Blackbird Fly (14 page)

They turned at the city gate as Evangeline had done
yesterday, so they weren’t going to church. The medieval cathedral
was in the other direction, in the middle of the village. At the
corner Merle peered around the stone wall of a house.

The bus to the shrine, squat and blue, stood idling
in the parking lot, loading passengers. As Merle hugged herself in
the morning chill, tourists materialized on the streets, each
holding a sprig of green leaves. Was it some sort of ritual? She’d
forgotten to read up on the site. The old women smiled politely as
they passed. Old men ogled her bare legs. Groups of middle-aged
women huddled together, talking, laughing quietly, all clutching
the branches as they passed under the gate and boarded the bus.

She’d lost sight of the two women. Had they gotten on
the bus? She waited until the bus started moving, turning
laboriously in the parking lot. As it pulled out onto the deserted
road Merle walked to the gate. Justine and Evangeline were nowhere
to be seen.

The sun popped up over the eastern hillside, sending
a beam of light directly on the Shrine of Lucrezia on the cliff
above. It was beautiful in this light. No wonder the faithful
wanted to see it at dawn. The steps in the rock were also
illuminated.

“
It’s a sign,” she muttered, jogging
down the path toward the creek at the bottom of the
cliff.

Tall grass, a cloud of gnats, and a riffle of fog
made the going tough until she came into a small grove of trees.
Under them she could see the path, worn in the leaves and pine
needles, leading to the cliff and the stairs. She paused at the
bottom of the limestone wall and looked up. The treads were worn,
slick with dew. No railing — and quite a lot of steps.

The things I do for you, Harry Strachie.

No, make that Tristan Strachie. She was doing it for
the future, Tristan’s future, not for anyone’s memory.

It was a whole new world. The past was done.

When Merle reached the top of the stairs, out of
breath, legs screaming, the bus was already parked in the gravel
lot behind the building. She let herself look down finally, now
that she was safe. The view was dizzying. The village looked
toy-like from here, the morning sun glancing off its honey
walls.

The Shrine of Lucrezia was a classical building with
block walls and a carved portico and columns. It was small and
windowless like a crypt. People were lined up outside waiting their
turn to enter. Merle watched from behind a pine tree. A car pulled
into the lot, then another. More faithful emerged, clutching
sprigs, milling with the others. The crowd grew outside the Shrine,
quiet and reverential. Mostly women, the crowd increased when
another bus arrived, this one full of nuns in long brown habits,
complete with blinding white wimples.

Tearing a small branch from a tree to simulate their
devotional sprigs she walked around the buses to emerge from the
parking lot. As one person left the shrine another was admitted.
Merle skirted the edge of the crowd, looking for Justine.

There she was, her orange hair glowing, third in line
to enter the shrine. She was tall in platform shoes. There were
three other orange-haired women, all short. In front of her was
Sister Evangeline. A woman in a red crocheted hat opened the door
to the shrine and walked to her right, away from the crowd. To
intercept Justine Merle would have to be on the other side of the
crowd.

Back around the bus she bumped into a middle-aged man
with a bad toupee climbing down its steps. “Pardon,” he said with a
British accent. Merle picked up the sprig she’d dropped and went
around the other end of the bus. Evangeline was leaving the shrine
in her uniform of gray pants and hiking shirt.

Justine disappeared into the shrine only to burst out
again almost immediately. Jerking slightly she held the door for
the next woman, then stepped away and stopped, her head down. Merle
moved closer.

“
Justine? Madame LaBelle?” She asked
softly if they could talk.

The old woman’s head jerked up. Her eyes were
unfocused. She seemed older today, more fragile. Up close Merle
could see the lines of age on her face, the heavy eye makeup that
gave her a clown-like appearance, especially with the orange hair
that stuck out in all directions.

Merle tried to catch her eye. She smiled, trying to
look friendly, and told her that she was the American, that she
meant no harm. That she wanted to help. Justine’s eyes grew
wide.

“
Vous
!” You!

