Provence - To Die For

by Jessica Fletcher

  Craig took the hint. “Yes, she is,” he said. “I stand corrected.”

  Mallory hopped on one foot and then the other, saying, “The French are only nice to the people they know. If they don’t know you, they usually don’t make the effort.” She ran her hand across the back of the sofa, and craned her neck to look up at the skylight several floors above us.

  She’s a restless teen, I thought, and has been cooped up too long this morning. I wondered, not for the first time, what happened in Marseilles to make her seek me out. Did some incident spook her? Or was it just loneliness that brought her to Avignon? Where were her parents? Shouldn’t she be in school?

  “Would you mind if I took a walk?” she said, polishing her glasses with the tail of her yellow shirt. “I’m feeling antsy.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “But don’t forget your backpack is still downstairs.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time for tomorrow’s assignment, as instructed.” She saluted like a soldier, clicked her heels, and walked off.

  We watched her stride across the atrium to the front door of the hotel, braid bouncing on her back, long legs encased in jeans, and arms hugging her blue ski jacket.

  “She’s charming,” Jill said. “How do you know her?”

  “We met on the train coming down,” I replied. “I’m worried about her. She’s so young, and seems to have nowhere to go.”

  “Then you don’t know her parents?”

  “I really don’t know anything about her except that she says she’s been in France since August.”

  “Let Jill have a go at her,” Craig said, scanning the tea menu. “She’s a real archeologist when it comes to digging secrets out of the close-mouthed. She’s exposed all of mine, haven’t you, love?”

  Jill ignored him and said to me, “I can see why you’re concerned. She may be a runaway. So many children run away from home or school. Perhaps she had a fight with her parents. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I don’t want to scare her off,” I said. “I’ve been hoping she would come to me, and I think she has. I’m going to invite her to the house I’m staying at in the country.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Jill said.

  “Yes, but I’ve taken a room at the hotel for tonight. I thought it would be easier than going back and forth from St. Marc. That reminds me—I need to confirm with Claire that my room will be ready soon. The usual check-in isn’t until three, but she said she’d try to accommodate me earlier.”

  “Go ahead,” Jill urged. “What kind of tea would you like? We’ll order for you.”

  “Any one is fine,” I said, getting up. “English breakfast is my favorite.”

  Claire was not at her post, but the office door behind the front desk was ajar. I couldn’t see inside, but I could hear Mme Poutine arguing with her.

  “You’re a fool, Claire. Emil is simply playing with you.”

  “He loves me and he needs me. And I’m free to be with him.”

  “You bore him. He told me. And it’s only a matter of time before he will cast you aside. I’m only trying to warn you.”

  “He never said that. You’re jealous, that’s all.”

  “Why should I be jealous? He is not important to me.”

  “No? You were lovers once. You probably want him back. Why else would you follow him from class to class?”

  “You are misinformed,” came the icy reply. “I have known Emil many years, yes. All the chefs have their loyal followings. I have my reputation as a hostess to uphold. But you, your reputation is in tatters, and for what? He throws you a little smile, chucks your chin, tells you how beautiful you are, and you fall into his arms. I’m telling you, he has another fool, just as young, just as pretty, at the Hotel de la Mirande.”

  “You’re lying.” Claire’s voice was tearful.

  “We’ll see. Just don’t cry to me when he tosses you aside.”

  Claire burst from the office, a hand over her mouth, skirted the desk, ran across the atrium, and disappeared around a comer. A moment later Mme Poutine emerged, her face impassive, pulling on the cuffs of her jacket. She walked to the other side of the desk and stopped in front of me. “You have a bad habit of listening in on others’ conversations, Madame Fletcher,” she said coldly.

  “And you have a bad habit of standing where you can be overheard, Madame Poutine.”

  She followed the direction Claire had taken, but stopped at the table with the two men and sat down. I returned to my seat with the Thomases.

