Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  Though it wasn’t a question, I’d expected Felicity to respond. She didn’t. She kept talking in a strange, disconnected voice, a kind of sing-songy voice. “I used to be young and beautiful and sexy. Remember Spring Formal, our senior year, and I was wearing a red satin dress, and my date got mad because I danced with every guy in the room. They all wanted me, and I was shameless!” She laughed. “The difference with you is that you never seemed to work at it. Jordan with the auburn hair that always looks a little frumpy—sorry, but it’s the truth. Even in that red dress of mine that I let you wear to Guy Savoy—and you never could wear red—Barry thought you were so stunning. ‘Jordan has class,’ he said.”

  “Barry didn’t deserve you,” I said, but she wasn’t listening.

  “Why are you going so slow? Speed up!” She began to take shallow, raspy breaths, and I wondered if she was about to come apart—and what would she do to me?

  “Why did Antonio send a plane for you? He’s not going to get the tape,” I said.

  “He’s taking care of me.” Her smile was chilling. “For keeping our little secret.”

  I saw the sign to the airfield, and Felicity made a motion for me to take the turn-off. We traveled another mile or so on a gravel road; then the airfield came into view. In the distance, I could see a couple of small planes.

  “Stop here,” Felicity said.

  I pushed on the brakes. “Don’t you want to go closer to the plane?” Surely someone would see us.

  “No. Pull off the road.”

  I pulled over into the grass and let the car idle. Felicity was holding the gun loosely, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with it. Maybe that was a good thing.

  “What are you going to do with me? I can’t believe you’d shoot me in cold blood, Felicity. Whatever else you’ve done, you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Stop it. Don’t try to use our friendship,” she said. “You never much liked me anyway.”

  She got out of the car. “Lie down,” she said, motioning for me to stretch out across the console. I obeyed, praying she would just leave. Leave me alive. She’d have a hard time dragging her suitcase, I was thinking, when everything went black.

  CHAPTER 45

  * * *

  Winston Churchill was licking my face. Hot doggie breath, wet rough tongue. Why wasn’t my bed bouncing? Winston woke me every morning, licking me, his clumsy, excitable fifty pounds shaking the bed.

  I opened my eyes. It wasn’t Winston. It was the Great Dane, looking down at me, regarding me with curiosity. His owner, known to me only as the elderly woman who swam laps at the hotel, was leaning over me, too. I was lying on the cool ground. I remembered pulling the car into the grass, stretching out across the console. Why had I done that? Where was the car? And then I saw a small plane climb into the cloudless blue sky, sunlight bouncing off its wing, and I remembered everything.

  The elderly woman was speaking lovely lyrical French with great depth of emotion. She touched my arm, patting lightly. Her silver hair was swept up in a beautiful twist, and she wore a pale blue suit. My mother would have called it a traveling suit. A man with a stubble of beard appeared in my vision, and the woman turned to him. They exchanged impassioned words about what had happened to me. What to do with me. I didn’t have to speak French to understand.

  I managed to sit up, though the world was spinning. I touched the bump on my head—a little blood, but that seemed to be the only blood, thank God. Somewhere in the hyper French dialogue, the word docteur popped out. “No doctor!” I groaned. “Please take me to L’hôtel du Soleil!”

  A smile appeared on the woman’s face. She said something reassuring. I understood nothing except “L’hôtel du Soleil,” but that was good enough.

  I had a splitting headache. It’s not like the movies where the good guy takes a blow to the head with the butt of a gun, is knocked out for a minute or a few, and then he shakes it off and goes after the bad guy again. I couldn’t walk a straight line. My rescuers assisted me to the taxi and opened the passenger door. The Great Dane had hopped into the back seat, and I managed to convey that I wanted to ride with him. On the trip back into Fontvieille, as bits and pieces of my ride to the airfield with Felicity replayed in my mind, it was a comfort to stroke the dog, his head in my lap. What good fortune that the Great Dane and his owner had been scheduled to take a charter flight that morning. What good fortune that the driver of their taxi spotted my motionless body on the side of the gravel road.

