02_Coyote in Provence (14 page)

Mon Dieu
!
I had no idea that the gallery had paintings of this caliber. I saw their ad in the paper and went in there a couple of times, but I don’t remember these. They should sell well in Provence.

He leaned the paintings against the wall, took a long sip of his scotch and spent several minutes looking at them. They were all landscapes by California Impressionist painters from the early part of the 20
^th
century. Even though he couldn’t afford expensive paintings like these, he greatly appreciated fine art and read everything he could about the subject. He knew there was quite a market for paintings of this type in the United States, but he also knew too many questions would be asked if he tried to sell them here.

He was certain he could sell them in the Provence region of France. Most of the galleries in the small villages there featured landscapes, not all that different from these. Now it was just a matter of getting them there. He began by removing them from their frames. It would make transporting them much easier.

Darya had told him they’d be traveling to Marseille late next week. He hoped she’d paid the immigration and customs people enough so he wouldn’t have any trouble getting them into the country.

He finished the cigar and scotch, put Chat under his arm and headed for bed. He and Darya were flying to San Francisco tomorrow morning and he needed some sleep.

CHAPTER 22

For the third time in the past hour, Pierre opened one eye and stared at the orange numbers on the digital clock on the nightstand next to his bed. The numbers on the clock read 3:30. He groaned and wished he could will himself to sleep, but his mind was spinning with the all of the thoughts that prevented him from falling asleep. Through the open window, he could hear the sounds of the night filter into his bedroom - a car alarm, a barking dog, and lawn sprinklers rotating.

Well, it’s no use. I’ll be lucky to get any sleep. Since Darya’s cause is the reason I got to bed so late, maybe I should just tell her I can’t make it to San Francisco.

He thought back to when it had all began, his first meeting with Darya in June of 2006. He’d worked in five star restaurants up and down the West Coast. One would be hot for a year or so, only to be surpassed by another one. He was a top quality chef and a rarity in the restaurant world – a chef who didn’t want a restaurant of his own. That made him very, very employable. Having a top-notch chef who didn’t dream of one day opening his own restaurant made owners and chef-owners very comfortable. He literally had his pick of these restaurants. The years of rigorous training at the Cordon Bleu and then learning every aspect of the kitchen brigade, that famous and rigorous French restaurant system, had paid off.

Just thinking about Darya brought a smile to his face. She was the most formidable woman he’d ever met. He recalled that night nearly four years ago when Slade Kelly, a longtime friend and well-known private detective, had made reservations for five people for dinner at his restaurant.

The maître d’ knew that Slade and Pierre were friends and had gone to the kitchen with a VIP alert. Slade had given Antoine a note for Pierre with strict instructions on how Darya’s food was to be prepared and when it was ready, he wanted Pierre to personally bring it to her. Pierre was no stranger to odd requests, but he’d never been asked to personally take the food he’d prepared to a customer.

When the salads were ready, he followed the waiter to the table, knowing that everyone in the restaurant was looking at him. They couldn’t believe he was personally taking a salad to a customer. As was customary, the name of the restaurant was on his sleeve which partially covered the tattoo of a French chef’s knife displayed on his upper arm. He wore a toque, the unbrimmed hat the head chef of a restaurant was expected to wear.

Bemused, he remembered the evening well and how furious he had been. Slade had requested that he taste Darya’s salad and entrée to make sure it hadn’t been poisoned. Over the years strange food requests had been made to Pierre, but none that strange. Looking back, he realized Slade had done it for a purpose.

An hour after he’d performed the taste test, Antoine handed him a note. It was from Darya.

Chef Yount, the meal that you prepared was the best that I have ever eaten. I’m sorry Slade asked you to be my taster, but in my country it is not so strange. I am well aware that I have many enemies who would like to see me dead. The men with Slade are my bodyguards. They are never far from me.

I would like to meet with you tomorrow. Please come to the address below at 10:00 a.m. I have a proposition for you, one I think you will be very interested in. See you then.

He’d quickly jotted a note to her telling her that he was busy tomorrow and gave it to a passing waiter who was going into the dining room. The waiter returned a few minutes later with the note. “Sorry Chef, but everyone at that table has left.”

Swell. Now what? Merde, I guess I might as well go see what she has to say.

CHAPTER 23

The address Darya had given Pierre was a large cosmetic manufacturing firm. He pulled into the parking lot the next morning and walked into the tastefully decorated reception area. Brightly colored Afghan rugs hung on the walls in various patterns and colors and were scattered on the floor. It was a feast for the eyes.

Pierre walked up to the reception desk, gave his name to the beautiful dark-haired sloe-eyed woman with a perfect olive-skinned complexion, and told her that he had an appointment with Darya Rahimi.

“She’s on a long distance conference call, but I think she’ll be through in a few minutes. I’ll tell her administrative assistant you’re here. Please, have a seat. May I get you some coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you, but I was wondering if you might tell me what Ms. Rahimi’s position is with the company.”

“You don’t know?” she asked incredulously. “She’s the owner of the company. She started it a number of years go. She exports her cosmetics all over the world. She’s a very important woman in the international business community.”

The receptionist was clearly taken aback that Pierre had an appointment with a woman who was the owner of the company and he didn’t even know who she was.

In a few minutes a woman wearing a black burkha came into the reception area. “
Monsieur
Yount?”

“Yes.”

“Please follow me. I am Mahsa, Ms. Rahimi’s administrative assistant. Ms. Rahimi is ready to see you.” He stood up and followed her to the rear of the building and up a curved staircase. There was a large reception area and a desk in the center of the room with the name and title of the administrative assistant prominently displayed on a desk plaque.

On one side of the door leading to her office a nondescript looking man looked him up and down and gave him a hard stare. He looked slightly familiar and then Pierre remembered seeing him at the dinner the night before. He presumed he was Ms. Rahimi’s bodyguard.

