Provence - To Die For (26 page)

I rounded a corner where the remnants of walls offered a respite from the squall. Tiny compartments, like pigeonholes, were cut into the stone. I stared, fascinated. Was this an ancient larder? What had the feudal inhabitants stored in these little containers? I wandered from room to room, my imagination conjuring the lives of these long-ago residents in the castle they had carved from the rocky escarpment.

Reminding myself that I was not here to play tourist, I searched for René Bonassé among the small number of visitors I encountered as I explored the ruins. He wasn’t there; nor were the Thomases. And it was starting to rain.

Following the path along a towering wall, I came upon a stairway cut into the rock, leading to the top. Modem civilization had provided an iron banister, which ran down one side of the flight. The stairs themselves had been gouged out by centuries of rainwater cascading down, leaving a notch in the middle of each steep step. I grasped the iron rail and ascended slowly, pulling with my arms as I climbed up, keeping my feet on the edges of the wet stone away from the jagged centers. At the top I battled the wind and the slippery boulders underfoot to grab a bar on the parapet. A lone figure, buffeted by the gale, stood at the other end of the wall. I fumbled in my bag for a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes from the wind, and squinted, straining to see the figure more clearly. Was that René? It looked like him, but the walk to where he braced himself against the parapet would be hazardous. Should I wait till he returned?

Patience has never been one of my virtues, nor prudence, truth to tell, which I’ve demonstrated on any number of occasions. But I hoped I wasn’t foolish into the bargain. I didn’t want to twist an ankle skidding on the slick stones or get caught by the wind and knocked over the low barrier to tumble down the wall and the mountain on which it was perched. I held on to the bar and waited, hoping René would tire of the pounding the wind and rain were giving his body, and make his way back toward the stairs. Eventually there was a pause in the storm, and I saw him push away from the rail. I edged forward as he started back, timing my pace so that I blocked his progress at the narrowest point of the battlement.

He raised his eyes and started when he recognized me. “Madame Fletcher. What are you doing here?”

“I could make up a story and tell you I’m merely visiting the tourist attractions,” I said, “but I really came here to speak with you.”

He didn’t respond. He tucked the ends of his scarf into the front of his jacket, and shoved his ungloved hands into his pockets.

“I’ve spoken with your aunt,” I said, “and I know.” I waited, hoping the same strategy that had drawn out information from Madame Bonassé would work on her nephew. But he was not easily led.

“What do you
think you know?”
he said.

“I know you’re Emil Bertrand’s son.”

“Biologically perhaps, but not in any other sense.”

“Why did he acknowledge you after all these years?”

He snorted. “Who knows? Maybe he was feeling the approach of death.” His bitter smile never reached his eyes. “Maybe his ego required a successor, one related by blood instead of talent.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t interested in me as a child, but the idea of that child as an adult, that had possibilities.” He leaned against the iron railing, his arms crossed in front of him, his back to the steep drop. “As if I wanted any attention from him,” he muttered under his breath.

“What did he want from you?”

“I never figured that out.” He dropped his head and stared at the ground.

I let the silence grow, hoping his need to sort out his feelings would spur him to continue.

He sighed and frowned, his lips compressed in a thin line. Eventually he raised his eyes. They were angry and hard. “He wanted me to join him in business. Can you believe him?”

“You mean his restaurant?”

“And whatever else he planned to pursue. Obviously someone didn’t like that idea.”

“You think one of his business partners—”

“Of course, there was a price,” he spat out. “Emil Bertrand never did anything without a price. He asks favors and then makes demands.” He pushed off the railing and began pacing in the narrow space. The wind picked up and blew the end of his scarf into the air.

“What was the price?”

“The price?” He looked confused.

“You said he never did anything without a price.”

“The price was too much.” He raised his fists. “He wanted me to change my name.”

“Change your name to Bertrand?”

“I told him he could burn in hell before I’d do that,” he shouted to the leaden sky. “The bastard. I imagine that’s where he is right now.” His voice dropped to a growl. “It gives me great pleasure to think of him there, after the hell he put my mother through.” He drew his lips back over his teeth like a wolf contemplating its prey.

