CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Even in late fall, Lisieux was like a painting, the sky sliding into a pale shade of gray as clouds lowered over the Basilica, trees and gardens that surrounded stone houses that had stood for two hundred years and survived the Allied bombings of World War II, in shades of yellow, amber, and gold, while other parts of the town dated from after the war like so many other places in France that had found itself under German occupation and then Allied liberation.
What had Cate found there?
The woman at the local market, one of those typically provincial markets that sold spices from crockery jars, and late fall vegetables in baskets, was less than accommodating. She shook her head with the mumbled excuse that she spoke no English when asked about Vilette Moreau. But the man at the meat counter was curious, emerging in his white apron. In her limited French, Kris explained whom they were looking for.
Yes, he replied in slightly accented but perfect English and with a frown at the woman. Vilette Moreau lived nearby with her son and his wife on the outskirts of Lisieux, although she was very old and frail. He made a familiar gesture—not right in thehead. It was to be expected, he said with a shrug, for someone who was that old.
He sent beef bones each week to the house for her son's wife to make the soup that was all she could eat now. He had called the house then. There was a brief conversation, then he nodded.
“Take these with you.” He put several fresh pastries in a box. “They are a favorite,” he explained, and patted her hand.
“Chocolate. Madame Moreau was a very famous actress, you know.”
The woman behind the counter made a sound of disgust and disappeared into the back of the market. He simply shrugged again and smiled.
“Famous,” James said, with more than a little sarcasm as they left the market.
The house at the address he gave them was in the typical Normandy style, two-story, stone and plaster with a slate roof, and surrounded by gardens enclosed by a white fence.
The last of the season's flowers were gone, bare vines hanging from the arbor, flagstones lining the walk. But Kris could imagine the setting in the Spring like one of those Monet paintings—peonies blooming along the walkway, water gurgling in the fountain now filled with dried leaves, wisteria hanging from the arbor.
Celine Martel met them at the door of the kitchen to the house. She was in her early fifties, slender, with chin-length dark-brown hair that she tucked behind her ear. She wore a simple, long-sleeved blouse and skirt with an apron over it. Instead of provincial, the look was more ‘guardian at the gate’ in the sharp eyes over a long nose and a thin mouth.
“You are the publisher?” she asked, with a sliding glance over both of them at the introduction the butcher at the market had given over the phone. There was the curiosity behind a cool expression.
“I'm with Ellison Publishing,” Kris introduced herself, giving the same reason for being there that she'd given the owner of the market.
“I was hoping to meet with Vilette Moreau. A friend spoke with her a few weeks ago.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying went, Kris thought, ignoring the look James gave her. She would know soon enough if Cate had been there.
“The woman, the journalist, who was killed in the automobile accident,” Celine replied.
“We were working on a project together,” Kris explained. She didn't elaborate that Cate's latest book had nothing to do with the reason they were there.
“She was hoping to find information about her father, from the war,” Celine Martel commented, then added with an indifferent shrug, “With the anniversary of the war they are always wanting to know about it.”
So, Cate had been there, not just a couple of phone conversations.
“Is Vilette here now? Would it be possible to speak with her?”
Celine Martel stepped back and motioned for them to come in.
“Yes, but you must understand, my husband's mother is very frail. Her mind wanders. I told the other woman the same.” She closed the door and followed them into the house.
“She is in the garden room—it is warmer there.”
They followed her through the house with its low ceilings, dark wood floors, and white-washed walls. The room looked out to the gardens at the back of the house. In the spring, the wall of glass would look out on a scene that would have been like a painting. Now, late fall, the willows were stripped of their leaves and looked like bent old women huddled against the cold. A fire burned in the stone fireplace.
Small, no larger than a child, Vilette Moreau sat before the fire in a high-backed wheelchair, a lap robe over her legs. Her daughter-in-law crossed the room, gently touching her shoulder.
“Maman?” she said, rousing her. “These people have come to see you.”
Vilette stirred, looking up at her daughter-in-law, slightly confused in that way when first waking.
