02_Coyote in Provence (21 page)

“What in the hell were they doing in the barn, for God’s sake?” He took his arms away from her and looked into her tearful eyes.

“The Younts and some volunteers take them in. The mysterious person that we were told Pierre works for, well, it’s a woman who lives in the United States who still has family members in Afghanistan. Evidently she takes her private plane there several times a year, and smuggles young girls out of Afghanistan and flies them to Marseilles.

“For God’s sake, Elena, this sounds like it’s out of some thriller novel.”

“Jordan, just listen to me,” she sniffled. “They live in the Younts’ barn and are cared for by some local women. After they’ve healed somewhat and gotten a little stronger with good food and some health care, this Afghan woman that Pierre works for flies them to the United States in her private jet. I don’t know the details. Oh Jordan, it was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. You can’t arrest Pierre. You’ve got to stop the investigation. If you don’t, and if it continues, what’s going to happen to those little girls?”

She was out of breath from trying to tell him what she had seen and sobbing so hard, her body started shaking. “Pierre and his employer are responsible for saving those girls’ lives. So what if he stole from a gallery and the insurance company paid the gallery? If something happens to Pierre, there won’t be anywhere for those girls to go. Jordan, you can’t turn Pierre in, even if you find him.”

Jordan started the car and pulled back onto the highway. “I don’t know what I can do. What Pierre has done is not only wrong, it’s a felony. We both know that. Does the fact that he did it for an admirable cause make it all right? I can’t say. Let me think about it. This goes against everything I’ve ever known in my life and yet…”

CHAPTER 32

It was now late afternoon and they both were quiet on the drive to Aix as they thought about what had happened earlier in the day at the Younts. When they arrived in Aix, the town was bustling.

“I’d like to start by walking to the four galleries I looked up and see if it looks like any of them has the last painting, the William Wendt. There are also a couple of restaurants I’m interested in, but first I’d like to finish the search for the seventh and final missing painting,” Jordan said.

They parked the car, and, as in almost all of the villages and towns Jordan had visited, the galleries were near one another, usually in the older part of town. They spotted two, slowly ambled by them, and looked in their windows to no avail. A third gallery two streets over produced the same result. Just as they were walking up to the last gallery, the proprietor turned the sign on the door from “
Ouvert
” to “
Fermé
.”

“Come on, Elena, let’s go across the street and wait until the guy leaves. I couldn’t see what was in the shop or even in the window, and I’d like to finish up. I don’t want to have to return.”

They walked across the street and when the lights in the shop changed from bright overhead lights to a dim night light, they re-crossed the street. There, hanging on the wall just inside the entry, but clearly visible from the street, was the last of the stolen paintings, the William Wendt.

“My God, there it is. Look at it! It’s fantastic. I can’t believe it hasn’t sold. Although the green hills in it are a little sharper than the hills of Provence, the lavender and yellow-orange colors sure are reminiscent of the sunflower and lavender covered hills here in Provence.”

“I see what you mean,” Elena exclaimed. “I think I remember you telling me that Wendt was one of the leading artists of the California Impressionist movement. Looking at this painting, I can sure see why. It’s beautiful.”

Jordan turned to her. “I know I should be happy to find this last one, but all I can think about is what a hollow victory it is. I can’t get the picture of the Younts out of my mind. If I go ahead with this, there’s a good chance I’ll find Pierre and he’ll eventually go to prison. And then what will happen to his parents and the Afghan girls? Who’s going to take care of them?

“In some ways I wish we’d never gone to Travaillan. I honestly don’t know what to do. I know you want me to walk away, but this goes against everything I’ve sworn to do my whole life, uphold the law. Please, Elena, give me some time. Believe me, I need it.” They turned away from the gallery, each with a heavy heart.

Elena was having trouble seeing Jordan’s side of the dilemma. It seemed very cut and dried to her. Let Pierre go and let the little girls have a chance at living the rest of their lives in loving and caring environments. She knew she’d probably never see Jordan again after their time together in Provence, but she also knew deep inside, that if he decided to pursue Pierre, she wouldn’t want to see him again.