Her shrieks attracted the attention of the crowd.
Merle put her hands up and backed away. Another blunder. The woman
was not sane. Sister Evangeline trotted to Justine’s side and
joined in the harangue. Several of the nuns walked over and tried
to ask Merle — well, something, but she could only shrug and say,
“
Je ne parle pas Francais
.” She thought she spoke French,
but not like this, thank you very much. “
Pardon, pardon, je suis
desole
,” she apologized as she backed away.

Evangeline put her arm around Justine’s narrow
shoulders. The old woman wore what looked like a dress from the
‘50s, yellow and tight against her bony chest and short enough to
expose her sagging knees, bare of stockings. Albert’s version of
odd dress. A habited nun approached Justine, stroking her narrow
shoulder as she began to cry. Poor, crazy old woman. How could she
expect anyone to help her evict the woman?

At lunch in the hotel dining room, Merle sipped a
glass of white wine between courses and read about the Shrine.
Lucrezia was an Italian nun in the Renaissance era. She suffered at
the hands of local authorities who believed she practiced
witchcraft. She was banished to France where her following grew.
She established a convent and set up her own order of nuns.

The pamphlet described the inside of the shrine as
“damp.” Today, June 19, was the day she was buried, a traditional
time for the faithful to honor her.

Monsieur Rancard had been out of the office when she
called earlier, but would return her call later from the road. He
was in Cahors again, his secretary said. The waiter brought her
main course, chicken with a light sauce. As she looked up to thank
him she saw the gendarme in the lobby. He was starting to get on
her nerves: always present, never helpful.

The food was heavenly, sweet and tender. She finished
her main course and sipped her wine. Then, in front of her table
stood the manager and the gendarme. “
Madame, pardon
,”
Framboise stammered. He tipped his head toward the door. “If you
please come?”

Redier had his usual insolent look on. She wiped her
mouth and followed them into the manager’s small office.

“
Have you found my watch?” she
asked.

Framboise blinked nervously, listening to the
gendarme. “There has been an accident. Madame LaBelle,” he
whispered. The gendarme growled some more. “She fell from the
Shrine, down the cliff. She is dead.”

“
What?” Rancard’s prediction that
she would have to battle Justine’s descendants for the house was
looking prescient. Merle frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“
He wants to know your whereabouts
early today. This morning.”

“
Well, I saw her. I got up early.
Jet lag.” Framboise translated. “I went out to go for a walk about
six and saw Sister Evangeline and Justine get on the bus to the
Shrine, so I walked up the steps. I wanted to talk to Madame
LaBelle about the house.”

“
The house?” Framboise
asked.

“
The one that is legally mine,”
Merle said. “The gendarme knows which one.” Perhaps she shouldn’t
be quite so forceful, she thought, watching the gendarme’s face.
Getting the drift, finally. She could almost hear his thoughts:
Greedy American tries to steal house from the poor, lonely
Frenchwoman, by hook or by crook. “I tried to speak to Madame
LaBelle yesterday. As you know. I thought with the crowd there I
would have a better chance. I wanted to tell her I meant her no
harm, that I would try to help her.”

“
And did you speak to
her?”

“
Very briefly.”

The gendarme waved her to stand. Framboise said, “You
must go with him and make a statement.”

She examined the cold, black eyes of the gendarme.
The embodiment of authority. He, who smelled like cigarettes and
garlic. Albert’s words:
Must show respect
. She stood up.
“With pleasure.”

The small gray interview room in the small gray
gendarmerie still had a photograph of Charles de Gaulle on the
wall. There was a tiny window at chin-height that dropped a square
of sunshine on the wooden table. The gendarme and a new man,
someone she understood was from out of town, sat firing questions
at her. So far she’d managed to say, “
Je ne parle pas
francais
,” at least a dozen times.

“
I want a translator, um —
pour
parler les mots entré anglais et francais
.” How did two tribes
ever communicate?

The out-of-town officer, introduced as Capitan
Montrose, barked at Redier. They both left the room, locking her
in, cigarette-free when she really wanted one. She had brought one
pack of Slims with her and vowed to stop when they were gone. So
far she’d only smoked one, out the window of the hotel after
returning from the shrine.

