Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  In my room, I settled back in a comfy chair with a bottle of sparkling water and my phone. Again, I was unable to reach Ad-nan Kemal, but this time I left my number with a woman whose command of the language and calm, professional manner gave me hope that Mr. Kemal would get the message and return the call promptly.

  I noticed that I’d missed a call from Felicity while we were climbing to Daudet’s Mill. She’d said she would get directions to her friends’ house. I sighed, returning the call, remembering I hadn’t yet mentioned the invitation to Alex. He’d just have to go along with my plans this time, trusting that a visit to an authentic French country home would be exciting for both of us. The thought had barely skittered through my mind when I recognized Barry’s voice, low and brusque. “Blake,” he barked.

  “Barry, it’s Jordan,” I said.

  “Yo, Jordan!” His voice shot up an octave. He said he was driving, with Felicity, Hunt, and Portia in the car, on their way back from Aix. In the background I heard shrill laughter that had to be Felicity. “Wait a minute,” Barry said. A minute later, “Had to shift down. Almost dropped the damn phone. Hey, you prob’ly didn’t know we had a wreck coming from Paris.”

  “No! Was anybody hurt?”

  “Nah. We’re tough.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “A tree got in my way on one of them twisty roads around here.” He said something about Aix. I heard “swap cars” and “fire engine red.” Then the reception improved as he said, “Everything’s worked out just fine.”

  “For a minute I thought I was losing you,” I said.

  “Don’t want to lose you, baby,” he intoned to a melody— possibly a real line from a real song.

  “I’d better get directions.You might cut out again.” I retrieved a pen and note pad from my tote bag. With obvious coaching from Hunt and Portia, Barry gave directions from Fontvieille. Then Felicity took the phone.

  “I can’t wait!” she crooned. “You’ll adore Hunt and Portia and you’re going to—”

  Mercifully, we lost the cell phone signal.

  As I waited for the call I hoped I’d get from Brussels, I picked up Alex’s guidebook that I’d inadvertently brought with me from Daudet’s Mill and began to read about Alphonse Daudet. As a young man the nineteenth-century poet had lived in Fontvieille with the inhabitants of Montauban, the family Ambroy—hence, the tie to the Château de Montauban. The art collection at the Château included not only pieces from Daudet’s original collection, but more recent works that his descendants had acquired.

  Alex knocked on my door at about four o’clock. He’d had time to rest. Dressed in a fresh striped shirt and pants with sharp creases, he looked as vigorous as ever. I saw no indication of the adverse effects from the trip to Daudet’s Mill.

  “Join me,” he said. “Jean-Claude made fresh limonade.”He presented a cold glass that dripped from condensation into a cocktail napkin. I accepted it and clinked the glass against his.

  “I have news,” Alex said, as he took the chair across from me. The window was open. The sun had moved across to the other side of the hotel, so my room was cool enough without the use of climatisation.

  Alex repeated essentially what Jean-Claude had told me about the missing sketches, but he added, “Somehow the Daudet family was able to obtain literally dozens of Van Gogh’s sketches that were done while he was in the sanitarium in Arles. Pencil sketches in various stages. Sometimes an artist simply experiments with lines and shading and that sort of thing. He’s not working on a masterpiece.”

  “Doodles,” I said.

  “Yes, but they are Van Gogh’s doodles! And the fact that he did them while in the sanitarium—”

  “While he was fou,” I said. Alex frowned and I whirled my finger for crazy.

  “Yes, fou,” he said, without admitting that I knew something he hadn’t known.

  He went on to say that the patron of the museum was one of the wealthiest men in Europe. “Monsieur—” he groped for the name, coming up with it before I could supply it. “Broussard, yes, Monsieur Broussard rushed to Fontvieille last week, making accusations of the curator, but the curator appears as stunned over the matter as anyone.”

  “Did you get your information from Jean-Claude?” I asked.

