Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  Felicity shifted her position, reached for a pack of cigarettes, and swung one long shapely leg across the other. “Are you going to tell me something I’m not going to enjoy hearing, Jordan?” She tilted her head in a coy little gesture.

  “Probably.”

  She lit her cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled for what seemed like a full minute. “How about if I make it easier for you? I know that my husband’s character was not sterling. Barry was always looking to make a quick buck, and sometimes—OK, sometimes I just had to turn my head. What else could I do? He was not . . . trainable.” She gave a soft laugh with no mirth in it.

  “You didn’t know about the tape?” I asked.

  “I can’t imagine how Barry came to have a tape of Elvis, but—” she raised her finger. “Let me put it like this. If he’d obtained it by honest means, he would’ve told me. It would’ve been something he was proud of. Well, he didn’t tell me, so you take it from there.” She sipped her drink. Too cool, I thought. “Are you sure I can’t get you something, Jordan? Water, if you’re not up for a big-girl drink?”

  “Water would be good,” I said, clearing my throat. This conversation apparently was more difficult for me than for Felicity. She brought a small bottle of Pellegrino and a tumbler from the bar and settled back into her chair. I poured and took a long, thirsty drink. My throat was more parched than I had realized.

  “Kyle thinks Barry stole the tape from a down-and-out musician who swept floors at his office,” I said. “Virgil Pitt.”

  Her expression didn’t alter except for a flinch of recognition. “The old guy that died of cancer?” I nodded. “Pitiful how he was too far gone when he went to the doctor.” She brushed imaginary wrinkles from her caftan and said, “Tell me everything, Jordan. I guess I have to hear it sooner or later.”

  I repeated, in as much detail as I could recall, what Kyle had told me. “Remember the hit-and-run in front of my hotel in Paris, the guy in cowboy boots? I told you about him, the night we went to Guy Savoy.”

  “You thought you’d seen him in Brussels and again at the train station in Paris,” she said.

  “Seems he was on the flight from Atlanta, too. He was Virgil Pitt’s son. Given what Kyle has told me, it makes sense that he was following me. Following my suitcase.”

  “I see.” Another drag on her cigarette and Felicity snuffed it out. She darted a glance at me, just a flicker of a glance, but it was enough. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Did you know who he was, Felicity?”

  “Me?” She laughed a brittle laugh, and I began to see the pretense fall away. She couldn’t carry off the performance anymore, but she kept trying. “How would I know anything about it? I was shocked when you told us, that night at Guy Savoy.”

  I kept trying to work it out in my mind. “Barry knew who the cowboy was.” It was not a question. Barry had met Virgil Pitt’s son. They had argued about the tape. He had to know the cowboy who was following me was Frank Pitt. Felicity did not dispute my statement. Her eyes turned bright and glassy, and I knew I was on the right track, and suddenly I didn’t like where I was headed. I thought about the clothes delivered to my hotel, right around the time Frank Pitt was killed. I waited another moment before I asked, “Was Barry the hit-and-run driver?”

  Felicity turned the drink in her hand, rolled the squat tumbler back and forth for a minute. The only sound was the clinking of ice. A painful squeezing inside my chest made it hard to get air. I did not want to believe that Felicity was complicit in murder, but she’d have to work hard to convince me otherwise.

  “Barry was upset—agitated—when he came back from delivering my clothes to you.” Her voice had dropped to a low, raspy tenor. She looked past me. “He went to the bar, had a couple of drinks, and then it was getting late and we were supposed to pick you and Alex up on the way to the restaurant. Barry said to call you and tell you to take a cab, and we’d take a cab, too. It seemed like a good idea—but odd. Barry never worried about drinking and driving.”

  She bit her lower lip, her pretty face close to crumpling. After a long moment, she finally met my gaze. “Honest, Jordan. I didn’t know anything when we were at Guy Savoy. We didn’t move the car from the parking garage until we left to visit Hunt and Portia. On the way to Aix, Barry had to tell me.”

  “Because he was going to wreck the car,” I said, incredulous that it was all so simple when laid out like this. Felicity nodded.

