Bonita Faye Page 12

  About how Harmon had come from a poorer-than-dirt family in Oklahoma. How his pa was always drunk and beat up on Harmon and his mama and his little sister every time he’d had too much to drink. How Harmon used to steal chickens so they’d have something to eat. His ma had died giving birth to another baby and his sister had died of tuberculosis and his pa had shot himself.

  “Harmon would have gone right on stealing all his life if he hadn’t wound up in a foster home where the people were good to him. The man was a state trooper and the woman was a schoolteacher in Sallisaw. They gave him a second chance and Harmon paid them back by becoming a good man. They’re both dead now, but he still lives by their rules.”

  Claude looked ashamed. “Do you think Harmon Adams would like me? I have not done much with my life.”

  “You’re only getting started, Claude. Of course, you’ll do something with your life. Be somebody. Anybody you want to be. And look what you’ve been through. A world war in your front yard, for goodness sakes. You don’t have to do it all tomorrow.”

  His dark cloud lifted and he laughed, “Ah, but yes I do, Bonita Faye. Tomorrow is not soon enough. But, tell me one more thing.” Claude pulled me close with one arm, close enough so that our bodies touched in every place. He ran the fingers of his free hand through my hair, then behind my head as he held my face close and kissed me. He asked me, “Does Harmon Adams love you as much as I do?”

  There was no indication that the clouds scudding across the French sky were passing over sinister plots and life and death predicaments. Claude was wrapped up in some secret he wasn’t telling and that was okay with me and Simone ‘cause we were fooling around with our own.

  “We cannot,” she’d said in shock when I finally got up enough gumption to tell her what was on my mind.

  “Cannot what?” asked Claude. Lord, we didn’t know he was in the dining room, kneeling behind the service counter. “Sorry, I am repairing the plug to the hot plate,” he’d added when he saw our shocked faces. “What is going between you? You look like I caught you stealing the wine.” When we didn’t answer, just continued to stare at him like dummies, he assumed a hurt and indignant pose. “I am going, I am going. Okay?”

  “We cannot,” Simone repeated in a whispered hiss when Claude left whistling. “We don’t know how to kill someone. More than that, I don’t know if I could kill another person.”

  “Not even to save your son?” I followed Claude, whistling his tune as I ran up the basement stairs.

  Robert Sinclair knew me so well by now, that, he, too, was offended when I didn’t share my secret with him. “What’s going on with you, Bonita Faye? Why are you so mysterious all of a sudden? And, what’s this sudden interest in Communists, the Gestapo and the liberation? I thought you were more interested in 1789 than 1944?” Puzzled, he scratched at the side of his receding hairline with the smooth stump of his left arm.

  “And I thought you were teaching me about all of France’s history,” I replied in answer while I reached up to smooth his curly black hair into place. It was an affection gesture rather than a seductive tease. I gave his disorderly curls a final pat, like I’d seen Simone give Claude. “Now, you were telling me what you did in the war, about your part in the Resistance.”

  Distracted, he got caught up in his story again. “You’ve never seen anything like the devastation that was Paris when I arrived here. I came straight to the city after Normandy, one of the few who did, out a path through the lines, guided by a guerrilla fighter.

  “The army’s decision, the American army, that is, to head for the German border instead of liberating Paris at once was a difficult one for Eisenhower. On one hand, it would have been inspiring to the French and equally as demoralizing to the Germans to liberate the capital of France. A popular, sentimental and symbolic demonstration of power. But, on the other hand, it was more prudent to conserve precious fuel for actual border fighting than to waste it on civilians in the city. Besides, we counted on the Resistance to continue to undermine the German authority here. I was sent in to do a reconnaissance of the situation in Paris. That’s where I met Denis Denfert and Simone.”

  “You know Denis, too? And you knew Simone then? Why doesn’t anybody ever tell me these things?”

  “I guess we developed the habit during the war of not telling ‘these things’ and it’s stayed with us. If you know about Denis and Simone, I gather you also know about their personal relationship?”

