Chapter Eight
It was difficult to stop my jaw from dropping. “D’Artagnan? As in The Three Musketeers ? Rapiers, fancy trousers, and frilly shirts? Hang on, someone mentioned those recently. Might have been Raoul.”
Yvon rolled his eyes. “He would.”
“Let me guess, that’s why he called you Monseigneur . Wasn’t the title reserved for the clerics and princes of France?”
“Yes. I’m neither, and Raoul can be a pain in the neck.” He peeked at the dregs of wine in his glass and pulled a face. “Empty. Such a shame.” He spoke with the crisp preciseness of the semi-sozzled. His flirt with drunkenness was unsurprising since he was responsible for glugging most of the second bottle.
I glanced at the bright lights of the bar, sans guests now. When I checked my watch, it showed twenty to one. “Bugger. Now we’ve arrived at the juicy bits, the bar’s closing. Sounds like we’d better call it a day.”
“You English have funny expressions. This is the middle of the night, no?”
“Don’t be facetious. Honestly, I’m half tempted to use your family’s history as a launch pad for my story rather than the Legrands’.”
Yvon’s pupils widened. He recoiled in his seat. “No, don’t, I entreat you. The biography of Charles de Batz has already been written. Not only that, it inspired Dumas to write his novel. Unfortunately, that was my family’s claim to fame. Whatever happened afterward isn’t worth the words. However, solving the riddle of the Legrands will give you enough material for a great story, plus you can help a good man. Two, if you include me.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Hooded now, they had lost their former sparkle, and his aura had sneaked away into the night.
“Hmm.” Questions rushed into my brain, running into each other like a riptide.
Was Yvon a good man?
In some ways yes. Even if he might have an ulterior motive, he was helping Raoul, who also trusted him, at least to a certain degree. Given the person Raoul was, someone who died for his principles, this was no mean feat. And then there was Yvon’s contribution to charity.
Did I buy Yvon’s ghost story? Oh yes, I did. Nothing else made sense.
The thoughts rushed on. If I was honest with myself, something about the man sitting opposite me touched a chord, and if I listened deep into my soul, I could hear it twanging.
“Planet Earth to Mel?”
“Sorry.”
He toyed with his empty glass. “There’s no story here. The real d’Artagnan might have been a military hero and the friend of a king, but the rest of my ancestry didn’t exactly cover themselves with glory. When they lost the castle and the entailed domains, the family’s wealth went up the chimney together with the title and any remaining claim to fame. The surviving Batzes found themselves paupers, forced to scrounge off others. I’m the first Batz in decades who’s achieved something.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
A corner of his mouth hitched up. “I’m not offended. Instead, I’ll share a secret with you. I’m trying to buy back Chateau de Castelmore, restore it to its former glory, and transform it into a boutique hotel with a restaurant. Two restaurants since I’m planning to attach a Resto Du Coeur. The castle isn’t grandiose in the slightest, not like the chateaux on the Loire. If I get my pet project off the ground, you’ll be the first person to blog about the place.”
The lights came on in the garden. Chairs rattled as waiters stacked them along the walls.
He rose. “You’re right, we better leave. I’ll walk you home.”
Uh oh . No doubt spoken with kind intention, the offer smacked too much of a romantic promenade under the light of the almost full moon. The question was who would walk who home? The man wasn’t steady on his pins. One wrong step and he might plunge into the harbor.
“Come on, we’re neighbors,” he said. “Unless you have brought your car and wish to drive? I have, but I won’t. I’d rather have a nice chat.”
“Uh, we just did?”
His gaze slipped aside. “True. Not sure we should continue. Raoul and I... We’ve hit a wall. He’s bound to this place, and since the freedom fighter refuses to talk to me... But I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“Thank you. I can do that myself.”
Crash. In one alcove behind ours, a waiter had dropped a chair. The sweet scent of honeysuckle wafted across.
“They want us gone.” Yvon fetched the wrap I had draped over the nearest rock and arranged it around my shoulders with exaggerated precision.
After a tussle over who should pay the bill (he won), we left the bar and headed into streets full of people laughing, talking, and pointing at the silver disk in the skies.
“Don’t feel obliged to do anything,” he said once we reached the harbor.
The fishing boats bobbed on their moorings, awaiting their skippers. At the end of the channel leading out to sea, the undersized lighthouse blinked away, its feeble beacon lost in a shiny ocean.
