She was letting Alex into his room across the hall, number eight, when Jean-Claude arrived with my luggage. He hurried to whisk open the draperies, muttering what must have been a complaint that Bettina had left the draperies closed.
The décor was simple, rustic, and pleasing, especially when the light washed into the room. I had read about the gauzy, golden light, the interplay of brightness and shade that inspired all those wonderful Impressionist artists. Now I saw for myself that the light in Provence truly was different. It was magical.
“It is nice, oui?” Jean-Claude asked, his hand outstretched as if he had created the view of the distant hills especially for me.
“Takes my breath away,” I said. Jean-Claude frowned, and I realized he didn’t understand the idiom. “It’s lovely,” I said.
I shed my jacket. The outside temperature may have been a perfect seventy degrees, but the room was stuffy. I checked the mechanical unit and started to turn it on, but Jean-Claude rushed to unlatch the window. He flung it open, assuring me, “Soon the room is cool!”
Coming from Savannah with our profusion of insects, I was intrigued that here, as well as in our Paris hotel, there were no screens on the windows. “No insects?” I asked.
“Insects?” Jean-Claude considered the word. “Ah, les cigales! Cicadas, oui? Sometimes they sing the loud song, but not so much in Septembre. You know le cigale means good luck, oui?” He pointed to a ceramic cicada on the wall just inside my door.
I’d have to be faster on the draw to communicate with Jean-Claude. He was so animated. Already he was showing off the other amenities. No closet, but a bright yellow armoire with four hangers, two small drawers. Tiny bathroom. One towel, no washcloths. No shower, but a deep tub. Europeans’ priorities were not the same as ours. Instead of a mini-bar, there was a bottle of red wine, along with two glasses, sitting on a low table. I had no problem with these priorities.
Alex and I had to check out each other’s accommodations. Our rooms were as different as two bedrooms in a private home. Alex was delighted with the ornate writing desk in his. Mine had a small sitting area, wicker chairs padded with colorful cushions, bright Provençal print.
Leaving my room, Alex asked, “How do you like L’hôtel du Soleil so far?”
“I haven’t found anything not to like,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
“Traveling is tiring,” he said, though he looked as chipper as ever. “I think we should have dinner here in the hotel tonight. We should relax before we start sightseeing. Tomorrow I’d like to go to Les Baux de Provence. It’s a twelfth-century village perched eight hundred feet above two valleys. A fascinating way to start my book!”
The book, yes. That’s why we were there. I would save my speech about overdosing on the sights. “The hotel restaurant sounds perfect,” I said.
The noise woke me. It took a moment to realize where I was and that it wasn’t the middle of the night. The sun slanted across my bed. I fumbled for my cell phone, smiling when I heard, “Mom, hi! It’s your favorite daughter.”
“Julie!”
This was a game that dated back to a time when Holly, Claire, and Julie sounded exactly alike on the phone—to everyone except me. They must have been thirteen, twelve, and ten. I never could remember which one started the “favorite daughter” game. My part in the game was to always say another sister’s name, a tradition I had continued through the years, with those three and with my youngest, who was the caller today.
“Where are you?” Catherine said.
“At the hotel in Fontvieille. We haven’t been here long.” How easily I had put home out of my mind. I counted back six hours. “Don’t you have a class?”
“I’m walking to class.You didn’t call.” I detected a pout.
It had been just three days since Alex and I had lunched with Catherine at Emory University, but so much had happened that I hardly knew where to begin. I told her about missing our flight to Paris and rerouting through Brussels.
“Michael didn’t get you to the airport on time?”
Michael, Catherine’s twin, was keeping my Jeep Cherokee for these two weeks. Catherine wasn’t happy about it, but she didn’t have easy access to parking. Michael, a Georgia Tech student, did. “We were on time. The problem was Alex’s passport.” Now it seemed amusing, Alexander Carlyle misplacing his passport. “Kyle happened to be at the airport, too. I was about to have a fit when we missed our flight, but I don’t think I scared him too much.”
