Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Where is Arlette?” Portia said. “There you are!” That voice. Not just the quality of the voice, but the way she pronounced her words, and—I noticed now—the body language. She really might have been on stage at some point. A short, plump woman in a white short-sleeved blouse and black skirt appeared with a tray of carrot and celery sticks, artichokes, cherry tomatoes, and radishes. I glanced at Alex, wondering if he had the same impression as I did, that we were all characters in an opera—or maybe a foreign film. Yes, it could be a foreign film with subtitles, and Alex and I didn’t know our parts, but Portia and Hunt, probably Felicity also, had rehearsed theirs many times. So far, we hadn’t seen Barry, but I suspected that when he did choose to make an entrance, he would steal the scene.

  Alex gave no indication that he was having similar unkind thoughts. He made sounds of approval as he sampled the veggies, the crudités, according to Portia. I tasted a carrot stick, and I had to admit it wasn’t just any old carrot stick. A zesty herb seasoning dazzled my taste buds. I made sounds of approval, too.

  “The vinaigrette is Arlette’s own recipe,” said Portia, with a stiff smile. “She won’t even give it to me—or have you changed your mind, Arlette?”

  The woman returned a half-hearted little smile. She knew her part, too, but was not as passionate about her role as the others characters appeared to be.

  “The pastis, Arlette,” said Hunt, with an edge of impatience. She set the tray of crudités on a glass-topped, wrought-iron table and disappeared inside the house.

  “Have you had pastis?” asked Hunt.

  Alex said yes. I said no.

  I sensed, from the trace of a frown that etched itself into Hunt’s brow, that he would’ve been happier if Alex had said no, as well. He directed his attention to me as he explained more about pastis than I ever needed to know. “Pastis is an aperitif that everyone associates with Provence. It’s made by steeping herbs and spices in alcohol—very potent.You may like it or dislike it but you won’t feel blah about it.” He laughed, and so did Felicity. “If you like licorice, you’ll probably like pastis because star anise is the predominant flavor. Really, there’s nothing quite so refreshing on a warm afternoon.”

  “Nicknamed ‘the milk of Provence,’ ” Portia added. On cue, Arlette appeared bearing a tray with six tall glasses filled with milky liquid. She set it beside the tray of crudités.

  “Where’s Barry?” I asked.

  Hunt frowned. I should be focusing on our drinks. But Felicity slipped up, as well. “Oh, he’s making a call. You know Barry. Work, work, work! He’ll just have to catch up with us.” She raised her glass and said in the most honey-laden voice, “Here’s to the kindness of friends.”

  “Here, here,” said Alex, but not with great enthusiasm. He smiled and raised his glass, but as everyone else was sipping, he darted a glance my way. I interpreted it as Be nice.

  When we had tasted our drinks, Hunt asked, “Like or dislike?”

  I had to think about it. Licorice was not my favorite flavor, but I gave a thumbs-up. Hunt laughed with glee. “I knew it!” he said.

  The view from the terrace was across a large expanse of grass—not like a golf green as much as like the rough of a golf course, but appealing, nevertheless—and out to the olive trees. A driveway circled along one side of the patio, and for the first time I noticed two parked vehicles—a silver BMW and a smaller car, bright red.

  “Where’s your car?” I asked Felicity, remembering our ride from Gare du Nord in the cream-colored Citroën.

  “Ours is the Renault Twingo. The fire-engine red. Didn’t Barry tell you about our accident?” Felicity proceeded to give an account of a horrifying encounter with a tree. “Barry, who was driving like a maniac, took a curve way too fast on a dark road. We were so lucky to come out of it without a scratch.”

  “Where did it happen?” I asked.

  “About a mile or so from here. Weren’t we lucky?”

  Hunt and Portia added their own touches to the account.

  “I was amazed the damned car would run,” Hunt said. “To see the driver’s side crumpled, the door so warped it wouldn’t open, you’d expect engine damage, too, but the bloody car came limping on up the driveway.”

