But he is dead to her. Now she could see he used her, for this house, his carnal ways, whatever he wanted. He no longer cares for her, if ever he had. From the moment Stefan walked her home from church and she told him her name was Marie-Emilie Chevalier, she was free. Her mother’s name, the good knight, the avenger of sins.
Now to right the wrongs. She has no illusions about changing the villagers’ minds. They will always hate her for Weston. Doors will always slam. Children will be sent indoors to avoid contamination. It doesn’t matter. She has a plan and Stefan, who has a bicycle and a job at the boulangerie, will help her.
She walks out into the garden and feels the sun heal her spirit. She will not live like this forever, hungry and alone. Things will change. With all her power she will erase his wrongs from this earth. Then she will be a free woman.
Chapter 15
As she unlocked the hotel room Merle smelled the air change of someone strange, their sweat. Every dresser drawer was pulled and dumped, the closet thrown, suitcase upended. She stood in the doorway, stunned, grateful she’d taken her wallet, passport, documents with her. There was very little else she cared about. The mattress had been searched, lying at an angle on the frame. She backed out of the room and went to find the manager.
“A thief, madame? Zut alors.” Guy Framboise was young, a tall man who spoke several languages. Together they walked up the stairs to the second floor rear guest room. “Oh, madame!” The manager apologized, mortified. He insisted she return with him while he called the police.
As he sat her down in the empty dining room, he noticed the bump on her forehead. “Did he hurt you?”
Her hand flew to her head. “No. Un petit accident. Could I get some ice for it?”
In a moment the chef brought out a glass of red wine and a bowl of ice, pausing to listen to the commotion in the lobby as the gendarme arrived. Monsieur Framboise cleared his throat as he approached. Merle pulled the ice off her face.
“Monsieur le Gendarme would like you to accompany us back to the room so you can identify any things that may be missing.”
Jean-Pierre Redier, the gendarme, seemed a lot friendlier to the hotel manager than he had this morning, although his manner was still a mixture of arrogance, laziness, and too much wine with lunch. The manager translated, so she didn’t have to actually speak to the policeman.
“He would like you to carefully enter the room,” the manager said, “and see what is missing.”
As she stepped inside, moving around a mound of underpants in their perpetually frayed state, she vowed to buy French lingerie for the next viewing. All the undies were unfortunately accounted for, as well as the stretched-out bras.
“He asks if you left your passport in the room,” Framboise called from the hall.
“No, I had everything with me. In here.” She patted her backpack. She pointed to a pile of clothes. “Can I fold these?”
She picked up her slacks and t-shirts, folding them onto the top of the dresser. She looked around, poked her head inside the lavatory. “My watch is missing. I left it in the bathroom.” Not like her to forget her watch but she’d had that quick shower. “And a pair of gold earrings worth about fifty dollars American.”
“How much is the watch?” Framboise asked.
Harry had given it to her years ago. Time has run out, King Harold. A birthday, or something. Had they even celebrated her birthday together last year? No, she’d gone into the city and had dinner with her sisters.
“Maybe five-hundred dollars. It had a few little diamonds on it.”
The room seemed even smaller with the mess. The thief had ignored a pair of earrings worth more and amazingly had left a packet of traveler’s checks she’d stuck in the desk drawer. The manager sighed dramatically.
Redier shrugged. The thief had been careless, that was all. Or maybe disturbed before finishing. He turned his dark gaze on her. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” What is that, he asked, pointing to his own forehead.
“Rien,” she said. Nothing. He asked her something else and she waited for the manager’s translation.
“He asks if that is from Madame LaBelle’s garden.”
Albert wasted no time calling him about crazy Justine. “Oui. Un pierre à la tête.” A stone to the head. She mimed an overhand toss.
“He says, are you going to press charges against her.”
“No. Non. C’est okay.”
Redier looked at her for a long, silent minute. He was just creepy, she decided, giving him an equal stare. He left with the manager to question the housekeeping staff. Merle straightened the mattress back on the bed and lay down. The smell of the room’s violation made her uneasy, and her head hurt from the rock. She got up to find her aspirin, scattered on the cracked tile of the bathroom floor. She picked up two, blew them off, and washed them down with water.
Just a quick nap.
At five in the morning the birdsong woke her. She’d slept through dinner and somewhere around midnight managed to get under the covers. Behind the hotel the sun hadn’t yet risen over the chateau on the hill. She put on running shorts and shoes, pulled back her hair. In the bathroom she examined the bump over her eye: purple but not too terrible, she dabbed a little makeup on it and went downstairs. In the kitchen the chef slumped sleepily over a cup of coffee. Now that they were friends he waved her on to help herself. She drank a glass of orange juice then walked outside.
The cobblestone streets were silent. A rooster crowed somewhere on the edge of town. Yesterday had been a disaster. Maybe she had been too aggressive with Justine. And not enough with the gendarme. Step back, make some new calculations. Turning right she decided to make a pass by the house in case someone was up early. Albert said Evangeline often went out first thing in the morning, possibly to church.