“I won’t,” I said.
“The more I think of it, the more I prefer you to stay away. Things could turn nasty.”
“Because of the treasure hunters?”
“Those too. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
He had said the same thing earlier, in his garden. Back then, I had been spooked. Now, I didn’t know any longer what to think or do.
?~ * ~
W hen I awoke the next morning in a tangle of sodden sheets, a heavy weight was pressing on my chest. As I lay there, my eyes gritty with the lack of sleep, a current of deliciously cool air, laced with salty freshness, wound its way through the open window and brushed along my cheek. An unfamiliar rushing and rustling noise wafted in from the garden, chased by a fishy, warm whiff blowing straight into my face.
Cool air? Fishy whiffs? The tide—was it jumping the dunes and flooding the property? I snapped my eyes open and jerked upright in my bed. The weight tumbled off my chest.
“Arow.”
I blinked. Louis’ green eyes blinked back in indignation.
“Sorry, cat, didn’t mean to upset you.”
The rushing outside revealed itself to be rain, pattering against the shutters. At long last, a reprieve from the heat.
I gave my scalp a thorough scratch and released the yawn pushing up my throat. “We need to fix your fish breath. Later. Let me guess, you want food.”
His antics were one disadvantage of sharing my home with a cat. The beasts demanded their breakfast at the most uncivilized hours.
I fumbled for the clock on the nightstand. Eight o’clock almost on the dot. Not impossible, but not exactly brilliant after a maximum of four hours of sleep. The sheets were crumpled and ripped from the mattress, the duvet hung from one side of the bed, and the pillow lay on the floor, casualties of my restless tossing and turning that had brought me no closer to a decision.
Today I would have to tell Yvon if I wanted to join the quest. The journalist in me was hooked. The novelist wanted to write the words that weren’t written yesterday and draw inspiration for yet more words. The jury remained out on the aura thing, another excellent reason not to walk away.
I rose and stared at the runnels of rainwater snaking over the windowpanes. A sea fog wrapped the world outside in a white haze, numbing all sound, as if reality only existed in my room and everything else was a figment of my imagination.
I couldn’t say no to his offer, but a yes meant ignoring the alarm jingling in my head, which told me to walk away if I didn’t want to get burned. Saying yes meant taking a giant step into a future more surreal than the warped apple trees lost in the mist.
A future where I might get hurt again, he said.
“He didn’t breathe one more word on that subject,” I whispered.
No, of course not. However, the man’s purpose was crystal clear, at least for me who was pretty adept at reading such signs.
However, if I joined this crazy caper with my eyes open and battle armor protecting my heart, what could happen? Not much, surely.
I had to find out what was going on. It was what I did. If I walked away, I’d no longer be true to myself.
And if that was what I wished to do, I had better get ready. He planned to launch an expedition into the Pyrenees, to visit the ex-member of the Résistance who might or might not be sitting on vital information. Since the man never answered his phone, Yvon wanted to visit in person and talk his way in.
Much better if I talk my way in .
“Mrp?”
“Coming.”
A pressing need taken care of, I threw on my ratty bathrobe and clambered down the ladder posing as a staircase. From there, I padded into the kitchen, accompanied by Louis who gave a running commentary on my slow progress. At least, he gave a good impression of doing so. The furry creature was a veritable chatterbox.
I filled his bowl, trying hard not to breathe in the funky smell of the kibble. Then I started my coffee. Not the precious variety waiting on the shelf, something more ordinary, but strong enough to rouse a ghost.
Memory kicked in, straight into my stomach.
Ghosts were real, and Raoul was one of them. Whether he could be roused with caffeine remained to be seen. Maybe I could convince him to project the aromas of roasted beans rather than the reek of Gauloise. Worth a try, at least.
I cut two slices of brioche, which I then slapped into the toaster. That sorted, I fetched salted butter and the confiture de cassis I made last week. With a sigh of content, I sat at the table.
Brring . The doorbell.
What suicidal maniac would dare to visit before breakfast? Yvon, having second thoughts about our trip? Not Raoul, who not only had to stick to the area where he died but also to keep to the timing. Decades of haunting gained him some extra wriggle space, but if Yvon were to be believed, mornings were off-limits.
The shrilling of the doorbell reverberating in my ears, I lurched along the corridor and peeked through the spyhole.
