Madame opened the door, smoothing down the front of her blouse. A full-breasted woman, she often left her blouse unbuttoned to her décolletage, probably because the buttons refused to hold. Today she burst from a white blouse with tiny blue flowers embroidered on the collar. Her skirt was pleated in green. Her hair was simple, bangs across her forehead and a platinum dye on her chin-length bob.
“Bonjour, madame,” she said. She presented the tart and smiled, and with hesitation, Mme. Suchet invited her inside. She was just having her morning coffee. She sliced the tart and served it on china plates. They tasted it in her small living room, a salon that had a formal air with doilies, old black-and-white framed photographs, and a bit of dust.
Madame asked how the house was coming. “Bien, bien, merci,” Merle smiled. A little accident with the ladder yesterday. She grimaced and held up her cast. You have a lovely home. Have you lived here long, she asked.
“All my life,” Madame said, smiling. “Except for the years I was married and lived in Paris.”
“Then perhaps you knew the owners of my house?”
“My parents knew them, the people who lived there during the war.”
“The Chevalier’s?”
“That was not the name.” Madame frowned, looking out the window at Merle’s house. “Sebastien? He was Italian. Sabatini, that was it.”
“And his wife, she was Italian?”
“No, she was from nearby. Perhaps here in the village. “
“Was she the aunt of Marie-Emilie Chevalier?”
Her finger flew to her chin as if this had not occurred to her. But yes, she said, that is how the house passed to Marie-Emilie and her husband. During the war the Sabatini’s left, abandoning the place. Things were very bad here then. The resistance fighters were everywhere, working against the Vichy government. That often brought retaliations, accusations of spying or hiding Jews or black-marketeering. People learned to keep to themselves, to lay low. Monsieur Sabatini had fought for the French and was gone for much of the war.
It didn’t take much to get Madame Suchet remembering the past. Mme Sabatini had asked the young Madame Suchet, she was only a girl then, to help in the garden, to pick fruit or hang laundry or help pluck chickens. Things children did in every house. The woman softened into the chair, cuddling her cup in both hands. Her face had lost that hostile air as she remembered the old days. Merle felt the wall fall away between them. They were just two women, alone, and not so very different.
“Where was your father during the war?”
“He had gone into the army early, drafted because he did not have a farm to maintain. He was a mason here but in the army he learned explosives. But after the surrender he was taken prisoner. He came home after the war a broken man.”
Madame went to the mantel and took down a faded photograph of a young man in uniform, so proud, so young. He was twenty-seven at the war’s start.
“Did the Sabatini’s have children?”
“No. They were young too, younger than my parents.”
“Do you know what happened to them?”
“For the first few years of the war she took in laundry, bartering for food. But as things got worse and he didn’t come home, she grew thin and sick. Finally she went to live with relatives somewhere. She came back for a little while after the war, but things were very bad here. No jobs, the farms abandoned, no animals or men to work the fields.”
The woman was talking slow enough that Merle could understand almost everything. Maybe her French was getting better. “But your parents kept their house.”
“And so did the Sabatini’s. But eating was another matter. Unless you had land, with animals to slaughter, chickens for eggs, a goat, room to grow vegetables, you didn’t have food. My mother and her older brother went to work for a dairy, and that kept us alive.”
“Did you know Marie-Emilie?”
“Non. After the war I went north to find work, and met my husband.”
Interesting but a dead end. She tried to think of anything else but there was only the squatter left to discuss. “Did you know Justine Labelle?”
Mme. Suchet grew very still, pursing her lips. “Non.”
“You saw her. Living there.” She didn’t answer. “I heard that there was a scandal attached to the house, from years ago.”
Madame cocked her head. “Je ne sais pas.” She didn't know.
She suddenly had to go run errands. The visit had been a good one, and they now had had a real conversation. She learned the name of the previous owner, before Weston and Marie. Maybe she and Mme Suchet would talk again.
