Spirits of Gascony

Chapter One

Unearthly howls drifted from the far end of the sunbaked garden. After a short, uneasy silence, more wailing ululated my way. I turned away from the rickety shutter, oil can in hand, and strained my ears. The canine yodeling suggested at least one dog must have dodged Monsieur’s guard and sneaked onto the grounds of my not-so-sweet home.

That was now the third time in two days. The beasts were getting bolder. Bad news—I would have to confront my nuisance of a neighbor about the invasion.

The dog let rip a volley of barks, this time echoing from the scraggly rose hedge. Could the blighter be on its other side, on the footpath leading to the beach?

A patter of paws. Furious scraping.

Nope, the beast was right here with me in the garden.

What would it...blast, the grave, Maurice’s grave.

Fury flared in my chest. I placed my oil can on the windowsill and sprinted along the house, as fast as flip-flops and wonky tiles would allow. On the vole-infested lawn, I came to a standstill.

Which was just as well, for there stood the dog, its four long legs planted firmly on my friend’s last resting place. Facing the hedge, the beast gave me a 3D view of its obvious maleness.

The animal must have heard me, for it bounced aside, ears flapping. Its muscular body was covered in short, blueish fur, and the critter was huge.

I’m not afraid of dogs, but the impressive set of choppers in the brute’s half-open muzzle warned me to keep my distance.

I clapped my hands. “ Oi , you. Go away.”

A pink tongue lolled from the drooping lips in what might well be the doggie version of a grin. The animal didn’t budge, though.

“Move your hairy bum , espèce de bête. ”

Not in the slightest impressed by my French, the dog maintained the staring contest.

Okay, Mel, stalemate.

The dog shifted and tilted its head. Seen from this angle, it didn’t look bad—a picture of savage strength, proud of bearing, noble almost.

A tangy breeze drifted from the Atlantic, toying with the damp mahogany strand of hair dangling in front of my eyes. I shoved the lock behind my ear. It bounced back, too heavy to stay contained. The current returned, this time carrying along a vile whiff unrelated to salt air and sea.

Poop.

My gaze slipped from the hound to the grave. Sure enough, the evidence lay before me, highlighted by the blazing brightness of the evening sun. Maurice’s grave was a disaster area. Clods of soil lay strewn about, and piss dripped from the piece of driftwood which served as a marker. The marmalade jar was lying on its side, cracked, and the wildflowers had been trampled into the ground. Worse, the hellhound had left its calling card among the wreckage: a steaming pile of excrement.

Tears clouded my eyes. A weight too heavy for words squeezed my heart. Poor Maurice. He’d been a gentle soul whose presence made the wretched rental bearable. His memory deserved to be cherished, not defiled by a canine.

“Get out of here, you rotter. Shoo.” I ran at the invader, windmilling my arms.

The dog whined and dashed for the gate set into the rose hedge separating Monsieur Batz’s residence from my temporary home. Without apparent effort, the creature soared over the obstacle and vanished from sight. The sound of drumming paws faded into the distance.

My gaze was sucked back to the defiled burial. The barking and yowling, infernal and incessant, was bad enough, but this outrage screamed for a payback.

Did it? To this day, Batz and I hadn’t yet met face to face—until the review was published, restaurant critics operated mostly undercover. Given the circumstances, it probably wasn’t a good idea to change the status quo.

“He deserved the critical review. Maurice doesn’t deserve this,” I hissed between clenched teeth. I grabbed the spade left behind from the burial and lifted the smelly evidence.

What now? I could fling my missive across the roses, but that simply wasn’t a suitable response to the provocation.

The poop steaming on the blade, I headed for the gap in the hedge. Like many things in Villa Glorieuse, the gate’s lock was broken, but as the dog demonstrated aptly, it made no odds. Only barbed wire might stop those beasts from invading my garden, which meant a trip to the Bricolage was called for. Not on a Sunday, though.

The spade held as far away from my body as my quivering muscles allowed, I nudged the gate open with my hip and pushed my way through the scratchy tendrils of over-affectionate rosebush. Like Batz’s dogs, the fragrant pink flowers were intruders on my property. Unlike the beasts, they were welcome.

