The Body in the Vestibule ff-4

by Katherine Hall Page

  She must have murmured the request out loud, for in a few minutes, she was in Baby Bear's bed, burrowing down under an avalanche of quilts and wrapped in a thick flannel nightgown that might have belonged to Clotilde's grandmother. First, there had been the unavoidable trip to the outhouse, fortunately attached to the main house by a small covered porch and complete with all the necessaries. It was clean and free of the usual heavy lime odor. She'd been amused to notice the stack of reading material—old copies of Liberation and Rolling Stone magazine.

  The quilts were so warm. Faith was so warm. And so to sleep.

  ·*J0 Clotilde roused Faith the next morning. It was still dark and the air was cool, but Faith jumped from the bed with alacrity and threw on her clothes. Tom! Ben! In a few hours, they would be together. The baby stirred. It was as if he or she understood. The movement was so slight, like the nicker of a feather, Faith had almost missed it. She was thrilled.

  Clotilde had left the oil lamp and Faith pulled the covers back over the bed before leaving the room. While tucking her in the night before, Clotilde had told Faith the building had originally housed silkworms. All day long, women would sit and unwind silk from the softened cocoons spun by worms, satiated by the leaves of the abundant mulberry trees that grew on the terraces. Years after all this had come to an end, the young Parisians had been able to buy the decrepit structure and surrounding acres for very little, slowly converting it into a home. The last thing Faith had remembered before falling asleep in her own cocoon was complimenting Clotilde on her, and her husband's, excellent English. Clotilde had thanked her. "We were both studying languages at the university before May of '68 and have enjoyed teaching several to our children." Then she added mischievously, "But, Faith, we are what we French call the 'children of '68.' Frederic and I are not married. There is no need and it goes against all we believe.”

  Faith wasn't surprised. Pure was pure. Now in the dim new day, she hastened down to her new friends and hoped their neighbor with the truck wouldn't forget to pick them up.

  He was already there, the twin of Faith's lettuce man at le marche St. Antoine. Genial, red-faced, a dusty old beret pulled down over his ears, but not sufficient to hide the bristling tufts of hair shooting out from them. It was hard to believe that some manufacturer was turning out the standard blue cotton overalls large enough for his girth. He held a cigarette in his nicotine-stained fingers and was talking nonstop as Clotilde and Frederic scurried about the kitchen packing their cheeses for market. It was all Faith could do to stop herself from throwing her arms around him and kissing his unshaven cheek.

  It was he who kissed hers, striding over to her with outstretched arms, "Madame, madame. Soon your ordeal will be over! We will go directly to the gendarmerie in Mey-rueis." He had obviously been filled in.

  “Merci, monsieur," Faith replied wholeheartedly, and then offered to help with the packing.

  “No, no, cherie. Eat something quickly and we will soon be going. It is almost dawn." Clotilde set a steaming bowl of cafe au lait on the table next to a loaf of bread, a jar of what looked like strawberry preserves, and a dish of butter. Faith set to her task eagerly, and by the tune she had finished eating, they were ready to go. Besides the cheese they made from their herd of goats, Clotilde and Frederic also sold honey from their bees, a variety of preserves, batik lamp shades, and sundry articles forged from iron—hooks, fireplace tools, drawer pulls.

  Clotilde gave Faith a heavy loden-green wool cape, probably of local origin, considering the style and texture. It seemed to weigh about ten pounds and Faith found it a little difficult to navigate at first, but when she stepped out the front door into the cold, she was glad for every ounce. Monsieur Radis—Felix, he insisted—was already in the driver's seat, pumping the gas pedal, producing reassuring automotive noises. His truck was the same pedigree as the one that sat forlornly to the side of the house. Faith hoped this one would make it to Meyrueis.

