Read Chapter 13: Aftermath: The Debt Collector

The knock came at nine in the morning, when the mist still clung to the vines and Élise was scraping the last of her coffee grounds into the compost pail.

She opened the door to find a man in a charcoal suit that had no business on a farm path. He held a leather satchel in both hands, fingers interlaced over it like a mourner at a casket. Behind him, a black Citroën sat idling at the turn, its driver staring straight ahead.

“Madame Delacroix,” the man said, his accent cut with the clipped efficiency of Avignon bureaucracy. “My name is Étienne Roussillon. I represent Crédit Agricole de Provence, insolvency division.”

Élise felt the word land on her chest like a sack of grain. *Insolvency.*

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, keeping her voice even. “The estate passed to me three weeks ago. If there are outstanding matters, the notary should have—“

“The notary,” Roussillon interrupted smoothly, “was instructed to withhold certain obligations until the estate had a new proprietor of record. You are now that proprietor.”

He produced a document from his satchel, folded in thirds and stamped with a seals so red it looked fresh. “This is a notice of debt owed against the Château Beaumont vineyard, principal plus accumulated interest, due in full within ninety days of notification.”

Élise took the paper. The number at the bottom made her stomach drop—not the modest figure she’d expected for a few unpaid supplier bills, but something closer to the price of a Paris apartment on the Île Saint-Louis.

“This can’t be right,” she said. “André ran this place for thirty years. He paid his debts.”

“That is not what our records show.” Roussillon gestured to the paper. “The loan was taken against the property in 1952. Annual payments were made through early 1959, after which they ceased.”

“André disappeared in ’59, yes. But he was gone—someone else should have—“

“The payment schedule was attached to the person of the borrower,” Roussillon said, with the patience of a man who explained this often. “Monsieur Delacroix’s disappearance created a cessation of service obligations. The bank has been lenient, extending grace periods.” His mouth tightened. “But leniency has its limits.”

Julien’s voice came from the courtyard behind her, rough with sleep. “What’s this?”

She turned to find him standing at the corner of the house, shirt half-buttoned, hair still flattened on one side from the night. He must have come through the kitchen when he heard voices. His eyes went to the suit, then the car, then the paper in her hands. The recognition was instant.

“Roussillon,” Julien said flatly. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Julien.” The bank man smiled without warmth. “I wondered if you’d still be here. Thought you might have moved on after the incident with the cooperage.”

“You know about that?” Élise said.

“I know everything that touches this property.” Roussillon turned back to her. “That is my job, Madame. To know when an asset is bleeding. And this vineyard has been bleeding for three years.”

Élise looked down at the paper again. The sum stared back at her, unflinching. “Three months,” she said. “This is due in three months.”

“Unless payment is rendered earlier,” Roussillon said. “On the full balance. Or, if the estate cannot satisfy the debt, the bank will begin foreclosure proceedings on the property.”

“You can’t foreclose on a working vineyard.”

“You can foreclose on a vineyard with a contamination report on file,” he said. “I’m aware of your recent sample.”

Julien stepped forward, fists clenched. “You had that lab notified?”

“I have interests to protect, Monsieur Benoît. When I learned our debtor’s heirs were sending wine to Marseille for testing, I made sure the finding was copied to appropriate parties. What I do not know is why you sent it.” His eyes moved between them. “Perhaps you suspected the cause of the contamination was not natural?”

The silence stretched. Élise could hear crows cawing somewhere in the vineyard, oblivious to the fact that her inheritance was crumbling into dust.

“This is absurd,” she said finally. “André Delacroix had no reason to borrow against this land. He owned it free and clear after his father’s death. The records at the mairie confirm it.”

“The records at the mairie,” Roussillon said, “confirm the property was mortgaged in 1952, shortly after your aunt Joséphine’s departure from Paris. Your aunt—she was the one who established the debt.”

Élise went cold. “Joséphine? She left in ’52. She never came back. She died in Paris three years later.”

“She may not have come back physically,” Roussillon said. “But her signature is on the loan. As was her husband’s, as guarantor. When both were deceased, the responsibility transferred to the estate’s primary inheritance line.” He nodded to her. “That is you, Madame Delacroix. You inherited the cup and the crown, it seems. Pity it came with a price.”

Julien swore under his breath, a word she didn’t catch but understood.

