Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Ah, certainly you are a beautiful woman, Jordan Mayfair, hard to resist. But I like to think I am a good judge of character, as well. And you took perhaps a greater risk than I.”

  “From all indications, it has worked out all right,” I said.

  He laughed that marvelous rich laugh. “From all indications.”

  A waiter appeared to replenish my water glass of the two sips I had taken from it. Such service was a luxury, but I wondered if it were possible to have any real privacy, with so much attention from such an assortment of waiters.

  It appeared that age was equated with rank among the wait staff. The youngest poured water, a rank from which the blond, curly-haired waiter must have only recently advanced, for he couldn’t have been older than mid-twenties. A thirty-something waiter had served the caviar. He returned with menus.

  Paul barely glanced at the menu. He asked, “What is your recommendation, Henri?”

  Henri gave a detailed description of a lobster dish. I closed my menu and nodded. “Deux,” said Paul.

  I contemplated my wine for a moment before I noticed that Paul was studying me. He struck me as the kind of person who could endure silence for several minutes without any trace of awkwardness. I, on the other hand, needed the comfort of chatter. I asked, “Do you spend much time in Paris?”

  “Paris is my home,” he said. “I always come home.”

  That didn’t exactly answer my question. I’d noticed Paul’s answers often didn’t quite hit the bull’s eye, were sometimes enigmatic. Quite honestly, his evasiveness made him all the more fascinating, but I couldn’t help being curious about him. Who was Paul Broussard, really, besides a charming, handsome, wealthy man, a patron of the arts?

  “Were you born in Paris?” I asked.

  “Yes.” A straight answer, finally. “I’ve seen many changes in my city.” This, he said with fondness, I thought, certainly with nostalgia. I thought he might be about to launch into a story, but instead he prepared another slice of toasted bread with caviar.

  “Did you study art in college?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t tell me to stop playing “Twenty Questions,” as my children did when I kept probing for information.

  “Political studies,” he said, “but I grew up in a family who valued such things as art and music and theater. We were not wealthy, not at that time. The war had taken its toll on my family’s resources, but this—appreciation— came naturally for me. When the time came that I was financially secure, I began to purchase art—and so on, and so on.”

  “Don’t stop,” I said.

  “But you must tell me more about your work. Architecture— that is a noble profession.” And somehow, without realizing what he’d done, I obliged, with an account of revitalization efforts in the Historic District, the good, the bad, and the ugly among my colleagues.

  New faces continued to crop up among the wait staff—a server for our entrées, a wine steward, the young man who replenished our water from a silver pitcher each time one of us took a drink. And there was an older, very dignified waiter who appeared to preside over a section of about four tables, a captain, keeping the younger men in line with sharp, purposeful glances. He came to our table only once, after our entrees were served. He did not ask if the service was satisfactory. He simply said, “Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your dinner more enjoyable.” I couldn’t believe anyone would’ve ever had any suggestions.

  “Can you tell me more about the Château in Fontvieille?” I asked, as we waited for dessert. I’d ordered lemon custard. Paul was having bittersweet chocolate cake with raspberries.

  “What would you like to know?” I caught a trace of skepticism in his voice.

  “Not about the robbery.” No, I couldn’t let him think I’d wanted to pump him for information. Sorry, Alex. “I was wondering how you became the patron of that museum.”

  “A good question. I doubt that many residents of Fontvieille know the answer,” he said. “Perhaps they believe I have a special appreciation for the Daudet family’s generosity.”

  “And that’s not the reason?”

  “I do, and I also enjoy the region. Fontvieille provides me a place to hide away, as they say, especially L’hôtel du Soleil. I’m quite fond of Jean-Claude.” This, with an amused smile. “Also, my family bears a distant relation to the Ambroys, who lived in the Château de Montauban in the mid-1800s. You may know that Alphonse Daudet lived with the Ambroys and remained close to them until his death.” He paused, giving me a chance to reply. I remembered something about this, vaguely, but I hadn’t expected to be quizzed. I gave a nod, urging him on. “My mother’s family maintained contact with the Ambroys through the decades, and my brother and I continued to visit Fontvieille in our youth. At that time, some distant cousins lived in the area, but they are all gone now. I have many fond memories of those days.” He gave a theatrical shrug and said with the same dramatic flair. “I suppose you could say I’m terribly sentimental.”