“Did you turn down his offer to join the business?”

“Why should I turn him down? Let him pay. Let him pay for what he did. Let him pay with his life.” He turned on me, his eyes flaming. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

I dropped my handbag and tried to wrest myself from his grasp.

“Do you know what a monster he was? She killed herself because of him. She threw herself off this wall.” The wind began to howl. He pushed me ahead of him, dragging me to the railing. “Look! Look down there,” he yelled, thrusting my shoulder out over the railing. I tried to twist away, but he was too strong. “That’s where they found her body, all broken.” The railing was biting into my hip. He gripped my shoulders and forced me to lean out beyond the iron bar. “Look! This was the last thing she saw.” The wind rode up the wall and blew into my face, taking my cries and carrying them away. “You think anyone can survive that plunge?” I could barely see, but the view was not one I wanted anyway. “Look! It was days till they could recover her body.” The vertical drop of the wall was extended by a steep slide of sharp rocks, bare brush, and torn tree trunks. “Look!” he screamed. My right foot was off the ground, and half my body hung over the precipice. “Look!”

“Oh, Jessica, that’s where you are,” Jill called out from the top of the stairs.

Abruptly René pulled me back and gave me a shove in Jill’s direction. He shouted a curse and stomped past me. Jill ducked out of his way, and he ran down the stairs, taking the last five in a single leap.

“Are you all right?”

I shuddered. “I think so,” I said, straightening my coat and picking up my bag from where I’d dropped it. My ears rang with the force of the wind, and my scarf and hair were wet. I looked around for my sunglasses. Hadn’t I had them on? They must have fallen off when René Bonassé, né Bertrand, forced me to look over the wall.

“I’m all right,” I said, “but I’m ready to get in out of the storm.”

The Brasserie St. Marc was busy but Jill, Craig, and I found an empty table among the ones set up outside the restaurant. The village could have been in another part of the country, so different was its weather from the wind and rainstorm we’d encountered only two hours to the south in Les Baux. The late-afternoon temperature was mild, the wind calm, and a setting sun was peeking out from behind streaky clouds. Only the blare of sirens down on the main road marred the tranquil atmosphere. I thought of Mallory, but she would be far away by now, wouldn’t she?

The waiter set down his tray on a stand, and placed three large bowls of fish broth on our table along with three bowls of garlicky mayonnaise, a platter of fish that had been cooked in the broth, and a basket of toasted slices of baguette.

“This bouillabaisse is famous around here,” I said, passing Jill the basket of bread. “According to Marcel, people come from all the local villages when the chef is making it. We’re lucky there was any left over from lunch.”

“Smells wonderful,” Craig said, leaning over his bowl and inhaling deeply. “Whose idea was this anyway?”

Jill and I laughed. “Yours,” we said together.

“How is it?” I asked after Craig had dipped in his spoon and taken his first taste.

“Brilliant!” he said. “I hope you appreciate my genius for finding great food in France.” He looked at his wife.

“You haven’t steered us wrong once,” she replied. “Of course, it’s almost impossible to get a bad meal in Provence, unless you have the misfortune of going into one of those American ‘fast-food’ establishments that shall remain nameless. Begging your pardon, Jessica, if you’re fond of them.”

“I much prefer this,” I said honestly.

“Have to remember the name of this place,” Craig said as he smeared the garlic mayonnaise on a slice of the toast. “It’s worth a detour if they’re making bouillabaisse.” He dropped the toast into his soup. “Did you get what you needed?” he asked me.

“No. The bakery is closed,” I said. “I was hoping a fax had come in for me. The baker is letting me use her fax machine; I’m expecting some papers from the States. But the shop was locked. I slid a note under the door, and I’ll call her tomorrow.”

We had stopped at the bakery on the way back to Martine‘s, but we’d never made it to the farmhouse after Craig had spied the blackboard hanging in front of the brasserie with the words
AUJOURD’HUI, BOUILLABAISSE
—Today, bouillabaisse—printed large in chalk. It was just as well. It would have been late if we’d waited for dinner until we were back in Avignon.

