Blackbird Fly (31 page)

Harry had been adopted? If he had known, he never
mentioned it. But he never talked about his parents either. She
searched for more on Dominique but found nothing.

But other Redier’s— 1971, another
garcon
Redier, Jean-Pierre, born to yet another brother. The gendarme —
and the mayor —both related to Dominique. Merle straightened up the
room, tore off the gloves, and ran up the stairs.

She watched the cobblestones, walking through the
village, the names swimming in her head. Dominique Redier, daughter
of Andre and Catherine-Juliet. Mother of Harry Strachie. If it was
true, she had given birth at fourteen, then — who was Harry’s
father?

Madame Suchet’s pea green door opened in a whoosh.
Merle handed her a bouquet of red and pink roses in a vase. Madame
sat her visitor down, insisting on slices of quatre quart, the
ubiquitous pound cake. When she could wait no more, Merle
interrupted a treatise on roses.

“
Excusez-moi, madame
. I have
a question.”

Madame Suchet sat down in a yellow print chair. Merle
asked, in French, “Did you know a young girl in the forties named
Dominique Redier?”

“
Ici? Dans la ville?”

“
Oui
.”

Yes, here in the village. Her brown eyes flicked to
the window. She arranged her hands, took a deep breath and blew it
out. Would she talk, that was what she was asking herself. Should
she? Her eyes grazed Merle, then back to the window. A minute
passed. Merle ate a bite of pound cake and silently begged for
trust, for help. Then the older woman cleared her throat.

“
She was two or three years younger
than me. A pretty girl, a blond. I didn’t know her
well.”

Merle felt her breath leaving her. Finally, someone
was talking. “She grew up here.”

“
I haven’t seen her since the war,
since I left. I never heard of her again.”

“
Do you know her mother,
Catherine-Juliet Lombardi?”

Mme Suchet nodded. “She has been gone some
years.”

“
Died?” Another nod. The older woman
was looking at her straight on now, as if waiting for the real
question, begging her to ask. “I’m trying to track down Dominique.
That little scandal attached to the house? I think I know what it
was.”

Mme Suchet was silent in her assent. Merle waited,
then blundered on, unsure how this next question would sit. “Did
she — ” It seemed too impolite for the French of Mme Suchet’s
generation. Was she knocked up, had an illegitimate child, got in
the family way? What did you say? Merle searched for the words.

“
I think she got herself in
trouble.” No argument from the old woman. “Was there a place for
young girls to go when they were—” She hesitated, searching for a
term. “—Becoming a mother?”

Madame looked uncomfortable, then corrected her.
“
Avant d’accoucher
.” Before the lying-in. “There was a
convent. ”

Poking her head out the kitchen door, she wondered if
Pascal had found out anything from the gendarme. He was still
painting. She went back into the front room and stared at her notes
from the parish records. Harry was adopted. It had to be true. He
was born here, and there was no record of a birth at that time that
could be him except Dominique Redier’s son. She got out the letters
again. There was the line: ‘How is the boy?’ That was why she kept
in touch. Dominique was Harry’s mother.

Merle was pouring herself a second glass of ordinary
Gagillac wine when Pascal came to the door. “That for me?” His face
was wet, his hair dripping on the stone floor. Pouring another
glass, she carried both into the garden. Pascal was staring at the
shutters as she handed him his wine.

She walked to the outhouse. “Do you think we’ll ever
get in there again? Will they open it up?”

“
I don’t know. And this pile of
stones. What will you do with them?”

“
Tristan can move them.” She sat on
a metal chair in the last rays of sun. It felt warm and good. The
wine was going to her head.

“
Not another fight?” He perched on
the low wall.

“
Just fifteen year olds on the
loose.” She leaned over her knees, her forearms on them, and stared
at the mud by the patio edge. Harry, adopted. It wouldn’t sink in.
She felt woozy in the evening heat. At her feet were stones, piles
of dirt. The garden was a wreck, hardly the lovely place it had
been when they’d arrived. Rocks, leaves, dead flowers, a nasty
trench torn through. Their presence was disruptive, there was no
denying it.

