86 Avenue du Goulet (A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 3) (2 page)

Chapter 3

A Dog, A Drink, & Disbelief

I made my way down from Martine’s back gate, through her fruit orchard and lush lawn, stepped down a level, passed her enclosed outdoor kitchen, more gardens and in minutes reached her outside patio that was attached to her house. Sonia, her sandy-colored Labrador, jumped up enthusiastically as her husband greeted me warmly.

“Ah, my favorite American neighbor!” announced Jean, as he kissed both of my cheeks and handed me a glass of French wine. He winked. “Vintage, as always.”

I sipped some and laughed. “I’m your only American neighbor! Everyone around here is from Paris.”

Jean chuckled, waving off my remark. “Please! Don’t bore me with details.” He then guided me over to the patio table where Martine had already placed hot and cold hors d'oeuvres. Jean pulled out a chair. “Sam, please sit,” he said, gesturing. “Martine will be here shortly.”

“Merci, Jean. It all looks delicious! I like Martine’s version of come over for drinks.” I spread some Brie on a slice of crusty baguette that Jean had handed me. “I will not be making dinner tonight. This is a feast.”

Martine entered from her kitchen, carrying a dish of hot dip with crackers spread out around it. “Ah, you made it!” she greeted, and then laughed after checking her watch. “How do you always say it? Ah, yes! By the skin of your teeth! What a strange saying that is!”

“You see, Martine? That’s what makes Americans so unique and frustrating, all at the same time. You never quite get what we are really trying to say! It’s another language we use; one of illogical and unexplainable phrases that somehow, to us at least, gets our point across. By the way, you used that phrase perfectly. If only I was that good with my French.”

She laughed. “I have Skyped with you enough, Sam, to pick up many strange phrases you Americans use!”

Jean poured us more wine, as we all bantered back and forth, half in English and half in French, catching up on all the gossip on both sides of the Atlantic.

I finally stared pointedly at Martine. “You know, you are killing me with curiosity. Come on, out with it. I can’t wait any longer. It has been pure torture sitting here.”

Martine smiled. “My friend, I am surprised you lasted this long!” She turned to Jean and gave him a look.

He then shook his head sadly, saying, “It is such a pity, this matter. Cheri, tell her what we know so far.”

I glanced at each of them. “What do you mean,
so far?
”

“I am afraid,” said Martine, “it all started at your villa.”

Uh, oh! Where I’m staying…alone?

Chapter 4

Chewing On A Bone Of Contention

I wasn’t expecting that. Unfortunately, that’s how my life happened to be playing out lately, with incidents taking place that consumed me with curiosity, followed by out-and-out mayhem and danger, exactly in that order, too. Would this be any different?

Did I hear her correctly: at my villa?

As though reading my thoughts, Martine said, “Yes, Samantha, at the villa where you are staying.”

I took another sip of wine. “What happened? Why would you ask for my help? What could I possibly do? I only write mystery novels.”

“Ah, but you help solve them too!” she countered.

I leaned in for emphasis. “If it’s a police matter, I think they should be handling this, instead, not me.”

Martine shook her head. “That will not work. It is too delicate a situation. Finesse is what we need in this matter. We need someone who our neighbors already know, someone who will use discretion and will not be easily influenced, certainly not one of us. You are the person we need for this.”

“I still don’t understand. You know I’m more than willing to assist anyway I can while I’m visiting you on vacation, but why me? Does this have something to do with someone I know?”

Martine laughed. “Yes, of course! It is
you!
”

I cleared my throat, confused and annoyed. “Maybe I should explain that, when it comes to discretion, I don’t exactly fit the bill. I’m more like a thorn in your side to be more accurate, or a stone in your shoe you can’t seem to get rid of. No, I don’t think you want me getting involved with this—whatever it is.”

“But we insist! Everyone has agreed that this must be done in secret. There is no one we can trust who won’t gossip about what is uncovered. You could ask questions, like they expect an American would ask, whereas someone who is French wouldn’t think of asking.”