  “Hunt and I rushed out to meet them,” Portia said, “knowing they had to be hurt, but these two clowns”— she said as if it were a naughty word—“I couldn’t believe my eyes! Felicity got out, calling, ‘Yoo hoo!’ and then Barry climbed out on her side. What was it he said, darling?”

  Hunt was delighted to deliver the punch line. “Where’s my martini?”

  Felicity picked up the thread. “The next day we had to drive it to Aix—very slowly—and Hertz let us have another car. All’s well that ends well. Isn’t that what they say?”

  Arlette was back with another tray. “Socca,” Portia said. “Arlette, we need plates and forks for the socca.”

  “Oui, Madame,” said Arlette, and she headed to the kitchen yet again.

  Alex took out his pocket notebook. “You don’t mind if I take a few notes for my book?”

  “You will portray us kindly, I hope,” said Hunt.

  The socca were crêpes with a slightly coarse texture, crispy on the outside and tender inside. “Made with chickpea flour,” Portia said.

  “Don’t you just adore the food in Provence?” Felicity said, touching my arm.

  “Our lives here in Provence revolve around good food, good drink, and good friends,” said Hunt, before I could reply to Felicity’s question. She gave a little giggle. He regarded her with a frown. He hadn’t meant it as a joke; he’d meant to be profound.

  By now, we had all settled in chairs on the terrace. Arlette brought more pastis. Barry joined us at last, making a boisterous entrance. “Alex, my man! Jordan, baby!” He swooped down like a vulture, pulled me against him, and planted a wet boozy kiss on my lips.

  “Arlette, have you put the leg of lamb in the oven?” Portia called in her demanding voice.

  “Oui, Madame.” Arlette scuttled away again.

  Portia rolled her eyes and said, in her version of a stage whisper, “The woman has to be told everything.”

  “Pass the pastis, dear,” said Hunt.

  This day was going to be a long one.

  “Game!” said Hunt, as we sat down to lunch under the olive trees. The other three perked up. “Favorite restaurant,” Hunt announced.

  “Tru,” said Portia, with authority. “In Chicago. Hasn’t been open long so I wouldn’t expect any of you to know of it.”

  “Windows on the World,” Felicity declared, as if she were making a bid.

  Barry tried to remember the name of a place in San Francisco. “You know the one. On the waterfront. Great lobster,” he urged Felicity.

  “How many wonderful restaurants in San Francisco do we know?” Felicity said. “And they all serve great lobster.”

  “On the waterfront, I said.” Barry came down hard on each word. “You got plastered there. Pier 39. That’s where it was. I know you remember.”

  “I may have been plastered at more than one,” Felicity giggled.

  Hunt chimed in, raising his voice to an oratorical tenor. “I will tell you my favorite restaurant. It is not in the United States. I would argue that no restaurant in the world comes close to Lassare.”

  Portia made oohs and aahs. “Lassare—in Paris.” She regarded me, as if identifying the city for my benefit—which was helpful, but nonetheless annoying.

  “I didn’t even think of Guy Savoy,” said Felicity. “What’s the matter with me? We were just there the other night, weren’t we?” She glanced at me, then at Alex, who was seated across from me. Portia had insisted on boy-girl seating. I was between Hunt and Barry. Alex was between Felicity and Portia.

  “Alex? Jordan?” Hunt also glanced back and forth. “What’s your favorite?”

  Not to be outdone, Alex named a restaurant in Rome. I probably would have named the cozy little family eatery on Hilton Head where the kids
and I always went for celebrations. After having the best seafood in the region, I could sit on their porch and sip an after-dinner drink and watch my little ones frolic like puppies on the beach. Not that I’d add any commentary; it was just a nice memory. “My favorite is in Hilton Head,” I said, racking my brain for the name of the restaurant. But I was spared by the arrival of Arlette with the leg of lamb.

  I’d thought the appetizers had squelched my appetite, but when lunch was served under the olive trees, I had a change of heart. Arlette’s leg of lamb with artichokes and garlic received high praise all around, even from Portia, who explained, sotto voce: “It’s not her cooking that’s the problem; it’s her organizational skills.”

  “Ah, well, we’ll soon be leaving, and then I daresay you’ll miss her,” said Hunt.

