Chapter Three
Close to six in the morning, the dawn chorus was making such a racket, sleep dropped away. I pulled the pillow over my head, but it was no good. The chirping, tweeting, and meowing penetrated the cover.
Hold on, meowing?
Impossible. Maurice was dead, and even when alive he never meowed much since his aging vocal cords could only manage an imperious croak.
Pet Cemetery R’Us? My stomach knotted.
I shot from the bed to the window and pushed the curtains aside. Undisturbed, the chorus warbled on and, yes, a high-pitched feline soprano had joined the concert. Only it sounded a lot less cheerful than the birds. It sounded more like a severely unamused cat.
I shrugged into my bathrobe and navigated a set of stairs steep enough to qualify as a ladder. The whole contraption wobbled under my bare feet until I landed on the tiles. Early in the morning, they were pleasantly cool. That would soon change once the sun was up.
The corridor lay before me, silent, waiting.
“Meowow.” The indignant warble issued from outside the front door.
My heart did a little skip and hop. Oh yes, we were talking cat. It appeared Batz’s dogs hadn’t yet scared away the felines in the neighborhood. Maurice’s kibble and tins were in the kitchen. With a decent bribe and a bit of luck, the animal might even let me pet it. My fingers yearned for some fur to stroke. As therapies go, fur was better than chocolate.
The kibble container pressed to my chest, I unlocked and opened the front door.
On the stoop sat a pink cat carrier. It wobbled as if shaken by a mini-quake.
“Mowee.”
Something reminiscent of a white feather duster appeared on the left. The next instant, it withdrew. The folded paper placed atop the carrier slipped off one side and dropped onto the coconut mat. Benvengut it spelt, a welcome in Occitan, the old language of southern France.
I dumped the cat food onto the stoop and lifted the missive. The handwriting struck me as being typically male, despite its curliness. The message was written in English.
Madame Mel,
Please let me again offer my apologies for the uncouth behavior of my hounds. And myself. We did not get off to a brilliant start, which I find deplorable. I hope to remedy this state of affairs when we meet later today. In the meantime, forgive me for trespassing on your land one last time. It was for a good purpose, I assure you. I restored the damage my dogs wrought on the resting place of your feline friend. Nobody should ever be without friends. You sounded lonely yesterday, wherefore I hope you can forgive me an even greater act of trespassing. I visited the shelter and found an incumbent in need of a home. I apologize should my actions displease you, but they were made with the best intentions.
Yours, Yvon B.
P. S.: You can return him if you don’t want him.
P. P. S.: Please don’t.
P. P. P. S.: He’s called Chou-Chou, but I hope you find something more suitable.
The letter dropped from my limp fingers and sailed to the floor.
“Mowowowooh.”
The pink monstrosity shook like a sailboat in a force nine gale. Long, white fur appeared between the slits at the top and disappeared again. When a soft snarl rose in my throat, the commotion in the carrier stopped.
“Who does the man think he is? Presumptuous much to think I need another cat when I’ve so recently buried Maurice, eh?”
The critter in the carrier wisely kept quiet.
I knelt and peeked through the slits. Big round eyes set in a flattish face stared back. In the shadow thrown by the hedge, not much of the caged animal was visible, but what I saw was large, and it appeared to be mostly pelt.
Where Maurice had been sleek and black, this thing reminded me of a white, fluffy mop. A Persian was my best guess.
My heart sank. Pedigree cats weren’t my style, and Persians with their squashed faces ranked right at the bottom of the pile.
“Merow?”
Slap my wrists. The little guy wasn’t responsible for the way he looked. Humans had done that. Humans messed with everything, even with cats.
Seriously, Monsieur Yvon Batz should have asked before presenting me with his hairy white flag. One didn’t dump cats on other people’s doorsteps without so much as a by your leave.
My treacherous fingers itched to touch the gorgeous fur.
I squinted at the box, and the critter’s face pressed against the plastic, its nose a paler pink than the carrier, the eyes a luminous green. I let the animal sniff my fingers when I extended them through the slits to scratch the velvety head between the cute rounded ears.
