Provence - To Die For (30 page)

“Mallory was afraid of the police,” I said. “She’d gotten herself into some trouble at school and had left others to take the blame. That’s why she was running away. She didn’t want to go back and face the consequences. Her friends were furious with her, and she was fearful of admitting her guilt to the authorities. She told everyone she was eighteen, thinking people would accept her as an adult and not question why she was traveling alone.”

“It must be a great relief for both of you,” Craig said, ”now that her uncle is taking Mallory home.”

“It is,” I said.

“Did you have a chance to say good-bye?” Jill asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “We had quite a farewell.”

 

“I came to say good-bye, Mrs. Fletcher.” Mallory stooped in the doorway of Martine’s house, picked up the gray cat, and stroked its furry head. She was wearing a flowered skirt and cotton sweater under her ski jacket. It was the first time I’d seen her in something other than blue jeans.

“This is my uncle, John Cartright,” she said, introducing the man who stood behind her. “Uncle John, Mrs. Fletcher is the lady I told you about

“My brother’s family and I are very grateful that you were here for Mallory,” said her uncle, thrusting his arm forward. “There’s no way we can thank you enough.”

“No thanks are necessary,” I said, shaking his hand. “Won’t you come in and sit down? I have coffee and tea.”

“We’ll come in for a moment, but we can’t stay long,” he said. “We have a plane to catch in Marseilles, and it’s a long ride to the airport.”

Mallory put down the cat and we settled on Martine’s facing sofas. Mallory sat next to her uncle on one; I sat across from them. I had the feeling that John Cartright wasn’t going to let her get more than a foot away until the door closed on the airplane and they were on their way back to Cincinnati.

“Mallory, you have something to say, don’t you?” her uncle said.

Mallory fiddled with the end of her braid. She looked confused, then brightened. “We have a surprise for you,” she said. “We put it in the garage.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“We got you a brand-new bike. And for Martine, of course. It’s really hers, I know. It’s blue, like the old one, but much prettier, and it has ten speeds and a great big basket in front for your groceries.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but what happened to the other one?”

“I left it in the woods and someone took it,” she said. “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“That’s not all you’re sorry about, is it?” her uncle prodded. He lifted her braid out of her hands and placed it gently behind her.

“No,” Mallory said, a quaver in her voice. “I’m sorry I was such trouble, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I took your bike and ran away. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the knife. And ... and I’m sorry I was so rude when you tried to help me.” She dissolved in tears. Her uncle pulled a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. She took off her glasses, wiped her streaming eyes, and dabbed at her nose.

I leaned forward. “I can’t say it’s all right, Mallory, because it’s not,” I said as kindly as I knew how. “You’re a bright, wonderful young woman with a lot to offer. There’s no reason to be dishonest or make up stories. It doesn’t improve the way you’re seen, and it diminishes your character.”

“I know,” she said, hanging her head.

“If you lie,” I said, “you’ll never know if someone likes you because of the tale you tell or if they’re seeing through to the real you. You were lucky with me. I have X-ray vision.”

She gave me a watery smile. “I know,” she said. “You saw through me right away.”

“Right away,” I echoed.

“I’m going to tell the headmaster what I did when I get back.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “You’ll feel better about yourself when you’ve taken responsibility. It’s an important part of growing up.”

“That’s the same thing I told her,” Cartright said.

“Tell me, Mallory, where did you go when you left here? The police were surprised they couldn’t find you right away.”

“I didn’t go very far,” she said, embarrassed. “I went to Madame Arlenne’s. I lied to her and told her we’d had a fight and you’d called the police to have me kicked out.” She looked at me and blushed. “She believed me and let me hide there.”

“And how did you end up in Albert’s barn, where the police found you?”

“I got bored hanging around Madame Arlenne’s. She kept pressuring me to tell her all about the murder so she could gossip with her friends. I’d already told her everything I knew—except about the knife, of course. So when she went to hang out her laundry, I decided I’d go for a walk in the woods.”

“Weren’t you afraid you’d be seen if you left her house?”

