Thursday morning, the wind and rain had returned. Instead of sketching, she settled on the chaise with a book about French costumes through time. It had been a flea market find for ten euros after some bargaining, only slightly foxed, its page edges yellowing and its binding slightly loose, but rich with color illustrations. Rococo ladies in beribboned gowns, men wearing powdered wigs and vests with ruffled shirts. Not that she’d use them for inspiration, really. Her favorite historical period was earlier, and her chosen models were Burgundy’s hardworking peasants, even if they were idealized.
After a lunch of cheese and bread, she put on boots that could stand up to the wet, a sweater at least two sizes too large that draped almost to her knees, and the old black coat that was not waterproof but had a collar she could turn all the way up to her nose if necessary. She was hesitant for an instant when she saw her reflection, definitely that of a witch, although not so bad for a fifty-five-year-old, as she pulled on her black wool cap and reached for her tote bag. Funny how foreigners thought “France” and pictured Provence on a sunny day with lavender and van Gogh’s irises and sunflowers. Truth was, if Reigny didn’t get a sunny day soon, she would scream.
The longtime population showed little sign of the siege mentality that gripped Katherine. People walked briskly but seemingly cheerfully in Avallon, stopping to speak to acquaintances, tipping their umbrellas to fend off blowing rain, ducking into shops to look at everything from lingerie to hardware. It was less than two weeks before Christmas and there was a sense of happy purpose everywhere. Katherine eyed a hand-knitted sweater for Michael, but it was shockingly expensive. A tweedy cap with a short bill like the one the butcher had been wearing the other day looked useful, although even small luxuries like that would have to wait until she was sure his good fortune was not going to go up in smoke. He never wore a hat other than his Stetson, anyway, the real thing and good in any weather, he told her every time she doubted.
Before she was loaded down with groceries, she decided to visit the church. Maybe a table in the foyer would have flyers like the one she’d found on the floor at the museum. The big wooden doors weren’t locked, but it was as chilly inside as only cold stone could get when she pulled one open and stepped in. No lights and no one else present, although there was a folding table set up near the holy water font. A few small stacks of announcements, one with a drawing of the church’s exterior at the top. A flyer about the church’s history and medieval layout. Nothing with that symbol on the paper she’d found at the museum. The schedules showed the only Masses offered here were at different times from those on her scrap of paper, and all were on Sundays. No paper with scriptures, either.
As she checked for wall boxes where something similar might be held, the door behind her opened and a woman covered completely against the rain ducked into the foyer. The woman shook her open umbrella, stamped water off her boots, and pushed her hood back off her head. Only then did Katherine recognize the woman from Beaune who had been at her house so recently. At the same time, Josephine Lacrois noticed her and exclaimed, “Madame Goff, how lovely to see you. I had no idea anyone else was here yet. I came to lay out materials about some lectures in Beaune that I think the locals might want to attend.” She approached, detouring to one side to dip two fingers into the stone font and touch them to her forehead as she made the sign of the cross.
“I didn’t realize you were Catholic,” she said as she unbuttoned her coat.
“Oh, I’m not. I just stopped in to see…” Katherine stopped. She wasn’t ready to share the paper she’d found with Mme Lacrois, nor explain where she’d found it or why it interested her. “To see if there’s a Christmas Mass here in Avallon even if there won’t be any in Reigny. I like the pageantry.”
“Of course, although our faith is less about pageantry than piety, and a special concern for the poor around the world.”
“I do understand. I suppose I’m thinking more of the U.S., where there is sometimes an acting out of the manger scene, you know, with children and singing.” Katherine chided herself mentally for her description, which didn’t do the holiday proceedings justice, but focused on the topic of her visit. “Here in Burgundy, you have such ancient traditions, and a rich heritage, and a vast trove of art to draw on. I recently saw a handout with some kind of scripture and a lovely piece of medieval iconography on it.”
