by Serena Kent
“Well done. Now we can really enjoy ourselves.” Frankie was resplendent in a silvery tunic that showed off her legs. Wearing false eyelashes, too.
“That was the idea.”
“Have you been to Laurent’s house before?”
“No. Can’t wait to see it.”
The taxi ride only took about five minutes. The driver knew exactly where to go: through the centre of St Merlot and out the other side towards Les Garrigues.
They passed the old priory and turned into a drive lined with olive trees and oleanders. The grounds were extensive but beautifully maintained. The grass was like a bowling green. He must have a team of gardeners working round the clock, thought Penelope.
The mayor’s home was an eighteenth-century manor house with elegantly faded grey shutters. Frankie was impressed. “All very chi-chi. The roof’s new, and it’s top quality,” she hissed. All the windows along the ground floor were French doors. The setting sun gilded the exquisite pale stucco exterior. A line of plane trees shaded a substantial gravel terrace where a table was set with candle lamps and flowers. Close by, at either end, were patio heaters for when the evening temperature dropped. It was like a photograph in a lifestyle magazine.
From this perfect picture stepped Laurent Millais, carrying three bottles of Dom Pérignon. He placed them in a silver cooler filled with ice and raised his hand in greeting.
“Bonsoir, mesdames!”
Laurent looked heart-stoppingly gorgeous in a cream shirt and burgundy jeans. Penelope suppressed a retort as Frankie launched herself at him, to be first in with the three kisses.
“Thank you so much for inviting us,” she said when it was her turn. “What a stunning house!”
“I could not live anywhere else! Now, let us open the champagne.”
A waiter brought crystal glasses on a tray, and then opened one of the bottles and poured.
Visible through the open door to the kitchen, caterers dashed around, and a young waitress brought out canapés.
They all raised their glasses.
“To Penny, and her new life in St Merlot!” said the mayor.
“Thank you!”
Penelope felt shy all of a sudden. Goodness, it was just as well she hadn’t arrived to find she was the only guest. That would have been rather overwhelming.
“You haven’t cooked for us yourself, then?” teased Frankie.
“I do cook, but not tonight. It is a special occasion.”
“So how long have you had this place?” she went on, giving the pale stone façade a professional evaluation.
Laurent did not have a chance to answer, as the red Mini Cooper made it down the drive in a matter of seconds, stopping abruptly in front of the terrace.
Clémence emerged alone, hair immaculate and subtly blonder. She looked like a miniature Catherine Deneuve in a designer black dress that nipped in her tiny waist. Her high shoes fastened around the ankle with soft leather bows.
“Love those shoes,” gushed Frankie. “Yves Saint Laurent?”
The Frenchwoman winked at Penelope. “My special place in Paris.” She kissed Laurent and accepted a flute of champagne.
“No M. Valencourt this evening?” asked Frankie. From anyone else, it would have sounded too blunt.
Penelope had still not discovered anything about the elusive Monsieur V.
“Oh, non. Malheureusement pas. He sends his regrets.”
“So he’s busy, then, this Saturday night?”
“Hélas, it could not be avoided.”
“What’s he doing?” Frankie bulldozed on.
“He is not here, he is away on business.”
Anyone else would have left it there, but Frankie persisted. “Where is he?”
In spite of her own curiosity, Penelope cringed.
“He is abroad.”
“He’s very mysterious, your husband!” Frankie laughed, to show she didn’t mean any harm. “Does he get home much?”
“No, not very often.”
Politeness was restored with the arrival of a glamorous couple in a black Mercedes. Penelope was pretty sure that she recognised them from the mayor’s party at the St Merlot fête.
A round of introductions was made. They were Claudine and Nicolas, and they lived in Roussillon. She was a museum director, elegant in silky draped blue. He was an artist and wore a black linen suit with a black shirt. There was an air about him that suggested his art sold very well.
Penelope started speaking to Claudine—she had a wide smile that made her very approachable—while trying to hear Frankie interrogate Clémence. “Does that mean you and Laurent are still . . .”
Penelope found she was holding her breath. Frankie’s directness could be embarrassing. She hoped Clémence wouldn’t be offended.
But surprisingly, she didn’t seem to be. “That has all cooled off,” said Clémence. “It was fun while it lasted, but you know, there is a time . . . and then it passes.”