The Thomases had urged me to return with them to the hotel, at least for a few days or until the authorities had found Mallory, if they were able to find her. It hadn’t taken much convincing on their parts. I wasn’t worried about staying alone, which had been their chief concern. I didn’t think I was in any danger from Mallory. But I’d already decided it would be much more convenient to be in the city for any number of reasons, not the least of which was my plan to return to the real estate office of P. Franc and M. Poutine. And I thought it was time Captain LeClerq and I had a heart-to-heart.

When the waiter brought a tray of selections for the cheese course, Jill took out a small leather journal and began making notes. “Provence is
chèvre
country,” she said, referring to the white goat’s-milk cheese that is popular the world over. “The native cheeses are mostly made from goat’s milk or a combination of milk from goats and cows, sometimes even sheep,” she added. “My goodness, what is all that noise about?”

The insistent wail of the sirens down the hill all but drowned out conversation.

“The police have found the dognappers—that’s what they’re saying in the kitchen,” the waiter confided, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “The thugs who’ve been stealing our truffle dogs and selling them on the black market. Someone said they arrested the ringleader today.”

So it wasn’t Mallory. I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. While I didn’t like the idea of her wandering alone, a fugitive from the law, I also ached at the thought of her under arrest, frightened and friendless.

The keening sirens faded, and we returned our attention to food. We chose three cheeses, a
Picodon,
a
Poivre d’Ain,
which had been rolled in the dried leaves of wild savory, and a
Lou Pevre,
which was covered with coarsely ground black pepper. As I nibbled on the cheese, enjoying the subtle differences in flavor, I watched as Craig and Jill sampled each one and argued their relative merits, with Jill recording their impressions in her book. The Thomases were more sophisticated about food than I’d realized.

When Jill caught me observing her, she blushed. “The family are always asking us for recommendations of where to go in places we’ve visited,” she said. “It helps us to remember if we’ve written down our experiences.”

“That sounds like a smart thing to do,” I said.

Following our meal we drove to Martine’s, where Craig and Jill admired her paintings—Jill making more notes in her journal—while I ran upstairs and packed a bag for my hotel stay.

“It’s too bad we’ll be leaving before she returns,” Jill said to me as I pulled on the door and jiggled the key in the lock to make sure the house was secure before we left. “I would love to buy one of her paintings.”

“They are wonderful, aren’t they?” I said. “It’s a shame it’s too dark to see her studio today. Perhaps another time.”

“We’d love to,” Craig said. “Maybe we can write to her when we’re home and have her send us a catalog.”

I knew Martine had exhibited her paintings in galleries, but I wasn’t sure she’d ever had a catalog made of her work. But with both sides eager to do business, I was sure they’d find a way to communicate.

The Hotel Melissande was quiet when we opened its glass door and walked inside. No one was in the atrium or the bar, or the beautiful lounge next door. Only five tables were occupied in the dining room, notwithstanding the late hour favored by French diners.

“This place was jumping last week,” Craig said. “Nothing like a murder to excite curiosity. The bar was full right through the weekend. Couldn’t get a reservation in the restaurant. Now look at it.”

“This is probably more normal for November, dear,” Jill told him.

“Would you like to join us for a nightcap, Jessica?” he asked. “Could do with a cognac to top off that wonderful meal.”

“Ask me another time, please,” I said. “I’d like to unpack and make it an early night.” I was beginning to feel the effects of my adventure in Les Baux.

The Thomases retrieved their room key from the front desk, bade me good night, and wandered off to the lounge. The bellman took my small bag and escorted me to my room on the second floor, the same one I’d been given the previous week. It was very comforting to be in familiar surroundings.

Although the room was considerably smaller than the farmhouse in St Marc, it was spacious enough for me to spread out. The high ceiling gave it the feeling of a much larger chamber. The king-size bed was appealing, and the bathroom was designed for Americans, according to the bellman, who told me that visitors from the States prefer hotel bathrooms that are large, well lighted, and with plenty of marble- and mirror. What
I
liked about it was that it was sparkling clean. I ran a hot bath, poured in a whole bottle of the scented bath gel, and sank gratefully into the bubbles.