The Red Brick Basilica: Tolosa Mysteries, #2

By R.W. Wallace

Louis Saint-Blancat loves every aspect of Toulouse — the delicious food, the temperate climate, the laidback people. And the history! Every building and square guards bits of Toulouse's past, from well-known events to morsels only revealed to the curious like Louis.

 

Especially the morbidly fascinating stories catch Louis's interest in ways he can't explain.

 

When someone slaughters a Catholic priest on the steps of the city's largest mosque, reenacting the story of Saint Sernin's death from the year 250 A.D., Louis fears Touluse is in for an upheaval of disastrous proportions.

 

In this second installment of The Tolosa Mysteries, Louis must wade through political minefields and deal with an increasingly split population while searching for the culprit — and helping his beloved city stay unified.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.W. Wallace
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9791095707479

R.W. Wallace

R.W. Wallace writes in most genres, though she tends to end up in mystery more often than not. Dead bodies keep popping up all over the place whenever she sits down in front of her keyboard. The stories mostly take place in Norway or France; the country she was born in and the one that has been her home for two decades. Don't ask her why she writes in English - she won't have a sensible answer for you. Her Ghost Detective short story series appears in Pulphouse Magazine, starting in issue #9. You can find all her books, long and short, on rwwallace.com.

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The Red Brick Basilica

Tolosa Mysteries, Volume 2

R.W. Wallace

Published by R.W. Wallace, 2020.

Prologue

The fabric of the bag covering his head scratched against his nose and forehead. It was rough enough to be covered in tiny, sharp hairs, tickling his nose and neck, making him twitch involuntarily. A drop of sweat was slowly making its way down his temple and his arms were shaking, both from staying in an unaccustomed position for so long and from fear. His heart beat fast and erratically in his chest, not helping in the least with the shortness of breath that no amount of meditation seemed to help with. Air could flow through the fabric of the bag, but he didn’t think he was getting enough oxygen. For each time he exhaled, the air inside his prison became just a little warmer, a little more humid.

Whenever he moved, a faint earthly smell made its way to his nose—it had probably been used to store potatoes before being set to this more nefarious use. Even though the sun had been shining when he arrived earlier and he was fairly certain he was now outside, very little light seeped through the fabric of the bag. Just enough to indicate that the sun was to his left and to determine that the bag was a dark, murky brown.

His feet were tied. From what he could gather, they had first been tied together with a strong and flexible rope, and then a larger and heavier version had been tied to that, attaching him to…something. His hands were tied behind his back. The knot felt rather loose, but no amount of wiggling, pulling or fiddling could undo it.

He’d given up on getting free of his own accord about five minutes ago. It was becoming hard to tell the passage of time since he had no visual clue other than the hint of sunlight coming through and no auditive input other than the cars rushing by on the distant ring road somewhere behind him.

He tried negotiating with his captors for a while, but when nobody answered and he became increasingly convinced he stood here all alone, he gave up on that too. He had more than enough with breathing evenly in the confines of the bag and doing his best not to panic.

It seemed more and more probable that he had been kidnapped for a ransom—there was, after all, no reason whatsoever for anyone to wish him any harm personally—in which case he could only wait in hopes of a rescue. He idly wondered if it was true that the police never accepted to pay a ransom to kidnappers. Or was that negotiating with terrorists? But there was no guarantee that the police were involved at all right now. He felt fairly certain that civilians paid ransoms when someone they cared about were in danger.

Would the Catholic Church pay a ransom?

He couldn’t remember anything on the subject from his training—perhaps a point to discuss with his teachers once this ordeal was over.

A loud snort made him jump in his skin and almost made him lose his balance. He floundered without the help of his arms, and his feet capable of nothing more than shuffling, but after what must have been a very inelegant dance, he righted himself, still on his feet.

From somewhere on his right, a strong, rancid smell and a loud clacking rhythm.

He froze, all his muscles taut with tension.

What was that? A horse? Here, in the city? He hadn’t been knocked out for so long that he’d been transported into the countryside, surely? But no, the buzz from the ring road was still there, familiar and reassuring. But nothing small like a cat or a dog would make that much noise when walking on pavement.

It smelled like his grandfather’s barn.

Surely, there was no reason for a cow to find itself in the center of a city the size of Toulouse?

A slight tug on the rope tied to his legs sent him reeling again.