  Felix motioned her into the cab. Clotilde and Frederic jumped into the back and happily settled into each other's arms amidst the crates. Faith noted their devotion but soon had cause to wonder how much was still-crazy-about-each-other-after-all-these-years and how much was common sense as the truck bounced its way over the rough track. She was grasping a strap that hung from the ceiling for dear life while Felix kept up a running commentary, presumably on the landscape they were passing and the history of the region, in such rapid French that Faith soon abandoned any pretense of comprehension, simply nodding and smiling at what she hoped were appropriate moments. She didn't catch anything about the death of a family member or the silkworm blight, so her responses seemed right so far. Felix appeared to regard personal hygiene with considerably less interest than his brother and sister of '68, if he was one of their group and not indigenous. Faith suspected these particular overalls had had many close encounters with his livestock, and between trying to stay upwind of him and trying to hold on, the time was passing rapidly.

  Soon they were on an actual road, careening down the mountain, and as Faith caught glimpses of the precipitous drop and what she presumed was a river—a thin blue-green ribbon—below, she began to realize her ordeal was not yet over. Felix, either determined to get her to the police station as quickly as possible or because it was his habitual driving style—and Faith suspected the latter—was proceeding at breakneck speed in apparent disregard for any vehicle foolish enough to be coming around the narrow bend from the opposite direction. To his credit, he did lean on the horn from time to time with startling results. There was also his disconcerting habit of driving with one hand while he ges- tured with the other. After several repetitions, Faith understood that they were at the top of the Gorges du Tarn, the Tarn being the river, and would soon plummet into Mey-rueis.

  The truck was descending almost vertically, and just when Faith was about to cross the line from fear to abject terror, she caught sight of a village nestled at the bottom of two crevices. "Meyrueis," Felix announced with a flourish. The whole town was decked with red, white, and blue bunting gathered up with bunches of red silk poppies, cornflowers, and daisies. The tricolor flew from every building and there was an air of great festivity. How did they know? Faith wondered, then remembered that it was Victoire 1945, the celebration of the end of WWII and the reason Tom was able to take the long weekend. Well, it had been a long weekend.

  Felix brought the truck to a screeching halt outside the gendarmerie. The oddly assorted party disembarked and f prepared to go inside. Faith, her legs stiff after having spent I most of the trip pressing an imaginary brake pedal to the | floor, flung the woolen cloak about her and led the way. She walked up to the counter, but before she could speak, the man on duty gasped, "Mon Dieu!" and raced , around to the front.

  “Madame Fairsheeld!" He kissed her ecstatically. "France is looking for you!"

  Ten

  Faith Sibley Fairchild's eyes flew open in complete panic. Where the hell was she? The sight of the huge clock face of the Eglise St. Nizier filling the bedroom window slowed her heart rate and she took several deep breaths. She was home, or what passed for home these days. She was back in Lyon and the small boy curled up next to her sound asleep, snoring slightly and radiating heat, was her own Benjamin. Her Benjamin—who had not left her side since the whole family had rushed madly toward one another in Chief Inspector Ravier's office a few hours ago.

  As she lay on the big double bed, so quaintly called the lit matrimonial even for those non-espoused, she felt a deep sense of peace. It was over. It wasn't that the horror of the events had left her. This had grown even more intense now when she thought of all the might-have-beens. The underlying peace came from knowing she was safe for sure.

  The trip from Meyrueis to Lyon had seemed to take almost as long as her escape from Christophe. First, she'd told the story to the local gendarmes, who were completely over the moon—out of all the gendarmeries in France, the missing Americaine had walked into theirs—then she told it again to Michel Ravier
once they succeeded in reaching him by phone. They didn't ask grandmother's shoe size, but they had wanted every detail of the last two days.

  Frederic and Clotilde were able to help narrow the search for the farmhouse where she'd been kept captive by their intimate knowledge of the surrounding terrain, especially after Faith described the series of caves. No one expected that Christophe would be at the house, but the police were anxious to check it out. The Lyon police were picking up the two girls and Benoit, as well as the senior d'Amberts, for questioning. Descriptions of Christophe and his uncle were being circulated all over France and surrounding countries, especially at the borders. Faith remembered to tell them about the gun, and he was being described as dangerous—an understatement, Frederic avowed.

  When the Meyrueis police had finally produced a car and driver to take her back to Lyon, Faith was numb with exhaustion and saddened to leave the two flower children going to seed, whom she now numbered among her closest friends. It was even hard to leave Felix. When she got into the police car, Clotilde and Frederic had pressed not only the heavy cloak, already too warm in the morning sun, upon her but rounds of goat cheese, a lamp shade, and several iron implements of varying natures. Felix gave her a sack filled with radishes and lettuce.

