Studying the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville with an architect’s eye, I could see there was something extraordinary about the scale, the light, the energy when people were added to the traditional space. An accordion player strolled through the square, playing for tips. There were dogs, children, motor scooters, and policemen in blue short-sleeve shirts who may have been keeping the peace, but they appeared as cheerful and relaxed as if they were on holiday. Shops with Parisian fashions, mom-and-pop pizzerias, art galleries, all in the shadow of the fifteenth-century tower on which someone with a lively sense of humor had painted two large eyeballs.
Alex closed his notebook. “As much as I’d enjoy staying here another hour . . .” he said, letting his voice trail off.
I nodded, but I wasn’t quite ready to go. “Alex,” I said, “would you feel neglected if I had dinner with someone else tomorrow night?” I’d started to say date but couldn’t bring myself to use the term, which seemed (unreasonably, I suppose) to belong to my children’s generation.
Alex cut his eyes at me. “Jordan, you mustn’t treat me like a child in your care. If you have an invitation to dinner, please go. I won’t starve, and I won’t feel neglected.”
“I know.” I had known how he’d answer, but I was glad to hear him say it.
“Do I dare ask who?” Amusement played around his lips. No, he didn’t mind at all that I was going to dinner with someone, but when I spoke the name Paul Broussard, his jaw dropped.
“The patron of the museum? Jordan! You didn’t tell me you knew Monsieur Broussard.”
This was tricky. I wasn’t about to mention having seen the archives. “I’d never met him until yesterday,” I said. “We had a nice talk out by the pool, and he asked me to dinner.” Not exactly a lie, just not the whole truth.
“Well!” said Alex. “You certainly must have made an impression!” Then, composing himself in Alex-fashion, he said, “You must find out as much as you can about the art theft. Will you do that? I might be able to get an article out of it.”
All along our self-guided tour were exquisite buildings not mentioned in our guidebook but obviously dating back centuries, many of them with finely balanced aristocratic façades, sculpted doorways, balconies supported by caryatids. I was in my element strolling the streets, but I had promised Alex we’d spend some time at the Musée du Vielle Aix. The façade was remarkable for its fluted columns surmounted by Corinthian capitals. The museum, housed in the late 17th-century Hôtel d’Estienne-de-St-Jean, had preserved much of its original décor, including painted ceilings, friezes, and furniture. As it turned out, I was the one who groaned when, after nearly an hour, Alex said, “So much more to see.”
On to the St-Sauveur Cathedral, with its combination of Gothic and Romanesque details, representing frequent renovations between the fifth and eighteenth centuries. By now I had finished another roll of film, and it was nearly time to meet the rest of our party. We headed back in the same general direction but took an alternate route to pass by the prison and law courts. We managed a quick walk through the early Gothic church of Ste-Marie-Madeleine.
“Feeling O.K.?” I asked Alex, as we trekked toward the Cours Mirabeau. Amazing how a seventy-two-year-old man with angina could keep up this pace. Each time I tried to slow us down, he’d speed up, reminding me that we were already late.
“I expect I feel better than Barry and Hunt,” he said. “Or maybe not. They may actually be feeling just fine right now, but they won’t be later, if I’m any judge.”
“You’re probably a fair judge,” I said.
Barry, Felicity, Hunt and Portia were settled in on the sprawling, crowded terrace of the Café Le Grillon, laughing and drinking wine, unconcerned that we were late.
“Come here, over here, Jordan!” Felicity called, patting a chair beside her. “Isn’t this the most gorgeous street in the world?” Hunt scrambled for a chair for Alex from another table, squeezing it in between him and Portia.
I understood why all the fuss about the Cours Mirabeau, proclaimed in our travel literature—as by Felicity—as the most beautiful street in the world.
“It’s the plane trees, dear,” Portia said, responding to Felicity. “They diffuse the sunlight. That’s why the Cours Mirabeau is such a spectacular street. There’s no other like it.” She lifted her hand toward the street as if she had prepared the sight for us. A sight it was, with fountains and flowers, throngs of students, people walking dogs, pushing baby carriages, street vendors selling paintings, antiques, old books, pottery, and crafts. Fruit stands and magazine kiosks.
