by Serena Kent
“If he did, it was against my wishes—but that never stopped him.” Mariette gave a sad shake of the head.
Another pause.
“How can I find a copy of the newspaper that this piece came from?” asked Penelope gently. “Is there a main library in Apt that keeps old editions?”
“Of course. Do you know the square behind the cathedral? The main town library is there. You can just go in and ask. But can I ask a question now? What is your interest in this?”
“Oh . . . you know how it is when you move into a new place, you just get interested in who was there before.” Penelope was well aware how feeble that sounded, but she couldn’t admit the truth to the murdered man’s widow. That would have been totally insensitive.
“I must go,” said Mariette.
“Do you drive this around every day?”
“Wednesdays I visit Rustrel, Gignac, St Merlot, and Castellet. Thursdays, it’s Gargas, Le Chêne, Murs, and Lioux. I just do two days a week.”
They both said goodbye, and how pleased they were to meet. Penelope watched as Mariette started the Bibliobus’s engine with a shaky rumble and took the road to Castellet.
* * *
THE RECORDS of old newspapers were to be found in a hot, airless room with no windows at the end of the corridor in the Bibliothèque d’Apt. Extraordinarily, the 2010 records were still stored on a microfiche reader so ancient that Penelope remembered using it at the Home Office before the system was upgraded. She lifted the dust sheet of the machine and turned it on.
Having located the microfiche with the correct paper and date, Penelope inserted the celluloid strip. On a large screen she had the Apt edition of La Provence for the date in question. Scrolling through various news stories about Easter pageants and cherry orchard blight, she at last found what she was looking for. There was no article attached, but underneath the photo on the screen, a legend read “Résident de St Merlot gagne 50,000 euros—Casino de Salon.” A St Merlot resident wins 50,000 euros.
No name, Penelope thought, but a St Merlot resident. So why did Mariette not know who he was? And why did he look so wretchedly miserable?
He must have been the unhappiest winner in the history of gambling jackpots. Unless it was the publicity he was gloomy about.
Luckily, she knew how to make a copy of the page she was looking at. She checked for paper in the printer, and hit the button to make two. She folded one of these and put it in her bag. Then she took a piece of copy paper and wrote on it.
Next stop—there was nothing else for it—the police station.
At the front desk, Penelope handed over a small package addressed to Inspector Paul Gamelin. It contained the pack of fifty-one cards she had found, a note of explanation, the original newspaper clipping, and the second copy of the microfiche page. She made no suggestion of her own deductions, stating only that, in view of the card found in the ruined chapel, she could not in all conscience ignore the possibility that this might be evidence.
24
THE SEASON OF FESTIVALS IN the Luberon lasted all summer long. Every village had one. There was a traditional communal meal for all the villagers, a boules or pétanque contest, a vide grenier, and perhaps a show of some kind. On the Saturday night a dance band played in a central square or on a road lined with trees that could be cordoned off and strung with fairy lights.
Over the years it had become a point of honour and considerable competition amongst the various mayors to provide the most lavish of spectacles. There was little argument that Viens, with its incomparable band, had the best music. Lacoste mounted a complete opera funded by Pierre Cardin and other wealthy residents. Not to be outdone, Gordes produced a fireworks display that, it was said, caused a number of the older residents to recall the days they watched the Allied forces liberate Provence in 1944.
By the first weekend in September, it was St Merlot’s turn.
Penelope was particularly looking forward to the vide grenier, the empty-the-attic sale on Sunday morning. Back in Surrey she would have called it a jumble sale, and steered well clear. But here it seemed exciting, and she was itching to see what glorious shabby-chic items she could pick up for a few euros. She intended to get there early to beat the professional brocanteurs to the best bargains. All those years of watching antiques programmes on the telly would not be wasted.
First, though, was the aioli on Saturday night, the gathering at which all the villagers sat down together at long tables outside and ate this traditional dish of garlic mayonnaise with local vegetables and bread.