  Sometime after they had delivered me to the hotel, after Alex and Jean-Claude had hovered over me like fussy old hens and I had refused to go to un docteur, I agreed to let one of the young Germans, a nurse, examine my head. She came to my room, where I rested on my bed, propped up by pillows.

  In halting English the young nurse suggested how to treat a concussion. She wanted to know how long I was unconscious. I couldn’t say. Long enough for Felicity to pull me out of the car, drive to the hangar, board the plane—no, she hadn’t dragged her suitcase—and take off. “You must go for emergency care if speech, if it is . . .” The young woman struggled for the word. Alex supplied it—slurred— and hurried to find pen and paper, to take notes. Dizziness, nausea, blurred vision, persistent headache, and so on. All these problematic symptoms were familiar to me, as both Michael and Claire had suffered mild concussions, Claire from a softball that went haywire, Michael from a spill out of the huge white oak tree in our backyard.

  “God bless you,” the nurse said before she departed. Not exactly the criminal type, I thought. How nice it could have been to make the young woman’s acquaintance under other circumstances—if I hadn’t been so suspicious.

  Only then did Inspector Bouvier arrive, shaking his head as if to say, What have you done now? But in a solicitous voice, he asked, “Do you remember what happened, Madame?” Oh yes. “Do you feel like giving a statement?” Oh yes. He produced a digital recorder. I was grateful not to make a fourth trip to a police station in Provence.

  Bettina came to the room with cheese, bread, and tea. Feeling steady on my feet now, even hungry, I joined Inspector Bouvier at the sitting area. Alex and Jean-Claude left us to it.

  “Now, Madame,” the inspector said, pushing a button on the recorder.

  “I thought Felicity was going to—” I stammered, before I began to weep. The inspector was patient while I pulled myself together. And then I told him everything.

  As the gold Provençal light began to fade at the end of the day, Alex and I finally said our goodbyes and departed from L’hôtel du Soleil. But in the parking lot, Jean-Claude came running to catch up, calling with profuse apologies that he had almost forgotten this important thing, and how could he possibly have explained to Monsieur Broussard! Paul had left a package for me, wrapped in brown paper. I started to tuck it in my tote bag, but seeing Jean-Claude’s disappointment, I unwrapped it there in the parking lot. It was a small painting of a field of lavender, framed in simple burnished wood. In the surreal painting, the artist had managed to suggest a breeze. I could almost hear the sigh of the wind, feel the soft air on my arms.

  Alex drove to Marseilles. I lamented that we’d missed an entire day in Marseilles because of my escapades, but he dismissed the idea. He said, “We’ll save Marseilles for next time.”

  I waited until he stopped to fill up with gas on the outskirts of the city to read the note that came with the painting. It was written on fine stationery, heavy stock—what else would one expect from Paul?—in elegant handwriting that made me think of the signatures on the Declaration of Independence. “My dear Jordan,” he’d said. “I am assisting this emerging young talent in scheduling a tour in the United States for the new year. A few dates in January are set for New York galleries to show his work. Could you suggest galleries in Atlanta that we might contact? Your advice will be most welcome. I hope you will think fondly of Provence and of me whenever you look at the painting. Always, Paul.”

  I would most definitely need to contact Paul to thank h
im for his thoughtful gift, and to answer his question. My answer would most definitely be Yes! and I would most definitely mention my uncle’s contacts in Atlanta. January. Three months. Not all that long.

  Alex and I arrived at our hotel with a little time to relax before going to the dining room for our last dinner in Provence. I passed on the wine, for the sake of my head, and followed the advice of the young German nurse to “eat a light meal,” but it was apparent as I enjoyed the ham and egg crêpe that there was nothing wrong with my appetite.

  On Saturday we took the train to Paris.

  Sunday morning, we would fly to Atlanta.

  Inspector Bouvier’s call came in Paris while we were waiting at Charles De Gaulle Airport, Terminal 2, the bold architectural feat that Portia so admired.

