Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “This man shows up everywhere I go,” I said. “I thought we should introduce ourselves.”

  “Really, my dear. I think we should leave,” Alex said, touching my elbow.

  I jerked away. “I want to know what he wants from me.” I heard the shrill note in my voice. My adrenaline seemed to take a dive, as I was struck by the thought: What was I doing? I hadn’t intended to create a scene.

  Now the maître d’ arrived. “May I help you, Madame?” Clearly, he wanted me out of there but he was practicing restraint. All conversation around us had hushed.

  Another minute and the maître d’ and Alex would’ve been hauling me out the gate—but the man with the hairy arms suddenly bolted from the table and headed through the gate.

  The maître d’ shouted and ran after him. Several men who were dining on the patio also jumped up and ran into the street. The noise level picked up substantially.

  “I guess he forgot to pay the check,” I said.

  Alex gave me a stern look. “May we please go now?” he said. The maître d’, looking as if his crimson face might explode, did not seem at all sorry to see us go.

  Alex surprised me. He didn’t scold, as we walked slowly toward the hotel. He seemed unusually pensive. I did most of the talking.

  “I don’t know why he’s following me, but I’ve had enough,” I said. “Enough! When I saw him tonight, I just—I just couldn’t stop myself. Maybe it wasn’t a smart thing to do, but you know something, Alex, I feel a helluva lot better.”

  The shops were all closed now, and the street was dark, except for a few widely-spaced streetlights and a bright moon, just rising. Maybe Alex was thinking about how vulnerable we were when he said, “I hope the man was sufficiently frightened that he won’t be back.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I frightened him,” I said. “But now that he knows I’m on to him, maybe he’ll—maybe”—I caught Alex’s knowing glance. “He’ll be smarter next time, won’t he?”

  “I doubt he’ll be showing his face at Le Patio soon,” Alex said, with a comforting little smile. “Maybe we should take our meals there from now on.” Hand it to Alex. Sometimes he really knew how to act like an uncle.

  “But he won’t leave me alone. Whatever he wants from me, he’ll keep trying to get it.” I exhaled a long, noisy breath. Alex didn’t argue with my conclusion.

  We left the town proper, including the streetlights. It was less than half a mile to L’hôtel du Soleil. We walked on the narrow sidewalk, next to the road. No cars passed. The only light came from the gibbous moon, not quite full. It illuminated our path, but I didn’t feel safe.

  As we reached the gate to the hotel’s property, Alex said, “Perhaps tomorrow we should go to see Inspector Bouvier.”

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  Millie O’Neill was downstairs when I arrived for breakfast Friday morning. She was idly turning through a newspaper in the sitting room, mostly watching the stairs, I gathered when she saw me and promptly stood up.

  “Bonjour,” I said.

  “Where’s your uncle?” was her greeting.

  “What about my uncle?”

  “I need to talk to you,” she said in a near-whisper. “Privately.”

  I was surprised that Alex wasn’t already downstairs, early riser that he was. “We can go outside,” I said. “Let’s get some coffee.”

  “Not me. I’ve had two cups.” She was jittery enough to have had a whole pot.

  In the dining room, I helped myself to the coffee. Outside, it was another glorious morning in Fontvieille—a nip in the air as we walked around the pool toward the big chess set, but a bright day that would heat up quickly. The woman with the Great Dane shed her long, striped terrycloth robe, revealing her bathing suit, and eased herself into the pool. The water had to be frigid, but she didn’t show any discomfort. Her dog settled at the edge of the pool to wait.

  We walked up the steps that led to the large chess set.

  “Something weird is going on here at this hotel,” Millie said.

  For a moment I’d forgotten that we’d come outside so Millie could tell me something privately. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I simply gave her an inquiring look. She didn’t need much encouragement to go on. She glanced around her, apparently checking to see that no one could hear us. The woman in the pool was out of earshot, and no one else was in sight, but Millie kept her voice low.

  “Last night at about two A.M., I saw something moving out in the edge of the grounds, kind of fuzzy-looking. Then it went into the old part under the hotel, best I could see. I need glasses for distance, and by the time I found them, whatever it was had disappeared.”

  Maybe not having her glasses explained the “fuzzy-looking” part, I thought, but I didn’t say it. “Was it someone with a light?” I asked. “A flashlight or a lantern?”

  She twisted her mouth as she considered. “Could’ve been. But it was so—surreal. I couldn’t help thinking about spirits— you know, ghosts.”

  Surreal didn’t seem like a word Millie O’Neill would use, nor did she seem to be the sort of person to believe in the supernatural, but there it was.

  “My room faces this way.” She turned and pointed up to what must have been her window. “And even when they turn out the lights around the patio, there’s been a moon. Last night it was about three-quarters. Real bright.”

  I nodded, then frowned. “Just what are you looking for at two in the morning?”

  “Just looking. I don’t sleep well,” she said.

  We had reached the big chess set. Someone had left the pieces all mixed up, which gave Millie something to do. She seemed like the kind of person who needed to be doing something. I was surprised that she knew how to set up the pieces.

