Chapter Ten
…this is the best deal we were able to effect on your behalf for the
sale of your diamond ring…
I went
through those words again and again, wondering at the possibilities. Where did
the ring come from? Why did Viola sell it? What had it to do with her death?
Then
again, there was the possibility that I could so easily read into it a false
meaning, sending me along the wrong path entirely. Maybe the letter was nothing
whatsoever to do with her death, maybe it was totally innocent and easily
explained by people who knew Viola’s private business. The problem was that I
did not know her business and I had no other clues on which to form an accurate
picture. I had to take the information as it stood.
I put
the letter and the cheque in my pants pocket, figuring it was safer with me
than left lying around in a drawer. As I stood there, weighing in my mind a
variety of possibilities, I heard a movement behind me and I turned to see
Brigitte staring at me from the doorway. She wore a complex facial expression,
a mixture of surprise and accusation, as if she had caught me in the act of
getting too deeply involved with another woman.
In a
sense, she had.
“What
are you looking for?” she asked. She stood with her legs apart and her arms
folded. The stance conjured up images of Barbarella, although Brigitte was far
too young to know that. And modern kids think they invented fantasy fiction.
“Nothing
to concern you, Brigitte.”
“You
are looking for something. Why are you searching my cabin?”
“It’s
Viola’s cabin,” I pointed out.
She
conceded the point with a loud sniff. “All right. Why were you searching her
cabin?”
“Thought
I might find something useful.”
“What?
What did you expect to find in here?”
“Something
to help me find out what happened to her.” I gathered up the letters and put
them back in the drawer. When I again looked up into Brigitte’s face she gave
me a stern, silent reprimand, squaring her shoulders as if she was ready to
wrestle with me. The thought alone made me tingle.
“You
have found something?”
“No.”
It was
time to change the subject, before she asked questions which hit too close to
the mark. “Brigitte, do you have many boyfriends at home?”
“A
few. Why do you want to know?” She curled her lips into a sultry look which
hinted at what was left unsaid. There was no doubt she was a child of nature, a
follower of what came naturally. Raw, earthy and sensual. Like her mother,
perhaps?
“I bet
they like your figure, huh? Your boyfriends.”
“Of
course.” She unwrapped her arms, pulled down the top of her swimsuit and thrust
her chest towards me. “You like my tits, eh? So why should other men not like
them?”
“Why
not, indeed? And does your mother allow you to go around naked in front of your
boyfriends?”
“Non!” she snorted loudly. “Of course
not. Mama is very strict. She tells me off whenever I undress by the swimming
pool. She says she will tell the priest to excommunicate me.”
“Really?”
“I tell
her, hah! I have seen the new younger priest looking at my tits. And when I go
to the confession he asks me to go in the same side of the box with him. I sit
on his knee and he strokes me. So I tell mamma to let the priest excommunicate
me and I will tell the bishop!”
She
had guts, you could say that about Brigitte! She sure knew how to stand up for
herself. But I decided to ignore the underlying story. As a lapsed Catholic I
knew of similar tales back in the US.
“That’s
no concern of mine, Brigitte. But what about mama? I take it she doesn’t
approve of you taking your clothes off.”
“Hah!
Mama shouts at me too much.”
I
frowned and caught a quick recollection of mama scolding the daughter who towelled
her breasts in the sunshine alongside the pool. In one sense it figured. Mama
was strict about such things. But in another sense it just didn’t add up. Mama
was not that strict, surely. She must
have been playing the field herself after papa died in order to produce the
youngest member of the L’Orly family. Perhaps it was a case of double
standards.
“What
about mama’s friends?” I asked. “Does she have any… well, you know… men
friends?”
Brigitte
laughed openly and regrouped her arms across her chest. “Men friends? Mama?
Hah! There is Father Roget, the older village priest. He comes to the farm
every week to see mama since papa died. And there is old Monsieur deBois at the
hotel in Rennes, but he is ninety next winter.”
“No
one else, huh?”
