Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

“Way to go, Mom,” Holly said, sounding a little more upbeat. “Is he hot?”

  “Yeah,” I said, without having to think about it. “He’s hot.”

  Alex still hadn’t returned. He’d been gone all day on a bicycle. More out of restlessness than out of concern, I decided to drive—not walk this time—to the library and see if he was still there. Before I’d located my keys, my phone rang yet again. “Jordie! How’re ya doing, sweetheart?” came my brother’s boisterous greeting. I couldn’t deny that there was something comforting about hearing Drew’s voice, though I knew from the get-go that he needed something from me. We managed a few pleasantries before he got right to the point.

  A building was for sale on one of the prominent streets in the Historic District, and Drew wanted to make an offer. The asking price seemed incredibly low. Drew rattled off figures he’d pulled together about renovation costs. Usually that task was mine.

  “Now when is it exactly that you’ll be home?” he said.

  “Monday,” I said. “I can take a look at the building Tuesday.”

  “The thing is, the owner is hot to get rid of it. He’s got a chance to buy into something that requires major capital, but I won’t get into that.”

  “Please don’t,” I said, but on second thought, I asked, “Who’s the owner?”

  “It’s confidential. Some real estate attorneys from Hilton Head are handling everything. Don’t worry, Jordie, it’s on the up-and-up.”

  “I don’t like the sound of it.” I checked my watch. I should be trying to find Alex. I needed to call Paul about dinner tonight. “This is really a bad time, Drew.”

  “Let’s make a time—tonight, tomorrow, whatever suits you— and I’ll go over everything. We’ll have a conference call with Jasmine.” He sounded a bit sheepish adding, “The contractor.”

  “Jasmine in the halter top?”

  “Come on, Jordie. She’s a class act. I asked her to take a look at the building, and she helped me crunch the numbers.”

  That did it. “Drew, there’s been a murder here, someone from Nashville whose wife was my sorority sister in college. I can’t think about real estate in Savannah. Not just now.”

  Drew didn’t know the Blakes. I tried to keep the details sketchy, even to the point of omitting Barry’s connection with Kyle. For all my brother’s faults, he responded in the gentle manner that reflected what I liked to think was his true nature. “You’re right, Jordie. This business can wait. And by the way, everything’s fine on Drayton.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You just take care of yourself,” he said. “If you get a chance, call me in a couple of days. I just want to know you’re all right.”

  Times like that, I could almost forget how irritating my baby brother could be.

  CHAPTER 27

  * * *

  It was almost four o’clock when I reached the library, housed in a building on the corner in a shop with apartments above, next to a grocery store. I parked on the street and saw Alex sitting at one of the outdoor tables in front of the grocery. The blue bicycle, parked by a lamp post on the sidewalk, must have belonged to the young man Alain. With Alex was a much-wrinkled woman, her garishly red out-of-the-bottle hair wound in a chignon, cigarette in hand.

  “I was about to send a search party,” I said.

  Alex gave a flicker of a smile, standing, ever the gentleman, and introduced me to Madame Duvall, the librarian. He pulled up another chair for me. “We were having a glass of wine,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  Alex went into the grocery and came back with another glass while Madame Duvall explained in formal English how fascinating my uncle was, what an intelligent man. “He has worked so hard all day. Unfortunately, our little bibliothèque has limited information in English, but I was able to help with translation.” From her accent, I gathered she had Eastern European roots. Her coarse features set her apart from the locals, as well.

  Alex caught the end of her speech. “Madame was extremely helpful,” he said, smiling at her. I’d seen his charm at work. I could imagine the librarian going to great lengths to find material for him and translate.

  He poured from the bottle of white wine. Not much left after a glass for me.

  “Some of the best wines in the region come from Bandol, near Marseilles,” said Madame Duvall. “The long, hot, dry summers and the Mediterranean winds are ideal for the grapes.”

  I nodded at Alex. “Good information.”

  He said, “Oh yes. I have learned a great deal today.”

