(La Toussaint is the French for All Saints’ Day and is pronounced La-too-san(d), like sand without the d.)
“Vandals. Grave robbers. Here in Beaucoup-sur-Mer. What is the world coming to?” asked the mayor, Monsieur Bonhomie, as he heaved himself out of his executive chair, or tried to.
He wasn’t getting any slimmer. Too many of those delicious little sponge madeleines he always offered us when we visited his office at the mairie.
Stuck at that awkward angle that makes your thighs ache, jammed half in half out by the arms of the chair, he let out a wail, “Help me, Penzi.”
I threw my purse down on a chair and rushed around the desk to aid the poor man. Felix, my shape shifting bodyguard, beat me to it on his other side.
“Push his honor back down, or pull him out?” Felix asked me as he tried to suppress a grin.
“Heave,” I said suiting action to word and taking hold of one of the mayor’s arms and bracing a foot against the chair’s metal pedestal.
Felix grabbed the other and none too gently we tore the mayor from his seat. We turned away to give him a few moments to restore his dignity: tuck in his shirt and pull down his waistcoat. When we turned back he was wiping his perspiring forehead with his giant handkerchief.
He tossed a rueful grin our way. “That chair gets smaller by the day.”
“If you say so, monsieur,” said Felix. He rolled the offending seat away against the wall and replaced it with an armless chair. “Try this one for size until you can buy something bigger.”
Monsieur Bonhomie gingerly lowered his massive buttocks.
“It really isn’t my day,” he said as he scooted the chair forward to squeeze his thighs under his desk. “It started badly with a call from Father Pedro. That’s why I phoned you. I hope I haven’t put you out, Penzi, calling at such short notice?”
“Not at all. Felix and I were ready to leave the house anyway for a trip to the shopping mall to find a Halloween costume for my young brother, Jimbo.”
The mayor made a French moue and a half shrug. “Don’t talk to me about Halloween. I hate it. Silly American commercialism polluting our culture from across the Atlantic.”
“I wouldn’t put it that strongly,” I replied, “but have to admit I don’t like Halloween either. In fact, I hate it.”
Felix raised his eyebrows at me. This was our second Halloween together, and I hadn’t said anything against the festival the year before. However, I was saved from answering either the mayor or Felix by the secretary who came in with the now customary tray of English tea and French madeleines, the latter being the poor mayor’s undoing.
Felix took the tray from the secretary and laid it on the desk. “Why did you want to see us, monsieur?” he asked.
I poured out. “And what’s all this about vandals? You seem very angry,” I said as I passed the mayor his tea.
“Place it on the desk for me, Penzi. I’m spitting mad. I don’t trust myself not to spill it.”
Felix and I drank our tea and ate a couple of the sponge cakes while the mayor took deep breaths until his color had receded and his hands had stopped shaking.
“Well, monsieur?” I prompted him.
He inhaled once more right down to the pit of his lungs and let the breath out slowly. “Here we are doing our best to get Beaucoup-sur-Mer back on the average tourist’s itinerary, and our own people our sabotaging our efforts.”
“In what way?”
The mayor gave a big harrumph. “Our very own people stabbing us in the back. How’s it going to look when this gets out?”
“Monsieur, it would help if you told us what’s happened. It’s not another murder, is it?” I asked, hoping against hope that we weren’t in for another spate of killings in our quiet little seaside town.
“It’s murder, yes, but not of a person. Our culture and our religious sensibilities are being attacked. Father Pedro says someone has been covering the vaults and the cemetery walls with hideous graffiti.”
My spirits rose. That I could deal with. A good scrubbing brush and bucket of hot water or paint stripper, as the case may be, and all would be pristine again. Who would do the work I didn’t know. If we could catch the culprits, I’d make sure they did.
“That’s not too bad,” I said. “We can get that sorted out pronto.”
“How quick is pronto?” the mayor asked leaning forward and glaring at me.
I shrank back astonished at his aggression. What was wrong with the man?
“I see you don’t understand the urgency, Penzi. It’s not your fault. You are not a Catholic, and you are not French.”
“Guilty on both counts,” I answered sitting back and making a conscious effort not to be offended. The mayor was to be respected. He must have his reasons for being so distressed and, quite honestly, rather rude.
Felix on the other hand bridled at the mayor’s remarks. “Monsieur, Penzi is your friend. She’s helped you out many times. She’s enthusiastic about your public relations scheme to recapture the town’s good reputation. You can’t fault her for that.”
The mayor raised his eyes up to heaven with a heavy sigh. “I’m not being offensive, well, I don’t mean to be. I’m simply stating the facts. As an English non-Catholic, Penzi is probably not aware of the significance of this week. It’s Saturday already. On Tuesday it will be the 31st October with this new-fangled Halloween business—”
“With respect, monsieur,” I said, “although I don’t personally like Halloween, it isn’t a new festival. As you must know, it’s based on the old Celtic festival of Samhain, the celebration of the end of the harvest season and the beginning of the long days of winter.”
