Provence - To Die For Page 3

  “No trouble at all,” I replied. “I don’t wish to pry, but do you have a place to stay in Marseilles?”

  “There are youth hostels all over, so I’ll probably stay in one of those,” she said, pulling off the rubber band and releasing her braid. She hesitated and looked at me. “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “Mind what?”

  “If I redo my hair.”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “My folks would have a fit if they saw me braiding my hair at a table, even though there’s no food here.” She combed her fingers through her silky locks and divided her hair into three sections to begin replaiting, concentrating on catching the loose strands in her new braid.

  “Does your family know how to reach you?” I asked.

  She shrugged and avoided meeting my eyes. “I’ve got my cell phone. I can give them a call once I’m there.”

  I knew she was reluctant to discuss the situation with me, but I was uncomfortable seeing her so young and adrift.

  “Well, on your way north again,” I offered, “you’re welcome to spend a night or two with me in St. Marc.” I tore a blank page from the back of my datebook, and wrote down Martine’s address and telephone number.

  “That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Fletcher, but I don’t know my plans right now.”

  “Just keep that in your back pocket, in case you need it,” I said. I doubted she’d call, but wanted her to know she had a responsive adult nearby if she ran into any problems. I folded over my side of the tabletop and put my book away. The train slowed, and I pulled my coat from the overhead rack.

  “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mallory said, tossing her newly remade braid across her shoulder. She rose from her seat and put out her hand. Someone had taught this child manners.

  “It was my pleasure to meet you too, Mallory,” I said, taking her warm fingers in mine. “Be careful in Marseilles. And don’t hesitate to use that number I gave you.”

  She gave me a wide smile and dropped back onto her seat. “Thanks.”

  I walked slowly to the end of the car, holding on to the seat backs to keep from losing my balance as the train entered the station and shuddered to a halt. I was afraid I was going to have to manhandle my suitcase all by myself, and was pleasantly surprised to see the conductor standing in the luggage area and handing down bags to their owners. I pointed out mine, followed it down to the platform, and moved out of the way so the conductor could assist other disembarking passengers.

  The sky was threatening, and I felt the first drops of rain on my head. I pulled out my umbrella and walked up the platform, trailing after the other passengers, who seemed to know where they were going. I hoped they’d lead me to a taxi stand. Knowing that I would arrive late in the afternoon, I’d made arrangements to stay overnight in the hotel where my cooking classes would be conducted the following week. I didn’t want to have to familiarize myself with new surroundings while it was getting dark. My plan was to leave for Martine’s house in St. Marc in the morning.

  The Hotel Melissande on Rue de Melissande in Avignon was off a one-way street so small I wasn’t certain the taxi would be able to make the turn without putting a sizable scratch in the white paint of the door. If other towns were similarly laid out with such narrow and twisting streets, it would explain the French preference for tiny cars. Somehow the driver avoided the sharp comers of the buildings that intruded on the intersection and pulled up to the glass front door of an ancient edifice that ran the length of the block.

  Weary and grateful to be near the end of my travels, I barely noticed the lovely stone floor and walls of the entrance hall. On the second floor, a porter wheeled my bag down several halls overlooking a first-floor atrium, where I’d been told breakfast would be served, and showed me to my quarters. It was a beautiful room with floral wallpaper over polished wainscoting. An Oriental rug stretched beneath a king-size bed that had already been turned down, a disk of chocolate perched on the pillow. I was tempted to leave my suitcase standing near the door and simply collapse onto the smooth white linens, but long habit had me hanging up my coat, unpacking what I needed for the next day, and setting out my toilet articles in the elegant marble bathroom.

  I had a quiet dinner in the hotel dining room; only two other tables were occupied, both by Americans. My waiter explained that the restaurant was fully booked later in the evening, but that Americans seemed to dine earlier than the French. And in fact, when I’d finished my meal and had risen to leave, many of the tables were newly occupied, and the sounds of clinking glasses and animated conversation followed me out. By that time, however, more than two days of travel and the six-hour time difference between Avignon, France, and Cabot Cove, Maine, were having their full effect. I sank gratefully between the sheets of my king-size bed and fell asleep instantly.