  “The red is dark and spicy, very—what do you say?—intense.” Madame tapped the bottle with claw-like fingers tipped in red. “But the white, ah, light and fruity. It is good, yes?”

  “Excellent,” I said. Interesting about wines, but I was more curious about what could’ve kept Alex occupied all day. I was eager to tell him about Paul’s dinner invitation. Surely he wouldn’t suggest that Madame Duvall join us. But I had accepted the glass of wine, so now I had to be patient. I made small talk, asking what he’d been researching.

  He gave a vague answer, something about the ambiance of libraries, how he was more focused, more productive, when working at a library table. Then he said, “Actually, I finished my outline for the book this morning. Madame Duvall and I shared a jambon blanc. The grocer uses a baguette about this long.” He measured a good fifteen inches with his hands. And then he may have sensed my impatience. “Over lunch, Madame and I began to talk about the museum and the missing sketches, and the patron of the museum.”

  He paused, perhaps gauging my reaction. There was no denying the small twinge I felt—a premonition. Something about Alex’s tone, his expression—and Madame Duvall’s.

  Madame snuffed out her cigarette. Every table had an ashtray. “Most residents of Fontvieille know only that Monsieur Broussard is a generous patron of the Château de Montauban,” she said. “Only the older ones would remember before. Old like me.” She laughed.

  “Please, Madame, if you are old, I am ancient!” Alex said. They both got a hearty laugh out of that. My smile was a little wavery.

  “The Broussards were merchants,” Alex said, after he’d settled down and had a sip of wine. “Wealthy merchants, for generations. But they lost much of their wealth in the war. Madame tells me that Paul’s father was a much-respected hero of the Resistance.”

  Madame leaned forward and took up the story. “Yes, the family’s finances suffered, to be sure, but that is not to say that Paul and his brother, Philippe, grew up in poverty. Their mother’s family had assets and did not fare so badly during the war. And by the time Paul was a young man, Paris was a different place. Both brothers attended université.”

  What was it Paul had said? Something about growing up in a family that valued art and music and theater. I might have mentioned this, but by the time the thought had taken shape in my mind, Madame was saying, “Philippe was several years his brother’s senior. He started an export business. Eventually, Paul joined him in the business.”

  “You looked up all this information today?” I asked, eyes narrowed at Madame.

  “Oh no. Much of this I remember because I lived in Rouen, not far from Paris. That was before I came to Fontvieille with my saintly husband, Rene Duvall.” She made the sign of the cross, so I took it that her saintly husband was deceased, and she might be in the market for another one.

  “But I did check a few facts today, for accuracy.” She twirled the stem of her glass between two fingers. “Much of the information on the Broussards came out in the newspapers when Philippe went to prison in 1983.”

  I felt Alex’s piercing gaze, though I refused to look at him.

  “For what crime?” I asked.

  “International art theft,” she said.

  A moment passed before I made myself ask, “And Paul?”

  “Paul spent some time in the United States. New York, I believe it was. I don’t know if he was even present for his brother
’s trial.” She lifted the glass to her lips and sipped. I took more than a sip of my wine.

  “Paul married an American, but by the time he returned to Paris, he was divorced,” she said. “I do not know if he ever married again. I think not.”

  Paul had shared some of the details of his personal life, and I’d believed he was being candid with me, but I couldn’t help thinking now that he’d held back the really important stuff.

  I didn’t have to ask Madame to continue with her story. Somehow I believed she was taking pleasure in giving the detailed account. “Philippe served—oh, perhaps three years in prison. Not long. And once again he and Paul became prominent figures in Parisian society, dealing in art. It was as if everything was forgotten and forgiven. I still lived in Rouen at the time, and I often went into Paris. Ah, such a bright city.” Her voice was wistful as she gazed into the light-gold liquid in her glass.

  “Philippe did not live long after that. Cancer, I believe it was. Oh, I remember how the press glorified him, the funeral, the reports of his many charities. Suddenly he was a great benefactor. The same with his brother.” Now she drained the last of her wine, set the glass down, and pushed it away from her. It seemed to signal an ending. I was glad.

