Provence - To Die For

by Jessica Fletcher

  It was obvious to me that she was improvising. I hoped LeClerq hadn’t come to the same conclusion. But why would she lie about something so unimportant? Now I was uncertain which city, if either, was where her family lived.

  “Would you like to see my passport, too, Captain?” I asked, hoping to draw his attention away from Mallory.

  “Oui, madame.”

  I went to the kitchen, where I’d left my bag, brought back my passport, and handed it to him.

  LeClerq didn’t bother to look at it. He put both passports in his breast pocket. “I’m afraid I must confiscate these temporarily.”

  “Why?” Mallory was shaken.

  “This is a murder investigation,” he said, beckoning Thierry that it was time to go. “For the time being, I must be sure you do not leave the country. I will be back.”

  “But I have to go home soon,” she said, putting her hand on his sleeve. “It’s almost three months.”

  “I am aware,” he said, shrugging off her hand. He strode to the door and waited while Thierry walked out ahead of him and climbed into the driver’s seat of their police vehicle.

  I followed them outside.

  He hesitated at the passenger door, looked back at me, anger simmering beneath his brittle veneer, and said icily, “One of you is lying, madame. You may want to think about that until we return.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Mallory, I want you to call your parents and tell them where you are.”

  “I did that already when I was upstairs,” she said, holding up her cell phone and then zipping it into a pocket of her ski jacket, which was hung over the back of her chair. “And I hope it’s okay that I left them your telephone number here.”

  “Of course it is. I’d like to speak with them if they call.”

  We were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea and sharing a slice of one of Mme Roulandet’s delicious cakes. The baker had begun warming to me, and had actually gone so far as to recommend I try this particular gateau the last time I visited her shop. Whatever the peculiarities of her personality, she had a deft hand with her pastries, several of which I’d put in the freezer against times when I couldn’t get into town. The cake had a ribbon of sweetened almond paste through it and powdered sugar and ground almonds on top. I vowed I would ask her for the recipe before I left the country, although I didn’t hold out much hope she’d accommodate me.

  After the policemen had left, Mallory had dragged her backpack upstairs and taken a bath. She’d washed out a few of her things, as well, and hung them alongside mine on a line outside the side door off the kitchen. This was our first chance to talk since the interview, and I wanted to get some things clear.

  “My parents are so grateful that you’re letting me stay here, Mrs. Fletcher. My mother said to tell you she’ll put you in her prayers.”

  “Please thank her for me,” I said. “Did you tell them what’s happened?”

  “No,” she said, taking a deep breath. “They’d be horrified at the idea that I was anywhere near a murder. Since I can’t leave the country anyway, it would just upset them even more.”

  “I don’t approve of your lying to your parents.”

  “I didn’t lie, Mrs. Fletcher. I just didn’t tell them everything.”

  “You’ve been away from home a long time, Mallory,” I said, taking the cups to the sink. “Don’t you have to be in school?”

  “I have a semester off for travel,” she said. “It’s part of a cultural exchange program. I have to do a big report when I get back in order to get credit. I’m really not looking forward to it. I’m a terrible writer. I have no imagination at all. Would you like some help with that?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, turning on the water. “It won’t take a moment. Where do you go to school? How old are you?”

  “I’m eighteen. I go to Hamden Junior College in Kentucky. That’s another reason why my family moved. They wanted to be closer to my college. We go everywhere together on weekends.”

  “That’s very nice,” I said, leaving the cups to drain on the side of the sink. “When do you have to be back in school?”

  “Oh, not till after Christmas,” she said.

  “Then why did LeClerq say you were due to leave the country soon? It’s only November.”

  “It’s the three-month rule,” she said, grinning. “It’s silly, when you think about it Americans don’t need a visa to visit France, but we’re only allowed into the country for three months at a time. After that you have to leave, even if it’s only for five minutes. You can go to any border, get your passport stamped in another country, have a cup of coffee, and go right back into France. I have friends who say they’ve stayed here for years that way.”

  “I see,” I said. “You told me you took a course at the Sorbonne. Did the school arrange housing for you, or were you on your own the whole time?”

  “I stayed with a French family,” she said, doodling with her finger on the tabletop. “But they didn’t like me. I think the older brother had a crush on me, and they were—”

  Her reply was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Wow, we’ve got a lot of visitors this morning,” she said, jumping up to get the door. “Come on in,” I heard her say, and she led an old woman into the kitchen. Our visitor carried a basket containing a half dozen shriveled potatoes and a bunch of carrots, their dried-out stems and leaves indicating they’d been pulled some time ago.

  She introduced herself as Mme Arlenne. Hers was the house at the end of our driveway, across the paved road. I’d seen her peeking through her window at me once when I’d pedaled the bike past her house on my way to St. Marc, and I’d waved. Her response had been to let the lace curtain drop back into place. This was the first time we’d met formally.

