Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “I know that. Barry has contacts all over the place. He’s a real networker. So will you let him make some inquiries?”

  “Sure. Why not.” I gave her my cell number with some reluctance. I hoped she wouldn’t call every time she had a random idea. “You know, I should just call you after I’ve talked with Alex.” I spotted a notepad, motioned to Bettina behind the front desk, and she gave me a pen to write Felicity’s cell number.

  Now I really did need a quiet walk. Something about Felicity always made me tired, and then I felt guilty. Outside, Alex was reclining in a lounge chair, scribbling furiously. He was so thoroughly engrossed in his writing that I was sure he wouldn’t miss me for a while. I’d promised I’d be ready to leave in an hour. I still had half the time left.

  Several hotel guests were wandering around the spacious grounds. A young couple holding hands walked along the perimeter of the cypress trees, a welcome sight among so many older guests. Since it was September, children were in school. Now the Elderhostel crowd was on holiday. Some of the American women clustered around the giant chess set. I walked across the grass, past where another couple, more my age, were having coffee at a round table with an umbrella. One of the hotel employees was setting up a game of croquet.

  For the first time I got a good look at the whole back of the hotel. The architect had done such a good job that it was hard to tell where the old left off and the new filled in, a rare accomplishment. I’d noticed the hotel had components that were centuries old. Throughout the newer structure were old materials, primarily stone: stone window sill, front steps, a doorway. What a fascinating project for an architect!

  Below grade, a sloping path led to a set of ancient stone steps, pitted stone, with the little cavities that develop with centuries of weathering. The steps led down into a cellar-like space, a heavy door and a window, not as old as the stone, covered with dirt and grime. I tried to wipe the glass with my bare hand but couldn’t tell much about what was inside. Now intrigued by how the new materials had filled in the void left by the old, I pushed the door. It opened.

  A stone room, huge stone walls in one piece, stone floor. Long abandoned, whatever it was. Musty, earthy smell. I moved inside slowly, not too far. The door had stayed open with ease, secured by the gravel, but I didn’t care to get far from the light source. I was able to see that this room continued through an irregular opening to yet another darker space. A tunnel? A few more steps away from the door, I was suddenly aware of a noise. Footsteps on gravel.

  Thoroughly captivated by the space, I hadn’t considered it dangerous, but I regained my senses quickly. Was someone out there coming to shut me in? I flew toward the light, holding my breath until I had closed the door behind me.

  More crunching of gravel. I called, “Who’s there?” No one. Whoever had made the noise must have disappeared around the corner, into a grove of trees. I wasn’t going to investigate. I closed the heavy door and leaned against it. How could I have let down my guard, after all that had happened the past few days? The footsteps could have been innocent enough, another hotel guest exploring as I was, but why, then, did the person run away? No. Someone was following me. I held onto the door handle another minute before my breathing finally evened out.

  Inspector Bouvier met me with a smile. I had hurried across the grounds to find Alex, only to see that the inspector had joined him. They were standing beside the pool. The elderly woman was toweling herself off on the other side. The young couple passed by, still holding hands. Everything so peaceful at L’hôtel du Soleil. Impossible that anyone could be locked up in an ancient stone chamber. Impossible!

  “Jordan! Where have you been?” Alex asked.

  “Just looking around the grounds,” I said. What if someone had locked me up? Alex wouldn’t have known where to look for me. Should I make him aware of all my comings and goings, as if I were a child?

  I tried not to show my exasperation, but the inspector asked, “Are you feeling well, Madame?”

  My knees felt weak. My cheeks might have been flushed. But I said, “Oui.Très bien.”

  He smiled, showing he appreciated my attempts to speak his language.

  “What brings you here, Inspector?” I asked.

  “Ah, I have been investigating the crime.” He smoothed his mustache. “Under your window there is no sign that someone used a ladder. No indentations in the gravel.”

  “I know how the intruder got into my room,” I said.

