Katherine rarely bothered to put on her watch, but she had this morning right after her bath and now she checked it every ten minutes. The train wasn’t due until four but she was dressed and had cooked her own recipe, a combination of a traditional French Bourguignon and the simpler stew she normally threw together—the difference being a shockingly expensive amount of mushrooms and half of a fifteen-euro bottle of red wine that was only possible because she put it on the magic credit card. It was bubbling quietly in the oven. The dogs, sensing something was up, or possibly only smelling the beef, were prowling, bumping up against her, staring at her through the tangle of their bangs. The yellow cat, in contrast, was sound asleep in her chair, close to the heater, and had been since breakfast.
There had been frost on the grass when Katherine first got up, but it was gone now except in the shadiest part of the garden, where it clung to the withered hollyhock stalks that Katherine had neglected to chop down before the rain began. She wondered if she should go out and start the car, to make sure it would be ready for the twenty-minute drive to the train station, but dismissed that as anxiety rather than prudence. She stood staring out the window at the mess that was a winter garden, wondering if all gardeners had the bouts of depression that she did in December and January. By the middle of February, she would have begun to plan for the season ahead and there might be days when she had the energy to do the garden cleanup, rake the decomposing pear tree leaves that blanketed the ground between the house and the gate, cut the roses back, and daydream about the lilacs in the corner. The lilacs would surely do better this year. After all, she had been talking to them earnestly for many months, promising them more sun and attention.
When the phone rang, she jumped. When she jumped, the dogs began to bark. As she hurried to get to the little table that held the phone, she banged into the cat’s perch and it raised its head long enough to give her a slit-eyed look of irritation.
“Hello? Madame Lacrois? Yes, this is me.” The woman’s voice filled her ear with what seemed at first torrents of words, but slowly organized themselves into sentences that Katherine understood, more or less. “Ah, I see. You want to know if I’d like to ride with you to Beaune tomorrow? To hear Father … I’m afraid I—”
The voice rode over her attempt to explain for another few minutes. She grasped that Josephine would be meeting her gentleman Catholic friend for lunch, since he lived in Beaune and never came up to this little outpost of rural civilization, and Katherine was invited. When Madame stopped, Katherine began again, in French and slowly, to be sure she was saying what she intended. “You are very kind, but I’m afraid I can’t. My husband is coming home shortly and tomorrow will be the first day we’ve had together in weeks. So much to take care of, you know.”
Mme Lacrois began again and Katherine couldn’t resist glancing at her watch. Really? Had it only been five minutes since she last checked?
“Thank you, thank you so much. As I said, religious events are not really my—” How did one say “cup of tea” in French and would the French understand that? “—my particular interest, but I do appreciate your thinking of me.”
More talk, the summary of which seemed to be that this was different, really quite thrilling. Katherine finally made it clear she wasn’t interested, and old man Lacrois’s granddaughter gave up, at least for today. Katherine also gave up waiting and decided she would drive the twenty minutes to the train station and sit in the little café across the street with her book and a café au lait and wait for Michael. It was only an hour and a half until the train arrived, no time at all.
The sun was shining, or, if not precisely shining, was aiming its weak December rays in the direction of Burgundy’s pastures and tidy forest fringes. The drive was a pretty one, even when the fields were barren. The gently swelling hills and specks of towns visible, each with its church spire rising modestly, were daily inspirations for her oil paintings. Katherine took a moment to thank fate and Michael for depositing her here amid the placid, white Charolais cattle and the abundant local cheeses and the narrow roads and cobblestone streets of this ancient place. Amazing, really, to think that Joan of Arc might have seen some of the same views as she marched through Burgundy.
Daydreaming, she almost missed the sharp turn that took her into the homely town where the train stopped. A series of twists along the last mile of the route and counterintuitive turnings finally brought her to the station parking lot. This was the station for the fast train from Paris, not the station that served Avallon. As she sipped her coffee and looked out the window at the tracks, she wondered if the Americans from the Bellegarde tour had all made their connections home. They seemed so determined to leave and Katherine hoped they wouldn’t take away only the impression of the salon and the corpse, but admitted if she had been one of them, the memory hardest to ignore would be that of finding a dead body in such bizarre circumstances. They would likely tell the story a score of times in the next few weeks.
