Provence - To Die For Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  A CAT WITH A CLUE

  To my right, I heard the cat scratching behind the plywood panels leaning against the wall. 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 turned to watch her. She’d found a brown-and-white 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.

  I leaned over. “What do you have there, kitty?”

  I picked up the loose end of the cloth. It unrolled and something fell out, clattering to the floor. I gasped. It was a large carving knife with a molded black handle. I knelt down. The blade was smeared with something, but I could make out the letters on the handle. They read: FABRIQUÉ POUR EMIL BERTRAND.

  I picked up the fabric that held the knife. It was a white T-shirt, or had been. The brown stains were not paint at all.

  They were dried blood.

  Other Munder, She Wrote mysteries

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Blood on the Vine

  Trick or Treachery

  Gin & Daggers

  Knock ‘Em Dead

  Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder in Moscow

  Murder on the QE2

  The Highland Fling Murders

  A Palette for Murder

  A Deadly Judgment

  Martinis & Mayhem

  Brandy & Bullets

  Rum & Razors

  Manhattans & Murder

  SIGNET

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  For Marisa and Ron

  and

  Billy and Jessica

  Chapter One

  “Bonsoir, madame. So nice to see you again,” said the pretty young woman in lightly accented English.

  “Good evening,” I replied as I shrugged out of my warm woolen coat, handed it to her with my large case, and pocketed the coat-check ticket. “I’m happy to be back.”

  Guillaume, the maitre d‘, smiled. “Madame Fletcher, c’est un plaisir de vous revoir.”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, too.”

  “Monsieur awaits.” He led me across the brown-and-white-tile floor and up two steps to a table in the comer, where my agent, Matt Miller, had already risen from his seat.

  “Jessica! Glad you could make it.” He gave me a brief hug, then stepped to the side so Guillaume could pull out the table. I settled into the leather banquette and tucked my handbag on the seat beside me.

  Guillaume handed us menus and wished us bon appétit.

  “Let’s decide what to eat, and then we can chat,” Matt suggested. “A French meal can go on for hours, and I don’t want to make you late.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I said, opening my menu.

  Matt looked down at the list of specials. “How’s your French?”

  “Pretty good, if I’m with someone who doesn’t speak too quickly. I’ve been taking lessons.”

  I scanned the menu and decided on an appetizer and a salad. I wasn’t very hungry, and my stomach was still a bit shaky after a particularly turbulent flight. But this was the beginning of my vacation. I was going to spend eight weeks in France, focusing on my own much-needed three R’s: reading, resting, and relaxing. Just the contemplation of it slowed my pulse, loosened the tension in my shoulder muscles and, I was sure, lowered my blood pressure. Matt and I had selected the restaurant L’Absinthe on the Upper East Side of New York City. It had the perfect atmosphere to launch my holiday even though it was an ocean away from France.

  I was coming off a particularly hectic summer in which friends, some invited and some not, had decided Cabot Cove was a great place to visit in July and August. That’s peak tourist season for every village along the Maine coastline, and even though my hometown is short on public attractions, the lure of the Atlantic Ocean, lobster dinners, and “quaint” New England architecture is enough to fill up our motels, inns, and bed-and-breakfast homes. One couple, cheerfully escaping the sweltering heat in Florida, had shown up at my door, suitcases in hand, without prior notice. I’d met them only once before. As it happened, I already had houseguests, and spent a frantic hour on the telephone trying to find these new arrivals a bed for the night. I can’t say whether or not I would have accommodated them even had
my guest room been unoccupied. Presuming that people will welcome you without the courtesy of a call to see if they’re otherwise engaged is high on my list of inconsiderate behavior. But fortunately for them—and for me—I didn’t have to resort to my backup plan: spreading a sleeping bag on the living room floor. Seth Hazlitt, our local doctor and a dear friend of many years, responding to a note of panic in my voice, convinced a recently widowed patient of his, Mrs. Bloomquist, that her pool house would make delightful guest quarters. She could earn a bit of extra money, my unexpected visitors would have a roof over their heads, and Cabot Cove’s restaurants would benefit from two more mouths to feed. It all worked out in the end, and I heard recently that Mrs. Bloomquist has registered with a group that promotes New England’s bed-and-breakfast trade.

