Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“Hey, Carrot Top!”

The season was in full swing again.

“Fetch me a cold beer, will you? I’m absolutely gasping.”

Georges paused from emptying the hedge clippings on the compost. That voice — He peered round the corner and could hardly believe his eyes. Madame Morreau’s nephew!

“Yes, you. Gingernut.” Jean-Paul was addressing a girl, whose bare feet were half buried in the sand. “You wouldn’t allow a man to die of thirst, would you?”

“She’s not staff,” Georges said. “She’s—” For the first time he took a good, hard look at her. “She’s—”

“Recently moved in across the lake.” Her little snub nose wrinkled in apology. “Sorry. Am I trespassing? Only I was curious to see what our village looked like from this side.”

“No. I mean, yes, but—”

He could see how Jean-Paul mistook her for a waitress. Black skirt, white blouse. Red hair tied back from her face.

“What he means is, can’t you read?” Weasel pointed to the big, bold sign that proclaimed PrivateProperty. “It specifically says ‘No Carrot Tops Allowed.’”

“Don’t call her that.” Georges felt something stir inside. “It’s mean.”

“True.” The nephew winked, then turned and walked off whistling. “I’ll stick with Gingernut instead.”

Over in the car park, Georges saw Madame Morreau’s ancient Peugeot straddling two bays. The mirror shine had gone, the number plate was black with flies, and rust had begun to creep along the sills. A pair of fluffy dice, one pink, one blue, dangled above the grimy walnut console.

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” the girl said, scuffing her toe deeper into the sand. “But I’m used to being ribbed about my hair.”

The teasing still hurt, though. He could tell by the way her skin had turned bright pink, right down to her neck. “Is that why you tie it back? To hide it?”

“Wouldn’t you?” The greenest eyes he’d ever seen misted over. “I tried dyeing it, but that made it ten times worse.” This time the nose wrinkled in disgust. “It’s horrible hair. I hate it.”

“You shouldn’t.” For some reason, he had an urge to reach out and feel how its curls would spring about between his fingers. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s bright red!”

“Like maple leaves in autumn,” Georges said, nodding. “The colour of a robin’s breast and squirrels’ fur and sunsets on the lake, and you know what else? Your face. It reminds me of a wren’s egg.”

“Because of the mass of brown freckles on a very white background?”

“Because it’s small and smooth and fragile,” he corrected.

Across the lake? He glanced at the dots that were the village in the distance. She did. She definitely said, across the lake.

“Is it true you know where every swan and heron has its nest?”

Her name was Sandrine and she worked in the boat-hire office that her father had just opened and which, according to her, was doing exceptionally well. Despite her leaving customers lined up outside because she forgot to open up, or else stranded on the open water, having not filled up their gas tanks.

“Are there otters in the lake?” she asked, peering through her binoculars.

“No, but there’s a family in the river that feeds into it.” Her legs were long and slim, and covered in the same pretty freckles that covered her face and arms. “I built a hide to watch them.”

He could have talked for hours, and the odd thing was, he had the feeling Sandrine would have listened, too. But round the door of Reception, he could see a finger being crooked, beckoning him. An arrogant, bony finger, with a weaselly sneer on the end of it.

“Going to carry my cases for me, Slowpoke?”

Through the office, Georges could see Irene had had to take an urgent phone call, and remembered that although he’d serviced the lift earlier this morning, this was yet another occasion when he’d gone off to cut the hedge without reconnecting the blasted electricity.

“Number Forty-five,” Jean-Paul said, grinning. “Top floor.”

In many ways, Georges had inherited his mother’s temperament. In many ways, he had not. He chewed his lip. Almost smelled the aniseed.

“Certainly, sir.” A phrase he’d never used before, but one which he’d heard Irene trot out a thousand times each season. “This way, please.”

He glanced at the Out of Order sign. Would that have made things worse, or better? Four flights of stairs made for a long, slow climb, but at least they went up separately. In the lift, they’d have been locked in, face-to-face.

“Here we are, sir. Your aunt’s old room.”

“Nice view.” Jean-Paul let his breath out in an admiring whistle as he stepped out onto the balcony. “Better than that crummy cupboard she used to put me in. I mean, who wants to overlook a bloody car park?”

Georges wanted to tell him that the single rooms weren’t crummy, and they weren’t much smaller, either. It was because they had ordinary windows, rather than French doors, that they appeared darker.

“The view will be better once the new swimming pool’s installed.”

“I can’t swim, so who cares, and in any case,” Jean-Paul sniffed, “wild horses wouldn’t bring me back to this dump.”