As they turned to walk away from the gallery, Jordan looked at her and said, “I read a very good review in the New York Times about a restaurant in Aix called Chez Feraud. It’s in the old part of the city; actually it’s pretty near where we are right now, so we can walk to it. Since the French usually dine much later in the evening, maybe we can get in without a reservation.”

“Jordan, I’m exhausted. I really could use some good food and wine. In some ways, this has been one of the worst days of my life. I can’t take much more.”

They walked the short two blocks to the restaurant and were immediately impressed with what they saw. A courtyard with a fountain, olive trees, a trellis and the requisite Provence blue shutters welcomed them into the small restaurant on the tiny street in old Aix.

Chez Feraud did not disappoint. A good Rhône wine with a dinner of pistou soup, grilled lamb, and warm figs with cold caramel ice cream for dessert lightened their mood considerably.

Jordan was just as tired as Elena, but even he was surprised at the words that came out of his mouth as they sat sipping their after-dinner coffee. He looked directly at her and said, “I think I’m falling in love with you. I’ve got to be honest. I didn’t plan on this happening, or even expect it. Falling in love was the farthest thing from my mind. I’ll admit that getting you into bed was the nearest thing in my mind, but something has gone either terribly wrong or terribly right. I know I’m not perfect. I’ve been told that at times I’m impatient and overbearing, and I know I’ve been a sexist in the past, but when I’m with you I feel different. You bring out the best in me. I don’t want to be without you.” He stopped talking and took a sip of his coffee.

Elena sat very still, waiting for him to continue and wondering where this conversation was going.

Jordan continued, “I’d like you to come to the United States for a visit. You can stay in my home. It’s very large, and it’s right on the beach in a small town south of Los Angeles called Sunset Beach. Come for a month. Let’s see what happens. If it doesn’t work out, you can always return to your cottage here in Provence.” He stopped talking, putting his coffee cup back on its saucer. “Why are you shaking your head?”

“I can’t go back to the United States,” she said softly as tears began to trickle down her cheeks for the second time that day. “I left in a hurry because of memories, and I don’t want to revisit them. They’re too painful. You‘ll always be welcome at my home here in Provence. I’ve fallen in love with you as well, but there are things about me you don’t know. I’d rather keep it like that.  There is some sort of magic that exists between us. I can sense it and I know you can too. If you knew the truth about me, the magic would be gone, and you would no longer love me. Please, just let it be as it is now.”

“I don’t understand any of this, and I guess I’m not supposed to,” Jordan said angrily, sitting back in his chair and tossing his napkin on the table. “I can’t imagine there’s anything about you that would cause me not to love you. Please, stop crying.  We won’t talk about this anymore. I was planning on doing all kinds of work tomorrow regarding this case, but I need a break. Let’s go to Arles and St. Remy.”

Elena nodded, tears still trickling down her face.

“I’ve always wanted to see where Van Gogh spent time both before and after he cut off his ear. I know it’s kind of weird, but it’s always fascinated me.”

She looked at him, laughing through her tears.

“And as long as we’ll be in Arles, let’s go to the Camargue and get some of the salt the region’s famous for. I don’t think it’s a very fair trade. You’ll stay here and the salt will come to California with me, but I guess it’ll have to do for now,” he said smiling, dissolving the tension between them.

“I’d love to do that,” Elena said. “And while we’re in the Camargue, we have to go to Les Saints Maries de la Mer. That’s where the Black Madonna is supposed to have come ashore. We can spend the day just roaming around, being lovers discovering Provence. I’d like to forget everything about Pierre, the paintings, the Afghan girls, and the fact that you’ll be leaving in two more days.”

As she spoke, her face darkened. For a brief moment she thought about the lonely days that loomed ahead for her once Jordan returned to California. She shook her head as if to ward off the unpleasant thoughts.