A block away from Rue de Poitiers Merle saw them. Orange hair, short skirt, and baggy pants, hiking boots. Evangeline and Justine walked arm-in-arm out the alley onto the street. Merle jumped into a doorway. Where to hide? She crouched into a ball behind a large flowerpot, tucking her head down. Their shoes squeaked against the cobbles as they passed, quickly, silently.
When they were well past Merle peeked out. Hiding behind a flower pot, really. Why hadn’t she just spoken to them? If she could just talk to Justine, get her to understand she meant no harm. But she needed a new strategy, something to break down the defenses, get them to listen. Hopefully the old woman wasn’t armed with rocks today.
They turned at the city gate as Evangeline had done yesterday, so they weren’t going to church. The medieval cathedral was in the other direction, in the middle of the village. At the corner Merle peered around the stone wall of a house.
The bus to the shrine, squat and blue, stood idling in the parking lot, loading passengers. As Merle hugged herself in the morning chill, tourists materialized on the streets, each holding a sprig of green leaves. Was it some sort of ritual? She’d forgotten to read up on the site. The old women smiled politely as they passed. Old men ogled her bare legs. Groups of middle-aged women huddled together, talking, laughing quietly, all clutching the branches as they passed under the gate and boarded the bus.
She’d lost sight of the two women. Had they gotten on the bus? She waited until the bus started moving, turning laboriously in the parking lot. As it pulled out onto the deserted road Merle walked to the gate. Justine and Evangeline were nowhere to be seen.
The sun popped up over the eastern hillside, sending a beam of light directly on the Shrine of Lucrezia on the cliff above. It was beautiful in this light. No wonder the faithful wanted to see it at dawn. The steps in the rock were also illuminated.
“It’s a sign,” she muttered, jogging down the path toward the creek at the bottom of the cliff.
Tall grass, a cloud of gnats, and a riffle of fog made the going tough until she came into a small grove of trees. Under them she could see the path, worn in the leaves and pine needles, leading to the cliff and the stairs. She paused at the bottom of th
e limestone wall and looked up. The treads were worn, slick with dew. No railing — and quite a lot of steps.
The things I do for you, Harry Strachie.
No, make that Tristan Strachie. She was doing it for the future, Tristan’s future, not for anyone’s memory.
It was a whole new world. The past was done.
When Merle reached the top of the stairs, out of breath, legs screaming, the bus was already parked in the gravel lot behind the building. She let herself look down finally, now that she was safe. The view was dizzying. The village looked toy-like from here, the morning sun glancing off its honey walls.
The Shrine of Lucrezia was a classical building with block walls and a carved portico and columns. It was small and windowless like a crypt. People were lined up outside waiting their turn to enter. Merle watched from behind a pine tree. A car pulled into the lot, then another. More faithful emerged, clutching sprigs, milling with the others. The crowd grew outside the Shrine, quiet and reverential. Mostly women, the crowd increased when another bus arrived, this one full of nuns in long brown habits, complete with blinding white wimples.
Tearing a small branch from a tree to simulate their devotional sprigs she walked around the buses to emerge from the parking lot. As one person left the shrine another was admitted. Merle skirted the edge of the crowd, looking for Justine.
There she was, her orange hair glowing, third in line to enter the shrine. She was tall in platform shoes. There were three other orange-haired women, all short. In front of her was Sister Evangeline. A woman in a red crocheted hat opened the door to the shrine and walked to her right, away from the crowd. To intercept Justine Merle would have to be on the other side of the crowd.
Back around the bus she bumped into a middle-aged man with a bad toupee climbing down its steps. “Pardon,” he said with a British accent. Merle picked up the sprig she’d dropped and went around the other end of the bus. Evangeline was leaving the shrine in her uniform of gray pants and hiking shirt.
Justine disappeared into the shrine only to burst out again almost immediately. Jerking slightly she held the door for the next woman, then stepped away and stopped, her head down. Merle moved closer.
“Justine? Madame LaBelle?” She asked softly if they could talk.
The old woman’s head jerked up. Her eyes were unfocused. She seemed older today, more fragile. Up close Merle could see the lines of age on her face, the heavy eye makeup that gave her a clown-like appearance, especially with the orange hair that stuck out in all directions.
Merle tried to catch her eye. She smiled, trying to look friendly, and told her that she was the American, that she meant no harm. That she wanted to help. Justine’s eyes grew wide.
“Vous!” You!
Her shrieks attracted the attention of the crowd. Merle put her hands up and backed away. Another blunder. The woman was not sane. Sister Evangeline trotted to Justine’s side and joined in the harangue. Several of the nuns walked over and tried to ask Merle — well, something, but she could only shrug and say, “Je ne parle pas Francais.” She thought she spoke French, but not like this, thank you very much. “Pardon, pardon, je suis desole,” she apologized as she backed away.
Evangeline put her arm around Justine’s narrow shoulders. The old woman wore what looked like a dress from the ‘50s, yellow and tight against her bony chest and short enough to expose her sagging knees, bare of stockings. Albert’s version of odd dress. A habited nun approached Justine, stroking her narrow shoulder as she began to cry. Poor, crazy old woman. How could she expect anyone to help her evict the woman?