“I want the full documentation,” Élise said, hearing her voice steady even as her knees felt weak. “Every page, every signature, every payment record. I want it delivered within the week.”

Roussillon studied her for a long moment. “You have three months to challenge the debt, not to refinance it. If you wish to litigate, you may. But I should warn you—the bank is confident in its paperwork.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said.

He gave a short nod, tucked the satchel under his arm, and walked back toward the car. The engine hummed as he slid into the passenger seat. The Citroën pulled away down the long drive, trailing dust that hung in the air long after the sound had faded.

Julien stood at her shoulder, staring at the empty road. “How much?”

She handed him the paper without looking. He read it silently, then folded it once, precisely, expression tight.

“I didn’t know about this,” he said. His voice was raw. “I thought—after André’s father died, the place was paid off. He never told me about any loan. Never once, in fifteen years of working at his side.”

“It wasn’t André who took it,” Élise said. “It was Joséphine.”

“Why would she do that?”

Élise turned the question over in her mind, feeling pieces settle into place. The baker’s words came back to her—*Joséphine refused to stay silent about something criminal in her husband’s accounts.* And now this: a loan taken the same year she fled Paris, leaving scandal behind her.

“Maybe she didn’t have a choice,” Élise said slowly. “Maybe she was protecting something.”

“Protecting what? The vineyard?”

“Or someone.” She looked at the château, its crumbling shutters, its moss-stained walls. “What if the loan wasn’t for the vineyard at all? What if it was for what was in the ledger?”

Julien’s brow creased. “You think she borrowed against this land to buy off whoever was threatening her husband?”

“I think my aunt was not a thief,” Élise said. “And I think someone made her look like one.”

She walked back into the house before he could ask more, her steps quick, focused. The ledger was still in her room, where she’d hidden it beneath a loose floorboard under her bed, wrapped in oilcloth. She hadn’t looked at it in days—too afraid of what she might find, too tired to follow its threads.

Now she pulled it out, dusted off the cloth, and laid it on her bed. The worn leather binding was warm in her hands. She opened to the last pages, the entries from 1959, André’s hand neat and small. Payments, harvest records, supplier notes. Nothing about a loan or a debt. Nothing that mentioned the bank’s name.

But the ledger didn’t lie. André had been meticulous. If there was a debt, it would have been recorded somewhere—some payment he made, some transfer to an account that carried hidden meaning.

She ran her finger down the columns, reading dates and sums, until she found it. A single line in 1959, just before his disappearance. *Paid in full to Mercier & Colle—final settlement.* The amount matched the interest payments she might expect on a loan, but the name meant nothing to her.

Mercier. The baker’s name was Colle. A coincidence? Or a connection?

She closed the ledger, wrapped it again in the oilcloth, and pressed it into the gap beneath the floorboard. As she rose, she caught her reflection in the window. Dust on her cheek, hair escaping its pins, dirt caked beneath her nails. She barely recognized herself—the woman who’d arrived three weeks ago in gloves and silk was gone, replaced by someone whose hands knew the weight of pruning shears and whose eyes were dark from reading numbers by lamplight.

But the Parisian was still in there somewhere, and the Parisian knew one thing for certain: when you owed a bank money you couldn’t pay, you didn’t fight them alone. You found what they were hiding, and you used it.

Outside, Julien was stacking wood near the shed. She joined him, taking a log from the pile to make his load lighter.

“What did you find?” he asked.

“Enough to know this debt is a lie,” she said. “André was paying it. Someone in ’59 let it lapse on purpose.”

Julien set down the wood, face hardening. “Someone who wanted André gone.”

“And someone who knew the loan would fall to me.” She met his gaze. “We need to find out who arranged that sample test in Marseille. Your cousin—can he trace the lab’s records?”

“Maybe. If I ask carefully.”

“Ask carefully,” she said. “And ask the baker about a name. Mercier.”

Julien’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Mercier’s the old accounting firm in Avignon. They handled estate books for half the vineyards in the valley. Why?”

“Because André paid them off in 1959, the week he disappeared. And I think whatever they were hiding is still alive—and it wants this vineyard back.”

She reached up and smoothed her hair, a gesture of the old Élise, gracious and composed even with dirt on her dress. “We have three months,” she said. “That’s time enough to drown a few snakes.”

Julien almost smiled. It was the closest thing to admiration she’d seen from him yet.