  She was a tiny lady in a long gray jacket several sizes too large for her. Bright black eyes, like two raisins in a soft bun, took in every detail in the kitchen as she removed a paisley scarf covering her gray hair. When I offered her tea, she grinned, exposing some gaps where her eyeteeth once were. She appeared to be in her late eighties, but I couldn’t be sure. The drying effect of the wind and sun in Provence made many of its inhabitants look older than their true ages. Her Provençal accent was difficult for me to understand. Mallory, however, was able to negotiate it easily.

  “She wants to know why the police were here this morning,” Mallory told me cheerfully, probably relieved that my interrogation of her had had such a timely interruption. While I put the kettle on, she rattled away in French, speaking so quickly I couldn’t keep up with what she was telling our guest.

  Madame Arlenne oohed and ahhed at various places in the narrative, and when Mallory mentioned the police, she frowned in disgust, pursed her lips, and blew out a puff of air—obviously not a fan of the local constabulary.

  I cut another slice of the almond cake and poured our neighbor a cup of tea. Sitting down at the table again, I watched while she ate and drank and took in Mallory’s animated account of the murdered chef. Madame Arlenne could have learned of the crime from the news. It was probably Marcel who had connected it with us. Now with inside details to impart, she would be the center of attention for the next week, I was sure, as the tale made the rounds of the local residents of St. Marc. I’d love to be her shadow, I thought, to hear the story embellished as it moved from mouth to ear to mouth.

  The phone rang. I excused myself and went to the living room to answer it.

  “Jessica, how are you?”

  “Martine, how nice to hear from you. I have one of your neighbors here.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Madame Arlenne. She just brought over a basket of potatoes and carrots.”

  “If she’s giving them away, they must be past their prime,” Martine said, laughing. “She’s the local busy-body. I’m sure she just wants to find out what you’re up to. Make something up. She’ll be very happy.”

  “I don’t have to fabricate anything,” I said, and
related the facts about the murder of the chef.

  “Poor soul. And he’d just gotten his star.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Only by reputation. The awarding of a Michelin star is big news in Provence. It was in the local paper.”

  “Do you know anything else about him?”

  “Not really. There was some scandal about him several years ago, I seem to recall. I can’t remember now what it was. If you really want to know about him, ask Daniel Aubertin, the chef at the Melissande. He runs the cooking school, too, and knows everyone in the business.”

  “I met him yesterday,” I said. “I’ll call the hotel when we hang up.”

  “If he’s not in today, you can probably catch him at the truffle market tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Friday is market day in Carpentras, and November is also the beginning of the truffle season. He’d never miss that. It’s worth seeing anyway, even if he’s not there. Truffles are big business in Provence and it’s a colorful scene.”

  “Speaking of truffles, have you given anyone permission to hunt for them on your property?”

  “Only Philippe Telloir. He pays me with a portion of whatever he finds and sells the rest at the market. Last year we ate very well on his harvests. He had an excellent dog, but I understand it was stolen. Has he recovered it, do you know?”

  “I don’t believe so,” I said, deciding to keep the news of Martine’s trespasser to myself. There was nothing she could do and no point in upsetting her. “By the way, did Marcel come on time to pick you up in Avignon?”

  “Yes, he did,” I said, “but you didn’t warn me about the way he drives.”

  I heard Martine’s tinkling laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Jessica. I forgot to mention that in France, everyone behind a wheel imagines they’re competing in Le Mans,” she said, referring to the country’s annual sports-car race. “It’s amazing, but somehow they seem to avoid each other’s fenders, for the most part, anyway.”

  “Amazing,” I said dryly.

  She laughed again. “Well, see if you can get to Carpentras sometime. The market there is many times the size of ours in St. Marc. You can buy everything you want.”

  “Where would I find the truffle market?”

  “Look for the Brasserie Le Club at the Place Aristide Briand,” she said. “You can ask anyone in Carpentras. They’ll know.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.

  “Sounds like you’re going to have a busman’s holiday, if you’re looking into a murder.”

  “There’s more,” I added, and told her about my new houseguest, and the confiscation of our passports.

  She made sympathetic noises over the inconvenience and assured me an extra guest was no problem. “Of course I don’t mind if your friend uses my room,” she said. “Why don’t you empty the top drawer or two in my bureau for her. You can just put those things in a bag and leave them in the studio or the garage.”

  “That reminds me,” I said, “I found a treasure in your garage.”

  “You can’t mean my wreck of a car.”

  “No, I mean your bicycle. I cleaned it up and I’m using it. I assume that’s all right.”

  Martine laughed again. “I didn’t even remember I had a bicycle. Of course, use anything you find. My house is your house, and your house, by the way, is just perfect for me. Your neighbors have been plying me with casseroles and baked goods. I’ve hardly touched what you left me in the freezer.”

  We chatted a while longer, swapping experiences in each other’s countries. Martine was delighted with her stay in Cabot Cove. She and her sister Elise had taken a trip down to Kittery, where the discount stores are, and she’d stocked up on items she couldn’t find in France. I told her how I solved the mystery of the sac à pain, the bread bag hanging in the kitchen, and said I planned to bring some home as gifts for my friends. She said Seth Hazlitt had called to see how she was getting along, and asked after me. I described my introduction to the crusty Mme Roulandet, and how helpful M. Telloir had been. She praised the view from the town dock and swore she’d gained five pounds eating blueberry pancakes at Mara’s luncheonette.

