Perils in Provence
(World Traveler Mysteries, book 1)
By Carolyn L. Dean
Want to know about new releases, sale pricing, and exclusive content? My email newsletter is HERE. It is spam-free, and only sent out when there’s something new, on sale, or FREE. I PROMISE. I hate junk mail, too.
Perils in Provence: A World Traveler Mystery (book1) is copyright 2018 by Carolyn L. Dean. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
Dedication
For my daughter, Rachel, one of my favorite travel companions
For all the people I’ve met in my travels.
Chapter 1
If it looks like a trap and feels like a trap, it probably is a trap.
Jennifer Eleanor Peetman looked up at the massive wooden front door of the four-hundred-year-old house. She could hear the words of her former CIA instructor ringing in her head, like distant alarm bells. All her previous training had taught her how to handle unknown situations and enemies, and she’d learned to trust her instincts, especially when the hair on the back of her neck was standing up.
Sometimes traps were obvious and sometimes, like now, they might come disguised as stately old houses worth millions of euros, that just happen to be located on the main canal in Bruges, Belgium. The outside of the oversized building looked fairly innocent, with dark timbers buried in the plaster and an ornate wrought iron gate in front, topped with flourishes of gold paint. There was nothing obviously sinister in the home’s appearance, in either its well-heeled neighborhood or its peaked red tile roof ornamented by a spiked ridgeline. Dark-rimmed windows with individual panes of medieval glass looked out over the quiet cobblestone street, as though it was silently watching her.
Traps could be full of temptations, she knew. They could look like first-class seats on international flights, complete with solicitous flight attendants and all the expensive champagne she could drink from Seattle to Brussels.
Traps could also look like a new career, with a very fat paycheck and the promise of worldwide travel. When she’d taken the job for Gable Landon he’d said it would be perfect for her, citing her unusual past experience and love of travel. He’d known she had recently gotten her degree in international hospitality, spoke a couple of languages, and could probably kill a man with a ballpoint pen once her hand-to-hand combat training kicked in. Her new boss had been a bit vague on what her exact duties would be with his company, except to say she’d been the new Director of Acquisitions, and that she’d better learn to pack light.
Today, the little coastal town in Oregon where she’d met him seemed light years away. Being a cook at a bed-and-breakfast and finding real friends in Ravenwood Cove had been her refuge after her father’s death, but after a while she’d known it was time to make a change.
Jennifer sighed, smoothed back the strands of blond hair that had escaped from her ponytail, then took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. She could hear somber tones ringing inside, then rapid footsteps coming toward the door. There was the click of an old lock, then the massive door creaked open, pulled inward by a tall, thin man wearing a dark suit and a serious expression. His pointed nose and long legs instantly made Jennifer think of a crane, all angles and intense scrutiny.
“Puis-je vous aider, madame?” the crane asked in flawless French, and Jennifer smiled apologetically, her vivid blue eyes friendly.
“Désolé, Monsieur. Je ne parle pas français.” I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t speak French.
It wasn’t entirely true, but her French was rusty enough she was worried she’d butcher anything she said and offend someone. Also, in her experience it was always better to know more about things, including what other people were saying, than she let on.
“Miss Peetman, I presume?” the crane asked, switching to English. At Jennifer’s confirming nod, he stepped aside to let her in the door. “The master has been expecting you,” he said, then swung the door closed behind her, shutting the heat and light of the midmorning sun outside.
Jennifer blinked to adjust her eyes to the dimness of the hallway, then followed behind him, past a sweeping stone staircase which curled up toward the top floors, its steps showing wear on each tread from hundreds of years of footsteps. The square clay tiles under her feet were unglazed and arranged to almost look like a carpet, stretching all the way toward the open double doors at the end of the corridor.
As they got closer to the double doors, the light got stronger. Jenifer could see it was coming from a large courtyard, paved with smooth gray stones. Lush vines crept up the red brick walls, and a small marble fountain, probably as old as the house, was built into one shady corner. Near it, a wrought iron table, its legs fashioned in ornate curves, held a single glass of orange juice and a manila file folder.
Behind it, long legs stretched out in front of him, sat the infamous Gable Landon, the self-made entrepreneur who had recruited her from her old job at the Ravenwood Cove Inn. His hair was a bit shorter and more professional than when she’d last seen him in Ravenwood Cove, but he still had a guarded, private aura about him, as though he never shared his secrets with others.
Gable brushed imaginary crumbs off his spotless pants as he rose from his chair and gave Jennifer a lopsided smile. His sharp eyes were intent on her as she walked toward him, and from the look on his face she got the sudden impression he seemed very pleased with himself.
“I knew you’d be the one who’d have the guts to do this job. Welcome to Bruges. First time in Belgium, right?” he said, putting out his hand to shake hers.
“Yes, it is.” She wasn’t sure how to react to his comment about her having ‘guts to do this job’.
