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

  After finishing a light supper and taking my shower, I decided to bring my laptop outside onto the upper terrace to sit and write up some notes, while gazing out at the sea.

  I tapped away with interest as the facts, one by one, latched onto me. Drawn in by the storyline, my thoughts skimmed the keyboard, while my fingers barely kept pace.

  With my feet propped up on another chair for comfort, I methodically described the neighbor’s conflicts with what info I was given so far, including the unfortunate demise of all their cherished pets in this, as Martine aptly said, so-called garden of death.

  I decided to take the initiative by questioning the neighbors later the next morning. I asked Martine to arrange the individual meetings, hoping they wouldn’t object, having already seen me on previous visits with her at the local markets or at her house. Most likely, everyone was on edge wanting the murderer caught, or maybe not.

  I heard a meow in the gardens and smiled, reminded of Sneakers, my own black and white cat back in Highlands, North Carolina. Martha, my own eccentric and employee, was minding my antique shop there, and her cousin, Jack, who built my log home there, and Barbara, his significant other, were now babysitting Sneakers at their own place just outside of town. I laughed, not sure who got into more trouble, Martha or my cat.

  To tell you the truth, I think I beat them both by a mile.

  I seem to have this knack for attracting trouble, like bees to honey. I laughed as I reached for my glass of wine, and then suddenly stopped mid-sip. …Something flashed off to my right in my peripheral vision from the garden below over by the hedges. I leaned forward for a better look.

  I caught a glimpse of a hand hastily retreating through the garden gate below. I paused to watch four cats pounce on the food. I had no idea so many roamed the villa’s property and quickly stood to get a better look over the fence and hedge to see exactly who it was.

  I only caught a partial glimpse of a dark-colored car, whose diesel engine was still running next to my garden gate. Unfortunately, the tall, leafy hedge concealed most of it.

  A moment later a jogger ran up the hill and the car began rocking back and forth, as a harsh growl erupted into a nonstop vicious barking frenzy. The man was startled briefly, but then kept on running up the street, as the restricted image of a loosely clothed, shadowy figure quickly jumped into the car, and then sped off into the approaching dusk to another house on Avenue du Goulet.

  Was it the cat lady? Probably. Then exactly like Luc had previously described. Poof! She was gone! Just like that!

  Chapter 12

  I Risk it, Task It & Take My Basket

  It was Tuesday; market day in St. Agulf, the next town over from Les Issambres, which was on the way to St. Raphaël. It was worth the effort and risk of sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for such special treats. The twice a week market offered locally raised meats, fish, cheese, produce, trinkets and anything else you could think of.

  It was a difficult task maintaining an even foothold with all the locals and tourists vying for the best deals of the day, as I was gently pushed and shoved, while working my way through the boisterous, animated crowd.

  Martine had told me that you could pretty much tell the locals from the others by the well-worn baskets they always used to store their purchases, and by the way they bargained passionately for the best price. I patted my fanny pack, holding my wallet, wiser now, although I was still clueless about who stole my credit card back in Ocean City.

  Now, speaking fluent French? That was another matter.

  I wandered around, picking up whatever looked and smelled appealing using my rudimentary French. It was barely enough to get me by, and barely enough to possibly get some insults thrown in my direction with my occasional …okay, constant mangling of French phrases.

  Some thought it was humorous and gave me the benefit of the doubt, as merely an American making an effort at conversation in their language. Others either dismissed me or waved me off with impatience. I really couldn’t blame them. After all, I was in their country and should converse properly.

  Years before Martine had told me to take it all in stride and learn from my conversational faux pas. I had to laugh, because sometimes my life felt like one gigantic faux pas, but somehow I always managed to learn a few life lessons, while making new friends and strengthening friendships with old ones.

  I was admiring some bracelets when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Startled, I turned around. “Martine! I didn’t know you were coming to the market so early. We could have come here together.”

  She didn’t look good.

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t sure I would make it today. I’ve had the most terrible headache from all the stress over this dreadful situation concerning the pets. I am …what you always say …beside myself with worry!”

  How would I explain that her large Labrador, Sonia, appeared safe at the moment because of her sheer size? She would think I was demented for such a bizarre thought and my completely unproven conclusions. Sonia was her baby and she was anxious about her. For the time being I said nothing regarding my crazy theories.

  “You shouldn’t worry so much, Martine. Now that I am staying at the property next door, I don’t think we will be having much activity in the garden.”

  She frowned. “But what if they decide to go to another garden, like mine?”

  I tried logic. “First off, all the other gardens are not as extensive as Curat’s. Secondly, as far as your garden is concerned, you and Jean are there, as well as Paul and Claudine who live in your guesthouse and maintain your property and house. There is always someone there.

  “On the other hand, Curat’s villa has sat dormant for almost a year. Besides Luc tending the gardens once a week, there is no one around. Therefore, it became the garden least likely to be suspected of being tampered with. I have to admit, they thought this out very well, whoever is doing it.”

  Martine shook her head, frustrated. “So, now we wait?”

  I linked my arm with hers and laughed. “No. We stop at a café to relax, then we go shopping together, and then I leave to confront your neighbors.”

