Chapter Seven
Neon rays strobed from the door and windows of La Bar des Baleines. The discordant squeal of a saxophone straining at the high notes was out of sync with the light show, and the bass grumbled behind with no chance of ever catching up.
Why did they bother with the music? The guests crowding the space made enough racket to deafen a brass band. If I were a tourist staying in the holiday apartments on the waterfront or a skipper overnighting in the marina, I would want my money back.
Twice, I entreated people to move aside. Twice, I got ignored. Scattering “Excusez-moi” like sweets in a parade, I pushed my way through the wriggly wall of human beings and their dense aroma of auras, sweat, and expensive perfumes.
Where was Yvon? He wouldn’t dare bail on me, would he? I rose on my tippy toes and scanned the shiny faces around me, blue one moment, green the next.
At the garden side of the bar, a pair of arms waved. A shift in the crowd revealed Yvon, grimacing and pointing at the opening behind him. Seconds later, the mass of happy humanity surged again, hiding him from view. With renewed vigor, I plowed ahead, dodging the empty drink trays the waiters navigated over the heads of the guests.
Didn’t anyone have to go to work tomorrow?
As I elbowed my way toward the garden, a trumpet solo set in. Alternatively, the fire alarm had gone off. Since nobody was running, my money was on the din being part of the free jazz experience.
The crowds thinned, and a mellow darkness illuminated by candlelight beckoned. I rushed ahead—and only noticed the set of steps when my foot was already poised in mid-air. My heartbeat spiked, and I threw my weight backward.
Too late. Gravity won.
“Mel!” a male voice shouted.
Arms like iron clamped around my waistline, and a strong body blocked my fall. The spicy scent of cloves teased my nose.
Yvon.
Caught by my momentum, we whirled across the patio until we hit something that whooshed and swayed upon impact—a potted palm.
“While I understand your urgency, there’s no need to rush. The seconds it takes to use the steps would have made no difference.” His voice might sound amused, but the rapid rising and falling of his chest close to mine told a different story.
I twisted from his embrace. Where his arms had touched me, the nerve ends under my skin did some funny sizzling things, and his aura teased my tongue, making it hard to rustle up words. “I forgot the wretched steps. But thanks for breaking my fall.”
He sketched a bow. “ A votre service, Madame . Let’s go to our table.”
Yvon headed for a small alcove in the farthest corner of the courtyard. Either the wall behind once belonged to a ruined building or someone used the old stones to create a folly. It was nicely done, complete with a spill of honeysuckle over crumbling rocks illuminated by strategically placed spotlights. Alcoves riddled the construction, occupied by the diners. Only one table for two was free. If it weren’t for the noise levels, this would be the perfect setting for a rendezvous.
Lover’s trysts weren’t the reason for our meeting.
My body tingling with remembered warmth, I rubbed my hands along my waist, pretending to straighten my favorite dress, a swirly A-line in a bold geometrical pattern of cobalt-blue and black. My hair used the opportunity to escape from the chignon and rioted over my shoulders. I pushed back the heavy locks.
Yvon reached out. Then he withdrew his hand. “Don’t. It looks fantastique .” His violet eyes reflected the candlelight.
His reaction was predictable, the reason I didn’t want to wear my hair down. I fished a scrunchie from my purse and pulled the heavy locks into a ponytail. “Much better this way,” I said.
“If you insist. Do take a seat, please.” He pulled a chair out for me, as he had done at lunch.
Inside the bar, the trumpet blew a triumphant fanfare, the saxophone gave a dying squeal, and the bass fell over. At least that’s what the cacophony sounded like.
Reluctant hands clapped sparse applause, and one generous soul screamed “ Bravissimo. ” With no instruments screeching away, the babble calmed somewhat.
Yvon checked his watch. “They played longer than usual.”
“You call that playing?”
“Glad to hear you’re not a fan of free jazz either. Me, I prefer the music of the Baroque. Shall we continue in English or speak French?”
I needed every advantage I could get. “Since you asked, let’s stick to English. It’s been a long day.”