Jenifer took the offered hand and shook it, surprised to notice the hardness of it. This wasn’t the soft hand of a pampered executive who sat around counting his millions on a spreadsheet. It was one which had done its share of physical work since Gable had left his parent’s horse ranch in Oregon. Gable had been a bit vague about some of the details of his business, and she began to wonder how much hands-on work he did in the acquisition and restoration of the properties and antiques he’d been buying all over the world.
She glanced around the cobbled courtyard. “What a stunning house you have, Mr. Landon.”
One dark eyebrow went up. “After all we’ve been through, you’re going to start calling me ‘mister’?” he asked, his tone serious but his eyes dancing with teasing. “I haven’t forgotten how you threatened me, you know. You were worried I was going to bother your friends. Now that I know more about your abilities I understand exactly how much you meant what you said. Let’s just use first names, Jennifer, okay?”
He gestured for her to sit on one of the deceptively delicate-looking wire chairs, then sat down and motioned to the doorman, who was hovering in the shade at the edge of the courtyard.
“Mr. Henri, would you please let Mrs. Wheaton know Jennifer has arrived, and ask her to come see me in the courtyard.” It was a command, even though he never raised his voice. Gable turned to look at Jennifer, a question in his eyes. “Coffee?” At her answering nod, he glanced wordlessly at the crane and the doorman inclined his head.
“Mrs. Wheaton et café,” he said, making a mental list. He hurried away, leaving the two of them in the courtyard, with only the fountain’s gentle splashing breaking the awkward silence between them.
Gable got right down to business. “So, you know this is your first assignment. It’s a trial run, just like we discussed. We’ll see how you do on this one. If you get through this project, we can decide whet
her you’re a good fit for my company or not.”
“Yes, I understand.” Her gaze was steady. There was no way she was going to show him any doubts or fear. “Where are you sending me?”
“Oh, I think you’ll enjoy this one,” he said with a smile. “It’s a final scouting trip at a neglected chateau in Provence, not too far from Aix. I need some intel to be able to figure out what’s actually going on there, and whether it’s my time and money. If I’m going to invest in it, I want to know as much as possible. Also, I need to find out if there is anything which would help me get the best price.”
He slid the folder toward her and she flipped it open. The first document inside was a photo of a huge stone house. The exterior had weathered to a color somewhere between warm golden sand and the soft gray of a cloudy spring sky. Surrounded by a head-high wall, the chateau had two towers on each end. Four sections of the building of various sizes formed a huge u-shaped enclosure around a center courtyard. Vines crawled up the towers and walls, wrapping around as if trying to choke the old stone into submission. The center area was littered with several abandoned cars, in various states of disassembly, and old barrels and a few farm implements could be seen strewn about.
It looked unloved and forgotten.
“How sad.” The words popped out of her mouth automatically, but Gable seemed to understand exactly what she meant.
“Exactly. This house has been going to wrack and ruin for decades, from what my scout said. The people who still work there are at odds with each other, and not maintaining it well. Even though the previous owner has been dead for over a year, the granddaughter that inherited it shows no interest in it at all, even though its vineyards make some decent wine.” He gave a deep sigh. “In its day, Chateau Mersau would’ve been a hub of activity. Centuries ago, there was an ancient church connected to it on one side, with pilgrims coming for hundreds of years to see its artifacts. When the church collapsed in a fire, the village and the chateau lost some of their prestige and quite a bit of their income.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “It’s been a struggle there ever since. With your help, I’d like to buy the chateau and fix it up. Keep the history and the charm, and open it up for well-funded travelers and maybe hosting events.”
“You mean rich tourists.” She couldn’t hide the distaste in her voice but Gable didn’t seem offended.
“Not exactly. I prefer the term travelers. By that, I mean people who aren’t going to demand that there’s a McDonalds just down the street, or who want to turn France into their own version of home.” His eyebrows drew together as he leaned forward. “The reason my business has succeeded is that the word’s gotten out that I offer unusual properties and items to the discriminating person who wants to fit into the local area, not change it and treat it like Disneyland. If that’s what they want, they can go to some other company,” Seeing he hadn’t won her over, he continued. “Discriminating, not discrimination. Look, you’ve done some traveling, Jennifer. How many times have you seen tourists so busy taking photos of themselves with some landmark they forget to talk to the people around them? Or watched folks buy souvenirs that will wind up in a garage sale in the next year, when there are all sorts of things that have history and charm they could’ve brought home?”
Jennifer knew exactly what he was talking about. She’d seen it before when she’d traveled.
Gable seemed to notice her change of attitude. “All I do is make sure abandoned or unloved things get appreciated again, whether that means paintings or antiques, or huge chateaus.” His smile was nearly smug. “That’s all.”
Even though he said it with absolute confidence, Jennifer couldn’t help but wonder about his methods. This young man had built a successful company and amassed a fair amount of personal wealth in a few short years by doing what he described, and Jennifer was doing her best to go in with her eyes wide open. Whatever he said about doing things for the right reasons, if it turned out that it wasn’t true, she’d quit in a heartbeat. She could always go back to Ravenwood Cove if she had to, or her exceptional cooking skills could land her a job just about anywhere.