“I suppose it could have been ours, the group I belong to, although that group meets in Beaune, not in Avallon, and most certainly not in Reigny-sur-Canne, which seems to be without any interest in the good works of the Church. So disappointing, but what can you do?”
Josephine frowned and fluffed up her hair before turning back to Katherine. “The priest I told you about visits our group, to keep us informed. Such an inspiring figure.” She looked past Katherine with a beatific smile, as if seeing this great man over Katherine’s shoulder. “There is such need and we are blessed to be able to help. Here, I’ll show you.” She opened the cardboard box she had packed in plastic and handed Katherine a flyer.
Bingo. It was almost identical, although the verse may have been different from the one in Katherine’s tote bag. The little flyer was tucked under the flap of a donation envelope. “Yes, it looks very like the one I saw. May I keep it?” Katherine said.
“But of course. This is my first time meeting with the women’s group here and I thought I would bring these to share. And, while the Reverend Father won’t be in Avallon, I shall invite you to drive down with me to Beaune in a few weeks to hear him in person when he speaks to us about his work in Africa. I am sure you will be moved. Maybe you can bring your husband?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s his sort of thing,” Katherine said.
“You might tell him there are several men who attend the missionary lectures. Although,” Josephine said, “I am sympathetic. My own gentleman friend will not venture anywhere near the church.” She turned a bright smile on Katherine. “But I will prevail one day, you shall see.”
“That’s lovely, the boyfriend, I mean. Will he be visiting Reigny?”
Josephine’s attention was distracted by her box of leaflets, and when she had pulled a stack out and put them on the table, she only said, “Well, lovely to see you again, and do tell your husband about the lecture.”
“Thank you,” Katherine said, already practicing her excuses for declining the offer of being cooped up with the devout new neighbor. “I will mention it, but, I realize I’m late picking up Jeannette—you haven’t met her yet, I don’t think, she’s the only teenager in Reigny—and she’ll be standing in this rain waiting.”
* * *
Katherine didn’t appreciate the big, American-style supermarket that had come to the outskirts of town. She had gotten used to the regimen of stopping in a handful of market stalls and specialty shops that constituted the traditional European method of shopping. Hand-wrapped roasts and farm-fresh cabbages, lovingly displayed tomatoes handled only by the bustling farmer’s wife after you pointed to the ones you wanted, and little baskets of fragile, early strawberries from Switzerland tempted her more than plastic-wrapped meats with congealed liquid trapped inside, and tumbled bins of well-traveled apples. But she did occasionally slink into the massive store when her shopping list included staples, always hoping she didn’t bump into someone she knew.
It was ridiculous, of course. If she did chance on Mme Robilier or the charming young man from the pharmacy, it was because they, too, wanted cases of Badoit water rather than the few bottles they could carry back from the little épicerie closer to home. Still, she hurried as much as possible, and was glad to get out of the gigantic parking lot—another untraditional feature of French contemporary life—and back on the road. She had almost left town before she remembered she was to pick Jeannette up, and she circled back from the main road into the cramped old streets, preparing her apology for being late.
Jeannette was nowhere in sight, not huddled under an awning or fooling around with friends. In fact, there were no students on the street. Katherine glanced at her watch and squeezed into a space half on the sidewalk, prepared to wait. The girl wouldn’t have taken the bus, would she? If one of the boys from school was on it, perhaps? She decided she would wait for thirty minutes. If the bus didn’t come, it would mean it had already been through, and Jeannette was certainly on it. But if the girl was sitting in a café, paying no attention, this would give her a whole half hour to remember the meeting place.
Forty minutes later, the bus had come, but gone again. No Jeannette. Katherine was annoyed. She walked to the two closest cafés and peeked in, then looked in the clothing store, the hat shop, and a tiny newspaper and magazine shop wedged in between them. The light was failing, the dogs would be hungry, and the house dark. Jeannette must have gotten a ride or perhaps there was an earlier bus. She couldn’t wait any longer. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. A few early stars winked from a break in the clouds as it got darker, and it even looked as though the weather was changing, no warmer but at least drier for a few days.
