The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PRESENT DAY

  PROVENCE

  Cady

  The TGV, or Train à Grande Vitesse, lived up to its name: The trip from Paris to Avignon took only three hours, which, to a Californian like Cady, was stunning. She had traveled across much of France in less time than it would have taken her to drive from San Francisco to Reno, Nevada.

  But the true shock was how easy it was to rent a car. All she needed was her California driver’s license and a credit card.

  Why would a French car rental company allow an American, with no knowledge of the road signs or regulations, to take off in a shiny new Renault? At least the French drove on the same side of the road as the Americans; otherwise she’d have been toast. Once she got the knack of zooming through the roundabouts, however, she started to relax.

  As she traversed France, first on the train and then by car, Cady took note of the changing landscape: Outside Paris, thick forests gave way to grassy fields, where cows and lambs grazed, which in turn yielded to softly rolling hills hosting acres of vineyards, and lavender fields backed by jagged cliffs. As she drew closer to the town of Saint-Véran, olive orchards, ancient sycamore trees, and twisty Italian cypresses lined the country highways.

  Luckily Cady had written down the address and directions to the room she was renting in Saint-Véran, because the last few miles her cell phone worked only sporadically. “Another perk of country life,” she muttered to herself. “Bad cell reception.” But before going into the village, she wanted to drive past Château Clement, which she had located on a map before leaving Paris. She couldn’t wait to catch a glimpse of the place that had started to take shape in her imagination.

  It was only seven thirty, but as it was early April, the sun had set. There were no streetlamps, but the nearly full moon cast silvery light over the landscape. Tall trees and bushes were inky shapes against the deep purple sky.

  Cady pulled off the road and parked along a stone wall where a set of lopsided metal gates hung slightly open. Straight ahead, beyond the gates, a long gravel drive lined with overgrown Italian cypress trees led to the château. The drive was pockmarked with ruts and dotted with patches of healthy-looking weeds. The entrance to Château Clement was not just run-down—it looked abandoned.

  She climbed out of the car and stretched.

  From what she could make out at this distance, Château Clement was a strange amalgam of styles. The main façade was flat and symmetrical, at least three stories, made of a pale stone. Chalky shutters flanked the many windows. A pair of symmetrical curved staircases led up to a main door on the second level. Massive chimneys and pipes of unknown utility rose high above the red-tiled roof.

  Cady hesitated, then stepped inside the gates. Gravel crunched under the heels of her boots. The air was chill and damp, and the wind began to pick up, tugging at her hair. She hardly noticed.

  There were no lights visible in the building. What if she just walked right up to the house and knocked on the door? Would that be okay, or too pushy? This was the sort of thing she wasn’t good at predicting.

  To the right of the château was a pond, encircled with reeds and studded with what looked like statuary and lily pads, just like in a storybook. Several outbuildings formed a large U around what might have been a courtyard. Thick stone walls to the other side of the house appeared to be cruder, perhaps remnants from a different century.

  Maybe the château really had been abandoned. Fabrice Clement had been writing in the 1950s, which would make him pretty old by now. Perhaps advanced age or declining health had led him to give up his reclusive ways, and he was being cared for somewhere else.

  Crash!

  Cady jumped at the sound of glass breaking. She saw a wavering light, like the beam of a flashlight, over by the clutch of outbuildings. She thought she heard a man’s voice calling out.

  “Allo?” she replied in a loud voice. “Is everything all right? Monsieur Clement?”

  Spooked, she turned to leave.

  But stopped. What if the old man had gone outside to gather firewood or something and tripped in the dark? What if he were lying prone, injured? She couldn’t shake the memory of Maxine collapsing in front of her. She hadn’t been able to help Maxine, but if Fabrice Clement was a frail, elderly man . . .

  Finally, she opened the gates, jumped back into her car, and drove down the driveway, stopping near the outbuildings, where she thought the sound had originated.