  I didn’t know where September and October had gone. My hopes to fit in a few days of fishing before the season’s end went begging as various projects, some work-related and some community-based, seemed to vacuum up all the hours in the days, until I began to feel I would never have time to sit down.

  But that was all behind me now, and the French countryside beckoned. While Matt studied his menu, I took in my surroundings. The decor in the elegant brasserie was just as you might imagine a Parisian restaurant to look. Warm wood paneling rose to meet cream-colored walls on which were displayed elaborately framed mirrors and advertisements for a variety of French events and products, including L’Absinthe, the notorious aperitif reputed to have driven Van Gogh to slice off his ear, and for which the restaurant was named. Crisp white napery covered the tables. Huge flower arrangements lent drama, but not fragrance, to the corners and center of the dining room. The only scents were the wonderful aromas that wafted behind the trays of food carried by the waiters coming from the kitchen.

  I ordered escargots in puff pastry, a specialty of the house, and a green salad to follow. I’d learned to eat snails on a previous trip to France. Once I’d overcome my aversion to the idea, I’d discovered that I really enjoyed the mollusks, especially when they were prepared in the Provençal manner with lots of garlic. Matt opted for trout with braised endives and a side of frîtes, the Gallic name for what is perhaps France’s best-known contribution to the American diet and waistline—French fries.

  “White all right with you?” he asked as he pored over the wine list. The sommelier, who’d been hovering nearby, came to Matt’s elbow.

  “Are you sure you want to order a whole bottle?” I asked in reply. “One glass will be sufficient for me.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that in Provence,” he said. He pointed to a bottle on the list and nodded at the wine steward.

  “Très bien, monsieur.”

  Matt turned to me. “When Susan and I were in Provence a few years ago, our host opened two bottles, a red and a white, every day at lunch, and at least four each night for dinner.”

  “Yes, but your host owned a vineyard,” I pointed out. “Martine is an artist, and her farmhouse is next to an olive grove.”

  “So that’s where you’re staying. Who is this lady?”

  “Her name is Martine Devries. Her sister lives in Cabot Cove. Have I ever mentioned Elise Edman?”

  Matt shook his head, tearing off a hunk of crusty roll and popping it in his mouth.

  “She’s married to Rudy Edman; he teaches earth science in the high school. She’s been helping me brush up on my French, and vows that I’ll sound like a native by the time I get back.”

  “You have hidden talents, Jessica. I didn’t know you could speak French that well.”

  “I’m sure she was exaggerating, but I’ll find out soon. Anyway, Elise and her sister, Martine, were ‘army brats’—that’s what they call themselves. Their father was a major who met his wife in Paris. The family moved around a lot. When he was stationed in France, the girls got to travel all over the country with their mother. Martine said Provence was her favorite region. She always wanted to live there.”

  “She’s American, then?”

  “Yes, and half French. She speaks both languages fluently.”

  “That’s great for you,” he said, grinning ruefully. “I took Spanish in high school, so I was no help at all when we visited Provence. Sue remembered enough French to figure out how to ask directions, but not enough to understand the answers. We got lost a lot. Fortunately for us, our hosts had a better grasp of English than we had of French.”

  The wine steward returned with a bottle of chardonnay, and presented the label to Matt, who nodded his assent. We watched as he uncorked the wine and poured a small amount in Matt’s glass, carefully wiping off the lip of the bottle with an immaculate white linen towel. Matt, who was well versed in the customs of wine tasting, swirled the wine around in the glass, held it up to the light, took a sip, swished the liquid over his tongue, and finally swallowed. “Bon!” he pronounced. “Good!”

  The wine steward filled my glass halfway, added more to Matt’s glass, and shoved the bottle into a bucket of ice on a stand next to our table. Matt and I raised our glasses and clinked. “To a wonderful stay in Provence,” he said. “I know you’ll love it.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

  The waiter arrived with our dishes, and conversation temporarily ceased as we concentrated on the wonderful flavors. The snails were as good as I’d remembered them, and the lemony dressing on my salad was the perfect counterpoint to the butter and garlic of the classic dish.