  “That they were in love? Yes, Simone told me.”

  His voice thickened. “Did she tell you that I loved her, too?”

  “No, she didn’t. I didn’t know, Professor.”

  Robert cleared his throat of whatever was making him choke and said, “Well, no matter, just another wartime romance, Bonita Faye. They were a dime a dozen back then. Now, what was it you wanted to know about land mines?”

  “Oh, just if there were still any unexploded ones around?”

  “You planning to blow someone up, Bonita Faye?” he joked.

  Simone was grim lipped and white faced. “You have convinced me that it has to be done. That we have to kill Max. But, how?” We were walking in the Boulogne gardens, Michel skipping and tumbling ahead of us on the path. Simone never took her eyes off him and spoke only in English, although I had begun to help her son with some English words and phrases.

  “Howdy do, ma’am,” he said to one of the female statues along the walk. “I am hoping this is a good day for you.” He strongly emphasized the “ing” in hoping. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Michel as I had with Claude in the beginning. This kid was going to speak only the best English. “Cat got your tongue, you ol’ thang?” He kicked the silent statue. Well, I never claimed to be no real schoolmarm.

  Simone and I worked up a half-way decent plan, even scouted the site we had picked out for the murder; the Vermeillons’ farm. Michel went with us and enjoyed the outing more than we did. As he ran between the rows of vegetables chasing butterflies, his mother and I drew up as accurate a diagram of the area as we could as we plotted the best way to kill Michel’s father.

  “Now, Professor, take a look at this. I want to know more about that gorilla fighting you’re always going on about. Say if you was…were…going to come up on an enemy quiet like so as to gain the advantage of surprise? You followin’ me? Pay attention now. Do you reckon the best place to hide is in this barn or behind this stone wall? And is a knife as good as a gun?”

  “What are you up to, Bonita Faye?” Robert asked me for the fortieth time. “Where is this place?”

  I answered him like always. “Why, I’m up to nothing, Robert. This is just a lil’ ol’ imaginary farm I drawed up to help me understand things.” Then I made the mistake of adding, “I’m just that interested in what you, Denis, Simone and Max did in the war.”

  “Max!” His good arm reached out and grabbed my shoulder. “Bonita Faye Burnett, what do you know about Max?”

  Lord, God, it was easier to just pull out your shotgun and blow them away on an impulse than it was to figure out a complicated premeditated murder.

  But when Max’s call came through, Simone and I were ready.

  I was at the bookstore, seated on my brown stool, my head bent over the map spread out on the counter, arguing with Robert like always. “I understand if you’re hunched down in the barn, so the knife would come up under the ribs, but if I decide to hide behind the wall, I mean, if you were hiding behind the wall, wouldn’t flat on the ground be better?”

  I never did find out the answer to that one ‘cause just then the door burst open with a bang as it hit the wall. Simone stood there wide-eyed and speechless. She could only nod her head toward me like a puppet.

  “Heavens, Professor, I forgot I was going to help Simone with the marketing today. So, I’ll just say bye now and mosey on with her.” I took Simone’s arm and led her outside. Talking for Rob
ert’s benefit I said, “What was it we were shoppin’ for today, Simone? Beef or fish?”

  Out of Robert’s earshot, I asked her, “Did you tell Max where to meet you?”

  She nodded and found enough voice to say, “Oh, cherie, he thinks I am going to have Michel with me.”

  “Good…good. That’s the plan, Simone. Remember he’s supposed to think that the farm is where you’re going to deliver Michel to him. You gave us enough time to get there, didn’t you?”

  Again she nodded.

  Shivering like someone had walked over my grave, I turned around to see Robert Sinclair standing with his right arm holding on to his bad one. I looked back again before we crossed the street to the hotel. He was gone, but I felt like I was still being watched.

  It was a good day to be in the country. The sky was unusually clear and you could smell the hay that had just been cut. That upset me ‘cause I was countin’ on the tall grass to give us an additional advantage if we needed it.