  “Actually I was speaking with a reporter from Paris while Jean-Claude made the lemonade. The young man speculated that the museum will close down in a few days if no progress is made on the investigation.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because of the threat to all the other works of art. If someone can steal sketches, the oils are not safe, either. We should visit the museum soon.”

  I agreed. I sipped the tart lemonade, considering how to tell Alex that I’d scheduled another day trip for us, as well.

  “Today it was business as usual, according to the young reporter,” Alex said, “except for extra security. Rumor has it that Monsieur Broussard and the curator—Llorca is his name, I believe—they disagree on whether it would be prudent to close the museum.”

  “With the wealthy patron holding the purse strings, I’d bet on him,” I said. “I’ll bet he closes it.”

  “No, no, it’s the other way around,” Alex said. “It’s Monsieur Llorca who wants it closed.”

  “You learned a lot while Jean-Claude was making lemonade,” I said.

  “The reporter was quite willing to educate me.” Alex drained the last drops of his lemonade and rose from his chair with groaning noises like squeaky hinges.

  “Let’s have dinner here at the hotel tonight,” I said.

  Alex narrowed his eyes at me. I was worried that he had already exerted himself too much for the day, and he obviously knew my reason for suggesting dinner at the hotel, but he said with a great show of pleasantry, “Certainly, if that’s what you’d like to do, my dear.”

  “Just one more thing, Alex.” I took his arm as we walked to my door and said in my sweetest voice, “How would you like to spend an afternoon visiting a couple who have renovated a real French country house? A cabanon.”

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  I almost missed the call. I’d decided to swim a few laps in the pool. Frigid as the water was, I needed some exercise besides walking. Two weeks of eating my way through Provence, and I’d be a slug on the tennis courts back home, where I was supposed to be playing on the Seniors League. Yep, I was fifty, which qualified me as a senior in the USTA’s book.

  The kinks in my arms and shoulders began to respond after a few strokes. After a couple of laps, the water was not so cold. I thought I heard chimes from a distant church, then realized I was hearing the belltones of my phone I’d laid on the edge of the pool. Grabbing at the phone with wet hands and dropping it at first, I finally answered with an overly-loud “Hello! Hello!”

  “Yes, hello,” the caller said. “Am I speaking to Madame Jordan Mayfair?”

  “I’m Jordan Mayfair.” I was standing in the pool, trying to sound like a reasonable person, though I was still a little out of breath. “Mr. Kemal? Thank you so much for calling.”

  Adnan Kemal’s low, resonant Middle-Eastern voice had overtones of an Oxford education. He explained that he did, indeed, have my luggage. “Please be assured that we have taken very good care of your suitcase,” he said. “If you will be so kind as to tell me where you wish to have it sent, I am at your service.”

  I gave him the address of L’hôtel du Soleil, adding that I would be here for another week.

  “That is not a problem, Madame. I will send it immediately.”

  I was shivering, but I wasn’t ready to end our conversation. “What I’m curious about,” I said, “is how it came to be in your possession.”

  “Ah, yes.You would want to know the answer to that.”

  All right.

  Silence. I climbed out of the pool and grabbed my towel, trying to envision this man at the Turkish Embassy in Brussels. Probably younger than myself, as were so many people nowadays, with
dark unsmiling eyes and thick black eyebrows, a long, stern face. I pictured him behind a desk, smoking a cigarette. Wasn’t that always the way in books and movies? A bureaucrat in a boring suit. My suitcase would be standing beside the desk.

  “And you are entitled to know, of course,” he said.

  All right.

  “I received your suitcase a few days ago.” He gave the date. It would have been on Wednesday, two days after we’d been in Brussels. “I will give you as much information as possible,” he said.

  All right.

  “A young seaman from Istanbul deserted ship when it docked in Marseilles,” Mr. Kemal began. “He had discovered that the captain was involved in an illegal activity, and he panicked. The young man—really just a boy—he was traveling by train, without a passport, with no money. He saw that a suitcase had been left on the train. Regrettably, he took it.”

  Another silence.

