Love & Death in Burgundy

by Susan C. Shea

  The dogs roused themselves to stand in front of the refrigerator, tails slowly waving, faces turned up expectantly. “No, dammit. Nothing ’til dinner. You’re bankrupting us,” she said, and nudged them out of the way. Where would it end? she thought. Will we all be eating dog food five years from now? With that image foremost in her mind, she dialed Adele’s number. It still nagged at her, that Adele had called her when Albert died. Was it because there was no one else in Reigny whom the aristocrat with the German-born husband could lean on? Or no one else who would accept her explanation of events? She wasn’t sure she liked this town she and Michael had chosen to live in. Maybe they should rethink the notion of retiring to a quiet place in the Yonne. Was all Burgundy like this? Was it France? Was Michael right, was she beginning to sound like Penny? Would they all end up in Cleveland?

  * * *

  Sophie answered the phone and explained in a low voice that her mother was feeling calmer and was napping. No, they didn’t need any help, and the lady who cleaned for them had brought in some provisions. She thought a visit by Katherine might be better tomorrow or the next day. No, they had not set a date for a memorial service. It might not even be in Reigny-sur-Canne but in the old city of Nemours, where the Bellegardes had family.

  “I wondered what happened to you when the policeman came by my house,” Katherine said. She half hoped it would rattle Sophie’s composure. At the very least, she didn’t appreciate what felt like a brush-off from her friend’s daughter. She also wondered why Sophie would go to such lengths to avoid the man investigating the circumstances of her father’s death.

  “I had a headache,” Sophie replied in an expressionless voice. “I knew he would be too tiresome and I did not wish to hear more speculation about my father’s death.”

  “You can’t mean me, my dear. I have no basis for any guesses.”

  “No, of course not. I meant that policeman.” Her voice took on a little color as she added, “Did he, I mean, was Yves mentioned?”

  Katherine was tempted to say Sophie should have stayed to find out, but she only assured her that while Decoste had brought it up, she had insisted to him that it was nothing.

  “Maman thinks Papa was disturbed by a sound and that my father might have taken the gun out of the case, intending to scare off a burglar, only whoever it was grabbed it from him and ran.”

  “Wouldn’t Adele have heard something?” Katherine said, finally finding an opening to ask one question that had been bothering her.

  “Jamais. Never. She won’t admit it, but Maman takes a big sleeping pill every night and sleeps like someone unconscious. It has become a kind of family joke, the sound of her snoring.”

  “It’s too bad it was so late at night that no one saw a strange car or someone running away,” Katherine said. Again, something pushed at the edge of her memory, but it was vague, and slipped away in an instant. “But the police will figure it out soon. All of Reigny is worried, you know.” She didn’t add that half of them were worried it was a Nazi plot and the other half were worried they’d be tarred with the anti-German mood that seemed to be rising. To her surprise, Sophie appeared to have read a different meaning into Katherine’s remark.

  “Yes, well, if everyone had enough faith in Yves, it would be a good thing for him. It is sad when one aligns oneself with someone who does not believe in one with all their being.”

  It took Katherine a moment to untangle the meaning from the thicket of words, and then she couldn’t think of a thing to say about Penny and her supposed lack of faith in Sophie’s former suitor, or Emile’s conviction that the Lothario was not in Paris when he said he was, so she asked to be remembered to Adele and ended the call. Sophie clearly was not over Yves.

  CHAPTER 17

  The wind had picked up, and the undersides of the clouds sweeping across the sky were darkening when she gathered the sheets from the clothesline. The Citroën putted into the driveway, pulling forward so the Hollidays’ big SUV could rumble in behind it. She stopped with an armful of linen to look at the men getting out of their cars. Michael looked grim and J.B. unhappy. Briefly, she wondered if the choice of his shirt today had affected his mood. It was another Hawaiian number, a particularly bilious shade of green, festooned with what she thought were neon pink hibiscuses that would make a gardener cringe. Her husband didn’t acknowledge her as he walked past her and into the house, but the music producer halted as he reached Katherine and turned on a smile.