Penelope decided to walk up rather than try to park the Range Rover. She also wanted to have a few glasses of wine if she felt like it. The events of the past few weeks were enough to turn anyone to drink. She put on some pretty but practical espadrille wedges and a long boho dress and was pleased enough with the reflection in her new mirror. A couple of days by the pool and working in the garden had given her a light golden tan that suited her. Not bad, she thought, not bad at all.
The village square had been decked overnight with garlands of flowers. Bunting of various vintages and flickering lights delineated the stage where the band would play. Tables had been covered with white paper and set with cutlery, glasses, and bottles of wine and water. “Pa-dam, pa-dam, pa-dam!” sang Edith Piaf over the PA system, and a sense of anticipation was palpable among the villagers.
Penelope smiled at everyone who looked her way, aware that they all knew who she was. She spotted the mayor, who raised his hand in greeting, then her new friends, the baker and his wife. This was the hardest part about being on your own, she thought: making an entrance. But then she imagined how awful it would be to have her ex-husband in tow, annoying her. That would have been infinitely worse. She went over to the bar that had been set out near the fountain and bought a glass of rosé.
A bell rang promptly at seven o’clock. Women wearing white aprons bustled out of the épicerie-fruiterie to place plates of cold meats on the tables. A queue of villagers, all chattering loudly, formed against the sun-blasted stone walls surrounding the square, perhaps the only orderly queue Penelope had seen since leaving England. Plates in hand, they were served the lightly boiled vegetables and potatoes that they would dip in the aioli. Just as well I like garlic, thought Penelope. It was exceedingly pungent.
She stood back, waiting for Clémence to appear, and watched as families and groups of friends started to take their seats. Before too long the tables had been all but filled, and Penelope was starting to worry whether there would be enough space for them.
The mayor was seated at a prominent table with a group of laughing people who looked tanned and sleek and wealthy, the women in chic, tight-fitting short dresses and the men in billowing white cotton shirts and well-cut trousers. She recognised one of them as the silver fox in the red Ferrari.
Penelope found it very hard not to keep staring over at the party. They were by far the most glamorous group at the event.
She joined the queue to buy tickets for the meal, one for herself and one for Clémence, though she was unsure whether it was a dish the native Parisienne would relish. She’ll just nibble at the vegetables, predicted Penelope. As the line shuffled slowly forward, everyone chatting in celebratory mood, Penelope watched the mayor lay his arm over the silver fox’s shoulders and exchange a few words that made them both laugh.
Eventually she saw Clémence arrive from the direction of the mairie and pick her way daintily across the rough surface of the square in the prettiest shoes Penelope had yet seen her wear: pale pink suede with a black bow around the ankle. An immaculate shell-pink fitted dress, cream pashmina, and black bag completed the ensemble. She would have been right at home in the mayor’s party.
As it was, the two of them perched at the end of a table packed full of jolly, shouting locals. Penelope waved at Didier, who was in the thick of it at another table. He waved a cauliflower floret back. At least the noise meant that she and Clémence could have a chat without being overheard.
Even so, Penelope kept her voice low as she reported her latest find, the meeting with Mariette Avore (carefully referring to her as “the wife”) and the matching of the newspaper cutting. The Frenchwoman was clearly impressed, even if she was unconvinced about the wisdom of delivering the playing cards to the police.
“I had to. What if that pack really is material to the case? I couldn’t ignore that. So, have you managed to find out anything?” Penelope crunched on a carrot, feeling very garlicky already.
“Nothing at the moment, Penny. Have you been shot at again over the last few days?”
“Very funny. So you haven’t had any more thoughts about the connection between the Darrieux shop and this village?”
