The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  “D’accord?” he asked. Agreed?

  “D’accord,” I said, getting into his truck.

  Mom seemed to be whispering in my ear something about not taking rides with strangers. If she were there, I might have replied that it’s usually friends, not strangers, who are dangerous to us, but in the current circumstance that wouldn’t be a good argument. Jacques was no stranger, and I felt thoroughly comfortable with him. Was that foolhardy? Who knew?

  During the short drive back to the fromagerie, he told me about the plant, his cows, and the two shifts of workers who came in every day of the week. Clearly, he loved what he did, the people he worked with, and this place. If Gérard managed to pull off his development, he would uproot far more than a few cows.

  I was covered with mud. Jacques showed me to the workmen’s scrub room—the plant was as clean as a surgical suite—and gave me a spare pair of his jeans, a pullover sweater, a stiff white smock to wear over them and a matching toque to cover my hair—required, he said—and black rubber boots like his own. The jeans were too long and a little snug in the hips, but were a great improvement over sodden sweats that were black to the knees, cold, and heavy with damp.

  I was instructed to leave my dirty clothes in the hamper for the laundryman to take care of. Jacques had taken my muddy shoes from me when we walked inside, wrapped them in the morning newspaper, and set them beside the door to be cleaned by someone named Jochan.

  Inspector Dauvin picked up David on his way to serve as translator. When I came out of the scrub room, I found the three men waiting for me in Jacques’s office, all seated around a table drinking coffee. Dauvin looked me over.

  “You look a proper cheese maker,” he said, through David.

  Jacques handed me a mug of strong coffee lightened with warm milk and pulled out the chair next to him. The two witnesses, he and I, faced the inquisitor and his translator across the table.

  The inspector asked me to tell him what happened. I started with the van: it was white, full-size, not a make I recognized, not American. There was no registration plate on the back, something I had noticed the day before as well. I did my best to sketch the purple rooster for him; not an exact likeness, but a fair representation, I thought.

  David remembered the incident on the freeway, and the van. He thought the rooster emblem belonged to a poultry company he had seen around, but he didn’t know the name. The van was a Volvo, he said. He gave the model and year, both verified by Jacques. But, the day before, even though he had taken in those details, David had been more focused on the dimensions of the space between a BMW and a Honda that he needed to slip into to avoid a collision.

  The car behind us, the one that would have hit our rear if David hadn’t gotten us out of the way, was an older model Renault with primer paint on the hood, an old beater of a car. At the time, he’d wondered if the drivers of the van and the Renault weren’t gypsies trying to set up a wreck so they could claim damages, an increasingly common ploy on the highways, and one he always looked out for.

  Neither of us noticed the van’s driver in Paris. It was my impression that the man who came after me was young, fairly tall, and not French; he swore in English. That last made Jacques and David exchange satisfied nods—not a local, a good thing. He wore dark pants, a dark hooded sweatshirt, and heavy boots like Doc Martens six-holers, not good for running through soft soil. He had a foul mouth, an attribute Jacques verified.

  After he saw Jacques coming, the man doubled back, got into the van and sped away as maniacally as he drove in, chewing up the unpaved road quite a bit. Jacques had called 17, the French equivalent of 911, and gave a description of the van. Dauvin said an alert went out. Chances were good it would be found.

  When we had nothing more to tell him, Dauvin closed his notebook. And then he scolded me for being out alone. Hadn’t he warned me? It was very possible I was a witness to something on the night Isabelle was killed, even if I weren’t aware of it. He leaned forward and, looking directly into my eyes, he said, “I am told by your Sergeant Longshore that a certain envelope was delivered to your work place, yes?”

  I nodded. As soon as I recognized the white van, I thought about the explosive-sniffing beagle that walked in the network studio door and went straight to the FedEx mailer that was addressed to me. I said, “The man who delivered the envelope was not the man who chased me this morning. Different build; the other man was older.”

