by Serena Kent
It was a homely detail that most women would have registered—though clearly those working on this case did not. Nor indeed, did the real killer. “That scarf is not being knitted,” Penelope informed her boss. “That’s crochet work.”
Eventually, detectives proved that the knitting needles had been stolen from the prison craft room and used to frame the suspect by another ex-prisoner.
As her confidence grew, Penelope became bolder.
She saved the day after a vital clue was lost in a case involving the murder of a young woman. When car upholstery samples recovered from the vehicle used to abduct the victim went missing, Penelope doggedly worked out that the samples had been sent to the wrong lab for analysis, allowing the prosecution to go ahead.
Another time, a fingerprint expert reported a negative result, but Penelope’s intuition told her that something was wrong. The scientist had difficulty concentrating when she called him. Over tea and cake at a café opposite the Home Office labs, she offered the young scientist a sympathic ear as he told her about the problems with his unfaithful girlfriend. Then she quietly got a second opinion on the fingerprint. It was a positive match. The scientist was given compassionate leave and several cold cases were reopened, resulting in the conviction of a serial killer.
Back off now? The heck she would.
So Avore had been a serious gambler. Was it significant? When she considered the bones in the chapel, the body in the pool, and the most puzzling aspect—the ace of spades at both scenes—she decided it had to be.
Penelope sat tight for the rest of the day, waiting for the police to arrive, which they finally did around teatime. A very youthful officer surveyed the damage, dusted for fingerprints, called a locksmith for her, took diligent notes, and asked questions she could not answer. Who could have wanted to get into her house? She had no idea. Had anything been taken? Nothing that she could see. Could they have been looking for something? Possibly. But what? The murder of Manuel Avore and the skeleton were not even mentioned.
The locksmith arrived while the officer was still with her, and between them the door was fixed in double-quick time. It was as if they wanted to make sure she could cause no more trouble.
Penelope’s concerns were swatted away.
“If nothing has been perturbed,” said the young policeman in English, “then it was probably the wind that attacked the door.”
“Seriously?”
“Very great winds come up this hill. Violent! There is no breaking of the wood in this door. See? Maybe you did not shut it properly when you leave?”
She was certain she had, but there was little to be gained by arguing.
* * *
NEXT MORNING, Penelope went up to the village square. If she was going to turn detective—and let’s face it, that decision already seemed to have been made almost without any conscious will, her natural reluctance to get involved having been well and truly overtaken by events—she needed to meet some more of the locals in normal circumstances.
At eight o’clock, the boulangerie-bar was crowded. Penelope felt honour-bound to support local businesses, but she feared for her waistline in the presence of this baker’s sublime pain tradition with its thin crispy crust and soft interior, his sugar-dusted twists of sacristan, his round, custard-filled tartes Tropéziennes, cinnamon-flavoured palmier biscuits, religieuses made of choux pastry, filled with crème pâtissière and dripping with chocolate, delicate macarons, mille-feuilles, and madeleines in decadent flavours of violet and wild strawberry. Discovering sweet treats she had never even known existed was going to be a severe test of willpower.
Penelope joined the queue with a nodded greeting to all. She breathed in the heavenly aroma of newly baked loaves and caramelised sugar, vanilla, and coffee. Was she imagining it, or were there a few sidelong glances, as if the locals knew exactly who she was, but were not inclined to introduce themselves? She pulled her shoulders back and half smiled before returning her gaze, as any normal person would, to the glories on display at the counter.
A large woman wrapped bread in paper and put cakes and tarts in white card boxes, while the baker himself—so Penelope assumed from his white hat and apron—kept up a repartee with the customers. The name Jacques Correa was embroidered on the apron, just as a renowned chef would have on his breast. Jacques! Penelope did a double take.
So much had happened, she had almost forgotten her quest to find a Jacques in the village with a motive to kill Avore. It was a common name, wasn’t it? This one seemed an unlikely candidate. He was fortyish and stocky, with strong forearms from kneading and hefting trays of dough, but he moved around like a dancer on his small feet, darting here and there, a wide grin on a wide face, pointing out specialities and new recipes, a cup of espresso coffee in hand.
Then it was Penelope’s turn. “Bonjour, monsieur, madame, une baguette et un croissant, s’il vous plaît.”
The woman, doughy around the middle herself, hair in a bun like a cottage loaf, reached round for the bread.
“La dame anglaise? Le Chant d’Eau?” said the baker. “On vous attendait—we are waiting for you! You are going to be a good customer. Don’t you like pâtisseries? Your friend, she say you love pâtisseries!”
“Oh, I do.” Penelope sighed, aware of the other customers earwigging. “Very much. A bit too much.”
“But you must try my puits d’amour—the little well of love, yes? The jelly of redcurrant inside the cake, a surface of caramel.”
How could she refuse? She purchased one, and the generously sized croissant, along with the baguette, a copy of La Provence, and a cup of coffee with milk to drink at one of the tables outside. Morning coffee while improving her French with the newspaper was quickly becoming a pleasurable habit.