  “Swerving into a tree was a clever way to cover up the damage from the hit-and-run,” I said. I’d give Barry that much. His ingenuity surprised me.

  “He said the guy had been threatening him, accusing him of stealing from his father, but he didn’t say ‘stealing a tape.’ The way Barry told it, it was more like the guy ran out in front of him, trying to make him stop the car.” Felicity blinked away the glassy look in her eyes. “I need another drink,” she said, heading to the bar. A couple of minutes passed in silence, except for the clink of ice and the sound of Grey Goose splashing into the tumbler. This time she didn’t return to her chair. She glanced at her watch and said, “I hate to cut this short, but there’s nothing else to tell, and it’s almost time to meet Kyle.”

  “You’ve got to talk to Inspector Bouvier,” I said. “You have to tell him that Barry was the hit-and-run driver.”

  “I suppose I do.” She shrugged and then made a face. “You don’t mean tonight, do you? He wouldn’t still be at the police station, anyway. I’ll go tomorrow. A few hours won’t matter.”

  Someone would be at the police station tonight, with the ability to contact Inspector Bouvier. He had come to the scene of Barry’s murder at midnight two nights ago. But I said, “I’ll go with you, first thing in the morning.”

  “I can handle it, Jordan. I know you mean well, but I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Now give me a minute to put on some clothes and do something with my face.”

  Standing, I drained the last of my Pellegrino. Grateful I wouldn’t have another long wait in the police station, I said, “Just call me after you’ve seen Inspector Bouvier. Please.”

  “You’re not leaving?” she said. “Don’t go. Unless you’re just too put out with me. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again.”

  “It’s not that.” Even now, even though she’d been hiding facts about a murder, I couldn’t help thinking, Poor Felicity.Sure, she was ditzy, but we shared a history. That meant something.

  “My friends keep leaving me.” She made a little bark of a laugh. “Portia and Hunt couldn’t get out of town fast enough after the inspector questioned them. They didn’t like what I’d told him. But it was the absolute truth. Portia was trying to seduce Barry and Hunt was trying to cheat him. Anyway, please don’t go, Jordan.”

  It had always been hard to say no to Felicity.

  “Have another Pellegrino or whatever you want to fix for yourself,” she said, setting her drink on the table. “I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

  Possibly, with her and Kyle at the same table, I’d gather more information—though it seemed most of the puzzle pieces had fallen into place. Just not the answer to who killed Barry.

  Felicity paused on her way to the bathroom. “Isn’t it ironic, Jordan? We both started at the same place. How did I wind up in this life of mine? How did I miss the normal life that you have?” She laughed. “It’s just a rhetorical question, Jordan. You don’t have to come up with a nice answer. A reasonable answer.” Her expression turned quizzical. “But I do have one other question. What happened to the tape?”

  “As far as I know, it’s still in my suitcase,” I said. “Wherever my suitcase is.”

  CHAPTER 32

  * * *

  Dinner in Provence was never a light meal. In the dining room of La Regalido, I tried to go for light, with a salade niçoise, but I didn’t resist the crusty bread that came with our food. And I didn’t resist when Kyle ordered a dessert called “Floating Islands” for all of us to share.

&n
bsp; Felicity barely nibbled at the islands of meringue floating in thick cream. “A girl has to watch her figure, you know,” she said. Kyle apparently didn’t realize that he was supposed to pick up on this comment, come back with a reassuring remark. Felicity had always needed men to reassure her.

  Kyle was focused on the food. He’d wolfed down roast leg of lamb with potatoes and onions, half a loaf of bread, and still had room for the extravagant dessert.

  I’d been too optimistic that we’d continue talking about the master tape, the hit-and-run in Paris, Barry’s murder—those little items. Maybe Felicity and Kyle had nothing else to reveal, but I remembered Millie’s insightful observation: Sometimes people know things they don’t know that they know. That might be especially true of Kyle, but I didn’t find an opportunity to direct the chitchat away from Nashville: mutual acquaintances, fund-raisers and concerts, trendy restaurants, on and on. I wondered how well Holly fit into Kyle’s world.