  Martine chuckled. “Samantha. I wish I were able to hide in your pocket for that spectacle. I know how they are. I do not think they will make it very easy for you.”

  I grabbed my basket and moved us both in the direction of a small outdoor café. “It is a risk I am willing to take and a task I might regret, but I will do it for your baby, Sonia!”

  “How do you say it?” Martine asked, trying to get it right. “Is your new mystery book going to the dogs?” She abruptly stopped walking. “I forgot, Madame Sorrell’s cat, too! …Oh! It is all so terrible!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of it!” I said confidently, but then felt a tinge of uncertainty.

  What had I gotten myself into …again?

  Chapter 13

  Not Exactly Waxing Poetic

  I held out my hand. “Monsieur and Madame Toussout. I am sure you remember me from my last few visits to Martine’s? My name is Samantha Jamison?”

  No hand was coming my way, so I self-consciously lowered mine.

  Okay, so this initial meeting was colder than I expected.

  The two of them were sitting poolside, checking me out from head to toe. Madame Toussout spoke first.

  “Martine mentioned you would be coming here to ask questions.”

  Her husband grunted, gesturing for me to take the only other vacant chair. I sat and plunged ahead. “Yes, well…”

  But Monsieur Toussout quickly interrupted. “We know why you are here and I agreed to talk to you, but not for long. I know how everyone feels about us and want to be left alone. This whole matter is very upsetting to my wife. Our dog is no longer with us, so my wife is suffering all over again, now that she knows Pepere was not only stolen, but buried so coldly in Curat’s garden, like some garbage!”

  I shook my head in dismay. “Yes, it really is a very unfortunate situation. I can
understand how upset you both must be. It is like losing a part of one’s family.”

  Madame’s eyes teared up. “Oui! Exactly! And I would like whoever did this terrible thing caught and punished!”

  I intervened before she got carried away.

  “Do you suspect one of your neighbors?”

  Monsieur Toussout leaned forward. “We know the neighbors don’t like us, but to do this terrible thing to get even for the trees, plus kill their own pet? No! Ridiculous! The question is, who would do such evil, and why?”

  I didn’t have the slightest idea, but held his stare. “Did you hear anything unusual going on up there at night?”

  “No.” he replied, unwaveringly. “We are both heavy sleepers and heard nothing.”

  His wife then turned to him. “…But what about the…”

  He put his hand firmly on her arm, cutting her off. “We have heard nothing, just a stray cat or two and that terrible woman’s incessant barking dog across the street.”

  What was he hiding?

  “But I thought her dog was ...disposed of, too.”

  Madame Toussout started to cry. “Yes, yes, her, too.”

  He glared. “Yes, that is true, but that does not excuse how ill-mannered that woman was to let her dog carry on like that. The smallest noise would start that dog barking. I was tempted to dispose of her myself, once or twice.”

  His wife interceded. “Please excuse him. My husband has such a volatile temper when it comes to this matter. He would never do such a thing.” She tried smiling, but couldn’t pull it off, then turned to him hesitantly. “…Oui?”

  Uncomfortable, I stood, knowing I wouldn’t get much more. “Well, I’d better go. Thank you for your time.”

  There was nothing nuanced about their dialogue.

  Chapter 14

  Another Chapter & Another Neighbor

  I know that at the time I made the commitment, I meant well, really I did. I’d given Martine my word to help, but I was now regretting it. This had been my first chance at getting some useful information and I had gotten nowhere.

  You know, I should be sunning myself on the beach instead of trying to finesse something out of people who didn’t want to be finessed. If I thought Tissout’s reaction to me and my meddling was bad, what was I going to get from the other neighbors? Probably not much.

  Still, I purposefully made my way up the steep, narrow street to the widow Sorrel’s house. I had promised Martine I would do this for her, but realized I’d been swayed by emotion rather than common sense and should have begged off. Was I out of my league? I hoped not.

  I stood before Sorrell’s gate, saw the speaker, pressed the button and announced myself. After a minute, the gates slowly swung open and I entered the property, and then climbed up the curved driveway. She was already standing at her open doorway waiting crossly, arms folded, glaring.

  I squared my shoulders, braced myself for more rejection, and smiled. “Madame Sorrell, how are you? It is nice to see you again.”

  “I cannot say the same, knowing why you are here.”

  I stopped in place, taken aback by her warm response. “I’m sorry, a wrong choice of words. I know what a bad time you are going through. And with the death of your Persian cat so soon after Henri’s passing. It must be horrible.”

  She shrugged. “Considering what has gone on around here, it is. I have enough problems and now all this!” she said, waving her arm, gesturing toward Curat’s gardens. She shook her head back and forth and motioned for me to follow. “Come in. We can talk inside. These neighbors of mine always have to know what is going on. Our meeting is none of their business.”

  I had never been inside her maison. It was tightly shuttered from the hot sun, but as my eyes adjusted in the dim light, I noticed beautiful lace curtains, Impressionist paintings, and plump couches upholstered in worn velvet next to an overstuffed armchair. She lived very well and her lifestyle now might be taken away from her like her cat, Clouseau. How sad.