“I was. That’s why I took the bike, so I could cross the road and get up your driveway quickly.”

“You weren’t concerned about me?”

“Madame Arlenne had seen you leave in the morning. She told me you drove away with a man and a woman. I figured it was the Thomases and you might be gone for a while.”

“Go on.”

“I walked the bike along the trail and I heard the howling again. Remember, we heard howling at night?”

“Yes,” I said. “Monsieur Telloir thought it was a dog.”

“Well, he was right. It was a dog—more than one, it turned out. I followed the sound till I came to a farm. I left the bike in the woods and sneaked into the barn. They had at least two dozen dogs penned up, and they weren’t being cared for. There was no water or food in the cages at all. They looked so sad. I felt sorry for them.”

“What did you do?”

“I let them out.” She grinned at me. “They were wagging their tails and jumping on me and scampering all over. Some men came running out of the farmhouse and were trying to catch the dogs and the police arrived and all hell broke loose.”

“Mallory, your language,” her uncle said.

“Sorry,” she said. “Later, the police told me they’d been watching the property but couldn’t search it without some proof. When I let out the dogs, that was their proof, and they moved in to arrest Monsieur Belot. I heard sirens and didn’t know what to do, so I hid in the loft. When the police found me, at first they thought I was in cahoots with the dognappers.” Her smile faded and a frown replaced it. “But then they discovered who I was and arrested me.”

“Well, I’m very relieved that you’re out of jail and all right,” I said.

“Me, too,” she replied, smiling again.

John Cartright got to his feet. “We’ve got a plane to catch, Mal.” To me he said, “Thank you again, Mrs. Fletcher. My brother and sister-in-law will want to write or call. Will you be at this address for a little while longer?”

“Yes,” I said happily. “I’ll be here for another month at least, maybe more.”

I walked them outside to their car.

M. Telloir was walking up the drive with two dogs. He waved at us as the dogs raced ahead, barking excitedly. They ran in circles around Mallory, who squatted down to pet them. They jumped all over her, putting their paws on her shoulders and licking her face till she fell backward, laughing.

“Ah, my ’eroine,” M. Telloir said, coming up to us.

I introduced the two men. “She ‘as made me so ’appy,” he said, pumping John Cartright’s hand while Mallory got to her feet and brushed off her skirt. “I ‘ave my Chasseur back. ’E and Magie are going to be good truffle dogs together.” He turned to Mallory.
“Merci, merci, mademoiselle.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, glowing with. pleasure.

“I’m afraid we have to go,” Cartright said.

“Don’t you want to show Mrs. Fletcher the bike?” Mallory asked hopefully.

“We don’t have time, Mal. She’ll see it after we leave.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sure it’s a wonderful bike,” I said. “I’ll enjoy using it.”

Mallory flung her arms around me. “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, thank you so much. I’ll never forget you.”

I returned her hug and patted her back. “I hope you take home some good memories, Mallory,” I said, releasing her. “And some useful lessons. I expect to hear only good things about you from now on.”

“You will,” she said. She grinned at me and hopped into the car next to her uncle.

M. Telloir and I waved as they drove away.

“What will you do now, Jessica?” Jill asked. “Life will be pretty quiet without a murder case to unravel”

“Exactly what I’m hoping,” I said. “I came to Provence to relax, to read, to cook, to enjoy the culture of another country, I feel I’m starting my vacation right now.”

“Will you be taking another cooking class?”

“Oh, I hope so,” I said. “The class taught by Christian Étienne was fully booked this week, but I’ve made a reservation for the next time he teaches.”

“I’d like to learn how to make this lobster,” Craig said, forking a morsel of the crustacean into his mouth. “It’s exceptional.”

“It’s one of the chefs specialty dishes,” I said, tasting mine. “He serves the whole lobster in three courses. Did you try the sautéed chanterelle mushrooms? They’re wonderful.”

“I’m finally getting the hang of eating in France,” he said. “You sample everything, but never finish the whole portion. Otherwise you’ll be done for by the end of the first course.”

