Provence - To Die For

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s no lemon.”

  “Don’t take it,” he replied around a mouthful of cake.

  We sipped and chewed in companionable silence, enjoying the early morning sunlight streaming in at an angle through the kitchen window.

  “I thought I heard a wolf howling last night,” I said to open the conversation. “Are there wolves in Provence?”

  His eyes flicked up from his cup. “Probably a dog,” he said. “At what time?”

  “Around ten or eleven, I think.”

  “Did it sound close or far?”

  “Far, I think. But it was hard to tell with the wind so loud.”

  M. Telloir studied his cup, swirling the tea absently. “Thieves have been stealing dogs lately,” he finally said, “and that’s not all.”

  “They have! Why would someone want to steal a dog?”

  “They can be very valuable,” he mumbled into his cup, sipping the last of his tea.

  “Are they a special breed?” I asked, standing to get him some more tea.

  “No. Most of them are of many breeds, all mixed together.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said, refilling his cup. “What makes them so valuable?”

  “Truffles,” he said.

  “Truffles,” I echoed, referring to the exotic French fungus that grows underground on the roots of oak trees and is a delicacy prized by chefs the world over. Perhaps that’s what my trespasser was after. “I thought they were hunted with pigs,” I said.

  “Pigs get stolen, too, but mostly it is the dogs now.”

  “The thieves are stealing dogs that are good at finding truffles?”

  He grunted his assent. “Last week they beat up a farmer who was selling a dog. Took the dog and left the man all bloody.”

  “How terrible.”

  “It’s the start of the season, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said. “Are you a truffle hunter?”

  There was a long pause; he seemed hesitant to trust me with this information. At last he said, “My dog was stolen, too.”

  “Are you all right? Did they hurt you, too?”

  “Wasn’t there. They make a hole in my fence and take my dog. ’E had a good nose. Trained him myself.”

  “What did you do? Are the police any help?”

  He blew a stream of air through his lips and looked away from me. “Bon à rien! Useless,” he said. “The thieves take our dogs over the mountains. And if a farmer in St. Marc buys a new truffle dog, ‘e tells no one because ’e knows it could be stolen from somewhere else. Next week I go to the market in Carpentras. There’s a man I know who might sell me his dog.”

  “What will you do in the meantime? Can you find truffles without a dog?”

  “There are ways,” he said. “If it’s warm enough, I watch for les mouches.”

  “Flies?”

  “Oui! They like very much the scent of truffles. One watches where they land under the tree, and dig there.”

  “And you’ve found truffles that way?”

  “Oh, yes. My dog, ’e was faster, but the flies, they know, too.”

  I thought about the stolen dogs later that day while tramping in the woods behind Martine’s house. M. Telloir had fastened the clean basket to my newly shined bike, and promised to bring more eggs later in the week. He’d also indicated that the baker had a special cake I should try. It had powdered sugar on top. I took the hint, and added the cake to the shopping list I’d compiled for my first venture into St. Marc.

  After M. Telloir had left and I’d washed up our few dishes, I put on a heavy sweater and further explored my surroundings. I located the woodpile on the same side of the house as the kitchen door. The wood was split and stacked three logs deep, as high as my shoulder. There was more than enough to last two months, and probably a sufficient supply for the whole winter.

  The view down the driveway confirmed the first impression I’d had from Marcel’s car. Rows of olive trees stretched out on both sides, most of their silvery leaves still clinging to the branches but dry now, from the mistral, the constant wind that came from the north.

  On the side of the garage, I found the trail I’d already explored in the dark. It led through a row of soaring trees and into a sparse forest of mixed growth. The tall cypresses may have been planted by a previous tenant, but the oaks and planes and pines beyond them had been put there by nature. I followed the well-traveled path that meandered uphill. When I stopped several times to look around or admire the view, I noticed little piles of dirt mounded around holes in the ground circling the trunks of oak trees. A truffle hunter had obviously been pursuing his quarry on Martine’s property. I doubted she’d given him permission.