  “So like I said,” she went on, sliding a pawn into place, “I’m up and down at night. Last night was not the first time I’d seen the light—the movement. Very creepy. I saw it the first night I was here, last Friday night. Same thing, except it was a full moon that night.”

  My expression was surely dubious. I thought of Alex, of how he’d responded when I tried to explain my suspicions about the cowboy. For one split second, I found myself identifying with my uncle, but only for a split second, after which I was more willing to give Millie the benefit of the doubt.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

  She stopped moving the chess pieces and turned to me with an expression that could only be described as wounded. “It might have something to do with the guy who’s following you.”

  “The man with the hairy arms,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  “So you don’t really think it was a ghost?”

  “I didn’t say it was a ghost. Just that it reminded me of spirits, the way it kind of floated through the bushes.”

  “I was at home in Savannah, Georgia, last Friday night, Millie,” I said in a gentle tone. “Whatever you saw then couldn’t have had anything to do with me.”

  Her lips formed a pout, like a child. She moved the queen into place.

  “But on the subject of the man with the hairy arms . . . ,” I said.

  Millie’s face brightened as I told her about our encounter at Le Patio.

  “I knew you were pretty gutsy when you went down into that dungeon,” she said.

  “You’re pretty gutsy yourself,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I just like to do things. These women on my tour talk about what their children and grandchildren do, but they don’t do anything.” She slid the last piece of the chess set, a black knight, into place and turned to me, smiling. “None of them would confront the stalker at the restaurant the way you did. Heck, I might not, either, but I like to think I would.”

  “It might have been a bad move,” I said. The word stalker brought me back to the reality of my situation. The man was still out there, still wanting something he thought I had.

  “You had to do something,” Millie said.

  “I’m going to con
tact Inspector Bouvier,” I told her.

  “Good plan. Maybe I should tell him about what I’ve been seeing in the middle of the night.”

  I frowned, imagining what the inspector might think of Millie’s sighting. “You might want to wait until you have something more.”

  She seemed to consider that. “I get it. We don’t want him to think I’m nuts. Guess I’ll keep watching, and if I see anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  At two A.M.? I thought. But I said, “Good plan.

  “Alex is probably waiting for me by now,” I said. “I should go back.”

  She nodded, looking a little forlorn. I asked, “Would you like to have breakfast with us?”

  Her face lit up. “Sure your uncle won’t mind? I wouldn’t want to be in the way.”

  “He won’t mind, and you won’t be in the way,” I said.

  “If you’re sure.” She was beaming now. “I’ve been wanting to meet him.”

  Alex was even more congenial than I could have predicted. Actually, he was in a great mood and looked absolutely spiffy in his khakis and pale yellow linen shirt. After I’d introduced Millie and we’d settled at our table with our scrumptious breakfast offerings, Alex announced that he had been up since six. “You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing,” he said, with delight.

  “Working on your book?” I ventured.

  “That, of course,” he said, with a frown. “But guess what else.”

  “Alex, I’ve always hated guessing games,” I said.

  He gave Millie an inquiring look. She said, “I’m awful at guessing games.”

  Alex heaved an elaborate sigh. “You ladies disappoint me with your lack of imagination. So I will have to tell you what I did. I was going out for my morning promenade when one of the young men who works in the kitchen came up on his bicycle. His name is Alain, and he speaks excellent English.” Alex paused to concentrate on buttering his croissant. I looked at Millie, who was paying no attention to her food. She was smiling faintly, visibly impressed with Alex. I tended to forget sometimes how women of the mature set doted on Alex. Though he’d never married, he’d never suffered from a lack of female companionship. But as he’d grown older, it seemed he’d grown more oblivious to his effect on women. He was too caught up in whatever he was explaining, the story he was telling.

  “Alain wants to go to college in the United States, in the northeast, and I talked with him for a while about various institutions and programs—but I’m getting off track.”

  Yes, he was, but I wasn’t as bothered as I might have been if I had not been working on a bowl of luscious raspberries and heavy cream.

  “I’m not sure why, probably because I took the time to advise him, but he asked me if I wanted to take a ride on his bicycle.” Alex spread his arms. “And I did.”

  “Way to go,” I said, wishing I had a picture of that.

  “Good for you,” Millie said. “You know what they say.You’re never too old.”

  The words were scarcely in the air when Millie slapped her hand across her mouth. She looked mortified, but Alex smiled. “Very true! I hadn’t been on a bicycle since I was twenty, but I had not forgotten what to do. Another saying: ‘You never forget how to ride a bicycle.’ ”

  “Where’d you go?” I asked.

  “Into town, up and down side streets. Very invigorating! To the Avenue des Moulins. I saw the path that goes up to Daudet’s Mill. Definitely not for bicycles. We must be sure to wear our most comfortable walking shoes this afternoon, Jordan.”

  I nodded, perhaps with less enthusiasm than Alex had expected. He turned to Millie, telling her about our planned trip to the windmill, giving the travel brochure spiel about the views from the summit of the hill. “If Alphonse Daudet was able to find inspiration from the setting, perhaps I can also. I need a dynamic opening for my book.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth. “It is my first full-length travel piece.”