The canopy of trees sixty feet high sheltered the terraces of the cafés and formed a tunnel for the main street, through which the traffic seemed to move unobtrusively. The play of light and shadow that has endeared Provence to painters was nowhere more pronounced than in Aix, on the Cours Mirabeau.
“It’s very cool here,” Alex remarked, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. It had not been cool on our walking tour.
“The trees,” Portia said, irritably, as if she thought Alex hadn’t been listening to her earlier pronouncement.
A waiter in black vest and white apron took drink orders. Alex and I ordered a bottle of Pellegrino, and so did Barry, at Felicity’s urging. His eyes were red-rimmed and shone with the glaze of alcohol. He needed a couple of liters of water, but I was astonished that he took Felicity’s advice. Their relationship continued to baffle me. Was it love or hate, cooperative or adversarial, or some of all?
Felicity and Portia were delighted with their shopping bags, filled to the brim, with elegantly-scripted names of boutiques on the sides. “Tell us about your sightseeing,” said Felicity. Alex was only too happy to oblige.
I was content to watch the assortment of people and vehicles that passed in front of us. Motorcycles threading between the cars, and a favorite mode of transportation, bicycles. A popular tourist ride, a donkey pulling a cart. The donkey brayed, and people laughed.
Alex sometimes didn’t know when enough was enough, especially when he took the floor to talk about museums and history. Portia nodded and whispered “Oh yes,” as Alex described one sight after another. At one point she interrupted to comment, “The square around the Town Hall is certainly delightful, but I don’t understand the purpose of those eyeballs.”
“Eyeballs? What are you talking about?” Felicity asked.
Alex explained. He wound up his travelogue with a sigh. “It was a marvelous little walking tour. Too short, but certainly memorable.”
“I wish we had time to see more of the town,” Felicity said. I didn’t say that she’d had several hours this afternoon. Alex and I had seen quite a lot in the brief time.
“When did you get so keen on the sights?” Barry groused. “We’re not here for that.”
Why not? I wanted to ask. But like the others, I remained silent. In that awkward moment, all of us reached for our drinks at the same time.
The sunlight began to fade, and the trees threw longer shadows, and before we knew it, evening had set in, with lights twinkling on along the street. I could get used to this, I thought, sitting at an outdoor café on the Cours Mirabeau for hours and hours.
“Game!” said Portia, and the mood suddenly became cheery. “Favorite airport. Charles de Gaulle, Terminal 2,” she offered.
I’d seen photos of the high-tech terminal, but since we’d flown into Brussels instead of Paris, I hadn’t seen the celebrated terminal in person. Another week, and I’d get my chance. Just a week? Hard to believe.
The two couples and Alex, too, seemed to have been everywhere in the world. When my turn came, in keeping with the spirit of the game, I picked Atlanta. “About as good for people-moving as most any airport,” I said. If I’d been completely honest, I would’ve said that our little airport in Savannah is the most comfortable of any I know, the one I’m always excited to see.
“Good answer,” said Hunt, as if it surprised him that I’d given an acceptable response. “In Nashville they say that yo
u can’t go to heaven or hell without going through Atlanta.”
The laughter from our table was a kind of explosion. I realized that regardless of the schedule the others were on, Alex and I would need to start our drive back to Fontvieille soon. I suggested that we order.
“We should all put something in our stomachs besides wine,” Felicity said. That much was true, but no one was particularly hungry, due to our lunchtime meal. We decided to order appetizers and pass them all around—a charcuterie plate that featured meats garnished with cornichons, olives, and radishes; an order of escargots; and a cheese plate. A basket of baguettes rounded out what turned into a perfectly satisfying meal.
By this time it was almost nine o’clock, and we had at least an hour’s drive ahead. Hunt had let up on the wine and started in on espresso, ostensibly in preparation for driving back. He examined my map and directed us to the autoroute. Alex and I said merci and bonsoir and headed to les toilettes before starting our road trip.