  “I’d like two croissants, one for now with some coffee, and one to take home. And a baguette, please,” I said in French, eyeing the tall, thin, crusty loaves of bread that stood on end in a crockery canister. “I think I’ll get a little cake as well.” A quiet day yesterday and a restful night’s sleep at last had inspired this morning visit to St. Marc—that and the diminishing supply of food in the refrigerator. I had taken Martine’s bicycle—she would never recognize its cleaned and polished frame—and walked the last half mile to the village, set atop a steep hill.

  The baker, Mme Roulandet, was a birdlike woman, small and thin, with a pointy nose and narrow chin. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a long scarf. She plucked two croissants from the pile, put one on a plate, and wrapped the other, twisting the ends of the white paper to seal it closed. She pulled a baguette from the canister and tied a piece of paper in the middle, leaving both ends of the bread uncovered.

  “What else?” she demanded, as my eyes scanned the array of tempting cakes and tarts. “I haven’t got all day.”

  I looked up. The only other person in the shop was a young man wearing a white jacket and black-and-white-checked pants, who was reading a newspaper at a table in a small adjoining room.

  “I’ll take the one on the end,” I said, pointing at a rectangular cake. “No, not that one. The one with the sugar on top.”

  Mme Roulandet shoved a flat knife under the little block I’d selected and wrapped it in another piece of white paper, this time deftly folding the ends and securing the little package with a piece of string. She put the three items in a plastic bag, and passed it over the counter; half the bread stuck up out of the opening. She looked at me impatiently.

  Confused, I opened my bag to get out some francs, thinking she was waiting to be paid.

  She clicked her tongue and barked, “What kind of coffee do you want?”

  “Café au lait,” I said, handing her some money. “Will that be enough?”

  She grunted at the bills, pocketed them, handed me the paper plate with my croissant, and waved me away. “Take a seat anywhere. I’ll bring you the coffee in a moment.”

  I turned toward the room next door just as the young man was leaving.

  “À demain, Marie,” he called out to the baker, telling her he’d see her tomorrow.

  “Attends, Charles.” She quickly gathered some of her baked goods, put them in a bag, came around the counter, and handed it to him. “Send your mother my regards. Tell her I hope her liver will improve.” She kissed him on both cheeks and smiled as she watched him lope down the street. Her expression sobered immediately when she caught me observing her. Had I said something to offend her, or did she simply dislike Americans, or perhaps all foreigners?

  The bakery was divided into two parts; on one side was the shop with its baskets of breads and large glass case displaying trays of breakfast pastries, cakes, tarts, and rolls. On the other side was a small room that served as a café. On the café side there was barely room for the four tables and twelve chairs. They shared the space with a tall glass-front refrigerator filled with juices, sodas, and teas, not so very different from the beverages offered in Cabot Cove’s village deli.

  I wal
ked to a table by the plate-glass window facing the street, and put down my croissant. I hung my bag of bread and cake from the top of a chair, took off my jacket, and folded it over the seat. The ride into town had given me an appetite that hadn’t been diminished by visiting several food stores. Without waiting for the coffee, I tore off a comer of the croissant and ate it. It was delicious, the dough crisp, light, and rich, crumbling in my mouth. I savored the unique flavor, thinking, This can only be had in France, and looked around for a napkin to wipe off the film of butter the croissant had left on my fingers. There was no napkin holder in sight. I went back to the bakery.

  “May I have a napkin, please?”

  “I’ll bring it with your coffee. Go sit down.”

  “I’d like one now, please.”

  Irritation plain on her face, Mme Roulandet handed me a small piece of folded paper. I thanked her and went back to my seat, wiped the grease from my fingers, and patted my mouth. I’d heard rumors about the French being rude, but my recent experiences in Paris and Avignon had contradicted them. I’d been greeted warmly and made to feel at home. Certainly M. Telloir had been agreeable. Here was my first encounter with someone who was less than welcoming.

