Ripped From the Pages (6 page)

I couldn’t say if any of the paintings were originals, but I could honestly claim
that we were in the midst of great works painted in the style of Renoir, Monet, Chagall,
and, perhaps, Botticelli.

“Tell me, Brooklyn,” said Guru Bob. “Have you any theories that might explain where
this extraordinary treasure came from?”

I hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “We found a book inside the suitcase that belonged
to Mr. Renaud.”

He tilted his head slightly. “A book?”

“Yes.
Journey to the Center of the Earth
, by Jules Verne. I, um, took it. I didn’t want the police to have it. They don’t
always appreciate the fragility of a rare book.”

He smiled and tightened his hold on my arm. I interpreted the action as a sign of
approval.

“Anyway,” I continued, “inside the book was a pledge written
in French and signed by two boys. There was also a piece of notepaper left inside
the book. It was written by an adult, also in French. On the note was a map, and that’s
how we found our way into this part of the cave.”

“From a map you found in the book?” He looked frankly stunned.

“Yes.” I gave Derek a quick look and noticed he was listening to every word. “Derek
translated the map’s instructions, and they led us from the Wishing Tree directly
into this part of the cave. Well, actually, we were stopped at the fancy wardrobe
in the outer chamber, but Derek had the bright idea of moving it, and, sure enough,
it was covering up this small opening. And that’s how we found this room.”

“Astounding.” Guru Bob glanced over at Derek.

“It certainly is,” Derek said.

“It seems you took your own journey into the center of the earth,” Guru Bob said.
“How resourceful of you.”

“I didn’t even think of that,” I said, grinning at Derek.

“Thank you both for being so tenacious.” He gave my arm a light squeeze and nodded
to Derek. “I will be grateful for any more information you come across that might
provide an answer to this remarkable puzzle.”

He turned and stared again at the items scattered around the room.

“Does anything look at all familiar?” Derek asked.

“Sadly, no,” Guru Bob said. He turned back to me. “You said the pledge was written
by two boys, and they signed their names.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you remember what their names were?”

“Of course,” I said. “They were Jean Pierre Renaud and Anton Benoit.”

He inhaled suddenly, as though he’d received a punch in the stomach. Guru Bob rarely
showed emotions unless they were
positive ones, but right now he looked completely flummoxed and not happy about it.

“You knew them,” Derek said softly.

Guru Bob sighed. “You may recall my telling you that Jean Pierre Renaud was a friend
of my grandfather.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, and Derek nodded.

Guru Bob sighed. “My grandfather was Anton Benoit.”

“Like many families, mine had its secrets,” Guru Bob admitted after we’d left the
darkness of the cave for a picnic table under an oak tree near the tasting room. Derek
and I sat together facing Guru Bob. I hoped he didn’t feel as if we were interrogating
him, but it felt like that to me.

“My father rarely spoke of his parents or their life in Sonoma. Never liked to talk
about growing up working in the vineyards, except to say that it was not for him.
He moved our family to San Francisco when I was barely a teenager.”

“What was your grandfather like?” I asked.

“He died before I was born, so I never knew him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, gracious. I do know that when my grandfather and uncles reached the United
States, they changed the family name of Benoit to the English version of the name,
and that is how I came to have the last name of Benedict.”

He pronounced the name Benoit as
Ben-wah
.

Derek leaned forward. “And you had no idea that the hidden chamber with all that artwork
and furnishings even existed?”

“No idea at all.” He shook his head, looking almost ashamed. I hoped that wasn’t the
case, but he was clearly unhappy about the discoveries inside the caves, especially
the body of Mr. Renaud. “I feel so inadequate, unable to answer your simple questions.
As I said, my father was not forthcoming when it came to discussing my grandfather,
or much else for that matter. You have not talked to my cousin Trudy yet, have you?”

“Not yet.”

“She is your best hope for finding the answers. She is actually
my father’s cousin and twenty years older than I. She moved here with the rest of
the family when she was a child. I will let her know you plan to visit her.”

“Do you think she knew what was inside the cave?” Derek asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis. “Absolutely not. Trudy is wonderfully
impulsive and would never have been able to keep it a secret.”

He was right about that. His cousin was a generous free spirit who loved life and
people. She would’ve wanted to share all that bounty with others.

“Who lived on this land before the commune bought up all the property?” I asked.

“It belonged to my grandfather and his brothers. As they died off, their children
inherited the land. Two of them returned to France and another one died, until Trudy
and my father were the only ones left. When my family moved to the city, Trudy stayed
and leased the land to a few local farmers, until I came back years later and asked
to take it on. She was more than happy to relinquish all that responsibility, and
the commune continues to pay her a monthly dividend.”

“Then we’ll talk to Trudy,” I said.

Derek told Guru Bob that he planned to take pictures of the objets d’art and send
them to his contacts at Interpol in case they’d been reported stolen by their owners.