  Of all the things I could say about Paul Broussard, sentimental wasn’t one that came to mind, but I was touched by the story. “So you decided to lend your support,” I said.

  “I’ve been fortunate in my financial pursuits, so why not?”

  Our desserts arrived before I could fire more questions. That must have been how he thought of it, firing questions at him. But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know more—and more. I wanted the night to never end.

  “I would like to visit Savannah someday,” Paul said, another change of topic. “Perhaps you would show me around your city. No doubt you would make a magnificent tour guide.”

  “It would be my great pleasure,” I said.

  Over coffee, our voices had grown softer, more intimate, and now we began to delve into more personal territory. Paul asked me about my children. The sincerity in his voice convinced me that he was not just placating me, that he was genuine in his desire to know about them. I made an effort to supply only details that he requested. It’s too tempting to go on and on about children. He listened, nodding, with a trace of a smile. When I mentioned that the twins were just two years old when Stuart died, he said, “What an accomplishment to raise five children alone.”

  “One does what one has to do,” I said. Then, hearing the hollow ring of the cliché, I allowed myself to let my guard down. “In some ways, the children have made life easier.” I raised my cup, looked at the coffee, set the cup back into its intricately-flowered saucer. “Stuart and I were having problems,” I said, still regarding the coffee. “He was driving home from the hospital on a rainy night after seeing to preemie twins—and I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened to us if those twins had waited till the next day to come into the world. I’ve wondered if we would’ve worked things out.”

  These were words I’d never spoken to anyone, and now, incredibly, I was saying them to a man I barely knew. I was amazed at this leap of faith. Somehow it was liberating to know I’d likely never see Paul Broussard after this week, to know my words could die in the air, right here in France.

  A long silence followed. One of those silences that seemed not to bother Paul. He stirred his coffee and fixed his eyes on mine again. After a moment, he said, “Now that I’m older, I think it would’ve been nice to have a son or daughter. I would have tried to be a good father.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said, touched by how gently he had shifted me away from the long-buried memory I’d dug up.

  “I was married for a short time when I was much younger,” Paul said. “Since then, marriage has not been a consideration.” He shrugged and continued as if I’d asked Why not? “The world is full of beautiful women. It is too easy for a man like myself to make erroneous assumptions about their motives. One must be careful.” For an instant I caught an expression of vulnerability— amazing that Paul Broussard actually had self-doubts.

  “Gold diggers,” I said.

  “A suitable description,” he said, smiling, mostly with his eyes
.

  “Though I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there haven’t been women who were simply swept away because—because you’re you.” I couldn’t believe what I’d said, but it was apparently the right thing.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Jordan Mayfair,” he said.

  And then I thought I was dreaming. The roof began to open up. People began to clap. Perhaps this was a nightly ritual. The patrons didn’t seem shocked, just delighted. The roof rolled back and exposed a sky full of stars, framed in flowers, red and white geraniums all around the edge of the opening.

  “Do you like it?” asked Paul. That smile. As if he’d arranged all of this for me.

  “How could I not like it? Mon Dieu!” I’d learned something from Jean-Claude.

  The clink of silver seemed to grow louder.The waiters seemed to relax, whisper to one another, smile. Laughter and merry voices rose as people moved to the dance floor. From the piano came the first melody of the evening that was not a classical piece. The pianist played the explicitly-American I Got Rhythm exactly as I imagined George Gershwin intended it, exactly as my parents must have danced to it. In this dream, for this night, time had rolled back.

  “Shall we?” said Paul, already rising.

  So we danced. After a couple of songs we went back to our table. “I haven’t danced like that in a long time,” Paul said.