“Game!” I heard Barry bellow, behind us. “Favorite golf courses!”
A few minutes later, as I was standing at the lavatory, Felicity burst into the room, almost crashing into a gentleman who was leaving. “I’d never get used to these shared lavatories!” she declared.
I dried my hands and thanked her for her invitation. “It was a lovely day,” I said. “Maybe we’ll see each other at the Georgia game.”
“Maybe sooner than that!” she chirped. “Barry and I decided we want to visit the sights near the little town you’re in, all those famous places like the town where Van Gogh was in a sanitarium. I forget the name. Hunt and Portia say we shouldn’t miss it.”
I blinked. What was it Barry said? When did you get so keen on the sights?We’re not here for that.
“So we’re going to drive over to your little town tomorrow. Fontvieille, right? Isn’t that something, that we’re getting to spend this time together? We’ll try to get a reservation at your hotel. What’s the name again?”
CHAPTER 20
* * *
It seemed later than ten when we arrived at L’hôtel du Soleil. Fontvieille had rolled up the streets. No sign of people, shop windows dark, no traffic. The hotel’s gate was locked, so the code was required—the numbers for Jean-Claude’s birthday, as every hotel guest and probably all of Fontvieille knew. Ah, hotel security.
The only sound as we walked through the parking lot was the crunch of gravel and a faint hum from the pole lights that illuminated the entrance to L’hôtel du Soleil. No one was in the lobby except Louis, at Réception.
Alex was moving more slowly than usual, and when he did not object to my suggestion that we get a late start in the morning, I knew he’d gone his limit today. I hoped he hadn’t gone beyond his limit.
As Louis handed me the yellow tennis shoe with my key attached, he said, “One of the American ladies was asking if you had arrived.” He motioned toward the sometimes dining room/ sometimes breakfast nook/sometimes bar.
I bid Alex good night and found Millie sitting at a small table, nursing a brandy snifter.
“This is good stuff,” she said.
“Is something wrong, Millie?” I asked, taking a chair across from her.
“Why would you ask that?” She was still staring into the dark liquid.
“You don’t seem your usual bubbly self. I hope nothing’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve just been ruminating. Thinking about apparitions in the night.”
Louis, doubling as bartender, was suddenly beside us, asking if he could fix me a drink. I’d laid off the wine so I could drive. I deserved a nightcap. “What she’s having,” I said.
Louis nodded and went to the bar to fix my brandy.
“You were saying something about apparitions,” I said.
“Right.” She sipped her drink.
“You know I don’t believe in spirits.” I lowered my voice, glancing at Louis, who was busy at the bar. “If something’s moving around out there in the night, it’s either animal or human, and there’s a logical explanation.”
“You’re probably right,” Millie said, “but it sure feels spooky.”
“Did you see it again last night?”
She shook her head. “I watched, but nothing. Part of me wanted to see it again. Part of me was relieved that I didn’t.”
Millie had impressed me as too practical to become obsessed with spooks. Yet she might be doing exactly that. I said, “You mustn’t take this so seriously.You’ll never get any sleep.”
Louis was back with my brandy. A couple of sips, and I said, “I have a feeling I’m going to sleep like the dead.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that.” Millie kept swirling the brandy around in her glass. I told her about our afternoon in Aix. Her group had already been to Aix, and she agreed with my assessment of the Cours Mirabeau.
She said, “We went to Montmajour Abbey today. You know how it sits high up on a rock overlooking miles and miles of fields and vineyards. Did you know it used to be a burial place for counts? Then it was sold as a stone quarry. Now here’s the creepy part. People used to hide in the underground tunnels during the French Revolution. Also, people were taken into the tunnels never to be seen again.”
“Tunnels leading to where?” I asked.