Is somebody there? he asked. He was not going to entertain the option that a cow was currently pulling on the rope. What is going on? When will I be set free? I promise I didn’t see anyone so I cannot tell on you. You let me go now and there will be no consequences for you.

He got no answer, except for another snort.

Remembering today’s date, November 29th, a full body shudder had him shaking and almost made him lose his balance again. He focused all his energy on staying upright and proud—be would not face this ordeal in a heap on the ground or whimpering in fear. He would trust in his God to keep him safe.

That snort was not the type of sound he heard every time he visited his grandfather’s cows. It was not.

He opened his mouth to negotiate further, but he never got a sound out. A sharp smack! sounded from right in front of him, echoing back and forth on whatever walls might be surrounding him, then another snort and the clacking steps, faster than before. Perhaps it was a horse?

The rope around his hands was suddenly pulled free.

The rope around his feet yanked sharply forward, making him lose his balance.

The back of his head hit the concrete and the world went black.

One

Louis had always found the gory part of Toulouse’s history fascinating and awesome—right up until the moment when it became a part of his everyday life.

Soft jazz music emanated from speakers precariously piled on top of a stack of empty wine boxes. The chatter from the other ten tables in the restaurant was soothing, and in no way a problem for talking with a person at the same table at a normal volume. The chandeliers were made of old cutlery, pans, and pots, and the decorations on the walls seemed to have been stolen from a medieval kitchen. Louis felt right at home.

Louis occupied a bench along the wall, sitting across from the very pretty Marie. He supposed this was their first date. Louis wasn’t quite certain about anything right now, since he’d been convinced they had just been friends since they first met at the Socialist Party meeting two months earlier, but Marie assured him she had been trying to get him to take the hint pretty much since the beginning. She had finally taken things into her own hands and asked Louis out.

Not that Louis was complaining. With her petite frame, long straight black hair, and wide-set brownish-green eyes, she was a beauty. She was also smart and had been active in the Socialist Party for almost a decade. Louis figured he hadn’t understood that the girl was coming on to him because he assumed he was too old for her. But an eight-year age difference wasn’t that much.

Louis hummed in satisfaction as he swiped up the last of his mushroom sauce with a piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth. The veal was delicious, he said. How was the fish?

Must’ve been happily swimming up a river this morning, Marie answered with a smile. She raised her half-empty glass of white wine at Louis. Great choice of restaurant.

Louis clinked his glass—red wine, to go with the veal—to hers and winked before taking a sip.

Marie let her index finger run around the rim of her glass. I’m glad your mother came to the party meeting today. She could be a real asset to us.

Louis worried about a girl who would talk about his mother on their first date, but played along. She usually is. Be warned though, she’s working on a new nonprofit, in honor of my father, and it’s probably going to take up a lot of her time. She’s been working on it nonstop since she had the idea at dinner two weeks ago.

But she’s a member of the Socialist Party. Surely that means she plans to be an active member.

Louis aligned his knife and fork on his plate, facing to the right, to indicate to the waiter that he had finished. Not that a single crumble of bread or a single drop of sauce remained. She really likes to work in the background, he said. She was a member of the Republican Party for thirty years, but hardly ever spoke up at a meeting or took on any official responsibilities. She left that to my father.

So now that she’s with us, she’ll also help.

Louis shrugged. Of course. He eyed Marie’s plate, wondering how she would take it if he tried to sponge up the rest of her white sauce with a piece of bread. With a regretful sigh, he decided it was probably not a good idea on a first date.

The waiter came to take away their empty plates and returned a couple of minutes later with their desserts. Louis eyed Marie’s chocolate mousse. Surely, a girl with such a slim waistline wouldn’t finish her dessert. Though first, he would enjoy his own apple pie with ice cream. The delicious smells of hot apples and cinnamon reached his nose, making him relax into his seat in pleasure.

So tell me, Marie said while looking up at Louis through her lashes. What’s your plan for the Socialist Party?

Louis frowned as he finished chewing. My plan for the Socialist Party?

Marie considered him for a moment while she licked her spoon. Come on. You didn’t join the Socialist Party and wreak havoc in your family just to lark around?

I didn’t wreak havoc.

Marie giggled. Your sister hasn’t smiled in public in months.

Louis cracked a smile. I don’t think she was ever one for smiling in public. It doesn’t go too well with her serious image.

