Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Yes!” I said. “Regardless of the hotel’s security problems, someone wants something I’m supposed to have.”

  “But what, Jordan?” Yes, that was the question. Alex shook his head. “I’m just not convinced that you are the victim of some grand scheme. I don’t see how the dots connect.” But from his tone, I believed he was at least willing to entertain the notion that it was possible.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  The inspector had gorgeous blue eyes, thick black hair with a few silver streaks, a well-groomed mustache. Not long ago I had watched the new DVD version of Dr. Zhivago. Inspector Bouvier’s handsome face brought to mind Omar Sharif— perceptive, charming, with lines that spoke of considerable life experience.

  Too bad for the inspector, he was short and pear-shaped. With narrow shoulders, he appeared nearly as wide as he was tall. His neatly pressed pants and starched shirt, here in the middle of the night, suggested he was particular about his clothes, except that his unbuttoned jacket didn’t look as if it would reach around his rotund middle.

  With Alex and Jean-Claude standing by, I showed the inspector my room, and he asked the usual questions: where I’d been that evening, who had keys, and so on. After he and Jean-Claude had spoken briefly in French, he dismissed our host. Inspector Bouvier’s intelligent gaze shifted from me to Alex and back. “You are traveling together, oui?” he asked.

  Alex hurried to explain. “She is my niece. That’s my room, across the hall.”

  The inspector took a moment to smoothe his mustache. “Yes, I see. And do either of you have any thoughts about what happened here tonight?”

  “Apparently the burglar thought Jordan had valuables of some kind,” Alex said.

  So Alex was going to leave it to me to tell about the earlier incidents. Better for me than for him to come off as paranoid, right? I felt the skin wrinkle on my forehead.

  “And you, Madame, what do you think?”

  “I don’t have anything that’s valuable. I can’t see that anything is missing,” I said. “But I think someone has been following me.”

  Inspector Bouvier’s keen eyes narrowed. But as casually as he’d asked where we’d had dinner that evening, he asked, “And when were you first aware that you were being followed?”

  I sat down on the end of the bed. Alex took a seat in one of the wicker chairs in the sitting area, but the inspector continued to stand.

  “It all started when I left my suitcase on the train in Brussels,” I said. “And there was a young Middle-Eastern-looking man on the train who wouldn’t help us, but an American did. A cowboy. He tried to help, anyway.” My words tumbled out, faster, rising in pitch. “And then he showed up at Gare du Nord and later in front of our hotel, and then there was a hit-andrun, and I’m sure he was the man who was killed.” I stopped, realizing just how agitated I was sounding. I had omitted the part where the cowboy had called the hotel in Paris, asking about me. That might have been more convincing.

  Inspector Bouvier’s expression was guarded, his thick brows arching ever so slightly. I couldn’t tell whether he was taking me seriously or baiting me when he said, “Help me to understand, Madame. An American you had seen in Brussels and at Gare du Nord— the same was also struck down by a car?”

  “In front of our hotel,” I said.

  “When did this happen?”

  I had to think. “Two days ago.”

  “And what about the man you say was from the Middle East?”

  “I just had the impression that he was from the Middle East.

  But his behavior was odd.” I groaned. “Oh, I don’t know about him. Maybe Alex was right, that he just didn’t understand the language. He wouldn’t pass my suitcase out the window. He pulled down the shade.”

  “I see.” The inspector seemed to consider this. “Were you transporting something of value? Something the American and the young man on the train wanted? And they knew you had it in the suitcase?”

  I gave a heavy sigh. He made it sound so impossible. “I wasn’t carrying anything that they would have wanted, but maybe they thought so. I can’t explain why.”

  Inspector Bouvier tapped his chin. Addressing Alex, he asked, “What do you think, Monsieur?”

  “These past few days have been a terrible strain for Jordan,” Alex said, getting to his feet with some effort. He gave me a sympathetic smile. He may as well have said I had dreamed up the whole story.

