Provence - To Die For

by Jessica Fletcher

  He appeared uncomfortable with the question. “It doesn’t look as if I will be offered the partnership I was expecting.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you know who the new chef will be?”

  He cleared his throat. “It will be a little time, I believe, before the decision is made,” he said. “I am being considered, along with others. Emil had a star, you see. His partners want someone who will make certain they keep it.”

  “Who are his partners?”

  “Emil would be angry at what they do.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “I have talked of nothing but Emil this week. I don’t want to talk of this anymore,” he said. “Tell me, how is your little friend? Is she still in Avignon?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Mallory is staying with me.”

  “I’m glad she has an adult to look after her. You will say hello for me, eh?”

  “Yes, I will.” I hesitated, finally asking, “Have you been to see Claire?”

  “Ah, pauvre petite. Poor little one. Such a shame. I tried to tell her he was cheating on her.”

  “So you think she is guilty.”

  He shrugged. It was a particularly French expression of resignation, a gesture that said, “What can you do? This is what the world is like. There is nothing to be done.”

  “We rented a car to take rides into the country,” Jill Thomas said, pouring a cup of tea for her husband. “It was beautiful weather and we wanted to take advantage.”

  “We would have tried to visit you in St. Marc, but the rental company didn’t supply maps,” Craig added. “Never heard of such a thing, not to have maps.”

  “The hotel gave us a map, but it was just for the city,” Jill said. “We managed to make a nice day of it all the same.”

  “I was away all yesterday morning at the Carpentras market,” I said. “You would have missed me anyway.”

  “What brought you here today?” Craig asked. “Going to base one of your crime novels on the mystery of the dead chef?”

  “Craig, don’t pry,” Jill said.

  “That’s not such a terrible question,” he said.

  “I was hoping to bump into you two, of course. Do you know if René Bonassé is still at the hotel?”

  “He’s gone,” Jill said. “Captain LeClerq left us a message that we were no longer needed for the investigation. I assume he did the same for René. He checked out this morning.”

  “Interesting. The captain took our passports—Mallory’s and mine—on Thursday, but he gave them back today,” I said.

  “He must be convinced Claire is guilty,” Jill said, “although I have difficulty believing it.”

  “I think Madame Poutine ‘fingered her,’ ” Craig said. “Isn’t that what your American ‘cops’ call it?”

  “I see you’re a fan of gangster movies,” I told him. “I don’t think Claire killed him either, but Madame Poutine did accuse her. Whether that’s Captain LeClerq’s only evidence, I don’t know.”

  “Jessica, would you like some tea? The waiter can bring an extra cup.”

  “I’d love some,” I said. “But would you two excuse me for a moment? I just remembered a call I need to make.”

  The young man at the desk was the same clerk who’d replaced Claire after she was taken away by the police. He recognized me and greeted me warmly, evidently relieved to see that the chef’s murder had not kept me from returning to the hotel.

  “Bonsoir, madame. How may I help you?”

  “I’ve signed up for one of your cooking classes next week,” I told him. “A friend said he might be taking it, too. May I see if his name is in your book?”

  Eager to assist me, he pulled out the heavy cooking school ledger and laid it on the counter. He flipped the pages to the date I indicated and turned the book around so I could read it. I pretended to look at the names in next week’s class until a guest drew his attention away. I turned back to the page listing the students in the class I had taken. There were columns for names, addresses, and telephone numbers, and a place for signatures when the students signed in. Mme Poutine had not provided her address, but René had given his. The address was in Paris. I committed his telephone number to memory and went to the telephone booth, actually a table with phone books and a chair, in an alcove to the right of the front desk. I sat and jotted the number down on a pad next to the phone. I got out my calling card and dialed. A woman’s voice answered.

  “Non. Monsieur Bonassé is not here.”

  “Do you know where I can reach him? It’s very important.

  “Oui. He is visiting his aunt. She lives in Les Baux.”

  “Les Baux?”

