Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “I wouldn’t worry so much about it, Jordan,” he said. “The crime rates in Europe are much lower than in the United States. In all probability, your suitcase will still be there when the train goes in to be serviced.”

  The scene replayed in my mind: the train doors locked, the wheels already beginning to turn. “You know that guy on the train, the one that looked Middle Eastern or Mediterranean? Why do you think he pulled the shade down? I’m sure he knew that I wanted my suitcase.”

  “Probably just didn’t want to get involved,” Alex said.

  I shook my head. “There was something peculiar about him. He seemed frightened.”

  Alex gave me a scolding look that didn’t please me—or deter me.

  “It might have nothing to do with my suitcase, but he was scared of something.” This time I said it with authority.

  “Hmmm.” Alex put his finger to his cheek. “A fugitive from justice? A terrorist, perhaps? International intrigue!” he said with mock gravity. He smiled, continuing in the tone I’ve used with my children when they were being unreasonable. “The young man was just a traveler who didn’t know the language. So he simply ignored what was happening.”

  “What about the American, then? Texan, probably.” I saw Alex’s wrinkled brow and raised my hand to ward off his scolding. “Why didn’t he go on to his destination when he got off the train? Instead, he returned to the platform with us when we came back for my suitcase. He tried to help but never said a word to me, and then he disappeared. And did you notice the newspaper he left in his seat? It was Le Monde. What do you want to bet that guy doesn’t speak a word of French?”

  Alex looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Jordan,” he said, his voice filled with infinite patience. “Lots of unusual things happen when you travel. Out in the world, you meet people who are simply unexplainable. It’s not like Savannah, where things are very predictable. Please don’t become obsessed with this, my dear. Try to relax.”

  He turned back to whatever he was doing. Checking and rechecking our schedules. Several file folders in his lap. That’s how he’d misplaced his passport. He’d put it in the wrong file folder.

  All the same, maybe he was right. I had walked off the train without my suitcase. No one had engineered that move. No international intrigue.

  In a short time we were in Paris, slowing at the sign: Gare du Nord. We stood up and waited for the aisle to clear. I had my belongings this time.

  “Alex, look,” I said, peering at the platform, and then I changed my mind. I wasn’t going to tell him.

  Alex screwed up his face. “Were you expecting them?”

  I did a double take. Felicity and Barry Blake were waiting on the platform. No, I wasn’t expecting them. Neither was I expecting the other face I’d seen, a face that disappeared the next moment under the cowboy hat. An American in cowboy boots, last seen on the platform in Brussels.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  Felicity took me back thirty years with her squeal. She squealed a lot in those days. Nothing ordinary ever seemed to happen to Felicity Chandler. Everything was super! Or horrendous! Or vile! True to form, she met me with a hug and a shrill cry tempered by lazy, syrupy vowels. “Surprise! Oh, Jordan, honey, if you could only see the look on your face!”

  I struggled to get my breath. “What are you doing here, Felicity?”

  “Well, what do you think, honey?” she said.

  Her outfit was an all-white satiny jumpsuit that revealed every nice curve, thin gold belt at her small waist, white sandals with heels that added another two inches to her five-ten. That put her eye to eye with Barry, dressed in a light sweater, chinos, and sneakers, his brown hair streaked with gray, thin on top, pulled back in a ponytail.

  I glanced behind me, to the spot where I’d seen the Texan. I stretched my neck. Nothing.

  “Looking for somebody?” Barry’s words—his tone—jolted me, as if he knew exactly who I was looking for. But he couldn’t! I blinked, trying to rid myself of the fuzzy feeling that had to be jetlag. Could I have just imagined the cowboy in the crowd? No, I knew what I’d seen.

  I turned to Felicity, without answering Barry. “How did you know when we’d be here?”

  Barry and Alex had acknowledged each other, with much less animation than Felicity had exhibited. Now Barry pulled me against him, his hug more proprietary than it had any right to be. “We’ve got our ways, y’know. Ways of keeping up with you, pretty woman.”

