Read Online Deadly Slipper by Michelle Wan - Free Book Online Page A

he had come down the valley, he could not recall actually having spoken toeither of the La Binette pair. Today, he wondered nervously if Vrac would be around. Of the two, he thought he would rather deal with the woman. Once or twice he had seen Vrac standing on a hillside roaring unintelligibly at the sky, or glimpsed him in the rain, moving like an animal among the trees. Besides, he didn’t think Vrac could read or write, let alone sign his name.
    Gaston pulled up in front of the farmhouse. The day was turning overcast and windy, with the suggestion of an impending storm. Reluctantly he heaved his bulk out of the minivan. A crow rose flapping from the roof.
    “Allo?”
he shouted from the bottom of the six deep steps leading up to the front door. In addition to its unusual style, he noted that the house was built of darker stone than normal, giving it a damp and secretive air.
    Laboriously, he climbed up to the elevated stoop. He knocked. Silence. The front of the house had one window. Peering through grimy glass, he could make out nothing of the darkened interior.
    Not here, he concluded, considerably relieved. He wondered if he could get away with putting the EDF envelope and the signature form in the mailbox at the roadside with a note instructing la Binette to sign the form and leave it for him to pick up the following day. He wasn’t really supposed to do that, and he had no reason to believe she would comply. Ah well, he supposed he’d just have to try again.
    As he turned to descend the steps, he saw, with a sense of shock, that la Binette was waiting for him at the bottom. She wore overalls tucked into knee-high rubber boots, and a black jersey with the sleeves pushed up. With her massive forearms and her birthmark obliterating one eye, she reminded Gaston uncomfortably of a beached pirate.
    “Ah, madame,” Gaston stammered. Perhaps she had been in the byre at her cheesemaking, for her hands were wet, and her wig, the color of dirty straw, was tipped askew over her forehead. Fleetingly he wondered what had become of her own hair, not that he would have dared to ask.
    “What?” she said. Her voice was hollow and harsh, like wind blowing down a chimney.
    “Er,” he said, “it’s this. For you.” Tentatively he held out the electricity board envelope.
    She ignored it, glaring balefully into his face.
    “What do I want with that?”
    “
Eh bien
, how am I to know?” he gabbled apprehensively, realizing that it was probably a final notice of arrears. “However, as you can see, it requires your signature.”
    She spat, aiming for a spot just off his right toe.
    “Madame!” Gaston pulled his foot back. “I am only doing my duty.”
    At that point Vrac appeared, rounding the corner of the house and stopping up short behind his mother. Together the pair of them blocked the
facteur’s
way like standing stones. Gaston thought howmuch bigger Vrac seemed up close. He wore dungarees over a greasy sweater and a pair of steel-rimmed sunglasses with one lens missing, giving him a patch-eyed look and the bizarre appearance of parodying his mother’s birthmark. The expression on his large, misshapen face was not friendly, and he smelled strongly of sheep.
    Gaston tried affability. “Come. I’ll leave it here, shall I?” He placed the envelope on the third step. “And if you’ll just sign this. A mere formality.” He extended the required paperwork.
    Vrac gave a sudden, braying laugh. He moved close enough to poke Gaston hard in the chest and plucked the form from the postman’s hand. Scowling, he goggled at it upside down and right side up, turned it over, and gave another burst of mirthless laughter. Momentarily, Gaston was taken in by this dumb show. Then he caught a gleam of malicious cognition in Vrac’s eye.
    “Monsieur,” he cried, somewhat shrilly but with all the dignity he could muster, “I really must—”
    But Vrac merely stuffed the paper inside the bib of his dungarees and stalked