Deep purring reverberated from the box.
Oh, no, no, no, I couldn’t adopt this bugger. If I accepted gifts from Monsieur Batz, what would I do next? Write him raving reviews? Fall for his hunky self? So not going to happen. No, I would have to return the adorable mop, who would then go back to the animal shelter. Blast the man, for giving me early morning headaches. Apropos, what might he have done to the grave?
Unable to resist the pull of curiosity, I rose from my haunches and shielded my eyes against the sun’s glare bursting through the pines.
From my vantage point, Maurice’s last resting place wasn’t visible. Chou-Chou in his box remained quiet as if he sensed his future was in the balance.
I meandered across a lawn even more potholed than the previous evening. A regular feline patrol from something fitter than my geriatric pal was needed to keep the infernal voles in check.
Once the grave came into view, I stopped in my tracks.
The ground had been raked in precise waves, reminding me of a Japanese Zen Garden. The wooden marker must have been washed; it glittered with moisture. To one side, a white vase with black spots had been eased into the soil. The pink carnations were a bit over the top, but as peace offers went, this one wasn’t bad. When I stepped closer, the black spots on the vase took on the shape of cats. Cats jumping, cats sitting, cats sleeping.
How did Batz know Maurice was black?
Duh, he must have seen him slinking around. A reasonable explanation, even if it didn’t prevent queasiness from pooling in my stomach.
“Meowowow.”
Heavens, the feline projected like an opera singer. Better to get him inside, before the neighbors woke. Tourists hate having their precious lie-in interrupted, which was fair enough—they deserved their rest.
I couldn’t imagine working in an office every day. Freelance work was risky, but if one was competent, which I was when not juggling too many crises, the food articles and reviews paid the bills. Less and less, but they did. Hopefully, the novel would fix the gap between expenses and income looming in the not-too-distant future.
If it ever was written.
I turned on my heel and faced the gate. An oversized wooden door had been squeezed into the hole in the hedge, blocking my place from canine intruders. Not pretty, but effective. However, given the man’s efforts with the cat and the grave, I suspected the barrier to be temporary. Something more elaborate would follow.
“Mow?”
“Shush, Chou-Chou.”
Batz was right. What an abominable name.
The rays of the sun warming my back, I crouched and placed my hand on the soft soil of Maurice’s last resting place. “Now you can dream on in peace,” I whispered.
My poor mum had suffered from allergies, which meant I couldn’t have pets during my childhood, and later I didn’t bother. Maurice had shown me the error of my ways. He might be gone, but I would forever cherish his memory.
“Mowow.”
Chou-Chou, however, was very much with me, so I returned to the doorstep and lifted the carrier. It dragged at my arm as if I was carrying not a cat but a small pony.
Back inside, I deposited the pink monstrosity on the kitchen table and threw open every window I could find to let the fresh morning air in. Some kind soul had equipped the villa with mosquito netting, which was mostly intact. It kept out the insects and would keep my surprise house guest inside, at least until I was awake enough to make up my mind.
First things first. Food for the cat, a coffee for me and in that order too. The carrier sitting on the floor with its door open, I looked for the kibble, but the container was outside on the doorstep where I had forgotten it.
In its stead, I opened a tin of tuna titbits and emptied it into a bowl set on the tiles. Chou-Chou remained in his box, quiet once more, so I filled the coffee machine with water. To compensate for the upheaval at such an ungodly hour, I would treat myself to the Cuban roast reserved for special moments.
My gaze fell on Batz’s letter, which lay on the countertop. I snorted. Did he take me for a pushover? Fair enough, he found a creative response to my gripes. But still...
May your champagne be corked, Monsieur Batz, for putting me on the spot like this.
A fabulous rich aroma wafted from the machine, and I inhaled greedily. With a coffee on the go, a thick slice of my home-baked brioche on the plate, I checked on the cat.
