Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

She wasn’t listening to any disclaimers. Now she had leaned across the desk and pulled me toward her. She was hugging me, muttering softly in French.

  And then she pulled back. “Louis!” she said. “Where have you been?”

  As Bettina began to spew French, much as I’d heard Jean-Claude do, I turned to see Louis’s face lose its color. He hadn’t at first realized who Bettina was embracing. He mumbled something in French to her—my guess was something like “It couldn’t be helped”—in reply to her outburst that presumably had something to do with his leaving her stuck at the front desk for so long. She threw up her hands, grabbed a small purse from under the counter and marched away, pausing only to say, “You will not forget, Madame? S’il vous plâit?”

  “I won’t forget,” I said.

  Louis took his place behind the front desk, moving with effort, I noticed. Something hurt. I couldn’t tell exactly what. When I didn’t leave, he asked, “May I help you, Madame?”

  “Why did you follow us into the tunnel, Louis?” I said, managing a modulated tone, though I was angry enough to yell. Angry at Louis, at the man with hairy arms who was also following me, angry at everything that had flawed this vacation. Angry that I couldn’t just relax and think about flying to Paris tonight with an incredible man.

  I could sense the wheels turning in Louis’s brain. He assumed an expression of innocence and started to lie, but I didn’t give him a chance. “I know it was you. Just tell me why,” I said. He scowled, and I watched his face contort into indignance. When he spoke, it was with genuine emotion. I’d give him that.

  “I could have been killed! Or my eyes put out!” He pressed both hands on a spot that might have been his ribcage. He didn’t press hard. I wondered if he had a broken rib.

  “We thought you were there to harm us,” I said. If he was expecting an apology, he’d have to give me something, but he hiked his chin and tried to set his jaw in a hard line in defiance. On Louis’s doughy face, it didn’t quite work, but I knew he was going after determination. “Who sent you to follow us?” I asked.

  A small twitch of his eyes made me think he might relent, but at that moment, some of the group of Germans came downstairs and turned in their keys. Louis assumed his role of pleasant host. I smiled at the young people. We all bid each other good morning. Louis had a couple of minutes to get his bearings.

  As they exited the hotel, Louis turned to me and now, speaking in the tone of a long-suffering host, he said, “Madame, Isaw you and your friend early this morning. Naturally, I was curious. Why were you going into the old part of the hotel? It was still dark. Yes, I followed you, and when I saw you had entered the tunnel, I knew I must warn you. Didn’t I call out to you? You and Madame O’Neill are guests of the hotel. It was for your own safety.”

  “Warn us about what?”

  “The tunnel! Don’t you know? It is not safe! No one should go into the tunnel!”

  I searched his eyes, trying to ascertain how truthful he was. Something was a little off. The timing, maybe. We had been in the tunnel for a while when he appeared. His version made it sound like he’d followed right behind us. I was about to ask what he was carrying—a flashlight? And if so, why wasn’t he using it? But Jean-Claude’s booming voice interrupted us.

  “Bonjour, Madame! What sights are you seeing today?” He had a generous smile for me, but his sidelong glance at Louis was icy.

  “St Remy,” I said.

  “Ah, very nice. I hope you will enjoy it.” He joined Louis in the small space behind the front desk, and began to look busy, rifling through a stack of papers. I suspected he was eager for me to depart so he could have a heart-to-heart with his employee.

  “I’m sure I will enjoy it,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I left them conversing in French. I wondered what excuse Louis would give his employer for being absent from his post. Somehow I didn’t believe it would be the same story he’d given me.

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  As Alex and I went to our car, heading out to St Remy, I saw that Millie was about to climb onto the blue van. I called to her and met her in the middle of the parking lot, out of earshot of Alex and her group, as well. I told her about my brief conversation with Louis.

  “I feel bad about hitting him with the rock if he was just looking out for us,” she said.

  “Don’t be so quick to feel bad,” I said. “I’m not sure I believe him.”

  Eleanor’s voice trilled, “Millie! The bus is about to take off!”