A smartly dressed middle-aged woman holding a brown leather satchel strolled across the courtyard, her dark hair short and elegantly coiffed. Even if she hadn’t been wearing such an elegant navy suit, Jennifer had the suspicion that she would’ve still looked like a woman of authority. Her expression wasn’t unkind, but she seemed to be all business. She was perfectly groomed, observant, and with a look of experience and intelligence about her that Jennifer recognized. This woman was used to being obeyed.
Gable rose to his feet and took the satchel from her. “Mrs. Wheaton, I’d like you to meet Jennifer Peetman. Jennifer, this is your backup, Mrs. Wheaton.”
Jennifer automatically shook hands but her mind was elsewhere. “Backup? As in partner?”
“No, not exactly. She’s my assistant, and is here in case you need anything, like information or equipment.” His voice lowered a bit, the tone serious. “Or if you’re in any danger. She’s responsible for your safety, as far as she’s able, and she’ll be on call for you around the clock.”
Mrs. Wheaton sat across from Jennifer and demurely crossed her legs at the ankle, knees together, and looked Jennifer over with careful interest as Jennifer looked back. Gable hadn’t said anything earlier about her having a backup, and she had the uneasy feeling that maybe she’d just been given a new boss.
“So, let’s talk about your cover story.” Gable’s words cut into her thoughts and she smiled.
Jennifer had been expecting this, as she’d been told she’d be undercover. “I’d wondered when you were going to bring that up.”
Mrs. Wheaton shifted in her chair, facing Jennifer. “With your background, I’m sure you can understand the importance of being able to observe as a neutral person. If your mission of calculating the price and figuring out the best route to obtaining a property were known, all sort of problems could occur.”
“Sure,” Jennifer said. “The price goes up.”
Especially if they knew Gable’s intentions for turning a profit later, she thought.
Gable shook his head. “It’s not just a matter of money. When I buy something I always give them a fair price, but it may not be the price they decide they should’ve gotten later, when they see what I do with their property. People get emotional about things like that, and you being anonymous protects you from someone getting angry and…” His words hung, unfinished, in the warm air.
Jennifer nodded, understanding. An angry landowner could be dangerous, especially if they thought they should’ve gotten more cash from a sale.
Gable continued, his voice serious.
“I’ve set it up so you can go to the chateau as an insurance appraiser, to catalog the value of the house and its contents for a new policy. It’s my understanding that the previous owner did not carry enough insurance on the chateau, and we’ve offered to give them a discount if they go with our company. Your job is to go in, find the angle that will give us the best chance of obtaining the property at a fair price, and get out safely.”
“And that’s it.” She watched his eyes to see how he’d respond.
“Yes. That’s it,” Gable said firmly. He nodded to Mrs. Wheaton, who pulled another file out of her satchel. She fished a plane ticket out of the bag as well and handed the paperwork over to Jennifer as she explained.
“This is as much information as we could put together to help you have a plausible explanation for staying at the chateau. The dossier inside lists the expected values of the items we know that are at the property. If you have any questions about valuation or your cover story you are to contact me immediately.”
Jennifer flipped through the pages, then slid the folder inside the one Gable had given her. “That’ll make it easier. Thank you.” She made a mental note to study the list later, so she’d have the information memorized.
Gable’s dark eyes flicked toward her. “So, that’s w
hat we know. Your job is to find out what we don’t know about Chateau Mersau. A place that old always has a few surprises in store.”
Chapter 2
By the time Jennifer arrived at the village of Ameron, she was more than ready to park her rented Peugeot in the deep shade of one of the huge trees by the town square and get a cool drink. True, the drive had been beautiful, with many open spaces bordered by rolling hills, and patches of forest between occasional small towns, but it had also been long and hot. The corkscrew road she’d driven had twisted through an area that seemed to be removed from the more tourist-filled villages. Occasional signs boasting rooms for rent and souvenirs became less and less frequent. Farmhouses and well-tended fields of grapes and grain gave way to two-story homes built of tan-colored stone, leaning on each other in crooked rows right by the narrow road leading into villages. They had dark wooden doors and no front yard, except occasionally a waist-high fence surrounding a small patch of profusely blooming flowers, hanging on to their joyous color even at the end of the warm season.
She'd been expecting the late summer heat, and her air conditioning had struggled to keep up with the midday temperature.
When she stepped out of her car in Ameron, a wave of heat and luscious scents enveloped her. The hot air carried the smell of dried out rosemary plants and warm gravel, along with the distinct odor of roasting garlic. Scanning the main square, it seemed deserted. The only visible occupant was a large dog with wiry fur flopped down in a dusty depression he'd dug next to the main fountain. Tongue out, eyes shut, he seemed happy to have somewhere cool to rest.
A dark-haired man with an ample girth and white- and red-checked apron poked his head out from a nearby bar. He looked around the outdoor eating area and when he spotted a table that still had long-empty glasses on it, he lurched outside, a round tray in hand to clean up.
Perils in Provence Page 1