  “Allo?” she called out again, standing next to the open car door in case she needed to make a quick getaway. “Is everything all right?”

  Silence. Slowly, Cady walked toward the closest building. It was an old stone structure, with grimy multipaned windows on the door. She tried to peek inside, but the interior was pitch-black. But . . . for a moment she thought she heard music, and in her mind’s eye she saw a carousel turning majestically, with a woman dressed in white perched atop an ornate, whimsically carved horse.

  She heard a footstep behind her and without thinking whirled around, crouched, and held her fists up, ready to punch or kick someone, as she had been trained to do in the self-defense class she had taken with Olivia.

  “Cady? C’est toi?”

  “Jean-Paul! You scared me!” Cady said, straightening.

  “You didn’t hear my car pull up?” Jean-Paul Mirassou asked.

  “I guess I was a little focused. I thought I saw . . . Never mind. What in the world are you doing here?”

  “I told you I was coming to see my family in Saint-Véran.”

  “You said you were coming next week.”

  “My cousin hurt his ankle, so I moved my trip up.”

  “But you said you weren’t welcome at the château.”

  “I believe I also said you weren’t welcome here, either. Didn’t you tell me you were going to spend your last week in Paris?”

  Cady recalled the advice Jonquilla had given her, so many years ago: “If you’re caught red-handed, deny it. Deny everything.”

  “I was, uh, looking for my bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Uh-huh.” He cast a significant glance around the dark courtyard and vacant buildings. “And you thought this was it?”

  “I got lost.”

  Before Jean-Paul could respond, a gravelly voice shouted: “Stop, right where you are!”

  A man limped toward them, a wooden crutch under one arm, a shotgun under the other.

  “Cousin Fabrice, salut! C’est moi, Jean-Paul,” said Jean-Paul, holding up his hands in surrender.

  Cady did the same.

  The old man squinted at them, as though having difficulty seeing in the dark.

  Cady tried speaking in her best French: “Please pardon me, monsieur. This is my fault. I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. I thought I heard the sound of glass breaking and was afraid someone might need help . . . of some kind. . . .”

  She trailed off as he lifted the shotgun and trained it in their general direction, holding it surprisingly steady.

  “Fabrice, please—,” Jean-Paul began again, but Cady cut him off.

  “I have whiskey,” she blurted. “American bourbon, the good stuff. Jean-Paul tells me you don’t like Americans, but would you make an exception for an American with a bottle of good Kentucky whiskey?”

  Jean-Paul and Fabrice stared at Cady for a long moment. Something rustled in the bushes, and they heard the soft hooting of an owl. Cady hoped it wasn’t a bad omen. She felt a few drops of rain on her head, and the wind picked up.

  “What do I have against Americans?” Fabrice asked finally.

  “I’m, uh,” stammered Cady. “I’m told we can be a little obnoxious. You know, like . . . coming onto private property without an invitation.”

  “American soldiers liberated this valley from the Nazis,” he said and spat into the bushes. “That was in 1945. I
was in Paris when the Yanks arrived, marched right down the Champs-Élysées. Suppose I should return the favor by inviting you inside.”

  “I can’t take credit for that,” said Cady. “That was before my time.”

  The old man snorted, but stepped out of the shadows. He no longer had much in common with the romantic young man pictured on the jacket of his book, The Château. Cady could make out a set of heavy-lidded hawk eyes, shaggy eyebrows, and thin white hair, long and scraggly. His wool sweater was frayed, and he looked generally disheveled.

  “I certainly don’t have anything against whiskey,” Fabrice said. “I don’t like people, that’s all.”

  “Ah, well, on that we agree. People are awful,” said Cady. “Why don’t I get the bottle from my car and we’ll share a drink?”

  There was another long pause as Fabrice studied her. He then turned to Jean-Paul.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard you hurt your ankle. I wanted to see if you needed any help.”

  “Fell down the damned steps. What about that fancy job of yours in Paris?”