As always, Paulette was dressed with class and taste, wearing a transparent pink raincoat in combination with a taupe linen top and jacket. Designer jeans and high-heels made her look chipper as a Barbie doll. Resentment rose in my throat like a volcano on the boil.
I creaked open the door and mustered my French. “Sorry, Chez Mel is still closed for business. I thought we had agreed on a coffee, not before ten?”
Then I remembered. At the time I was supposed to meet Paulette, I would most likely be in a car, driving south.
“ Bon matin, ma chère . Yes, yes, you are right, and I apologize. Naughty of me, isn’t it, but I needed to come. I heard Batz has joined the treasure hunt. You seem to be pally with him, so...” She flashed me a bright smile. “Anyway, I figured I’d better make sure you keep me in the picture—since you promised.” If smiles could dazzle, this one would.
Wasn’t she a little information junkie? “Paulette, I’m sorry. It was a last minute decision. I would have called you. Still will.”
“Ah, pas de problème . But since I’m here...” Puppy eyes didn’t describe her expression.
“Heavens, it’s early, and I’m not exactly in a state to receive visitors.”
“Bah, come on, it’s only harmless moi . No need for formalities.” She wriggled her button nose. “Oh, do I smell your fabulous coffee?”
“No, I’m afraid it’s the boring variety.”
“Smells great.”
Note to self. Ask Raoul how to repel tank attacks .
Hmm. A tank was harmless compared to the petite powerhouse on my doorstep.
“All right, since it’s you. Be warned, I’m not the world’s greatest conversationalist before the third cup.” I opened the door and let Paulette slip through.
“Bit musty, this place, no?”
“Yup. Not sure the owner cares for more than raking in the rent.”
In blessed silence, she followed me into the kitchen.
“Take a seat.” I waved at the motley collection of chairs scattered around the table.
“ Merci . How come you are suddenly friendly with Batz? Weren’t you two having issues over his cooking?”
The growl was out before I could stop it. When I spoke, I used good old English. “Don’t ask. He’s done something fancy-schmancy with his dijonaise and tripped me up.”
Her eyes grew enormous. “He made you jump over his dish?”
Oh cripes, back to French then. “No, he adds orange zest to his bloody sauce, and for me, it tastes odd even if it isn’t curdled as I thought.”
“Ah, you will alert people in your blog, no?”
“I’ll say it didn’t work for me and people should decide for themselves. Otherwise, the man can cook.”
“That might well be, though it appears, he does a lot more than that. Alors, talking of food, your brioche looks delicious. May I? Don’t worry, I’ll toast it myself, no need for you to bother. You drink your coffee. It must have been a late night.” She winked and rummaged around on the kitchen counter.
Quietly seething, I said nothing. It was too early for aggro, but as it appeared, aggro had found me.
“Enough people are sniffing after the secret of Capbreton, so we don’t need him on top. I wonder what might have piqued his sudden interest.” She returned with the brioche, toasted to golden perfection, and sat opposite me. Her perfect teeth crunched into the pastry.
I sipped my coffee. This was my second cup, and if Paulette continued in the same vein, she wouldn’t be around when I got to the third.
I placed the empty mug on the table and cracked my knuckles. “I congratulate you on your spy network. Was it a waiter from the bar? In that case, they have issues with their hearing, otherwise, they would have told you Yvon—Batz has been searching for quite a while. What’s your problem, anyway? I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to keep your booty but will have to hand it over to the state.”
Her pupils widened, and she touched her chest as if shot through the heart. “ Mais non . How can you think this of me? I’m not trying to discover it for myself; the treasure belongs to the community of Capbreton. It’s part of the local history. Since I’m heading the local historical committee and our marketing council, I thought we could work well together, you and I. If you write an enjoyable novel, we can help you promote it to the visitors. Seriously, Mel, I don’t like your accusations.” She pouted at her brioche.
Her foul mood didn’t stop her from spreading a heap of confiture on top and scoffing the lot. “What accusations? Someone listened in to my conversation with Yvon and had nothing better to do than blab to Mama afterward. I resent that. Out with it. What exactly is it you’re trying to achieve?”
Paulette chewed pensively. “Even if the town couldn’t keep the treasure, the discovery alone will cause quite a media splash. Now, if the Legrands were to be found it would be fabulous.” She clapped her hands in childlike excitement. “Imagine what it means for you. What a story.”