At lunch in the hotel dining room, Merle sipped a glass of white wine between courses and read about the Shrine. Lucrezia was an Italian nun in the Renaissance era. She suffered at the hands of local authorities who believed she practiced witchcraft. She was banished to France where her following grew. She established a convent and set up her own order of nuns.
The pamphlet described the inside of the shrine as “damp.” Today, June 19, was the day she was buried, a traditional time for the faithful to honor her.
Monsieur Rancard had been out of the office when she called earlier, but would return her call later from the road. He was in Cahors again, his secretary said. The waiter brought her main course, chicken with a light sauce. As she looked up to thank him she saw the gendarme in the lobby. He was starting to get on her nerves: always present, never helpful.
The food was heavenly, sweet and tender. She finished her main course and sipped her wine. Then, in front of her table stood the manager and the gendarme. “Madame, pardon,” Framboise stammered. He tipped his head toward the door. “If you please come?”
Redier had his usual insolent look on. She wiped her mouth and followed them into the manager’s small office.
“Have you found my watch?” she asked.
Framboise blinked nervously, listening to the gendarme. “There has been an accident. Madame LaBelle,” he whispered. The gendarme growled some more. “She fell from the Shrine, down the cliff. She is dead.”
“What?” Rancard’s prediction that she would have to battle Justine’s descendants for the house was looking prescient. Merle frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“He wants to know your whereabouts early today. This morning.”
“Well, I saw her. I got up early. Jet lag.” Framboise translated. “I went out to go for a walk about six and saw Sister Evangeline and Justine get on the bus to the Shrine, so I walked up the steps. I wanted to talk to Madame LaBelle about the house.”
“The house?” Framboise asked.
“The one that is legally mine,” Merle said. “The gendarme knows which one.” Perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so forceful, she thought, watching the gendarme’s face. Getting the drift, finally. She could almost hear his thoughts: Greedy American tries to steal house from the poor, lonely Frenchwoman, by hook or by crook. “I tried to speak to Madame LaBelle yesterday. As you know. I thought with the crowd there I would have a better chance. I wanted to tell her I meant her no harm, that I would try to help her.”
“And did you speak to her?”
“Very briefly.”
The gendarme waved her to stand. Framboise said, “You must go with him and make a statement.”
She examined the cold, black eyes of the gendarme. The embodiment of authority. He, who smelled like cigarettes and garlic. Albert’s words: Must show respect. She stood up. “With pleasure.”
The small gray interview room in the small gray gendarmerie still had a photograph of Charles de Gaulle on the wall. There was a tiny window at chin-height that dropped a square of sunshine on the wooden table. The gendarme and a new man, someone she understood was from out of town, sat firing questions at her. So far she’d managed to say, “Je ne parle pas francais,” at least a dozen times.
“I want a translator, um — pour parler les mots entré anglais et francais.” How did two tribes ever communicate?
The out-of-town officer, introduced as Capitan Montrose, barked at Redier. They both left the room, locking her in, cigarette-free when she really wanted one. She had brought one pack of Slims with her and vowed to stop when they were gone. So far she’d only smoked one, out the window of the hotel after returning from the shrine.
Cigarettes. The telltale sign of nerves. It was only a statement. She had spoken to the deceased. She was accustomed to working with cops in Harlem, they didn’t intimidate her. So what were these nerves?
Having your attorney present during questioning was possibly not a right in France, but she wanted one. It was the language barrier. Capitan Montrose returned and sat down, his notepad on his knee. He was one of those indeterminate-age Europeans, somewhere between thirty and fifty, a bit jowly, hair still dark but a few strands of gray over his temples. His head was flat on the sides, his mouth small. Thick eyebrows looked crayoned onto his face. His skin was office-work pale and he wore a rumpled gray suit with an ill-fitting shirt.
Expressionless, he offered her a cigarette
. Brown Gauloise, strong and bitter: after one puff she put it out. Redier returned, ushering in an older woman with a patrician air and blond hair she fashioned after Catherine Deneuve. The Capitan offered his chair.
“My name is Jacqueline Armansett. I am the head teacher at the school. These men — the inspector — have asked for my services in translating your statement.”
Merle smiled at her, hoping for some sisterly bond but feeling only a chill.
“The inspector asks for you to take him through all of your meetings with Madame LaBelle.”
“Today?”
“All.”
Merle began with the death of Harry and the inheritance of the house. She told of hearing about the squatter and her own work helping the homeless find shelter. Of coming to France and trying to speak to Madame LaBelle with her lawyer, and through the garden gate. She pointed out the bruise on her forehead.
“He says, do you have a witness to the rock-throwing?”
“Albert Tailliard. He lives across the alley.”
Merle repeated what had happened that morning, taking care not to gloss over witnesses, people who saw her come and go. She mentioned the man getting off the bus. The nuns in their robes, Sister Evangeline.
“Have you spoken to Sister Evangeline?” Merle asked them.
“Who is this please?”
“According to Albert she showed up last week to help Madame LaBelle with the legal battle over the house.”
“Legal battle?”
“Madame LaBelle thinks — thought — that she owned the house. My documents show that my late husband owned it, for fifty years. I inherited it when he died.”
“How did your husband die, Madame Bennett?”
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