Marie snorted. True enough. She rolled her spoon in her mousse, turning it into chocolate soup. Louis figured it would probably still taste good, but was not happy with the way she was treating her food.

Seriously, she said, you can’t just sit around and do nothing. You were born with a head start and should take advantage of that.

You think I should throw around my father’s name just to further my political career? Louis stabbed at the last piece of his apple pie. He wasn’t even in the Socialist Party. He was with the Republicans for over twenty years. I don’t see why the Socialists should want his son in charge. I’m expecting to have to work even harder than most people to be trusted with anything important.

Marie shoved another spoonful of chocolate soup into her pretty mouth, then let the spoon fall into the half-empty bowl. Just don’t make any assumptions, okay? Besides, when I vouch for you, that’s bound to help. She winked at him.

Louis grinned at her as he leaned back in his seat. Now that I will believe. He nodded at her dessert. Are you going to finish that?

Her eyebrows rose but she pushed her bowl Louis’s direction. By all means. Be my guest.

The chocolate mousse was as delicious and dark as it looked, though it would’ve been better if it was still mousse. Louis considered Marie for a moment. Isn’t it a bit weird for you to tell me to look for responsibilities within the Socialist Party? Wouldn’t that just add competition?

Don’t you worry about me, she said in a sultry voice. There’s room for more than one person on top. We’ll help each other.

All right. Louis supposed that this meant that even if he didn’t aim for the top, he could still help her with her climbing, and she should stay satisfied. But don’t expect too much, okay? I really expect to be treated like just another worker, and am perfectly happy with that. Louis scratched out the last of the chocolate mousse and licked the spoon thoroughly, making sure there wasn’t a single drop left.

Louis considered having a cup of coffee, but Marie was squirming in her seat, clearly ready to go. It was a quarter to two and unlike Louis, she had a job to get back to.

Marie took their coats and waited for Louis outside while he paid their bill. His American habits firmly in place, he left a generous tip.

Marie waited for him a little farther up the street, leaning against a brick wall. The street was narrow and winding, making it impossible to see any farther than twenty meters in each direction. Though they were standing in the middle of the street, they were virtually invisible and alone. In the narrow gap between the three-story buildings on each side of the road, a clear blue sky peeked through, and Louis shivered in only a t-shirt and a light sweater.

Give me my jacket, will you? He grabbed hold of his leather jacket which was draped over one of Marie’s folded arms.

She didn’t let go of the jacket, just smiled coyly up at Louis and used the jacket to pull him closer. What do I get in return?

Okay. She apparently did have a few more minutes before she had to get back to work. Louis put a hand next to Marie’s head on the brick wall and leaned a little closer. Well, me not getting sick would be a definite advantage. He stared into her chocolate-brown eyes and darted a glance down to her mouth when her tongue peeked out to wet her lips.

Mmm, she said, never breaking eye contact. We wouldn’t want that.

Louis figured he’d had enough signals and leaned down to kiss her. He’d only intended a small peck, but Marie grabbed hold of his sweater and pulled him close, so there was no point in playing the gentleman anymore. He leaned into the kiss.

His phone vibrated in his back pocket with a text message. He could get that later.

A whistling sound came from Marie’s purse and Louis broke the kiss to look down, wondering if she was hiding a bird in there or something.

It’s nothing, Marie said. It’s just a text message. Ignore it.

That’s weird. I also just got a text message.

They looked at each other from only centimeters apart for a moment, their curiosity piqued. Marie chewed on her bottom lip. It’s not rude if we both do it, is it?

Louis barked a laugh. I guess not. He fished his phone out of his pocket and opened his message as Marie did the same.

It was from the president of the local Socialist Party division. Catholic priest killed in front of mosque. Come to headquarters ASAP.

The shock on Marie’s face proved that she’d gotten the same message.

You going back to work? Louis said.

No way. She shoved Louis’s jacket at his chest and pasted her phone to her ear. I’m taking the afternoon off. Let’s go.

Two

Catherine stared at the image of a Concorde on the wall and wondered who had decided on the decoration of this place, and how long ago. The restaurant’s walls seemed to have been white originally, but was now everything between off-white and dark brown. The ceiling sported an impressive dark stain that Catherine could’ve sworn was coffee—but how on earth had it ended up there?