  “Can’t you take fingerprints or something?” I asked, frowning at the inspector.

  He appeared to suppress a smile. “Madame, we are a very small police municipale,” he said, as if that explained everything, and in a way it did. Probably he’d have to call on some central agency if he was serious about finding the culprit. Probably he didn’t have the manpower to do much investigating. I could see this case going into File Thirteen. Probably there wouldn’t even be a case file. I was not surprised when the inspector said, “The American—the cowboy you call him—he is dead, yes? If someone is following you now, it would be someone else.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Inspector Bouvier walked to the door, still looking thoughtful. At the door, he turned, laced his fingers across his heavy middle, and said, “I do not believe you have anything to fear, Madame. Fontvieille is not a dangerous place. But, s’il vous plâit, I suggest you keep your window locked. For peace of mind.”

  He hadn’t taken down a single note during our conversation. But maybe I wasn’t giving the man enough credit. As he and Alex went into the hall together, I heard him ask, “And what was the name of your hotel in Paris?”

  It was past midnight when we finished. Earlier, I wouldn’t have believed I could make it till midnight, but now I was wide awake. I attempted to put my room in order. What had happened could have been worse, I told myself. What if all my clothes had disappeared again? What if the intruder had entered while I was asleep and held a knife to my throat? I shivered, and when my phone rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  The voice boomed. “Jordie! Bonjour, sweetheart!”

  “Bonsoir,” I said to my brother.

  “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” he laughed. “I forgot you’re several hours ahead.”

  “It’s after midnight, but I happened to be awake—and there’s nothing wrong with the connection, Drew. Lower your voice.”

  “Sure, Jordie. So how’s the trip?”

  My brother, the only person who called me Jordie—baby brother, born when I was ten years old—could touch me with a poignancy that not even my children could, and he could make me more furious than anyone else in the world. When he was a baby, I couldn’t wait to pick him up, a doll come to life. I rocked him, carried him on my hip. It was as if Drew was my first child. The infuriating thing was, at forty he was still a child.

  That’s what I saw. In the public eye, Drew Carlyle was a bright young lawyer turned real estate developer, a genteel, attractive bachelor, an eminent Savannian.

  “Things are all right here,” I lied. No sense wasting time telling him about my troubles because I was sure he had troubles worse than mine. Otherwise, why would he be calling?

  One-handed, I folded a blouse as he talked. “Things are fine here, too, all except for a minor problem at the building on Drayton.” His voice got that pained little snivel that he wouldn’t dare use with anyone but me. “The Codes guy, that Bailey fellow that likes you so much, he’s been all over me. I told him you were out of the country, and you’d fix everything when you got back, but he wouldn’t give me a break. He said I needed to try to reach you, so that’s why I’m calling. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “You’ve lost me, Drew. What’s the problem with the building on Drayton?”

  I heard his intake of breath and a louder exhalation. “He made us stop work.”

  “What do you mean—stop work? We weren’t supposed to start work until I got back.” A familiar churning in my stomach made it hard to believe I was across the ocean from Drew, and from bu
siness.

  “I know, I know, but the contractor had people available, the price was right, and it seemed crazy to wait two weeks while you’re over there in the south of France, basking in the sun. Not that you don’t deserve your vacation, Jordie.”

  It had been less than a week since I was in Savannah, in that particular building on Drayton, going over drawings with Drew, but the details of the project were obscured in a cloud of forgetfulness, or buried under all the drama that had occurred since. “You’ll have to refresh my memory. You weren’t going to use Lloyd on this one, right?”

  Drew muttered, “Right.”

  We worked with a few good contractors, and Lloyd Creighton had wanted this project. He’d given us a reasonable bid. Then Drew had brought in a golfing buddy of his, someone who had done some construction at Hilton Head. The information I’d seen on the company’s letter of qualifications looked fine, but I was suddenly wishing we’d gone with Lloyd. On any historic structure, I would’ve had to meet with the Codes people and work out a dozen glitches. Lloyd would never have tried to pull the building permit before I’d squared things with Codes.

