Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Nice morning,” Millie said, standing beside the pool with her hands in the pockets of her jeans. She was wearing a Chicago Cubs sweatshirt and a fanny pack around her waist.

  The air was brisk. It was late September, after all, and we were out before sunrise. The sky was beginning to grow lighter. The moon was still visible. Distant rooftops made dark silhouettes against the purplish sky. Everything was absolutely still. It was a splendid morning, and I was suddenly alert and eager.

  “I managed to get out without speaking to anyone,” Millie said, “because I didn’t know exactly what to say about this early-morning trek. No one was at the front desk.”

  “I noticed that. I heard voices from the kitchen, but I slipped out, too,” I said.

  We headed toward the old part of the hotel, deliberately walking at a leisurely pace. If anyone should bother to look, we were just out for a morning promenade.

  Reaching the steps that descended into the stone chamber, I stopped and glanced around. “Did you hear something?” I asked.

  “Hear what?” Millie said.

  I gave a wave of dismissal. “I think I’m imagining things. Or maybe it was noise from inside the hotel, the staff gearing up for the morning.”

  We exchanged glances. “Ready?” I said. Millie nodded.

  The creak of the door, soft as the noise was, set my teeth on edge, and I couldn’t help looking behind me again.

  “No one can hear it,” Millie whispered. If not, no one could hear us talking, either, but I whispered, too, when I urged her to make sure the door was closed behind us.

  The chamber was absolutely dark, and the smell was mustier than I remembered. I switched on my trusty penlight, and the beam from Millie’s light joined mine. “This way,” I said, heading toward an irregular opening, pitch black, that had intrigued me on my earlier visit.

  Neither of our lights was bright, but together, they provided adequate illumination for several yards ahead of us. Millie was close behind as we made our way through a cave-like space, stumbling through the rocks.

  I groaned as we came to the far edge of that chamber, to what appeared the end of our exploration. “These rocks have been mortared,” I said, touching the wall with care, lest the rocks come tumbling down.

  “But look here.” Millie’s light illuminated an opening in the corner at ground level. “Somebody’s found a way through.”

  Rocks and mortar littered the corner. Someone had chipped away at the wall, making a hole, a crawl space. Big enough to accommodate an adult body, but did we dare crawl through?

  “I’ll just take a look.” On my knees, I made my way through the opening and shined my light as far in front of me as I could. “It’s a tunnel.”

  I heard Millie’s loud intake of air and a slow exhalation. “Are we going in?” she asked.

  “I’m in,” I said. “You said you liked to sneak around.” I was also remembering what she’d said the night before about claustrophobia.

  She crawled through. The addition of her light made the space look less intimidating.

  “Do you think it goes to Montmajour Abbey?” she asked.

  “I think there’s a good chance, given what your guide said about the network of tunnels.”

  Her voice rose in pitch. “Do you know how far that is?”

  “By road, it’s probably a couple of miles, but by the underground, maybe not far.” Millie began to make murmurings of protest. “Don’t worry,” I said, “we’re not going that far. We’d need water and better light, and I’m not sure we ought to undertake such an ordeal by ourselves.”

  “Good!” she said. “I’m no spelunker and I don’t care to start now.”

  “All I wanted to do was to make sure it’s really a tunnel.” I moved the light around to get an idea of the dimensions. Comforting that it was fairly roomy. I could stand up, which made it more tempting to go forward. I’d mentally prepared myself for something tighter, in which case, I would have shared Millie’s claustrophobia. Actually, the two of us could’ve walked side by side if we hadn’t minded being squeezed. The passage was that large. We both opted for elbow room. Neither of us spoke as we followed the small beams of light into the blackness.

  We came to a point where the tunnel seemed at first to end, but as we reached the stone wall in front of us, we found another irregular opening. The tunnel simply made a turn.

  “A secret passage,” I said, breathing faster as something clicked in my brain. “What if someone has been entering the tunnel, going to Montmajour Abbey—or somewhere?”

  “Why on earth?” Millie gasped.

  “That I don’t know. But it might explain what you’ve seen in the middle of the night.”

  “Oh, God, what if we run into him—or them?”

  “You didn’t see anything tonight, did you?”

  She let out a long sigh. “That brandy was pretty potent. I slept straight through.”

  I checked my watch. Surprising that we’d just been gone fifteen minutes. “It’s getting toward daylight,” I said. “If someone had come into the tunnel tonight, it would’ve been three or four hours ago.”

  We picked our steps along the uneven floor. Against the sides were loose rocks that had fallen from the tunnel wall, but no large ones in our path. I was convinced the passage had been used recently—and used often. “It’s cleaner than you would think,” I said, “with all these rocks that have fallen.”

  “Clean?” Millie groaned. “If you say so.”

  “Looks like someone has kicked the larger rocks aside,” I said.

  “Well, here’s one.” Millie directed her light to a rock about the size of a baseball. She stopped and picked it up. “Pretty good size,” she said.