She
gave it a cursory thought. “Just people who live nearby. Why do you ask?”
“No
reason.” I bypassed the question and tried to sound casual. “How about Mr
Hassim? Does your mama know Mr Hassim?”
Brigitte
dropped her arms and shrugged her shoulders. Her breasts rose and fell in
rhythm. “She has met him but she does not like him.”
“But
he’s been to the farm?”
“Oui. But mama does not like him.”
“Okay,
I think I’m beginning to get the picture.” In fact I must have been getting a
little too sure of myself because I was lying. The truth was I didn’t have any
sort of clear picture of what was going on.
“Look,
Brigitte, I think you should get dressed before we reach Redon.”
She
moved closer to me, slowly swinging her arms from side to side. “You do not
like to see me some more? You do not like to feel me again?”
She
reached down and stroked the front of my shorts.
The tantalizing
bitch!
“That
really is not the point, Brigitte.” I could feel myself getting too hot.
“But
you do like me?”
She
was close enough to brush her breasts against my chest and it set my blood
racing, heart thumping. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“I like
you, Brigitte.” I could tell instantly that my voice had risen an octave. “But
we are going to have to motor on down the river and into the marina at Redon. I
think you should put some clothes on.”
“Maybe
I will, maybe I won’t.” She stepped back suddenly, gave me a wicked smile, then
turned and wiggled her bottom at me. As she left, she called back over one
shoulder. “If you do not like me maybe I let someone else feel me. Non? There are other men who will like
to get their hands on me.”
“I’m
sure there are, Brigitte. Lots of them.”
“Hah!”
She departed in a blaze of dissatisfaction.
Left
alone once more, I breathed a sigh of relief. There was now little doubt in my
mind that Brigitte was tied up more deeply in the death of Viola Bracewell than
I had first thought. And the news that Mama L’Orly had had dealings with Hassim
seemed to be significant. Was Hassim her lover? Surely not! The idea of any man
jumping into bed with Madame L’Orly was enough to set the mind boggling.
I went
back up on deck, cast off and then set the boat nosing on along the river.
Alone again, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to what had happened on this
strange journey and Viola’s voice came into my brain to haunt me all the way
into Redon.
“It
isn’t yours! He gave it to me!” she had said.
If she
had been referring to that ring, I felt sure I was onto something important.
But who had she been talking to? One thought stuck firmly in my mind, who else
would try to claim ownership of a diamond ring, except another woman? And at
the time of the murder the nearest woman had been the young gorilla’s
companion, a girl about Viola’s own age. That girl, whoever she was, had lied
to me, lied to the police and was strongly tied up with the young bruiser who
had attacked Viola. As a suspect, she began to rise up from out of the pack.
Then
again, did Madame L’Orly have some sort of claim to the ring? Or even Brigitte?
However unlikely, it was possible and I had to keep in mind every possibility
until the truth emerged. By now, my thoughts had drifted away from the swarthy
faced watcher and I had even begun to discount the coloured girl from my
calculations.
It was
evening when we reached Redon, a market town where I had already decided to
spend the night. I pulled out a river guide to find the route into the marina
near the town centre. By then Brigitte had changed into tee shirt and shorts so
I had no qualms about the natives catching sight of her. That was a relief
because I could do without any hassle from the police in Redon.
The
town sat astride the River Vilaine and I judged from the charts that there
would be good moorings where I could fill up with fresh water. I also needed
groceries and it seemed like a good idea to get the boat as close as possible to
the stores. Beyond the river barrage, I swung the Breton Belle through a sharp right-hand turn that led into the
marina and found a quiet mooring alongside an empty pontoon. It was too late to
visit the local stores that evening so I asked Brigitte to see what she could
rustle up. She wasn’t too co-operative at first but eventually she agreed to
cook us the French equivalent of a stew. She knocked it together out of what
she found in the galley ice box, cooking in a pregnant silence. In the event,
it turned out to be a passable meal, but Viola would have done better. So would
Simone.