  Felicity got away. Police questioned Antonio DeMarco, when he was finally located, but he gave no useful information about Felicity’s whereabouts. His story was, he’d allowed his pilot to fly Felicity to Nice. That was all he knew. She had called and begged for his help. Because he had known her when she was married to a friend of his, he had obliged. He’d thought she was on the verge of a breakdown. No, he had not seen her since the plane landed in Nice.

  The pilot, when he was finally located, confirmed that he’d taken Madame Blake to Nice, at his employer’s request. That was all he knew. The airport was the last place he’d seen her.

  The timing couldn’t have worked better for Felicity. It was well into Friday afternoon when Inspector Bouvier had instigated the search for her. Authorities in Nice were unable to find DeMarco or his pilot until Saturday, not that they were any help. And now it was Sunday. Felicity had simply vanished. Not the inspector’s words, just the unfortunate truth.

  I thanked him for his call. So kind, and not a call he was obligated to make.

  “Ah, but I am very disappointed that I do not have good news for you before you leave our country,” he said. He promised he would spare no effort to find Madame Blake.

  “I must admit, I was deceived by this woman,” he said.

  “So was I,” I said.

  Somewhere between Paris and Atlanta, Alex remembered to tell me about the surprise he’d had when settling our accounts at L’hôtel du Soleil. “Do you know that Jean-Claude discounted our bills by fifty percent? Both of our bills, cut in half!”

  I hadn’t noticed. Alex had taken care of checking us out. Jean-Claude had our credit card numbers, so all Alex had to do was look over the computer printouts.

  “He wouldn’t say why, except that ‘The people of Fontvieille love you!’ What do you make of that?”

  “I wouldn’t question Jean-Claude’s sincerity,” I said.

  Alex considered for a moment. “Sometimes these things happen, when people find out that I’m a travel writer,” he said. “Certainly I’ll have L’hôtel du Soleil in my book. Jean-Claude needn’t have worried. But I couldn’t very well say that.”

  CHAPTER 46

  * * *

  In Savannah on the following Saturday, I hosted a picnic lunch. Provence had taught me the delight of alfresco dining, and my backyard on Abercorn had its own attributes: scarlet bougainvillea still in bloom, long, graceful strands of Spanish moss hanging from the giant white oaks. It was October now, and a soft, sweet breeze kept the humidity down to almost bearable.

  Spread my new blue-and-yellow-print tablecloth on the old picnic table, add a vase of sunflowers, and voila!

  Catherine and Michael were home for the weekend—my grown-up, smiling kids—how I had missed them! And Julie, looking exceptionally pretty, confident, and mature, since one of her applications had struck pay dirt. I had made her favorite dessert, pecan pie, to celebrate the news. She had an interview in Santa Fe on Monday with an accounting firm, a lead from Claire. Claire hadn’t invited Julie to share an apartment should she land the job, but no doubt there would be perks to having a sister in the same city.

  “Claire didn’t know you’d already been to France,” Julie said. “Didn’t you tell her?”

  “Yes, I did,” I said. Young women just don’t pay that much attention to their mothers’ plans. Julie’s crooked smile conveyed sure you did, but that was all right. I had one daughter who was truly out of the nest. Probably two, counting Holly, but I hadn’t heard from her since I’d arrived in Savannah. Maybe three out of the nest if the job in Santa Fe worked out for Julie.

  Naturally, I had invited Alex to our picnic, and he’d just arrived from Atlanta, looking dapper in light-colored pants and a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I had invited Drew, but he was in Hilton Head doing something that involved a sailboat and someone named Candy. Julie, Catherine, and especially Michael were disappointed.Their uncle was the life of any party. I was not so disappointed. Drew was terrific in small doses, but I’d spent more than enough time with him the past week.

  Alex was a close second to Drew with his great-nieces and great-nephew. They gathered at the picnic table, and Alex regaled them with a running travelogue as I stood watch at the grill, over what my recipe book called mariné rôti de porc de la Provence.

  Julie asked Alex about his book, and he announced that he had e-mailed an outline and the first chapter to his editor on Friday.