  “I take it she won’t be joining us,” Craig said, stirring a lump of sugar into his tea.

  “What happened?” Jill asked. “Claire went flying by us in tears.”

  “Now, don’t be nosy, darling.”

  “Jessica will say if she doesn’t want to tell us, won’t you?”

  “Apparently Claire has a crush on Bertrand, and Madame Poutine was warning her off,” I said.

  “Poor Claire,” Jill said. “She’s no match for that sophisticated woman.”

  “However, their confrontation has left the front desk unattended,” Craig added, “so you’ll have to wait to get your room.”

  “You’re welcome to use ours if you’d like to freshen up,” Jill offered.

  “That’s very kind,” I said, pouring milk into my tea, “but I’m sure she’ll be back shortly. I’ll wait.”

  As it happened, Claire didn’t return. But we didn’t miss her. The Thomases and I chatted about our lives back home and what had brought us to France. Like me, they were childless but with a large family of nieces and nephews. They were both retired and attempting to make up for all the travel that they’d put off when they’d been focused on their careers. This was their third “cookery course,” as they called it. As we talked, we marveled at all the things we had in common, and how we felt as though we’d known each other for years. Theirs was a warm, relaxed relationship that easily accommodated others. I invited them to visit me in Cabot Cove if their travels brought them to the States, and they insisted I should stop off in England, particularly at Sheffield, on my way home from France.

  Jill and I were laughing so hard over some story Craig had told that we barely noticed when Mme Poutine approached our table, stumbling into the back of the sofa on which we sat. Craig stood up, immediately sensing something wrong, and guided her to his seat. Her platinum hair hung down in her face. She was very pale, and visibly shaking.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, sobering instantly. I leaned over to take her hand. Something had given her a shock. I had a terrible feeling that Claire had done some harm to herself. “Is it Claire?” I asked.

  She nodded her head and attempted to talk, but her throat was so dry, it came out as a whisper.

  “We can’t hear you, dear,” Jill said. “Try to tell us again what’s wrong.”

  “Here, take some tea,” I said, putting my cup in her hands and holding it with her as she took a sip.

  Mme Poutine looked up at me gratefully, tears filling her eyes and flowing down her perfectly made-up cheeks. “It’s Emil,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  “What about him?”

  “Claire has killed him.”

  Chapter Five

  “Jessica, where are you going?” Jill called out.

  After Mme Poutine’s shocking statement Craig had run to the phone at the front desk to call for an ambulance and the police. I’d decided to see for myself if Chef Bertrand were indeed dead or if his paramour was exaggerating.

  “He may have suffered a heart attack,” I said. “Perhaps there’s still time to help.”

  “No. No. He is dead.” Mme Poutine moaned, dropping her head into her hands and sobbing.

  I rushed across the atrium, hoping he was still breathing. As I reached the entrance to the stairwell, the elevator door opened across the hall, and René Bonassé stepped out. I ran past him into the elevator and took it to the lower floor. The table where we’d eaten lunch had been partially cleared, but the large serving plate
was still there, the sauce congealed around the leftover rabbit. There was no sound from the hotel kitchen and no sign of the sous chef, but the lights in the cooking classroom still blazed. I could see Mallory’s backpack leaning against the wall, and while I’d taken my handbag with me, I’d left my jacket, which still hung on the back of my chair. The brilliance of the classroom only emphasized the murky shadows of the interior medieval courtyard that had been our dining room. I looked around. It took a moment for my eyes to find Bertrand.

  He was dead. There was no doubt. His body was slumped against the arched door in the wall to the right, the papers he had been consulting earlier scattered about him on the floor. A red stain above his heart was spreading down the front of his white shirt. His eyes were open, the vivid blue fading, and his mouth gaped, forming an O, the expression of surprise that must have greeted his murderer. Apart from the papers on the floor there was no sign of a struggle. No overturned chair. No obvious defense wounds on his hands. No clothing askew. The only blood was a few drops spattered on the stone near the wall but away from the body.

