Free Fortune's Deadly Descent by Audrey Braun Page B

say.
    Oliver clicks pictures with his phone, slowly, in a circle, recording the panorama. “Most kids aren’t like Benny,” he says. “They don’t get excited about going to the market with
Maman
.” He lowers the phone and throws me a tight-lipped smile.
    “I suppose.”
    Still, the absence of children seems odd.
    “Besides that,” Oliver says, “the birthrate has been falling across Europe for decades. These villages are dying. Huge issue for pensioners.”
    “This village doesn’t look like it’s dying, Oliver.”
    “Well, maybe not this one. I’ve been thinking about that British woman, the witness on the train? I read in
The Times
how Brits are throwing money at ruined farmhouses down here, turning them into B&Bs. It’s actually
saving
some of these villages. Maybe that’s happening here.”
    “Hmm,” I say. “Moreau was telling me the same thing.” I think of the Roma, or Gypsies, as they’re called, and of the stranger who spoke to Moreau’s daughter, who may have been the man fromthe train. According to Moreau, he spoke French with some kind of accent. I wouldn’t have known the difference.
    I draw in the umbrella as we duck and stroll beneath the awnings. I can feel Benny’s presence in the shades of green and orange, in the smell of soil and roots, the sharp ripening of fruit. I stop in front of a mound of chervil. The cool strings weave through my fingers as I bring them to my nose. It smells like Benny. It may as well be his clothes, his blanket, his hair between my fingers.
    Oliver rubs my back. I press my bottom lip between my teeth.
    “We’ll find him, Mom,” he whispers in my ear. “We will.”
    I release the chervil, and we walk on. I picture Moreau here, sauntering between the vintners, farmers, housewives, neighbors he’d know by name. Has he
questioned
any of them—despite Interpol’s desire to keep the disappearance under wraps? If not, how could he possibly go about the search?
    We pass a palette of freshly cut flowers—reds the color of Tabasco, pale yellows, blues, midnight to icy. I think of the unapologetic Madame Moreau—is she one of the women with string bags and gray raincoats, hair pinned at the nape of their necks? No one seems colorful enough. No one shines. I picture her painting nudes into cliffs. I see the love so clearly in Moreau’s eyes when he speaks of her, and without warning, I think of Benicio, his lazy finger skimming the base of my throat, drifting along the tender skin behind my ear where his hand cups my head, draws me to his kiss. He calls me “hot fondue.” I say, “That’s molten cheese to you,” and we laugh against each other’s teeth.
    I lower myself to a bench in the open square. My body feels small and adrift, like a doll tossed out to sea. I cover my head with the umbrella.
    “
Alles in ordnung?
” Oliver asks.
    “I’m fine, sweetheart,” I say softly.
    “So?”
    “Nothing.”
    He nods.
    I nod back, then give a tiny head tilt toward the crowd. “Why don’t you go take more pictures. Scout around.”
    “Should I pretend to be Swiss?” he asks.
    “You
are
Swiss.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “Yes.”
    So Oliver sets off bareheaded along the perimeter of the market. His hair immediately frizzes. He’s tall, his jacket red, easy to spot in a crowd.
    I dial Benicio’s cell.
    He answers with a growling burst of air. “Please tell me you’re coming home,” he says.
    “We just got here,” I say.
    For a moment, there’s nothing but the mustard woman yelling, “
Moutarde!
”
    “I’m going out of my mind without you,” he says.
    “I just want to know if there’s any news.”
    “Celia.”
    “
Answer
me.”
    “No. No news.”
    I let it sink in. Could he be lying? But why would he?
    “The last thing we needed was a distraction like this,” I say. “This Emily thing.”
    “No kidding.”
    I can’t help but laugh. “You act like it wasn’t your doing.”
    “It’s complicated, Celia. I wanted to talk