  Her driver had graduated from the same auto-training school as Felix and for a good part of the trip the words deja vu took on new and powerful meaning. Yet, even at many kilometers over the speed limit and with the siren blaring all the way, it had taken three hours to reach Lyon. As they entered the city on the A7, the Autoroute du Soleil, the sun had indeed been shining and Faith clutched the young gendarme's arm in joy when she caught sight of the first bridge, the Pont Pasteur, then the train station and other familiar landmarks. The only thing that would have made her happier at that moment would have been a glimpse of the green in secure little Aleford, Massachusetts.

  Michel Ravier had not wanted to keep her long, and after listening again to her story, had told her to get some rest and they'd get together later in the day. He was right. She was ready to drop, and when they'd emerged into the street, the throngs of reporters and photographers had overwhelmed her. Paul Leblanc offered a brief statement to the effect that Madame Fairchild was fine and the police were seeking her abductors. He referred them to Ravier and, like a devoted sheepdog, parted the crowd and shepherded them into the car, where Ghislaine was waiting at the wheel.

  “You'll have to have some sort of press conference or they'll never leave you alone," she advised. Faith and Tom had agreed. But not until tomorrow. Paul had said he would take care of it.

  “If I could have kept Dominique's name out of it, I would have," Faith started to say. Ghislaine interrupted her. "Absolutely not. It's obvious that she is deeply troubled and if not for you, who knows where she might have ended up." She gestured toward the street at two young women in high black boots, lace body stockings, and not much else. It reminded Faith of Marie. Michel told her a team had gone to the hotel de ville after he had spoken with her and it did appear that Marie, or someone, had been dragged along the tunnel leading to the river. They planned to exhume the body to see if the evidence matched. Poor Marie, Faith had thought, she couldn't lie in peace even in death.

  When they'd gotten back to the apartment, all Faith had wanted to do was sleep, and did almost immediately. Now, fully awake, she wondered where Tom was. She didn't hear any sounds of activity in the apartment. Like Benjamin, her husband had firmly attached himself to her with limpetlike devotion. All three had been napping together.

  She got up cautiously so as not to disturb Ben. He'd been told she had been away visiting friends; and had greeted her with wails of "Why didn't you take me, Mom-mee? Ben would be good!" It almost broke her heart. The Leblancs had entertained him nonstop, Tom had told her— taking the little boy to the zoo at Pare de la Tete d'Or, the Roman ruins in Old Lyon, and to every playground in the area. Still, Ben had been aware of the tension around him and Faith was sure he hadn't been sleeping well, even with Pierre and the Leblanc's aging Irish setter, Lola, as comforting bedmates. She hoped Ben would make up for it now. When he awoke, she planned to be right before his eyes. But where was Tom?

  She walked into the kitchen and found a note propped up against the sugar bowl.

  Sweetheart, I know you're going to be hungry when you wake up, so I went out for a few provisions. Back soon. Before you're awake, I hope. Love you, Love you, Love—I could go on forever, Tom He was a darling, Faith smiled to herself. And she was starving. Breakfast had been an awfully long time ago and she'd politely refused the Meyrueis gendarme's offer to stop on the highway for le sandweech. She'd wanted to get back.

  The refrigerator was vintage Mother Hubbard. Since they'd planned to be away, Faith had emptied it. All that remained was ajar of Amora bearnaise sauce, surprisingly good in a junk food kind of way; some juice; and a few bedraggled scallions. She poured herself a glass of juice and stood at the window. The people across the way had filled their window box with bright pink begonias during her absence. It was odd to think of life going on so normally while hers was being turned upside down. Hers and the d'Amberts.

  She hadn't seen Solange and Jean-Fran§ois but knew from Michael that they were in another part of the commissariat. What would she say to them? Or they to her? We're sorry our son planned to kill you? And from what Michel had said, it was not clear what role they, or perhaps only Jean-Francois, might have played. One of the large question marks that remained was what had happened to the stolen goods.