  “Hey, Kathy, how ya doing?” Being an American, he didn’t wait for an answer. “I can’t tell you how great this recording is going to be. It’ll knock ’em dead, guaranteed. Now all we have to do”—he leaned his bulk in close to her, grabbed her arm with a soft, warm paw, and spoke in a stage whisper—“is convince that hubby of yours to give it the best shot possible.”

  Michael came back out the kitchen door with a bottle of water. “The music can stand for itself, I told you. Touring is for kids and superstars who can pull in audiences that will pay good money for a known thing or a new thing.”

  “Betty Lou’s a known thing, and once we get the PR machine rolling, you will be too.” J.B. planted his feet wide, raised his arms as if seeing a large billboard, and said in a loud voice, “The genius behind the stars! The mystery singer-songwriter steps into the limelight!”

  “More like the man who couldn’t cut it, the musician they left behind. You think the press won’t jump on that? You think they won’t ask Eric and the rest of the Leopards to rehash the whole history? I’m not setting myself up for that, J.B., and that’s it.”

  “No tour?” Katherine said. “Is it that important for the CD to sell, J.B.?”

  J.B. dropped her arm and made his way to the patio, where he sank into a wicker chair that threatened to come apart at the seams with his weight. “It’s essential, as I explained to your husband. These days, you have to be out there where people can see you and you can get their attention. People find ways to download music for free, you know, or buy singles as MP3 files. Event tickets are hard cash and big money.”

  “Does that really mean having to talk about the bad blood between him and Eric?” She paused in her folding of sheets to glance at Michael, who had pushed his Stetson far back on his head and was silently fingering his guitar.

  “That’s old stuff, Kathy. No one gives a hoot. Hell, no one even remembers it. Fans love the tunes he wrote. They’re classics, no matter who’s singing them. If anything, it will spice up media interest.”

  “J.B.’s talking about having me sing them on tour, which is not going to happen,” Michael said from his seat.

  Katherine darted inside to drop the laundry on the chaise, then came back out. “Wait, you know he’s not supposed to do that, right? How can he without bringing on a lawsuit or at least some embarrassing confrontation?” And having it cost money to defend, money we don’t have, she added silently.

  J.B. made a rude noise and waved one hand over his head. “Bring ’em on, I say. I know lawyers who’ll demolish any move like that in a heartbeat. It’s been twenty years, Kathy, and Mike is listed as the cowriter on the copyright for both songs. There’s even some old amateur footage on YouTube of them playing at a concert when Mike was with the band, and he’s singing the damn song. He’s a legend, a mystery man. Looks like a hell-buster in those black leather pants too, I can tell you. Will go over big with the ladies. We can plaster YouTube with new video weeks before a tour gets underway. It will jack up sales, guaranteed.

  “Look,” he said, putting his meaty hands on the arms of the chair and pulling himself forward to make sure he had their attention, “the tour is an absolute must if we want to make money on the deal.”

  “You haven’t told Katherine the rest of it,” Michael said, looking up at her. “Tell her about the expenses.”

  “Well, hell, it costs money to make money. We all know that. So you up-front a little cash, you’ll earn it back easy once the music starts selling on the Internet and at concert venues.” He
chuckled.

  “How much money?” Katherine said cautiously. She supposed they could afford a couple thousand dollars if the return would be as much of a sure thing as the record producer said. It would mean no more vide-greniers for a while, and Michael’s favorite veal roasts would be out. She would still need her paints, but maybe Michael could help her stretch her own canvases.

  J.B. rotated his hands from the wrist in a gesture that admitted he wasn’t sure. “A few thousand, maybe a bit more, but the best investment you can make.”

  “How much, exactly?” Katherine persisted.

  “Twenty thousand,” said Michael.