  “Are you returning to Nashville?” I asked.

  “Yes, at the end of the month,” Hunt said, and he launched into an account, no doubt much rehearsed, about how they had rented this cabanon, sight unseen, four years ago, and had continued to rent it from June through September. “Every summer I continued my work and travels while Portia was here enjoying the country, digging in the gardens, picking herbs and flowers,” he said. Somehow this picture of Portia eluded me. “This year I really couldn’t do it, I just really couldn’t. Except for a short trip to Nice, I’ve been right here, rooted in Provence.”

  Once again I was aware of Hunt’s vowels, which in no way replicated other Nashvillians’ manner of speech. Nobody in the South that I knew said RIL-ly. I asked Hunt and Portia if they’d lived in Nashville a long time.

  “All our lives,” Portia said, beaming at Hunt. “We grew up two streets from each other.”

  “Blue bloods,” Barry said.

  “Barry!” Felicity squealed, almost knocking over her wine glass. Alex’s reflexes were splendid, despite a couple of rounds of pastis prior to the wine. He set the glass upright and received a grateful squeeze on the arm from a flustered Felicity.

  Barry ignored the near-accident. “Well, they are! They grew up in Belle Meade, live on the Boulevard, belong to the Club— blue bloods!”

  “Barry, will you stop it!” said Felicity.

  Hunt raised a placating hand. “It’s all right. I must tell you I’ve been called worse.”

  Barry reached for Portia and gave her a smothering hug. “You know I don’t mean any harm, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  A titter of nervous laughter went up from the table. The conversation veered back to the food and the wine, a dry red from a local vineyard. We all pretended not to notice when Barry’s cell phone chimed and he hurried from the table. He returned a moment later at the end of Portia’s account of the merits of nutmeg. When it seemed that all had been said about our meal that could be said, Barry said, “So, Jordan, any news about your suitcase?”

  “We told Hunt and Portia about your terrible loss,” Felicity put in. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Why would I? No, I said, I didn’t mind. “I spoke with someone from the Turkish Embassy in Brussels, and he has my suitcase. He’s sending it to my hotel,” I said.

  “How on earth did it wind up at the Turkish Embassy?” Portia asked.

  “Someone returned it.” I shrugged. Good enough answer, I thought.

  But Alex added, “A young seaman.” He continued with the rest of the details Adnan Kemal had given, and I had shared with my chatty uncle.

  “Incredible!” Hunt said. “That’s an amazing story.”

  “So when are you gonna finally get the damn thing?” Barry asked.

  “Any day, I suppose.”

  “How’s he sending it? Mail, courier, donkey cart?” Barry said.

  “He didn’t say. Maybe I should’ve asked.”

  “You don’t seem worried at all,” Felicity said, with a little laugh, but it was clear she was scolding. I started to say that I’d already replaced all my clothes, but the thought of my sketch book and pen skittered across my mind—and then Portia put in her two cents.

  “You know how those Middle Easterners are. Never in a hurry, and also a bit—sloppy—about getting things done. I wouldn’t wait too long to check back with him.”

  “He did go to the trouble to track me down, so I think he’s reliable.” I heard the note of irritation in my voice. To my relief, dessert was served, and the strawberry crème tart captured everyone’s attention.

  Except Barry’s. He leaned toward me and said out of the side of his mouth, “If you need me to go to bat for you—I’ve got connections. And you’ve got my number.”

  I managed a feeble “Thanks.” I thought I’d told Felicity I didn’t care if Barry made inquiries, but maybe didn’t always communicate information.

  Soon after lunch, we prepared to drive to Aix-en-Provence. Alex and I were taking our Peugeot, in order to leave straight from Aix. Even before we reached the car, Alex said, “Weren’t you a bit testy back there?”

  “They are much too interested in my suitcase. All of them.” I said. “Keys?”

  Alex had consumed a little too much pastis and wine to drive, but he still had his wits about him. “Good idea,” he said, handing me the keys.