“We need to wait. To look carefully while being discreet.” Clémence sipped delicately from her glass of white wine, glancing over the rim at the crowd. It was no surprise at all that her gaze lingered on the mayor and his friends. “What have you been doing since I saw you?” she asked, overbrightly, then lowered her voice. “Talk as if you haven’t a care in the world. About something of no consequence. We need to be careful discussing these people here. The villagers are mainly farmers, and they will know the names.”
“Those are very beautiful shoes you are wearing, Clémence,” gushed Penelope. “You always wear lovely shoes. May I ask where you bought them?”
“They are pretty, are they not?” Clémence extended a slim, well-shaped calf.
“Chanel?”
“I bought them in Paris, but they are not by Chanel.” Clémence lowered her voice. “That is most interesting, is it not, Penny? It seems our friend from Coustellet is saying hello to Laurent.”
“Ah, those shoes . . . from Paris but not by Chanel!” Penelope caught sight of the man from Darrieux shaking the mayor’s hand. “The big man from the shop! Now that is fascinating!”
“I bought these shoes in a sale,” said Clémence. “Interesting. They have clearly met before.”
“I wish I could find sales like that. Is the big man Darrieux himself?”
“Yes, Paul Darrieux.”
“What if he recognises us?”
“My goodness, the sun shines right into my eyes this time of evening,” said Clémence, whipping out her enormous sunglasses.
“Mine too.” Penelope followed her lead. “Did my new gardener have anything interesting to say about this Coustellet connection, by the way?”
“I did not manage to speak to him.”
“So we don’t know anything for certain, then. This could all be coincidence.”
“He will surely be here tonight. Perhaps we could ask him. Keep looking, Penny. Can you see how M. Coustellet is handing over something?”
“So he is. And the mayor is putting whatever it is he’s been given straight into the inside pocket of his jacket. As if he knows exactly what it is without looking.”
“Keep watching what they do next.”
The big man nodded to the mayor and walked away, belly rippling. The mayor sat down and was soon drinking and chatting away again with his friends.
“What do you think that was about?” whispered Penelope. “Surely our friend who took me to lunch the other day can’t be involved in anything dubious?”
“I would like to think not.” A large but hung over her response.
“By the way, did you ask him whether Avore and Louchard had any business dealing together?”
“I have not. Sorry.”
“I think I need another glass of rosé,” said Penelope.
“I am going to have a cigarette,” said Clémence.
* * *
PENELOPE AND Clémence stood watching under the trees as the support band took their places on the stage and began their sound checks. Some flashing lights revolved experimentally. Within minutes the show had started with a full-blast rendition of “Jumping Jack Flash.” It was good to know that the French had lost none of their adoration of the Rolling Stones.
From their new vantage point, they had a better view of the tables, where most people were still eating. Penelope gave Clémence a nudge. “My gardener,” she said.
M. Charpet, his beret on the table by his plate, beckoned to them.
“Go on,” Clémence urged her. “I will join you when I have finished my cigarette.”
Penelope marched over. M. Charpet wiped his mouth with a large paper napkin, pulled a chair out next to his, and ushered Penelope into it. There were handshakes all round and introductions to so many people; the only one Penelope remembered was his sister Valentine. She was a carbon copy of her brother (minus the moustache, of course), though he assured Penelope that they were not twins. She started talking the moment Penelope was seated, and showed little sign of letting up—all in an accent quite opaque to anyone not born and brought up in the region.
This table was still in thrall to the aioli, guzzling with gusto. A large golden gobbet was ladled onto a plate and shoved in front of Penelope, along with more vegetables and potatoes. Her glass was refilled, and she found herself keeping pace with some expert bottle-drainers. After a while she relaxed, and then began to enjoy herself. She could still only catch one word in ten from Valentine, but after yet another glass of wine, she felt she could understand everything through a strange osmosis. Afterwards she realised that her French companions were feeling much the same way about her efforts to join in, but in the garrulous and friendly atmosphere that pervaded the square, no one really minded.
Wiping the last smears from her plate with a large crust of bread, Penelope sat back in a mellow state of mind and surveyed the scene.
