86 Avenue du Goulet (A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 3) Page 2

  Chapter 5

  Digging Deeper

  I looked at one, and then the other. “Bones? Where?”

  They looked at each other, and then at me. “Why, in your villa’s garden of course!” replied Martine.

  Why of course! Why didn’t I think of that?

  I sat there, instinctively holding out my glass for more wine before I said anything further, knowing I’d need it.

  Jean knew me well, and complied, filling it up to the rim, especially after seeing my response.

  “Merci!” I said, and then leaned in. “Exactly where were the bones found in the villa’s gardens?”

  Jean shook his head. “Under roses being transplanted.”

  “But why were you digging at Curat’s villa?”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly me that found them.”

  “Well, exactly who did?”

  “It was Luc, our gardener.”

  “What was he doing over in the other garden?”

  “He was Curat’s gardener, too.”

  “Even after Monsieur Curat died so many months ago?”

  “His estate is paying for the upkeep of the gardens until a buyer is found. But I am afraid the local rumors about the discovered bones have kept buyers away, so they rented it.”

  “This sounds an awful lot like murder!” I alleged.

  Martine nodded. “That is probably correct, Samantha.”

  I sat there, shocked. It sounded as if the French were more laid-back regarding murder than Americans were. I couldn’t believe how casually they were treating this.

  What was I missing? Murder really, really bothered me, especially when it had taken place on the property where I was staying. “Are we talking multiple murders?”

  I was half-joking. But…

  “Oui!” replied Martine.

  I looked at her, startled, and then at Jean. “What did the police say? Surely they’ve been notified and have some ideas? At least about who was murdered, if not by whom?”

  Jean shook his head. “We cannot involve them. Besides, they are much too busy to be bothered with such matters.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Of course!” he replied.

  I couldn’t imagine this. “Why wouldn’t the Gendarme Marie or Police Nationale have time to investigate multiple people being murdered and buried on the villa’s property?”

  Martine took my hand in hers. “Samantha, they weren’t exactly those kinds of murders.”

  “What other kinds of murders are there?” I asked.

  She frowned. “No, you misunderstand. It was not that.”

  Murder was murder, right? “Then what was it?”

  “They weren’t human,” replied Martine.

  I sighed. “Where were they from, another planet?”

  “No,” Martine replied. “They were animal bones!”

  I relaxed. “Burying family pets. That’s not so unusual.”

  “Not in this case. It’s different! Our neighbor’s missing pets have been discovered dead and buried. And now we are worried about Sonia!”

  “But how do you know these are their pet’s remains?”

  “They were buried with their collars and name tags!”

  I pictured my cat, Sneakers tucked safely away at home.

  Could I say no?

  “...Okay!”

  Apparently, my next mystery had just found me!

  Chapter 6

  Setting The Scene

  Having overslept, I quickly jumped out of bed, wasting no time in opening the glass doors leading out to the terrace from the master bedroom that overlooked the sea.

  “Peace and quiet!” I thought back to what felt like only days before, Ocean City and finishing off Without Any Warning and the chaos I got drawn into, and now, here I was pulled into another situation. At least this time the issue wasn’t… well, human murders.

  “I’ve learned my lesson! This time, I keep it simple. No complications!”

  I stepped out onto the deck. The residential area and town of Les Issambres had not changed much since I was here a year before; just a few new villas and houses here and there had sprouted among all the beautifully landscaped properties dotting the mountainous terrain. Yachts and jet skis crisscrossed far below, as the sun reflected off the sea’s surface.

  To my left, in the distance, were the beaches of St. Raphaël jutting out into the water and the magnificent Esterel mountain ranges beyond. Off to my right, in the distance was the lovely town of St. Maxine, and the bay of St. Tropez.

  I looked downward. The small manicured lawn off the living room directly below was shaped in a half circle, just like the upper terrace where I stood. A stone wall, three feet high, bordered it to protect people from falling below.

  Part of that curved wall dropped about two stories to the neighbor’s house and their pool, and then it curved around to my villa’s side gardens. Red bougainvillea spilled over it and trailed to the bottom. If you didn’t know where the wall was, it appeared as a lush carpet of red, and although beautiful to the eye, to a veteran, it concealed lengthy thorns, as sharp and painful as miniature daggers.

  The wall continued from the back to along the side of the villa where stone arches ran parallel, wrapping around to the front entrance. I looked far to the right where an expansive stone stairway descended from the kitchen patio to a mosaic, tiled fountain.

  At the bottom of those steps, a maze of pathways cut from the same stone sloped downward along the lower gardens that contained benches and flower-filled urns.

  I leaned out further and noticed in one shaded corner a cement table and chairs under a blooming magnolia tree. Ah—a perfect writing spot. I felt as though I had stepped into a Monet painting. At every turn, a blended brushstroke of color! With my agent lambasting me for taking this vacation instead of staying focused for my next novel, it seems as though this burial mystery was just the ticket I was looking for. Apparently my next book was emerging and unfolding right in front of me.