They left Aix and drove the short distance back to her cottage. It was a full moon and they could make out the olive groves and vineyards in the soft moonlight. Soon they saw the twinkling lights of St. Victor. They wound their way around the village, driving the short distance up the hill to Elena’s cottage. It had been an emotional day for both of them, and although they were exhausted, sleep did not come easily.

Jordan kept running Elena’s earlier conversation through his mind, wondering what could be so terrible that it would prevent her from wanting to be with him. He thought he knew how she felt about him, and he still couldn’t believe he’d actually asked a woman to live with him. That was a first. And then to be turned down! Did that mean the only way he’d ever see her again was if he came back to Provence? His thoughts continued to tumble and turn until he finally fell asleep.

I’ve been so afraid something like this might happen. I wonder if I did
the right thing. Yes
, Elena thought
,
as she too, tossed and turned
, it was the right decision.
We’ll have two more days to enjoy each other, and then we’ll go our separate ways. There’s nothing else I can do.

CHAPTER 33

Wrapped in Jordan’s arms, Elena eyes flew open, positive she heard something walking on the gravel driveway in front of the cottage. Her mouth went dry, and she could feel her heart banging in her chest, certain the sound of it would wake Jordan up. She listened intently and knew she wasn’t imagining it. The fields around her cottage were rife with all sorts of animals, but this sound was unusual.

“Jordan,” she whispered in a raspy voice, “Wake up. I think there’s someone outside the cottage. I heard something making a sound on the gravel, and I don’t think it’s an animal.”

Before she even had the words out of her mouth, he’d silently pulled on his running pants, flip-flops, and had his gun in his hand. “Don’t move,” he whispered in her ear.  “Stay right where you are.”

He cocked his head, listening intently. He, too, heard the sound of something moving on the gravel, and to Jordan it sounded like footsteps. From the distance of the sound, Jordan knew he could get to the door before the intruder tried to enter the cottage. He slipped past the bedroom doorjamb and quietly made his way along the wall to the window. Although the shutters were closed, with the help of the full moon and a small crack in the shutters, he could just make out the form of a man standing outside the front door. It looked like he was holding a crowbar. The man was inches from the front door when Jordan yanked it open, took two steps out the door, and held his gun to the man’s head.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” he said loudly.

The man tried to answer and began stuttering.  “N-n-n-nothing,” he said.

“Tell me what you’re doing here. If you don’t tell me by the time I count to ten, I’ll pull the trigger. Do you understand me? What are you doing here? One, two, three, four...”

The man was shaking so badly he dropped the crowbar on the ground. “Please,
Monsieur
, lower the gun and I will tell you what you want to know. I have never in my life done anything like this. Please, don’t shoot me,” he begged.

Jordan lowered the gun and repeated, “What are you doing here?”

“Pierre Yount is my friend. He called me tonight after he talked to his parents. They told him that two Americans, a
Mademoiselle
Johnson and a
Monsieur
Kramer, visited them this afternoon and asked how they could get in touch with Pierre. His parents said
Mademoiselle
Johnson told them Pierre had offered to help her get a job with a restaurant in California, and that she worked at Henri's Bakery in St. Victor la Coste.

“He remembered her, but knew he had never told her he would help her get a job.
Monsieur
Yount told him
Monsieur
Kramer liked the painting that Pierre had brought them on his last trip. When he heard that, Pierre became concerned.  It is valuable and he was afraid that the couple might try to steal it from his parents.
Mademoiselle
Johnson gave his parents her address. Pierre asked me to come to her cottage and see what I could find out. I am here because he is an old friend.”

Jordan looked at him. There was nothing about this bumbling older man that indicated he’d ever done anything like this before. Jordan knew if he was a professional, he would have chosen shoes that didn’t make sounds on gravel, he wouldn’t be wearing denim jeans that made sounds whenever he took a step, and he would have had some kind of weapon other than a the crowbar. A professional would have been much better prepared.

“Do you have Pierre’s phone number?” he asked.

“
Oui.
He wanted me to call him after I came here.”

“Call him. When he answers, give me the phone. I speak very good French, so don’t try anything but giving me the phone as soon as you’ve placed the call.”