Having emerged from the hedge, I studied my new environment. Not a single vole hole lay in sight, no twisted apple trees gone gnarly with age, no broken tiles—only an expanse of British croquet lawn.

Even the roses on this side had been called to order.

The immaculate landscaping, the sleek deck around the swimming pool, and Batz’s residence itself screamed serious money. Nobody had bothered to invest in my temporary home for quite a while, but then, hey, it was a leftover.

“Next time, Madame Rosen, you need to book earlier,” the estate agent had suggested when I voiced my doubts concerning the wobbly furniture and the fusty reek. “The coast of Aquitaine is very popular in summer, which is why people return season after season.”

While he might have a point there, I rented the villa only for the year I figured it would take to research and write my first novel. After that, we would see.

I crept closer to Batz’s home, my feet sinking into the springy lawn. With every step I took, the spade became heavier. Was there a movement at the upper window? Did I hear barking behind the house?

I froze, but the summer evening blazed on, unconcerned. The handle of the shovel slipped in my sweaty hands, so I tightened my grip.

My stunt was an asinine idea.

Batz would make me pay for this. He was well connected, a culinary artist who somehow achieved local hero status despite opening his restaurant only three days a week. People queued to secure a table. Most of them waxed lyrical after their experience.

Not I. The Guide Douchevin paid me to be honest.

Funny to think a curdled dijonaise could lead to so much strife.

The spade had gained another kilo, and I had yet to find a suitable place to dump the stinking load. The sapphire waters of the swimming pool glittered invitingly, but I wasn’t a complete cad. Unlike Monsieur, who kept dropping notes through the letter slot in my door, insisting we discuss my wretched review.

I allowed my gaze to roam the house’s pinkish front, the window panes glinting in the sun, the honey-colored shutters wide open. No doubt this place boasted triple-glazing, and the man didn’t need to wrestle with rusty hinges to get some shade. He must employ an army of gardeners to keep the place ship-shape.

None of this bellyaching solves your poop problem.

True. My gaze fell on the deck chair parked under a UFO-sized umbrella. Made of fancy hi-tech mesh, the recliner appeared to be reasonably crap-proof; dumping my smelly gift wouldn’t cause permanent damage. Batz could hose it off. What a perfect place to do a little return to sender.

I slalomed around the serving trolley, empty apart from a champagne flute and the matching bottle in a cooler. I dipped my spade and let the foul gunk slip off the blade and onto the chair.

Job done. My mood lifted already.

“Hey. Estòp . Are you out of your mind?” said a male voice.

My heart missed a beat, and I whirled around. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the spade. It arced across, headed for a grim-faced Monsieur Batz.

“ Merde .” A pirouette worthy of a ballet dancer removed him from the danger zone.

“You’re spot on,” I said. In French, of course. Even if his English sounded fine, I didn’t want to risk misunderstandings. I blew at the strand of hair once again blurring my vision. “You’ve nailed it. This is crap. And it belongs to you. One of your pooches entered my garden and created an almighty mess.”

My polo-shirted antagonist—of all colors he went for lavender—drew in a deep breath and flexed the slim fingers he had balled into fists. Big fists; he was a tall man. Wide-shouldered and broad-chested, he would cast well as a pirate despite being clean-shaven.

Unlike many chefs, he didn’t carry the slightest ounce of fat. His face, equally lean, was dominated by a pair of eyes a stunning shade of violet-blue, framed by lashes thick and dark like his wavy hair.

The man’s amazing eyes glared daggers at me. Nice try. He might scowl his sous-chefs into submission, but I was made of sterner stuff. I still took a precautionary step backward.

Batz arched a dark brow. “I apologize, Madame. Aramis shouldn’t have done this. And your French truly is superb.”

Woo-hoo . An apology and an attempt to butter me up. The spade slipped from my fingers and clanked onto the creamy tiles, streaking them with the remains of the poop.

“Oopsie. Sorry, wasn’t intentional.” I picked up the spade and smiled.