  Felicity didn’t bring up their business until the waiter took the dishes away and we’d finished the wine and ordered espresso. “Here are the notes Barry had prepared for the meeting,” Felicity was saying when I excused myself to visit the ladies’ room. When I returned, she was telling Kyle about a charter service at the private airport in Fontvieille, their heads bent over a small map. The airport Paul and I had flown out of on Monday night.

  “I’ve scheduled you on a flight at ten A.M., and it’s all arranged for you to take our artist and her boyfriend-agent to dinner tomorrow night.” Kyle mentioned his rental car, and Felicity said, “Just leave it at the little airport. I’ve checked with Hertz in Arles, and they’re used to picking up cars there.” She produced an envelope from her purse and handed it to him, adding a few details about his hotel in Paris, instructing him to call her before the meeting on Friday.

  She set her purse aside and picked up her cup, taking a leisurely sip. “So—what are your plans for the rest of your trip, Jordan?” she asked, the way people do when trying to bring an outsider into the conversation.

  “Arles tomorrow, and we leave Fontvieille on Friday.” It was apparent the business discussion was over, and I’d been wanting to ask. “What about arrangements for returning . . . Barry to Nashville?” I stumbled over Barry’s name. It sounded awkward when I said it out loud.

  “So far the police haven’t released the body,” she said. “They’re doing an autopsy. Whatever for, I can’t imagine. The cause of death is obvious. I intend to have the body cremated.” References to the body she made without emotion. “Kyle, we need to talk about having a memorial service in Nashville sometime in the next couple of weeks. Remind me.”

  I wondered if the police would require Felicity to stay in Fontvieille—or in Paris—because of her knowledge about the hit-and-run. Given that possibility, I was even more relieved to miss the interview she was supposed to have with Inspector Bouvier.

  And then all at once she suppressed a yawn. “Now I’m gonna have to say goodnight. Sorry, but I’m dragging.” Kyle stumbled getting out of his chair as Felicity rose from hers—a sign of good upbringing, I thought—but she was too quick for him to offer any assistance. Our waiter hurried toward the table, as well. We hadn’t paid the check. But when Felicity turned to leave, it was clear the waiter knew her. “Put it on my room,” she said, and he gave an obliging smile. The anxious expression had apparently indicated he thought Madame Blake needed something and it had been at least five minutes since he’d come to our table.

  I was so flabbergasted by this Felicity—this take charge Felicity—that I didn’t even make a feeble protest about the check.

  “Looks like she’s holding up all right,” Kyle said, with the implication in his voice that matched my own amazement.

  “She’ll probably crash later. I’ve seen it happen,” I said, though I’d never seen holding up quite to this extent.

  It was nearly ten o’clock, and I’d promised to meet Millie. Kyle walked me to my car. Shoving his hands into his pockets, staring down at his feet, he said, “I hate to leave you in the middle of this mess, but I didn’t know how to get out of the Paris thing.”

  “I’m fine, Kyle,” I said. “Go on to Paris—and then home.”

  “I never in a million years thought I was involving you in a murder—more than one murder, as it turned out. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

  “Whoa! I’m not exactly involved in the murders,” I said, with a smile.

  He finally looked at me. “The tape’s still out there somewhere. When you get your suitcase back—well, I’m afraid for you.”

  “I’m wondering if I’ll ever get the suitcase back,” I said.

  “It would be better if you didn’t,” he said, with an earnest expression. He opened my door, and I slid in.

  “Don’t worry about me, Kyle. Alex is here with me, and he’s very protective.” I didn’t mention that my uncle knew next to nothing about any of this.

  “Sorry I didn’t get to say hello to Alex. Both of you—be careful.”

  I fastened my seatbelt. “Call Holly. Tell her everything is fine here. Make her believe it.”

  “Yeah, maybe things are all right,” he said. He didn’t make me believe it.

  I checked the pool area at our hotel and saw Millie propped in one of the lounge chairs, a glass of wine in hand. It was a few minutes past ten. As I started to go out, Jean-Claude came up behind me.

