browsed through it to refresh his memory, then picked up a new folder with Dave Martin’s name on the label.

  “DID YOU HEAR what people are saying about Alain and Simone?” Lorraine Colbert asked.

  Her friend, Sophie Dubois, looked up from the melon bin in front of the general store and said, “No. What is it? Come on, do tell.”

  Sophie held one melon in each hand, one near her nose so she could check it for ripeness, but put both down in anticipation of hearing a gossipy tidbit. As usual, her black hair was styled up high in a bun with a twisted scarf that matched her blouse tied around it. This time the colors were yellow and orange. Lorraine always admired her sense of style. Sophie’s three-and-a-half-year old daughter was holding onto Sophie’s skirt with her little hand, moaning that she wanted to go home. Sophie showed no sign of paying attention.

  “Well, I heard that some people are thinking Alain did it,” Lorraine said. “Felicia was murdered in his shop. They think Alain buried the weapon, but didn’t get a ch
ance to bury the body.”

  “Why would Alain kill somebody?”

  “Both the café and the bookshop need more business. And we all see that the news about the murders is bringing more people to Reynier and even drawing out people who normally sit at home watching TV or browsing the internet. What a boost this is for the café.”

  “That’s a horrible way to drum up trade,” Sophie said.

  “Simone’s been complaining about lack of customers. She might be that desperate.”

  “Are they having financial trouble?”

  Lorraine shrugged. “I don’t think so. All I know is that Alain was looking at diamond rings in the jewelry store the other day over in Belvidere. Emile came home and told me about it. He said that Alain bragged that business was picking up, and he wanted to give Simone the biggest diamond he could when he proposes marriage.”

  “Ooh, I didn’t know he was finally going to ask her. How exciting.”

  Jacques Henriot, who had been sitting on a bench nearby when they’d first started chatting, interjected a cough, alerting them that he was standing next to them. Jacques was gripping his cane, his belly bulging so far that one of his shirt buttons had popped off. That reminded Lorraine of a day last winter when Jacques was wearing a red sweater that his grand-daughter had sent him for Christmas. Sophie’s little girl had spotted him sitting on the bench, and with his white hair and white beard and eyeglasses, she had mistaken him for Pére Nöel. She’d ran up to him and sat on his lap. After that, he cut off his long beard.

  Lorraine sighed and said, “Hello, Jacques.”

  “I’ve been around a long time,” he said. “One should never forget the profit motive. You might not know this about me, but I lived in the big city back when I was a young man. I saw some pretty horrendous crimes back then, and some were for pretty meager profit. People do some crazy things, especially when there’s money involved.”

  “He’s right,” a new voice said.

  Maurice Raine had joined the little group. He was the same age but slightly trimmer and with less hair. Both men wore berets and blue-plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up part way. No one would mistake them for tourists, Lorraine thought.

  “When it comes to murder,” Maurice said, “it’s usually about money or sex.”

  THE DOOR TO the art workshop opened and then closed firmly. Paul Lepage ignored it. He was busy looking for a one inch horse hair paint brush in his storage room where he kept supplies for his art and for his remodeling business: turpentine, sketch pads, wire, beads, plaster, drop cloths, rollers for painting walls, roller pans, ladders, small tools, etc. Not finding what he needed, he stood up and peered around the corner to see who had entered. Alain Delacroix was standing near the art easel studying the half-painted scene of the Loire Valley.

  “What are you doing here?” Paul asked. He wiped his hands on a cloth and tossed it on the floor.

  “Simone sent me. Because of the murders, with the police all around, she thinks this is a time to show a united front, etc. We don't want things being said and misunderstood.”

  “If she thinks we’re going to kiss and make up, she’s in for a surprise.”

  “I pretty much told her the same,” Alain said. “But you know Simone. She thinks that both of us being close to her, we should be able to get along with each other.”

  “That’s like saying if mommy and daddy both love me, why can’t they live together?”

  Alain nodded. “I know. And she knows. She just doesn’t want us fighting, especially with the gendarmes watching everyone’s moves.”

  Paul moved one of his finished paintings around to make room for a shipment of blank canvases he was expecting any day.

  “Whether I like you or not, I have to say you do great work.”

  Paul looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. He’d never expected to hear that coming out of Alain’s mouth. Alain was always putting him down. Probably only saying it to make nice so he could go back to Simone and tell her he did what she’d asked.

  “Do you remember when we were in school and you would throw little wads of paper at the back of my head?” Alain asked. “When I’d turn around and tell you to quit, the teacher would punish me.”

  “I remember,” Paul said, smiling and enjoying the pleasant memory. “That never got old.”

  “I also remember that you made pretty things for the girls when they were young. Always giving them sketches you’d made of them, or jewelry created especially for them, or little barrettes for their hair.”