  A familiar figure came into view, the gardener, Luc.

  I sighed, reluctantly pushing back from the iron railing. If I was going to find out something more, I might as well begin right away. I headed inside to get ready for some dialogue that just might prove interesting and, hopefully, informative.

  First and foremost on my agenda was coffee and French pastry, and then I’d be ready to tackle with some luck, the first of my conversations with the gardener.

  Chapter 7

  Unearthing Some Facts

  I set my English/French dictionary on the coffee table and made my way over to the kitchen and out the side door to the lower gardens. It was one of Luc’s days to work on Curat’s extensive property. I’d known him a few years.

  If I was going to start, I figured he was the one to begin with. I watched him from a short distance, as he toiled in the flowerbeds, coaxing the soil to breathe, and then watering, methodically working his way down the hill.

  He was a widower in his late seventies and built like a bull, with thick dark hair and mustache to match. Refusing to retire, he worked ten hours a day with a two-hour lunch, and knew his way around the gardened property.

  As a matter of fact, he also worked on all the surrounding properties, which might be to my benefit. I’d be able to learn some of the neighbor’s background before I met with any of them, giving me, hopefully, a slight advantage in my investigation of the buried bones.

  “Bonjour, Luc!” I greeted, smiling as I approached him.

  “Bonjour, Madame! Comment allez-vous?”

  “I am fine, thank you. And you, Luc?”

  “I am well. Merci!”

  I decided I had to weigh my words carefully. After all, interpretation was everything to the French. I didn’t want the subject I was about to probe to be misunderstood. “Do you still tend to all the gardens in the neighborhood?”

  “Oui, Madame. Martine said you are renting this villa instead of staying with her, like you usual
ly do. Like you, I enjoy working in the quiet. You are still a novelist? No?”

  “Yes. I thought I might start my next book here.”

  “Well,” he replied, “the French certainly have a lot of stories to tell, don’t they?”

  I eyed him, watching his sly smile. What was he really telling me? Maybe he was more observant than anyone thought. “I was wondering if I might ask you some questions about the garden. Do you have a minute?”

  “For you? Of course, Madame!” He smiled again. “I guess you want to talk about the burials. Oui?”

  “You are way ahead of me, Luc! How did you know I would ask you for information?”

  “I know you write mysteries in your books, and this situation is one big mystery. Maybe, you will be able to solve it!” He smiled. “But then, maybe you will not!”

  My eyes shot to him, as he started to dig up the ground again. “Can you tell me which neighbors have lost their pets? And what kind of pet they had?”

  He looked up at the sun to gauge the time, disregarding his watch. “Come! Let us sit on the wall ledge, while I have some wine, cheese, and a baguette. I will eat an early lunch, and maybe I can help you in some small way, c'est bon?”

  “Oui!” I replied, and promptly followed him to talk.

  Chapter 8

  Paying Particular Attention

  I needed to pay attention, particularly to what he said to me, and more importantly, to what he did not. Nuance was everything to the French. One’s words and body language spoke volumes. Subtlety was extremely important. I was about to speak, when he turned to me and spoke first.

  “Madame Samantha, are you prepared to get tangled up in something no one is quite sure why or how all this happened? Also, not knowing who you can trust, and, maybe, the potential danger that might be involved?”

  So much for French nuance!

  It took me a second to respond. “…To be truthful, I haven’t thought that far ahead. Martine was so insistent and worried about Sonia, I guess I got caught up in all the emotion of the moment and told her I would see what I could discreetly find out with the neighbors.”

  “Madame, may I advise, you are in a tight spot!”

  I shrugged. “Luc, that’s the story of my life. Getting into tight spots, and then trying to work my way out of them without getting into too much trouble.”

  He pointed at me. “But this one might prove too difficult to get out of once you are in it. No one knows who or why someone would do such an evil thing as to kill and bury so many innocent animals. It is a tragedy.”

  “Yes, it is.” I sat there thinking about his warning. I had to consider those words seriously. This was not a game someone was playing. Or could more than one person be involved? That was a thought worth considering, while talking to those caught up in this terrible situation.

  Luc caught my eye. “…And probably dangerous.”

  “But all I’m going to do is ask around, Luc. How much trouble can I get into?”

  He chuckled. “A lot! I have heard many stories from Martine about all your escapades and your so-called tight spots you always end up in.”

  I waved him off, laughing. “Enough with your amusing compliments. I don’t want them to go to my head. Just tell me what you know so far. I would appreciate any details I can use without embarrassing either Martine or myself.”

  “That, I am afraid, will take a lot of effort on your part.”

  “Luc, keep this up and I might drag you along with me.”

  “Ah! No! It is no easy task with this heavy clay soil. I have too much work spending each day at a different neighbor’s house working in their gardens.”

  “Good!” I said. “Then you will be a very good source for information on this affair. Now, please, Luc, tell me what you know.”

  The whole thing bordered on strange…

  And I couldn’t help wondering: What might also be buried along with the pets?