The waiter refilled glasses.
“How are you finding St Merlot?” Claudine asked Penelope. “Not too quiet?”
“It’s wonderful,” said Penelope, deciding to gloss over the body in the swimming pool and the shock of shaking hands with a skeleton while under fire. “Not nearly as busy as Roussillon, though. Tell me which museum you work at?”
Claudine hadn’t got very far into her explanation of where the Ochre and Paint Museum was and what her role there was when another car came up the drive. Penelope felt the champagne go to her head when she heard its engine.
The red Ferrari growled towards them and parked in front of the terrace.
Penelope glanced at Frankie, who raised an eyebrow in return.
Laurent stepped forward and enveloped his friend in a bear hug. They obviously knew each other well. The silver fox was introduced as Benoît de Reillane. He kept hold of Penelope’s hand slightly too long after shaking it and her first thought was that he was of the type that needed watching. He was attractive, though, no doubt about it.
“I heard you wanted to meet the priest,” said Laurent, mischievously.
“What?”
“Benoît is my friend the priest.”
“You’re the priest?” said Penelope. “Crumbs.”
Benoît smiled gnomically. “And you are the neighbour of my business partner Pierre Louchard? He is a lucky man.”
Penelope’s mouth dropped open a little. She was about to ask him what he meant when other voices broke in. More guests were arriving.
As guest of honour, Penelope was seated next to Laurent. Under the warming glow of candlelight, the wine flowed, delicious food was placed in front of them, and interesting conversation was interspersed with lots of laughter. Penelope was toasted again, and the story of her difficulties retold. She felt happier than she had in ages.
“I have one more toast,” said Laurent, standing at the head of the table. “Let us drink to the success of Le Prieuré des Gentilles Merlotiennes and its new purpose.” He sounded excited.
Penelope saw him smile at Clémence.
“As some of you will know, we heard yesterday that the deal has gone through, and the consortium is in place to develop the priory as a holistic retreat and natural healing spa. Thanks indeed to Father Benoît and the Agence Hublot for making it all possible. They are tough negotiators, and I couldn’t have done it without them.”
Everyone raised their glasses.
“A retreat and spa! That sounds wonderful,” said Penelope, when Laurent sat down.
“I hope it will be. If we get it right—and we have been taking advice from all different sources—it could bring the priory back to life in a way that is good for all of us. I want to grow lavender there—”
“Like they do at the Abbaye de Sénanque,” said Penelope, understanding at last.
“Exactly. But also to use lavender and herbs grown locally in a range of organic creams and soaps and natural remedies. Pierre Louchard’s lavender is excellent, and he will be able to expand his busines
s.”
“It’s a great idea. Wait a moment, M. Louchard is in this scheme as well?”
“He is a partner, leasing part of his land and providing the lavender.”
“And were there any other partners—like Manuel Avore, for example?”
“How do you know that? We needed a small strip of land from none other than Manuel Avore. We were willing to agree to a decent sum of money, but he always refused to sell—it was the last tiny parcel he owned—but said he would consider leasing it. In the end we dealt with his wife after his death. She was much more amenable.”
Laurent refilled her glass. “If you wanted to plant the higher part of your land with lavender, or thyme, for that matter, you could be part of this too.”
Penelope thought of the scent that would produce. “Mmm . . . I like that idea.”
“It’s going to be a good project.”
“I’ve never met a Ferrari-driving priest before.”
“My friend Benoît is unlike anyone else. And he has always loved Italian sports cars. Though it’s really not very practical for our terrain. Every time he wants to see Pierre, he has to park and walk down that track you share—the rocks and bumps would destroy the suspension on that car.”
He must have been visiting Louchard, that first night when she heard the roar of the engine! And that was why he stopped at the end of the track. She kept those thoughts to herself, glad it was all over.
“How did you meet?” she asked
“In another life, when I was making a television documentary. He was running the monastery over at Reillane, though as no abbot had ever done before.”
“Oh?”
“In order to assume charge of this ancient institution, he was obliged to take holy orders. Luckily, he was allowed to choose the seminary that would supply his religious education. So his ordination comes courtesy of an online church in Nevada.”
“He’s not really a priest, then?”
“Do not ever say that in front of lawyers for the Church of the True Believers of Christ on a Burnt Taco, founded in 1983.”