I gave that some thought. In a way, it kind of made sense. “Okay, I’ll keep an open mind,” I said cautiously. “So, tell me more about what you want me to do. And… are we talking dangerous?”

Jean waved his hand dismissively. “Of course not! It is merely about some buried bones we found.”

Chapter 5

Digging Deeper

I looked at one, and then the other. “Bones? Where?”

They looked at each other, and then at me. “Why, in your villa’s garden of course!” replied Martine.

Why of course! Why didn’t I think of that?

I sat there, instinctively holding out my glass for more wine before I said anything further, knowing I’d need it.

Jean knew me well, and complied, filling it up to the rim, especially after seeing my response.

“Merci!” I said, and then leaned in. “Exactly where were the bones found in the villa’s gardens?”

Jean shook his head. “Under roses being transplanted.”

“But why were you digging at Curat’s villa?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly me that found them.”

“Well, exactly who did?”

“It was Luc, our gardener.”

“What was he doing over in the other garden?”

“He was Curat’s gardener, too.”

“Even after Monsieur Curat died so many months ago?”

“His estate is paying for the upkeep of the gardens until a buyer is found. But I am afraid the local rumors about the discovered bones have kept buyers away, so they rented it.”

“This sounds an awful lot like murder!” I alleged.

Martine nodded. “That is probably correct, Samantha.”

I sat there, shocked. It sounded as if the French were more laid-back regarding murder than Americans were. I couldn’t believe how casually they were treating this.

What was I missing? Murder really,
really
bothered me, especially when it had taken place on the property where I was staying. “Are we talking multiple murders?”

I was half-joking. But…

“Oui!” replied Martine.

I looked at her, startled, and then at Jean. “What did the police say? Surely they’ve been notified and have some ideas? At least about who was murdered, if not by whom?”

Jean shook his head. “We cannot involve them. Besides, they are much too busy to be bothered with such matters.”

“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief.

“Of course!” he replied.

I couldn’t imagine this. “Why wouldn’t the Gendarme Marie or Police Nationale have time to investigate multiple people being murdered and buried on the villa’s property?”

Martine took my hand in hers. “Samantha, they weren’t exactly those kinds of murders.”

“What other kinds of murders are there?” I asked.

She frowned. “No, you misunderstand. It was not that.”

Murder was murder, right?
“Then what was it?”

“They weren’t human,” replied Martine.

I sighed. “Where were they from, another planet?”

“No,” Martine replied. “They were animal bones!”

I relaxed. “Burying family pets. That’s not so unusual.”

“Not in this case. It’s different! Our neighbor’s missing pets have been discovered dead and buried. And now we are worried about Sonia!”

“But how do you know these are their pet’s remains?”

“They were buried with their collars and name tags!”

I pictured my cat, Sneakers tucked safely away at home.

Could I say no?

“...Okay!”

Apparently, my next mystery had just found me!

Chapter 6

Setting The Scene

Having overslept, I quickly jumped out of bed, wasting no time in opening the glass doors leading out to the terrace from the master bedroom that overlooked the sea.

“Peace and quiet!” I thought back to what felt like only days before, Ocean City and finishing off
Without Any Warning
and the chaos I got drawn into, and now, here I was pulled into another situation. At least this time the issue wasn’t… well, human murders.

“I’ve learned my lesson! This time, I keep it simple. No complications!”

I stepped out onto the deck. The residential area and town of Les Issambres had not changed much since I was here a year before; just a few new villas and houses here and there had sprouted among all the beautifully landscaped properties dotting the mountainous terrain. Yachts and jet skis crisscrossed far below, as the sun reflected off the sea’s surface.

To my left, in the distance, were the beaches of St. Raphaël jutting out into the water and the magnificent Esterel mountain ranges beyond. Off to my right, in the distance was the lovely town of St. Maxine, and the bay of St. Tropez.

