“Bien sûr, mon ami. Her name is Amandine. She is a model.” He was quite proud of himself. “She is crazy about me.”
“Bravo.” Pascal raised his wine glass to Yves. Be nice, he told himself. You need him. “And what of this Bruno Nordvilles-Moura? What do we know about him?”
“His record of arrest and imprisonment, as I said. His family is an old one, some Italian in there and a former Count somewhere to the North but penniless, I’m told. I don’t know what he’s up to now. Still digging around. He’s been banned from the wine trade but that doesn’t mean he won’t stick a toe in where it doesn’t belong. We will find out.”
“And is someone actively looking into that?” Pascal knew how these things worked. No one would look twice at Bruno unless someone raised a flag.
“Well, you, my friend,” Yves crowed.
Pascal shook his head. “I want to stay out of this. It’s personal.”
Yves nodded. “A woman? Of course.”
Pascal smiled. “Can you help me? I hate to ask you for more favors, Yves. But it is rather urgent.”
Yves wiggled his eyebrows. “Of course it is, you sly fox. I will do my best.”
* * *
Bruno’s last known address was beyond the Boulevard Périférique, the ring road that marked the old city walls around Paris. They had been torn down centuries before but the stigma remained, you were ‘inside’ or ‘outside.’ In Bruno’s case he was far from any view of the Seine, as he had claimed. His view, if he had one at all, would be of Les Puces, the flea market that operated several blocks away from his Rue du Plaisir address.
The street had not been aptly named. The only pleasures evident here were the selling of tired furniture in open doorways and garage spaces, and even that looked more flea-bitten than pleasant. The number for Bruno was a white house with a boldly blue metal shuttered door. Pascal banged on it. It wasn’t apparent if this was also a garage, or a large shuttered doorway. The two-story brick buildings were well-kept for the area, their front fences painted bright colors of the desert.
He moved to the indigo gate, half shuttered behind the wrought iron, also blue. It was locked. In the tiny garden were children’s toys, a small tricycle, a ball, a folding chair. He called out: “Allo? Il y a quelqu'un?” No point in announcing the police in this neighborhood.
Although an upstairs window was open, no one appeared. He looked for a buzzer but didn’t find one. He walked down the street to the open garage with the oriental rugs stacked on end. “Allo? Monsieur?”
A door opened in the back and a man appeared. He was dark-skinned, wiping his hands on his pants, smiling. “Bonjour, monsieur. What can I help you? You would like a rug today?”
His French was stilted, accented like many in the north of Paris. He looked over Pascal and his eyes rounded. He knew Pascal was police. No point in even saying it. His smile froze.
“I am looking for someone who lived three doors down the street.” Pascal brought up the website picture on his phone, the only recent one he had of Bruno. He zoomed in on the laughing face. “This man. Bruno Nordvilles-Moura. French. Short.” He held up his mobile. “Do you recognize him? He lived in the house with the blue fence.”
The man relaxed a bit, squinted at the screen, bent closer. “No. I am sorry.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“Since summer past.”
“And your name, monsieur?”
The man blinked nervously. “I am Persian, sir. Like the rugs.” Pascal merely nodded, waiting. “Habib Rostam. Monsieur.” He bowed slightly.
Pascal clicked off his phone. “Who on the street can help me, Habib? Do you know who lives in the house with the blue fence?”
“I only know family here. We keep to ourselves. I am sorry, monsieur.”
Although he returned to the house with the blue fence Pascal got nothing from Rue du Plaisir. He knocked on more doors, stopped a car, talked to a pedestrian, an old woman, went round to the small grocery on the next block. No one remembered Bruno, or they weren’t talking.
The address was probably years old. Bruno had been in the countryside, at the winery of his friends, for at least two years as they planned their scheme. Pascal walked back to the Porte de Clignancourt Metro station. He was wearing the new boots he’d bought in Scotland and missed his old, rain-ruined ones. His feet hurt.
At least the weather was fine. Merle would have enjoyed it.