Penelope giggled. “No!”
“Something like that, anyway. Benoît once had a rather successful career as an actor in French cinema. Benoît Berger?”
She shook her head, making a mental note to look him up online.
“Much loved by female film fans of a certain age. But his great achievement at Reillane is the conversion of the monastery into a beautiful theatre and arts centre that benefits the whole community—and beyond, for that matter. I want to achieve a project here that will be equally good for this village.”
Penelope looked over at the former film star. He was chatting animatedly to Frankie. No doubt she would hear all about him when they got home. “How did your documentary turn out?”
Laurent pulled a mock-modest expression. “It won a national award.”
“Congratulations.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“It’s a perfect evening,” she said. “A lovely celebration.”
“I didn’t intend for quite so many people to join us. But the priory deal was signed, and Clémence insisted we should mark the event with Claudine and Nicolas, who are big investors. They are leaving in a few days to set up an exhibition in Berlin—and she was sure that you would want Frankie to be invited to the party.”
That was interesting. It chimed with her feeling about Clémence’s machinations that morning.
“We must have that dinner together sometime,” said Laurent.
Penelope’s mobile whistled. She ignored it. Then it went off again.
“Have a look. It might be important.”
The first text was from Justin: Hi Mum, hope you’re well. All fine here. Send word sometime if you are still alive.
Penelope smiled. If only they knew. She had spared the children the details, not wanting to worry them. The barest details of her neighbour’s death had sufficed.
The other was from Lena: We haven’t talked properly for ages, it said. We all miss you, and Zack says he wants his Gan-ma to play football with him soon. Hope everything is going well and no news lately is good news. Xxxx from all of us.
She smiled.
Absolutely fine, darling, she texted back to each of them. Lovely—everything I hoped it would be. Sorry, been very busy. Lots to tell you, but let’s wait till you come out.
She switched off her phone and turned back to Laurent.
“Now, what were you saying about dinner?” asked Penelope.
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks to Stephanie Cabot and Araminta Whitley for loving the characters in this book immediately and laughing a lot, as well as for brokering the deals that meant readers would have a chance to meet Penelope Kite and friends. Also to Ellen Coughtrey at the Gernert Company in New York, who gave us a brilliant critical edit at a crucial stage.
At HarperCollins in New York, the incomparable Jennifer Barth took the change of direction from previous books in her stride and made everything happen. In London, Harriet Bourton at Orion pushed us further with her enthusiasm and the strength of her vision for future adventures with Penelope.
We are extremely grateful for all their hard work to everyone at Harper, especially Jonathan Burnham, copy editor Miranda Ottewell, assistant editor Sarah Ried, Joanne O’Neill, who designed the fabulous cover, marketing director Jennifer Murphy, publicist Emily Vanderwerken, and interior designer Bonni Leon-Berman.
Croissants all round in London for Marina De Pass, Olivia Barber, copy editor Francine Brody, Alainna Hadjigeorgiou, Brittany Sankey, and everyone at Orion who launched Penelope with such aplomb.
And a great big pain au chocolat for Maddy Rees, who spent sultry afternoons reading detective novels in the garden in Provence and offered her own inimitable comic insights.
About the Author
SERENA KENT is the nom de plume of Deborah Lawrenson and her husband, Robert Rees. They met at Cambridge University and pursued completely different careers, she in journalism and fiction; he in banking and music. They live in a house full of books in England, and an old hamlet in Provence, which is also in dire need of more bookshelves.
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Copyright
DEATH IN PROVENCE. Copyright © 2019 by Deborah Lawrenson and Robert Rees. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Joanne O’Neill
Cover images © Athanasia Nomikou/Shutterstock (woman); © alaver/Shutterstock (buildings, mountains, clouds)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kent, Serena, author.
Title: Death in Provence : a novel / Serena Kent.
Description: New York, NY : Harper, 2019. | Series: Penelope Kite ; 1 | Identifiers: LCCN 2018043841 (print) | LCCN 2018049722 (ebook) | ISBN 9780062869876 (E-book) | ISBN 9780062869852 (hardback)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Traditional British. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6111.E594 (ebook) | LCC PR6111.E594 D43 2019 (print) | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018043841
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-286987-6
Version 11152018
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-286985-2
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