  “It was Kyle,” Felicity said. “Barry talked to him early this morning. He said you were flying into Brussels and taking the train to Paris. We just checked the schedules.”

  “Here, let me get that.” Barry wrenched my carry-on case from me before I could protest. “This yours?” He reached for the rolling suitcase, which Alex promptly seized.

  “Mine,” Alex said, glaring.

  “Where’re your other bags?” Barry asked.

  “Long story,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me this is all you got.”

  “Afraid so.”

  He gave an uncertain laugh. “Hot damn! Felicity has a dozen bags!”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Barry,” she said.

  He ignored her. “C’mon. Y’all have got to have more than this.”

  “There was an unfortunate incident with Jordan’s luggage,” Alex said, strapping his duffel to his suitcase.

  “Lost?” Barry’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Misplaced,” I said.

  “You’d better try to find out about it,” Barry said, already turning toward the terminal.

  “Not this train,” I said. “The commuter system in Brussels.”

  “Oh, Jordan, what about your clothes?” Felicity put in. “Do you mean this is all you have for the whole trip, just this one little travel case?” She squeezed me again and spoke with gravity, as if my loss had been a human. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. But don’t you worry. I’ll fix you up.”

  “Shut up yapping about it,” Barry said. “Let’s get outta here.” What a moody guy! He headed through the terminal, threading through the crowd at a brisk pace. He might’ve given Alex a hand, I thought. I reached for Alex’s briefcase, but he held on to it, shaking his head. Matter of pride, no doubt.

  On the train, I had finally set my watch to Paris time. It was 12:55 P.M. Another train had arrived an hour earlier from Brussels, the one we’d missed because I was filling out forms. If the Texan had taken that one, why had he hung around on the platform for an hour? Had he met someone on our train? I didn’t think so. He had just vanished. He had a way of doing that.

  We exited the terminal and came to a tiny cream-colored Citroën parked on the street. Barry unlocked the doors and trunk. Our luggage filled the trunk. If I’d had my rolling suitcase, I would’ve had to hold it in my lap. Felicity insisted that Alex ride in the front. Sliding into the back seat beside me, she seemed to be revving up for another squeal, scrunching her shoulders, wrinkling her nose, but she restricted herself to a not-too-loud proclamation: “Oh, Paris is such fun! Fun, fun, fun!” So much like sorority girl Felicity from our UGA days.

  Barry pulled out into traffic, and soon we were in the thick of things. Parisians make New York cab drivers look like little old ladies, but Barry seemed unintimidated. Apparently he understood that the white lines were only for reference. “So what’s the story about the suitcase?” he asked.

  Alex glanced over his shoulder, cutting his eyes at me, as if to say, Your story. I made the story brief, omitting the young Middle-Eastern man and the cowboy.

  Both Barry and Felicity murmured astonishment. “You reported it, didn’t you?” Barry said.

  I explained that I’d left addresses of our hotels both in Paris and Provence, as well as my address in Savannah.

  “Any idea when they’ll get it back to you?” Barry asked.

  “I’m afraid the question is if, rather than when,” I said.

  There followed a discussion of whether I would get my suitcas
e back. I half-listened as we darted through the crowded Parisian streets. Paris! The ambiance! Fashionable shops. Sidewalk cafés.The abundant street life. More elegant old buildings, and so many! Towers and spires. Street after street of the nineteenth-century structures with all that exquisite detailing. Plenty to entice an architect, though nothing was as enticing at that moment as the thought of a bath and a bed.

  Barry shot into another lane. “You said your hotel’s on the Left Banque, right?”

  “Left Banque, right?” Felicity mimicked, giggling her silly giggle. Neither Barry nor Alex indicated he was amused. Felicity always tried too hard, but her efforts used to be rewarded. She demanded attention and received it in that other dreamworld of sorority functions, frat parties, and football games. No sign that Barry gave her the kind of attention she craved.

  “Correct,” said Alex. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he whisked the envelope that held our travel information. He unfolded a paper and began to read directions to our hotel, but Barry interrupted, assuring Alex that he knew the way, though he didn’t specifically remember Avenue Victoria or the Hôtel Britannique.