The call from Yves Souci came as he emerged at Châtelet and walked through a nursery vendor’s potted plants toward the river. The Seine smelled a little bad today, fishy. A breeze picked up from the North, fluttering awnings and ladies’ skirts.
“You ready for this, eh, d’Onscon?” Yves asked.
“Ready for what?”
“He’s working for us.” Yves laughed. “Yes, he is working for the Wine Fraud Division.”
“Bruno Nordvilles-Moura?”
“The one and only. He has been pressed into duty. That is how he got out of prison early. Nobody tells me anything around here,” Yves complained.
Pascal sat on a bench in a little green space. “What is he doing for us?” It was hard to imagine him as a useful creature.
“They sent him to the UK. He was undercover as a winery expert. That is not his real name, you know.”
“But his arrests, those were in his name?”
“They have arranged things so we can see, but not for general consumption. You know their intrigues, Pascal. They love nothing better than to obfuscate. And who suffers? We who are supposed to be working for them, with them.”
Pascal swore. The administration of the Police Nationale was just like other branches of government, full of twisted motivations, dark schemes, and old friendships. Most of the time they worked, but every so often it was just a pile of crap.
“Who’s brilliant idea was it to send a known scam artist, a con man, undercover?” he asked.
“Oh, I did not ask,” Yves said flatly. He sighed.
“So that address you sent me to, where no one knew him?”
“Phony as the river is long.”
“Did they tell you his real name? Where he lives?”
“I’m sorry. I cannot.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
“My hands are tied, Pascal. Someone high up is pulling the strings on this one. I did hear one thing. That he has returned to Paris because he believed his cover was blown in Scotland. He was to look for indications of origin irregularity. Like French grapes in their own bottles there. Why would anyone do that? It’s all nonsense. But they say he felt exposed and feared for his safety.”
Pascal looked at the clouds. “Well, I nearly pounded his head in.”
“Bien sûr.”
“Can you tell me who he is working with? Anything, Yves.”
“Dommage. From the top, mon ami.”
Pascal stared at the greenish water flowing to the sea, a slow, inexorable march to oblivion. How would he find Elise now? He wanted to go back to Merle, curl up in bed and smell the scent of her neck. He could get the next TGV, be in Avignon by eight. It was just as well he hadn’t told Merle anything. She wouldn’t be disappointed in him.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his mobile still in his hands. What more could he do? He would text one of the sisters, see if they’d heard from Elise. He scrolled through his contacts. Callum. He would call Callum.
The Scot answered quickly. “Pascal! We were just talking about you and Merle.”
“Ah, yes? Something nice, I hope.”
There was a scuffling then Annie came on: “Where are you, Pascal? Is Merle there?”
“No, I am in Paris on business. She is in the South. Annie, have you heard from Elise?”
“I think Francie has. Hey, Francie. Tell Pascal what you heard from Elise.”
Francie came on the line. It was hard to keep up. So many sisters and they sounded one like the other.
“Hey, where are you? Is it sunny and warm?”
&n
bsp; He didn’t want to talk about weather. “Did you hear from Elise? I think she is in Paris.”
“She is! How did you know? She texted me this afternoon. Just a little check-in so I wouldn’t worry. After last summer when I got nabbed by dog-nappers I got a little fierce about checking in. I’m proud I got through to her on that.”
“Where is she?”
“With that douche-bag, Bruno. She didn’t sound that happy, to tell you the truth. She was doing that fake enthusiasm thing. Lots of smiley emojis.”
“Does her mobile work? Did she text from it?”
“I think so. Wait, it was a new number.” Footsteps, jangling keys. “Here you go. Ready?”
Pascal put his phone on speaker mode and tapped in Elise’s phone number. “Merci. I may check in on her while I’m in the city.”
“Are you coming back, Pascal?” Francie asked.
“I don’t think so. But it was very nice seeing all the sisters. I hope your father does well. À bientôt.”
He hung up and dialed Elise. It rang four times and disconnected. No voicemail. He looked at the number again. It was a French mobile number, not a US one. Had Bruno given her his phone? Or bought her a burner?