  Well, our first plan would just have to work.

  Simone hid in the barn, hunched down just inside the darkened doorway, a butcher knife held in both her fists. Blade up. “You just stand up and push the knife in him. Don’t give Max time to talk. Just stand and shove. Can you do that, Simone?”

  “Yes.”

  I wondered if she could. Maybe she wouldn’t have to. Maybe I’d get him first. “When Max calls out, call him over this way. I’ll be behind the wall along the way to the barn. It’s going to be all right, Simone.”

  Sprawled in the dry grass behind the wall, I positioned my own kitchen knife and settled down to wait.

  When Max drove the car in to the farmyard, he parked it by the burned-out house. Even though the stone chimney and some foundation stones were all that remained, his natural instinct had been to park in front of what had been the main building. I had counted on that.

  So far, so good.

  Max got out of the car. I didn’t look over the wall, but I could hear the sounds that told me he was shutting the car door. Then I heard him call, “Simone. Michel. Where are you?”

  For a long minute, I didn’t think Simone was going to answer, but in a weak voice, she finally yelled, “Over here, Max. In the barn.”

  He was coming my way. I could hear his feet on the gravel.

  Just as I was getting ready to spring, Max surprised me. Three feet before he would have passed me, he jumped over the wall on my side.

  I hadn’t realized that my body was longer than the protection the wall gave it, and my sandals stuck out in clear view. Alert, Max had spotted my sprawled feet and jumped over to investigate. He didn’t know who I was, but that advantage lasted only a second. He came straight for me, his hands outstretched. I jumped to my feet, thrusting the knife before me. His long arm reached over the knife and slapped me up the side of the head. Then he took the knife and turned it on me.

  In French, he asked, “Who are you? Where is Simone? And Michel?” When he looked around for them, I charged him. The knife sliced into my upper arm and just as he raised it again, I heard a loud shot.

  Max’s head exploded in a red mass all over me.

  From the barn, I heard Simone scream.

  I stared down at the bloody bits on my shirt. There were squiggly white things mixed in with the blood. I looked down at Max who lay at my feet, face up. The front of his face was gone. Someone had shot him in the back of the head.

  Just as everything seemed to go black, I saw two men jump over the wall. One held a rifle in both his hands. The other one only had one hand. It was Denis Denfert and Robert Sinclair.

  Denis had shot Max. He had saved me from Patsy’s lake of everlasting fire by committing my second murder for me.

  TWENTY-ONE

  We buried Max under the cauliflower. It was my decision. At first, I chose the green beans ‘cause they had reached the end of their season, but I knew that if we put Max under the beans, I would never be able to eat them again, and I didn’t like cauliflower to begin with. ‘Sides, those white things from Max’s head reminded me of cauliflower which meant I’d never eat it again anyway. There was no sense in eliminating two vegetables from my diet.

  Denis was the one who did all the work. Simone kept wandering around moaning and slinging her knife which Robert finally took from her, holding her close in a one-armed embrace. I was no help ‘cause I was propped against the wall, trying to direct the operation, soaked from head to foot from when Robert had pushed me under the farm’s old pump. I felt like the mess I looked. Rusty water ran down my face, plastering my hair to my head and, despite both our efforts, unsightly blotches stained my white shirt. Robert’s handkerchief was tied around my upper left arm to staunch the blood from the wound Max had inflicted. It was a deep cut, but I didn’t feel it.

  There had been no tanks or air support, but the four of us were as shell-shocked as if we had survived a major battle.

  Denis had the only shovel, but Robert found a hand rake in the trunk of Simone’s borrowed car parked deep in the garage. He used it to scrape dirt and gravel over the blood Max had spilled at the murder site. It was already attracting flies. He also found a bottle of wine in the car.

  We drank from the bottle.

  “That cut will need stitches, Bonita Faye,” said Robert.

  “But that will hurt,” I protested.