  That nugget of information seemed to interest Dauvin. Once again, he cautioned us all to stay quiet. They were developing information and didn’t want to alert anyone prematurely, screw things up. After the funeral was soon enough, he said. But let him make the announcement of the murder. To myself, I counted off the people who already knew. When Dauvin got around to the big moment, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

  Dauvin told us he had a good man coming out to make tire and footprint impressions. Our tracks were certainly easy to find. Now, what to do about me?

  Jacques claimed me. He had promised me a tour and a lesson on cheese-making, he said. He and his workmen would make sure I was well watched over. I thought it was a good idea, better than sitting around stewing. Dauvin thought not.

  We all looked toward the door when we heard a car drive up, a car door slam.

  “Jacques?” I heard Antoine call out. “Où toi te trouve?” Where are you?

  “Ah,” Jacques said with a happy lift to his brow as he rose from the table. “Croissants.”

  Sounded like a good idea to me; I was famished.

  “Bonjour.” Antoine came in from outside carrying a muslin bag, shed his shoes beside the door before he looked up.

  “Ah, Maggie,” he said, obviously surprised when he realized it was me draped in white dairy garb. “Have you taken up milking?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Pierre, David, Jacques,” he said, brows furrowing with concern as he looked from one face to another. “What’s happening?”

  Dauvin shrugged. “Madame wanted a tour of the fromagerie.” Then he reminded Antoine that the croissants were getting cold.

  With a shrug, Antoine pulled a basket out of a cupboard and dumped the contents of his bag into it, croissants still warm from the bakery—I could smell them from halfway across the room. He set the basket and a stack of serviettes—paper napkins—on the table in front of us, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  I followed David’s lead and took a croissant, cradled it in a napkin, and ate it as it was. Nowhere in the world outside France can you find a croissant that comes close to the wonders of the real thing. Buttery, flaky outside, creamy and tender as air inside. And when they are still warm...

  Jacques pushed a button on a speaker mounted on the wall and announced into it, “Croissants, mes amis.”

  Almost immediately I heard men stamping their boots outside the door. Out of a small refrigerator, Jacques took dishes of butter and jam, a pitcher of milk, and a plate of sliced ham, and set them among the mugs and small plates on the counter, next to a beautiful round of Camembert.

  “I need to get home.” Antoine rolled up his empty muslin bag. “More deliveries to make. Maggie, David, anyone need a ride?”

  I exchanged a glance with Dauvin. He dipped his head in approval of the offer; his mouth was full of croissant.

  I said, “Thanks, Antoine, I would appreciate a ride.” I handed Jacques back his toque and smock.

  David said he would like to hang out with his father for a bit, but Jacques reminded him that he had promised to help Grand-mère Marie with her soup pot; it was too heavy for her. David needed to go with us.

  No one mentioned the morning’s adventure to Antoine. I met Jacques’s eyes. He raised his shoulders, a moue on his face—pouty lips. I read, Our little secret, or Yikes, what he doesn’t know...

  Antoine’s red Mini station wagon was filled with the aroma of warm bread. On the back seat there were three more bags of croissants, one for each of the houses in the compound. He had l
eft the engine running and the heater on while he made his delivery to the fromagerie, to keep them warm.

  David moved the bags aside and climbed into the back. As we pulled out, I could see Jacques’s tire tracks heading into the carrot field, and on the far side, two sets of footprints churned into the mud. Visually, I retraced my path, saw where I veered to go into the orchard, and where my pursuer doubled back. Antoine followed my gaze.

  “That field was just plowed,” he said. “Wonder what happened, cow get loose? I have to get out the tractor anyway. Looks like there was a mishap on the road in. Someone made a mess we’ll need to grade before it rains.”

  The police had just arrived and were setting up a barrier around the tire and boot tracks with plastic stanchions and blue caution tape. We were waved around the site and ordered not to stop.