  “So Martine is gone for a month,” Mme Roulandet said crisply, setting down my coffee in a plastic foam cup. She pulled a bowl of wrapped sugar cubes from another table and placed it in front of me along with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. She frowned in disapproval at my cornerless croissant, and pursed her lips.

  “Yes. She’s visiting her sister.”

  “And you stay in her house?” she asked, as if this were a disturbing development.

  “Yes,” I replied. There was a long silence, and I had the feeling that she wouldn’t trust me with Martine’s house. “She’s staying at my house in Maine,” I added, immediately annoyed at myself that this woman had put me on the defensive.

  “Where is this Maine?”

  “Maine is one of the states in the United States,” I explained, trying to be pleasant. “It’s in the northeast, at the top of the map, just below Canada.” I wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t heard of Maine—geography isn’t as popular a school subject as it once was—but I was a bit taken aback by her hostile attitude toward me. Mme Roulandet owned the only bakery in St. Marc. I would be a customer of hers for two months. Yet there she stood, glaring at me as if I’d told her I’d come to steal her bread.

  “Her sister should come here instead,” she said, pulling my change and a wrinkled sales slip from her apron pocket and dropping them on the table.

  I was grateful when she marched back behind the counter and left me in peace to contemplate the prospect of eight weeks of cold shoulders from the village baker. At least Martine would be back the second month. Hopefully Mme Roulandet’s attitude would change then. I unrolled the napkin from the silverware and finished my croissant. A knife and fork. Did the French really use a knife and fork to eat their croissants?

  The view from the bakery window was considerably more pleasing then its proprietor. On the other side of the square was Brasserie St. Marc, a restaurant and bar with chairs lined up outside for those hardy souls who liked their wine accompanied by a brisk breeze. It was open for lunch and dinner. Marcel had told me it was worth a visit. “Ask when the chef will make bouillabaisse. Then go,” he’d said, “but go for lunch. It will be all gone by dinner.” Beyond the brasserie was a charcuterie, a shop that sold cooked meats, like hams and sausages and pâtés, and beyond that an épicerie, a grocery, both of which I had visited earlier.

  I would see the rest of the village another time, perhaps on Friday morning when the outdoor market was open. Idly I pulled my change over to the edge of the table and swept it into my hand. I looked at the wrinkled sales slip Mme Roulandet had left with the coins. I counted the coins and looked at the bill again. She had shortchanged me by a franc. I debated whether or not to tell her, and decided I would.

  I finished my coffee, dropped the cup, plate, and napkin in a large wastebasket, and donned my jacket. I took my bag of bread and went to the bakery counter.

  “Madame, you owe me another franc,” I said, holding out the change in the palm of my hand so she could count it.

  She looked at my hand and huffed. “You can afford it,” she muttered.

  “And so can you,” I replied.

  She pulled a franc from her pocket and slid it over the counter. I took the coin, walked back to the table, and left it as a tip along with some other coins. Buoyed that I hadn’t been cheated, I left the shop. On the ride back to Martine’s, I reviewed the scene in my mind and started to laugh. I had confronted the “enemy” over one franc, girded my loins to make a fuss over an amount less than twenty cents. But it was the principle of the thing, I told myself, shaking my head. She’d been so disagreeable. Count the change, Martine had said in her note. Now I knew why.

  Chapter Four

  “Did you go to the market in St. Marc?” Claire asked when I signed in for the first day of my cooking course at the Hotel Melissande.

  “I did, last Friday. It was wonderful,” I replied. “I’ve never seen so many different kinds of olives. And I finally learned the purpose of the long bag hanging on the side of my pantry.”

  “You didn’t know?” Her eyes widened. “It’s a sac à pain; it’s to hold the baguettes, of course.” She was trying not to smile at my foolishness.

  “I’d been wondering what it was all week. I thought it might be a laundry bag for the dishtowels. Now don’t you laugh at me,” I said, starting to laugh myself. “I’d never seen one before.”