Batz massaged his temples and sighed. “He must have got away when I opened their kennel. They’re no pooches. They’re Grands Bleus de Gascogne . Hunting dogs. In the past, this ancient breed was very popular with the nobility. These days, they’re no longer in fashion. I’m talking Europe here, by the way.”

“Good to know. Not only did your great hunter soil Maurice’s grave, but he also dug after him.”

Fine laughter lines crinkled the corners of Batz’s eyes. “Eh, surely you’re not talking about your husband, Madame?”

So not funny. I had done a lot of stupid things in the almost four decades I spent on planet Earth, but marriage was not among them.

May Tom rot in hell.

“My cat.” My only friend in the village would have sounded too pathetic for words. “He came with the house. I never owned a cat before. He was old. He insisted on staying outside despite this heatwave, and his little heart failed.”

I blinked away the moisture threatening to escape. Why did I bother to explain myself to this guy?

The sharp angles of Batz’s face softened. “Ah, cats are very independent, are they not? I’m sorry for your loss, Madame.”

“ Merci .”

A foul whiff hit my nose. Batz must have noticed it too, for he wrinkled his. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

He lifted a slender but strong hand and dropped it again in a languid gesture that covered more than the poo on the deckchair and the tiles.

Heat crept into my cheeks. Not heat powered by anger, but a flush of sudden embarrassment urging me to seek the safety of my unruly orchard. Caught in my antagonist’s unwavering violet gaze, my inner voice screamed kindergarten prankster , which did nothing for my self-confidence.

I raised my chin in defiance, inner voice be damned. The man owed me an apology and not the other way around. “It’s quite easy. Your hound tried to dig up my cat and soiled the grave. The very least I could do is return his unwanted gift, no?”

Batz narrowed his eyes. “Phrased like this, your actions appear less bizarre. For a moment, I thought your reasons might be more personal.”

“What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re still banging on about my review.”

He shrugged. The French have honed the gesture to perfection. Nobody does it like them, and no matter how well I might speak their language, not being born in the country, a proper Gallic shrug would forever be beyond my reach.

“It’s not my style to ‘bang on’ about things, Madame Rosen. Surely you realize your comments were uncalled for.”

“Because I’m English?”

“No, because you’re wrong.” He glared at me, and I scowled right back.

But then, I’d practiced on the dog. The thought was nudged aside by an alarm jingling at the back of my head. Something wasn’t quite right with the man, but I had no clue what it might be.

Another stinky whiff hit my nose and not only mine. Batz dipped his gaze and regarded the disintegrating poop on his deck chair with a curled lip.

Such a mobile mouth is wasted on someone who uses it only to express contempt.

Now, where did that come from?

“Let’s continue the discussion somewhere else,” he said.

“There’s no need to discuss anything, Monsieur Batz. You’re at fault, both with the dogs and your dijonaise.”

Storm clouds gathered on his brows. “I wanted to offer you a glass of champagne, to apologize and to talk this through in a civilized fashion. However, you make things hard for me, Madame. Very hard. You know, I find most journalists very sympathetic, no matter what people might say. But I understand this is different in the British Isles.”

He crossed his arms in front of his impressive chest—an alpha male like his dog. Only he was wearing tan shorts.

This was perhaps not the best moment to remember my appearance left a lot to be desired. Old cut-offs straining at the seams and an even older (and tighter) T-shirt might have been the ideal attire for oiling the shutters, but right here and now, they made me feel like a tramp.

The unwelcome heat spread from my cheeks to my neck, and the alarm in my head increased in volume. I ignored the clamor and leaned on my spade. “So far, I’ve never worked for the UK dailies, assuming that’s what you’re trying to insinuate. I’m a renowned food critic with my own blog. On commission for Guide Douchevin , but you know this.”

And a budding author of a historical novel, but I’d rather take back the poop before telling him.

“You write novels, don’t you? Maybe you shouldn’t confuse the two. The critiques and the fiction, I mean.” Batz grinned, the teeth white in his tanned face.

The heat in my cheeks erupted in a red-hot flare. I straightened. “Who told you?”

“It’s of no consequence.”