  The girls and Benoit had told the police that they were stealing for the good of society. The idea had been Chris-tophe's—of course. The people they knew had too many things. They did not need the jewelry, and other items they owned and it would help to feed, clothe, and house those who had nothing. The plan was always the same. The four would meet to draw straws to see whose turn it was to carry out the robbery, then afterward would place the stolen goods at the bottom of a shopping bag filled with old clothes and drop the bag in a trash can at a particular rendezvous. The place was the only thing that changed, depending on where the targeted apartment was. Then they were to watch from a distance to make sure a clochard picked up the bag. They presumed the dochard then took the bag to some shelter or agency. When pressed for more details, all three had exhibited a similar lack of interest. Christophe knew. He'd arranged it. They trusted him. They were still protecting him, and it was not until Ravier told Berthille and Dominique that it had been Faith at the farmhouse, kidnapped by their friend, that they had broken down and cried. They had both been in love with him and he had treated them miserably. He was horrible. They hoped he would spend the rest of his life in prison. None of them had admitted to knowing his uncle or the clochard Bernard, except as mentioned by Christophe in passing as a character in his neighborhood.

  It had been exhausting, Michel had told Tom and Faith. He'd far rather question adults, even hardened criminals. Less posing, fewer hormones. In the end, he was fairly certain all three had known nothing of the murder or kidnapping. And as for the robberies, he was pretty sure they deliberately chose not to think about what happened to the loot. So long as they told themselves they were performing a noble deed, they didn't have to admit to the fact that they were doing it for the thrill of it, and in Dominique's case, he suspected, to get back at her very proper parents.

  Christophe. It all came back to this one young man, Faith thought as she finished the juice, which unfortunately had served to make her even hungrier. She went back into the hallway to go check on Ben. Her hand gently rubbed her abdomen — all serene there.

  There was some mail from Saturday piled on the table and mirabile dictu — a ballotin of chocolates from Voisin. She opened the box and they proved to be those yummy Coussins de Lyon, little pillows of thin, crisp sugar, colored pale green, coating a stuffing of dark rich chocolate. She looked inside for a note to find out who they were from. It wasn't likely that Tom would have had the time or inclination to buy bonbons
these last two days. She lifted up the layers of candies and there was a note at the bottom. Not a card from the shop but a piece of paper with jagged edges that appeared to have been hastily torn from a pad. It didn't do much to solve the mystery. All it said was:

  It made no sense at all. Faith immediately put the box down. No matter how strong her hunger pangs, eating these did not seem to be a wise move. Attention, "watch out"— she'd seen it on signs. Said it to Benjamin. Watch out for hearts? C. could be Christophe. Christophe and a heart, one of his girlfriends? One of the girls—or some other girl? And M. Another M had warned Faith and she hadn't understood how deadly the game was. The other two M's undoubtedly had. The candies had to be from Marilyn or Monique, placed in the Fairchild's mailbox before they, too, disappeared.

  She had to tell Michel right away, so she walked into the living room to the telephone. As she picked up the receiver, the doorbell rang. It must be Tom, too burdened by comestibles to fiddle with the keys.

  She darted to the door, opened it quickly, and said, "Darling, I have to call—" Then she stopped short. It wasn't Tom. It was a neighbor. It was Valentina Joliet Dressed to go out in high-heeled pumps and a large red felt hat.

  “Faith, Faith, we have been sick with worry about you! Thank God you are safe. And Christophe, who would have thought it? Such a good family. Solange is a wreck.”

  ^^ . Valentina. Christophe and Valentina. Hearts and flowers. Guns and hot bijoux. Attention a Valentina. Watch out for Valentina.

  She'd solved the puzzle.

  Hard to believe, but true. Christophe and Valentina, not your average class couple. She had assumed that with his euthanasia attitude toward anyone over thirty, Valentina would be out of the picture, yet here she was, where she'd always been, right in the foreground. A simple matter of focus.

  And she knew immediately. Her glance leveled and there was no speculation in her eyes. "I came to take you upstairs for something to eat, cherie. I met Tom as he was leaving and he said there was nothing in the apartment." ]