  “The staff can carry on without me for a while.”

  Fabrice snorted. “I don’t need your ‘help.’ What are you trying to do, hurry things up so you can inherit this place? Well, good luck to you. I’ll go when I’m damned good and ready, and not one minute before.”

  Even in the dim light Cady could see a muscle working in Jean-Paul’s jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jean-Paul said. “I wanted to see you.”

  “I don’t like visitors.”

  “You just told Cady she could come in.”

  “She has whiskey. And she’s an American. Why should I let you in?”

  “Because I’m your cousin?”

  “Your great-grandfather was my father’s cousin. You’re several times removed, or something like that.” He waved a hand in annoyance. “Doesn’t count once it’s that far removed. Blood’s too thin.”

  “According to whom? Seems to me the Clement family tree is pretty intricate and carefully kept. Also,” Jean-Paul said, holding his hand out palm up to catch the beginnings of raindrops, “it’s starting to rain.”

  “Why don’t we all go inside and warm up over a glass of whiskey?” Cady tried again.

  The old man sighed and gave them a barely-there nod, a gesture that reminded Cady of Maxine. He lowered the long barrel of his gun, turned, and limped toward the back of the château.

  Cady and Jean-Paul exchanged glances, then followed.

  “You were not frightened by the gun?” Jean-Paul murmured.

  “I’m from Oakland. I don’t scare easy.”

  He chuckled softly and waited while Cady hurried to her car and retrieved the bourbon from her suitcase. Jean-Paul led the way around the château to a rear entrance, where Fabrice had left a door ajar.

  A single shaft of light spilled from a doorway down the hall. They proceeded toward it through an unadorned passageway that had clearly been a servants’ entrance. With the hallway’s low ceiling and damp stone walls it seemed colder inside than out. Here and there were scattered stacks of newspapers, books, and maps, and piles of discarded tools and dusty rags. It’s been a very long time since servants—or anyone—cleaned this place, Cady thought.

  At the end of the hallway a low doorway opened onto an enormous kitchen. Walls were lined with shiny, deep-ochre tiles, and the huge six-burner stove and honed Carrara marble island made it clear that this kitchen had been remodeled at some point. Open wooden shelves held heavy white crockery: cups and saucers, plates and bowls of varying sizes. Dirty dishes filled the ceramic sink and lay scattered across the long counters, but by and large it was a welcoming space. A huge grandfather clock, missing its hands, ticked loudly. On the opposite wall was a massive stone fireplace, large enough to roast an entire boar on a spit, where a small fire was flickering, the flames casting warmth and light across the room.

  “Nice kitchen,” Cady said.

  Fabrice took a seat at a small wooden table next to the fireplace, grunting as he settled in. “Grab some glasses off that shelf there.”

  Jean-Paul found three clean juice jars and set them on the table.

  Cady took a seat in one of the scarred wooden chairs, only half believing she was actually here, in the kitchen of Château Clement, speaking to the man who had written Le Château, who might know the origin of her carved rabbit figure—and perhaps something about the secret box it contained. There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask, but told herself to breathe, to relax. Given his character, Fabrice was likely to clam up if not handled with care. A shot or two of bourbon should help.

  She held out the bottle for Fabrice to examine.

  He eyed it and nodded, and Cady poured some into each of the three glasses.

  “Salut,” Jean-Paul said.

  “À votre santé,” Cady replied.

  “’Ere’s mud in ze eyes,” Fabrice said in heavily accented English, drained his glass, and poured himself another shot. Then he switched back to French. “I learned that from the American soldiers.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Cady.

  Fabrice waved his glass at Jean-Paul. “I heard you were getting married.”

  “Plans change,” Jean-Paul replied, his voice subdued. He gazed into the amber liquid in his glass.

  “I heard she left you at the altar,” said Fabrice. “Ran off with your business partner. No surprise there. Typical Parisians.”