  “It is not,” Millie whispered. “Look at that.” A couple of women besides Eleanor still had not boarded the tour van.

  “Have fun,” I said. Alex was already in the driver’s seat. He gave me a quizzical look.

  “Nothing important,” I said. “I just remembered something I forgot to tell Millie this morning.” Not entirely truthful, but not a really big lie.

  “Girl talk. Maybe related to your dinner date tonight,” Alex said, with a smug smile.

  I smiled back and let him think what he would. Better than to tell even a little white lie.

  With Alex driving, I took full advantage of being the passenger. We passed Les Baux, with the impressive fortress jutting out from the high cliffs. As we traveled the winding road down the mountain, I enjoyed one photo-op after another. Patchwork valley with olive groves and vineyards, tile roofs, bell towers, and spires of St Remy in the distance, sights that had become familiar but were nonetheless spectacular.

  St Remy de Provence was another of the small Provençal towns in which we could’ve spent a couple of days, but by the time we arrived it was mid-morning, and Alex had agreed that we would leave mid-afternoon. I hadn’t had a date that excited me in a long time. No telling how long it would take me to get ready.

  Excavations in 1921 had unearthed remains of Roman architecture that we had to see—my idea to visit the cenotaph, a Roman monument erected and dedicated to the memory of the grandsons of the Emperor Augustus. “All architects should visit Provence,” I said to Alex. “And artists, photographers, historians, and anyone who appreciates good food and wine. But especially architects.”

  He scribbled in his notebook.

  “Are you quoting me?”

  “I might,” he said. “I like your observation.”

  We made a quick tour of the artsy little town and wound up in the crowded town center, more of the twisting streets full of galleries, shops, and cafés, typical of all of the towns we’d seen in Provence.

  I bought a tablecloth and serviettes in a bright Provençal print, blue and yellow. Alex bought a couple of santons, clay miniatures of the people of Provence doing their work. He chose a woman in a rocking chair, sewing, and a man carrying an armful of lavender. We sat down to lunch at Auberge de la Reine Jeanne, under a grape arbor roof, thick with vines. Over asparagus omelets, Alex looked up from under his thick brows and said, “I’m glad you’re dining with Monsieur Broussard. It will be a nice diversion for you.You’ve been much too caught up in looking out for me.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Yes, really,” he said. “RIL-ly.” A marvelous impression of Hunt Southwick that made me laugh. Alex suppressed a smile.

  I realized that I hadn’t mentioned where we were dining. Alex was probably thinking we were having dinner in one of the nice restaurants in Fontvieille.

  “One more thing,” I said. “We’re flying to Paris.”

  Alex’s expression was one of astonishment, but it occurred to me that he might have been a little hurt, too, that I had not shared this amazing detail earlier.

  “This is something I’ll never have the chance to do again,” I said.

  I must have sounded apologetic because Alex reached across the table and patted my hand. “You are absolutely correct. And you must make the most of every minute.”

  “I’ll have my phone,” I said.

  “Don’t expect me to bother you,” he said with a playful smile, “but your brother might. Or one of your chil
dren. And Monsieur Broussard might take offense if your phone rang at a most inopportune time.” He motioned for the waiter to bring the check.

  It was a rather thrilling idea that there might be a time I’d need to turn off my phone.

  On the heels of our conversation about phone calls, I received a call from Felicity. I didn’t answer. Alex and I were hurrying through the Van Gogh art center, with too little time to take it all in, as it was, and I was annoyed that Felicity was popping into my life at every turn. Had there been one day of this trip that I hadn’t seen Felicity or she hadn’t called? Now she and Barry were coming to Fontvieille. I’d see her soon enough.

  I listened to her message as we drove back to Fontvieille. “Jordan, we’re here in this lovely little town. Just checked in to one of the larger hotels, La Regalido. It’s very, very nice, but I was disappointed that your little hotel was full.We’ll get together anyway. How about dinner tonight? Call me. Oh, guess what! Hunt and Portia are here, too! We’ll have a party!”