A round white head poked from the box, whiskers twitching. The green of his eyes was almost obliterated by the huge pupils, a sure sign of feline stress. Step by cautious step, the rest of the animal emerged. Its tail lashed from side to side like a hairy wiper, his belly almost touching the ground.
“Gosh, you’re enormous. You’d put a terrier to shame.”
At the sound of my voice, the cat snapped his head around and shot me a wary glance.
Chou-Chou’s luxurious pelt would require a lot of grooming, which must have been the reason such a beautiful creature landed in animal borstal. A shame, the furry bugger was such a sweetie.
His cute face wasn’t too badly squashed, and his fur shimmered like silk. Fat teddy bear paws, with tufts of hair peeking from between his toes, completed the cutesy overkill. The pink nose wriggled, then Chou-Chou shook himself and made a beeline for the food. Loud slurping and smacking noises followed. We were talking business.
I swallowed a mouthful of brioche and drank my coffee. Heavenly nectar filled my mouth, and the world was a better place.
For me. Not for the cat, not if I sent him back to the shelter.
No way could I return the poor creature like an unwanted pair of shoes. And Batz had known, had read me like a book.
Was I that obvious?
The feline mop licked his chops, trotted over, and twined himself around my ankles. He gave his tail a quick flick and slunk down the corridor, no doubt on a mission to explore what was now his new home.
I sighed and tilted the mug, but I had already drained the dregs.
Be it two- or four-legged mammals, I fell in love much too quickly. And cared way too much, only to regret it later.
?~ * ~
I f anyone had intel on Messieurs Batz and Dubois it would be Paulette, so I arranged to meet her at the fish market and went upstairs to change.
When I yanked at the door of the wardrobe, the knob came off in my hand. I pushed it back on and peeked inside. Paulette dripped with Parisian chic even when she emptied the bins. My clothes hailed from second-hand shops or eco-friendly catalogs, but I liked it that way.
I let my fingers trail over my vintage treasures, toyed with a lacy blue number—too see-through, and a black linen shirt—too funereal, until I hit upon a tunic in a leafy Batik design. The burnt umbra and orange tones would flatter my auburn hair and pale skin while the loose cut of the garment flattered my figure.
“Cuddly curves” Tom had called it, while we were an item. After the disastrous proposal, he crossed the line into body shaming.
I glared at the mirror. My image glared back. Why was it okay for a man sporting a spare tire to mock a woman’s failure to achieve a model shape? My parents were such talented cooks; I learned to appreciate good food from an early age. As a single child, I got to eat it all. An extra kilo here or there was a small price to pay for bliss, wasn’t it?
My gaze slipped aside. The real reason for the Tom disaster and other romantic flops had little to do with my looks.
With renewed vigor, I dove into the wardrobe. The tan Bermudas looked great with the top, as did the wide-brimmed straw sunhat. My gold cork sandals were both comfortable and trendy. Even Paulette couldn’t fault my outfit.
Who are you fooling, girl? I wasn’t dressing with her in mind.
There would be no time to change before the lunch appointment, so to brave Batz I had better appear professional. Yes, he got to see me in my do-it-yourself outfit. No, we didn’t need a repeat performance.
Too much depended on this lunch—his reputation, my future as a food critic in France. These days, the commissions with the Guide Douchevin contributed a sizeable chunk to my income.
Something fluttered at the base of my throat. Not to forget the teensy problem with Batz’s missing aura.
I fixed a pair of golden bangles around my wrists, snapped my jewelry box shut, and hid its contents in the wall safe, the second reason of renting the villa. Not that I owned treasures worth protecting, but the pieces I possessed were family heirlooms or vintage treats I bought for myself whenever the going got rough, and I’d hate to lose them.
The moment I reached for the sun hat, a soft plop sounded from the bed.
“Merow.”
I swung around and faced the mop, now ensconced on my duvet, giving me his green owl gaze. With a contented rumble, he relaxed and curled into a fuzzy ball.
The critter lacked a proper name, but it was already close to ten. If I wanted to catch Paulette, I needed to hoof it.?