  Cady wondered if she was following their conversation correctly. Her French had improved dramatically since she had arrived in France, though she still stumbled at times. Judging by Jean-Paul’s bleak expression, she had indeed understood, but she pretended she wasn’t listening, hoping they would keep talking. Family dynamics—even strained ones—fascinated her.

  But she knew enough to gaze into the fire and keep silent.

  After a long pause, Jean-Paul said: “For a hermit who hates people, you are remarkably well informed. And all the way from Paris. Very impressive communications system.”

  Fabrice let out a rusty laugh and downed the rest of his bourbon. Cady’s glass was still largely untouched, as was Jean-Paul’s. She took a sip. Smooth and smoky and ever so slightly caramel, sliding across her palate. Thank you, Olivia.

  The three sat silently for several minutes, the only sound the subtle hiss and pop of the fire, and an occasional plop as embers tumbled.

  “So, you live here all alone?” Cady ventured.

  “See anybody else here?” demanded Fabrice.

  “Not in this room, I don’t. But it seems big enough for a dozen people to live here without seeing one another.”

  “Huh,” was his only reply.

  “Monsieur Clement—,” she said, trying again.

  He cut her off. “Tutoie-moi,” which meant to call him the informal tu rather than vous. “My name is Fabrice; I don’t like that formal merde.”

  “Okay, thank you, Fabrice,” she said. “I wanted to explain why I was trespassing. I . . . it’s sort of a long story, but I have this rabbit—”

  “You mean you two aren’t together?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “What, you met out there, in my courtyard? Both of you, trespassing in the same place, on the same night?”

  Cady opened her mouth to reply, but wasn’t sure what to say.

  Jean-Paul intervened. “We met in Paris. Marie-Claude Martin introduced us. She is a director of a museum in Paris. She’s the wife of Loïc Clement. Remember him?”

  Fabrice frowned and poured himself more bourbon. He appeared frail and not in the best of health; Cady hoped the whiskey wouldn’t do him any harm.

  “I can’t keep you all straight,” he groused. “Too many Clements in this world. Which one told you I hurt my ankle?”

  “My mother heard it from th
e cashier at the village grocery. Told her you’ve had Andres’s son, Johnny, running errands for you.”

  “He was, but he ripped me off. C’est un sale type.”

  Cady wasn’t sure of the precise meaning of that last phrase, but assumed it was not a favorable assessment of young Johnny’s character.

  “Have you seen the doctor?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “It’s not broken. I just need to stay off it for a while, which would be easier if I didn’t have to go out in the rain to confront trespassers in the middle of the night.”

  “Now that, I’ll grant you,” said Jean-Paul. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have it looked at. Why don’t I call Dr. Miller?”

  “This whiskey helps more than anything the doctor could do,” Fabrice said as he stood, placing his crutch under his arm. “But for now, I’m tired. See yourselves out.”

  “Monsieur Clement,” Cady said quickly. “I was hoping to ask—”

  Fabrice continued shuffling toward an interior door, closing it behind him without so much as a bonne nuit.

  “Darn it.” Deflated, Cady sat back and downed the rest of her bourbon.

  Jean-Paul chuckled at her reaction. “I warned you he was a difficult sort. Tell you the truth, this is the longest conversation I’ve had with him in years. You okay to drive after the drink?”

  “Yes. I didn’t pour myself much. I don’t suppose we could snoop a little before we go . . . ?”

  “What is ‘snoop’?”

  “Um . . . look at things that are none of our business. Like trespassing.”

  Jean-Paul gave her a look from the corner of his eye.

  “I just meant, since you’re family, and you’re going to inherit . . .”

  “Yes, but that is in the future,” Jean-Paul said, spreading the embers in the hearth to be sure the fire was safe to leave. “I think we’ve trespassed enough for one night, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Sorry. I was a bad seed as a kid.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, I have boundary issues. As in it’s hard for me to recognize the proper ones.”