  Hunt slid into the driver’s seat of the BMW. Barry had already claimed shotgun. I wondered if Portia or Felicity might be in better shape to drive than Hunt—certainly Barry wasn’t— but the BMW lurched out of the driveway before I could give it more thought.

  The curves were sharp, winding through the hills toward Aix. I wondered where Barry had run the car into a tree and thought how lucky those two were. Alex, who had particularly enjoyed the pastis, was snoozing at that point, but he woke near the end of our short trip as we negotiated one of the many fast and furious traffic circles that exist in lieu of bothersome red lights or, God forbid, four-way stops.

  To drive in France, one needs to understand that the speed limits are just suggestions and roundabouts are designed to keep traffic moving as fast as possible at all times. “Shouldn’t you slow down?” Alex asked, jolted from his nap. We were just coming out of the roundabout.

  “No one slows down,” I said. “It’s probably a crime to slow down.”

  In Aix, we parked near the BMW on the Rue Mignet, on the edge of Old Town, and met up with the others. Alex was struggling with his map. Barry was looking for a good place to drink. After much deliberation, we went away in pairs, Barry and Hunt to a bar on the Cours Mirabeau, Felicity and Portia to the boutiques. Alex and I immersed ourselves in the cooler, quieter heart of Old Town, rich with textures and colors and the smells of garlic and bread.

  “We need two days in Aix. There’s so much to see. So much to take in!” Alex’s tone was wistful. He was trying to locate us on his map.To me it made no difference where we were, exactly, as we threaded through the narrow, twisting streets, complete with boulangerie patissier, antiquités, librarie, pharmacie, salon de coiffeur, plus a Benneton and a Sunglass Hut. On to another street no wider than the alley behind my house in Savannah. Fruits, flowers, tobacco and paper shops, the locals ready with hearty Bonjour! Above the shops were living quarters, shutters open, window boxes with flowers.

  I dropped back to get the right angle with my camera. Alex turned, frowned. I managed to capture his impatience, as if he were saying, “Hurry!We won’t have enough time in the museums!”

  “The plan,” he informed me, “is to head toward St-Sauveur Cathedral at the north edge of the Old Town. I’ve marked a few sights along the way.” I was content to let him play tour guide until we came to the Museum of Natural History. Reluctantly, he agreed to pass up a full-blown tour of the museum when I reminded him that the Town Hall, l’Hôtel de Ville, was not far ahead.

  “We must spend some time at the Museum of Old Aix,” Alex said. I agreed. I tried to set a leisurely pace, for Alex’s sake, but with only two and a half hours before we had promised to meet the others, Alex plunged ahead toward the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville like a Boy Scout about to earn his merit badge for hiking.

  As w
e entered the building, he tucked the map under his arm and consulted his guidebook. “The Town Hall has occupied the same spot since the fourteenth century,” he read, “but the present building is much newer, only 350 years old.”

  “The interior kind of has a government-building feel, doesn’t it?” I said. The office doors were closed. It was an unremarkable space for a building with such a unique exterior. Alex didn’t reply to my comment. He was eavesdropping—longingly, I imagined—on a tour guide’s commentary. I touched his arm. “Alex, the real interest here is the square itself,” I said.

  “I think you’re right,” he said. We returned to the plaza filled with tables and umbrellas and the Provençal light that was even more marvelous when sifting through the plane trees.

  Even Boy Scouts need rest stops. We took a table at the Brasserie de la Marie, ordered cappuccino, and took turns visiting the unisex restroom. A little off-putting at first, but in France, even when there are separate toilettes for men and women, both use the same lavatory.

  “Ah, this is very nice,” Alex said, settling into his chair at the outdoor table. I wondered if he felt, as I did, that we were watching an exquisite performance from the front row. He took out his notebook. His contemplative expression told me he was in the writing, not talking, mode.

  Talk about inspiration. Every architect ought to sit in this square for a while and contemplate why it works. Certainly the human-centered space was not unique. All over Europe were wonderful plazas. The memory of studying in Florence, decades ago, brought on a wave of nostalgia, the picture of myself in one of the squares sketching a cathedral. My gifts from Stuart, pen and sketch book, tucked into my suitcase that I might or might not see again.