“If more damage was done, it is best to find out sooner than later,” Guru Bob said,
agreeing with Derek’s plan. “There has been too much secrecy. Even Trudy has never
been willing to share stories of what happened to her during the war, but I have a
feeling she will open up to Derek if she knows that it is part of a bigger mystery.”

“I’m sure she will,” I said, confident of Derek’s powers of persuasion.

Guru Bob’s frown softened into a smile. “My cousin does love her mysteries. And she
has always had a soft spot for the British.”

*   *   *

“T
rudy is so excited to meet you,” Mom said to Derek the next day as he drove across
town to meet Guru Bob’s cousin—or first cousin once removed, to be precise. “And you’ll
love her. She’s a sweetie pie.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her, too,” he said.

I’d given Mom the front seat while I sat in back with a pretty pink bakery box on
my lap.

Trudy lived a half mile on the opposite side of the Lane from us, on a pretty, hilly
street lined with sycamore trees and California bungalows of every color and size.
Hers was painted pale blue with white trim, and the wide front porch held a set of
cheerful white wicker chairs, perfect for relaxing on warm fall afternoons.

Trudy was smiling as she greeted us at the door, wearing chic slim jeans and a pretty
green sweatshirt over a preppy blue-collared shirt. She was as tall as I was, about
five feet eight, and her hair was a beautiful shade of light reddish brown.

I introduced her to Derek, and she took his arm, pulling him into the house. “I’ve
heard all about you. You saved our Brooklyn’s life.”

“She’s saved my life as well, on more than one occasion.”

“Isn’t that sweet? I like you so much already.” She turned and beckoned me and Mom
to follow. “Come in, come in. Amelia, is the tea ready?”

“Yes, yes,” groused Trudy’s companion, Amelia, as she fluffed up the pillows on the
sofa in Trudy’s living room. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

I had never seen Amelia in a good mood, but Trudy seemed
to take her companion’s curmudgeonly attitude in stride. The woman was in her forties
and wore a drab blue plaid dress that hung down to her calves, with a gray cardigan
buttoned all the way up. Her hair was dirty blond tinged with gray and it hung in
straggly clumps to her shoulders. She was a complete contrast to Trudy’s brightness,
cheery attire, and attitude.

I vaguely recalled that the two of them had met in the hospital when Trudy was laid
up with a broken leg—or was it a fractured hip? Amelia needed a job, and Trudy hired
her to be her cook, housekeeper, and general companion. Or something like that. I
would have to get the complete story from my mother later.

“Wonderful,” Trudy said, clapping her hands. “We’ll have tea momentarily. And, Amelia,
will you look at what Brooklyn brought? Our favorite cookies from Sweet Nothings.”

“Sugar cookies?” Amelia asked, entrenched frown lines digging across her forehead.

“Yes, sugar cookies,” I said. “They’re my favorite, too. Melt in your mouth.” I handed
her the box, and as she grabbed it, she almost grinned. That is, she bared her teeth
at me, and I was willing to take that as a smile.

“Can I help you with anything?” I asked, following her into Trudy’s charming country
kitchen.

“No,” Amelia said curtly, pointing toward the living room. “Go sit down, and I’ll
bring everything out shortly.”

“Okeydokey.” I could take the hint. I headed back to the front room, where Trudy was
clutching Derek’s arm as she led him around the frilly room and showed off some of
her favorite tchotchkes. The room was full of them: a glass hummingbird hanging off
a lampshade; a Belleek porcelain bell; a tiny cloisonné pillbox in the shape of a
lady’s handbag; and lots of books, along with dozens of framed photographs on every
surface.

Mom was seated at one end of the pale green striped brocade sofa, so I took one of
the overstuffed pale rose chairs and watched
Trudy charm Derek. Apparently Trudy’s soft spot for the British coincided with a soft
spot for handsome men. And who could blame her?

Amelia walked in and placed a large silver tray on the French provincial coffee table,
then left the room. She had managed to squeeze a pot of tea, a small platter of cookies,
cups, saucers, utensils, and little napkins onto the tray.

Amelia showed no signs of returning, so I scooted forward in the big chair. “Shall
I pour?”

“Would you, dear?” Trudy said as Derek delivered her to her place at the opposite
end of the sofa from Mom. “And I’ll be happy to answer any questions your Derek wishes
to ask me.”

Derek sat in the other chair and flashed me a quick smile as I began to pour tea into
cups. I placed a small cookie on the side of each saucer and handed them to Mom, Derek,
and Trudy.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mom said.

“There are more cookies on the platter,” I said, although I’d counted three missing
and eyed the doorway to the kitchen, where I knew Amelia was scarfing them up. I didn’t
mind. I just hoped she would remember to smile at me next time.

“How long have you lived in Dharma, Trudy?” Derek asked once he’d taken his first
sip of the hearty English blend.

“I moved here as a small child,” Trudy said. “I was barely seven years old when we
left our village in France and boarded the ocean liner for America. That was in the
fall of 1944.”

“That must’ve been a treacherous time to travel,” he commented.