  And then he proceeded to sketch out his curriculum vitae for Millie—his long years of teaching history at various colleges and universities, including twenty-plus years at the University of Georgia, after which he’d started a new career, writing for travel magazines.

  “Conde Nast— you don’t mean it!” Millie said when he mentioned a recent piece he’d written about Nantucket. I wondered how familiar Millie was with Conde Nast. Would someone who never took a vacation be reading travel magazines?

  “So I came to Provence to immerse myself in the place, the sights, the food, the culture,” Alex said. “And document my experience, of course. My memory is not what it used to be.”

  Millie was leaning forward slightly, her eyes wide and shining, an expression that softened the lines of her face, so the years dropped away. I found myself almost smiling, seeing this side of Millie O’Neill. But the smile turned cool when Millie said, “It’s so nice of you to bring your niece along on this big trip. Jordan is one lucky woman!”

  Alex was so caught up in the role of charmer that her observation didn’t even faze him. “I’m happy to have Jordan’s company,” he said.

  “It’s mutually beneficial,” I said, interrupting what was appearing more and more like a flirtation. “I was planning a trip to celebrate turning fifty, but I hadn’t settled on a particular place, and Alex had his book deal but he needed a traveling companion—”

  “Oh, come now, Jordan, Miss O’Neill doesn’t want to hear the boring details,” Alex said.

  “It’s Millie, please!” she insisted.

  I would not have mentioned the doctor’s mandate, but it occurred to me that Alex had never explained exactly why his doctor didn’t want him traveling alone.

  “Millie, you must tell us all about yourself,” Alex said, making a 180-degree turn in the conversation.

  “Not much to tell.” She used her fork to pick at the scrambled eggs, which surely had to be getting cold. She had not eaten more than a couple of bites.

  “Jordan said you worked with the school system in Chicago.”

  Now Alex was the one showing rapt attentiveness, as Millie launched into her own timeline, starting with her first clerical position in 1967, then her promotion to the business office, and so on. Amazing how she could recall employment dates with such precision. Most of the significant dates in my life were tied to my family—the summer the twins were born, the Christmas that all the children had the flu, the year that Stuart died.

  My mind had wandered, so I was startled to hear Millie say, “Assistant Director of Finance since 1998, and I held that position till I retired in the spring.”

  Assistant Director of Finance? Millie O’Neill? I opened my mouth, not having a clue what was going to come out. I was saved as someone sang out her name. From the long table across the room came two plump ladies fluttering to our table.

  “You found some new friends, I see,” said the one with spool curls.

  Millie introduced Eleanor and Regina (with a long i). Alex stood and made a little bow. The women were all smiles.

  “Don’t forget, we’re heading to St Remy de Provence at nine thirty,” said Regina, the one with spool curls. “Nine thirty sharp.”

  “Only ten minutes to get pretty,” Eleanor said, with a giggle.

  “I ought to try to get along with them,” Millie mumbled, as they departed in a wave of girlish chatter. “I’ve always been a team player, but that’s the silliest bunch I’ve ever met.”

  Alex was uncharacteristically quiet. The nature of female relationships would not be one of his areas of expertise. He glanced my way. I might have interpreted his expression as an appeal for me to jump in, but I let him fidget a moment. He took a long drink of orange juice. Then he said, “How did you choose this particular tour, Millie?”

  “Damned if I know,” she said, tossing her napkin on her plate.

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  Alex had been so productive organizing his notes earlier that he didn’t seem to mind working a while longer. We agreed to meet at noon in the lobby
and head for Daudet’s Mill.

  I spent an hour languishing by the pool. Alex had been wrong. It was not the same as going to the pool in Savannah. Nowhere I’d ever been was quite like this place. Serene was the word that came to mind. Not to mention that pale gold light.

  Back in my room, I showered and dressed in new pants, blouse, and sneakers, missing my old tennis shoes that hugged my feet so perfectly, gone with my suitcase in Brussels. Don’t think about it, I was scolding myself when my cell phone jingled. The number was my own home in Savannah.

  Julie was at my house taking care of Winston Churchill, a mutt with a lot of bulldog in him. Some larger breed also figured in his pedigree. Still a puppy, clumsy and into everything, he already weighed fifty pounds. Michael and Catherine had talked me into giving him a home. They convinced me I’d need a pet when they left for college.

  Mothers aren’t supposed to label children, but if I did, Julie would be my “brainy but not practical” child. She couldn’t wait to leave the South for college. A graduate of Cornell in the spring, with a major in economics, she’d worked as a counselor in a summer camp. Only at the end of August had she started looking seriously for something her Ivy League education had prepared her to do. Her search for the right job had turned into a search for any job that was not flipping burgers. I couldn’t complain right now; if not for Julie, Winston would be miserable in the kennel, missing his daily run through Forsythe Park. But I hoped Julie was sending out resumes, these two weeks.

  “Mom, do you know it’s five thirty in the morning here?” she began.

  “I suppose so,” I said, wondering what that was all about. She had called me.

  “Someone from the Turkish Embassy in Brussels called about your luggage. What’s going on, Mom? What’s been happening there?”

  I told her about leaving my suitcase on the commuter train but not about all the other drama in Brussels and Paris and here in Fontvieille.