  Chapter 9

  The Garden Plot Deepens

  Luc’s knife slit the cheese like butter. “I am not sure when it began. …Maybe before all the pets went missing.”

  I gave him a surprised look. “Why do you think that?”

  He looked thoughtful. “Some of the graves had no collars or tags. Maybe, they were strays and this person wanted to try out a burial or two to see if they could get away with it and the other deaths came later. And by transplanting so many roses, I accidentally found them.”

  That was an odd interpretation. A follow-up thought hit me. “Wouldn’t you have noticed the soil being disturbed?”

  “No, Madame. I only come to this property once a week. As you can see, I dig up the beds because of the clay soil. The ground, it needs to breathe. It disturbs the weeds from growing. I water. Then I set the sprinkler timer.”

  I took it further. “So, it’s possible that if someone were to bury something, they could come that night, or the next, and no one would know because you don’t show up until a week later. The sprinklers would wash away any kind of disturbance because it would eventually lump together.”

  He gave a huge smile. “Already you see possibilities!”

  “Luc, can you tell me something about the neighbors?”

  He turned and aimed his knife toward the house below. “They are from Paris. Monsieur and Madame Tussout; an older couple in their eighties. They are not too friendly and constantly irritate their neighbors because they always resist trimming their trees each year, refusing to give the neighbors a better view of the sea, which is the worst sin of all here. The value of a property is in what you can or can’t see. The neighbors said they truly think Tousout enjoys… how do you phrase it? …Ah, yes…the power play.”

  I nodded. “You summed that up perfectly, Luc. That is interesting to know. What pet did they lose?”

  “They had a …mixture.”

  “Oh, a mutt. Was it small or large?” I asked.

  Luc looked at me. “Does it matter? It was small.”

  “I would think that the larger the dog, the larger the garden bed for burial, and thus the more time to dig up.”

  He grinned. “Ah, you see? You are very clever. All the animals buried so far have been of a very small size.”

  “So, they used smaller animals to get in and out faster.”

  It sounded more like revenge, not about the views.

  Luc pointed to the house higher up the hill, toward the forest. “The powerful widow Sorrel. Her problems? She is in her late eighties and under the shadow of French law. When her husband, Henri recently died, partial house ownership passed down to his two children from his first wife. Madame could still use her house, but wouldn’t wholly own it. Her cat was buried in these gardens, too.”

  I frowned. “For her, another death. How unfortunate!”

  “Oui! Her cat, she did not have the nine lives, did she?”

  Chapter 10

  The House Of The Red Light

  Luc twisted around and pointed to the house directly across the narrow street out in front of my villa. “That is Mademoiselle Forniet’s house.” He smiled. “Also referred to, by the locals, as the house of the red light.”

  It definitely sounded like an unwanted complication. I had enough to think about already, but I still asked just to confirm. “What do you mean? Why such a strange name?”

  “If you look over after dark, then you will see her porch light. It glows red!” He laughed. “Ah, the neighbors are quite upset. They feel people will get a wrong impression, trying to stop for...?” Embarrassed, he didn’t finish.

  I nodded, and then asked, “What does Mademoiselle Forniet say about that?”

  Luc smirked. “She said that she is only having a little fun. A joke. Such a sense of humor!”

  “How old is she, and what kind of pet did she have?”

  “She is young, mid-twenties. She had a small poodle.”

  “Isn’t she a little young, especially in France to be able to afford such a large home on the Riviera at that age?”
>
  Luc slapped his leg. “Good point, Madame! There is speculation a wealthy man bought it for her.”

  “What wealthy man?”

  “Nobody knows. That is another mystery that leads nowhere. Rumors say a Bentley arrives late in the night occasionally. He visits for a bit, and then poof, he is gone.”

  Poof! Gone! Just like the pets. …Coincidence?

  Luc started gathering up his wrappers and corking his bottle of red wine. “There is one more person you should know about. She is, how do you say, a little eccentric.”

  Interested, I leaned in. “And I like to say, I am all ears.”

  Luc grinned. “With an interesting mind in between.”

  I loved his wit. “Please, go ahead and tell me.”

  He turned serious. “She drives around at dusk, feeding the stray cats in this neighborhood out of her trunk. She is an odd and harmless character who means well. She also travels with her vicious Rottweiler, who guards her car while she leaves the engine running, and then she is gone.”

  “Where does she live?” I asked, fascinated by this story.

  “She appears out of nowhere, and slides the dishes of food and water under the villa gates for all the stray cats, but only on properties where they roam, then she quickly leaves. During the night, she takes the empty plates back.”

  “How long has she been doing this?”

  Luc thought about it. “She has always been here.”

  I smiled, knowing he started here as a boy. “Like you?”

  He laughed heartily. “I am like one of the statues in the garden. After a while, no one sees that I am really here.” He got up and stretched, yawning. “I think I am going to take a short nap now. Au revoir, Madame Samantha.”

  “Not me, Luc. I’ve got work to do. Merci. Au revoir.”

  Chapter 11

  I Paws For The Cat Lady