“
I need more wine.” She rose
unsteadily and headed toward the kitchen door. Pascal took her
elbow before she got in the house.

“
You need food. You and me, we go
eat some dinner.”

Her head hurt as it spun. This garden. This nasty
little town. She suddenly hated all of it. For so long this
adventure, this summer, had been a dream, an idyll, but now she saw
it for all it was — the death of an aging prostitute, a rundown
house with a dark past, a village full of hateful strangers who
decided before she arrived that they wanted nothing to do with her
then proceeded to frame her for murder. And Annie! How could she
come into all this, expecting lavender and cheese and loveliness?
She covered her eyes with one hand.

“
My sister’s coming and I don’t have
anywhere for her to sleep. The garden’s a mess. There’s a hole in
my ceiling. I’m suspected of murder. I broke my fricking arm. Why
should I — ”

The glass slipped out of her hand and Pascal caught
it. “Everything will seem more manageable after you eat. We don’t
allow wine drinking without eating in France.”

“
Is that so?” His face was dry now,
his black curls hanging over his collar. His neck was caked with
grime and small flakes of old blue paint. “You’re too dirty to eat
in a restaurant.”

“
You will come with me while I
change my clothes.”

“
No, I won’t.” He kissed her
suddenly. The shock of his warm lips sobered her enough to know she
really was tipsy. She pulled away from him and straightened
herself.

“
Do I — do I get to
watch?”

He smiled. “Do you want to watch?”

She took several shallow breaths, so close to him
they exchanged oxygen. “Are we still talking about dinner?”

The shower helped clear her head. Everything was
manageable. It was just a moment there when things looked bleak.
Her list ran through her head the way it always did but fuzzy with
the wine effect. Annie needed a bed, didn’t she? She wanted the
extra bedroom finished. What about Tristan — was camp going well?
She hadn’t an email since he first got there. Pascal’s lips seemed
more, well, pressing. She turned to the mirror, rubbing it clear of
fog.

“
Be logical,” she whispered to
herself. She rubbed the coarse towel over her body. Thin, with
protruding bones, chapped skin, calluses, age spots — plus a damp
cast on her wrist — this sack of bones sagged in all the right
places. She looked in the mirror. From any angle she looked, well,
not that bad, but certainly not young.

She leaned close to the mirror. “But he likes you,
old woman.”

The restaurant she chose was the one with the truffle
omelet she had been dreaming about, Les Saveurs. Everything else
was expensive as well, rack of lamb, trout, beef. She leaned over
the large menu toward Pascal and whispered, “It’s
tres
cher
.”

He shook his head. “Order whatever you want.”

He ordered a small pitcher of house red wine and
poured a thimble-f into her glass. Service was quick and
friendly, by a young woman who Pascal said was the daughter of the
owner. The chef’s Cordon Bleu diploma hung proudly on the wall. The
restaurant was paneled in dark wood, with a cornucopia of fake
fruit and vegetables on the sideboard, unlike expensive French
restaurants in New York with their fancy tablecloths and elegant
flourishes. In a room off the entry she could see the regulars,
laughing and eating at a small table.

“
Did you eat lunch here?” she asked,
sipping slowly on her wine as they made their way through elegant
appetizers of shrimp and asparagus. “With
le
flic
?”

“
I didn’t see him today.”

So he wasn’t as obsessed with Justine LaBelle and her
sad death as she was. Why would he be? That would just be the
inspector and herself. Cutting up the shrimp was difficult. It
almost squirted off the table. Finally she stabbed it and bit off a
piece. Pascal was sipping his wine.

She swirled hers, safer than drinking it. “Do
wineries generally buy from other wineries for resale?”

Pascal chewed his bread. “I wouldn’t know. Did you
see some?”

“
In the
chai
. Gerard won’t
let us take tours through there but I sneaked in.”