She should have been the journalist rather than me. I slurped my third cup, wondering if she was aware of the fateful trip the Legrands took into the Pyrenees decades ago.
“At least one man died because of this sordid affair,” I pointed out. “The German agent.” I sneaked a peek from under my lashes, but Paulette’s face didn’t reveal whether she was aware of “Monsieur Dubois’s” true identity.
“ Exactement . It’s time for closure. It’s the reason why we must find the cache and tell the story. We, not Batz. He should stick to his cooking. No matter what we do, he seems to be a step ahead of us. How did he trace the Résistance fighter? Even I never knew he existed, and I’m a trained librarian. Is it true you’re going there today?”
I said nothing.
“ Mince , Batz is as bad as Dubois and what’s worse, I never once noticed.”
I toyed with my mug. That didn’t sound as if she had even the remotest inkling that these two gentlemen were indeed partners if not unlikely friends.
Paulette must have mistaken my silence for assent. “I count on you, Mel. You will tell me what the fighter has to say for himself, no?”
Nice try. “Paulette, I can’t promise you anything since I don’t know what will happen today.”
“Oh, you will make him talk, I’m sure. You’re very good at your job. It’s only... See, I should have found him. Not Batz. It’s monstrously unfair. A year ago, he wasn’t even here, and now he’s ahead of us.” Her voice was clogged with hurt.
“Isn’t he a local?”
“Hah, pas du tout. Batz has been here, there, everywhere. Believe me, he’s the one who wants the treasure for himself. Were you aware he claims to be a d’Artagnan?”
Even for a librarian, the woman’s intel was amazing. “Really? Where did you get that from?”
Paulette brushed the crumbs off her fingers, a smug expression on her doll face. “I make sure to know who I’m dealing with. When the Sansculottes rose during the revolution, his posse of ancestors escaped with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Serves them right.”
Resentment on Yvon’s behalf stabbed at my chest. An angry retort bubbled up, only to be caged between my teeth. This wasn’t my battle to fight.
Paulette didn’t seem to notice the near miss. Instead, she gave me a sly glance. “There’s more. I’m pretty sure the family died out a while ago. Must have been in the Eighties. There are other people with the name around, but they aren’t descendants of the Comtes d’Artagnan .”
“You’re implying Yvon might be an impostor?”
She sucked her teeth. “Don’t quote me on this. The people he gives as his parents would be those direct descendants I mentioned, yes.”
“Gives as his parents? Is something wrong with his birth certificate?”
Leaning in, Paulette lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Since we’re such good friends, I’ll tell you. I spoke to someone in the golf club who knew the midwife. There is a birth certificate, and it has the right age, gender, and name. But that midwife was adamant the boy died soon after.”
Something cold spread from my midriff, despite the hot coffee sloshing in my stomach. Did Yvon lie to me? Or was Paulette trying to drag me into her web of deceit? I hadn’t said yes to him yet.
I could turn my back on this idiotic tangle and walk away. “In that case, wouldn’t there be a death certificate? Unless she misunderstood something and the baby was stillborn, but then why the birth certificate?”
“Hah, according to the midwife, the boy lived for a few days. No death certificate to be found, of course. Unfortunately, she’s dead now.”
“Pure gossip, if you ask me.” I raised my voice as if doing so would drown the concerned babble in my head.
“Fascinating, don’t you think?” Paulette’s titter grated on my nerves. She rose, her eyes squirrel-bright. “Anyway, I hope hearing me out helps you to understand what sort of person our culinary superstar might be—emphasis on might. Don’t forget to tell me when you learn something. Have a pleasant trip. Bisou, ma chère .” After blowing me a kiss, she flounced away.
Alone once more in my villa, I prowled from the kitchen through the corridor into the living room and back again. Paulette was nothing but a despicable puppeteer. Raoul made sarcastic comments about what he called her “methods.” It appeared I had received a rather unhealthy dose of those.
However, she might well be right. As if I needed another reason to be super careful when doing business with Yvon.
Back in the living room, I spotted Raoul’s memory stick, lying on top of my laptop.
“You know what, Louis? I need to have a word with our ghostly spy. I strongly suspect he’s the only honest player on the set.”
“Murp?” The cat vaulted onto the sofa and butted my hand with his head.
“Apart from you and me.”