  “I had not been in Fontvieille long when Paul Broussard made his first donation to the museum at the Château de Montauban,” she said. “From that time on, any reports of Monsieur Broussard have been glowing.” She made an expansive gesture with her palms raised.

  Questions had been popping on the screen of my mind all along, but now I could think of only one question to ask. “Why did you go to all the trouble to research this, Alex?”

  My uncle was rarely speechless, but he struggled for an answer, and before he was able to come up with one, Madame Duvall chimed in, her voice more grating than before. “We were discussing the sketches stolen from the museum. I was the one, myself, who told your uncle about the other stolen art, the crime for which Philippe Broussard went to prison.”

  I gave Alex a hard look. “It was Philippe who went to prison, not Paul, if this information is correct. You didn’t find anything suggesting that Paul was an international art thief, did you?” My voice was as brittle as I’d ever heard myself.

  Alex’s expression was too sympathetic. His lips parted. I was sure he wanted to say more, but in the end he said simply, “You’re right, of course.”

  I stood up. “Do you feel like riding your bike to the hotel, Alex?”

  “Of course.” He stood, as well, knocking his chair back, but his good reflexes prevailed. “Jordan, let’s drive up to Les Baux for dinner,” he said. “There’s supposed to be an excellent restaurant at the foot of the mountain.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask Jean-Claude to make reservations, if it’s not too late.” I turned to Madame Duvall, who was lighting another cigarette. She was an old woman who’d meant no harm. I tried to speak in a kinder voice. “Au revoir, Madame.”

  She reached out to me and gave my arm a long, fervent squeeze. “Be very careful,” she said.

  No more than five minutes later, in the parking lot of L’hôtel du Soleil, I dialed Paul’s number. Relieved that he didn’t answer, I left a message: “Paul, I’m afraid Alex and I won’t be able to join you for dinner tonight, after all.” I paused, making the quick decision to lie. Just a little white lie. “So much has happened these past few days that I completely forgot: Alex and I already had plans for tonight. Thank you for the invitation.” The lilt in my voice sounded false, even to me. But I couldn’t have been more sincere when I said, “I’m really sorry.”

  CHAPTER 28

  * * *

  “And you did that because?” Millie asked.

  Alex and I had returned from L’Oustau de Baumanière at Les Baux by ten thirty, and he’d retired for the night. Our evening at the exquisite restaurant had been awkward, at best. Some topics were just off-limits: Paul Broussard, certainly. I wasn’t sure I’d ever tell Alex about dinner at Lassare. I didn’t want to mention what Holly had told me about Kyle, not until I knew more. We spoke at some length about Barry Blake’s murder, but our conversation centered largely on the sights we’d seen and the sights we wanted to see in the short time we had left.

  Millie was having a nightcap in the dining room. I’d joined her for a glass of Pinot Noir, and it didn’t take much to loosen my tongue. The details tumbled out, the evening with Paul in Paris, the revelations about the Broussard family, courtesy of Madame Duvall, Paul’s invitation to dinner tonight, and my message, declining, saying I’d forgotten about plans Alex and I had made previously. “Just a little white lie, but it felt so wrong,” I told Millie.

  “You think he’s a crook, don’t you?” she said.

  I pondered the word crook. “It’s pretty convincing that he was involved in something a long time ago. His brother was convicted of international art theft, and they were in the export business together.”

  “You don’t know all the details,” Millie said.

  “No, and I don’t want to believe that Paul has anything to do with the missing sketches, but what I heard today puts a new slant on things. It proves that I don’t really know the man.”

  “It doesn’t prove anything!” Millie leaned toward me, scowling. “You know what I think? You’re afraid. Afraid to let your guard down. Afraid you did let your guard down.”

  She was right, of course. I had let my guard down just enough to let myself get—hurt? Too dramatic. But it was true I’d let myself get caught up in a fantasy, and now reality had come crashing down. “I don’t want any more complications,” I said. “God knows this trip has wound up with way too many complications as it is.”