  “But where have you been putting the baguettes?”

  “I cut them in half and put them in the refrigerator.”

  The giggle she’d been holding in burst forth, and she covered her mouth with both hands.

  “I hope you will share the joke,” said a stylish matron who’d come up to the desk, her gaze fixed on Claire.

  The young woman struggled to contain her smile. “Bonjour, Madame Poutine.”

  “Bonjour, Claire.” She turned to me. “And who is this?”

  Mme Poutine had a beautiful but cold face, with classically chiseled features only slightly softened by age. Her chin-length platinum blond hair was tucked behind her ears; large gold earrings were clipped to her lobes. She was dressed in a black silk blouse, and an amethyst bouclé jacket and skirt with matching heels. A large diamond ring sparkled on her left hand. Her attire seemed more suited to an afternoon at the theater than a morning in a cooking class. I was considerably less turned out in my taupe pantsuit and heather pullover.

  Claire stood up straight and adopted a formal tone. “Madame Fletcher, may I introduce Madame Poutine. She is attending Monsieur Bertrand’s class today.” She turned to the other woman. “Madame Poutine, this is Madame Fletcher. She will be in the class with you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

  “You are American?” Mme Routine said to me in English.

  “Yes. I’m from Maine.”

  “I’ve never heard of it. Do you cook?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know a lot about French cooking.”

  “Then you don’t cook,” she said imperiously. “How do you find Provence?”

  “I’m enjoying it very much,” I said, starting to wonder if it was really true.

  “An odd time of year to come, don’t you think?”

  “I think it’s an excellent time of year,” I replied.

  “Well, I suppose there are fewer tourists, and that’s certainly a benefit,” she said, signing her name in Claire’s book.

  “I find there are just enough,” I said.

  “I suppose,” she said, smiling vaguely at me. “I will see you downstairs.”

  As she crossed the hall, Guy came around the comer holding a tray with a coffee service on it. He gave her a wide smile and stopped to inquire about her health. She nodded in acknowledgment, and sailed past him to the elevator.

  We’re
a lot nicer to visitors in Maine, I thought, even if we don’t know where you’re from. What a frosty lady! I much preferred the open antagonism of the baker in St. Marc to the veiled insults of Mme Poutine. What was it about French women? Were they all this way? No, of course not. Claire was delightful. Then again, she was barely out of her teens. Perhaps the peevish veneer came with age—and disillusionment.

  “Madame Poutine attends all of Chef Bertrand’s classes,” Claire told me, apparently unaware of my churning resentment.

  “She must be an excellent cook by now,” I said.

  “She used to demonstrate cosmetics on television. She has a beautiful complexion, doesn’t she?”

  “She certainly has no smile lines,” I said.

  “Madame, how are you today?” Guy said, coming to the desk and sliding the tray on top. “No lingering bruises, I hope.”

  “None whatsoever, thank you. How are you?”

  “Good. Good,” he said. “I’ve brought some coffee for my girlfriend over here.” He winked at Claire.

  “You are being silly, Guy,” she said.

  “I am a man in love, but she doesn’t see me,” he said. For a fleeting moment, the dark eyes behind his thick glasses looked sad. Then he shrugged and looked down at Claire over his shoulder, teasing her. “She has this beau with gray hair. Her heart is only for him.”

  “Guy!” Claire’s cheeks were bright red.

  “Ah, here are more of your classmates,” he said. He looked back at a middle-aged couple descending the grand staircase. The man waved at Guy, and took his wife’s elbow to keep her from going toward the elevator. “Good morning. Good morning, all,” he said cheerily, rubbing his hands together. “Great day for cooking. Thank goodness the sun’s not out. It’s such a rare occurrence, I’d hate to waste time inside when the sun’s shining. But this weather? Certainly makes me feel at home.” They were dressed as informally as I, he in a striped shirt and slacks, his wife in a khaki shirtwaist dress and flats, the arms of a sweater tied around her neck.