Her team from the local newspaper was having their annual Christmas lunch and spirits were high. The fact that this was November 29th and that Christmas was a month away didn’t seem to bother anyone. Her colleague Arnaud had chosen the restaurant, clearly because he knew the owner and not because of the quality of the food. There was only one option on the menu, with the possibility of steak as an opt-out, and the wine was disgusting but limitless, as was the owner. The guy was filled to the brim with weird, self-deprecating jokes, and Catherine could never quite decide if she should laugh politely or pretend she didn’t understand.

She’d had the misfortune of being the first to choose a seat at the table, which meant that she hadn’t had any control over who sat across from her. Luckily she had her friend Vero on her right, but for the last half hour she’d been completely unable to understand what her two male colleagues sitting across from her were talking about due to their penchant for French expressions she didn’t know. Catherine usually avoided these two for this very reason.

Did you hear Arnaud’s explanation for why he was promoted? one of the men said as he ran a hand over his bald head.

Of course I did, his friend replied with an eye roll.

Catherine stifled a sigh. Arnaud had been promoted over her after the whole debacle with the mayor’s death a couple of months earlier, and he never tired of recounting the story. So far, Catherine had managed not to let her frustration show, but if he didn’t let up sometime soon, she might not make it.

The bald guy pulled a grimace. "It’s a bit tiré par les cheveux, don’t you think?"

The other guy scoffed.

What did that mean? The story was pulled by the hairs? It was pretty? Painful to listen to?

Catherine looked left and right. She really wanted to pull out her phone and look the expression up, but she couldn’t do it in front of this many people. When you were the only foreigner working for a local French newspaper, you could not afford to showcase any French deficiencies.

What’s the matter? Vero asked. Is something wrong?

Catherine zoned out the conversation of the guys across from her and smiled at her friend. Of course not. I just thought of something I need to do when we get back to the office.

Vero didn’t look like she bought the excuse, but let it slide.

Catherine relaxed further as all group discussions transformed into one-on-one talks. She’d always been just fine in groups of up to three or four people, but when a table full of people participated in the same conversation, it was impossible to follow. It wasn’t as much a question of language abilities as of being able to fill in the end of everybody’s sentences. And, of course, figuring out the numerous weird expressions.

So, Véronique, the bald guy across from Catherine said, effectively forcing the two women back into a group discussion. I heard you’re meeting with the boss tomorrow. Think he’ll tell you you got a huge raise for Christmas?

Vero rolled her eyes as she took a sip of water. Yeah, sure, that’ll happen.

Except for Arnaud who got his promotion, nobody had gotten a pay raise in the past five years. With people reading fewer and fewer newspapers and turning to free articles on the internet, it was hard to argue, but it still stung. No matter how hard you worked, you’d always get the same paycheck at the end of the month.

If we’re patient enough, bald guy said, I’m sure we’ll get something eventually.

His friend shook his head. It’s like waiting for Saint GlinGlin.

What?

Everybody laughed.

Catherine might not be a Catholic, but she was fairly certain there was no such thing as a saint called Glin-Glin. It sounded a bit like bling-bling—could the guy mean that if they waited long enough, it would at least be worth it in the end?

Sighing, Catherine flipped her phone face-up on the table in front of her, tempted to Google the expression.

Vero shoulder-bumped Catherine, and in a low voice only for Catherine’s ears, said, Don’t worry. Mathieu’s going to call us all in for a chat before the end of the year. She winked. And none of us will get a raise.

Yeah. Catherine smiled at her friend and flipped her phone back.

She scanned the room, looking for a change of subject. Why doesn’t this place have any windows?

Vero clearly knew that Catherine was changing the subject, but thankfully, didn’t push to know why. Technically, there are a couple of windows there. She pointed to slim windows in the ceiling. Doesn’t exactly give you a view of the outside though.

Arnaud was so excited about bringing us here. I just don’t get it.

I think the owner is a golf buddy of his. And in this weird, offbeat way, the guy is kind of funny.

Catherine stared at her friend for several seconds. Okay. I’m going to put that down as a cultural thing and try not to hold it against you personally.

As a stressed-out and unsmiling waitress came to take away their plates, Mathieu got up from the table to take a call. He stood within view in the long corridor leading to the sunny outdoors, his face folded into a frown. He seemed to only answer in monosyllables, but as he listened, his face grew more and more animated and Catherine recognized the look he was shooting at everybody at the table. He had the lead for a story and he was searching for the right person to cover it.