  “She called me before the end of the day and said she loved it!” he said. “She wants a draft as soon as I can get it to her.” Applause all around. Questions about his next trip to write the next great travel book. “I’m considering Ireland or England— the language, you know,” Alex said, “or, if I have time to work on my Italian, maybe Italy. Next spring or summer.”

  “You taking Mom with you?” Michael asked, with a wink at me.

  “Why—Jordan would be welcome. Certainly.” Alex exchanged a glance with the girls and then smiled at me. “I think we were excellent traveling companions, don’t you, my dear?”

  Something passed between the girls—a look, a little grin.

  “I guess your doctor might have something to say about whether you should travel alone,” I said, studying the faces of this family of mine. Michael popped an olive into his mouth. No subterfuge there.

  But the girls stifled giggles, and Alex said, “Oh, Jordan, I cannot keep this up any longer.” He directed his gaze at Julie and Catherine. “Time to come clean, ladies.”

  “You’d better come clean. All of you,” I said, propping my hands on my hips.

  “Remember at the first of the summer,” Catherine said, “when Uncle Alex took us all out for our graduations, and he was telling about his book deal and his plans to go to France?”

  “You’d been talking about taking a trip, but we knew you’d never go,” Julie said.

  “I might have,” I said, pretending to be hurt. I was pretty sure where this was going.

  “We just suggested that Uncle Alex might ask you to go with him. That’s all,” Julie said.

  Alex gave an exaggerated, sheepish look. “I was the one who came up with the little white lie. We thought you’d be more likely to say yes if you thought you were doing me a big favor. And you were doing me a big favor.”

  “Just to be clear, your doctor did not forbid you to travel alone?” I said.

  “He did not forbid, no, but he was concerned.”

  “What about the angina attack? Was that all a pretense?” I continued to frown, not wanting to let any of them off the hook too easily.

  “That was the real thing, Jordan. As I told you, it happens now and then. It wasn’t life-threatening. But I was very, very glad that you were there with me, my dear.” He swung his legs around from the picnic bench and stood up. “Now let me take a turn at the grill while you and your daughters make up.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” I said, screwing up my face. “I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t have gone by myself.”

  “Because you’d always find a reason that someone needs you here,” Catherine said. “So Uncle Alex said he really needed you, and that was all it took.”

  “It all worked out,
didn’t it?” Michael put in. He was quick to raise his palms. “Hey, I had nothing to do with any of it.”

  A few minutes later, from around the corner of the house came a young man rolling a dolly. I signed for the delivery as Alex examined the huge cardboard box. “Ah, Brussels!” he called out. “I do believe this is the long-awaited suitcase.”

  Long-awaited was right. I’d already made another call to Ad-nan Kemal, and he’d called on Friday to ask if the delivery had been made. He’d promised to check again on Monday. We were becoming good telephone buddies.

  Lunch had to wait. Eight hands ripped and cut away at the box. Alex had the presence of mind to tip the courier, who was looking on with curious amusement. He might have stayed to see why all the fuss, but his cell phone rang, and he hurried from the yard.

  Why had I packed so much? We stood the suitcase up end on the ground, and then all hands drew back but mine. My moment. The kids waited with a Christmas kind of breathlessness. They knew the story of the tape—and some of the other stories that now seemed more like dreams than memories. I had not told them everything. Not Alex, either. In the air between Paris and Atlanta, I had shared much of what I’d withheld in Pro-vence—come clean, for the most part, but I was careful to water down the parts where I had been in danger.

  A thought scuttled through my mind about my sketch book and pen, but they were likely just as I’d packed them. Later, I would tuck them in the trunk with other mementos from my semester in Venice. That was another lifetime.

  I unzipped the outer pocket and drew out a black square container, belted both ways.

  “It looks old,” Catherine said.

  “It’s older than I am,” I said.

  “That’s old,” they said. All at the same time, I swear.

  I unbelted the box and drew out a reel that had once been silvery, seven inches in diameter. The tape was brownish red.