How stupid of me. I should never have risen to his taunt, but now it was too late. The alarm in my mind increasing its volume to a full-blown klaxon, I replied, “Oh yes, it is. Let me guess. Paulette’s helping me with the research. I would’ve thought a librarian would be more discreet.”

“Bah. You’re jumping to conclusions, Madame.”

The klaxon went ballistic. Something was seriously off with the man, and no, it wasn’t his attitude. I crept back a step, an ashy aroma coating my tongue.

Ash? The chilled feet of imaginary ants feathered along my spine.

Oh, heavens. His aura.

“Let me make you an offer,” he said. “I’ll cook for you. The same dishes you tried the last time.”

I licked my lips, drier than the soil in my garden. I still tasted only ash. “Nope, doesn’t work, sorry. I visited twice, incognito, and both times I hit upon the same problem, which prompted my negative review.”

“I spoke to your boss. He agreed we shall try once more.”

“Oh, did he now?” I balled my fists, and the handle of the spade dug into my palms.

Now the French version of the old boys’ network was ganging up on me. Not that Batz was old. He appeared to be around my age. Forty-ish was my best guess.

And his aura tasted of ash.

“I’m tasty...uh, I mean freelance. No bosses.”

He gave me an odd look. “Pardon, I didn’t mean to offend you. Call it client or paying customer, like the ones I’m trying to please.” He sighed. “I’m truly sorry about Aramis. He shouldn’t have run into your garden, but then the villa stood empty for such a long time. I’m afraid the boys are used to roaming.”

As if in response to his comment, three supple shapes sporting grayish-blue fur mixed in with dark splotches ran at us, their droopy ears flopping. They formed a panting line, pink tongues lolling from their muzzles.

The nearest sniffed at the deck chair. “ Arf ?”

“ Zut , Porthos.” Batz patted the beast’s head and gave me a lopsided grin. “They mustn’t dig for your Maurice. It’s not done. Despite my dogs’ atrocious behavior, I hope you’ll give me another chance and come to my restaurant—tomorrow, at lunchtime?”

“It’s closed on Mondays.”

“I will open it for you...Melanie?”

The violets in his eyes glittered. My palms were covered in sweat, and the sun wasn’t to blame. The klaxon in my head was warbling away, and wild thoughts careened through my head. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

What did he say? “For the record, it’s Melody.” Crap, why did you do that? Now, you’re on a first-name basis.

He inclined his head. “ Bien s?r , Melody. What a beautiful name. Call me Yvon. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow at twelve, then.”

For a moment, I feared he wanted to shake hands on the deal, but he only sketched a quick bow and strode off the deck toward the back gate. He held it open, leaving me no choice but to pass much closer to him than I cared to.

He gave off the warm scent of violets, cloves, and something musky. Old-fashioned somehow, like his hounds. But the familiar flavor of a human aura had been replaced by ash.

Run.

I didn’t, though it was a close shave.

Safely returned to my garden, I stopped half on the lawn, half in a vole hole, trying to digest what happened.

Not much, really. I had agreed to compromise my professionalism by giving Batz another chance. Poor Maurice’s grave was a disaster zone. And I had hit upon the impossible.

As supernatural gifts went, mine was pathetic.

Sometimes laced with vanilla sweetness, sometimes tinged with vinegar, but always creamy like mushroom soup, every living human being I ever met left a unique aroma on my tongue. The aroma belonged to their life energy, their auras.

I could swallow the taste—I needed to if I wanted to enjoy my food and succeed in my chosen profession as a restaurant critic—but I couldn’t avoid the first impression. Since my early childhood, I encountered a peculiar flavor every time I got close to a person. Old or young, female, male, or diverse, it didn’t matter. They all smacked of life.

However, when I held the cooling hands of my grandparents for the last time, all I tasted was ash. After their deaths, the auras had vanished.

Batz too gave me nothing but ash.

I whipped my paranormal taste buds into action, searching for an aftertaste.

Zilch.

Why would something as natural as breathing suddenly prove to be so difficult? Every living human being I had ever met tasted of something . Goosebumps rose on my arms.

If Yvon Batz, the French star chef, made me taste ash, the man couldn’t be alive.