  “You know he’s only amused that you’re a beautiful young woman who admires him. The old bull! He’s not good enough for you.”

  “Shhh! He’ll hear you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Maybe so, but if he gets angry, he’ll make trouble for you.”

  “If you realize that, why do you stay with him?”

  “He needs me. He’s sensitive and sad.”

  “Apparently there are several women he needs.”

  “That’s not so.”

  The conversation was in French, and I heard a rush of air escape the man’s lips in the characteristically Gallic expression of disgust. I couldn’t see his face—he was in the office behind the hotel’s front desk—but the young woman he was chiding had her back to me, standing in the doorway just past the battery of numbered wooden slots that held messages and room keys for the hotel’s guests. I cleared my throat and she started when she saw me, immediately flushing a bright red.

  “Oh, madame, je suis désolé.” She immediately switched to English. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were waiting.”

  “Not a problem,” I replied.

  “I am so embarrassed,” she said, crossing to the front desk. She fussed with the hotel computer, staring at the keyboard. “Did you sleep well? Was your room all right? Was everything to your liking?” she asked, gray eyes under dark lashes looking everywhere but at me.

  “I slept like a log, thank you. My room is beautiful, and breakfast was fine: The coffee is delicious, the best I’ve ever had,” I said, prattling on, hoping to stave off any more questions, and giving her another moment to collect herself. “Your English is excellent, by the way. Where did you learn to speak so well?”

  She smiled up at me, cheeks still pink. “I was an AFS student,” she said, referring to the American Field Service, which arranges student exchanges, placing American students with families abroad and foreign students in American homes. “I stayed with a family in Ohio and went to the high school there.”

  “You learned well,” I said.

  “You are very kind,” she said, the blush beginning to fade. “Is there something I can assist you with this morning?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’m checking out today. In fact the bellman can bring down my bag whenever it’s convenient.”

  “I will let him know,” she said.

  “And another thing.” I opened my handbag and pulled out a piece of paper on which my travel agent, Susan Shevlin, had printed my itinerary. I put on my reading glasses and scanned the page. “A car is supposed to come for me at ten. Is there any way you can see if that arrangement has been made?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I will look it up for you right now. Your room number, madame?”

  I gave her the number, and she tapped the keys skillfully, secure in the task. While she researched my ride, I studied her. Her name was Claire, according to the pin she wore on her right shoulder. She was tall and lissome, with a cap of dark, curly hair. She had a short nose and a full mouth, and was not especially beautiful, but there was something interesting about her angular face that was very attractive. Right now she was looking distresse
d again.

  “Marcel will be a little late, I’m afraid,” she said. “Will that be terrible if he comes at twenty past the hour?”

  “No. That will be fine.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, there is,” I said. “I’m taking one of your three-day cooking courses next week, starting on Wednesday. Can you check to see if there’s a record of my registration?”

  “Certainement.” She pulled a heavy appointment book from a shelf under her desk, laid it on the marble counter between us, flipped through the pages till she found the proper date, and ran her index finger down the list of names for the Wednesday class. “Oui, madame, here it is. J. B. Fletcher, this is you, yes?”

  “Yes. I’m J. B. Fletcher, Jessica Fletcher.”

  “The class is being taught by Chef Bertrand, owner of the restaurant L’Homme Qui Court. It has a Michelin star,” she said proudly. She coughed delicately, and excused herself. “He is an excellent chef.”

  “And an excellent teacher, you must tell her,” a hearty voice said from a few feet away. The man was dressed in white, and was wearing a toque. Probably in his fifties, he was ruggedly handsome; lines like curved spokes reached across his high cheekbones from startling sky blue eyes topped by black brows, and deep grooves bracketed his thin-lipped mouth. He appeared very fit, built like a boxer, broad across the chest and solid, with heavily muscled forearms extending from his rolled-up sleeves. A pair of reading glasses hung from a gold chain around his neck. The sides of his head were shaved, the stubble more gray than black.