  “Yes, the girls like that kind of stuff.”

  “I know. But it made the rest of us look like Neanderthals. We didn’t get to date any girl that you hadn’t already gone out with.”

  “Not my fault. As I recall, you didn’t have the nerve to ask out a girl until they’d dated all the other guys and you were the only one left.”

  Alain sneered. “You think you’re so great that everyone should adore you. Well, maybe Simone and some others around here think that but not me.”

  “That suits me fine since I don’t want to go out with you anyway.” Paul picked up a painting he’d done of Simone and slipped it behind some others before Alain could see it. It was one he’d made after she’d broken up with Dave. She’d been depressed and was sitting in the café one night after it closed. They’d talked for hours, and then he’d asked her if he could paint her. They came back here and he’d painted one of his best portraits, one that showed her vulnerable and reflective. He’d given her the painting and she’d cried as she thanked him. But when Alain moved back to Reynier and became involved with her, he found out that it was a painting of Simone at the time she was getting over Dave, and he decided he didn’t like it. She’d given it back and asked Paul to keep it for her. That was Alain, he thought. Weak, insecure. He didn't simply have Paul’s fun, make love, and move on attitude. He wasn't free and so he wouldn't let Simone be free. He became obsessive and possessive.

  GODDARD WALKED INTO the interview room and the occupant immediately stood up and stepped forward, extending his hand.

  “I guess you’re Captain Goddard. I’m Dave Martin. Pleased to meet you.”

  This was a first. Goddard’s first instinct was to tell the man this wasn’t a social meeting, but he decided to play it differently. Martin was a former cop. Maybe a little friendliness and camaraderie would relax him and get him to open up. He shook hands with the man and studied his appearance. Dave was tall, with wavy dark blonde hair and blue eyes. His smile could be interpreted as charming, and his khaki trousers were stylish but definitely not French. Probably brought them over from the U.S.

  “Have a seat, Monsieur. I know you are familiar with these procedures, so let’s begin by you stating your full name for the record.”

  “Sure. I’m David Ryan Martin.”

  “And your occupation?”

  “Author. Novels, mostly. A few short stories, several magazine articles, and an occasional blog article.”

  “What kind of novels do you write?”

  Martin paused. “Huh? Why do you want to know that?”

  “It’s for the record.”

  “Okay. I write mysteries. I take it you’re not one of my fans.” Martin smiled.

  Goddard raised an eyebrow. “What kind of mysteries, Monsieur Martin? Murder mysteries?”

  Martin squirmed, then said, “Look, I was a cop in Chicago. I burned out and didn’t want to serve in a profession where justice wasn’t served. I know the French Gendarmerie is different, but you may understand. Back where I came from there were dirty cops and even a few dirty judges. And then, there were the criminals who got away with murder, drug-dealing, trafficking—you name it—because of some technicality. I couldn’t change it, no matter how hard I tried. So, I left.”

  “Fair enough.” Goddard studied him a moment. Martin fidgeted a bit, perhaps irritated, but he would let that go for now. He asked, “Do you miss it?”

  “Being a cop, you mean?”

 
Goddard nodded.

  “I enjoy the writing, but I do sometimes miss investigative work. We’re trained to notice things—little things that everyone else misses. We’re trained to be suspicious. It’s hard to let go of that, and of our instincts.”

  He knew exactly what Martin meant. It was in the blood once you became a good police officer or gendarme.

  “Tell me if you recognize this.” Goddard lifted up a blood-splattered baseball bat enclosed in a clear bag.

  Dave looked at it. “Yes, it’s mine. I keep it under our bed in case of intruders. Or at least I did. I prefer to keep a gun. It’s second-nature to me. But Maurelle is opposed to guns.”

  “How is it that your baseball bat came to be buried near the shops on rue de Rennes?”

  “That’s a very good question. I have no idea. Maurelle said she took it out from under the bed on the night of the storm because she heard a strange sound inside our house. She thought there was an intruder. When she realized it was the backup power supply for my computer, she set the bat down near the desk. That was the last time she saw it because in the morning she left and went into town. She stayed at my grandmother’s house until I returned to Reynier.”

  “And where were you, Monsieur?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I went to the U.S. on a book tour. You know, publishers insist their authors do these things periodically, especially when they have a new book out.”

  “And you have a new book?”

  Dave nodded.

  “When did you leave for the U.S. and when did you return to France?”

  “I, uh, left here a week ago. Returned this morning.” Again the fidgeting.

  “I’ll need proof of that. Airline ticket stubs, something from your publisher—an itinerary perhaps.”

  Martin wiped his palm on his thigh. “I don’t understand. Why do you need anything from me?”