Deadly Slipper

I am grateful to the many people who helped me along the way by providing local insights and factual information. I wish in particular to thank Alex Skelton for her friendship and valuable comments on the manuscript draft; Frances and Bill Hanna, Stacy Creamer, and Maya Mavjee for believing in this book; and my sister, Grace Anderson, whose generosity, encouragement, and wonderful house, La Charmeraie, were the beginning of everything. Above all, I wish to thank my partner, Tim Johnson, for his love, support, and botanical expertise. We have walked many paths together, and I look forward to walking many more with him. Among the many references used, Pierre Delforge’s
Orchids of Britain & Europe
(HarperCollins, 1995) was my bible.

The Dordogne (pronounced dor-
DOHN
-yuh) is an administrative
département
of southwestern France. Its landscape is diverse and dramatic; its history and culture rich; its people warm; and its cuisine justly famous.

This is a work of fiction, based in the Dordogne. All characters are imaginary. Invented places have been intermixed with or based on real locations. For example, the place-name Ecoute-la-Pluie was fashioned from the c Ecoute-s’il-Pleut (Listen-If-It-Rains) because this one was simply too good to pass up. The geological, culinary, and botanical details of the Dordogne are accurate. Above all, the orchids (with one exception) exist and grow in the kinds of environments described. Their beauty is there to be admired, photographed, and, above all, respected. Wild orchids everywhere are endangered. Please don’t pick, trample, or dig up the flowers.

The Dordogne River springs out of the central highlands of France and flows westward through the region that bears its name, nearly five hundred kilometers to the Atlantic. The river, in its middle reaches, runs lazily through a narrow flood plain patterned with small farms. Here and there it swings between deeply undercut limestone cliffs. Small villages and fortified towns dot the landscape. Medieval castles rise from rocky prominences. Everywhere the earth is densely clothed in trees, for this is the heart of Périgord Noir—Black Périgord—named for the darkness of its great forests. Within their shadow, ancient footpaths wind over root and stone.

A young woman was walking on just such a forest path one day in the spring. Her stride was long, the stride of a seasoned hiker. On her back she carried a green canvas pack. She wore jeans and a blue windbreaker, the hood of which was pushed back, revealing dark, straight, shoulder-length hair parted in the middle and fastened at the temples with metal barrettes. Her ankle-high leather boots were caked with chalky mud. A camera hung unsheathed from one shoulder. Apart from the clatter of a nearby
stream, the only other sounds to accompany the woman’s passage were her own soft footfalls, the slight, rhythmical swish of her nylon jacket.

Her way now led uphill to an elevated meadow sprinkled with yellow cowslips, violets, and pale bladder campion. The woman paused, eyes searching until she spotted a scattering of odd-looking, greenish-red plants with hooded flowers, each formed around a deep throat. She approached to study them more closely, then took up her camera, slipping off her backpack at the same time for greater ease of movement. Carefully, she composed her shot, squatting low over one of the flowers, adjusting the lens meticulously for light and distance: first a close-up of the full plant, including basal leaves and inflorescence; then, shifting back with a crablike motion and refocusing to take in the immediate growing environment.

She capped her lens, gathered up her backpack, and walked on. Her path wound steeply upward over stony ground. Below her spread a rumpled panorama of wooded hills and valleys. Farther on, at the edge of a small clearing, she saw something that made her catch her breath: a plant bearing a single, fantastic blossom on a slender stalk. Her eyes widened and her lips curved in a smile as she crouched to marvel and admire. She prepared to photograph the flower at close range, adjusting her lens again, carefully pressing down the surrounding grasses for a better view. As she rose to back up
for the longer shot, something—a streak of motion—cut across her line of sight. Startled, she looked up.

Talons outstretched, the buzzard struck so swiftly that the rabbit at the far side of the clearing had no sense of danger until it was pinioned with violent force. A shriek, a brief struggle, and the small animal was borne limply up beneath a beating canopy of wings. Raptor and prey disappeared beyond the trees. A moment later, a single feather, turning brightly in the air, drifted slowly to the ground. The woman watched transfixed.

Other eyes watched her.

