Blackbird Fly (29 page)

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 off, 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.

There 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.