He stood up. It was nearly six o’clock. He had just enough time to get someone to trace a cell phone signal before they all went out for aperitifs.
36
Kincardie House
Francie handed Callum back his mobile phone. They sat in the drawing room at Kincardie House where outside the late afternoon sun shone on the trees by the river and glinted off the cars in the gravel parking area. Gunni and Killian had finally towed the enormous oak tree out of the drive this morning. All day the whine of the chain saw had permeated the air as they cut it up. It was finally quiet.
She frowned, thinking about the call. Pascal was worried about Elise. She could tell. He didn’t call to chat.
Annie and Callum were drinking wine by the cold fireplace. This room looked so different today compared to the night after the storm, the night the power was out and Vanora went missing. That night, by firelight, through a haze of cognac, everything looked a bit magical. Tonight the red upholstery looked faded and worn. The walls appeared dusty, the wood panelling cracked. The paintings of ancestors and various stags of yore looked a bit sad, like they didn’t understand all that they lived and loved was over.
Francie sat back in the little flowered chair and stared at Elise’s text. It was short and simple, with lots of smileys. Why did it seem like her little sister wasn’t happy? There was no clue there, just a feeling. The main point was that if Elise was having a blast with her new boyfriend, running around Paris, she wouldn’t have bothered to text. She would have been too busy being a fabulous Parisian then Instagramming the parties and shoes. That was the crux of it. Elise wouldn’t be thinking about her sisters. Francie switched her phone off, remembering when they were so cut off out here, so truly ‘powerless.’
“What did Pascal want?” Annie asked from across the room. Francie moved closer, to a straight-back chair by a side table. “Is Merle having fun?”
“He was in Paris,” Francie said. “He seemed a little worried about Elise.”
“Our wild child. It does seem a bit nuts to be running off with that bore.”
“More like perv. What does she see in Bruno?” Francie mused, shuddering.
Callum poured Francie a glass of wine. She took it then checked herself, setting it on the table. “Speaking of Bruno I got a call from Hugh today,” Callum said, taking his seat again. “Their scheme has been nixed by the organizers. The winery is a no-go. Hugh has lost that work. It’s disappointing. He has plenty, of course, but he was counting on that being a multi-year income stream.”
“So Bruno is out of that money too?” Annie asked. Callum shrugged.
“That’s too bad,” Francie said. “But seriously? A vineyard in Scotland? Whose hare-brained idea was that? It’s not warm enough here for grapes, is it?”
“A doolally plan, I told Hugh,” he agreed. “But Bruno was doing all sorts of temperature and soil samples and other tests, scouting the right aspects of hillsides, analyzing the drainage. They thought he knew what he was doing.”
Annie squinted at Callum. “Bruno never seemed like the scientific type.”
Francie laughed. “No.” She took a tiny sip of wine and pushed it to the back of the table. “Is your mother joining us, Callum?”
“She’ll be down for dinner. You’ll stay, won’t you?”
She checked her watch. She’d been expecting the call from Glynn Barra by now. It was getting late. “Let me just make a call.”
Outside Kincardie House Francie dialed Glynn’s number. When she returned to the drawing room, the atmosphere looked brighter, the colors clearer.
She smiled at Callum. “I need to speak to Fiona.”
* * *
The dismissal of charges against Jinty Arbuckle, through her retraction of the confession, lightened the atmosphere at dinner. The death would likely be deemed an accidental drowning. Glynn Barra had given Francie the good news, congratulated her on getting Jinty to talk, but said the paperwork wouldn’t be finished until morning. One more night in the slammer for Jinty, but then she’d be free.
Francie stayed for dinner although she had told her mother and father she’d join them at the Hydro. She felt like celebrating, but watched her wine. One glass, that’s all, her good angel intoned. Callum and Annie seemed like their old selves, touching hands, heads together, whispers, sly smiles. That left Francie to talk to the old bat, Mrs. Logan. But even she was relaxed and superficially pleasant, even while giving her son and Annie little darting looks.