  “Please know, Madame, that the young seaman was very distressed by what he had done. He was hungry. He had hoped the suitcase might contain something that he could sell for food.”

  At this point, Mr. Kemal paused, and the sound from his end of the line was no doubt the exhaling of cigarette smoke.

  The story didn’t quite ring true. I reminded myself that Mr. Kemal was an official of the Turkish Embassy, perhaps even an official of some standing. Maybe he was bound by confidentiality. Maybe he was telling the truth, just not the whole truth.

  “So the young seaman, who was on a commuter train, romped around Brussels for two days and then brought the suitcase to you. Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Kemal?”

  “Something like that, though I am not sure of your word romped. He was in hiding.” Another pause. “Madame Mayfair, may I be candid with you?”

  “I wish you would be,” I said.

  “The boy was looking for family members. He did not immediately find them, as they live in a town outside the environs of Brussels. He brought the suitcase to me because his family members convinced him it was the prudent thing to do.”

  “Family members?”

  “I hope you will understand, Madame. The young seaman is my sister’s son.”

  I groaned. “This can’t be.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No,” I wailed, more to myself than to Adnan Kemal.

  “It is the truth,” he said, with some coolness. He could not have known—and maybe I hadn’t fully realized it myself until now—how much I had counted on learning something from him to explain or at least shed light on the larger problem, why someone was pursuing me.

  “Stealing is inexcusable, of course,” said Mr. Kemal. “The boy will face consequences for his actions.”

  I blinked back to reality. I’d been lost, back at Bruxelles Midi, pounding on the window of the train, the cowboy beside me, yelling, too. I’d been feeling the sheer helplessness I’d experienced when the olive-skinned young man had pulled down the shade, shutting us out. At the time, I’d told Alex that the young man was frightened. That much I’d gotten right. He was a scared kid who was hungry. But I’d been counting on so much more.

  “Did he turn in the captain who was running drugs?”

  “Did I say ‘running drugs,’ Madame?”

  “No, you didn’t,” I said.

  “I was informed that he turned in the captain,” said Mr. Kemal.

  I considered it. “Sounds like he’s not really a bad kid.” I was picturing him again, a young man about Michael’s age. “Sounds like he just got caught up in something big and scary, and he didn’t know what to do.”

  “I agree.” There was something else in the diplomat’s voice now, besides the rich Middle-Eastern texture and the English refinement. There was a smile in his voice. I was sorry I would not be meeting Adnan Kemal.

  “As long as I get my suitcase back . . .” I said, and my voice trailed off.

  “You have my word, Madame.”

  I should have been relieved. But all I could think was, Another dead end.

  Jean-Claude had seen us pondering over the dinner menu and had taken it upon himself to decide what Alex and I should order. A terrine of eggplant, sweet peppers and mushrooms, followed by duck breast with roasted garlic, and a dessert that he promised was “as light as a cloud”—and it was—citrus slices with tangerine sorbet and honey ice cream, served in a tea-flavored cookie. Jean-Claude also chose for us a red wine produced near Les Baux des Provence, which delighted Alex. He jotted down the information in his pocket notebook. We ended the meal with a marc de Provence, a potent brandy that Jean-Claude recommended as “an aid to digestion.” By that time, I was in need of aid.

  “Was everything to your pleasure?” asked Jean-Claude as we left the dining room. We assured him it was. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Did you see the gentlemen who went out on the patio to smoke cigars?”

  I tried not to be too conspicuous as I looked. Two men were standing at the top of the steps, their backs to us, both tall, one broad-shouldered, the other so thin, the word emaciated came to mind. Such counterparts, both in appearance and disposition. The robust man, his hair flecked with gray, was dressed in expensive attire, and though he carried himself with importance, he had flashed an expansive smile to people around him. The other’s bushy hair was completely white. It was hard to tell if he just hadn’t bothered to tame it, or if it was naturally unruly. His black suit, fitting for an undertaker, was definitely off the rack, if not some larger man’s hand-me-down. The expression on his sallow face was arrogant, though one would wonder why he was not absolutely timid beside the other very handsome man.