In the garden the rug felt dry and looked clean enough. She rolled it badly with one hand and tried to pick it up. With a grunt she dropped it again. This busted-wing business was a pain in the ass.
Pascal leaned out of the second floor window into the sunshine. “Can I help?”
He came down and heaved the rolled rug over his shoulder. Staggering he lurched into the house and deposited it in the front room. “Here I hope?”
They rolled it out and Merle swept it awkwardly with a clean broom. Straightening it so that it defined a sitting area around Tristan’s bed they stood back and admired its frayed splendor. Shabby, faded and worn, the rug was far from elegant but the bed with its open springs was not exactly the height of interior design either.
“Lovely,” Pascal said. “Merveilleux.”
She laughed and took a swing at him with the broom. He said, “Ow. You want both of us to be cripples?”
“I am not a cripple!” She would be happy with Pascal as a friend, someone to share a laugh. “Only half a cripple.”
“You should rest. Wait for your arm to heal.” He rubbed his hair, causing plaster dust to fly. “I can help you. If you can’t find anyone else.”
“Are you offering your services?”
“At your pleasure, madame.”
Despite her fresh pledge of friendship she felt the heat rise in her, warming her neck and face. Why did he keep grinning at her and offering her pleasure? He looked quite serious now, as if he didn’t have a sexy grin at all.
“Let’s see what you’ve been doing upstairs.”
The loft was a picture of demolition with very little construction apparent. A three-foot high pile of plaster, lath, pigeon feathers, sticks, string, and mud from nests, and unrecognizable crap sat in the middle of the room. The stepladder stood under the hole in the ceiling. The rafters were visible, and above them a piece of plywood sealed off the attic space.
“All this was up there?”
“I left some for the next hole.” Pascal handed her a bandanna and pulled his over his mouth and nose. “You hold the bags, I fill.”
Eight trash bags later the loft floor was mostly clean. Pascal carried the bags down the stairs and set them on the curb. He had arranged for a man with a truck to take them to the dump. Merle tried to sweep with one arm and did a poor job of it. She held the dustpan instead and they filled one last bag.
“What now?” Merle pulled the scarf off her face, admiring the semi-clean space. It would have to be mopped again, later.
“Now I put up new lath —“ He pointed to strips of wood piled in the corner. “And do the plaster.” He frowned at the now large hole.
“You’ve done plaster before?”
“Oh, yes,” he said confidently then hung his head. “Once.”
“Did you do it well?”
“Formidable, bien sûr.” He smirked then looked out from under his eyebrows. “Do you want to see if I can find someone who really knows how to do plaster? I am not good. In truth, I suck at plaster.”
She laughed. “You ‘suck?’ Where did you learn that word?”
“It is not right, ‘I suck?’”
“It’s just not something I expected to ever hear a Frenchman say.”
“Well, they say it all the time on MTV.”
Pascal made a few phone calls. A small job, he explained, one, maybe two days. He could finish it of
f, sanding and texturing, and paint would be last.
“What other jobs?”
Merle looked up from the table. “I’m making a list. I’ll help you if I can. Until my arm heals, or —“ She handed him the piece of paper.
“Or you get tired of me hanging around?”
He had dimples. Dear God. “First, the gutter. You didn’t reattach it when you did the roof.”
“Back up the killer ladder?”
“Back up the killer ladder.”
“But first, lunch? Can I buy you some lunch? It’s very late.” It was one o’clock. Tragically late.
“I have too much to do. I have my own list.” She held it up for him to see how long it was, full of important must-do stuff.
He squinted at it. “Your handwriting sucks.”
Chapter 31
Merle ate her lunch in the garden, reading the bad novel and eating cheese. She felt a bit safer knowing someone else was going to do the hard work. She was definitely a danger to herself. And with the treasure in the basement, the wine felt safer too. She stared at her list. Had she learned nothing from France? She pushed it away and turned her face to the sun. It warmed her tired bones, her sore muscles, and her cast, until she moved her chair to the shade, propping her feet on the low wall.