Cigarettes. The telltale sign of nerves. It was only
a statement. She had spoken to the deceased. She was accustomed to
working with cops in Harlem, they didn’t intimidate her. So what
were these nerves?

Having your attorney present during questioning was
possibly not a right in France, but she wanted one. It was the
language barrier. Capitan Montrose returned and sat down, his
notepad on his knee. He was one of those indeterminate-age
Europeans, somewhere between thirty and fifty, a bit jowly, hair
still dark but a few strands of gray over his temples. His head was
flat on the sides, his mouth small. Thick eyebrows looked crayoned
onto his face. His skin was office-work pale and he wore a rumpled
gray suit with an ill-fitting shirt.

Expressionless, he offered her a cigarette. Brown
Gauloise, strong and bitter: after one puff she put it out. Redier
returned, ushering in an older woman with a patrician air and blond
hair she fashioned after Catherine Deneuve. The Capitan offered his
chair.

“
My name is Jacqueline Armansett. I
am the head teacher at the school. These men — the inspector — have
asked for my services in translating your statement.”

Merle smiled at her, hoping for some sisterly bond
but feeling only a chill.

“
The inspector asks for you to take
him through all of your meetings with Madame LaBelle.”

“
Today?”

“
All.”

Merle began with the death of Harry and the
inheritance of the house. She told of hearing about the squatter
and her own work helping the homeless find shelter. Of coming to
France and trying to speak to Madame LaBelle with her lawyer, and
through the garden gate. She pointed out the bruise on her
forehead.

“
He says, do you have a witness to
the rock-throwing?”

“
Albert Tailliard. He lives across
the alley.”

Merle repeated what had happened that morning, taking
care not to gloss over witnesses, people who saw her come and go.
She mentioned the man getting off the bus. The nuns in their robes,
Sister Evangeline.

“
Have you spoken to Sister
Evangeline?” Merle asked them.

“
Who is this please?”

“
According to Albert she showed up
last week to help Madame LaBelle with the legal battle over the
house.”

“
Legal battle?”

“
Madame LaBelle thinks — thought —
that she owned the house. My documents show that my late husband
owned it, for fifty years. I inherited it when he died.”

“
How did your husband die, Madame
Bennett?”

“
A heart attack.” They stared at her
through the smoke. “Oh, come on.” Merle rolled her eyes. Now she
was a serial killer? “I had nothing to do with my husband’s death,
nor with the death of Madame LaBelle. I walked down the road from
the Shrine. Several people saw me as they drove up.”

“
Can you give us names or
descriptions?”

“
A white van. I didn’t see the
driver, I was too busy jumping behind a tree to avoid being killed.
A green — one of those little cars. A woman was driving.” That
should narrow things down. “I had a croissant and a coffee at the
patisserie about eight o’clock. I bought a paper at the tabac, the
International Herald Tribune
. The agriculture strike is on
the front page. I went back to my room and straightened it up.
Monsieur le Gendarme can confirm that it was broken into yesterday
and several things were stolen.”

The gendarme spoke to the captain. “What are they
saying?” Merle asked the teacher.

“
He says you reported a burglary.”
The teacher listened to the captain. “What does your watch look
like?”

“
A gold link band, small with a
pearl face with four tiny diamond chips. A Tag Heuer, old,
scratched.”

The captain spoke to Redier who left the room. In a
moment he was back with a small plastic bag with black writing on
it. Inside was her watch.

Merle pushed the plastic down around the face of the
watch; the scratch on the crystal, just as it’d been for years.
“Where did you find it?”

The teacher blinked. “On the arm of the dead
woman.”

Arnaud Rancard roared into town in late afternoon,
just as Jacqueline Armansett tired of the translation game and said
she had her own work to do. Merle had told and retold the details
of her meetings with Madame LaBelle to the point she had nothing
left to say. Capitan Montrose seemed to be satisfied, although the
connection between her watch and the arm of Justine LaBelle was
troubling. Redier seemed to think this constituted a smoking gun.
His reasoning was classic: Since the American wanted the house she
had to eliminate the squatter. Americans take what they want by
force. Americans bribe people with expensive watches. Montrose,
clearly the brains and her new best friend, shook his head at each
of his proclamations.