He shook his head. “Keep out of there. I told you he
is —”

“
What?” She leaned over her plate
toward him and whispered. “Tell me what he’s up to. Something —
fishy?”

“
Stay out of it. No sneaking
around.” He looked past her to the back of the restaurant. “Isn’t
that your friend from the tour?”

She glanced over her shoulder just as Anthony Simms
looked up. He was sitting alone, stuck in a back corner.

“
He’s not a friend,” she said.
“Don’t look at him. I don’t want him to think I talk about
him.”

“
But you do.”

“
He’s a creep.”

“
He wants to be your
boyfriend?”

She rolled her eyes. Just the word was
ridiculous.

Pascal pouted and said mockingly, “He looks so very
sad. A plate for one. So terribly lonely.”

Merle smiled. “Not my problem.” Their appetizers were
taken away. Pascal reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a
small piece of paper.

“
For you,” he said, sliding it
across the table. On the paper was written two names: ‘Justine
Labelle — Dominique Redier.’

She stared at the writing. “The same person?” she
whispered. She was Harry’s mother — ??!. That tired, crazy old
whore? Oh, God. What can of worms had she opened?

He sipped wine, enjoying her surprise.

“
But — but you said you didn’t talk
to the gendarme.” He hiked his shoulders. “Someone else gave you
the name? Who?”

He held up a hand. “I gave them immunity.”

“
I knew these people knew her.” She
stared at the paper. “This is the name of —” she lowered her voice
“—the mayor.” Pascal’s eyes flashed. “So, he knew her?”

“
Usually you know people with your
name in a village this size. There are others as well.”

“
Jean-Pierre,” she whispered. Pascal
stared at her, agreeing with his eyes. His lamb with roast potatoes
dotted with rosemary arrived. He picked up his knife and
fork.

“
You must know what this means.
Someone, perhaps many people, knew her, knew who she was and what
she was.”

“
She had relatives in this village.
Yes.” He looked at the people sitting next to them, American
tourists deep in conversation about their meal. “Your special
omelet gets cold.”

It was big enough to feed her for a week. She cut off
a piece and hummed with the taste of truffles, woodsy and delicate
and unique among mushrooms, dug from the roots of ancient oak
trees. The village’s mayor and only policeman were in the family of
the murder victim. No one talked about the murder. Was that because
they knew more about the victim, and perhaps the perpetrator, than
they let on?

“
How is your dinner,
Merle?”

Anthony Simms stood by the table, smiling down at
them. “I’ve had the truffle omelet myself, and also, yours,” he
nodded to Pascal. “If that’s the lamb. Delicious.”

Pascal leaned back in his chair. “How was your
dinner?”

“
Excellent, thanks. The duck
tonight.” He patted his stomach and looked abashed suddenly. “Nice
to see you then. Have a good evening.”

He backed away, bumping into the waitress who spilled
water from a pitcher onto the floor. He mumbled apologies and ran
from the restaurant.

Pascal winced. “Poor guy. What do you call them, a
spaz?”

A laugh escaped her, unbidden. “Another naughty word,
Pascal.” She tried to pull her focus back, to enjoy the rest of her
meal. She tried not to think about Dominique/Justine, or the fact
that she was Harry’s mother. It didn’t change who he was, the man
he had been. “You didn’t learn all your English from MTV.”

“
I’ve been to the United States. A
couple times.”

“
Where?”

“
New York City, of course. And
Washington, the capital.”

“
There’s a lot of territory besides
that.”

“
Where have you been? To Texas and
Montana and Chicago?”

“
To France, twice,” she said,
smiling. “But I haven’t been to most of the states
either.”

“
I have a confession. I have never
been to Normandy or Brittany.”

“
And so close. Shame on
you.”

“
When you go to heaven you get check
marks next to your name for every new place you visit. The more
check marks, the bigger your wings.”

“
A lovely thought. If you believed
in heaven.”

Pascal reached over and took her hand. “What if —
”

“
What?”