* * *
After she had put away the groceries, fed Gracey and Fideaux, and opened a can of sardines as a treat for the yellow cat, Katherine exchanged her wet boots for woolen socks and the funny Dutch clogs, as always a vide-grenier purchase, in this case for almost nothing because who, other than that eccentric American artist, would think of walking around on clunky wooden shoes? Her small feet had a tendency to slide around in their carved cavities, and they made a lot of noise that had none of the rhythm of her tap shoes, but she enjoyed the conceit of being a Dutch girl on occasion.
A veal chop cooking in a bath of white wine, carrots, and potatoes gave off a comforting aroma, and she had time to read and sip some of the same wine while they were gently stewing. The problem, she admitted to herself after ten minutes of restlessly moving between the kitchen and her cozy chaise, was that she was not going to rest until she knew Jeannette was home, doubtless having forgotten all about their plan to come back to Reigny together. “It’s no use, Gracey. Why doesn’t Jean buy a cheap phone? Never mind,” she said as she pulled on her boots and buttoned up a coat that wasn’t wet, “I know he can’t afford the monthly charges and can’t figure out a way to steal them.”
Turning the burner down as low as it would go, Katherine banged her way out the door and walked rapidly downhill and around the corner. The lights were on at Jean’s house and she could hear the little boys chattering and arguing, as usual. The dogs barked as she got to the gate and before she could call out, the front door opened and Jean peered out. “Qui est la?” he shouted into the night air.
“It’s me, Jean. Katherine Goff. I came to make sure Jeannette made it home.”
Jean, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and a cigarette hanging from his lips, darted out and met her at the gate, shushing the dogs roughly. He opened it for her and she followed him back into the house. It didn’t surprise her to see that the interior looked a lot like the tangle of secondhand objects that littered his courtyard. In this case, it was clothing and food boxes and newspapers and odds and ends of every kind—broken toys, a fishing pole, some big plastic jugs, a lamp with no lamp shade. Her brain tried to sort everything she was registering, but it was too much. She turned her back on it and the boys who had stopped shouting and were looking at her with intense curiosity.
“I came to make sure Jeannette got home safely.”
Jean looked warily at her. “’Nette’s with you, isn’t she?”
Katherine’s heart fluttered. “No. She was supposed to meet me on the same corner in Avallon where we usually meet, but she wasn’t there.”
Jean took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it as if it held the answer to this puzzle. “Then where is she?” he said, squinting at her.
“I hoped she was here. I waited for over half an hour until the second bus came and went. I—I—hoped she had come home on the first one. Could she be at a friend’s?”
“’Nette doesn’t have any friends,” said the older of the two boys, at which good joke they both started laughing and poking each other.
“Tais-toi,” Jean said—shouted really—at the boys. They stopped laughing instantly and retreated to a worn sofa in the corner. There were many ways to say “shut up” in French and she would never know all of them. This version was clear, however, at least in this household.
Jean was, Katherine reminded herself, not the worst father a girl could have. He was no role model, being a small-time property thief and only occasional breadwinner, but he did love Jeannette and, presumably, the boys, in his way. Jean looked worried now, and Katherine was too. It had been almost completely dark when she had given up and come back, and there were no more buses this late. “So, could she have gone to someone else’s house?”
“She always comes home in time to cook dinner,” Jean said. “And everyone she goes to school with lives too far away to walk. If she didn’t have a bike, she couldn’t go to a schoolmate’s house in the next village.” At the mention of dinner, the youngest boy got up and edged toward the kitchen. His brother was too engaged in following this development—a missing sister—to budge or speak.
Katherine explained where she had looked for Jeannette. “I wonder if she could have stayed late at the musée doing something for Madame? I didn’t think to go back there. I believe I can reach Madame by telephone. Shall I go home and try?”