“All this dressing up as ghosts and witches… and the fuss about pumpkins. That’s new. And the corporations are making so much money out of it. Anyway, as I was saying, Tuesday is this Halloween, but for us it’s November 1st which is the important day. That’s La Toussaint. Even though we’re a secular country with complete separation of church and state, and in spite of everything the French Revolution tried to do to kill religion, we are at rock bottom a Christian society for the most part.”
“I’m aware of that, monsieur,” I said anxious to soothe his ruffled feathers. “Halloween to us in England is All Hallows’ Eve and La Toussaint is our All Saints’ Day.”
“But for us French, La Toussaint is one of the most important festivals of the year. Even people who are not religious for most of the year, observe La Toussaint. It’s a public holiday here. All the Christian citizens of Beaucoup-sur-Mer will visit the cemetery on the day to place flowers on the graves of their ancestors and show their respect. What are they going to say when they see the tombs and vaults covered in graffiti?”
“You mentioned the walls as well.”
“Yes, that, too. It’s all such a nightmare and so complicated. Although the head of each family has to take care of their family’s tombs, as mayor I’m the one responsible for the maintenance of the cemetery. In the circumstances, I can’t expect the townspeople to deal with this vandalism. This will touch at the heart of the commune. I’ll be lucky to be elected again if this gets out.”
“So, you’d like us to help you, monsieur?” I asked.
“Oh Penzi, I’ll be grateful for ever. If you could find the culprits. Work with Inspector Dubois on this. It is criminal damage after all. And perhaps Felix could organize a working party to clean up the paint.”
“Shouldn’t the vandals be made to do that?” I asked.
The mayor gave me a look of exasperation. “In an ideal world, but time is pressing. People will be visiting the cemetery between now and Wednesday to tidy up their family graves and tombs before La Toussaint. I don’t want them seeing the damage.”
“Right,” I said rising to my feet. “The sooner we get going the better.”
Felix paused before joining me at the door. He asked the mayor for a letter of authority to handle the clean-up. Monsieur Bonhomie undertook to email one to us tout de suite, in other words ASAP.

“What do you make of that, boss?” Felix asked as he took my elbow to help me down the steps out of the mairie.
“At least it’s not a murder. Let’s be thankful for that. I can turn it to good advantage by writing an article about the difference between Halloween in France, England and the States. Have you brought your camera along?”
“It’s in the car. And yours?”
“Always.”
We decided to take a ten-minute break down at the Esplanade so we could plan our campaign and make the necessary phone calls. Autumn in the South West of France was the best time of the year for me. The summer was way too hot and the winters were long and wet. The day was glorious, bright sunbeams glancing off the waves lapping the perfect crescent of the beach down below the Esplanade. Away out to sea the fishing fleet chugged past on its way home to the port of Darennes.
In the glow of the Indian Summer, I threw off my fleece and ordered an iced coffee, hoping it wasn’t the last one of the season. Felix stayed faithful to tea, livening it up with a dash of Laphroaig from his companion silver hip-flask.
“Phone calls first, Felix. See if you can get Inspector Dubois to meet us in about half an hour at the cemetery. If so, give Father Pedro a ring and ask him to meet us there with the town’s head cantonnier.”
I should explain that the cantonnier is the gardener employed by the commune via the mayor’s office to maintain the public spaces which, according to what the mayor had said, included the cemetery but excluded the tombs and graves themselves.
While I sipped my delicious iced coffee through a paper straw, ever mindful of plastic pollution, Felix contacted Inspector Dubois and Father Pedro. Inspector Dubois was the head of the local gendarmerie. As such he wouldn’t normally be called in to handle a small matter like vandalism, but the mayor knew we had a reasonably good working relationship. For my part, I knew Dubois fancied me and so was usually ready to be helpful even if he did stay competitive. Father Pedro we’d met several times. A kind man who’d helped Felix and our female dog Zig with their fear of bees. He was our local parish priest, Roman Catholic, of course, and from Spain because the number of French priests had fallen fifty per cent in the past twenty years and two-thirds of those remaining were over sixty-five.
Felix swiped off his phone and called the waiter over for another cup of tea.
“I’ve set up a meeting for quarter past twelve. Father Pedro has a catechism class this morning. Dubois is on duty but can’t get away until lunchtime. The gardener, a Pierre Lamy, is working at the cemetery today, anyway, clearing the paths ready for La Toussaint. It was he who phoned Father Pedro about the damage.”
“Good. That gives us time to call in at the shopping mall on the way.”
I drained my coffee and waited impatiently for Felix to drink down his tea. Fortunately, a cup of tea in France is usually served tepid. The French do not understand tea. Coffee, yes, but tea, no.

COMING SOON - ISBN 9782901556664