She leaned forward and whispered, “Gérald says that the Bastide Blanche is haunted, and it always has been.”
“When I said that someone’s been tugging at my sheets, I meant a real person,” I said. I got up to get us some more coffee.
“I did ask Gérald for more details,” Sandrine said, ignoring my comment, “but he didn’t know when or why the stories about the Bastide Blanche began.”
A noise in the hallway made us both jump. Michèle appeared in the doorway. “I have the worst headache in the world,” she muttered.
Sandrine didn’t hide her smile as she walked over to one of the kitchen cabinets and took out a box labeled FIRST AID. Isn’t she incredible? Even my dear, très froid retired secretary, Ursule Genoux, wasn’t that organized. Sandrine thrust a box of aspirin into Michèle’s hands. I added, for comic effect, “Take two and call us in the morning!”
“Very funny,” Michèle muttered, and walked away.
I could see the look of loathing on Sandrine’s face as her eyes followed her out of the room. “Michèle’s not that bad,” I whispered, wanting to keep peace in my house.
“Oh yeah?” Sandrine replied. “I overheard you two talking last night.”
“What?” I asked, concerned that Sandrine was listening, intentionally or not.
“Mais oui,” she continued. “I don’t think she’s being fair, M Barbier. To threaten you like that.”
“Sandrine, it doesn’t concern you.”
She made a dismissive grunt and sat down. “You’re my boss, M Barbier,” she began. “You asked me, and I told you why I don’t like her. Josy always says to be careful with women like that—”
“Can we change the subject?”
Sandrine tapped the table with her fingernails, each painted in red, white, and blue. “As you wish.” She took a big bite of her tartine. “So,” she said, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. “What did the voice say last night?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I was in one of those moments when you’ve been tossing and turning but don’t know if you’re awake or asleep. The voice spoke quickly, almost hissing. And the funny thing is, it didn’t sound like French.”
“English?”
“No, closer to French than to English.”
Sandrine clapped her hands, then grabbed my arm. “Occitan!”
“You may be right,” I said. “I’ve only ever heard Provençal a few times, but it could have been.”
“It’s an old ghost then,” Sandrine went on.
“Sandrine,” I objected, “I don’t believe in ghosts. That’s all superstition. I’m a well-respected writer—”
“Who was scared out of his wits last night, right? I can see you didn’t sleep.”
“Point taken.”
“Well, from what I know of ghosts in old houses, and we have one here who might have lived over one hundred years ago, they’re not mean, just confused.”
I burst out laughing, which I shouldn’t have. Sandrine started sulking and crossed her arms. She asked, “Do you want my advice or not?”
“Yes, please.” Can you believe it, Justin? I felt like a schoolboy being scolded.
“The ghosts still think the house is theirs. We need to explain to them that it’s yours.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, but we didn’t have much to go on. They visited me every evening and had frightened Sandrine, and even little Léa had felt their presence. “What do we do?” I asked. “Walk through the house with a candle, chanting, and ask them to leave?”
Sandrine didn’t pick up on my sarcasm, or if she did, she ignored it. “No, we don’t ask them; we tell them,” she said. “We need to be firm.”
“How do we go about it?” I asked.
She sat down and got out her cell phone. “I’ll just look it up,” she said. “Why hadn’t you thought of that?”
“I still forget, perhaps intentionally, that nowadays one can find almost anything on the Internet. Books are no longer—”
“Yeah, whatever,” Sandrine said as she stared at her screen. “M Barbier, you need to get with the twenty-first century! There. I’ve only just begun to search, and already there’s all kinds of advice.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’ve found a Web site called Sisters in Sorcery or Ten Easy Ways to Rid Your Home of Unwanted Ghosts?”
Sandrine looked up at me. “How did you know?”
I laughed and she narrowed her eyes.
“You’re teasing me. That’s not nice, M Barbier.”
“I’m sorry, Sandrine,” I replied. “Please tell me what we can do.”
Sandrine began reading. “The first thing this guy stresses is to be polite about it.”
I snorted. “They’re the ones keeping me up.”
“You don’t want to anger them,” Sandrine continued, giving me a raised eyebrow. “If you’ve politely asked them to leave, and they don’t, it may be because they’re trying to communicate something to you. But do not try to communicate with them. ‘Do not’ is in bold letters, M Barbier.”
“Noted.”
“If you need to communicate with them, find someone that is—”
“Who is.”
Sandrine sighed. “Experienced.”
“That should be easy. Anyway, I have no wish to chat with them.”
Sandrine smiled. “I think it could be very interesting. But I’ll read on. The next bit is called ‘Cleansing the Home.’ As your housekeeper that should be my job. Ah, it says to use holy water.”
“Can you just buy that stuff?” I asked.
Sandrine shrugged. “I’ll look into it. I haven’t been to Mass since . . .” She got out a little notebook and made a note to herself. “Sprinkle holy water everywhere in the home, including closets, doorways, attics, and basements. And don’t forget outside too. Many people have succeeded by saying the Lord’s Prayer while sprinkling.”
“I can’t remember it.”
“Surely you can,” Sandrine said. “Or you can say any prayer. I’ll bet you can even make one up.”
“Because that’s basically what a prayer is. Made-up hocus—”
Sandrine cut me off: “Here’s the bit for you. ‘Nonbelievers can burn a sage stick.’”
I broke out in laughter. “Does this person live in New Mexico by any chance?”
“I don’t know where that is,” Sandrine answered curtly. “But we have plenty of sage around here. I