“Maradonne,” repeated the telephone voice. “I’ve been referred to you by someone who knows you, or knows of you—Monsieur La Pouge.”

The accent was what he called straight-up American. Not a laid-back southern drawl. Not in-your-face New Yorkese, where “talk” rhymed with “squawk.” But neutral, the tone slightly urgent.

“Ah,” said Julian Wood, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. He did not know any Maradonne. Or any La Pouge person, either.

“Because of your knowledge of wildflowers.”

Julian thought hard. A fellow member of the Société Jeannette—Daffodil Society—the local wildflower amateurs’ club? Or an enthusiast who had come across his book,
Wildflowers of the Dordogne/ Fleurs sauvages de la Dordogne
, what he liked to think of as the bilingual bible on local flora?

He was standing in his slippers on the stone floor of his kitchen, which, since it was the best-lit and largest room of his ancient cottage, also served as his workshop. He fiddled with a sprig of dry-pressed pepperwort that he had been in the process of framing. He wanted to get back to it.

“I have a problem,” continued the voice, “and I need your advice. That is, your expertise. I wonder if
I could ask for an hour of your time? On a consulting basis, of course.”

Consulting? Well, he could consult with the best of them, but what on earth was this woman on about?

“I’m afraid—what—um—exactly is it that you want?”

There was a pause. “I just need a little botanical information. Look,” she insisted, “can I come out to see you now? You live in Grissac?”

“Just outside, actually,” he admitted weakly. He belonged to that species of middle-aged Englishman made nervous by pushy females.

“I can be there by—shall we say four?”

Turning his head, he looked out the window at rain, a cold March rain slanting out of an ugly sky that had hung for weeks over this region of southwestern France. A sudden gust rattled his window-panes (in need of recaulking). He wondered, not for the first time, where Edith had got to.

“All right,” he heard himself say, and told this Maradonne person how to find him.

•

Julian took one look at her and had a premonition of trouble. She was small, coming below his shoulder, with straight, black brows, a pointed chin, and an air of determination. Her face brought on a rush of uneasy associations with other determined women, dimly remembered, whom he had known. She was also soaking wet. That was because she had run through the downpour from the road, where she had
been obliged to leave her car. She stood, hair plastered to her head, water coursing off her onto the flagstones of his gloomy vestibule.

“Mara,” she seized his hand damply but firmly. “Mara Dunn.”

“Julian Wood.”

Reluctantly, he helped her out of her raincoat and hung it on his wobbly tripod rack. She scrubbed vigorously at her short, dark hair, flicking water everywhere. The action left it upstanding and spiky, making her look oddly like a hedgehog and younger than she probably was. Forty? Forty-five? He wasn’t good with women’s ages.

“Well,” he said with a stab at heartiness, “may as well come through. Awful day. Tea? Coffee?”

“Oh, tea, thanks, if it’s not too much trouble.” Her brisk voice grated already on his nerves.

She ignored his invitation to be seated in his front room. Just as well. Since he lived with no one but Edith, whose habits were bohemian at best, housekeeping was not a strong point with Julian. He had tried to make a fire, which was smoking unpleasantly on the hearth.

Instead, she followed him right into his kitchen where her attention was immediately seized by a contraption standing at one end of the room:

“What is that?” she laughed, waving at a series of bulky, rectangular frames fastened together with immense wooden screws. “Some kind of medieval instrument of torture?”

“Floral press, actually,” he replied stiffly and slapped an aluminum kettle on the burner. “-Nineteenth-century. I still use it. For preparing herbarium samples.”

“Herb—what?” Her eyebrows arched.

“Dry-pressed flora. Once the only means of providing type specimens for horticultural classification and botanical study.” The hedgehog had asked for his expertise—by god, she was going to get it.

She looked perplexed. He relented a little. “For drying plant material. In fact a microwave does just as well for most things, but I find the old-fashioned method gives a more antique finish. It’s a simple process, really. Clamp the plants in the press. It’s lined with blotting paper to take up the moisture. Tighten the screws from time to time. Whole thing takes about six weeks. Thick bits like stalks and flower heads have to be pressed separately from petals and leaves and reassembled later. Then I mount and frame everything for sale.”