She scanned a few pages, taking in a dull summary of the lack of progress in the Avore murder at St Merlot. If there was any new information, the police were certainly not releasing it. A flick of another page, however, revealed something intriguing.
“Penny!”
The interruption came tilting across the gravel on high heels towards her. Almost as if I’ve been followed, thought Penelope. She wouldn’t put it past her.
“Mme Valencourt.” She nodded, stiffly.
The Frenchwoman clearly noted the formality of the greeting. She asked, with a haughty froideur in return, if she could join Penelope.
“Please do.”
“I’m glad I saw you. There is something I need to talk to you about, Penny.”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“I was phoned last night by Laurent.”
“Laurent the mayor?”
“Who other? Yes, the mayor.”
Penelope raised an eyebrow as the other woman, just for a split second, showed some discomposure and the merest hint of a blush.
“Oh, Penny, do not leap to the conclusions! In fact, that is what Laurent wanted to talk to me about. He thinks that you are getting too involved in the investigation, that you are asking too many questions.”
“Really?” Penelope was not overjoyed at the thought of being discussed like this.
“You must understand, it is very embarrassing for him—a murder in his village, and now the mysterious bones! Such things have not happened around here for years, and it is important that St Merlot is seen as a calm and peaceful village. He is worried that it will affect his chances of reelection next month. And perhaps he does not want one of the big families in the village to be suspected. There are many votes at stake.”
“So just hush everything up, then.”
“I am glad you understand, Penny.”
“But Clémence, here’s the thing. When I had lunch with Laurent yesterday—”
The estate agent did an almost imperceptible double take.
“He rang up out of the blue and asked me—and he was the one who did all the talking about the Avore case. All I did was listen. Well, I may have asked a few questions, but only conversationally. And you’re right”—Pen
elope put up her hand to show she would not be stopped—“I do want answers to plenty of questions. How can I not be curious when St Merlot is turning up corpses under every stone! Something is going on around here, and we can’t just hush everything up.”
Clémence looked startled as Penelope unleashed her pent-up frustrations, but let her go on.
Penelope lowered her voice, hoping that no one nearby had understood what she had said. “This man Avore, horrible as he was, was murdered,” she hissed. “Whoever did it seems to have tried, not very well, to frame M. Charpet for it, and to have chosen to do the deed just as I was moving into a property that had been empty for years. Why do it then? To scare me off? To make life difficult for me? To implicate me in the crime? I don’t understand at all, so yes, I do want to ask questions about it!”
The estate agent opened her mouth.
But Penelope held up her palm and pressed on. “Because there’s something else. I went for a walk and almost got shot. There could very easily have been another dead body in St Merlot. Everyone says it was the hunters. But what if it wasn’t? Is anyone interested in that? And just yesterday my house was broken into, but nothing was taken. Why?”
“I am sorry to hear that, Penny. I am sure the police will do their best to find out who broke in.”
Penelope gave a humph of disbelief. “I doubt it. A very young officer told me it was probably the wind!”
“Ah. That I cannot say. But let us think about the shots. Hunters go hunting at this time of year. They are overexcited to start their sport again. Maybe not so skilled, as they have not practised for months.”
“I admire your sangfroid, but it was a bit bloody close for comfort.” Penelope had old-fashioned notions about the repercussions of shots being fired at Englishwomen abroad. “What if someone was out to get me? The authorities really should do something about this. These people are . . . are . . . a danger to themselves and others!”
Clémence sat back throughout this outburst. Then she gave a little pout. “But the police . . .”
“The police know that what happened to Manuel Avore was murder—but what are they doing about it?”
“They are, how do you put it in English, chasing after the suspicions?”
“Pursuing leads? Clémence, pursuit involves the concept of motion. I do not see motion of any kind in this case! I think they just want it to go away.”
“And would that be a bad thing? Avore was a very unpleasant man. His wife must be much happier now.”
“Well, shall we find out?”
“What are you suggesting, Penny?”
“That you and I go and see her . . .”
“Mon dieu, we cannot do that!”
“Says who?”
“The mayor will not like it! And the police . . .”
Penelope decided it was time to play her trump card.
“But Clémence—you must be interested in what really happened!”
“I think that we should leave it to the experts.”
“So, it was just chance that you went to the shop in Coustellet to ask about the axe?”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I did, too.”
For a few moments the two women glared at each other. Then the Parisienne shrugged her elegant shoulders. “It seems, Penny, that we are both more interested than we should be.”
“So was that why you kept coming over to see me?”
“It might have been.”
“So, are we on the same side here? Two nosy parkers . . .”
“That means . . . Oh.” Clémence tapped her pretty little nose. “I think I understand.”
They both smiled.
“So,” asked Penelope, “have you found out anything about the axe and who might have bought it?”
“No, not yet.”
“It can’t have given a good impression that we both went to the shop and asked the same questions. Maybe it would be better to work together. What do you think?”
Mme Valencourt shrugged.
“Yes?”
“It makes sense,” the estate agent said at last.
Penelope raised her coffee cup. “To the Luberon ladies’ detective agency!”