  I hung up, slightly homesick, and not a little guilty that I’d left Mallory alone to entertain Mme Arlenne. The two of them were still talking when I returned to the kitchen. Mme Arlenne had emptied her basket onto the kitchen table, and was pulling on her jacket. I thanked her for bringing the vegetables and apologized for taking so much time on the telephone, but neither of them seemed to mind.

  “Martine offered you the use of her bedroom, if you want it,” I said after Mme Arlenne had left. “I can empty a few of her drawers so you’ll have a place for your things.”

  “That’s awfully nice of her,” Mallory said, smiling at me. “You’re being so kind to me, Mrs. Fletcher, and I must be such a bother. I can go back to the hostel in Avignon, you know. I don’t mind waiting there till Captain LeClerq returns my passport. I’m sure it’ll only be a few days.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “You’re welcome here. I enjoy your company. And I’m sure if your parents knew the truth about why you can’t leave, they’d be more comfortable knowing you had a nice place to stay and someone looking after you.”

  “Oh, I know you’re right, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said earnestly. “I can’t thank you enough for them, and for me.”

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and unpack,” I said. “I’ve got a call to make. I’ll join you in a moment, and we’ll find something to store Martine’s things in.”

  I went back to the living room and dialed the hotel. When a man answered the phone, I asked for Daniel Aubertin.

  “Certainement, madame,” replied the man. “Un moment.” There was a long pause; then he came back on the line. “I’m so sorry, madame, but he isn’t taking calls.”

  “He’s there, but he won’t pick up the phone?”

  “Unfortunately, he is very busy right now.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’d like to make an appointment to see him when it’s more convenient. Can you find out when would be a good time?”

  “I will try.”

  After another long pause, the chef himself came on the line. He was not happy. “Madame, why do you need an appointment?” he barked. “What is this about?”

  “We met yesterday,” I said. “I was in Chef Bertrand’s class.”

  “I am very sorry for your experience, madame,” he said, softening. “If you want your money back, I will talk with Guy and arrange this.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of—”

  “Of course, we will have classes again next week. And these are with Christian Étienne. You are welcome to take them, even though we charge a bit more for him.”

  “No. No. That’s not why I’m calling,” I said.

  “It’s a very good bargain.”

  “I’m sure it is, but—”

  “Then why do you insist to speak with me?” The edge was back in his voice.

  “I’d like to talk with you about Monsieur Bertrand,” I said quickly, hoping to get in a full sentence before he interrupted me again. It worked. He was silent. “I understand you know everyone in the restaurant business in Provence,” I continued. “I just have a few questions and—”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “But I won’t take up very much of your time.”

  “You will take up none of my time,” he spat. “I have already spoken to the police. Those imbeciles! They removed every knife from my kitchen. I have to cancel dinner. How am I expected to run a restaurant without knives? The only person I wish to speak with is my cutlery supplier. That is all I have to say about this incident.”

  “Yes, but Monsieur Bertrand was your colleague. Surely you would want to help anyone who could assist in finding his killer.”

  “I have no responsibility in this matter.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you, but—”

  He interrupted me again. “
You interfere with a police matter. This is not something for amateurs.”

  “If you’ll just listen—”

  “Non! I don’t listen.”

  “But he was—”

  “I am hanging up, madame. I am finished with you. If you call again, I will report you to the commissariat.” He slammed the phone down.

  “Another temperamental chef,” I said to myself, and replaced the receiver on the telephone. If he thought he was “finished” with me, he had another think coming. When people don’t want to talk with me, it only fortifies my resolve. I’ll find a way to change his mind, I thought I turned back toward the kitchen and saw Mallory dart away from the door. She’d been eavesdropping.

  “I thought you went up to unpack,” I said, entering the room.

  “I wanted to put these away for you.” She busied herself with the carrots and potatoes.

  “Don’t worry about them,” I said, shooing her out of the kitchen. “I’ll take care of them. You go unpack.”

  Mallory hurried upstairs, and I tried to shake off a feeling of discomfort. More than a week had passed since I’d arrived in Provence, and I could see the time slipping by too quickly. Instead of relaxing, I found myself getting ready to embark on another investigation. But I knew I couldn’t rest until I learned more about Bertrand and why someone would want to kill him. Martine had said there was a scandal in his past. Could that have been the motive for murder? Could a jealous spouse or lover have caught up with Bertrand? Or a rival for the coveted Michelin star? Why did Daniel refuse to talk with me about him? Where was he when Bertrand was killed?

  And the murder was only half the problem. Now I had a teenager in the house, an adolescent who, all her lovely manners aside, did not always tell the truth. How much of what I knew about her was fact, and how much fantasy? Could I trust her? This wasn’t my own home, after all. Was I inviting trouble by encouraging her to stay at Martine’s?