  “How’d your guy get the permit?” I asked.

  “She didn’t,” Drew said.

  “She?”

  “Jasmine. She’s the contractor. Goes by J. D. Randall.”

  Drew apparently had no trouble interpreting my silence. He began to state a case as he might’ve if he’d actually passed the bar and become the litigator he’d thought he wanted to be. That was before our father died and the properties he owned in the Historic District passed to my brother and me, and we’d started our business together.

  Drew was telling me what a reputable contractor Jasmine was and how I had seen the list of construction projects she’d done, and how surprised he was that it mattered to me that she was a woman, when I had to interrupt. “Drew—Drew— I’m not even going to respond to that. I know what’s going on here. Is she gorgeous? Don’t answer that. I really just want to know one thing. Did she start work without a building permit?”

  He hesitated. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Dammit, Drew!” I sputtered for a minute, pacing back and forth on the hooked rug beside my bed. Finally I said, “I’ll have to call you back about this tomorrow. I’m too mad right now to come up with a solution to save your skin.”

  “Our skin, Jordie.” He gave a little laugh. “Come on. Contractors do it all the time. She just got a couple of guys in there doing some of the demo. That’s all. Jasmine is a class act. Don’t blame her for this.”

  “I blame you, Drew, but I’m not going to argue tonight.”

  “Me, either. I don’t want you to be mad at me. I hate like hell to bother you with this while you’re on vacation, but I know all it’ll take to straighten things out is one call from you to your friend in Codes. That Bailey guy will do anything for you.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Sure, you do. You wouldn’t mind giving him a call, would you? You always bail me out, Jordie.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said.

  “There it is!” he sang out. “That little lilt in your voice. I knew you’d forgive me.”

  “You are not forgiven,” I said. But he knew me too well, my exasperating brother. I snatched up a pair of panties that were peeking out from under the bed. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I can’t promise what Bailey will say. You know when you piss off the Codes people, they start looking for all kinds of violations. So your job is to get your girlfriend off the premises immediately.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend—but never mind. Anything you say, Jordie. Goodnight, and tell Alex hi for me.” He sounded so deeply sincere, it was hard not to be taken in when he said, “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Goodnight,” I said.You might grow up, I thought.

  CHAPTER 9

  Breakfast at nine. Hard to believe we were in the same dining room just last night. What had been the hotel bar was, on Thursday morning, the breakfast buffet. Panels were closed over the shelves of liquor. On the counter were baskets and platters of golden baguettes and croissants, jams and jellies, hard-boiled eggs, sausage links, granola, butter, cheeses, and pitchers of milk and orange juice. I was ravenous, though I had no reason to be. We’d dined late and dined well. But breakfast was, in its own way, just as appealing as dinner had been.

  Alex was pouring a glass of juice when I joined him in the dining room. We filled our plates and went to the canopy-covered sunroom, to a table marked by Alex’s guidebook and the brochures he had been perusing. I couldn’t keep from studying how the wide expanse of glass and the yellow canvas canopy captured the gentle, buttery morning light. When I mentioned my observation to Alex, he said, “I’m glad you’re in a better mood this morning.”

  “Have I been in a bad mood?” I said. “Moi?”

  A smile played on his lips. He began to spread jam on his croissant. “You had every reason to be upset. I hope you got some rest, after all the excitement died down.”

  I didn’t want to talk about what had happened in my room or about my lost suitcase or the Texan or the young man on the train in Brussels. “I did go to sleep—after I had a call from Drew. He said to tell you hi.”

  “Ah—what kind of trouble is my nephew in this time?”

  “Don’t get me started. Just remind me to make a call this afternoon.”

  “Oh my goodness. Surely that boy can handle the business for a few days,” Alex said. “This is your vacation, Jordan.”

  “I know. But I promised, and it won’t take long.”