  “When do you head south?” Matt asked, pulling the wine from the ice without waiting for the steward.

  “The day after tomorrow.” I covered my glass with my hand to keep him from filling it again. “I’m taking the noon train to Avignon. It’s only a little over three hours.”

  “And how long will you be staying there?”

  “About two months. I gave Martine’s address and phone number to Paulette last week,” I said, referring to Matt’s assistant. “So if you need to teach me, you can.”

  “I’ll try not to do that. What good’s a vacation if you keep getting calls from the office?”

  “I appreciate the thought,” I said, smiling. “Although I may get a yen to hear my native language after immersing myself in French for a while.”

  “What about Martine? She speaks English.”

  “Yes, but she won’t be there for the first month.”

  “She won’t? Why not?”

  “We’re swapping houses,” I said. “She’ll be settling into mine in Cabot Cove at the same time I move into hers in Provence.”

  The waiter removed our plates, and returned shortly with a dome-topped cart containing a selection of cheeses.

  “I’ve had enough for now,” I told Matt. “But you go ahead.”

  He picked out a small, round white goat cheese, a creamy Brie, and a French cheese I didn’t know, a Cantal. The waiter cut wedges of the cheese, arranged them on a plate, garnished with some slices of pear, and set it in front of Matt with a flourish. He looked across at me, in case I’d changed my mind.

  “Non, merci,” I said.

  The waiter smiled wistfully and pushed the cart away.

  Matt picked up a piece of Brie with his fork. “How come Martine’s not staying with her sister and brother-in-law?” he asked, balancing a sliver of pear on top of the cheese.

  “She told me that a month is too long to impose on them,” I replied. “But I think she also likes the idea of being able to get away and give them—and herself— some privacy. With Martine staying at my house, she can have a nice long visit without worrying about wearing out her welcome. And I get to live in a French farmhouse.”

  “Yes, but it’s November,” Matt pointed out, frowning. “It’s not exactly tourist season. A lot of places will be closed. What are you going to do all by yourself? You don’t even drive.”

  “Oh, I think I can manage,” I said, already envisioning morning excursions to the market for fresh vegetables, brisk afternoon walks, and curling up by the fire with a pile of books I’d b
een meaning to read. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to go away and relax. When I travel for business, well, that’s business. At home—you know how it is—there are always chores to be done, correspondence to write, errands to run, and people to see—and that doesn’t even count work. But in Provence there’s no pressure, no computer or fax machine; everything is quiet and uncomplicated. I’m looking forward to the solitude, living a simpler life, reading and resting, cooking for myself, and enjoying the occasional day shopping in Avignon or visiting a museum. It’s quite a cosmopolitan city, I understand.”

  “You’ll go stir-crazy in a week,” Matt predicted as he speared the Cantal. “You’re a social person, Jessica. You’ll be bored with no one to talk to.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself,” I said. “But in any case, I won’t be entirely alone.”

  “Aha! What haven’t you told me?”

  “Nothing shocking, I assure you,” I said. “I’m planning to take cooking classes in Avignon.”

  “Cooking? I thought you were already a pretty good cook.” He gathered the remaining crumbs of goat cheese with the back of his fork. “Your homemade baked beans and clam chowder never last long around my house. And that blueberry crumb cake you sent last Christmas was the best.” His eyes became dreamy as he remembered the crumb cake, the cheese forgotten as the waiter removed his plate.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “Like most cooks, I guess, the dishes I know how to make, I make very well. But I don’t know much about French cooking. Provence is renowned for its cuisine. Lucky for me, cooking classes are available year-round. I’ve already signed up for one course.”

  “Are you going into competition with me?” said a male voice other than Matt’s.

  It was Jean-Michel Bergougnoux, the chef and owner of L’Absinthe, who’d been stopping at each table to greet his customers. He wore his kitchen uniform of white jacket and dark pants, but was without his toque, the tall white hat that’s the symbol of his trade.