A waiter appeared, dressed in black and wearing a calf-length white apron. He carried a heavy tray. He deposited plates, glasses, and small earthenware dishes emitting mouth-watering aromas. Another waiter arrived with a carafe of water, a dusty bottle, and two wide-bellied glasses. After a lot of cork sniffing, wine-swilling, and commenting on the vintage in question, we were on our own.
“What’s this?” I pointed at the table, now covered in bowls and plates.
A boyish grin spread across Yvon’s face. “Late night dinner as promised.”
“Frightfully kind of you, but you already took care of lunch.”
“Our earlier meeting was business-related. This is a pleasure.”
Heat once more flooded into my cheeks. How I hated it when that happened. “Now listen—”
He waggled a finger. “No, no. Since Raoul and I gave you a nasty fright, I owe you. You must be hungry, no? All the shopping for your little friend and the repairs you did. Comfort food helps with shock. Clever of me to order tapas, no? Try these.” He pushed a dish at me. “Dates wrapped in bacon. But first, let us drink.”
Wine had featured high on my agenda for this evening, so I accepted. No way was he going to pick up the tab, though. Until I knew who or what Yvon was, I wouldn’t accept any treats from the mystery man sitting opposite me, a soft expression on his face, his aura rich and strong as it should be.
Reassured, I swallowed it down. The wine was old, most likely expensive and not something I would want to taint with my gift. I would run a check on his aura again later.
We saluted each other and drank. Luscious and smooth, the wine flooded my mouth with a memory of red fruit, something smoky, and something out of this world.
A soft smile tugging at his lips, he asked, “You like it?”
“Mmh. Bordeaux Grand Cru Classé for sure. No idea which chateau, though, or what year. With wine, I’m not so good.”
“It’s not curdled, for sure.” Yvon wriggled his dark brows.
The sooty lashes lowered, veiling his extraordinary eyes. They could look haughty; they could flash cold. I had seen both. Tonight, they sparkled with glee and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, relaxed for once.
Mine twitched in response, and I made sure to flatten my lips into a severe line.
He didn’t seem to notice. He speared a grilled pimento with his fork and chewed. My synapses woke from sloth mode and reminded me of something vital.
“You walked away with my garlic.”
He swallowed and grinned. “Since you offered, yes, I did. Amazing what they sell at the Hypermarché these days.”
Meatballs in tomato sauce beckoned. I’m a sucker for meatballs, but I hadn’t come for the food. “Apropos garlic, you owe me some explanations. Let’s start with Raoul. You might find talking about him easier.”
My dinner partner toyed with a mushroom covered in a brownish glaze. Sherry was my best guess. “Hmm, the trouble is, I’m not sure how to explain things without spooking you even further. You never saw him, did you?”
“No, since he shifted around the whole time.” I chewed a meatball. Too much garlic.
“He didn’t move once. He was behind the hedge the whole time. When he’s exhausted, he can’t keep his voice steady. Maybe that’s what made you think he was on the move.”
I drew in a calming breath and placed the fork on my plate. “Why would he be standing behind the hedge? What’s this thing with the voice? Yvon, I’ve had enough. Who or what is he?”
He tapped the tips of his fingers against each other. “Mel, Mel, you disappoint me. I thought you would have worked it out by now. He’s un fant?me. Un revenant . That’s what they call themselves. Have some chili chicken—it’s amazing.”
My stomach lurched. Who cared about chickens when Raoul was a ghost?
“Whose ghost is he, if I may ask, and what’s the purpose of haunting the living? I wasn’t even sure ghosts existed.” Somehow, I had eaten a fish croquette without ever tasting anything. I downed the remaining water in my glass.
“Allow me.” Yvon refilled it once more. “Oh yes, they do. When it comes to the reason for his extended stay, surely you must have a theory. Let’s hear it.”
The water helped to clear my palate, and the taste of his aura, fainter than before, slipped past my taste buds.
Raoul had no aura because he was dead. Yvon’s was wobbly. What did that make him? A bony finger of fear tapped the base of my neck. “Well then, let me guess. He can only be the leader of the local unit of freedom fighters who betrayed the German spy. Who also was his lover, right? I imagine this particular aspect of the sordid story must have been a bit hush-hush. Assuming, of course, it’s correct. I have the intel from Paulette.”
“You didn’t have time to check the information Raoul passed on to you? He claims it’s quite comprehensive.”