Mrs. Logan’s final participation in Jinty’s case was after-the-fact but important for Francie. It dotted all the i’s. Fiona knew of the family connection between Jinty Arbuckle and the sheep man/cousin, and hoped when she hired Jinty that Gunni’s carousing would be corralled. You couldn’t really expect a Scotsman to not drink and cut loose once in a while, Fiona admitted, feeling generous. But she agreed with her old friend, Gunni’s grandfather, that the young man needed someone to keep tabs on him. That was where Jinty came in. She could stay through the cold seasons and watch out for bad behavior. The cold and isolation could be hard on a man. Just look at ol’ Craigg, cantankerous old thing. He hadn’t performed any care-taking duties for years, since his arthritis had gotten so bad. It seemed like a win for everyone, Fiona Logan said.
Had Gunni done something bad that night? Had he and Vanora had an argument, a pushing match, or worse? Neither Fiona nor Francie thought so. But they’d probably never know. The sheep were Gunni’s main concern and no one saw him after Pascal left him in the far pasture, counting his herd and looking for strays. He may have disliked Vanora, but really, who didn’t? Even Mrs. Logan said she would likely have fired the woman before the summer was out. Her drinking, laziness, and insubordination were legendary.
Francie wouldn’t have used those words herself. The dead are gone. They couldn’t defend themselves. Vanora’s reputation wasn’t going to improve, not after falling down drunk in a mud puddle. But it wasn’t helpful, or nice, to have people disparage you after you’re gone.
Francie left the three of them at the dinner table, foregoing her dessert. “Must run,” she explained vaguely. In truth she was dying to drive triumphantly through the glen, pedal to the floor, wind in her hair, while shouting at the top of her lungs: Jinty is free! Freeing someone was an incredible feeling. Exonerating them, repairing their reputation, taking away the stain of guilt, giving them back their lives: it felt like a whole new bright, shiny world.
She loved Scotland.
Francie realized, rounding the last hill as the houses appeared, lights twinkling in windows, that she wanted more of this. Not Scotland but this feeling of justice and exoneration. She could eat this up like cake, like chocolate cake with curls on top. Why not? She would change her focus in law. Forget about spats between neighbors, hideous prenups, fr
ivolous lawsuits, business contracts, and incorporations. She would defend the innocent. She would find the truth, and free those unjustly accused.
She would make a difference. As they say, one life at a time.
37
France • Thursday
The gravel crunched under the tires of the BMW as Pascal pulled up to the cottage. It was late morning and the birds had quieted in the trees. He cut the engine and felt the fatigue and relief settle into his bones. Everything was still.
He nudged Elise. Curled into the passenger seat she opened her eyes, blinking against the morning sun. “Where are we?”
“My place. Merle is here.” He snapped off his seat belt and opened the car door. He waited for Elise to join him then they went into the cottage.
The night had been long for both of them. They were exhausted. It had begun at ten the night before when Pascal had finally reached Elise on the mobile number. He had told her to leave it on, to stash it somewhere, and they would trace the signal. She put it in a wastebasket in the bathroom, under the plastic liner. She didn’t know where she was staying, having arrived in the dead of night and apparently been inside ever since. Except that day at the Tuileries, of course, their first day in Paris when she realized what an asshole Bruno really was. After that he’d basically held her captive in the dank apartment. A friend’s, he said. His own was being renovated, he said.
It had taken several hours for Pascal’s colleagues to get the permissions and trace the signal. Even then it was a vague clue, a city block. When Elise finally returned to the phone, at nearly three in the morning, Bruno was sleeping. She called Pascal and they worked out a plan for her to signal him. The apartment buildings in that district were four and five floors, with shutters and grates over the windows. Elise followed his instructions, opened the shutters and the blinds, left a light on in a bathroom facing the street, and waited. It took Pascal three false turns and then finally victory. He saw her face in the window. After signaling her to remain in the apartment he waited below on the street, in his car, vigilant. He caught the street door after Bruno left in the morning and ran up the stairs, finding her behind the door in two tries. Pascal had to break down the door but it wasn’t his first time. They went to the railway station immediately, and now here they were, far from the clutches of the little Napoleon.
The Things We Said Today Page 21