Katherine had not said anything to Michael. When they had celebrated his news and she had extracted as much about what it could mean from her husband, then she would fill him in. By that time, the gendarmes might have arrested the killer and Michael would not be tempted to admonish her to stay out of it, as he was wont to do, well, had at least done last summer.
Several people in the café got up suddenly and Katherine noticed a flurry of car traffic across the street. The train was coming. Hastily paying, Katherine joined the small group headed across the road, her heart beating a little faster. The sleek train pulled slowly into the station and she waited in a clear spot where Michael would be sure to see her.
* * *
Katherine giggled, and Michael raised his head from the pillow to look at her questioningly. “Oh dear, if I go into Avallon tomorrow I must be careful not to walk past the chocolatier’s shop.”
“I know this means something, but I wonder if I want to know what.” Michael grinned at his wife, rolled over and sat at the edge of the bed. “Much as I hate to do it, the dogs need a walk before it gets any later.”
“Do you think that’s why they’re scratching at the bedroom door? I think it’s that they missed you as much, or almost as much, as I did.” Katherine reached over and ran her hand down his back, reveling in the shape of his shoulders and promising herself she would paint him, undoubtedly clothed since he would be shocked to be asked to model nude.
The beef and mushrooms had been perfectly delicious, tender, with the wine infused into every bite. She had served the plain boiled potatoes Michael liked with the stew, and the rest of the red wine had paired nicely with the pear tart at the end of the meal. It had been a warm homecoming, with the big black dog and the small white one taking turns laying their heads on Michael’s lap and gazing up adoringly at him. Even the yellow cat had deigned to come down from its perch and join the family celebration from the top of a bookcase behind his chair, its tail swishing rhythmically.
Michael had talked about the good news in bits and pieces, about Eric’s seeming sincerity about having Michael and Betty Lou open for them, backed up by the delivery of a contract covering the tour, the shared expenses and revenue, the ability to sell CDs and sing “Raging Love.” Having heard Betty Lou and Michael’s arrangement of the song, Eric thought it would be cool—his words, Michael said—for the band to then play its version. Fans, he told Michael, insisted on that song anyway. It was one of their anthems.
“How did you feel, hearing that?”
“A lot better with the new agreement in hand. I’ll be getting royalties from the new version and J.B. tells me the more the Leopards play their version, the more listeners will play the new one, so it’s a win all around.”
“And playing before the big crowds at a Leopards concert. Are you nervous?”
“Damn right. I’ll have a knotted gut, at least at first. But Betty Lou and I are working on that. She’ll say hello and talk about us first and will open with one of her old songs to warm up the crowd. I’ll play backup but not sing. Then, here’s hoping, I’ll kind of drift in to the next song and we’ll move through the set.”
“And the big number?”
“We’ll end with that, we think, although J.B. isn’t sure. He might have us do that next to last and finish with a faster, upbeat song. Betty Lou would like that. She doesn’t want ‘Raging Love’ to be the last thing audiences hear from us before the Leopards do their version.”
Katherine was happy listening to Michael. In the space of six months, he had grown in confidence and ambition, from sitting on the patio tinkering with new song ideas and no way of getting them in front of people in the business to this, energized and planning the details of an exciting opportunity, way beyond his and, to be honest, her dreams. “My husband, the rock star.” She got up and pulled a robe around her, not feeling the cold draft that had depressed her for the past several weeks.
“Yeah, well, at least you don’t have to be embarrassed when Emile magnifies my status. Does he still have that big dog?”
“Oh yes, and don’t even try to walk Gracey and Fideaux past there.”
“At night, in this cold, the poor dog’s outside?”
“It’s a guard dog, remember? In case thieves and murderers decide to sneak up in the night and slit Emile’s throat and take his accordion.”
“I wish someone would take his guitar and that cheap amplifier. You might have a word with him. Tell me the animal at least has a doghouse.”
Katherine laughed. “You’re such a softie. Yes, there is a doghouse, and I scolded him so much when the rains came that he bought a dog bed for it. And he admits, looking quite embarrassed, that he lets Napoleon—yes, that is the creature’s name—in when it gets too cold.”
As Michael slipped into his jeans and boots, grabbed his Stetson, and clattered down the steep stairs calling for the dogs, Katherine wondered when the right time was to tell him about the murder of the butcher’s wife. Maybe not tonight in case he disapproved of her interest in the investigation. She didn’t want to spoil the mood.