  I thought about Holly. If it turned out that Kyle was dishonest, her life was about to change in a big way. If it turned out that Paul was dishonest, my life would not change in any way, not a smidgen. With just three days left in Provence, why should I waste time and energy wondering if Paul Broussard was involved in stolen sketches?

  “Ever hear of giving a guy the benefit of the doubt?” Millie’s disapproval resonated in her voice. She gestured to Louis, who manned the makeshift bar. He came to our table, chin held high. Since that incident in the tunnel, he had behaved with a certain coolness. Millie ordered a coffee, and I decided that was a good idea for me, as well. Louis nodded but said nothing.

  “I’m leaving for Paris on Saturday, for Savannah on Sunday,” I said to Millie. “The last thing in the world I need is to start something that will break my heart when I have to go home.”

  “You weren’t thinking that when you flew to Paris with him,” she said.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said.

  A long, heavy silence fell. I swirled the dark liquid in my glass. Millie toyed with her empty glass, rolling the stem between her finger and thumb.

  Louis returned with a tray and set the steaming cups of coffee, cream pitcher, and bowl of sugar on our table. He took Millie’s glass and turned away, all without a word.

  “Let me take a guess about what you were thinking,” Millie said as she reached for the cream. “You were thinking, Here I am, just turned fifty years old, and it’s been a long time since I had any romance in my life. And who knows when somebody like this will come along again? Some things happen only once. Plus, this is France! What’s a little fling? Something to take home, like a photo. Something to remember.” She looked up, stirring her coffee. “Am I close to the truth?”

  I shrugged.

  “But you fell for him.You liked him a lot, not just because he was rich and handsome but because he made you feel young again, young and alive.” She spoke in a kind of singsong. “Not that you’re old. Heck, fifty is barely middle-age. But you’ve been looking in the mirror and seeing a mother, niece, sister, architect. Monsieur Broussard was seeing something different.”

  “You’re a hopeless romantic,” I said, exchanging my wine glass, not yet empty, for coffee.

  “I’m a pragmatist,” she said. “My advice
is, Seize the moment. Now if he asks you to run off and marry him, I’d be the first to say, Time to take a deeper look.”

  “Millie, do you have a secret passion to be a therapist?” I asked.

  She tilted her head. “I don’t think I’d be half bad at it, do you?”

  Incredibly, under the circumstances, I had the best night’s sleep I’d had the whole trip. By seven A.M. Wednesday I was downstairs, starting in on coffee. I exchanged a Bonjour with the Great Dane’s owner, who was breakfasting alone. The dog lay obediently beside the table. His tail gave a little twitch. Maybe he remembered me.

  The German group occupied one of the long tables. I was surprised that Millie’s group, usually early risers, weren’t already well into their morning. Alex wasn’t, either. I found a small table with two chairs in the corner under the canopy. He might join me. On the other hand, he might be having breakfast with Madame Duvall.

  Jean-Claude appeared, looking spiffy and energetic, and came to my table with a hearty “Bonjour, Madame!” As I returned the greeting, I had a glimpse of Bettina, carrying a tray to the table of young Germans. She was looking our way, and the intensity of her gaze reminded me that I had made a promise to her.

  How I wished I had not promised to speak to her father! As if I didn’t have enough on my mind. And I knew I couldn’t approach Jean-Claude as if I were an authority on how he should deal with his own child. That’s where parent-to-parent chats could take a bad turn. I knew this from having listened to my share of well-intended advice on how to raise my children in a single-parent home, mostly given by women with husbands.

  As Jean-Claude and I exchanged greetings, I got a break. Bettina, who had set down her tray, was crossing the dining room. She spoke to someone at a nearby table. Hearing her voice, Jean-Claude turned and asked her a question, or so it sounded to me, from the inflection at the end. She replied, gave me a polite smile, and went on her way.

  “Bettina is a lovely girl,” I said.