“Right.” A pause. The kind of pause that made me brace myself.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
A longer beat of silence. Then, “I’m just not sure this is right for me.”
“This?”
“Not just Emory. College.”
I pulled myself up to sit on the side of the bed. Put my feet on the floor.“What, exactly, are you saying?”This was Catherine, my easy child, who had wanted to go to med school since fifth grade. The one—of all my children—who had gone to college on a free ride.
“Don’t freak out, Mom. Lots of kids take some time off. I think I should get some experience in the real world before I decide what to do with my life.”
Count to ten. “I think you’d better tell me what’s really going on.”
She had her list. Her roommate was driving her nuts, talking to a bed full of stuffed animals. She hated her pre-med classes, probably bombed her first chemistry exam even though she’d studied all week and then pulled an all-nighter. “All this sorority stuff is so stupid!” she said. “I’m not like you were, Mom. I’m not the sorority type.” As she elaborated on all the Rush hoopla, I had the feeling we were finally cracking the real problem.
“Not everyone will join a sorority. That’s up to you,” I told her. “Back in the day, that’s what girls did, but it’s a different world for young women today. You don’t have to do pre-med, either, but take some time to figure it all out.”
Catherine gave a huff of exasperation. “And what about Emily and her stuffed animals? It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”
“You’re nineteen,” I said. “It’s not supposed to be easy.”
Another silence. I could barely hear her say, “I’m going into my class now.”
I checked the time. “Ten o’clock?”
“Uh huh.”
“I always had eight o’clock classes,” I said.
“Back in the day,” she mumbled.
I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cool water. This was supposed to be a vacation for me. Why was it so hard to take a vacation from being a mother?
An elderly woman with a Great Dane as tall as a horse sashayed through the lobby in a long evening dress and stopped at the front desk. The French adore dogs. All the dogs I’d seen were well-behaved. So was this one. He yawned. Maybe he’d had a long day of travel, too. I thought of Winston, my dog in Savannah, and hoped Julie was giving him enough attention.
“Hello, there,” I said to the dog. I could almost believe he smiled. The woman gave me one of those up-and-down looks. Maybe she thought I should be dressed in evening attire. She gave the leash a jerk; owner and dog turned toward the dining room.
“Pardon,” said the clerk, younger than Jean-Claude, perhaps mid-thirties, prematurely balding. “Excuse me, Monsieur, Madame.” I realized he was calling to Alex and me. “May I have your keys? I keep the keys for you.”
“We’re just going into the dining room,” Alex said.
“Oui. I keep the keys.” He indicated the pegboard.
We produced the yellow tennis shoes. He hung them on the wall.
I always thought Europeans dined late, but it was not quite seven o’clock, and the dining room was full. Jean-Claude, in high gear, assumed a regretful expression. “Why don’t you take a walk on the grounds? When you return, we have a table. Oui?”
We went down steps in the back to a small pool, surrounded by a large expanse of grass. The lawn stretched out like
a golf green to a stand of small trees. From this vantage point, the hotel was an intriguing structure. One end was built on stone that looked ancient. I would have to check out the history of the hotel. On the other side of the pool, up more steps, the largest chess set I’d ever seen was set up—the pawns knee high, the queen and king, waist high—and a checkerboard turf ten-feet square. Beyond the chess set were three holes of miniature golf. One hole featured a windmill, an image we’d already seen several times since reaching Fontvieille.
“How about a game?” I said, positioning myself behind the black chess pieces.
Alex raised an eyebrow. “You don’t play chess, do you?”
“Don’t let that stop us,” I said.
With each turn, I had to be reminded how each piece could move, so our chess game was hardly competitive, but I still had my queen when Jean-Claude came for us.
As he seated us, his expression turned apologetic. “Another call came for you, Madame. I am so sorry, but we were very busy. I could not send for you.”
“The woman who called before?” I asked.
“Oui. She said she would call tomorrow.”