  “We were discussing these two gentlemen today.” Jean-Claude raised his eyebrows, waited a beat, and then gave a knowing smile before he bid us bonsoir.

  “The patron of the museum,” I told Alex, “and the curator. Messieurs Broussard and Llorca.” Remembering Jean-Claude’s reference to Llorca’s “big, ugly nose,” I had no trouble telling which was which. “Monsieur Broussard is a guest of the hotel,” I added.

  Something else. I had seen him before. So had Alex, though he wouldn’t have paid attention. We had dined near the table of Monsieur Broussard at Guy Savoy in Paris.

  Alex frowned. “One of the wealthiest men in Europe staying here?”

  “Jean-Claude just loves to gossip,” I said.

  Alex and I agreed to meet early for breakfast, to begin our day at the Château de Montauban. Alex said goodnight and went to his room. It was nearly ten o’clock. I was wide awake, so I settled in the lobby to watch the comings and goings of the hotel guests and employees. Louis was on duty at the front desk. Except for answering a couple of phone calls and handing out keys, he was not busy. He was a round-shouldered man of thirty-something with a receding hairline, a moon face, and a turned-down mouth that gave the impression he was bored. At ten o’clock, when Bettina came through the front door, he showed the most animation I’d seen. By the time Bettina had slipped off the strap of her shoulder bag and tucked it behind the front desk, Louis was out the door.

  Bettina glanced my way and smiled for what was probably the first time since I’d checked into the hotel. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant twist, and her makeup suggested more than cursory attention. She was wearing black pants and a silky red top. Coming from a date, I suspected.

  “You put in long hours,” I said.

  She actually came out from behind the desk to sit on the arm of a chair near me. “My father believes his children should learn hard work,” she said. Her expression was sardonic, her English only slightly accented. It occurred to me that I hadn’t, before, heard her speak an entire sentence.

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?” I asked.

  “A sister in Paris,” she said. “I want to go to Paris. That is why I work so many hours. I am happy to relieve Louis on his shift. My father does not like it, but I am saving my money.”

  I was astonished that she was, all at once, so candid, when we’d had no other conversations. B
ut as she crossed her arms and hiked her chin, I realized she was not so different from my own girls, an attractive package that hid a tangle of emotions and contradictions.

  “Is your sister studying at the university?” I asked.

  “She is an artist’s model,” Bettina said, her dark eyes glinting. “That is what I want to be. When I save enough money, I will go. My father will not stop me.”

  I suppose it was my maternal instincts that kept me asking questions of this girl who appeared willing, if not eager, to tell me about herself. With some hesitation, trying to be careful not to invade her privacy, I asked, “And your mother?”

  “She died when I was eleven. My sister was fifteen,” said Bettina. That was it. I’d crossed the line, but she didn’t appear to be angry as she turned the tables and asked, “Do you have children, Madame?”

  I told her about my five.

  “Five children, and four of them girls!” she said. “And my father thinks he has troubles?”

  Bettina was her father’s daughter when she laughed. Something in the eyes.

  We both looked up when we heard low, deep voices. Bettina’s face resumed its earlier grave expression as she hurried back to the front desk and began to fumble with papers. The transformation occurred in conjunction with the appearance of Messieurs Broussard and Llorca.

  The men’s very different heads were bent toward each other as they came from the dining room. At the front desk, both acknowledged Bettina with pleasant greetings. She replied, though she didn’t seem to know what to do with her eyes. She gazed downward, batting her dark lashes, more a case of nerves than flirtation.

  More words passed between the men. I caught demain. Plans for tomorrow? Llorca departed through the front door, but Monsieur Broussard remained at the front desk, speaking to Bettina in a tone of familiarity. She loosened up a little. I caught a nervous smile, but her responses were monosyllables or short phrases. Not surprising that a young woman like Bettina would be a little intimidated by a man like Monsieur Broussard.