  The woman gave me the aunt’s name and telephone number. I wrote them down, although, given a choice, I wouldn’t announce myself with a call. Over the years I’ve found that face-to-face conversation yields much more data. Observing someone’s facial expression and body language while listening to the tone and inflection of their voice usually results in learning a great deal more than they think they are telling you.

  I thanked the woman on the phone, rang off, and took advantage of my location to consult the telephone books for a listing under the name Poutine. There was one for M. Poutine but not at the business address I’d visited. I wrote down the information and returned to the Thomases. “How is Mallory doing?” Jill asked when I reclaimed my seat.

  “She’s healthy enough,” I said, “but she seems preoccupied.” I stirred my tea, thinking about her baffling behavior. “She’s been sleeping a lot. She went to bed early on Thursday and was still wearing her pajamas when I returned from Carpentras on Friday afternoon. I got the impression she’d jumped out of bed when she heard the car pull up.”

  “Typical teenager,” Craig said. “They like to sleep late.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “My experience is limited there. She did take an interest in Monsieur Telloir’s new dog. And she made us a wonderful pasta dinner with little truffles he turned up.” I’d been wrong about Magie, who was turning out to be a pretty fair truffle dog. M. Telloir had great hopes for him. “But today, again, she was in bed when I left at noon,” I said. “I’m a little concerned.”

  “Nothing to fret about,” Craig said. “I remember sleeping till teatime when I was a young bloke.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t get to bed till very late,” his wife pointed out. “You closed the pubs, as I recall.”

  “Don’t frown. I’ve fond memories of those days.”

  “Being anywhere near a murder is very unsettling,” Jill said to me. “I never saw Bertrand’s body, but I had trouble sleeping Wednesday night. Mallory’s young and impressionable. Perhaps the murder is on her mind.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “I’ve tried to get her to talk about it several times, but she always cuts me off.”

  “It probably has nothing to do with the murder,” Craig said. ”She’s young and lazy. She needs more stimulation, shouldn’t be hanging about in the country.” He put down his cup. ”Say, we’re going for a drive on Monday. Be happy to take you both along.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Craig,” Jill said. “Jessica, why don’t you come with us? I’m sure Mallory would love it, and you’ll enjoy it, too.”

  “I have so much to do—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” she said. “There’s plenty of room in the car. Do come with us.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Wherever you like,” she said. “We thought we’d drive south to St.-Rémy-de-Provence and then continue on to Les Baux, but if you’d rather go up to Gordes or over to Arles or someplace else, we can alter our plans.”

  “Les Baux? I would be interested in going to Les Baux. I’ve heard of it, but I’m not sure where it is,” I said.

  “Just south of St.-Rémy,” Craig said. “It’s a village in the Alpilles mountains, built on the site of a tenth-century fortress. The ruins are still there.”

  “Boys love anything to do with war,” Jill s
aid, smiling at her husband. To me she said, “It’s supposed to be absolutely charming, but overloaded with tourists in the summer. Our guidebook said to visit off-season, if you can. And we can.”

  “It’s just one day,” Craig said. “You’ll get Mallory out of the house early, and we’ll all tramp around the ruins.”

  “Oh, do come, Jessica,” Jill urged. “We’ll have fun. Can’t be serious all the time.”

  I smiled. “You’ve talked me into it,” I said.

  “I’m so pleased,” she said. “We’ll pick you up the day after tomorrow. Be sure you and Mallory have both got good walking shoes and warm clothes on. How’s ten? Is that a good time?”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Mallory? I’m going for a run. Would you like to come?”

  Mallory buried her face in the pillow and curled her knees up toward her chest. She mumbled something unintelligible, pulled the covers over her shoulder, and was silent. From her muffled response, I understood she wasn’t in the mood for a run or even a walk, and I wasn’t up for an argument. I left her to sleep.