“Indeed it was, but being a child, I saw it as a grand adventure.”

“Why did you leave?” I asked.

She stared at her cookie before taking a ladylike bite. “It was critical that we leave.
We lived just over four miles from Oradour-sur-Glane. The massacre there took place
in June, and we were
afraid that at almost any moment, the same would be done to our village.”

“Where did you live?” Derek asked.

“La Croix Saint-Just. North of Oradour, along the River Glane.”

“Near Limoges?” Derek asked.

“That’s the nearest large city, twenty miles southeast.”

He smiled. “I know the area.”

“
Très bien!
Very good.” Trudy laughed. “Goodness, can you believe I still slip into French if
I’m not paying attention?”

To my untrained ear, her French sounded perfect, even though she’d lived in Sonoma
for close to seventy years, if my quickie calculations were correct.

“What happened in that town near you?” I asked.

Derek answered, his gaze steady on me. “The Nazis gathered all of the women and children
into the Catholic church, locked the doors, and began looting the village.”

“The men were rounded up and herded into several area barns,” Trudy continued stoically,
“and killed by machine gun. Then the Nazis gassed and bombed the church with all those
people inside and set fire to the rest of the town.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“It was said to be in retaliation for some of the villagers’ collaborating with la
Résistance.”

Mom reached across the sofa and squeezed Trudy’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“Very few escaped,” Trudy said, and then turned to Derek. “So you’re aware of this
ugly moment in French history?”

Derek nodded. “I attended some low-level NATO meetings near Limoges a few years ago
and spent a day walking through Oradour-sur-Glane. It was heartbreaking.”

“Yes, it is still. Even though I was a child, I can’t remember being so frightened
before or since.”

There was a moment of troubled silence, and then Derek asked, “Can you tell us about
your father?”

“Yes, of course.” She smiled. “Luc Benoit was born in La Croix Saint-Just, but to
tell his story, I must begin with his father, my grandfather, Christophe Benoit, who
was born and raised in the town of St. Emilion.”

My eyes grew wide. “St. Emilion?”

“Yes. It is known for its Bordeaux wines. You’ve heard of it?”

I almost laughed at the understatement. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” St. Emilion was world-renowned
for its premier red Bordeaux wines. Every schoolkid in Sonoma had heard of St. Emilion.

“Grandpapa grew up working in his father’s winery, but on a high school trip to Limoges,
he met and fell in love with my grandmother, Belle. She was from La Croix Saint-Just
and had no intention of moving to St. Emilion no matter how important Christophe’s
winery was.”

“She was a hometown girl,” Mom said in complete understanding.

“Precisely,” Trudy said, smiling as she nodded. “So what else could my grandfather
do but move to La Croix Saint-Just and marry her? They had four sons, one of whom
was my papa, Luc. His brother Anton was Robson’s grandfather. Grandpapa Christophe
had only ever known winemaking, so he brought with him a satchel of old-growth vines
from St. Emilion and planted them in the rich soil of La Croix Saint-Just
.
”

“How did that work out?” I wondered aloud.

“Oh, he became very successful, possibly because he was one of the few winemakers
in the area.”

“He would’ve been very popular,” Mom agreed.

Derek set his empty teacup and saucer on the coffee table. “What can you tell us about
his brother Anton?”

“Uncle Anton was the oldest of the four boys and very smart,”
she said. “They sent him to the Université de Poitiers to study medicine.”

“Anton was a doctor?” I asked.

“Yes, a medical doctor by profession.” She chuckled lightly. “But he was a born academic.
My grandfather used to say with much affection that Anton would rather have been teaching
medicine than practicing.” She took a quick sip of tea before continuing the story.
“Uncle Anton worked in a small clinic a distance from town until it closed, and then
he became more involved in the family winery. He turned out to be excellent at winemaking
because of his ability to apply biology and chemistry to the blending of the wines.”

“When did he decide to come to this country?” I asked.

“It was the war,” she said, her eyes unfocused as though she were recalling those
days. “The Germans marched into Paris in 1940. I was too young to remember much, but
I have since heard the stories repeated by my parents and grandparents.”

“It had to be a horrific time,” Mom said, reaching for the teapot to pour us all more
tea.

“It was. By 1942, the French winemakers were fearful of having their precious vineyards
burned and their wines stolen by the Nazis. My father and Uncle Anton and their two
brothers began bricking up their caves and ripping out the vines so the Nazis couldn’t
destroy them.”

I frowned. “But if they were ripping out their own vines, weren’t they destroying
them anyway?”

“No, no, I misspoke,” Trudy said, holding her teacup steady for Mom to refill it.
“The men took the ancient vines out carefully by the roots and packed them in small
burlap bags with the dirt still surrounding the root ball. They hid these inside wine
barrels and sent them to all parts of the world, wherever they had friends or acquaintances
in the winemaking business. This way, the vines could be replanted surrounded by the
dirt that had always
nurtured them. The
terroir
.” She looked at me. “You are familiar with the term?”