  “I haven’t danced like that—ever,” I said.

  We emptied the last drops from our wine glasses and danced some more. Too soon the pianist finished for the night, ending with, of all things, that old wartime song, I’ll Be Seeing You. If Lassare didn’t bill itself as the ultimate romantic setting, management was missing out.

  The music stopped. A moment later the silence was taken up with chatter, laughter, and the clicking of heels as dancers left the dance floor. Paul drew me a little closer and kissed me. Not a lingering, passionate kiss, it was its own kind of wonderful. It made me believe him when he said, “Ah, Jordan, how I wish you had more time in France.”

  Catching my breath, I managed to say, “So do I.”

  Paul settled the check. It was midnight. Cinderella flashed through my mind. Would the magic end now? We hadn’t arrived until after eight. Too little time.

  Paul took my hand, twining his fingers in mine, and we joined the lively crowd going down to the first floor by way of a winding staircase. Only a few very elderly couples waited for the tiny elevator.

  As we exited the brownstone, into the cool, sweet air, I recognized Paul’s driver. His Paris car, also a Mercedes, was parked at the curb in a line of other luxury cars. “What time will we get back to Fontvieille?” I asked.

  “If we go straight to the plane, we should be there by two A.M.,” Paul said. On the sidewalk now, others passed us heading to their cars. Paul draped his arm around my shoulders in a casual manner, as we took our time. Bending his face toward mine, so close I swear I could feel something thrumming between us—hot blood rushing? the wild beating of hearts?—he said, “The night doesn’t have to end yet. Paris is full of delights.”

  “I’m in no hurry.” Was that Jordan Mayfair, saying those words? Yes, it was the Jordan Mayfair who had hid herself away for much too long, the young Jordan who studied abroad for a semester, traveling alone, chalking up adventure after adventure, and then came home to the young doctor who was eager to marry, the young Jordan who could be spontaneous, not always protecting her fragile emotions. Monsieur Broussard had brought that Jordan from hiding.

  “I have some friends who play jazz in a quaint little place on the Left Banque,” he said, a few paces from the car. The driver met us and whispered something to Paul before he opened the door for me. Paul stood outside with the door still open, as the driver continued to speak—in French, of course. No worry that I would eavesdrop. A brief exchange—and Paul scooted in beside me. The driver closed the door.

  “A call came to my car from Jean-Claude, just moments ago,” Paul said. “He had tried to reach you, but of course you had turned off your phone, as I had done.”

  “Is something wrong at the hotel?” My calm voice didn’t match the alarm I was feeling. I snatched my phone from my tiny evening bag. “Is it Alex?”

  “Jean-Claude apparently made the call for your uncle,” Paul said. He glanced at his phone and put it away. I doubt Jean-Claude had the number for Paul Broussard’s personal cell.

  A string of calls showed up on my phone. The first three were from Barry Blake’s cell; the last two had to be from L’hôtel du Soleil. They had come in only minutes earlier. One message: Felicity, breathless, saying, “Jordan, oh Jordan, please call. It’s important. Please!” It was always hard to know whether Felicity had a legitimate emergency or a hangnail.

  “I have to find out what’s going on,” I said, punching numbers to reach the hotel.

  “Of course you do.”

  Jean-Claude answered, and when I identified myself, he said, “Your uncle is expecting your call.”

  Alex came on the line. “I hated to interrupt your evening, Jordan.”

  “Are you all right, Alex?”

  “I am fine, and I’m sorry I made you worry. Jean-Claude supplied me with a nice snifter of brandy while I waited for you to call.”

  “What is it?” I asked, a little irritable now that I could picture Alex sipping his brandy instead of lying on a hospital gurney.

  “It’s Felicity Blake. She was adamant that I get in touch with you. I thought it could wait until you returned to the hotel, but I wasn’t sure that you’d be returning tonight.”

  Another time, I might have had something to say about that. But the only word I had was “Felicity?” I could not believe it. All of this drama because Felicity couldn’t leave me alone for one night—this one night?