  “Our brochure says it’s a quiet street, and the hotel is small and quaint,” I said, thinking it might not be easy to find.

  “You never know about these small hotels,” Barry said, as another Citroën darted in front of him. Paris was full of Citroëns. He punched the brakes, swore at the driver, like a native Parisian. “Don’t worry. If it turns out to be a dump, we’ll get you into ours.”

  “Traveling abroad is an opportunity to submerge oneself in another culture.” Alex’s tone made me think of his years teaching history at the university. “I happen to have researched The Britannique, and I like what I’ve read. But thank you all the same.”

  “We’re at the Raphael. Now that’s a fine hotel,” Barry said, as if he hadn’t heard Alex. “Four-stars, over near the Arc de Triomphe, not far from the Champs-Elysées.” Notably, he slaughtered the French pronunciations.

  Alex had been less verbose than usual in the Blakes’ presence, but I sensed that was about to change. I seized the opportunity to take the conversation in a different direction. “After a nap, I’m going to get out and buy some proper clothes for dinner tonight,” I said. A sudden wave of relief washed over me as Barry slowed and pulled to a curb, stopping in front of a dark red awning with “Hôtel Britannique” written in gold letters.

  Felicity’s voice rang with surprising authority as she shook her finger at me. “Now listen to me, Jordan. No shopping today. A girl has to be in the right frame of mind to shop in Paris. I’ll send over some clothes, everything you’ll need for tonight. You get rested up for a big night out.”

  My gratitude was genuine. The prospect of shopping had suddenly made me ill. “I owe you,” I said as we all piled out of the car. Felicity reminded me that, after all, we were sisters.

  The Britannique was one of those distinctly European hotels that guests either love or hate. Barry would’ve hated it. He would never have made it to the room. The elevator would’ve sent him packing, the space just big enough for two people who know each other well. I departed on the second floor; Alex went on to the third. The lift would go back down for his luggage.

  My room was roughly the size of my bathroom in Savannah, not the tiny original bath, dating back to the early 1900s, but the renovated space, a luxury I had allowed myself a decade ago. A single mother since I was thirty-two, I was always frugal, but when the children were all teenagers, I desperately needed a sanctuary.

  Small as the hotel room was, the twelve-foot ceiling and nine-foot French doors were extraordinary by US standards. A twin bed had a little walking room on each side, but not much. The air-conditioning unit didn’t seem to work. The room was stuffy. I fooled with the mechanical unit and then gave up. I opened the heavy dark-red draperies that covered one whole side of the room. And I fell in love.

  A tiny, wrought-iron smoking balcony overlooked the Avenue Victoria, a sight so Parisian that my heart leaped. The narrow buildings were stone, six stories, maximum. Tall, nevertheless, considering that they were built without elevators. Structures that appeared to be upper-level apartments or offices above street-level shops. A well-dressed woman walking two of the largest poodles I’d ever seen. An elderly man on a bicycle, wearing a bow tie and jaunty little cap, his basket bulging with produce. He was munching on a baguette. Flower boxes in windows, arched doorways. Sidewalk café on the corner with a bustling lunchtime crowd, tables so close together that the brightly colored umbrellas almost touched each other. From somewhere on the street came the aroma of baking bread. I left the French doors open for the smells and sounds of Paris.

  I took a long soak in the claw-footed tub. I had one change of clothes. All cleaned up, I was ready for a much-needed nap. The room was splashed with sunshine, too bright for sleeping. As I was about to draw the draperies, I looked down at the street, letting my gaze travel diagonally to the corner café. My breath gave a little catch. At one of the tables the cowboy from the train was turning up a tall glass for the last drop, his long legs stretched out, fancy boots clearly visible.

  I jerked the draperies shut. This was too bizarre, too many sightings of this man to be coincidence. I hurried to call Alex, but I could just hear his patronizing tone—Jordan, please. He’d say there was a simple explanation. The Texan must be staying somewhere in the vicinity of our hotel. I didn’t pick up the phone.