Bumping into the waitress on her way to the kitchen, almost making her drop all the plates, Mathieu strolled over to stand behind Catherine’s back. Catherine, he said in his booming voice. I have a job for you.

Right now? the bald guy across from Catherine said. Give the lady a break, she hasn’t even had dessert.

One of the priests from Saint-Sernin has been killed. His feet were tied and the rope attached to a bull which was then sent running through the streets of the city. Sound familiar?

Expletives and curses erupted around the table.

Catherine couldn’t help feeling proud that Mathieu had chosen her for this. The expressions around the table were unanimously jealous, with the only exception of Vero. Don’t worry, Mathieu, she said. I’ll be there in ten minutes.

Three

Catherine started meeting with resistance when she reached the Saint-Michel bridge. One of the largest bridges to cross the Garonne River in the Toulouse city center, it set foot on the Ramier Island where the football stadium, the exhibition center, and some student housing took up all the space. Catherine had arrived by metro, so she planned to get onto the Saint-Michel bridge by a subsidiary bridge arriving at a ninety degree angle with a view of the tip of the island, straddling one of the Garonne’s offshoots. She had didn’t even make it onto the smaller bridge because police, gendarmes, and even the CRS, were standing on every corner, checking cars and pedestrians alike. A swell of people was moving in the same direction as Catherine, some excited and giggling, the majority wearing worried frowns.

Along the Garonne River, where a ramp ran up to the bridge, she got no farther. A group of gendarmes guarded the road, letting no one pass.

Catherine walked up to the most accommodating-looking officer and flashed him a big smile. "Bonjour, officer. What’s going on?"

There’s nothing to see here, Mademoiselle. You have to go to one of the other bridges today if you want to cross the river. The man’s expression hadn’t changed; Catherine wasn’t so sure anymore if he was the most accommodating of the lot.

I heard someone was killed. Catherine locked gazes with the man, fighting the urge to play the stupid, swooning blonde. Sometimes it could get her more information, but she just felt too awful afterward. She did, however, continue to smile at the man.

Still no smile in return. I’m sure you’ll be able to read about it in the paper tomorrow.

That’s just it, a male voice intervened. We are journalists. We need to know what’s going on so we can report on it for tomorrow’s paper.

Catherine turned to face the man now standing beside her. Sébastien Morel, a journalist working for a different local newspaper, famous for frequently being the first one on the spot for the really big scoops. Catherine kind of liked the guy, but right now his timing left something to be desired.

She sighed and turned back to the gendarme. As expected, he sent her an accusing look before shutting up completely.

Hands on hips, Catherine looked around in exasperation. She caught the eye of the gendarme at the end of the line, an elderly man with a neat, gray mustache.

I believe there will be a press conference in thirty minutes, Mademoiselle, he said. Then he turned his gaze away.

Thank you. Catherine stepped to the side, up to the railing above the river sliding by below. She talked to Sébastien without looking at him. So you got a tip, too, huh?

Sébastien scanned the river, the city to their right, and the overcast sky. Dull day for getting murdered, don’t you think? You look great in that scarf, by the way. His green eyes had a glint to them that only became visible when he was hot on the trail of a story, and he was tapping an uneven rhythm with his right hand on the railing.

Catherine brought her hand up to the dark green silk scarf that was her one touch of color for the day. Thanks. Where do you think the press conference will be?

I have no idea. Sébastien stood up on his tiptoes and stretched his neck to stare down one of the streets leading to the Garonne dike. What’s a bull doing in the middle of the city? He pointed to where a truck was waiting with its back doors open. Three men, each with a leash in hand, led a giant, dark brown bull toward the truck.

I don’t know, Catherine lied as she craned her neck to look, not keen on giving the competition information. I know a bull can be strong, but those guys seem more nervous about what they’re doing than I would consider normal.

Sébastien barked a laugh. Probably a bunch of city boys who have never seen a real animal before. As far as Catherine understood, Sébastien had grown up in a small village in the middle of nowhere, but had worked in the city for the last ten years. He leaned on both experiences to make fun of city people and country bumpkins alike. Whichever suited him best in the moment, and without ever really insulting anyone.

Maybe the bull already managed to get one of them, Catherine suggested. There’s one rope with nobody at the end. In addition to the three taut lines going to the men’s strong arms, a piece of rope dangled behind the bull,