  “Yes,” Alex said. “Barry Blake is dead. He’s been shot.”

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  “Oh, Jordan, you’re here! I was just about to try to call you again.”

  Felicity’s movements resembled those of a feeble old woman as she rose from her chair, wailing, “It was so awful, Jordan! So horrible to see him like that!” She took a few steps toward me and all but collapsed in my arms. Portia hurried to help, and we got Felicity back into the overstuffed chair in the sitting area of the hotel room.

  A uniformed officer had met me at the entrance of La Regalido. “The manager has moved Madame Blake to the second floor,” he’d said, punching the elevator button.

  I didn’t know which room Felicity and Barry had occupied, but I asked, “Moved her?”

  His tone turned blatantly official. “The room on the first floor is a crime scene, Madame.”

  So far I knew little more than that, and Felicity appeared to be in no shape to provide further facts about the shooting.

  She lit a cigarette with shaky hands. “I wish I could cry,” she said.

  Portia gave her a gentle tug on the arm. “You’re in shock.” Turning to me, she explained, in her deep contralto, that she’d given Felicity a Xanax. “My prescription. To take the edge off.”

  Felicity was wearing a pale blue silk robe over matching pajamas. A tightly-cinched tassle-tipped belt accentuated her small waist. She kicked off house slippers that matched her robe, drew her feet up under her, and hugged herself, rubbing her arms.

  “Let me get something to put around you.” I was glad to do something useful. I assumed Portia had been at Felicity’s side the entire time, even when she was calling my cell phone. If she’d been alone, she would’ve had a better reason to reach me before morning. But with Portia with her, Why? I wondered, and then I was ashamed of myself for not being more sympathetic.

  Like video clips, snatches from my evening with Paul kept playing in my mind. Dancing, our faces touching. Our fingers entwined as the aircraft sailed through the night sky. At L’hôtel du Soleil he’d waited in the Mercedes while I changed out of my little black dress, into jeans and a sweater. He insisted on seeing me to Felicity’s hotel. “A woman alon
e should not drive on the streets of Fontvieille at this hour,” he’d said. I’d pointed out that it was no more than a mile to La Regalido, to which Paul replied, “You are an independent woman, but please, indulge me.”

  And there was that moment, as the Mercedes turned into the circular drive at La Regalido, when Paul had pressed my fingers to his lips. The car came to a stop. Still holding my hand, Paul had touched his forehead to mine. Such a simple gesture that spoke more eloquently than words: “Tonight should not have ended like this, but c’est la vie.” He walked me to the entrance, where we saw the uniformed officer. “Shall I go inside with you?” he’d asked. I thanked him but told him it was not necessary. He spoke to the officer, who nodded and smiled at me. Did he say, “Take good care of her”? I wondered.

  Felicity was muttering vague protests and I realized I was supposed to be rummaging in the closet for a blanket. “Thank you, Jordan,” she said, finally. “Yes, I’m so cold.” Her voice was thin, insubstantial, as if speaking demanded an inordinate amount of strength.

  None of Felicity’s clothes were hanging in the closet, none of her belongings anywhere in the room. I found a blanket in the chest of drawers and draped it around Felicity, taking care to keep it away from her cigarette. I asked, “What about your things from the other room?”

  She gave a dismissive shrug. Portia said, “She was lucky they let me have her purse, and that was after a thorough examination. The police are going over everything.” Her face contorted into an expression of anguish. “Poor Felicity, she was in such a state when she called me! I took her to my room. I don’t think she could have answered their questions if I hadn’t given her the Xanax.”

  All of this as if Felicity were not there, but Felicity didn’t protest. “I’d like to have my toothbrush,” she said, without expression.

  “I’ll call the front desk and see if they can’t bring you some toiletries,” I said. The attendant at Réception promised he’d take care of my request. His tone was not as accommodating as one might have expected, but he was likely perturbed that this incident had occurred in his hotel. A shooting couldn’t be good for business.