  The sun was shining; in Provence in November you learn to take advantage of the sun when it shows its face, since there are many days when it doesn’t. It was Sunday, and I’d decided I would take a run through the olive orchard to start the day. I marched down the drive in my jogging suit, swinging my arms across my chest and behind my back to warm up. Ahead, a pickup truck had pulled onto the grass at the edge of the orchard. When I came abreast of the truck, I was delighted to find M. Telloir and several others gathering the fruit. They had spread large plastic tarpaulins on the ground beneath a half dozen trees. Triangular ladders were braced against the gnarled trunks, and the pickers’ legs and feet could be seen balancing on a rung. The rest of their bodies disappeared into the canopy of the tree. The only sounds were the gentle plop-plop of the olives as they fell onto the tarp, and the soughing of the leaves as the pickers combed their tools through the branches.

  Magie ran to greet me, yapping excitedly, his tail wagging in a circle. I bent to pet his curly head.

  “Bonjour, madame, ‘ow are you today?” M. Telloir said.

  “Well, thanks. And you?”

  “As you can see, we pick.”

  “I see. How exciting.”

  “We were ’ere yesterday afternoon, and will pick again today. Next Saturday, I think, we will finish. The men, they work in town during the week. They can only pick on weekends. But it’s nice to spend the day outdoors, no?”

  “Especially when it’s not too cold,” I said. “Tell me, why don’t you use a machine to pick the olives? Wouldn’t that be faster?”

  “There is no machine. There is only this.” He held up a tool with widely spaced teeth that looked like a comb for a giant. “The trees, they are very delicate and the olives must be picked by ’and.”

  “What kind of olive trees does Martine have here?” I asked, remembering his lesson regarding blends of olive oil as we drove to Carpentras.

  “She has good trees,” he said. “These are mostly aglandau, but there are some picholine down at the other end of the orchard. We ‘arvest them separately. The mill, ’e wants only olives from one kind of tree in the load.”

  “What makes these ‘good’ trees? Because they produce a lot of fruit?”

  “Peut-être, perhaps. But also they are resistant to the drought and to the bugs, and they endure our harsh winters.”

  “You mean the weather will get worse?”

  He laughed. “You haven’t experienced the mistral yet. Wait till you feel the wind.”

  “I’m going to feel the wind in my face now,” I said. “I’m going for my run.”

  “Ah, you Americans with your exercise,” he said, shaking his head. “Spend a day picking olives and you will get very ’‘ealthy.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, smiling. “But not today. Today I run.”

  I took leave of M. Telloir and his pickers and, after more stretching exercises, jogged across the orchard between the rows of aglandau olive trees. The soil was firm beneath my sneakers, the smell of damp earth and clean air refreshing. I ran, hoping to clear my mind of the pieces of the murder puzzle, and to reclaim my purpose for being in France to begin with. As the kilometers fell away, I allowed the workout and the brilliance of the day to relax me, timing my breathing to the tempo of my feet as they hit the ground. At home, I often run on the beach. I strive for endurance, not speed, and the opportunity to enjoy nature at a comfortable pace.

  I reached the end of the orchard and circled back via the paved road to Martine’s drive, waving at Mme Arlenne’s window in case she was watching. When I walked up the dirt road to the house, I saw the pickers had moved farther into the orchard, and baskets of olives sat under the trees where the tarps had been earlier. The pickup truck was gone, probably delivering the first load of olives to M. Telloir’s barn to await shipment to the mill.

  The gray cat was sitting in front of the garage when I arrived back at the house. This was my day for communing with nature, I thought. The cat and I had become fast friends. Each time I went to take the bike from the garage, she’d push her head through the hole in the wall under the stairs and come to greet me. She was a charming companion, and deserved a little extra attention. Once, I’d fed her a few scraps of leftovers, and that had sealed her devotion. There was a bit of cooked chicken in the refrigerator she might appreciate, but I preferred not to feed her on Martine’s nice dishes. I’d seen some discarded tableware in the garage that would serve the purpose. I pulled open the large wooden door as far as it would go to allow light into the murky interior and rummaged around in boxes of crockery looking for suitable plates.