Millie shook her head. “Don’t know exactly. The guide said there was a network of tunnels in the area, where the quarries used to be. He said they found skulls and bones and such when the tunnels were closed off.That was in the 1860s, before Montmajour Abbey was restored. Can you imagine?” She gave a shiver. “I never thought I was claustrophobic, but the idea of people dying underground like that makes me ill. All of these ruins, all the legends, the history—it’s disturbing to me. Sometimes I think I should’ve gone to Florida on my vacation.”
“Did you get to go into the tunnels—or see where they were?”
“Oh no. There was a barricade like it was a crime scene. The guide said the cellar once opened up into the tunnels, and they’re trying to reconstruct the cellar, which was crumbling, because of its historical value.”
In a spurt of inspiration, I said, “Millie, do you have a flashlight?”
“Only a penlight on my keychain,” she said. “Why?”
Inspiration notwithstanding, I realized I was too tired to carry through with my idea tonight. “Can you meet me about five A.M.?” I asked.
Millie scooted to the edge of her chair and spoke in a whisper. “Where are we going?”
“Exploring,” I said.
Her face was suddenly bright and eager. “Meet you by the pool. In the meantime, if I see the ghost, I’ll give you a call.”
It was a short, restless night. My head was spinning with questions that had no answers, puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fit.Things that weren’t my business, like what happened to the Van Gogh sketches and what was the scoop on the stone chamber—or tunnel—under the hotel. Excitement that I might learn the answer to that question in the morning.
And who had ransacked my room? Who was the man that was following me and what did he want? Not to mention the series of strange happenings in Brussels and Paris, the unexplained incidents pushed to the back of my mind, but now they were all swirling. In the end, I would probably leave Provence with more questions than answers. Certainly my trip—now half over—had been an adventure, but the kind of adventure I hadn’t sought from Provence.
And there was Alex’s angina. Realizing that he was more vulnerable than I’d wanted to think. And the children—all grown up, but a mother is always a mother. Once I started, I couldn’t stop till I’d checked off five. Wondering if I’d go home to find that Catherine had dropped out of school. Thinking about how much worse Michael’s accident could’ve been. And Julie. Was it possible that my well-educated, unemployed, adult child would wind up back at home? Claire seemed happy enough in Santa Fe, but she probably wouldn’t let me know if anything was wrong. That’s how independent she was. Then there was Holly, who had moved in
with Kyle Delaney in Nashville. A likeable guy, but what, exactly, did he do for Barry Blake? Since I’d spent some time with Barry and Felicity, large doubts were looming about what Barry really did.
I wondered if Winston was missing me. I really ought to call home and check on things.
I rolled over and pounded my pillow and thought of Paul Broussard.
In the middle of the night, when everything seems larger and more intense, the idea of the dinner date with a man like Paul Broussard was, in a word, scary. Was I so out of practice that I couldn’t imagine dating? I could just about remember all the dates I’d had in the past sixteen years, since Stuart died, which meant I had a sorry record.
Stuart’s mother in Sarasota had kept up the Savannah Swim and Tennis Club dues for our family. I benefitted as much as the children. I played tennis and had a core of friends there, some of whom had tried to find a man for me among the many divorced men at the club or within their professional circles. Dinner, theater, mixed doubles—I wasn’t looking for love. It hadn’t mattered that there was never any chemistry. Nothing like the rush I felt just talking with Paul Broussard. Now, as I thought of him, I wished I’d stayed in better practice.
Before I finally drifted into a fitful sleep, I considered cancelling dinner. Not putting myself through the stress. But after the alarm sounded at four forty-five, after I shook myself awake, I revisited the idea of flying to Paris for dinner with the fascinating patron of the arts. Something I’d surely never do again. Just do it, I said, to the sleep-deprived face in the mirror as I ran a comb through my unruly hair. Just do it, Jordan.
Rummaging in my purse, I found a penlight on my keychain, too. I slipped a note under Alex’s door and set off to meet Millie. If Alex did sleep in this morning, as he had promised, I’d be back well before he was up. But I didn’t want him to worry if I wasn’t there for breakfast. I said I’d gone on an outing with Millie.
Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery) Page 14