  A flood of noise stopped me. Several middle-aged-to-older women were getting up from their table, speaking much too loudly—“so expensive” and “always late” and “I didn’t expect”—snatches of conversation that made me perk up.

  “Oh, they’re Americans.” I hadn’t expected such delight at hearing English spoken the American way. There were maybe a dozen of them. Most of them had tight curls or hair cut short in a helmet, and wore sensible shoes, knit pants, and cardigans. Like so many Americans, they were well-fed, the whole lot of them. But I had no business making judgments, and I had to admit that the idea of having other Americans around was comforting.

  As the group filed out of the dining room, Alex picked up his guidebook. “Are you still agreeable to seeing Les Baux de Provence?”

  “I’m agreeable,” I said, smiling at the word. “If we can get back in time for me to relax around the pool this afternoon, I’m up for a few hours of sightseeing.”

  Alex looked stricken. “The pool is nice enough, Jordan, but we didn’t come all this way to sunbathe, did we? Really, dear, there’s so much to see, so little time.” He pushed the guidebook in front of me and pointed to an aerial view of a rock fortress, with a caption: “Perched on a rocky spur, 804 feet above two valleys, the citadel covers twelve acres.” Alex watched for my reaction. How could I not want to study the architecture—a twelfth-century dungeon and chapel, the remains of medieval houses?

  “Twelve acres?” I said, my expression guarded, though it must have been evident that the ancient ruins appealed to my imagination. “Give me an hour. One hour, and I’ll be ready to go. Fair enough?” Alex gave an affable nod. I remembered with some irritation that I couldn’t call the Codes Department in Savannah until at least two o’clock. Too bad I couldn’t get that out of the way before we started our day trip.

  “If I can’t keep up with you,” I told Alex, in a mocking voice, “I’m sure there are cafés or shops where I can hang out while you’re traipsing across twelve acres, or climbing up twelve acres, from the looks of this.” I tapped the picture in the guidebook.

  Alex gave a wry look. He knew there was no way I’d miss this sight.

  The elderly woman who owned the Great Dane was swimming laps in the pool. The dog remained in the grass, his big head on his big paws. He didn’t even prick his ears when I walked by him. The laziest Great Dane I’d ever seen, a picture of l
eisure at its purest. Not a bad life.

  The outside temperature was mild, but the water was icy. I sat on the edge and eased my toes in, wondering how the woman could bear to swim in the frigid water. I gave up after a minute. I was drying my feet when Bettina called to me, “Madame Mayfair, le téléphone. You have a call at Réception.”

  Glad to find out who’d been calling for me, I was hoping for news about my suitcase. I put on my sandals, went to the front desk, and picked up the phone.

  “Oh, Jordan, I did reach you! Finally!” The unmistakable voice of Felicity.

  She hurried to explain that she and Barry were joining some friends from Nashville who were renting a tremendous house in the country near Aix-en-Provence. “You’ll be coming to Aix, won’t you? You’ll have to visit Aix.”

  “I don’t know exactly what Alex’s plans are,” I said.

  “Oh, you know he wants to see Aix, the heart of Provence, stroll along the Cours Mirabeau, the most gorgeous street in the world. The question is when.”

  “That I can’t say. Alex has an agenda, in his mind, anyway. I’m just tagging along.” That wasn’t quite the truth but it seemed to placate Felicity.

  “You check with Alex, then, and I’ll call back. Give me your cell number so I won’t have so much trouble reaching you.” Felicity rambled on. “Hunt and Portia say they’re a little more than an hour from Fontvieille. We plan to make the drive to their place tomorrow. We’re still in Paris. Such a magnificent city! I wish you could have stayed longer!” She paused for a quick breath but hurried on before I could speak. “Tell me, Jordan, did you get your suitcase back?”

  “Not yet. Maybe not ever,” I said.

  “Oh, Jordan, don’t say that! You should let Barry look into it for you. He has a lot of contacts here, you know.”

  “The suitcase disappeared in Brussels, Felicity, on the commuter train.”