  The inspector’s brows shot up. As I told him how easy it had been to take my key from behind the reception desk when I needed to go up to my room for aspirin, he began to nod. “Ah, that must be how it happened.” Now he began the tapping of his chin that seemed to signal deep thought. After a moment he said, “We may know how the intruder entered the room, but we still do not know why. When we know why, in all probability, we will know who.”

  “Did I mention”—Alex interrupted—“that we’re going to Les Baux this morning?” He turned toward the hotel. In other words, time to break this up. Inspector Bouvier and I followed, a few paces behind Alex.

  “Les Baux, ah, a fascinating historical site. Yes, you must see it.” The inspector stopped at the back entrance of the hotel. “One thing I failed to mention, though now it seems unimportant. I spoke with one of the guests on your floor. She saw a woman enter your room last night with a key, a woman who was behaving suspiciously.”

  “And what time was that?” I asked.

  “Ah, that is the problem. She was not sure. The wine, perhaps?” he said, with a trace of a grin. “If one is not accustomed to the French wines, well.” He gave an elaborate shrug. “And since you returned to the room yourself, Madame, I would say the woman saw you.”

  So the woman in room ten was simply a busybody, not a threat. Good to know. But we were back where we started. And I didn’t know why she thought I was behaving suspiciously.

  Alex had been shifting from foot to foot. Ignoring my comment, he said, “Thank you for coming by, Inspector. And now Jordan and I should probably get our cameras and head to Les Baux.” He gave me a meaningful look.

  “I regret what happened on your first night in Fontvieille,” said the inspector, “but no one was hurt, nothing stolen. It is fortunate, oui? Please, enjoy the rest of your stay in Provence.”

  So there. A polite way to say dead end. No reason to mention the ancient stone chamber.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  The fortress that was built high on Les Baux Rock was one of the most powerful in the region during the Middle Ages. Legend has it that the lords of Les Baux were descendants of King Balthazar, one of the wise men who were guided by a star to the infant Jesus. In the sixteen hundreds, Louis XIII ordered the ramparts and castle demolished, but many of the features of Les Baux de Provence were restored.

  Never mind that I’d read about Les Baux in Alex’s guidebook, that I’d seen a picture of the ancient citadel jutting up and out from the rocky cliffs. I was not prepared for the real thing. This architectural and cultural wonder was a fitting sight for an architect and a travel writer to begin our tour of Provence.

  “Isn’t this spectacular?” Alex said, in an almost reverent tone. We were standing at the entrance, in front of a wall of medieval houses, looking out over the valley that seemed to stretch forever to a place where land and sky came together at a horizon in shades of blue. Up went the cameras, of course, and we documented the view in shot after shot.

  “Over there, Jordan,” Alex said, motioning. “One for your children.” I moved to the spot he indicated, my back to the panoramic view. He took the shot. I didn’t mention that my children wouldn’t care that much, but couldn’t I have the photo for myself?

  “You were right, Alex,” I said. “This is magnificent.” We entered into a narrow, rocky street, winding between high walls, a medieval village. Of course, with a million tourists each year, there had to be touristy shops and stores, too. Nevertheless, the architecture dominated.

&
nbsp; But before we delved too much into history and culture, we ate. After all, it had now been probably four hours since breakfast. We had lunch in one of the outdoor cafés, La Maison Du Prieur. Everything I could see on everyone else’s plate looked exquisite. I glanced at the menu, ordered sparkling water, and pointed to an item that I believed was something like a seafood salad. Alex’s French wasn’t much better than mine. Like most American travelers, he’d always depended on the residents of the countries he visited to speak English.

  “You can’t go wrong with jambon blanc,” he said. Basically, ham and bread. I took a chance, and my order turned out to be slivers of fresh tuna on greens, with a light garlic dressing. So far, nothing I’d tasted on this trip had disappointed me.