  “This is so warm and inviting,” I said admiringly.

  She nodded as she leaned on her cane. “Yes, it is.”

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked, cautiously.

  She gazed lovingly around the room. “Over fifty years.”

  I frowned. The impact she faced in losing half her home and her security had me speechless by the enormity of it.

  Then she shook her head, grimacing. “I know. Imagine sharing all this. Ah, French law! I lose full ownership. Half goes to Henri’s children from his first marriage. Currently, I am dealing with Henri’s death, wills, the law, and now Clouseau, and so much more…”

  Why would someone cause this old woman more pain?

  Chapter 15

  Red Light, Red Faced & Seeing Red

  After learning not much more at Sorrell’s, I decided to knock off the last entry on my list of interviews. As I slowly approached the small walk-in gate, I noticed it wasn’t locked, so I entered the side yard entrance and walked right up to the door. Forniet’s driveway was down the hill behind the house facing southwest. This entrance was directly opposite my driveway and gate, so it was much easier to access.

  I rang the doorbell. Maybe I’d get lucky and she wouldn’t be home. Although I didn’t think I wanted to come back later after dark when her notorious red light was beaming brightly. My reputation for trouble was bad enough, but the ‘after dark’ misinterpretation I didn’t need.

  I forced a smile as the front door whipped open.

  “Philippe! I’m not ready yet,” she shouted, petulantly.

  There stood a tall redhead, wearing nothing but a towel, with her long hair flowing down to, well, down to there…

  I’m sure my skin color was that of a red cherry, forgive the pun here, and I was completely at a loss for words.

  “Oh! You’re not Philippe!” she said, looking left and right, then straight at me. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want? I am in a hurry, as you can see!”

  For what? A towel convention? Obviously, a small one!

  “Martine sent me?” I said, hoping to jog her memory.

  In seconds, a light bulb went on. “Yes! Yes! Of course! I remember now.” Abruptly her pitch and impatience escalated. “What a travesty! I am devastated! How could someone have killed my little Fifi! She was such a cute thing! The sweetest poodle you would ever find!”

  Apparently with a set of lungs to match all that barking, I thought, remembering Monsieur Toussout’s remarks about her incessant barking at the slightest provocation.

  “I need to ask you a few questions and won’t be long.”

  She stood with her arms crossed. “Well, hurry up then!”

  I figured I wasn’t being invited inside and dove in. “When all the neighbor’s pets were disappearing, did you notice anything that appeared unusual going on over at Curat’s property?”

  “You are kidding! No? Why would I pay attention to an old man’s property? I have my own problems.”

  …Okay. I took another route. “Have you heard or seen anything out of the ordinary going on lately in the area?”

  “Perhaps. Let me try to remember. I did see a small truck in front of Curat’s gate one evening. I waited for someone and he was late. It was eleven o’clock. I remember exactly, because I looked at the clock, and was furious because he promised to be here by ten, but then that voice… Oh!” She went still and paled.

  I had to keep her talking. “What truck? What voice?”

  “Diesel. Did I say voice? No! I must go. Excusez-moi.”

  Chapter 16

  Signs, Suspicions & Speculations

  So there I was again, another evening sitting on my terrace, sipping wine, and thinking things over. My open laptop, mouse and blinking cursor had been busy with countless unanswered questions that I was still tossing around.

  Okay, so Monsieur Toussout was not exactly thrilled with his neighbors, or for that matter, me either. Me, I could understand, but the neighbors? There had to be
more.

  What exactly caused his finger-in-the-eye animosity?

  It was obvious he had a temper and his wife was intimidated by it. I would have to ask Martine for her take on their relationship. Martine and Jean had spent many summers here. Hopefully, she could give me her opinions on what happened to cause such a rift between the neighbors.

  The widow Sorrell was a mixed bag. I saw her light up when talking of the past, but her present legal and future prospects might be worth looking into.

  Now, the filly across the street was of another color. Red. On the surface, she seemed sincere in her petulant attitude toward being a kept woman. Why not act demanding and bitchy? So, that didn’t mean very much as to the accuracy of Luc’s words that there were plenty of rumors verifying the gossip, but her behavior really didn’t mean all that much. I’ve known some married women who qualified in that category, too.

  Now, who could afford such a large house overlooking the sea in this neighborhood in France? And as far as her genuine distress at losing her dog, that I believed, but what about that voice she had remembered, and then refused to tell me about?

  Whose voice had she heard? Was it familiar?

  I remember she became quiet, wearing a strange look on her face, as though she had said something she shouldn’t have, and then cut herself and me off.

  Who was this Philippe? Friend? Sugar daddy?

  I would have to ask Martine if the name Philippe belonged to anyone she knew in the area.

  About to continue on, I stopped cold. Martine never asked me to interview two significant people who lived here all year round; her two house caretakers, Paul and Claudine. Why not?

  Did they know something Martine didn’t want revealed?

  I let that mentally roll around, but quickly dismissed it as a completely ridiculous notion on my part. It probably had not occurred to her, that was all. But still…