Clémence was speaking to the mayor—and behaving quite coquettishly, it had to be said. The mayor seemed perfectly relaxed to have her flirting with him in front of everyone, leaving her hand on his arm as she threw her head back, laughing at something he said. They did make a well-matched couple.
It might have been the wine, but Penelope suddenly found herself wondering whether Clémence had been annoyed that she had lunched with Laurent.
Laurent and Clémence’s animated conversation was interrupted by a small man in a cream linen suit and hair that gleamed under the lights in the trees. Both stopped laughing. Even from where she was sitting, Penelope could see the mayor’s face cloud over. Then the small man turned around. It was the chief of police.
When had the chief arrived at the fête? Was he a welcome guest, or was he using the occasion as a chance to make further inquiries? The next moment, the Coustellet shopkeeper reappeared, breaking away from a conversation with a group of back-slapping men. The mayor’s face bore an unfathomable expression.
The band came to the end of a Beatles set and went off. There was a pause, and then, as if everyone realised that a momentous event was about to take place, conversation quietened, and the night grew still. The mayor reached into the pocket of his jacket. Penelope held her breath, then took a large gulp of rosé.
M. Charpet tapped her on the arm. “Maintenant, c’est le moment de l’annonce!”
The winner of the Best Tractor competition was about to be announced. From up the hill a rumble grew louder; at the corner of the square appeared a line of improbably shiny tractors, which came to rest—some belching smoke—in formation in front of the mairie.
Laurent Millais stood up and tapped the microphone in front of him in the self-important way of all civic officials.
“Mesdames, messieurs, bonsoir,” he began.
There was a collective sound of cutlery being placed back on the table, chairs being rearranged for viewing, and sighs of either contentment or boredom, Penelope could not tell.
She turned to see that Mme Valencourt had rejoined her and was leaning forward to whisper in her ear. “Maybe we can get to meet M. Coustellet after the mayor has awarded the prize.”
“What’s the chief of police doing here?” hissed Penelope.
Clémence put a finger to her lips.
They turned to listen. The mayor was in the midst of thanking a long list of sponsors, orga
nisers, and helpers for the fête, each name rapturously applauded. Then, shifting his papers, he moved to the competition, and the square grew silent.
“Le Prix du Meilleur Tracteur du Luberon pour cette année est . . .”
Surely he’s not going to prolong the agony, thought Penelope crossly—did they have the X Factor in France as well? She had found Britain irritating in many ways, but none more so than the habit recently formed of pausing before announcing any winner in any sort of contest. It drove her demented.
“Get on with it, man!” she muttered under her breath, as the pause extended.
“M. Pierre Louchard!”
The crowd erupted as Penelope’s neighbour jumped down from his pride and joy. A smiley woman with a sleek dark bob and bright red lipstick stood up and cheered wildly.
“The new widow has been to the hair salon,” said Penelope.
“She is almost chic,” said Clémence. “Well played, good for her!”
Penelope raised her hands high to clap as M. Louchard gave an exaggerated bow and went up to receive his prize, receiving pats on the back from those he passed.
The prize-giving ceremony was brief. A handshake from the mayor, the presentation of an envelope, and it was all over. The man from Coustellet and the chief of police had melted away into the crowd.
Almost immediately, the stage erupted with lights and sound. People rose from their seats as the tables were cleared of everything but the wine, and gathered in front of the musicians. This was the main act. Ingeniously positioned on and around several tons of amplification, eight singers and musicians, including a trombonist and saxophonist, launched into their opening number.
From the back of a lorry parked up behind the stage emerged dancing girls in skimpy costumes. The party had really started. The band was tight, with great rhythms. They were clearly used to being on the road. Maybe, thought Penelope, they made their living moving from fête to fête.
“Bonsoir, St Merlot!” bellowed the lead singer.
The reaction wasn’t quite what he was hoping for, so he tried again.