The young woman knocked on the door.

“Mahsa, please show
Monsieur
Yount in, then you may leave.”

“Welcome,
Monsieur
,” Darya said, coming from behind her desk to shake his hand. “I’m glad you were able to keep the appointment I requested. Please have a seat.”

“Knew you’d be here,” a voice said to his left. There, seated at the conference table, was Slade. “Welcome to Miss R’s world.”

Darya had jet-black hair swept up in an elaborate chignon. There was just the slightest hint of color on her flawless olive complexion. Her large brown eyes were accentuated by a sweep of smoky eye shadow and mascara. She wore large black diamond earrings and a ring with a large lapis lazuli stone surrounded by pavé diamonds. The design of the ring was repeated in the bracelet she wore. The simple yet expensive jewelry from Afghanistan was set off by the pale blue suit she wore over a cream-colored camisole. Multicolored Jimmy Choo peek-a-boo shoes indicated that although she might be a very successful businesswomen, she was no stranger to the latest fashions.

“You see that I’m not wearing the burkha as Mahsa does. Even though I’m originally from Afghanistan, I have found that when I wear a burkha it tends to dominate business conversations and people focus on it rather than what I am saying. I only wear it when I am in Muslim countries.

“But that’s not why I asked you to come today. I travel constantly and I don’t like to go through what happened last night. Slade feels that I am a target of Muslim extremists and my life could be in danger. Women from my country are not supposed to be successful or own their own business. There is also the problem of a book I wrote that was critical of the ritual of female sexual mutilation that is common in Muslim countries. To say that it was not well received in those countries would be the understatement of the year.”

“Excuse me, Miss Rahimi, I’ve never heard of that.”

She walked over to a bookcase and pulled a book from it. “Here. This is my book. Read it and you’ll see why I don’t have much of a fan base in Muslim countries.”

She went on. “I was lucky. My parents came to this country when I was sixteen and I was educated here. I started my company and it has proved to be very, very successful. The reason I’ve asked you to meet with me today is that I would like to offer you a job as my personal chef. It would entail cooking all of my meals – we have a professional kitchen here in the building. When I’m traveling, you would travel with me. My plane has a well-equipped kitchen. In addition to me, you would cook for my pilot and whoever is traveling with me, usually my secretary and my bodyguard, Lou. I have two others who relieve Lou. One of them is always with me. Even when I sleep, they are near and trust me, they are very loyal, very protective, and very dangerous.”

“Thank you very much, but I am very happy where I am now. I’m honored that you would like me to work for you, but I must say no.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “I know that you are a well-known chef and earn a very nice income. I am offering you the salary you are getting now plus an additional $50,000 annually. When you travel with me you will have your own accommodations, paid by me. Wherever I go I use limousine services. In other words, all expenses will be paid. It’s a nice way to see the world. All I ask is that the food be of the caliber it was last night and of course it goes without saying that no one else touches or prepares my meals but you.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Pierre. “Ms. Rahimi, do you go to France often?”

“Yes, I have a manufacturing plant near Marseille. Why do you ask?”

“I grew up in the small village of Travaillan in Provence. My elderly parents are still there. I try to travel there at least once a year, but it’s expensive and it’s often difficult to get that much time off. How often do you visit your plant there?”

“I usually go every six weeks or so for a few days. At least every two months.”

“My father was a hunting guide until he had a very bad accident. He had to quit hunting. In fact, it’s hard for him to even walk. My mother is going blind. I am an only child, so you can imagine how I feel when I leave them, not knowing if it’s the last time I’ll ever see them. For these reasons as well as others, I have reconsidered your generous offer and yes, I would like to accept it. When do you want me to start?”

“When can you?”

“I want to give at least two weeks’ notice to my current employer. There are two very talented sous-chefs in the kitchen. Either one of them would do fine as the head chef. I will give notice this evening. Thank you and I look forward to being your personal chef. Please give me a list of foods that you like and don’t like. I want to prepare the kinds of meals you’re used to and that you like.”

“Chef Yount, welcome to my company. I liked you when I met you last night and considering how much time we’ll be spending together, that’s a very important consideration. Slade speaks very highly of you and I’ve learned to trust him. Please call me when you find out exactly when you can start. I will make sure that we go to Marseille as soon as you begin.”

Darya stood up and shook Pierre’s hand. She opened the door and introduced him to the bodyguard sitting outside the door to her office.

This may be the most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t believe I took a job with a woman I just met and that I’ll be seeing my parents on a regular basis and I’ll be getting a pay raise of $50,000. This is turning out to be a very good day.

PROVENCE, FRANCE   JUNE, 2007

CHAPTER 24

After landing in Marseille, Darya, Lou and Pierre had been able to get two hours of sleep before the limousine driver came to pick them up and take them to Travaillan to see Pierre’s parents.

Lou sat next to Darya. She’d told him she didn’t need him to come, but he was adamant. He said Slade would fire him on the spot if he ever found out that she had gone off on her own without him or one of the other bodyguards traveling with her.

“Pierre, when did you leave France?” Darya asked as the limo made its way north along Route 7.

"About twenty-five years ago, when I was nineteen, I went to the Cordon Bleu and graduated at the top of my class. I interned in France, actually we call it staging. Anyway, I was fortunate to be allowed to stage at several of the best restaurants in France. I worked my way up and was the sous-chef at several of them and eventually was hired by a very wealthy group of investors to be the head chef at a prestigious restaurant they were opening in Paris. I stayed there for five years. I never married and had no ties in France other than my parents. I’d always wanted to go to the United States, actually, who doesn’t? When the opportunity came, I jumped at it.

“But what about your parents? Weren’t they getting older by then?”