“L’entente cordiale investigative! But be careful,” said her new partner slyly, looking around over her shoulder. “Laurent must never know.”
“All right by me. Now, have you seen this?” Penelope pushed the newspaper across the table. “I spotted it just as you arrived. But I don’t think we should talk about it here.”
* * *
THEY DROVE down the hill in their respective cars. Penelope led in the Range Rover, like a mother duck keeping an excitable chick in line behind her.
“Don’t you ever have work to do?” she asked as they got out at Le Chant d’Eau.
“It’s a very quiet time from now until Christmas. But I want to check what M. Geret has done with your swimming pool.”
On the kitchen terrace, Penelope pointed to an advertisement in the paper.
FÊTE VOTIVE DE SAINT MERLOT
2–3 septembre
Grand concours de Pétanque
Aioli—Place de la Mairie
Grand Bal avec L’Orchestre Echeverria
Grand Prix—Meilleur Tracteur du Luberon 2017
“Look who is sponsoring the competition to find the Best Tractor in the Luberon? It seems to be a shop in Coustellet—”
“Darrieux SARL!” read out Clémence.
“So what I want to know is, what on earth is a shop in Coustellet doing sponsoring an event in a small village miles away? Do they do this every year? Is it just a coincidence?”
Mme Valencourt shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“So where do we go from here?” Penelope couldn’t wait to get started. “We are going to get to the bottom of this, even if no one else wants to.”
“I wonder who is on the fête committee . . .”
“The mayor would know. But you say we can’t ask him.”
“I will ask M. Charpet,” said Clémence. “He will know.”
“What can I do then?”
“Perhaps you should pay Mme Avore a visit, simply as a courtesy from a new neighbour.”
“I was going to, but then I thought, wouldn’t that be odd, in the circumstances?”
“Normally, perhaps, yes. But I hear that she is now a very happy woman. Her situation is not a normal one. Why not walk over to the Avore house now? You know exactly where it is, don’t you?”
“It’s hard to miss.”
“Should I take anything?”
“Not in the circumstances. Go to pay your respects, introduce yourself—and see if she tells you anything useful.”
Penelope walked back up the unmade track to the ramshackle house on the main road. It still did not look inviting. Large cracks issued up one of the walls, and ivy had spread from the trees to cover most of the roof. Rusted farm implements lay in the driveway, almost hidden by the long grass. It radiated neglect, and Penelope found it hard to believe, even now, that Mme Avore had not gone long ago. There was police tape across the door, and no sign of life. She knocked—it was an old-fashioned lion’s-paw knocker, much corroded—but got no answer.
She returned home to find Clémence sitting on the terrace, absorbed in the private property advertisements of La Provence.
“No good,” said Penelope. “Mme Avore wasn’t there. It looks like the police have been in.”
“Maybe she is staying with a friend,” said Clémence.
“Do you have someone in mind?” Penelope thought she could see where this was going, but she wanted to hear it.
“Your neighbour from the other end of the lane? M. Louchard . . . ?”
“Who has always loved her . . . and now there is no obstacle to them being together,” supplied Penelope. She sat down on the stone wall. “Is that what you’re saying, that Avore’s wife and M. Louchard could have killed him?”
“I don’t know. I suppose we have to consider
it.”
“I have heard that he has a dark side.”
“Who told you that?”
“Oh—” Penelope stopped. She was being indiscreet. “You know, I can’t remember. Someone told Frankie, I think. Said he was a bit volatile. Some of these ex-army types can be, can’t they? They find it hard to adjust.”
“A man with a passion, perhaps?”
We are in France, supposed Penelope. “But you can’t put everything down to affairs of the heart, can you?” Or maybe they could.
“It is possible, that is all I have said.”
“You’re right, it is possible. But is it likely?”
“That is what we must find out.”
Penelope was silent as she wondered how they were going to do that. “Did Louchard have any business dealings with Avore?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Nothing . . . that could have linked them contractually?”
“It’s unlikely, but I can ask around. Now, there is good news, Penny. M. Geret has done an excellent job on the swimming pool, as I knew he would. It is impeccable! You must profit from it. September is a marvellous month for swimming here. No wasps! You swim, you relax, and you try to enjoy being in Provence!”
“Wouldn’t that be nice! Some peace and quiet at last.”
They parted, having promised to keep each other posted with any developments. They also decided to go to the St Merlot fête that coming weekend.
* * *
PEACE AND quiet would have to wait, thought Penelope grimly. She watched for the sight of Clémence’s red blur taking the bend down to Apt, and went back out to her car. She wondered whether the baguette and cake she’d deliberately left under the table at the boulangerie would still be there, or whether she’d have to buy another. It didn’t much matter either way.
It was close to ten o’clock when she arrived, and the breakfast rush at the bakery had ended. There was no bag under the table where she had been sitting. Good, she thought.
She went inside.
The large woman smiled, dipped down, and held up her shopping bag.
“Merci beaucoup!” said Penelope, grinning as she tapped the side of her head in mock despair.