  “Twenty?” Katherine managed to say. “But that’s…” She stopped. No need for J.B., who obviously had plenty, to know how close to the bone she and Michael operated. “Impossible,” she finished.

  “Maybe ten,” J.B. said, looking from one to the other. “Last thing I want is for my star musician to feel pushed into anything. We could start with that, and see how things go. But PR isn’t cheap, and even with a tight touring operation, we’re talking about having to book the spaces and guarantee sales. It’s a tough business going in, but, man, the rewards are there for those who put their minds to it.”

  Katherine looked at Michael with a sinking heart. Should they gamble with such a big chunk of their nest egg? It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in his talent. And there was the question of leaving Reigny, leaving the dogs and the house. Was it even thinkable to leave them in Jeannette’s care?

  She sank into the wooden chair where she usually set her palette, remembering only afterward that her skirt might pick up the sticky remnants of the oil fingerprints that transferred themselves to surfaces all over the studio and the patio. “How much money do you think we—Michael—will make if he does this?”

  “Big bucks, honey, that much I know. Look at how much money Betty Lou makes each time we put out a new CD. And if I get that new studio going back home, I’ll be able to produce a second CD for less, so we can follow up on the buzz from the first.”

  “If you really think—” she began.

  “No,” Michael said in a harsh voice. “I know what really happens most of the time. Half-empty auditoriums, poor ticket sales that mean canceled venues, playing for goddamn tips by the time you’re done. And sales? A few CDs at intermission, no slick video to jack up interest and buzz online. I may be sitting it out here in France, but I watch what goes on, I check the music sites, I read the blogs. It’s fucking depressing and I won’t do it. That’s final. The album, yes. The tour, no. And I don’t appreciate your ganging up with J.B. against me, Kay.” He put the guitar down gently but wasn’t so easy on the kitchen door, which slammed behind him as he went inside.

  J.B. chuckled. “He’ll come around, you’ll see. He’s invested too much to let it go to waste, and he knows the music is going great. He’s written a couple of sure winners already. Come on over to the next rehearsal and see why I’m so sure about this. They sound mighty fine together, enough of Betty Lou’s great country style to please her loyal fans—and they are loyal, believe me—and the magic of Michael’s songwriting and rock genius to bring in that crowd.”

  “Thanks, I’d like that, but what do you mean, Michael’s invested already? You mean his talent, right?”

  “Well, yeah, although he had to put up a few bucks to help pay for the postproduction work that has to be done.” J.B. slid over this as if it was too minor for her to think about, as if he wished it hadn’t come up at all.

  A few bucks. Michael hadn’t mentioned paying J.B. to her. “We really appreciate all you’re doing, J.B. Betty Lou’s so encouraging, and you obviously know the business.” Maybe her job was to be Michael’s agent, keeping the producer happy and running interference for the artist. “You have to understand, Michael was shocked when the band took his songs and then went behind his back to get their record deal and the first big tour. And then he had to fight to get any royalties for ‘Raging Love’ and the other song he wrote for them before they split.”

  “Darlin’, I do understand. But you have to get back on the horse, know what I mean? Mike’s been nursing that hurt for way too long. I’m going to show him he can make it. He’s not too old and he still looks and sounds good. We’re going to grab what we want, and what we want is a major hit for Mike and Betty Lou. You’re with me on that, right?” He hoisted himself from the chair with a grunt. “Well, I got to get on back. Duty calls and all that. Talk to him, will you? He’ll do what you say.” With a wink, the producer got into his car and backed out of the driveway.

  Dinner was quiet, with both of them picking at the roast chicken and leaving the cheese course untouched. Neither was ready to grapple with J.B.’s ultimatum. Finally, as she gathered the plates and put them in the sink, Katherine ventured a comment. “Is it the money, Michael? I’m wondering if we could find it somehow. My cousin in L.A., maybe…”

  “It wouldn’t work. You know we can’t leave the dogs, for one thing.”

  “The dogs? Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can find someone for the dogs. That can’t be what’s holding you back from the chance of a lifetime.”