Another heavenly day in the garden. The roses needed dead-heading but the climbing pink one on the far wall was busting its guts to please her. Even the new one, the Reine de Violette, had opened a mauve blossom.
She awoke with a start at the sound of the aluminum extension ladder going up. Pascal leaned it against the house, checked the legs for a firm footing, set rocks on either side of them, and climbed. Merle turned back to the book in her lap. Maybe she did need some rest. She tried to stand using her right arm. Ouch. Gathering her dishes and book, she nodded to Pascal on her way into the kitchen.
In the bathroom she took a couple more aspirin then tried to rinse her dishes in the kitchen sink. How in hell was she going to keep this cast dry?
Pascal came to the back door and knocked. He poked his head into the kitchen. “I must find new boulons for the gutter.” He held up a bent screw.
“And I need to buy something for dinner. Walk together?”
He had a long stride and she had to step lively to keep up, holding her cast against her stomach. Out on the streets she relaxed, thinking about the menu for dinner instead of crimes past and present. The lavender was blooming in pots around the plaza, scenting the air. In the grocery she bought a small piece of fish with a strange name, some green beans, and a baguette. More than enough for one person.
He was up on the ladder when she returned home. An hour later he appeared again at the door. She offered him a glass of wine. They sat outside on the patio. He sipped his wine, and said, “Something new?”
“Château Cheval-Blanc.” She handed him the bottle. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
He held the glass up to the sunlight. The thick liquid was as dense as milk and tasted a lot better. “Incroyable. Where did you get it?”
She wanted to tell him about the cave. But the knowledge, the secret of the wine, was a big responsibility. And who was he? He seemed too well-traveled, too educated to be a roofer. She hated being suspicious, but she had to be careful. She replaced the cork. “I’ll pour some more at dinner. If you’ll join me.”
He put a hand over his heart. “For Château Cheval-Blanc — and your company, madame, I am honored.”
She served the fish baked with a cream sauce. Pascal had gone home to wash and change his clothes. His father, he said sipping the wine, would have killed for this one. It was a rare Bordeaux from a small vineyard. Vintages during the war, or right after like this one were very rare because of the devastation of the vineyards from battles and neglect.
As they finished dinner, set outside in the warm evening air, a knock came at the front door. Merle could see the gendarme standing on the step, his hat in his hands. She put her plate in the sink and went to the door.
“I am here to talk to the boy. Your son,” Jean-Pierre said, looking around her.
“He’s not here.” She heard Pascal come into the room.
He reached around her and shook Jean-Pierre’s hand. “Come in, have a refreshment.” She caught Pascal’s eye: what the hell are you doing?
Pascal poured the last of the Cheval-Blanc for the gendarme. At the oak table he sniffed it, sipped, and nodded, licking his lips. “An old vintage? ”
She shrugged. “Was there something you needed from my son?”
“I need to speak to him about the fight. There were complaints we must address.”
“He’s gone home to America.”
“Without his passport?”
“He kept his passport. It’s mine you have.” She crossed her arms. “Why are you here?”
“The inspector wants to speak to him.”
“What about?”
“I just do my duty.” He drained his glass and saluted them. Was he drunk? “I will leave you two amoureux to your evening.”
After the door shut Merle turned to Pascal. “What did he say?” she asked in English.
“Which part, about the passport?” He shrugged, picking up his dishes again from the table then put on espresso.
“What do you think tomorrow? Paint the shutters?”
“I can’t ask you to do that, Pascal. You’re a roofer.”
“I’m not plastering. I must wait for that before I finish upstairs.”
“All right. I’ll buy paint in the morning.” They listened to the night birds circling high in the sky, catching insects. “Has there been talk about Justine Labelle around town?”
“Not since the first few days.”
“Do they think I did it? The people?”
