Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Did I mention that the man woke me from a deep, dreamy sleep? He kept reading your name and this address, and I was afraid to admit anything. How was I to know it wasn’t a scam?” Julie managed a little laugh. “But he sounded so helpless. No, that’s not it exactly. Extremely courteous. Over the top, you know. Confused.You’d think he would know about time zones.”

  “What did you tell him? Or what did he tell you?” I asked, as I sat on the side of the bed, letting myself hope that I might actually be going to get my suitcase back.

  “Here it is—Adnan Kemal.” She spelled the name. “At the Turkish Embassy in Brussels. He has your suitcase. He asked if he should send it to this address or to the hotel in Provence. I thought I should say the hotel, but when he said he couldn’t make out the telephone number someone had written, I didn’t want to take any chances that he wasn’t legit. So I decided to get his number and let you call him.”

  “Smart,” I said. My brainy girl.

  I tried to imagine how my suitcase had wound up at the Turkish Embassy. Flash to the train, the young man pulling down the window shade. Middle Eastern, I’d said. Turkish? It didn’t make sense that he’d steal my suitcase only to take it to the Embassy.

  “I was going to call you later, anyway,” Julie said. “Hold on a minute. Winston, stop that!” An expensive couple of minutes of shuffling noises, Julie’s scolding, a door closing. “He was getting in the garbage. Does he do that with you, or is he taking advantage of me?”

  “He’ll get into anything. Keep the pantry door closed,” I said. “Is everything all right, besides Winton’s bad habits?”

  “I have a job interview,” she said, and I could envision her smile, those straight, pretty teeth that spent three years in braces. “I answered an ad in the paper for something at WJCL—may not pay a lot, but I’m going to check it out. I could live here.”

  “Sounds promising,” I said, trying to be upbeat about a job that didn’t pay much and kept my college graduate in Savannah—at home?

  “I wanted to ask if you have a power suit?” she said.

  “A power suit?”

  “Isn’t that what they call a dark tailored business suit? For the interview. Don’t you have something? I looked in your closet, but everything seemed—I don’t know—really casual.”

  I hadn’t had the need for a power suit in a while. Besides, anything I had would swallow Julie, I told her. She was the smallest of all the girls, at least three inches shorter than I was, and I didn’t care to think how many pounds lighter.

  “I have to have something that’s professional, and I can’t afford to buy a power suit,” she whined. “Unless I put it on your credit card.”

  There it was.

  “I promise to pay you back when I start getting a salary,” she said.

  I did a quick calculation of what it would cost to board Winston for two weeks. “Consider this compensation for dog-sitting,” I said. “I’ll pitch in for a professional look but if you go for a power suit, you’ll need to keep the voltage way down.”

  “I get it. Thanks, Mom. Oh, and shoes, too? I don’t think my Birkenstocks would make the right impression.”

  It wasn’t surprising or disappointing that I was unable to reach Adnan Kemal on my first try. Now that I had new purchases for the trip, I was just glad I’d get my suitcase back eventually, glad everything was safe—as far as I knew. Clothes, comfy shoes, pen, and sketch book. The soft-spoken man at the Embassy asked me to please try again after three o’clock. I glanced at my watch. It was almost noon. I imagined that Mr. Kemal had left for a long, leisurely, European lunch.

  I had just stuffed my phone in my tote bag when it rang again. A familiar squeal. Felicity.

  She and Barry had arrived at their friends’ house in the country near Aix, and Felicity let me know that she was desperate to hear whether Alex and I could join them. I couldn’t tell her that I had not given the invitation a second thought since her call yesterday, before we left for Les Baux. I’d had plenty on my mind, being followed to the old part of the hotel and in Les Baux and finally confronting my stalker at Le Patio. I couldn’t explain to Felicity why I had not mentioned Aix-in-Provence to Alex.

  “Hunt and Portia would love it if you’d come for a picnic Sunday. Picnic is what Portia said, but the way they do food here, it will be a banquet, trust me. We could go into Aix in the evening. Hunt and Portia know all the hot spots.” Felicity took a long breath, sounding winded, but then she started up again, which was useful because I still didn’t know what to tell her.