  So sorry to miss that, I smiled to myself.

  Back at the hotel, before it was time to start getting ready for the evening, I placed calls to Julie, Catherine, and Michael. I was delighted to hear Winston’s “Woof!” in the background when Julie answered. I asked about the job interview.

  “It wasn’t what I thought it would be,” she said. “I would’ve been choosing the kids for the audience and getting them all settled before the host of the show came in. The host was some big fuzzy animal like one of the Muppets. I’m sorry I spent money on the power suit. All I would’ve needed was a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, easy to wash if a kid threw up.” She gave a heavy sigh. “Anyway, the job went to an eighteen-year-old boy with red curly hair.”

  “You’ll have other interviews, other times you’ll need nice clothes,” I said.

  “I guess so. Hey, did you get your suitcase?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  I had a great urge to tell her about Paris, but I decided to wait. Either I’d have more exciting details after tonight or there would be no point in mentioning it at all.

  “Have you talked to Holly?” Julie asked. Holly, whose boyfriend, Kyle, worked for Barry Blake, was one of the two daughters who hadn’t checked in with me. “She left a sort of cryptic message yesterday,” Julie said. “Sounded like she and Kyle might be having trouble. I texted her but haven’t heard back.”

  Heartbreak over a boyfriend was nothing new in our family, but the connection with Barry made me uneasy about Kyle. I never had understood exactly what he did for Barry. Maybe I’d mention Kyle the next time I saw Felicity, which would be all too soon.

  After Julie and I finished, I called Catherine.

  She sounded out of breath. “I just got back from a run,” she said.

  “Back to your dorm room?” She said yes, answering one of my big questions. She was still in college.

  “How are things with your roommate?” I asked.

  “She still talks to her stuffed animals, but I don’t spend much time in the room. I met another girl who’s in pre-med, and we might try to be roommates next semester.”

  I thought about how different Bettina’s life was, with being an artist’s model as her highest aspiration.

  “I made a C+ on that first test,” Catherine said, just before we hung up. “Half the class failed. The professor said most of us don’t have what it takes for pre-med. What a jerk! Well, he’s not getting rid of me.”

  Good for that professor, I thought.

  Michael was in a hurry, but I was glad to know he was taking care of getting my Jeep Cherokee repaired and coordinating with the insurance agent. “Can you believe it cost over two thousand dollars?” he said. “It was just a little dent.”

  Speaking with my family back home cheered me more than I might have imagined. But I couldn’t bring myself to call Drew. If his contractor in the halter top was still ignoring codes on the Drayton project, I didn’t want to know about it today, not this day.

  My last call was to Felicity, a call I dreaded but common courtesy dictated that I not simply ignore her. I should’ve told her, when she announced in Aix that she and Barry would be in Fontvieille today, that I had plans tonight. But they would have just postponed their arrival one more day. Given that Felicity and I hadn’t been close since college, a long time ago, why, I kept wondering, did she want to spend so much time with me here in Provence?

  I punched in the numbers and heard a series of rings—and then Barry’s voice inviting the caller to leave a message. My message was short and sweet. “I’ll have to get back with you tomorrow, Felicity. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier, but I’m busy tonight—something I couldn’t pass up. Have a good evening.” I raised my eyes to the heavens and mouthed, “Thank you!”

  And then it was time to lay out my clothes for the evening.

  Paul Broussard rang my room at six o’clock. He was waiting for me when I came down the stairs, and I confess, I did not mind walking through the lobby feeling the light touch of Monsieur Broussard’s hand on my back. I did not mind walking out of the hotel, knowing how many admiring smiles we’d left in the lobby. And I was ever so grateful to Felicity for her advice before I went shopping in Paris to replace the clothes in my suitcase. She’d said, “Whatever else you buy, you must splurge on a little black dress and strappy shoes. This is France. You just never know!”

  A driver, naturally, transported us in a silver Mercedes, polished to a blinding shine. We drove to a small private runway several miles out of Fontvieille, near Arles. We boarded a Sabre-liner, a jet roomy enough for ten people, but there were only the two of us besides the pilot and co-pilot.