Could someone be calling about my suitcase? I was about to voice that hopeful thought to Alex when Bettina arrived with two glasses of deep burgundy-colored wine. Jean-Claude spread his arms wide. “For you! Bienvenue!”
“You have made us most welcome,” Alex said.
Jean-Claude remained at our table to help with the menu, insisting that the prix fixe was the way to go. “A taste of each course. Small portions. Excellent!” After the dinner at Guy Savoy and another casual Parisian restaurant the next night that had been wonderful, I was expecting a letdown. What I was to learn, over and over again in Provence, was that we would never be let down when it came to food. Whether a five-course meal, an omelet, crêpe, or salad, we’d always be convinced the chef had come straight from Cordon Bleu. A rich ragout, a meal in itself, preceded salade des vertes, pan-seared trout, and a lemon mousse. A truffle for the finale. Complemented by a local wine, a bargain at what we figured was twelve US dollars a bottle.
Alex and I drained our glasses and called it a night. “It’s not even ten o’clock, but it feels so late,” I said. “And I still have to unpack.”
The dining room had grown much quieter, though a few patrons remained, including a table of eight who were speaking German. The thirty-somethings were passing around a book. The thought skittered across my mind that the expressions at that table seemed too serious for a tour group, but I stopped myself short. No more wild imaginings, not in this magical place.
“Be sure to wear your walking shoes tomorrow,” Alex said, as we left the dining room. “Ah—wonder if I can find some information on Les Baux.” He headed toward a rack of brochures in the lobby.
From the history lesson he’d given at dinner on the remains of the Roman fortress, I wondered what else he could possibly need to know about it. I said, “Breakfast at nine?”
“Nine?” Alex was probably thinking seven, but he agreed.
I retrieved my key, bid Alex bonsoir, and headed upstairs.
I unlocked my door and felt for the light switch. As my fingers slid along the wall, my foot thudded against something solid. I flipped the switch. Light flooded the room. My new suitcase, purchased after the old one disappeared, lay before me, open and empty. Someone had been in my room. Someone had flung my belongings everywhere.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
Jean-Claude wailed and sputtered. “Mon Dieu! C’est incroyable! C’est épouvantable!” Certain expressions transcend language barriers. I felt the same way.
“You left the window open,” Alex said. “Someone came in through the window.”
“Ah, the window.” Jean-Claude switched to English as his initial rage subsided. “This has never happened before. No burglary at this hotel. Never!” He dashed across the room and stood at the window, looking down. “This burglar—he needs a very long ladder, you see. How does he bring a ladder and no one sees him? No, it is impossible!”
I joined him, looking out on one corner of the gravel parking lot from which there was a clear view of my window. But it must have been dark when the intruder arrived. During the dinner hour, there wouldn’t have been much activity in the parking lot.
“Or—someone slipped my key from its hook while we were at dinner,” I said.
“It is impossible,” Jean-Claude protested. “Louis was there.”
“He might’ve stepped away for a minute,” I said.
“No, it is a very busy night tonight.” Jean-Claude raised his hands and face to the sky. “Mon Dieu! Such a thing has never happened in this hotel!”
Not too helpful, Jean-Claude. If we ruled out the door and window, what other means of entry was there? No hole in the roof. We weren’t even on the top floor.
“Can you tell what’s missing?” Alex asked. He’d been standing just inside the door, looking pensive, his arms folded.
I’d made a cursory check while Alex went to find Jean-Claude, and I couldn’t tell that anything was missing. My Parisian indulgences were strewn on the floor, everything I’d bought the day before, the best I could tell. Undergarments and all. I didn’t care for having them displayed, but I’d seen enough TV to know not to disturb the crime scene.
“Jewelry, oui?” Jean-Claude asked.
In my purse was a small drawstring bag with a couple of costume necklaces, purchased in Paris. I had checked. Thinking of the jewelry in my other suitcase, I was glad I hadn’t brought any pieces of real value on the trip. The pen and leather-bound sketch book—I felt a stab of regret. Would I ever know what happened to that suitcase?
Alex’s voice jolted me out of my musings. “Jordan, he asked about jewelry.”