  “Madame Fletcher,” said Claire, “this is Chef Bertrand.” Her face was getting pink again, and I wondered if this was the man under discussion earlier, the one who’d been accused of being unfaithful. He was old enough to be her father.

  “Enchanté, madame,” he said, smiling broadly, taking my hand in both of his and bowing slightly. “I shall be delighted to have such a lovely student in my classes—and such a famous one. You are the American mystery writer?”

  “Yes. I write mysteries.” I was astonished that he knew my name.

  “Ah, I see from your eyes that I surprise you. But even here in southern France, we have heard of J. B. Fletcher. But I must confess, I thought J. B. Fletcher was a man. I did not know he would be such a beautiful woman.”

  His eyes peered deeply into mine as if I were the only person present. Claire stood quietly watching. I thought to myself that she wouldn’t be the only woman to blush today. Chef Bertrand certainly was a flatterer.

  “Alas, if you look for adventure in Provence, you must go to Marseilles. C’est une ville notoire—how do you say?—a notorious city. Here in Avignon, we are peaceful and calm.”

  “I’m not looking for adventure,” I said crisply, “just a nice relaxing vacation.”

  “That you can find here,” he said, giving my hand a final pat, then releasing it. “Is this your first trip to France?”

  “I’ve been to Paris several times, and years ago, when my husband was alive, we came to the south of France, but not in this part of Provence.”

  He made a tsking noise with his tongue. “It is very beautiful here,” he said, “but perhaps not so much at this time of the year. We must have you come back when the sun shines and the lavender is in bloom. Isn’t that so, Claire?” He smiled sweetly at her.

  “Oui, Emil,” she said, returning his smile.

  “I would like that,” I said, “but I’m sure I’ll enjoy this visit as well.”

  “Absolument! Provence, c’est merveilleuse tout le temps.” He looked perplexed. “How does one say this in English?”

  “Provence is marvelous all the time,” Claire translated.

  “Qui! Vraiment. Truly. And we shall make sure this visit is wonderful for you. Have you taken cooking courses before?”

  “Not for a very long time,” I replied, laughing, and thinking that my high school home economics classes probably wouldn’t qualify.

  “In that case, I am honored you have chosen to attend my class,” he said, closing his eyes and putting his hand over his heart.

  I had a feeling that he would have been “honored” whatever my answer had been. He was very charming, in the manner French men have historically been credited with, confident, flirtatious, attentive, and sure of his attractiveness. This couldn’t be the same man Claire had described as sensitive and sad.

  “Guy, come out here. Vite!” he called into the open office door.

  A bespectacled man in his mid-thirties, also wearing kitchen whites, emerged frowning from the back room. He was tall and very thin, and his movements were awkward, like those of a teenager who hasn’t become accustomed to his changing body. Catching sight of me, he put on a pleasant expression. “Bonjour, madame.”

  “Bonjour.”

  “This is Guy Lavande, sous chef in my restaurant and for my cooking courses,” Chef Bertrand said. “He also speaks very good English. N’est-ce pas, Guy? Isn’t that so?”

  “Oui, c’est ca,” Guy said, blinking. Behind his thick glasses, he had one eye that turned in, giving his face an off-balance appearance, but his friendly expression was ingratiating. “It’s true,” he continued in English. “I attended university in your country for one year. This makes me an expert. If you have any questions, I will be happy to assist you.” Guy was taller and thinner than the master chef, with straight brown hair streaked with gray and a bushy mustache, his easy manner in contrast to the palpable magnetism of the chef. I was sure his was the voice I’d heard talking with Claire, warning her “the old bull” wasn’t good enough for her.

  “Bon!” boomed out Bertrand. “Claire, ma petite, tell me, do we have other Americans in Madame Fletcher’s class?”