  The co-pilot, an American named Glenn, came back to make sure we were comfortable. A few minutes after we took off, he returned to serve us champagne and fruit.

  The plane gained altitude. Paul raised his glass. “To a memorable evening in Paris,” he said, smiling his wonderfully warm smile. We clinked our glasses.

  Oh God, I thought, what am I doing?

  CHAPTER 23

  * * *

  Lassare, the restaurant Hunt had named as his favorite in the world, was in a district as removed from traffic and lights as Guy Savoy. I wondered, Was the mark of a fine restaurant in Paris that it had to be far from the maddening crowd? We entered one of those magnificent nineteenth-century brownstones. An elderly man in tux and tails accompanied us to the third floor on the tiny elevator, the tiniest I’d seen yet. Paul and I were pressed close against each other behind the dignified elevator man. Not half bad. I could smell Paul’s clean, masculine scent. Maybe an expensive soap, not cologne. My bare arm brushed against the fine material of his sleeve.

  The door opened, and I held my breath at the sight of the spacious room adorned with sparkling candelabra, exotic flowers that I couldn’t name, and fine paintings. This was something out of a movie, pre-war Paris. Music from a grand piano filled the air, a Chopin sonata. A battalion of waiters dressed in tuxes and tails threaded through the room. I was spellbound.

  The maître d’ stepped up to greet us. “Monsieur Broussard, Madame, bonsoir.” He whisked us away to our table. White tablecloth, linen napkins folded into swans, heavy silver, gleaming crystal goblets, golden light—every detail reflected elegance and luxury. The card with Please turn off cell phones in fancy script, French and English, brought a smile to my lips. Another mark of a fine restaurant.

  “Do you like it?” asked Paul.

  “Very much,” I said.

  “What is the mischievous little smile?” he asked, as I peeked in my evening purse to make sure my phone was turned off.

  I told him I was remembering when a boorish acquaintance from the States had received a call in the middle of dinner at Guy Savoy. “The waiter was irate,” I said. “I’m sure that’s never happened to you.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “I try to remain in the good graces of waiters.”

  As if on cue, a young waiter with close-cropped blond curls appeared for
our drink orders, gushing a little more than the maître d’, but remaining professional, nevertheless. “Monsieur Broussard, how nice to see you,” he said.

  We ordered wine. I’d already had champagne on the plane, and I could feel the bubbles. I asked for water also. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by saying something giddy, but I enjoyed what I was feeling, something electrifying, capricious, something girlish. It had been a long time since I’d felt girlish.

  On the plane, our conversation had consisted of one story after another, which I suspect is how people fifty and over start out with each other. Paul had thrilling stories about his travels. I had stories about my work, about Drew and our business and how his obsession with beautiful women tended to get us in trouble. Paul told about the house he had restored in Paris. I told about renovation projects in my own house. We commiserated about the headaches of restoration. “But, oh, it is worth all the trouble to live in a two-hundred-year-old house,” he’d said. My turn-of-the-twentieth-century house in Savannah didn’t compare, but I saw no point in mentioning it. Nor did I tell any of the really good stories, the ones about my children. I knew better than that.

  A waiter brought caviar that I hadn’t realized we’d ordered and set it between us. With a small silver utensil, Paul spread the caviar on a small slice of crisply-toasted baguette and held it up for me to take a bite. I pronounced it delicious, following with a taste of what was probably the most expensive wine that had ever touched my lips. Paul was smiling.

  “Now you’re the one with the mischievous smile,” I said.

  “I enjoy seeing the pleasure in your face,” he said. He took a slice of baguette for himself. As he spread caviar on it, he said, “Naturally, you’re too kind to let me know if you weren’t having a good time.”

  “I am most definitely having a good time.” I had to hold back to keep from using words like awesome. “You can count on it.” With a playful frown, I said, “You don’t know that I’m kind. You hardly know me at all. I have to tell you, I was astonished that you asked me to fly to Paris for dinner when we’d just met.”