  “Alex would go berserk over this place, and you, too,” she was saying. “I almost forgot how much you’d love the architecture. A charming French cottage—they call it a cabanon. They rent it every summer. It’s been featured in Architectural Digest. What fabulous material for Alex’s book!”

  She was probably right. Alex wouldn’t relish spending any more time with Barry, but he’d know that tourists often don’t get an opportunity to visit an actual French home.

  “We’d love it,” I heard myself say, realizing that I was screwing up my face as I spoke.

  “I’m so thrilled!” she said. “Portia did say a picnic, but I’m not sure of the time. You know the French make so much of lunch, and it’s usually late. Portia’s outside talking to the gardener, but I’ll ask as soon as she comes back.”

  Always a reason for another call. But we would need directions.

  “Of course! Lots of turns and twisty little roads,” Felicity said. “Barry’s good with directions. We’ll call you back.” And then, more subdued, as if asking about a sick person, “Any news about your suitcase?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I said, and I told her what I’d learned from Julie.

  “Marvelous!” said Felicity. “You’ll have all your things back soon. To think that your luggage wound up at the Turkish Embassy. I can’t wait to hear that story!”

  “Me, either.” I’d intended to ask Mr. Kemal to send my suitcase to Savannah, but now I wasn’t sure. The suitcase did have a story. I could see the man in the ten-gallon hat, beating on the train door, the same man who had called my hotel, who was killed in a hit-and-run. Whatever madness had started with losing my suitcase, better to keep it on this side of the Atlantic.

  I said goodbye to Felicity and hurried to meet Alex for our walk to Daudet’s Mill, but my mind was stuck, the gears grinding. I had to get my suitcase back.

  “These are parasol pines,” Alex said. He was breathing hard as we plodded up the steep incline, following the narrow path toward Daudet’s Mill, lined with tall, thin trees that looked like umbrellas folded up, pointed to the sky.

  “Do you want to rest?” I asked.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, gazing toward the windmill at the top of the hill.

  “Still, we’re not in a race.”

  Alex ignored me. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, rather mopped his face, as he continued onward. “Parasol pines,” he said, still huffing and puffing. “A variety I haven’t encountered before.”

  We were not alone on our trek. Ahead of us, a couple much younger than I, both overweight, were struggling with the incline as much as Alex. A small boy, young enough that he wasn’t in school, ran around us now. I looked back to be sure there were parents around. It’s a mother thing. We met several people on their way down.

  Alex’s face was an unhealthy red, and his shirt was drenched with perspiration. The weather was too mild for such a reaction.

  “Please, Alex, let’s stop, take a breather.”

  “Jordan, please don’t mollycoddle me,” he said.

  We were near the end of our climb, so I didn’t say anything else, though I kept watching my uncle. Stairs of ancient stone led to the top. The trees thinned out, and patches of the surrounding countryside came into view. Finally, we reached the summit.

  Alex gave a breathless “Voila!”

  It was not hard to imagine why Alphonse Daudet was inspired by the view from
this hill. Before us lay miles and miles of muted colors, the olive greens of vineyards, the wheat-colored valleys, the blue-grays of distant mountains, outcroppings of rock that shone white, and clusters of villages with tile roofs, rosy-brown. Alex perched on one of the low stone walls that couldn’t have been comfortable. I could testify to that when I sat beside him. But after a minute, his face resumed its healthy color, and his breathing evened out.

  With the aid of our guidebook, we identified the castles of Baucaire and Tarascon and Montmajour Abbey, the magnificent stone structures, variations of gray, brown, and pale gold. Yes, the creative spirit could surely be seduced by the spectacular landscape, the temperate climate, the magical light.

  And Daudet’s Mill itself was fascinating, I discovered. The old structure still had its grinding mechanisms and its inscriptions for local winds. Underground, in what was the flour room, was a little museum with information about the mill and Daudet himself.

  An hour passed before I realized it. Alex was still seated on the low stone wall, writing. In the breeze at this higher altitude, his shirt had dried. The trip downhill shouldn’t be so hard.