  Antoine was ready to argue with the policeman: this was his family’s place, his area of responsibility, no one had told him there was a problem that would bring out the police, he had a right to know. He rolled down his window, obviously to argue.

  David said, “Drive on, Antoine. I’ll tell you what happened.”

  Antoine turned around. I said, “Please.”

  I saw confusion, and anger, sweep across his face, but he caved to us. He closed the crack he had opened in his window and drove away, headed for the compound. I told him about that morning; David told him about Paris. Antoine grew visibly more upset as the story unfolded.

  As he turned into the compound gate, I said, “Maybe it would be best for all if I get a room in the village.”

  Antoine put his hand over mine. “Absolutely not. Dear God, Maggie, if we can barely keep you safe with all of us around, what will happen if you are alone among strangers? No. Absolutely not.”

  He stopped his car inside the gate, got out, and with some effort, pulled the gate closed and latched it. From the racket the hinges set up, I wondered how long it been since it was last closed. Right after World War II?

  “Not very practical,” I said, “considering all the people who will come through that gate today.”

  Finally, he laughed at himself. “Wish we had a tower we could secure you in. But, in the meantime, I’m sticking to you like paste.”

  “Like glue,” David corrected. “Sticking like glue.”

  “Whatever.”

  Antoine parked between his house and Grand-mére’s. He took the three bags of croissants from the backseat and handed me Grand-mère’s, gave Freddy’s to David. To me he said, “I hope we can find a time to talk about some things, cousin. Some important things that will affect us all. Maybe later tonight?”

  “Of course. You know where to find me.”

  Grand-mère was in the kitchen, setting butter and a plate of ham and cheese on the table when I walked in.

  “You’re up early,” she said, offering her cheeks to kiss as I handed her the croissants. “Did you go to the bakery with Kelly?”

  “No. Kelly is helping Grand-mère Marie with the soup, so Antoine went. He picked me up at the fromagerie; Jacques promised me a tour.”

  “Oh?” She poured us each a coffee with hot milk, and gestured to the chair I should take. “And what do you think of our fromagerie?”

  “Very impressive,” I said, neglecting to mention the drama that preceded the tour, or that the tour consisted of a brief peek. “A thoroughly mechanized operation, making cheese in a very traditional way. It’s interesting, the old with the new.”

  My answer seemed to please Grand-mère very much. Inordinately so, I thought, though all she said was, “Jacques is a craftsman. He was taught by his father and his grandfather. We are very proud of our cheese.”

  I had already consumed one rich croissant that morning, but when Grand-mère offered me another, I accepted. French croissants aren’t nearly as big and bready as the greasy dough-logs we call croissants in the U.S., but they are every bit as rich.

  “Try the raspberry preserves,” she said, passing me a small, lidded pot. “I made it last summer. I am also proud of my preserves.”

  She had reason to be proud; the preserves were tart and delicious. I wondered how these people ate the way they did and still managed to stay so thin. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock and already I had eaten about a six-mile-run’s worth of calories. I needed to find a way to get out for a run again, or else I’d need to shop for new clothes.

  While we ate, Grand-mère told me what to expect during the rest of the day.

  First, the family would come to her house for lunch. Afterward, there would be a simple religious service at the chapel of the Convent of the Sacred Flower, even though Isabelle professed to be an atheist. Following the service, Isabelle’s ashes would be placed inside a niche in the crypt below the nave of the convent chapel. During the afternoon, guests from the funeral would come by the house for tea and cake. It was the local tradition, she said, seeming resigned to an all-day ordeal.

  I would have taken her in my arms, but Grand-mère was so fragile that morning, maintaining her composure only by dint of great effort, that such a gesture would not have been a kindness. She was enough like Mom that I knew it was important for her to present a game face, to seem intact even when she felt otherwise. So, I served as her sounding board, and listened while she went over the details of meals and accommodations, responded when appropriate, all the time helping her to stay ten degrees north of reality, which was: she was preparing to inter her only daughter.