  I knelt down and placed two fingers on his neck where a pulse should have been, and felt only cool skin. In his right hand he clutched a piece of stationery. I angled my head to read the name at the top. It said, P. FRANC, AGENT IMMOBILER—real estate agent. Bertrand’s fist had crumpled the paper. I knew not to disturb the scene and left the letter where the police would find it. I glanced over the other sheets on the floor. Most of them were recipes, lists of ingredients, and menus. A slight breeze ruffled them. I stood.

  The door in the archway on the opposite wall was partly open. A sliver of light could be seen along the jamb, and the undulating sound of the Klaxon horns of emergency vehicles leaked into the room. Reluctant to leave my fingerprints, I pulled a handkerchief from my bag and used it to draw open the heavy wooden door. It led to a small paved area outside. From the doorway I scanned the ground for evidence, something the killer might have dropped if he or she had departed this way. A short flight of stairs connected to the street level. I went outside, climbed the stairs, and found myself halfway up a steep hill. The street was deserted. I couldn’t see over the top of the hill; not even a car crossed the intersection at its base. If someone had escaped through this door, they were gone now.

  The sirens were deafening. I retraced my steps and reached for the door. Using the handkerchief again, I reentered the hotel, drawing the door closed behind me. My eyes had difficulty adjusting to the gloom, but I knew one thing: I was no longer alone.

  “Bonjour, madame,” said a voice filled with irony. “May I ask what you are doing here?”

  “Oh, my,” I said. “You certainly gave me a start.”

  “I could say the same of you,” he said in near-perfect English.

  The speaker was a debonair man in a gray suit. A black trench coat was slung over one arm. His auburn hair was streaked with gray and he wore it slicked back from his forehead, which emphasized his high-bridged, prominent nose and the piercing look in his hard brown eyes. A colleague in a tweed jacket was leaning over Bertrand, his fingers probing the same area of the chef’s neck where mine had been earlier.

  I put out my hand. “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I was one of Chef Bertrand’s students this morning.”

  “You are American?” he asked, ignoring my hand.

  “Yes. I’m staying at the home of a friend who lives in St. Marc. I came to Avignon this morning to take Monsieur Bertrand’s cooking class.” I nodded toward the kitchen classroom.

  “What are you doing down here?” he asked. It wasn’t a friendly question.

  “I was having tea with some of the other students when Madame Poutine—she was also in our class—accosted us. She was distraught, and crying that the chef had been killed. I thought perhaps she’d been mistaken in what she’d seen. I rushed down here hoping he might be alive, in need of medical help. But, as you see, she was right. ”

  “You are a doctor?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  “A nurse, perhaps?”

  “No. I have no medical education.”

  “Yet you came down here to offer medical help.”

  “I know that sounds odd,” I said, “but if he’d had a heart attack or choked on something, I thought I could lend assistance until an ambulance arrived.”

  “And, of course, you are trained to lend assistance. No?”

  “In a way, yes,” I said, relieved I could answer in the affirmative. “I’ve taken several first-aid courses, and CPR; that’s cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”

  “I know what CPR is.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if it was the same in French.”

  “And what were you doing outside, if I may ask?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “I noticed that the door was ajar and went to see where it led. I thought perhaps the killer was making his escape.”

  “And was this killer ‘making his escape’?”

  “No. No one was outside.”

  “You don’t seem at all disturbed to be confronted by a dead man. Women are usually—how do you say?—delicate. They scream or faint at the sight of a corpse.”

  “That’s not—”

  He interrupted me. “They don’t look so calmly around, notice the door is a bit open, and go investigate. Vous gardez votre sang-froid. You are very cool.” He raised an eyebrow and glared at me. “But what if the killer had been around, Madame Fletcher? Would you have known what to do if you were confronted with a gun?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t ...” I stopped midsentence.

  “You were about to say?”