I looked downward. The small manicured lawn off the living room directly below was shaped in a half circle, just like the upper terrace where I stood. A stone wall, three feet high, bordered it to protect people from falling below.

Part of that curved wall dropped about two stories to the neighbor’s house and their pool, and then it curved around to my villa’s side gardens. Red bougainvillea spilled over it and trailed to the bottom. If you didn’t know where the wall was, it appeared as a lush carpet of red, and although beautiful to the eye, to a veteran, it concealed lengthy thorns, as sharp and painful as miniature daggers.

The wall continued from the back to along the side of the villa where stone arches ran parallel, wrapping around to the front entrance. I looked far to the right where an expansive stone stairway descended from the kitchen patio to a mosaic, tiled fountain.

At the bottom of those steps, a maze of pathways cut from the same stone sloped downward along the lower gardens that contained benches and flower-filled urns.

I leaned out further and noticed in one shaded corner a cement table and chairs under a blooming magnolia tree. Ah—a perfect writing spot. I felt as though I had stepped into a Monet painting. At every turn, a blended brushstroke of color! With my agent lambasting me for taking this vacation instead of staying focused for my next novel, it seems as though this burial mystery was just the ticket I was looking for. Apparently my next book was emerging and unfolding right in front of me.

A familiar figure came into view, the gardener, Luc.

I sighed, reluctantly pushing back from the iron railing. If I was going to find out something more, I might as well begin right away. I headed inside to get ready for some dialogue that just might prove interesting and, hopefully, informative.

First and foremost on my agenda was coffee and French pastry, and then I’d be ready to tackle with some luck, the first of my conversations with the gardener.

Chapter 7

Unearthing Some Facts

I set my English/French dictionary on the coffee table and made my way over to the kitchen and out the side door to the lower gardens. It was one of Luc’s days to work on Curat’s extensive property. I’d known him a few years.

If I was going to start, I figured he was the one to begin with. I watched him from a short distance, as he toiled in the flowerbeds, coaxing the soil to breathe, and then watering, methodically working his way down the hill.

He was a widower in his late seventies and built like a bull, with thick dark hair and mustache to match. Refusing to retire, he worked ten hours a day with
a two-hour lunch
, and knew his way around the gardened property.

As a matter of fact, he also worked on all the surrounding properties, which might be to my benefit. I’d be able to learn some of the neighbor’s background before I met with any of them, giving me, hopefully, a slight advantage in my investigation of the buried bones.

“Bonjour, Luc!” I greeted, smiling as I approached him.

“Bonjour, Madame! Comment allez-vous?”

“I am fine, thank you. And you, Luc?”

“I am well. Merci!”

I decided I had to weigh my words carefully. After all, interpretation was everything to the French. I didn’t want the subject I was about to probe to be misunderstood. “Do you still tend to all the gardens in the neighborhood?”

“Oui, Madame. Martine said you are renting this villa instead of staying with her, like you usually do. Like you, I enjoy working in the quiet. You are still a novelist? No?”

“Yes. I thought I might start my next book here.”

“Well,” he replied, “the French certainly have a lot of stories to tell, don’t they?”

I eyed him, watching his sly smile. What was he really telling me? Maybe he was more observant than anyone thought. “I was wondering if I might ask you some questions about the garden. Do you have a minute?”

“For you? Of course, Madame!” He smiled again. “I guess you want to talk about the burials. Oui?”

“You are way ahead of me, Luc! How did you know I would ask you for information?”

“I know you write mysteries in your books, and this situation is one big mystery. Maybe, you will be able to solve it!” He smiled. “But then, maybe you will not!”

My eyes shot to him, as he started to dig up the ground again. “Can you tell me which neighbors have lost their pets? And what kind of pet they had?”

He looked up at the sun to gauge the time, disregarding his watch. “Come! Let us sit on the wall ledge, while I have some wine, cheese, and a baguette. I will eat an early lunch, and maybe I can help you in some small way, c'est bon?”

“Oui!” I replied, and promptly followed him to talk.