  As we finished our meal, I spotted some of the American women from our hotel. They were at the gate of our café. The small patio, enclosed by fancy ironwork, had no empty tables, and several people were waiting. One of the women was speaking to the hostess in a loud voice that I gathered had more to do with her poor hearing than with emotion. “We’ll just go on then, dear. The girls don’t want to lose time from the tour.”

  I made eye contact with one of the other women. She turned away quickly. What was that all about? “Alex—” I began, just as the server returned with our credit cards. A good thing, probably. I didn’t need to give Alex yet another reason to accuse me of paranoia. Truth be told, I was beginning to doubt my own instincts.

  I picked up the guidebook and squinted at the small map of Les Baux.

  “Did you forget your glasses?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t need glasses,” I said. “This print is just ridiculously tiny.”

  Alex didn’t push it. Wise move. He stood and announced, “We’d better go or we won’t see all the museums.”

  Yes, there were museums. The Museum of Contemporary Art, housed in an elegant Renaissance house that was now the Hôtel de Manville. The fifteenth-century Tour de Brau House, now a museum. The tiny Olivier Museum, located in the twelfth-century Romanesque St. Blaise Chapel. Alex was delighted. Not that I wasn’t caught up in the spirit, too, but I was more in my element wandering through the twisted, constricted alleyways. At the Hôtel des Porcelets, now the Yves Brayer Museum, housing a hundred of the contemporary artist’s paintings, my attention began to wane. I also remembered a call I was supposed to make to the other side of the world. No need to mention the call to Alex. “I’m going to check out some of the shops,” I said. “Do you think you’ll be here long?”

  He checked his watch. “Our time’s running short. We should have started earlier.” A little jab for my benefit. “All right, I’ll stay here another twenty minutes. We want to have enough time to go through the château.” He looked up at the rocky cliff high above us, where a string of tourists, like a colorful caterpillar, wove their way to the point.

  We agreed to meet at the entrance to the castle in half an hour. Outside the museum, a jewelry shop caught my eye, and I spent ten of my thirty minutes buying earrings for the girls and a key chain for Michael. The girls would love the earrings. If I found something better than a key chain for Michael, I’d keep it for myself.

  I turned into Rue Neuve, packed with tourists who were perusing maps the size of a placemat, and headed toward the Office of Tourisme. I wanted one of those maps. In the meantime, I looked for a place to make my call, away from the noise of the bustling crowds. Not easy to find. Before I knew it, I was at the Office of Tourisme. Another pretty French student-type sold me a map and, at my request, marked with a high-lighter the quickest route to the castle.

  Her directions took me away from the main drag. With a couple of turns, I left the crowds behind. I spotted a low stone wall, sat down, and dialed the string of numbers that connected me to the Department of Codes in Savannah, Georgia.

  “You already back home?” Bailey’s booming voice was so clear, he could have been sitting beside me. “Geez!” he said, when I told him where I was. “I never got a call from France before.” Like Drew, he must have thought long distance meant he had to raise his voice. I held my cell phone away from my ear.

  Bailey—I never knew his first name—was not like some other inspectors who enjoyed asserting their authority. He’d make jokes and he’d work with you. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t tough. I got right down to business, asking him about the building on Drayton.

  “Have you met your new contractor?” he asked.

  “I haven’t met her, but I’ve seen her credentials,” I said.

  “You oughta see her credentials in a halter top.” He laughed a hearty belly laugh.

  I laughed, too, and then asked him what really happened.

  He reported in official language what had led to his slapping a stop-work order on the building. Basically, the contractor had started the interior demo without the permit. “Know what she said? She fluttered her eyelashes and said, ‘We’re just doing some clean-up is all.’ Clean-up, my ass! Knocking walls down is clean-up?” Bailey had momentarily lost his good humor.

  “What do we do to make it right?” I asked, and we batted around solutions. Bailey was not inclined to work with Drew and Jasmine-in-the-halter-top for a demolition permit. Codes inspectors don’t take well to people who try to get away with something. Once I was able to convince him that no disrespect was intended, he agreed to issue a permit for demolition only. He would not reduce the fine. That was the first I’d heard about a fine, but it was probably fair.