  “Madame,” he said. “A word, s’il vous plâit?”

  I followed him through the dining room, which was not yet empty. He went to Réception and stood behind the front desk. Maybe he was most comfortable speaking from that place, with the counter between us. He leaned forward on his elbows, an informal pose for Jean-Claude.

  “I must apologize for this morning, Madame,” he said.

  “That’s not necessary. I asked too many personal questions,” I said, but he pushed his palm out toward me, like a policeman motioning Halt!

  “Please, I am not good at explaining these things. But if you will hear me—please.” His hand relaxed. It seemed to go instinctively to his mustache, making a twirling gesture.

  I nodded that I would hear him out.

  “You asked about my daughter, Mona.” His voice was low, confidential. A twitch around his eyes indicated how hard it was to talk about this. “It is true. She is an artist’s model. Also she is his mistress. She is—how do you say?—his prisoner.” A harsh word, I thought. Jean-Claude’s expression was harsh, too. “This—artist as he calls himself—he is a brute. Lazy. A married man with children he can barely feed and clothe. He is not talented, not successful. Only his paintings of Mona have ever sold. But he has the big plans. A man who uses a girl. A man who takes out his fury on a girl when he drinks too much. A pig!” He spat the word.

  “Mona left when she was even younger than Bettina to go to Paris with this man, who was traveling in the area, painting,” he continued, in a more level voice. “For two years we did not know where Mona was. One day, when things were not so good, she called us. For a time, we talked to her every week. She told Bettina things she would not tell me. I sent her money. She was supposed to take the train to Marseilles. But the artist sold a painting of her, and there was much celebration and more promises that life would be good.” He gave a shrug, without his usual animation. “She did not come home. It is a long time since we have spoken.”

  “I’m sorry, Jean-Claude.” I could only imagine that kind of estrangement from any of my daughters.

  Now he seemed to gather his resolve, discard sad thoughts, and move on. “But Bettina! I swear I will not let her make the same mistake. If I have to lock her up, I will not let her do what her sister did!”

  He paused, put on his business face for a couple who entered the lobby, stopped at the desk for their key, and went upstairs. Again, we were alone. Again, Jean-Claude spoke in a low voice. “A man in Fontvieille, a man of some prominence, cannot keep his eyes off my Bettina. I worry that it is not just his eyes.”He paused to let t
hat sink in. “I have warned her, but she does not listen. She does not know how dangerous this man is.”

  If I were going to say anything useful to Jean-Claude, this was the time. Bettina had hoped I might plead her case, convince her father that she knew what she was doing, but I wasn’t sure I could do that. She wanted Gerard Llorca to get her to Paris. She hadn’t said exactly what he wanted or what he was getting in return. She’d said only, I am not like my sister. Somehow I believed her. I couldn’t prove it, but her declaration had rung true.

  “You know you can’t hold her in Fontvieille forever,” I said. “Someday she’ll go, either with this man or under other circumstances. Why don’t you talk to her, Jean-Claude? Ask her what she really wants. Maybe she doesn’t want this man at all. Maybe he’s just . . .” I hesitated to say it, but I did: “. . . just a way out.”

  A frown pulled at Jean-Claude’s heavy brows as he appeared to consider what I’d said.

  “But you’ll have to find out from her. Talk to her.” I gave a reassuring smile. “It might not be as difficult as you think.”

  “Oh, but you do not know my Bettina! Perhaps your daughters listen to you, but not mine.” He drew himself up to his full height, perhaps an inch less than mine, but his pride made him seem taller. “No, Madame, I think you may know about American girls, but my Bettina—no, you do not understand. I watch her, I warn her, I warn the man who would harm her—it is all I can do.”

  We were interrupted by several guests arriving, needing their keys. Jean-Claude made a quick transformation from distressed father to amiable proprietor. I left Réception without anything further. His words had brought back flashes of more confrontations with daughters than I cared to remember, and I realized the flaw in my advice. I should’ve made less of talking to, more of listening to.That’s what I would say to Jean-Claude if I should get another chance.

  CHAPTER 33

  * * *