~ * ~
T he fish market was in full swing as I arrived at the harbor, a pungent reek of sea creatures sticking to the place like airborne barnacles. Stands in bright colors lined the far side of the pier, each of them bearing the name of a different fisher’s boat. Their iced wares glistened with freshness, a tempting lure for the seagulls lining the railing behind the stands.
Water gurgled in the channel connecting the harbor with the open ocean. Its brackish whiff told me the tide was returning, dragging a bank of clouds along. Perhaps, the heatwave would break? The weather forecast had announced nothing of the sort, but this was the Atlantic coast, not the tranquil shores of the Med. Here, the weather was a lot more changeable.
The ice cream-style cart of the espresso vendor parked on the opposite end of the pier, not far from the scaly merchandise. An odd mixture of ground coffee and fishy aromas was the result, greeting me the same moment I spotted Paulette.
What she lacked in size, she made up in high heels and in attitude. I suspected her to be around my age, but the porcelain perfection of her face botoxed her birth date to oblivion. “Yoo-hoo, Paulette.”
She fluttered her hand, the gesture a flashy glitter.
“ Cette garce.”
The comment had drifted across from the nearest stand. Heat shot into my cheeks. I whirled around. Nobody calls me a bitch unpunished. However, when I scowled at the crowd, both the sellers and their customers focused on their fish.
The tip of my ears on fire, I swung back and headed for the espresso vendor. No more cussing was to be heard, but I could sense the heavy weight of stares between my shoulder blades.
“ Du café? ” Paulette waggled her empty cup when I came closer.
“No thanks, already drank some at the villa,” I responded in French. “If I drink any more, I’ll be so hyped up, Monsieur Batz will think I’m doped.”
She winked. “I thought you didn’t care about his opinion. Are you meeting him, then?”
“Yes. Guess what, our star chef wants another chance and blasted Bruno from Douchevin caves in to the demand like the coward he is.”
She rolled her eyes. “Really?”
“Yes. I gave him an earful yesterday evening, but he’s adamant.”
“Men. Maybe you need something stronger than coffee?”
The espresso vendor tossed her an inscrutable look from behind his facial hair. “Eh, I only offered you one for free.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ll have to pay for the drinks. We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings, eh?” The vendor started a smile, but it got lost in his beard.
Paulette licked her teeth. “Now listen, Gilles—”
“I’ll pay,” I said hastily. There would be enough aggro later at lunch. I didn’t need it now. “I’ll take an Orangina, please.”
I’d drunk my first glass of lemonade during a beach holiday in Capbreton with my bestie, Vera, before she married. Every sip brought back the good vibes of the fantastic time we enjoyed. Boy, did I need some good vibes.
“Some people.” Paulette turned her back on the vendor. The machine hissed in response. She tapped her lips, painted a tasteful shade of pink. “Where were we? Ah, Batz. Ignore the man, no matter what he does or says. Way too full of himself. Not bad looking, though.”
“Hah,” I said. Here was my cue. “Is there anything I should know?”
She winked once more. “Be careful around him. He’s a highly attractive man, no?”
“Your drinks.” The vendor placed a steaming cup, a glass, and a chubby bottle of lemonade on the counter between us.
“ Merci .” I fished a ten euro note from my purse.
When no change materialized and the espresso vendor strolled across to the nearest stand, I faced Paulette once more.
“Tell me how you are getting on with your story?” she asked.
Wrong topic. “Hmm, not much progress there. Apart from this chap I met on the beach yesterday—”
“Did you talk to Berthe? I told you already that you need more than historical facts. Your novel must spring alive. For that, Berthe will be useful. She lived through those times. She might not be with us much longer.”
I hid a smile behind my glass of lemonade. “You make it sound as if the poor woman were on death’s door.”
“Come on, she’s ninety.”
“She might have another ten years ahead of her if not more.”
Whenever she pursed her lips, Paulette reminded me of a fashionable cherub. “Well, if you don’t care for her help... Or mine...”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I appreciate both. See, I get the impression Berthe doesn’t want to share, and I don’t want to force her.”