  A moment later when I stole another glimpse from between the draperies, there was no sign of the man. Again, I could just hear Alex: Please don’t become obsessed with this. OK, I promised myself, I’d let it go this time. But if the Texan popped up one more time, I’d somehow convince Alex that something was in play besides coincidence. So—what would we do then? I flopped on the bed and curled up on top of the covers.

  I didn’t sleep immediately. The wheels of my brain kept turning. I was just about to drift off when a siren sounded. An emergency vehicle was approaching, by the escalating noise. Suddenly wide awake, I went to the balcony. There was a commotion where Victoria ended in a cross street, at the opposite end from the café. Too far away to make out details, I could see a small knot of people kneeling or bending over. Someone had to be on the ground. An ambulance arrived, its pulsing wail shutting off abruptly. A few other people hurried that way, but the street seemed at once too full of eerie quiet. A chill traveled down my spine. I came inside and closed the French doors against the air of tragedy that seemed so out of place on the peaceful street Victoria.

  Alex and I met that evening in an elegant little drawing room to wait for our taxi. Just a few steps from Reception, through an arched opening, the salon was delightfully cozy. Decorated in a traditional French style, with wall sconces that gave off a gentle up-light. Pale lemony-colored walls with exquisitely-detailed white trim. A built-in bookcase filled with hardbacks. Alex was examining the titles when I arrived.

  He looked scrubbed and rested. His tweed jacket was invigorated by a fresh blue shirt, a seventies-vintage paisley tie, and dark pants with a few wrinkles from packing.

  Felicity had called to say they were running late, and could we meet them at the restaurant? I didn’t mind. Being chauffeured by Barry put us too much at his mercy.

  “Tomorrow is museum day,” Alex said.

  “Tomorrow is shopping day,” I said, though a few minutes after the unnerving incident on the street, a rotund hotel employee had knocked on my door with a hang-up bag and a duffel, compliments of Felicity. She outfitted me for our dinner and for my shopping trip. Tonight I was wearing a little red silk number, far more expensive than anything I owned. Miraculously, the zipper had zipped. The red stilettos fit, as well. Felicity and I were both a perfect size nine.

  Reception was staffed by a small man with horn-rimmed glasses, one of those clerks who exudes efficiency, his movements swift and precise. When I came from the elevator, he’d been assisting a guest while intermittently answering the phone and tapping o
n his computer. Now, as Alex and I admired a painting of a matriarch with red cheeks, the clerk beckoned me from the arched opening. “Pardon, Madame. A moment, s’il vous plait?”

  I obliged, hoping there wasn’t a glitch with my credit card. The clerk took his position back behind the counter at Reception and leaned toward me. “Madame, I thought you should know that someone called this afternoon, asking for information about you,” he said. “Of course, I told the man that we do not give out information about our guests.”

  “A man was asking about me?” I said.

  “He did not know your name. He asked about the American woman who arrived with the elderly man, and he described you—tall, titian hair.” The clerk shrugged, clasping his hands. “He said ‘red hair’ but I would say ‘titian,’ like Botticelli’s Venus.”

  I couldn’t keep from giving him a smile, though I felt a shiver along my spine, goosebumps on my arms. “What else did he want to know?”

  “He asked how long you were staying. He suggested that he had spoken to you earlier but did not get your name. You can be sure, Madame, we do not give out the names of our guests.” The clerk lowered his voice as someone passed from the elevator to the front door. “And did I know if you were going out this afternoon. A very strange question—oui? He said, ‘I might catch up with her.’ At that point, I said, ‘I must go. I am busy.’ I thought I should tell you.”

  “Yes. Merci! Probably someone who was on the flight from Atlanta. Probably nothing. But thank you so much for letting me know,” I said, just as a dimpled young doorman announced that our taxi was waiting. Unlike the fastidious clerk, the young man wore a tired-looking white shirt, but he had a big smile for us. He held the door and then hurried to the curb ahead of us.

  “What was that?” Alex said, with a glance toward the clerk.

  I raised my finger to Alex, signaling Wait a minute. As the young man swung the car door open for me, I said, “Pardon, do you know what happened at the end of the street this afternoon?”