Jean nodded and reached for a jacket hung on a peg by the door. “I will drive to her school friend’s house in L’Isle-sur-Serein and ask. Roger,” he said, turning to the older boy, “find something to eat but do not turn the stove on. If ’Nette comes home, go up to Mme Goff’s house and let her know.”
“And I’ll come back and leave a message about the museum,” Katherine said. A hard knot was forming in her stomach. It wasn’t like Jeannette to disappear. Sure, she hid in trees in the good weather, and had been known to slip around town after dark to peer in people’s windows, although the girl didn’t realize her neighbors knew that. But she was a good girl and always came home to take care of the motherless boys. Katherine made a promise to herself that if Michael’s finances improved, she would buy the girl a mobile phone and pay for the account. It was intolerable that no one could reach her.
They parted at the gate, not before Katherine heard the boys begin to squabble. Back at her house, shivering from the colder air, possibly due to the clear skies and lack of rain, Katherine checked on her dinner, then got out her little address book and looked up the listing for the Musée du Costume. No, Madame said, having answered the phone in a quavering voice. “You frightened me, dear Mme Goff. No one ever calls me this late. I was afraid it was the gendarmes again. But the girl came only for a few minutes today, with your friend, and then they left.”
“My friend? Who do you mean?”
“That very tall one who knocks into things, the English. Jeannette said she wanted to see the salon where, well, you comprehend.”
Katherine did comprehend, all too well. If Pippa had pulled Jeannette away from their meeting place, and caused all this worry and fear, Katherine was going to have a hard time not showing her anger. “Merci, Madame, I am sorry to have bothered you, but this is helpful. I live close to Mme Hathaway, and I will go look for Jeannette there right now. Bonsoir, goodnight, and thank you again.”
The smells from the kitchen should have been enticing, but Katherine had lost her appetite. If Jeannette wasn’t with Pippa, there would be an all-out search, possibly involving the gendarmes. If she was with the writer, probably being grilled about the murder scene, Katherine would be furious with both of them for their thoughtlessness.
She remembered the two little boys, probably looking for cereal or crackers, maybe even a bit scared under their childish swagger, and looked at the veal bubbling on the stove. “Oh, to hell with it,” she said to no one at all, and pulled out a casserole dish. Five minutes later, she parked at Jean’s house and headed through the gate with the dish and a baguette. In their father’s absence and undoubtedly without his approval, they had let the dogs in, a mother and her two nine-month-old pups. She knocked, then opened the door to find them piled on the couch. As she suspected, the little one was eating crackers out of a box and the older one, Roger, was drinking a bottle of chocolate milk. The TV was on.
“Good news. I think I know where Jeannette is, or at least who she’s with, a neighbor. In the meantime, Roger, you get out two bowls and have some of this delicious stew, all right?” The boys didn’t have to be invited twice. Their faces lit up like Christmas morning and in a moment they were sitting at a table, forks at the ready as she dished out her dinner into two big bowls. “Now, if your father comes home before I’m back with Jeannette, you tell him I think I have found her, okay?” Roger nodded, his mouth too full of food to answer, and Katherine left, telling herself she was not going to take two more of Jean’s children under her wing. One was plenty, as tonight proved.
Pippa’s car was in her driveway, the lights were on in the house, and, sure enough, when Pippa answered her loud knock, there was Jeannette visible, slumped on a chair, eating an apple. Katherine’s first impulse was to rant at them both for scaring her and Jean, but she counted to ten as fast as she could before saying, “Everyone’s looking for you, Jeannette. You were supposed to meet me in Avallon, remember? Your father’s gone to your classmate’s house in L’Isle-sur-Serein looking for you.”
Jeannette jumped up. “Merde,” she said, “what time is it? I need to get home before Papa does.” She grabbed her jacket and backpack and pushed past Pippa and Katherine into the dark without waiting for a response.