“No, I got distracted by your intriguing exchange.”
“Ah. Bon , basically Paulette told the truth. But why would the freedom fighter return to the scene of his betrayal?”
“Maybe he never left. No idea. Could this ghostly existence be his punishment for betraying the spy? Before he can rest in peace, he needs to make amends by ensuring the Legrands are reunited with their possessions. That would explain Raoul’s obsession with tracing the Jewish family. Well, that’s my best guess.” This time, I drained my wine. A pleasant mellowness blurred the edges of yet another surreal exchange.
He refilled my glass. “Interesting theory, but it doesn’t seem to work like that.”
“What do you mean by ‘seem’?”
“Eh, I’m not exactly speaking from first-hand experience.” Yvon shaded his eyes with his hands and peeked through his fingers. “ Vampire. Mon Dieu .” His shoulders shook.
My cheeks flamed. “Seriously, what was I supposed to think? I nearly lost the plot when you two discussed Raoul’s lack of substance so freely. You and he might well be one of a kind.”
“I’m no ghost. Nor am I a vampire, werewolf, demon, or whatever other paranormal creatures you might have in mind.”
“Fallen Angel? Alien? I don’t read paranormal romance, which means I’m not really into tropes.”
Giving him his due, he didn’t run. Most of my previous acquaintances would have. Instead, he dangled an arm over the back of his chair.
“Creative of you, but way off the mark, I’m afraid. I’m as human as you are. Would you care to feel my pulse?” He extended his arm across the table, wrist up.
I grabbed it.
His brows arched. “You don’t believe me.”
“Since you offered, I’d like to be sure.”
The skin of his wrist was soft under my fingertips as I traced the steady throb beating away like a sparrow’s heart
“Mmh,” I said. A warm glow spread inside of me. Okay, wonky aura or not, the man was alive.
What if he’s faking it? The warm glow winked out.
Yvon withdrew his arm and shook his head. “Happy now?”
“Happy-ish.” Until I came clean on the aura issue, I would never know what was going on, but there was no way I would open my personal paranormal can of worms in his presence.
He raised his brow again.
A distraction was needed. “Okay, I give up. Who’s Raoul?”
That drew a snigger. “He must have been fantastic at his job. You’re one in a long line of people he’s fooled throughout the years. He’s the German soldier.”
“Crikey, I never once thought he wouldn’t be French. Oh, and he seems to have a wicked sense of humor.”
“Oh, he does. Did. Whatever.”
He twirled the stem of his wineglass in his slender fingers, reminding me of the wall paintings in Egyptian tombs. “Even faced with a firing squad, Raoul refused to tell his brothers-in-arms where he hid the treasure. In his last moments, he experienced a wave of monumental anger at the injustice of life and a deep regret he wouldn’t be there for the Legrands. He reckons the burst of emotion over his failure tethered him to this world. That and the mission he swore to complete.”
“How would you know?”
“He told me one night over a glass of wine.”
This time, I arched my brows.
“Well, he can breathe in the aroma. Better than nothing, I guess. His reason for staying on I find rather puzzling. With the help of the local freedom fighters, he must have sent many Jewish families to safety,”
Sudden tears pricked the inside of my eyelids. Yvon’s face, unmoving and grim, swam in and out of vision. Raoul’s came next, his friendly eyes sparkling with joie de vivre , bare feet splashing through the puddles. A carefree pirouette on the beach.
Dead for decades. “I hardly know him, but I’d say Raoul is a man with powerful emotions he hides behind his flippant attitude.”
“Well observed. He does, yes. He also sees the need to carry the burden of an entire nation’s guilt on his shoulders. Many people watched on as the Nazi extremists grew in power until it was too late. Not sure if he’s the only one to still hang around, trying to make amends. We don’t discuss such things.”
“Is he even called Raoul?”
Yvon gave a brittle laugh. “Of course not. He’s Ralf. Ralf Waldmann. Believe me he’ll haunt your nights if you call him by his given name. He did that with me once.”
Between us and our bizarre conversation, we had emptied every single dish on the table. I wiped my fingers on the napkin. My next question would be even trickier than discussing ghosties and ghoulies and things going bump in the night.