  “Bailey, you’re a pal,” I said. “We won’t screw up again.”

  “I know you won’t,” he said. It was unusual to hear because most people in Savannah believed Drew was the brains of our business.

  It had been twenty minutes since I’d left Alex at the museum. I glanced at the map and began what appeared to be a long trek to the castle. Cutting between two high walls that separated what must have once been residences, I decided to get the call to Drew out of the way. Not surprised to get his voicemail, I left a terse message, explaining what he had to do. “Make sure Jasmine understands how we do things in Savannah,” I said. “Another stunt like that, and she’s fired.” I broke the connection, glad Drew hadn’t answered, so he couldn’t plead her case.

  I cut through an alley at the back of several shops. No one was in sight. I hadn’t seen anyone since before I’d made my calls. Though I had asked for the shortest route to the castle, surely others ventured into this back street. When I stopped to check my map, I was aware of footsteps behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see someone, actually hoping to see someone. But the footsteps had stopped; the street was empty.

  I turned into another alley, walking faster. Another glance back, and this time, there was a flash of movement, someone starting to turn the corner, then stepping back. That feeling again, the prickly skin, that heavy, sinking feeling in my stomach. Was someone going to pursue me throughout Provence?

  Why had I isolated myself from the crowd? Here I was, in a back alleyway, a perfect place to be attacked. I ducked into what I thought might lead to a more populated area, but what I saw was an iron gate. I ran to it and shook it. It was bolted.

  I waited. Footsteps came nearer, faster. Everything around me was stone, except the gate. The walls, the pillars in which the gate was set, the ground—all stone. Nothing to use for a weapon. But I was not going to die, whimpering. I pressed myself against the wall and slid toward the corner. Whoever had followed me was nearly upon me. I gathered all my courage. When my pursuer came in sight at the corner, I stepped away from the wall and found my biggest voice: “Stop right there!” I said. “Why are you following me?”

  The woman’s hands flew to her chest, to her heart, I thought, noting the alarm on her face, hearing her gasp. What if she were having a heart attack? I entertained this notion because the woman was one of the Americans from our hotel. Surely she was harmless.

  “You scared me out of my wits!” she said, with indignation. She straightened her knit shirt. “Why did you have
to scream like that?”

  “I’m not the bad guy here. Why were you following me?”

  “I’m not the bad guy,” she said. I detected a trace of embarrassment before she drew herself up to her full height of about five-two. “I thought I was being surreptitious.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” I told her. “Were you following me at the hotel, too? And what about the cowboy who followed me in Paris and Brussels?”

  With this, she shook her head vigorously. Her brown-helmet coiffure remained in place, every hair. “Now hold on, young lady. I’ve never been to Paris or Brussels. Our tour flew straight to Marseilles. You can ask our tour guide. And I don’t know anything about a cowboy, but I wouldn’t mind having him follow me.”

  I couldn’t keep from smiling. Anyone who called me “young lady” couldn’t be all bad.

  “You’re right about the hotel,” she went on. “I saw you nosing around down in that old part that looks like a dungeon. Maybe I should ask what you were doing down there. But the other guy’s the one you need to worry about.”

  “What other guy?”

  “Probably the one who broke into your room.” She gave a victorious nod. “That little fat detective was being so secretive when he questioned me—ha! Wouldn’t come out and say what was going on, but anybody with reasonably good sense could figure it out.”

  Apparently I’d made the acquaintance of the occupant in room ten.

  “You saw the person who broke into my room?”

  “Oh, I didn’t see him then. Isaw you go into your room. But I’m betting that whoever trashed your room was the guy who’s been following you today.”

  Another knot in my stomach.

  “You should be glad I was watching. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”

  She sounded trustworthy enough. “Do you mind walking to the castle with me?” I asked. “We can walk and talk. I’m late meeting my uncle. He’ll wonder what happened.”