  “Is it going well?” I asked.

  He muttered and nodded, holding up a finger for me to wait. A minute later he said, “Yes, I’m simply letting my senses speak to me. Listen.”

  It’s probably not by chance that I’m in a visual profession. I don’t think about letting my senses speak to me, except for my eyesight. Maybe it’s a matter of cultivating sensitivity. I gave Alex an inquisitive look. I didn’t hear anything except the low voices of other tourists who were wandering around the site, referring to their guidebooks.

  “Don’t you hear?” Alex asked, pointing to the sails of the windmill. “The music.”

  The sound of the sails turning in the breeze was like singing. I closed my eyes, and the high, soft melody became more compelling; the murmurings in languages other than English provided their own harmony.

  “Yes,” I said in a whisper. With eyes closed, I was also aware of air on my skin, the coolness of it, and the woody, clean smell on the breeze, ostensibly the fragrance of the parasol pines. A fine place to let one’s senses speak.

  I sat beside Alex for another few minutes, until he closed his journal.

  “Ready to go?” I asked.

  “I think so.” He took a long breath, as if anticipating the hike. Even though it was downhill to the street, the rest of our journey back to the hotel was a good mile.

  “Alex,” I said, as we entered the path, “why didn’t your doctor want you to travel alone? Is there something about your health that you’re not telling me?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “If you’re worried because I got a little winded on the way up, please remember that I took a long bike ride this morning. I’m sure I overdid it a bit today. That’s all there is to it.”

  “But you’ve never said exactly why your doctor—”

  “Jordan, please, I don’t need a nursemaid. Let it go, my dear. Let it go.”

  His breathing was coming a little faster, and I wondered if his frustration with me was causing undue stress. So I let it go, for the time being.

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Inspector Bouvier was leaving the hotel parking lot as we arrived at the gate. Alex raised a hand in a greeting and headed straight to the hotel entrance. I hoped he’d take a long rest. I didn’t mind if he’d forgotten last night and our plan to tell the inspector about the man at Le Patio. I headed toward the bright yellow Citroën. The inspector was stuffed into the driver’s seat, his seat so far back to accommodate his girth that his toes barely touched the accelerator.

  He rolled down the window. “Bonjour, Madame Mayfair,” he said. “I regret that I have no progress to report on the case of the robbery.” He corrected himself. “The intrusion.”

  “C’est la vie,” I said.

  “C’est la vie!” he laughed. “C’est vrai! It is true!” My attempt to speak French apparently delighted him.

  I didn’t get a chance to tell him that I had a description of the man who might have ransacked my room, for he announced, “I regret that another case requires my full attention, a case of missing art treasures.”

  “Ah! A burglary where there was a robbery?” I asked.

  “No evidence of forced entry.” He seemed to catch himself talking out of line. He blinked his deep blue eyes with the long dark lashes and said, “But I must be off. Au revoir, Madame.” And he sped away in his little yellow Citroën, looking as if he’d need the Jaws of Life to get him out when he reached his destination.

  Jean-Claude was on the phone at the front desk. He wasn’t happy; I could tell that much. No one else was around. He nodded to me, rolled his eyes and raised an arm to the heavens, said something else to his caller, and hung up.

  “Reporters!” he said. “All day they are calling for Monsieur Broussard. Do they think I am his personal secretary?”

  I didn’t understand what was going on, but Jean-Claude was only too happy to tell. Monsieur Broussard, a guest of the hotel, was the patron of the Château de Montauban, the site of an important art exhibition. “The museum is one of Fontvieille’s most important landmarks,” Jean-Claude explained. “It houses Alphonse Daudet’s collection.”

  “I thought Daudet was a poet,” I said.

  “A great writer, yes.”

  “An artist, too?”

  “Not Daudet himself, but he was a collector of art. His private collection is exhibited at the Château de Montauban. Very fine. Some of the great French painters.” Jean-Claude shrugged. “But it has been a long time since I visited the museum.”

  I had the impression that art might not be the hotel proprietor’s strong suit.