“I don’t know what they think.” He set his cup on the patio table. “I have heard that the Inspector gets pressure from his superiors to make an arrest.”
“He’s been investigating long enough.” She looked up. “You mean me?”
“Are there other suspects?”
The night didn’t seem so lovely. “Do you have any theories?”
“I suppose someone who was her customer.”
“Here?”
“Or Bordeaux.”
“What about Jean-Pierre, our trusty gendarme? Does he know anything about her?”
“I only know him a little.”
“Was he drunk tonight?”
“Possibly.” Pascal looked serious. “Sometimes he plays cards. A little Jeu de Tarot. At lunch.”
“Do you think he would tell you Justine Labelle’s real name?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I did. He won’t tell me.”
He looked into his tiny espresso cup, as if reading the coffee grounds for an answer. “You want me to ask?”
The next morning Merle put on her jogging shoes, shoved her good shoes in a bag, and took off walking to the winery. She was early, but wanted to enjoy the morning in the countryside, the ducks on the pond at the bottom of the hill, the wood-cutters taking logs out of the thick forest, the solitary tourists on mopeds putt-putting along the country roads. On some far hill a church bell was ringing. The sky was white, promising heat again.
She took the long way around the city walls, going out the north entrance to the beginning of the path that led to the cliffs. Not so long ago she had climbed those stairs, and a woman had been pushed to her death. Who had done it? Any one of the people on those buses that day. What was the inspector up to? She’d seen him around town, always alone at a table outside the tabac or a café, smoking and ruminating. Pascal said he was getting pressure to arrest her, but he hadn’t been back to talk to her for days. This must be what denial feels like. Very nice. Pleasant.
She’d left Pascal with two gallons of sky blue paint. He had started taking down the shutters to paint them in the garden. As she walked her cell phone rang — her mother, calling at some ungodly time of night in Connecticut.
Th
ere wasn’t much to say. There isn’t, when you’ve been lying for weeks. Your true life can never measure up to the picture you’ve painted for your relatives. Yes, she was happy Annie and Tristan would be here next week. Yes, the house was coming along. No, she wasn’t sure when she’d be home. Yes, everything was fine, just fine, having the time of her life. Vacation like no other. Perfect health.
She’d never lied to her mother. She never needed to. Her life had always been on the up-and-up. But now, as she stepped off the track into the weeds, both literally and figuratively, there was too much to say and too great a distance. Her mother wouldn’t understand. Merle would tell them all of it when it was over.
The vines of Château Gagillac trembled in the morning mist. She peeked under the leaves to see the clusters of grapes growing fatter in the summer sun. Something about grapevines was so ancient, so elemental, a link to Romans and Greeks and tribes who cultivated this soil for millennia. Had wine made from grapes planted right here on this hillside once gone down the throat of Caesar? Even the roses scenting the path knew their place in history.
The tour was an hour away. Merle took off her sweater, hung it in the closet in the tasting room, and changed her shoes. In the bathroom she brushed her hair, put on lipstick. She didn’t look too bad, except for the cast on her arm. Walking toward the house, she passed the aging room, its big doors closed and locked. What had those trucks been doing the other day, before her fall from the ladder? What was so secret in here?
She looked around. No one nearby. She stepped over to the side door and tried the knob. Locked. Was it lying, the first sin, that made her bold? She walked around the building and found a window unlocked. She reached inside and cranked it wider then peered into the gloom inside. Where was Gerard? She boosted herself onto the sill and slipped inside.
She was behind the rows of oak barrels at the back of the chai. Lying on their sides, two rows high, the top row on heavily supported wooden beams spanned the width of the building. They appeared to be all the same as before, none missing. In front of them was something new. Wooden wine cases, with bottles inside on their sides, two rows deep. So this was what the trucks were doing, loading or unloading these cases. She leaned closer to see the label, picked up a bottle and held it up to the light from the window. ‘Château du Saint Clar, Grand Cru Classe, 1992.’
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