  “For someone who doesn’t like pain, you’re certainly in the wrong business.” His stubbed arm indicated the spot where Denis was dragging Max’s body. We both watched as Denis dumped Max into his grave.

  When enough dirt covered the dead man, we all relaxed. Denis stopped long enough to come over and take a turn at the bottle and give his own hug to Simone. He glared at me. “We’ll talk about this later, Bonita Faye.” I knew it. Denis Denfert spoke perfect English.

  When we left the farm, it looked almost as undisturbed as it had when Simone and I had played there with Michel. Denis had carefully removed the remaining cauliflower heads before he began his digging and when he finished the burial, he moved them back in place. One good rain and nobody would ever know an ex-Gestapo officer lay under them. I wondered how many similar graves there were in France?

  “Now we’ll talk.” Denis sat a fresh bottle of wine in front of us at the table in the Regina where we had all gathered.

  My arm hurt and I was dizzy from the excitement, the pain and the wine. I had fainted twice during the stitching up at the infirmary where the attending physician…a friend of Denis’s…had not blinked an eye or asked one question about my injury. “Domestic accident” was what he had put on the medical report.

  I tried to take control of the situation. “How did you know where we were? That Max was there?”

  Denis actually sneered at me, his lip curling up on one side, but it was Robert who answered, “Bonita Faye, the next time you plan a combat maneuver, why don’t you just run a flag up a pole with the target, time and place on it? Your enemies wouldn’t be surprised anyway and your allies would appreciate it.”

  Seeing my shamed face and maybe my pale condition, Robert softened his tone and continued, “Of course, I recognized the Vermeillon farm from your sketch, crude as it was. And your questions. From them I deduced that you had a killing in mind, but I didn’t know who until Denis called me from Paris to report that Max had been sighted there. I remembered your mentioning Max to me.

  “I contacted Denis again and told him what I suspected. He agreed with me that something was going on. But you were like a loose cannon. We didn’t know which way you were going to shoot. He’s been here in Boulogne ever since…waiting for something to happen.”

  That’s why I had felt like I was being watched.

  Robert went on, “When Simone burst into the bookstore, there was no mistaking the message she was conveying to you. Since we knew where you were going, I just had to locate Denis and get there as fast as
we could.”

  Denis spoke of the event for the first time. “I am sorry Max cut you,” he said to me. “I would have shot him sooner, but I was afraid I’d hit you.” He ran his hand through his wiry hair. “I must be getting old.”

  “I’m glad you were there, Denis.” I put my hand over his. “And you, Robert. I reckon I was kinda foolish, thinking Simone and I could pull it off by ourselves.”

  “No, no, Bonita Faye. Actually it was a good plan that almost worked. With a little more practice, you might have made it. I think you could have killed him,” said Denis.

  Simone still sat silent, but with the explanations and the murmur of normal conversation, the color that had begun to return to her face after she had hugged Michel on our return resumed its normal glow. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in her chair, “Mon dieu, I just remembered.”

  “What?” we asked in unison.

  “Max…the killing…the farm. We must never, never…”

  “…tell Claude.” We finished the sentence for her.

  We were laughing at this, our first laugh since the murder, when Claude himself strode into the room.

  He dropped an armload of books on the table, upsetting glasses and spilling wine on the tablecloth. “So, it is over! Fini!”

  “Fini? Fini? Claude, how can you know?” Simone rose from her chair.

  “Because I have just taken my last examination. Because I am now a graduate of the University of Paris. That is how I know.” For the first time, he stopped and looked around at us. “What is going on here? What has happened?”

  Dear Harmon, September is the same here as home. Turning cooler everyday. Claude has graduated from college. Simone and me are giving him a party at the Cafe Roy in Paris. Wish you were here to go to it. Nothing much else is happening. How are things on the 38th Parallel? Keep your head down and your gunpowder dry. Ha! Love, Bonita Faye. P.S. this postcard picture is of the boats on the Seine where I have been many times.