  I sighed. “I was about to say that I don’t think Monsieur Bertrand was shot. And I also don’t think that the killer would hang around outside, waiting to be discovered. ”

  “And why is it, madame, that you don’t believe the victim was shot? Do you see another murder weapon?”

  “No, but I also don’t see any shell casing. And there wasn’t a shell casing outside the door, or anything that could be a murder weapon. I checked. You’ll see that for yourself, I’m sure. From the hole in his shirt, it looks to me like Chef Bertrand was stabbed, although since I didn’t examine him, I can’t say what the instrument might have been.”

  “You intrigue me, madame,” he said. “You are not, by any chance, a homicide detective?” His sarcasm was palpable.

  “No, but I have made a study of the subject for some time.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I study murders because I write murder mysteries. That’s how I make my living, Detective ... I’m sorry, I don’t believe you gave me your name.”

  “The rank is Captain, madame. I am Captain LeClerq.”

  “Captain LeClerq, while you and I are conversing, the killer could be getting away. Chef Bertrand was alive an hour ago. The person responsible for his death may still be in the hotel. We should be looking for the murder weapon. We’re giving the killer too much time to dispose of the evidence.”

  “We?” His eyebrows rose. “You seem to think, madame, that Lieutenant Thierry and I are inadequate to the task. That we require your assistance.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Please allow us to do our job,” he said coldly. “The Commissariat Centrale d’Avignon is well equipped to investigate all crimes. We can do more than arrest the pick-pockets and petty thieves who arrive each summer along with the tourists.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” I said, sorry I’d gotten into this argument. I heard my name being called.

  Mallory raced through the archway from the hall, and drew to a halt at the sight of the two policemen. “Mrs. Fletcher, are you all right?” She was panting, her eyes huge behind her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Yes, dear. I’m fine.”

  “I heard upstairs”—she was trying to catch her breath—“that there had been a murder.” She shook her head. “You weren’t around.” A deep breath. “I got worried. And they wouldn’t let me downstairs to lo
ok for you,” she finished in a rush.

  “Then how did you get here?” LeClerq asked.

  Mallory flushed. “There’s a set of stairs from the hotel’s dining room.” She pointed behind her. “It goes to the other end of the hotel kitchen.”

  Just then the elevator door opened and two men entered the room. One was carrying a small case, the other a camera with a flash unit.

  “It’s getting a bit crowded in this place,” Captain LeClerq grumbled. “Perhaps you would be good enough to wait upstairs with the others so we may finish our work down here?”

  Thierry had positioned his body to block Mallory’s view of the chef, but now he moved aside to allow the newcomers to conduct their part of the investigation. Mallory gasped when she glimpsed the lifeless body of Emil Bertrand. “Oh, my gosh. Is it him?”

  “I think Captain LeClerq is right,” I said, taking Mallory’s arm and turning her around. “We should wait for him upstairs. Why don’t you show me where this other staircase is?”

  We walked down the hall to the hotel kitchen, Mallory excitedly burbling about how she searched for me upstairs and begged the officer guarding the stairwell to let her try the lower floor. I recognized the signs of adrenaline release. It would take a while for her to come down from its intensity. I took her arm as we walked and patted her hand. “You can see I’m just fine,” I said. “Thank you for worrying about me.”

  “Who do you think killed him? I can’t believe it. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Do you think the police are going to question us?” Her whole body was trembling.

  “Shhh,” I said. “Try to calm down.”

  As we passed the door to the office used by the hotel chef, I heard a sound, as if something had fallen off a desk or shelf. I put my ear to the wooden panel and my hand on the knob. Someone was inside. I twisted the knob and the door opened. Guy was on his knees, gathering a sheaf of papers and folders that had slid off the overloaded desk.

  “Hello,” he said, pressing the folders to his chest. “Daniel’s desk is such a mess. Is it already time to start again?”

  “Where have you been, Guy?” I asked, wondering if he was trying to shield the front of his uniform from view.