Dear Simone,
I was missing her more and more as the days and hours passed.
After
the meal, I walked into the town, leaving Brigitte to her own resources. I
could do without her company for an hour or so. The streets were quiet and I
was glad to be on my own to think about what I was going to do next. I had been
wandering for about an hour and had strayed onto the edge of an area of
parkland when I came across a group of youths hanging about listlessly in an
ugly group. Yobs like that are a pretty common sight in any major town back
home in the States—in fact in any major town in any country—so I had no trouble sizing them up
straight away. A bunch of layabouts with nothing better to do but smoke pot and
drown their tonsils in cheap booze. At a conservative guess, there would be
about half a dozen active brain cells shared between the lot of them. On reflection,
that seemed like a pretty generous assessment. I turned away, following a path
which led to the river and within an hour I was back at the marina.
Brigitte
was sitting in the salon, reading a paperback book. She eyed me suspiciously
when I went back on board, but she said nothing and, not long after, we both
turned in for an early night. That suited me fine.
I
wasn’t surprised when Brigitte came again to my cabin that night, but this time
I was prepared. Mentally, if not physically. She stood in the doorway and
slowly slipped her night-dress over her head, letting it fall in a bundle on
the floor. Then she took up a silent seductive pose, smiling at me with dancing
eyes. One hand twisted a strand of her hair fringe across her face. It was a
pretty good parody of Salome tempting Herod. I’d long had the idea that
Salome’s dance had nothing to do with nimble footwork and one hell of a lot to
do with a naked romp in bed, and that was certainly what Brigitte had in mind.
Her problem was that I wasn’t cut out to be any sort of ancient King. Tempted,
yes, but stronger-willed.
“No, Brigitte.”
I set my teeth and spoke firmly. “I was wrong to take advantage of you before.
It won’t happen again.”
“But I
want it!” She pouted and crossed to my bunk where she sat with her legs
slightly parted, and her upper arms gently squeezing her breasts together. By
heaven, she knew how to tease a guy!
“No,
Brigitte.” But how difficult it was to say that.
“Merde! You Americans have no amour. In France a girl needs the loving
like you Americans need your Southern Comfort.”
Oh
God! It would be so easy to give in. She was so delicious.
“No!”
“But I
need it!”
“Brigitte,
what would mama say if she knew you were doing this?”
“Why
you ask that? Mama is not here. What has mama got to do with it?”
“A
lot. Because whatever mama would say, that’s what I’m going to say.”
“Merde!” She jumped up and leaned over
me. “You have no heart. You have no passion.” She flared her nostrils. Rebuffed
passion turned suddenly into outright anger. A quick bit of feather-smoothing
was called for.
“Sit
down for a moment, Brigitte and tell me about yourself and your family.”
“You
want to talk when I am offering you the
loving?” She snorted, throwing out a loud burst of air between partially
clenched teeth.
“Just
sit down, damn it!” My annoyance was beginning to get through to her by now.
She
sat again on the side of my bunk. There was more than a hint of reluctance in
her voice. “Okay, American, first we talk. Then, maybe…”
“We
just talk.”
She
sniffed loudly. “Have it your way.”
“Good.”
I shifted to try to make myself more comfortable. “Tell me about your family,
Brigitte. Tell me about your father.”
“Papa?”
She sighed deeply and the aggressive sensuality suddenly fell away from her
like leaves from a tree in the fall. The abruptness of the change in her behaviour
was so dramatic it had to be real. “Poor papa. He was good to us. He played the
games with us and he always brought us the chocolate when he went to the
shops.”
“He
worked the farm himself?”
“With
mama. And we all helped in the fields. But papa wanted me to have the good
education because I was the eldest. I did not want to go away, but he said I
must. So I went away to school. Papa died while I was away at school and I was
very sad. I did not see him before he died. I cried much after that.”
“What
happened then?”