  The cat followed me inside, gracefully leaping on top of tables and chairs and over equipment until she reached the comer. She ran halfway up the flight of stairs and sat, quietly licking her paw. Was Martine’s studio up there? I’d wondered about that before, but hadn’t yet explored the loft.

  Well, as long as I was still in my running clothes, a little extra dirt and dust wouldn’t hurt. I put down a chipped bowl I’d found, and wove my way to the comer, around the collection of detritus that filled the garage. At the base of the staircase an industrious spider had woven cobwebs across the beams. I batted them away and climbed up, feeling my way to the door at the top. The knob was rough, probably rusty, but it turned easily. When I pushed open the door, daylight flooded the stairs.

  I climbed the last few steps into Martine’s studio. The underside of the peaked roof of the garage was her ceiling, and light streamed in from an enormous skylight that I’d never noticed from the outside. It gave her northern exposure, the quality of light most prized by artists.

  Martine had two easels, and tables next to them to hold the myriad equipment she required when she was painting. On one table a can held palette knives and a variety of other metal tools. Brushes stood bristle-side up in an old beer stein. Her palette was a kidney-shaped pad of shiny paper with a thumbhole in the middle; the top sheet could be pulled off when there was no more room to mix paint on it. I perched on a stool in front of one of the easels and admired the painting Martine had left unfinished when she departed for Maine. She had a wonderful eye for color. Of course, I already knew that, from the paintings, fabrics, and furniture she’d chosen for her home. To someone so drawn to vivid tones, Provence in winter may have lost some of its appeal. Perhaps that was why she chose to travel at this time of year.

  My eyes roamed over the rest of the studio. The room was large, but the angle of the roof cut off a lot of space. Martine had nailed up panels of plywood to serve as walls, but there were gaps between the boards, and I could see she used the triangular areas for storage. The room itself was a little neater than the garage downstairs, but it, too, was filled with clutter. Stacks of paintings leaned against one wall. On another, unpainted canvases were awaiting her inspiration. A large cabinet with open shelves holding cans and tubs
of paint, balls of twine, and rolls of tape was covered with a rainbow of spatters and smears, an unintentional but interesting effect. In one corner, bolts of canvas stood on end, and boxes held slats of wood for stretchers. A toolbox sat nearby. I also noticed two bowls on the floor. The gray cat was nosing them, but she’d long ago licked them clean. Apparently I wasn’t the first to befriend this animal.

  I walked to where Martine’s finished canvases were arrayed along the floor leaning against the wall, in places two or three paintings deep. I tipped one painting forward to look at the one behind it. To my right, I heard the cat scratching behind one of the plywood panels. Cats are born hunters. Domestication has barely changed that. She was probably on the trail of a mouse that had dared enter her territory. I moved to the next painting and studied the swirls of lavender and green suggesting the fields of herbs for which Provence is famous. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cat pawing something brown and white. I turned to watch her. She’d found a cloth Martine probably used to wipe her brushes. It was folded up in a tight bundle, but as the cat hit it with her paw, it started to come apart.

  “What do you have there, kitty?”

  The cat was pressing her nose into the cloth and pushing the bunched-up fabric across the floor. I followed, leaned down, and picked up the loose end of the cloth. It unrolled and something fell out of the center, clattering to the floor. I gasped. Spinning on its side was a large carving knife with a molded black handle. I put out my foot to halt its rotation. I knelt down. The blade was smeared, but I could make out the letters near the handle. They read: FABRIQUÉ POUR EMIL BERTRAND.

  I picked up the fabric that had held the knife. It was a white T-shirt, or had been. The brown stains were dried blood. Was this the murder weapon? How did it get here?

  I felt a shiver go through me. I knew how it got here.

  A rasping noise drew my attention. Slowly I looked up. Still clad in her pajamas, her feet bare, Mallory stood in the door. Breathing heavily, she brushed stray wisps of hair off her forehead with trembling fingers. The expression in her eyes was bleak, her voice hard.