  “Monsieur Broussard lives in Paris, but he stays at L’hôtel du Soleil when he comes to Fontvieille,” Jean-Claude said with pride. “He is in Fontvieille now, looking into a very serious problem. Some of the sketches are missing. Sketches of the great French painter, Van Gogh.”

  “Van Gogh?” Without thinking, I said, “But Van Gogh was Dutch.”

  I was immediately sorry for my blatant contradiction when I saw Jean-Claude stiffen, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Oui. He was Dutch and also sometimes fou.” He made the whirly sign for crazy. “You can visit Hôpital Van Gogh in Arles, where he stayed when he was fou.” Jean-Claude went on to explain that Monsieur Broussard had recently discovered one of the Van Gogh sketches in Paris, and he recognized that it belonged to the museum at the Château. Inquiries to the museum’s curator confirmed that, indeed, the pencil sketch was missing. Monsieur Broussard had arrived in Fontvieille on Saturday to investigate. As he and the curator, Gerard Llorca, completed an inventory of the museum’s collection, it became apparent that several of Van Gogh’s sketches were missing.

  “And now a sketch book has disappeared, full of many pages! People say it has been in the news today, on the télévision and the internet. Dozens of sketches, gone from under Monsieur Broussard’s nose, also from under Monsieur Llorca’s large, ugly nose.” He scowled. “I do not like Monsieur Llorca. I would not weep over his misfortune. But it is too bad for Monsieur Broussard. He is a kind and generous benefactor. It is too bad for Fontvieille.”

  I asked if that was what Inspector Bouvier was investigating.

  “Oui! He was here only minutes ago, asking questions about Monsieur Broussard. As if he suspects the patron himself! The inspector says no, he is only asking the questions that must be answered in an investigation, but”—he waggled his forefinger— “you cannot always tell what that little man is thinking.” That I knew to be true.

  Jean-Claude paused to answer another phone call, speaking sharply to the caller. Palms to the sky again. “The same reporter from Paris who called this morning. I say I will give Monsieur Broussard the message, but he calls again! As if I have nothing to do but answer the telephone!”

  He probably did have other things to do, but here in the middle of the afternoon wi
th no one else around, he seemed more than willing to talk to me. I didn’t discourage him. Leaning against the front desk, I listened with curiosity as he told about the sketch book’s disappearance.

  “The citizens who come here for lunch, they talk of nothing else,” he said. “They say that last evening, Monsieur Broussard and Monsieur Llorca closed the museum and departed at the same time. Two security guards have been posted at the Château all night. Two! These guards reported nothing unusual. This morning, Monsieur Broussard was the first to arrive, and when he resumed work, he discovered the sketch book was gone.”

  “And it’s already been in the news?” I said.

  “Oui! Not in France alone—everywhere! This is of great interest in the art world.That is why reporters have come to Fontvieille.” He added, with disdain, “They are staying at La Regalido,” referring to Fontvieille’s only four-star hotel, as opposed to the two-star L’hôtel du Soleil.

  A spontaneous smile replaced his scowl as Bettina appeared on the stairs. I caught “ma cherie” in the tumble of French that came from Jean-Claude’s lips, his expression so benevolent that I was sure he’d said something loving to his daughter. But Bettina’s face remained unsmiling. She made a curt reply and turned toward the lobby. The smile went out of Jean-Claude’s eyes and mouth, and what he muttered, if I’m any judge of parental inflections that transcend all languages, was an expression of worry. Bettina headed to the front door and exited.

  “Beautiful girl,” I said, trying to gloss over the tension that one could hardly fail to notice.

  Jean-Claude scrunched his shoulders. “I agree, of course. I am her father. Too beautiful, perhaps. She is only nineteen.”

  I considered the implication, but no appropriate response came to mind. “I have four daughters,” I said.

  “Four daughters!” Jean-Claude was once again animated, laughing a hearty “Ha ha!” as his fingertips flew to his temples.

  “And one son,” I added.

  “Mon Dieu!” he said, and then, as if by mutual agreement that our conversation had reached the end, he retrieved the yellow tennis shoe from the pegboard and handed me my key.