“We
did not have enough money to get more help on the farm.” She lowered her eyes
sadly and fingered her long, varnished nails. “So I had to go to work. I worked
in the kitchens at the big house near la Gacilly.”
I
frowned. “Who’s big house?”
She
shrugged. “Monsieur Hassim’s.” She
said it as if I should have known. Maybe I should have guessed. But now I knew
how mama had come into contact with Hassim and my muscles stiffened. One small
hazy part of the big picture was beginning to clear.
“You
still work there?”
“Non. Mama told Monsieur Hassim he had to find me other work. So I wait for him to
find me other work.”
“Why?
Why did mama say you had to have other work?”
Brigitte
averted her eyes. “She was not happy.”
An odd
sort of reply, but I didn’t follow up on why mama was not happy. Instead I
prompted Brigitte to go further. “And then…?”
“I
still wait for the other work. There is no hurry.”
“I
guess mama must have some sort of influence with the guy.”
“She
does not like him. She shouts at him when he comes to the house.”
“Why?”
Brigitte
shrugged her shoulders once more. She wasn’t going to answer that question so I
backed off. Mentally, I stored away the niggling unanswered questions to be
pulled out at some later time when they were more likely to be fully answered.
“You
miss your papa?” I asked.
“Oui. And I miss my family.”
Missed
her family? Dammit, the girl had tagged along with me at her request, not mine. I didn’t even want her here. This didn’t
make sense. Even stranger, the conversation was now having a marked effect upon
Brigitte. Tears were dribbling down her cheeks and she brushed them aside with
a surprising degree of irritation. I had never imagined she could be so easily
upset.
“What
about Viola Bracewell?” I asked. “What do you know about her?”
“She
is the silly girl. I do not like her.”
“Why
not?”
She
puckered up her nose in a gesture of distaste. “She thinks that she is the
clever one and I am the fool. She looks down her nose when she tells me that
her father is the big man in England. She says that he is the big English Lord
with much money. And her brother is the air force pilot who flies the jets. She
is the bourgeoisie and she thinks I
am the poor nobody. So I do not like her.”
“Is
that the only reason you didn’t like her?”
“It is
not enough? You want to know more reasons why I do not like her?” Brigitte was
getting herself highly animated now. “I tell you why! She is the silly girl.
She boasts that she is the virgin and I am the village whore because I like the
loving.”
I gave
that some careful thought. Viola had tried to assure me about her virginity.
Made a big thing out of it. Then I asked, “How did you first meet her?”
“What
does it matter?” She pouted and then gave me a stern look of reprimand. “It is
none of your business.”
“Will
you tell me what’s upsetting you?” I asked. “It’s not just because I won’t let
you into my bed. Is it?”
That
was another question for which I would get no reply. Instead, she stood up
suddenly and turned away.
“I
will go back to my own cabin, now.” I heard a loud sniff and she wiped a hand
across her damp cheeks. “You do not want me here.”
She
hurried away and I heard her cabin door slam shut.
I
allowed a pause to be sure she really had gone for the night and then I
breathed a short sigh of relief. Just what the hell had all that been about?
There was no obvious answer. I hadn’t even got to the crux of why she wanted to
come along with me anyway. As for the tears, that was typical mainland European
emotion running riot. At least we Americans are somewhat more restrained.
Even
without Brigitte’s warm body to satisfy me, I slept soundly that night. More
than that, I managed to conjure up a dream in which I enjoyed making love to Simone,
and that was comforting. If it hadn’t been for the noise of vehicles on the
road alongside the marina basin I would have slept late also. Even so, it was
broad daylight when I staggered out of the bunk, yawned and set the kettle to
boil on the galley stove.
There
was no sign of Brigitte and I decided to leave her be. Still in my boxer
shorts, I poked my nose out of the companionway hatch and took a sniff of the
warm, sultry air.
Then I
felt a sudden stab in the gut.
Moored
at a pontoon, directly opposite the Breton
Belle, was the young couple’s yacht. The young gorilla was sitting at the
bow end and he was staring straight at me.
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