  Claire reviewed the list of students again, and I detected the slightest tremor in her fingers as she moved them down the page. “I don’t think so, but you have a British couple, the Thomases,” she told Bertrand. “And Monsieur Bonassé will be back, as will Madame Poutine. You also have a student from the Institut de Cuisine but I don’t have the name yet, and Madame Fletcher. There will be six, no more, as you prefer.”

  “Parfait! You have done well,” he said in a soft growl, tipping his head and gazing at her until her face was suffused with high color again. He turned to me. “You must excuse me, madame. I have to inspect this morning’s purchases from the market to see what we will cook today.” He looked quizzically at his assistant, who was frowning at Claire. “Guy!” The younger man jumped. “Why don’t you give Madame Fletcher a tour of the classroom? That is, if you have the time, madame. We have a very beautiful kitchen to teach in. It is located in an old part of the building that dates back many centuries. I’m sure you will enjoy to see it.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to ten. “I would like to see it very much,” I said, “as long as I’m back here in time to check out and meet my driver.”

  Guy came around the desk and poked out his elbow for me to take. The sleeves of his jacket were too short for his long arms, stopping well short of his bony wrists and hands that were red and chapped. “I can give you the short tour or the long tour.” He was smiling again. “I will keep my good eye on the time, and you will tell me when I have bored you enough.”

  Laughing, I took his arm. I thanked Claire and Chef Bertrand, and Guy and I crossed the stone entry to a small vestibule to the right of a beautifully curved staircase that led to the upper floors. We took the elevator down, and when the door opened I stepped out into a low-ceilinged corridor with stone walls. The air was cool and damp and musty-smelling. Down the hall to the left was an open doorway. From it, fluorescent light flooded across the dark passage and painted a bright rectangle on the facing wall. Sounds of running water and the clunk of metal hitting metal emanated from the room.

  “That’s the hotel kitchen,” Guy informed me. “You can see this another time. But first you must see ours.”

  Ahead of us was a wide stone arch. Guy guided me through it, down a step, and int
o a cold and dark room. Two wall sconces were insufficient to illuminate all the comers. Beneath our feet were huge blocks of dusty stone, scarred and uneven from the many feet that had trodden over them through the years. I shivered from the chill.

  “This part of the building is very old,” Guy said in a low voice. “Can you perhaps feel the spirits of the past?”

  “Do you have ghosts here?” I replied playfully, trying to shake off an odd feeling that the room aroused in me.

  Guy shrugged. “When you have old buildings, there are always unexplained things. This building dates from the time the city became official home to the popes. Did you know Avignon was the capital of Christendom in the fourteenth century?”

  “Yes. I read about it. The Palace of the Popes isn’t far from here, is it?”

  “It is very close by. You should pay a visit before you leave us. As every schoolchild in Avignon can tell you, Pope Clement the Fifth abandoned Rome and settled here in 1309. Later his successor, Clement the Sixth, brought his whole court here. For seventy years this city was the home of the papacy, and an important economic center as well.”

  “I can imagine. Was this building built at that time?” I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm up a bit.

  Guy strode to the wall on the right and slapped it, releasing a cloud of dust. “Yes. This was at one time a courthouse and later a private residence.” He wiped his hands on the side of his trousers. “The stonework is beautiful, is it not?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, casting my eyes over the rough limestone walls. What was different here?

  “Ah, something is not right.” He was pleased. “Can you tell what it is?”

  “This is a strange room,” I said. “What function did it have?”

  “See if you can guess.”

  We walked to the center of the area where a long wooden table with a battered top stood in solitary splendor on the stone floor. Piles of plates, bowls, flatware, and napkins had been arranged neatly on its rough surface. On one end, laid out on a white linen towel, was an array of large kitchen knives in size order. A short earthenware pitcher held a bouquet of what I presumed were small knives; I could see only their black, brown, and white handles. The table, a bench along one side, and several high-backed chairs drawn up to the other were the only pieces of furniture in the room. The light in the sconces flickered and dimmed.