“Come closer so that I may see you.” Valentine translated for them, then told him something in French. She exchanged a look with Kris and nodded.
Kris sat in the chair on the other side of the small table between them. Ju-Ju lay at his feet. Those sharp eyes watched her with keen interest.
“My granddaughter tells me that you have asked about Micheleine,” Valentine again translated for him.
“That was all a very long time ago.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Why do you want to know about her?”
“A friend of mine sent me this.” She showed him the black-and-white photograph of the tapestry that Cate had scanned to her as Valentine continued to translate, and explained the reason they were there. He glanced at the photograph.
“There have been others,” he replied with an indifferent shrug. “They came wanting to know about her, then left. They want to know for their stories in the magazines and on the internet, on the anniversaries of the war.” He made another gesture and she saw the amused expression on James' face.
“Then, they leave. They do not care about what happened, they do not understand.”
He sat back in the over-stuffed chair.
“I don't like talking about the war.” He snapped his mouth shut. “We need more wood for the fire.”
Kris exchanged a look with Valentine as he pushed out of the chair, stepped over Ju-Ju with surprising agility for someone of his age, then made his way to the woodstove.
James picked up several pieces of wood, neatly stacked in the basket beside the woodstove, and handed them to him. A heavily veined hand locked around his wrist.
Albert Marchand stared down at the tattoo of the sword with the number of James' unit at his wrist.
“Military,” Albert said in surprisingly perfect English, and Kris exchanged another look with Valentine. Apparently he could speak it when he chose to. That sharp blue gaze was fastened on James.
“I think perhaps you have seen war,” Albert said, with a knowing look.
James nodded. “Some.”
“And death?”
James nodded and Albert patted his wrist, his expression shifting again. He put several pieces of wood on the fire, then latched the door. He returned to his chair.
“Different times, different wars,” he said, easing back into the chair. “And now again, different enemies. We understand these things, you and I.”
“Aye,” James replied.
Albert turned that blue gaze on her.
“What do you want to know about Micheleine?”
And so it began, an unexpected connection between two men, one old, one young, who had both seen too much, experienced too much, and carried the scars.
Over the next two hours, she told him everything, beginning with the photograph Cate had sent, that last text message, and everything that had happened since.
“You believe she spoke of the tapestry.” Albert gestured to the copy of that photograph. “And you have come here to learn what I know.”
Kris nodded. “We need your help. I need to know why my friend died.”
He nodded, then looked over at Valentine.
“We must have coffee for our guests.”
“Behave yourself,” she told him with mock seriousness. She leaned past him and took the old shotgun propped against the chair beside him. She set it against the wall beside the hearth.
“He says it is to chase the crows from the orchards.” She explained. “I'm afraid he will shoot himself.”
“If I chose to do that, it would already be done,” Albert grumbled, but his eyes twinkled at what was obviously a frequent argument between them. Valentine kissed him on the forehead then went to the kitchen.