“It’s all here,” I said. “Everything is here.”
Palms up, Jean-Claude said, “Pourquoi? If it is not a robbery, why did someone do this?”
I could answer why. Somebody believed I had something in my possession that I didn’t have. But how could I explain without going into a long, complicated story.
I didn’t have to say anything. Jean-Claude glanced at the phone. “I will call the authorities from downstairs, in case of fingerprints.” Apparently he’d watched a few police shows, too. “Perhaps you will have an aperitif or coffee in the dining room.”
That sounded like a fine idea. Downstairs, Jean-Claude took our keys and hung them behind Louis as he spewed a string of French. From the astonishment that transformed the clerk’s face, I gathered that Jean-Claude was telling him about my room. Jean-Claude turned to Alex and me. “Louis will take care of you.” Then glancing at the German group who had formed a little knot in the lobby, he lowered his voice. “I must go to the office now and call la police.”
Louis came out from behind the front desk and headed to the dining room. I looked at those little yellow tennis shoes hanging on hooks on the large pegboard, labeled by room number. No one guarding them now, and although there was a half-wall into the dining room so the view was unobstructed, I wondered how carefully Louis would watch the front desk. How hard could it be for someone to help himself or herself to a key?
I was about to find out there was nothing to it. My head was suddenly throbbing, and I remembered the aspirin bottle I’d brought in my carry-on case. I had set it on the sink in my bathroom. I told Alex I needed an aspirin and asked him to order a decaf for me. Louis was busying himself in the dining room, behind the bar. Slipping behind the reception desk, I simply took the key to number seven from its hook. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that no one in the lobby was paying any attention to me.
No one was in the upstairs hall. I unlocked my room, went inside, and took the aspirin. I looked again at all of my things strewn on the floor and fought back a muddle of emotions. Mostly frustration that I had to deal with this on my vacation. But anxiety, too. To what lengths would someone go to do—to do what? To get from me what I didn’t have? I made up my mind. When the poli
ce arrived, I would tell them everything.
In the hall, I locked my door and turned around to see a door ajar, the room next to Alex’s room. Someone peeked out, a woman, I believed, but the hall was dimly lit, and the door shut too quickly for me to tell. I had the impression the person had been watching me, but maybe I was just paranoid. After tonight, who could blame me?
I hurried downstairs to the front desk, still unsupervised, and returned my key to the pegboard. No one had seen me, if you didn’t count the watchful eyes in room ten.
Alex was standing at a nice little bar in the corner of the dining room. Behind the bar, Louis had opened panels to display shelves of liquor. Alex sipped from a brandy snifter. Louis met me with steaming frothy coffee in a delicate china cup. “Nescafe,” he said. I thanked him, put the coffee to my lips, and reminded myself that the French were not big on decaf.
Louis went back to his post at the reception desk. Over the half-wall, I saw that the group in the lobby was breaking up. Louis began to hand out yellow tennis shoes.
Alex and I took our drinks to a table. “Don’t you think it’s remarkable that so much attention is given to the keys, even when the hotel guests are in the dining room?” I said. “Isn’t it customary to turn in the keys only when you go outside the hotel?”
Alex tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “It’s a bit unusual.”
I said, “I just proved it’s not hard to take one of the keys if your timing is right.”
Before we could go on, Jean-Claude appeared. He bent over between us and said in a hushed voice, “Inspector Bouvier is on his way.” Then he slipped away, cat-like.
“I’m sure Jean-Claude hopes the other guests don’t find out about this incident.” Alex raised a finger. “You may have something about the keys. He says nothing like this has ever happened here, but of course he wouldn’t admit it if the hotel has a security problem.”
His voice took on a note of gentle concern. “You believe this incident is connected to the others, don’t you? Brussels, Paris— all of it.” No cynicism this time. No scolding. No mention of coincidence. Maybe Alex was beginning to imagine a bigger picture, a puzzle where all the pieces fit; we just didn’t know how.
Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery) Page 4