Katherine let her go. It was only a few minutes’ distance and would give the girl some time to realize how many people she had frightened. Instead, she turned to Pippa. “What were you thinking? Did Jeannette not mention that I was planning to pick her up at the bus stop hours ago?”
Pippa’s eyes had gotten bigger and she put a hand over her mouth. The color rushed up into her face, which wasn’t, Katherine took time to notice, terribly flattering to her. “No, I had no idea,” she said, stammering. “Will you come in? I am so sorry. She didn’t say anything about meeting you.”
Katherine stepped over the threshold so Pippa could close the door against the chill that was wafting in. But she was angry and in no mood to cover it up. “You have a phone. I have a phone. Even if Jeannette’s family doesn’t, you could easily have let me know. As it is, Pippa, you’ve scared us all—Jeannette’s brothers, me, and even her father, which is saying something.”
“I am dreadfully sorry, really I am, but I had no idea anyone would be looking for her. I say, it’s rotten. No wonder you’re mad.”
“What happened?” Katherine shook her head at Pippa’s invitation to take off her coat and have a cup of tea.
“Well, you see, I was walking past the bus stop and thinking I might drop by the museum to find out if there was any news, and it was raining, and when I saw Jeannette, I stopped to say hello. I asked her if she’d like some hot chocolate. She said yes.”
“I looked in the windows of the cafés near that corner and she wasn’t there.”
“I expect we’d already left by then. I asked her if she’d come with me to the museum and perhaps let me see the room where the murder took place.”
“Again? The police haven’t said that’s where it happened,” Katherine said, and immediately regretted it.
“Really? What have they said?”
“Never mind that for now. Did Madame let you in?”
“Her daughter did when she saw it was Jeannette. I think she, well, perhaps both the director’s daughter and Jeannette, really, thought I was a bit strange for wanting to see the room, but the daughter said I wasn’t the only one, that maybe they should charge extra or something, according to Jeannette. Anyway, Jeannette took me up.”
She sat down in the same chair Jeannette had vacated and began to drum her fingers on the table. “Jeannette told me the things the mannequin had been modeling were strewn around. There was so much happening, and I didn’t notice details.” She sighed. “I don’t know what I expected to find, but there was nothing to see. Oh”—her face brightened—“but I did ask Madame’s daughter if the mannequins were ever dressed with gold crosses. She said that wouldn’t be correct for the periods, even if they did use real gold jewelry, which they never would. So, not all was lost.” She looked up hopefully.
In spite of herself, Katherine said, “And the wig? Has it shown up?” Pippa had talked about the damn thing so often that Katherine realized she was accepting it as a clue even though it had no bearing on the case. Maybe Pippa was a better mystery writer than she gave her credit for.
“Jeannette never saw one, although the shoes the mannequin had been wearing were across the room. The police looked at them, but left them behind since it was obvious Madame hadn’t been wearing them.”
“Obvious? And how did you hear all this?”
“The curator’s daughter told Jeannette, who told me. The shoes were tiny and narrow, too narrow for a middle-aged woman who stood on her feet all day, I should think. She’s annoyed—the daughter, that is—because the wig cost money. Jeannette said it was brown, and might have looked like a dead rat if the garbagemen saw it.” She shuddered.
Katherine’s anger had drained away. Jeannette was home safely, and all she wanted to do now was get back to her house, fix another omelet, since the boys had gotten her dinner, and fluff pillows or something in honor of Michael’s homecoming.
“Why don’t you take your handsome namesake cop out for coffee and grill him?” she said, managing a smile.
Pippa smiled back. “Blimey, as they say back home, I might just do that.”
Katherine opened the door behind her and said, “Next time you’re inspired to lead a teenager astray from her commitments, call me first, okay?”
“Next time I know she has a commitment, I will,” Pippa said, her head tilted to one side slightly, her spiky hairdo and round eyes making her look just a bit like a cheeky cockatoo. “I hope you’ll talk to the girl and explain that she upset you.”
“Right,” Katherine said, and closed the door.