“If you learn to cook as well as you eat, you’ll be ready to open a restaurant by the time we get home,” his wife said.

“Speaking of restaurants, what’s going to happen to Bertrand’s?” he asked.

The Poutines signed a contract with Daniel,- I said, “but their agreement with Bertrand made them silent partners. If René, as the rightful heir, decides to take over Bertrand’s position, then he will decide who the chef will be, not the Poutines.”

“Daniel stands to lose the most if they don’t resolve their problems soon,” Craig said. “He expected to take over the kitchen at L’Homme Qui Court and resigned from the Hotel Melissande; Guy starts as head chef there tomorrow.”

“You’ve been staying here at the hotel. How do you rate Daniel?” I asked. “Did you give him a star?”

Chug swallowed quickly and began to cough. His wife thumped him on the back. When he recovered his breath, he squinted at me and said, “What are you implying?”

‘I won’t tell anyone,” I said with a smile. ”But I’m willing to bet that you’re here to rate the restaurants of Provence.
N’est-ce pas?”

The Thomases laughed. “We’ll never admit it,” Jill said, “but we’re willing to bet you’d win three stars, our top ranking, for solving mysteries.”

Here’s a preview of
You Bet Your Life,
a Murder, She Wrote mystery
Available from Signet.

I’d spoken with Martha, my dear friend from Cabot Cove, several times since Victor’s death, the first time when I’d phoned to offer my condolences right after hearing the news of his “accident.” Media reports had indicated only that wealthy businessman Victor Kildare had died of an injury suffered at his swimming pool. His wife was said to be in seclusion. I knew that Martha would be distraught and called only to leave a message. But she came on the line immediately when whoever answered the telephone told her I was calling from Maine.

“Jessica, I’m so glad it’s you.”

“I really don’t know what to say about Victor, Martha, except to tell you how sorry I am. And shocked. What a dreadful accident. He was such a vital, healthy man. You must be terribly distressed. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I really can’t talk right now, Jessica. There are too many people here.” Her voice lowered. “But, Jessica, we must talk soon. The police think: ...”

I heard someone interrupt her. “Yes, of course,” Martha said. “I’ll be right there.”

“Martha, you started to say that—”

“I have to go, Jessica. I’m sorry. I’m so grateful you called. Please try and understand. I’ll call you as soon as I get a chance.”

She’d hung up before I could question her further. She’d never called me back and my calls to her went unanswered. I learned of her arrest for her husband’s murder the same way I’d found out about Victor’s death—through the media. Once Martha was in custody, it was difficult to reach her. I tried to find out who was representing her, but she switched lawyers several times. Finally, I read of her pending trial and contacted the lawyer whose name appeared in the newspaper. And now, I was in Las Vegas about to see her face-to-face.

 

“Inmate’s ID number?” the female police officer asked when I finally reached the glass partition.

I unfolded the slip of paper Mr. Nastasi had given me with Martha’s identification number and read it off.

“You’ll have to leave your handbag in the locker.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You have a driver’s license or other photo ID?”

I handed her my passport.

She looked up at me inquisitively.

“I don’t drive,” I said. “I’ve gotten used to carrying my passport for just such occasions.”

“Got a lot of occasions like this?”

“Not really,” I said, “but I was a Girl Scout. Boy Scouts aren’t the only ones who’re prepared.”

She laughed and pinned my passport on a pegboard behind her desk, exchanging it for an orange badge. “After you get rid of your bag, go through the metal detector.” She pointed to my right. “And wait till they call you.”

I walked to a bank of lockers and deposited my handbag in an open one, twisting the key in the gray metal door to lock it. Above the cabinet was a black sign with the “Rules.” In addition to the hours posted for “Social Visiting”, there was detailed information on “Sign-In;” “Allowable Items on Visit”; “Dress Code”; and reasons for “Denial of Visit”, chief among the long list “Inappropriate Dress”.

Across the lobby, several workers set off the alarm as they passed through the gray metal detector trimmed with bright blue paint. I checked my pockets for anything that might trigger the machine before walking through the opening, and stood on the side, waiting for my name to be called.