“I will tell her.” Paulette reached for her purse, her talisman bracelets jingling, but I covered her fingers with my hand.
“Let the old girl be. She’ll either come around or she doesn’t. I’ve spoken to the others you put me in contact with, and they were incredibly supportive. Oh, and there’s Monsieur Dubois. He’s the man I mentioned. I wondered if you know him.”
Silence was my only response.
I swallowed my Orangina and probed my tongue for auras. Nothing to worry about here, since Paulette’s and the espresso vendor’s unique aromas were present and accounted for. Hers was a lot more intense than his, but the forcefulness of her aura suited her personality to a T. The woman would never take no for an answer, stick her finger into every pie—and go out of her way to help.
I wondered what the drawbacks of such a personality would be. For the answer, I would have to revert to more traditional methods than aura sampling and simply get to know her better.
The silence between us stretched like a pair of nylons.
Paulette fidgeted with her cup. With a chink , she returned it to the saucer. “ Bon , better you hear it from me. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“You mean Batz?”
“Hah , Batz, Batz, he’s nothing to me.” She sought my gaze and held it, which told me she might have glossed over the truth a wee bit. “No, Dubois. Stay away from him. He’s...not nice.”
“May I ask why?”
“He’ll use you. I’ve seen it happen.” When she leaned in, I mirrored the movement.
“He’s after the secret of Capbreton. The treasure of the Jewish family,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“What treasure? Never heard about it before.”
Paulette rolled her eyes. “If you’d talked to Berthe, you would know. I’m pretty sure there’s more than she’s letting on.”
“If it’s such a secret, why would anybody be keen on sharing it with a stranger?”
Her lips twitching, Paulette twirled a golden lock around her index finger.
I stopped myself from snarling. Just.
She giggled. “Sorry, I must sound like a mystery monger.”
“Eh, you do. Start at the beginning. What treasure is this, and how does the Nazi invasion fit the bill?” Dubois’s comment popped into my mind, and I added, “Or am I on the wrong track, and we’re talking musketeers and Louis the Thirteenth?”
Paulette, who had been reaching for the coffee cup, dropped her hand and gave me a look wavering between surprise and vexation. “Musketeers? I thought your novel was set during the Second World War. Berthe wasn’t around in the sixteenth century, she can’t help you with that period.”
Coming from another person, this might have been a funny remark. Paulette possessed many good qualities, but humor was not among them. “Don’t worry. Yes, it’s the German occupation I’m after.”
“Ah, what a relief. Eh bien , I’m sure you’re familiar with the basics. The moment the Germans arrived here, they made life hell for the Jews. Well, they tried. With the help from the Résistance, a lot of them escaped via the Pyrenees into Spain. Not everyone made it. One soldier, well, some say he was in reality a double agent, supported the French freedom fighters. Rumor has it, he and the leader of the local Résistance group were lovers, but the chap snitched on him. The soldier got arrested by his people and shot on the spot.”
She sipped at her coffee, a pensive expression on her face.
“Gruesome.”
“ Bien s?r . The last family he helped escape were the Legrands, Jewish refugees from Belgium. It is said they hid the family silver and a few other bits and pieces before they fled farther south, after trusting the German agent with the hiding place. A bit na?ve, if you ask me, but they got lucky. When he died, he took the secret to his grave.”
“Surely, after all these years, someone’s stumbled over the loot.”
Her eyes shone. “No. Ask anybody in this town. It’s still there.”
People needed to have dreams, fine, but why they so often revolved around riches was something I would never understand. Yes, money was important. No, it wasn’t everything.
A sadness too profound for words lodged behind my sternum. “Urgh, unless it has been found in the meantime, your treasure is dripping with blood.”
Paulette nodded eagerly. “Exactly. There’s tragedy, there’s human suffering, and there’s high drama. Now, if that doesn’t make for a great story, what does?”
I looked up. The woman couldn’t be serious.
She was.
Suddenly, I liked her a lot less.