My next question would be personal. “And what’s this spoon business?”
Please don’t let him laugh and mention cheese.
Yvon’s gaze was intense. He didn’t laugh. “You heard that too, then.”
No cheese, hooray. “Yes. It made no sense whatsoever. I wondered whether I might have misunderstood.”
“It...was stolen during the French Revolution. How the Legrands ever got their hands on it, I don’t know. Somehow, it found its way into their possession. I’ve been trying to convince Raoul he should trust me with it.”
There were many different questions I could have asked. “Stolen how?” or “Who’s your family?” would have been two possibilities, “Who are you?” another. Instead, I said, “Let me guess, he wants to keep the loot intact.”
Yvon toyed with his wine glass. “Yes . He argues that the Legrands were in possession, and he’s nothing better than a keeper of their valuables, so he can’t give it to me without good reason. Helping him trace the proper owners would provide such a reason.”
“I presume you want it back because it’s an heirloom rather than because of its intrinsic value?”
Yvon did the Gallic shrug. Raoul had been better at it. “It’s made of gold, not a trinket, but not exactly a king’s ransom.” He turned away from me, facing the wall with the dangling strands of honeysuckle that gifted their sweet perfume to us. I followed his example. The racket in the bar had calmed to a murmur, like surf washing over the pebbles.
When I looked back, I caught his gaze drilling into mine. “You’re right we’re mostly talking personal value. I understand some other items are quite special: jewelry, gemstones, and gold coins. All things you can keep on your person when on the run. The Legrands sold some of them for food and lodgings. Not for themselves but for others who were less fortunate. They must have been good people.”
“Raoul saw them as kindred spirits, correct?” The words hadn’t left my mouth when the double entendre registered.
Instead, he nodded. “Probably yes. It doesn’t matter anymore since I’m helping him with his quest, I have a vested interest. But we’ve reached une impasse .”
“Tell me.”
“It appears the Legrands joined a small band of people intending to cross the Pyrenees into Spain. However, they never arrived. We even met one woman who was part of this group, a teenager back then. She remembered the small family, father, mother, and a daughter, thirteen or fourteen years old. They left together with the rest, but one morning when she awoke, the family was gone. With them went one of their guides from the fighters.”
Yvon looked bleak. His aura had vanished as if it had never been there.
“And nobody has seen them since?”
“Not the family, no. Last month, we finally traced the freedom fighter. He’s an old man now, but thankfully he’s still alive.”
Why was he frowning? “Sounds good to me.”
“No, because he won’t talk to me. When it comes to Raoul, well, he has a minor problem, no? Even if he maintains his materialization for long enough, he’s bound to the place where he died. With years of hauntings, he’s extended his radius, but there are limits.”
“Like your hedge.”
“ Exactement .”
“Can’t you send someone else?”
He shook his head. “The old man will be wary of whoever knocks on his door. That person would need a very good justification and ideally not known to be one of my friends.”
I drew in a deep breath. “Ah. This is where I enter the picture. I guess I should be honored Raoul wants to involve me. He doesn’t seem to think I would run with the loot.”
The corners of Yvon’s mouth kicked up. “Like Raoul, you operate on firm principles. You’re not afraid of doing or saying what you think is right. You’re not someone to betray your friends.”
He toyed with the cutlery. His aura returned once more and tickled my tongue. His face was a shadow play of angles and planes with a hint of stubble.
Who was this man?
As if he had read my mind, he tossed me a lopsided smile. “You didn’t ask about my family.”
“I found that a tick too personal.”
“True. I respect you for not pushing me. People keep wondering in public if I have German ancestry. Because of my name, see?”
He gave words to another question that weighed heavy on my chest throughout a restless night. “From your tone, I infer this isn’t the case.”
“Correct. Isn’t it odd only a part of our name should be known these days?”
“What do you mean by ‘part’? Batz isn’t exactly a complex name. I’ve never heard it before, so I guess your family must be local.”
“Quite so. Our old chateau isn’t far from here. The family lost it back in the revolution. These days, it lies in ruins.” He straightened in his chair and placed his hands on the table, palms down. “One of my ancestors was Charles de Batz de Castelmore. Better known as the Comte d’Artagnan.”