  Every time there was a lull in our conversation, tears filled her pale eyes. As profound as her sadness was, I knew from my own recent experience, losing Mike, that the hard grieving would come once all her guests had gone away, the daily routines had resumed, and she was alone with only memories of Isabelle to fill a void where her daughter had been. My heart broke for her.

  After we ate and tidied the kitchen, Grand-mère walked me around outside to show me her gardens, a way of filling time before lunch. There were still red cabbages, turnips, leeks, and late carrots growing, but she told me I had missed the garden at the height of its wonders. She pointed out the bare frames for peas, green beans and squash, and the raised beds for lettuces and asparagus. When she pointed out the trellises for her raspberries she asked me to imagine them heavy with bright red fruit. I had missed the flowers, as well, she said, sighing with regret.

  “But that is the way of the year.” With a wistful smile she pinched a shriveled pea pod from a limp remnant of a vine. “Now, while the orchards and the fields are at rest, Antoine is busy distilling Calvados from the cider he pressed in September. About the time he is finished, it will be spring again and the trees will begin to waken. And then—how can I describe it? Magic happens.” She turned toward the bare orchard, raising her palms as if she were pushing up a window or bringing up house lights in a theater. “The trees blossom all at once. So magnificent that I cannot describe it.” She gripped my arm and looked deep into my eyes. “But, of course, you will see for yourself.”

  Telling me about the estate made her happy, kept her distracted. As she talked about the seasons of the various enterprises on the estate, I got the impression that she assumed I would be around to see the full farm cycle, forever. I, however, had assumed that I would only be there for a long weekend and would maybe visit later if the weekend went well.

  While I admit that the portrait she drew of life on the estate was seductive—never mind that the outdoor cattle enclosures on the far edge of the estate did stink and that all of the estate’s enterprises required a great deal of back-breaking work—and I could imagine myself spending an earthy idyll in Normandy, I knew I was never going to be more than a visitor there. I had a life, and a job, and a family on the far edge of a different continent altogether. And, at least for the time being, that’s where I intended to remain.

  By the time we made our way to Isabelle’s greenhouse I was feeling deceitful by simply being attentive. Grand-mère seemed to interpret any interest I showed, and it was all interesting, as my acceptance of my p
lace there.

  “I apologize for the state of things in your mother’s greenhouse,” she said as she ushered me inside.

  The greenhouse was warm—stored solar-generated heat, she told me—and humid from the automatic irrigation system and plant respiration. There were still a few things growing, mostly herbs and lettuces, but everything looked to be in need of a good weeding and trim. Grand-mère asked me to imagine the greenhouse full of the colors of ripe vegetables, even in the dead of winter. She said, “All that is needed is more attention.”

  She told me that, several years ago, when her illness was diagnosed, Isabelle’s doctors had told her to avoid direct contact with the soil because her illness left her vulnerable to bacterial infections; her white cell count was very low and her immune system was suppressed. But Isabelle disregarded their advice, as she disregarded any advice that didn’t suit her, until last summer when a potentially deadly infection sent her to the hospital for a few weeks.

  After she recovered Isabelle stayed away from the estate. There were some important affairs she needed to take care of, she told her mother. But once those affairs were settled, she would be back, the greenhouse would flourish again. She promised there would be lilies and iris in time for Easter.

  “Isabelle should have known that could not be.” Grand-mère sighed as she looked around at the sorry state of her daughter’s greenhouse. “A garden is like a child. It cannot be neglected for a moment.”

  12

  Casey called when I was on my way upstairs to shower. I was relieved to hear her voice and her assurance that all was well. Her flight over had been uneventful. Bébé was waiting for her at the airport in Paris when she came through Document Control as he told her he would be. He had taken her to buy a phone, and now I had the number captured in my directory. They were on the “freeway,” driving as fast as a NASCAR racer, and would arrive at the estate right on schedule. Or before.