  “That girl Jeannette? Hell, no. For one thing, her father would rob the place blind. Like leaving the cat with the canary.” This, she felt, was a barbed analogy. Katherine had purchased a pair of songbirds when they first came to Reigny. The yellow cat, who came with the house, had dispatched them within the month, tracking them around the house. Katherine, who had never owned caged birds before, had let them fly around inside as a kind gesture while she cleaned out their cages. How was one to know they would decide to sit on the edges of low chairs rather than on top of the armoire?

  “We could find a way. What about the money? Do you think you’ll make it back?”

  “No, I do not. J.B.’s been smoking something if he thinks we’d clear that much. Remember, I’d get only one share of the profit.”

  “Oh, of course.” She hadn’t thought that through. And yet. “What if you knew you could at least make the money back even if you didn’t make a profit? And it might set you up, like he said, for another CD.”

  “J.B.’s been looking for someone to underwrite that studio for a while. Look how he went after Albert, who had zero background in the music business and didn’t even know where Memphis is. I have a feeling my twenty thousand would find its way into his studio back in the States, and I’d still be singing for tips when he was done with his claims of big PR.”

  “Aren’t there contracts for these things? I mean, it’s a business. Don’t put any money up until you have it in writing.”

  “You heard the man. Contracts are there to be broken, just like he’d have me do with the songs I wrote for the Leopards.”

  Katherine felt an undefined anger welling up inside. “Dammit, Michael. No matter what the plan is, you have a reason why it won’t work.” She came back and stood at the table, soapy hands on her hips. “You know what J.B. said? He said you have to get back on the horse, and I think that’s right. Yes, Eric was a bastard, and yes, you didn’t get to be part of the band. Who knows if it was the right decision or not? But I think you’re afraid to find out, afraid you aren’t good enough.” Her voice had risen and she realized she was close to shouting, something she never did. She made light of things, danced away from awkwardness, never confronted problems head-on at full speed. What was wrong with her tonight?

  Michael stood and pushed his chair back so hard that it fell over with a clatter. “That’s a vote of confidence. Thank you for appreciating how I guard our pittance of a savings so you can continue to buy junk we don’t need and more food than we can eat.” He was yelling now. “Thank you for your belief in me—you think it was the right decision to cut me out of the band the moment it went big? You know nothing about music, nothing at all, but you’re ready to send me back to the States to be J.B.’s bait while you dance around here like the lady of the manor and suck up to a bunch of sour old ladies.”

  He slammed
out of the door, and a moment later Katherine heard the car screech out onto the road and grumble away. Part of her wondered where he could be going. Reigny’s café was a five-minute walk downhill from the house, and they’d never in all their time here taken in any nightlife in the nearby towns. Was he going to commiserate with J.B.’s long-suffering wife, who probably had lots to complain about with a husband who saw her as his ticket to the good life? The larger part of her brain was playing back Michael’s accusations, trying to avoid seeing them as stored-up grievances. She sat heavily, determined not to give in to tears. She had thought Michael was happy here, with her. This was, quite possibly, the worst day of her life.

  CHAPTER 18

  The girl sat hidden, like a statue, the way Katherine had told her to when she was trying to paint some little detail. She was shaken. Her father shouted all the time, and the kids all knew it was nothing, pas important. M. Robilier shouted at his wife every day, although he never made sense now that his brain was, her father explained, rotting away. Brett’s parents, on the few occasions recently when she had been invited to their house for lunch, fought all the time. Brett said that was how they were and it didn’t mean anything since they wanted the same thing, to make lots of money. But Katherine and Michael never fought. She wished her English were better so she could understand what they were saying when they talked so fast. The dogs, Brett’s father, something about CDs, and a horse named Eric? It was a jumble, but no mistake, they were mad at each other. She had been forced to hunch down in the roses when Michael burst out of the kitchen door and drove off. Now she had to stay still in case Katherine came out. It would not do for her friend to see her spying.