  “Rocks fall all the time,” I said, in defense of my theory. I moved forward.

  “What it says to me is, this place could cave in any minute,” said Millie.

  “We won’t go much farther, OK?” I said. “I just keep thinking we might come upon something—something somebody dropped or stored back here. A clue.”

  All at once, my light went out.

  “That does it,” said Millie, stopping in her tracks. “Mine is just as likely to go out anytime. Let’s go back.” She turned around without waiting for me to agree or disagree.

  “We could buy some real flashlights and extra batteries and come back.” I fell in behind Millie as she led the way out, more quickly than we had come in, but with only half the light.

  “Even if we found the tunnel goes all the way to Montmajour Abbey, what would that prove?” Millie said. “No, I don’t think I’ll be coming back. This is spooky.”

  “You must get out!” came a voice—a man’s voice—as the weak beam of Millie’s light landed on a figure blocking our exit. Millie switched off her light. Everything was black, the blackest black I had ever seen.

  The sound that came next was a muffled noise, followed in a split-second by something from the man that sounded like Oooph. Then Millie’s voice: “You better run, Bucko! I used to be the pitcher on a fast-pitch softball team.” Then coughing, sputtering, the sounds diminishing as the man scrambled away from us, toward the exit.

  Millie turned her penlight back on.

  Weak and shaky, I leaned against the rocky wall. “Millie! What just happened?”

  “I just hit him with a rock,” she said in a voice too small for the kind of courage she’d just displayed.

  I took a few deep breaths, getting my bearings. “We’d better get out of here while the light’s working.” I nudged Millie, who stood trance-like, her arm at her side so the penlight shone on the tunnel’s floor. “Come on. He’s gone.You were great.”

  We didn’t speak until we exited the tunnel, negotiating the small opening in the mortared wall, coming into the gray-dark stone chamber. Only then did I say, “Did you recognize him?”

  “I thought it was probably the guy that’s been following you,” she said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it was Lo
uis, from the front desk.”

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  Watching the main street of Fontvieille wake up, from the window of the boulangerie patisserie, I could scarcely believe it was only a little after seven o’clock. My morning had started before five A.M. I felt as if I’d been up, my adrenaline surging, for half the day. It was my suggestion, and Millie agreed, that we get coffee and pastries at the town center rather than breakfast in the dining room of L’hôtel du Soleil. I wasn’t planning to tell Alex what had happened, nor was I eager to confront Louis. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that Louis was the man who had followed us into the tunnel. He probably had a nasty bruise somewhere, thanks to Millie’s fast thinking and fast pitching.

  “That was a brave thing to do,” I said, holding my coffee in both hands, letting the steam bathe my face. My fingers were icy and a chill played along my spine—the aftermath of the adrenaline, I imagined.

  “Oh—that.” Millie looked sheepish. “I don’t know if it was brave or foolhardy. I was going on automatic pilot. Lucky that I played a little ball in the city league.”

  “You seemed to know what you were doing,” I said.

  “I pitched for my team, for a long time,” she said. “Up until a couple of year ago, when my dad started needing more care.” Millie bit into her croissant. It occurred to me that she’d never told me much about herself. Maybe I had been too busy telling her about me.

  “You took care of your father?”

  “Me and private-duty nurses.” Millie’s eyes shifted to the side as she chewed. She seemed to be remembering. “I had to work, but I was able to keep him at home till the end.”

  “Did he live with you?” I asked.

  She gave a little laugh. “I’ve lived in the family home all my life. So I guess it’s more apt to say I lived with him.”

  “How long has he been gone?” I asked.

  “Nearly a year.” Millie took another hearty bite and took a minute to chew and swallow. “Now, about that guy in the tunnel. Louis, I guess. I couldn’t tell. What do you think he would’ve done to us?”

  I got the point: She wasn’t up for any more questions about herself. So I stuck to the details of our adventure. “I guess that depends on why he was following us in the first place. I’m not sure he wanted to harm us, maybe just scare us. Do you think he had a weapon?”

  “I’m pretty sure he had something in his hand,” Millie said. “Maybe a flashlight.”

  “If it was a flashlight, he wasn’t using it. Remember how dark it was?” I turned up the last of my coffee.

  Millie and I both went for second cups—to go—and left the bakery. The town center was becoming more lively, with cars, pedestrians, and bicyclists, as we headed toward our hotel.

  “I can’t believe Louis would have hurt us,” Millie said.

  “Maybe not, but he has some explaining to do,” I said.

  Bettina was on the front desk. Jean-Claude stormed away from her, taking huge strides toward the office, just as Millie and I came in through the front door. Another father-daughter squabble, apparently. I wanted to ask Bettina what time Louis would be on duty, but she sat down and pretended to be absorbed in paperwork, her back to us. Millie and I exchanged glances and headed into the dining room.

  Alex was sitting at a table with two of the ladies in Millie’s group. “You’ve met Eleanor and Regina, haven’t you, Jordan?” he asked, rising slightly, ever the gentleman. I nodded and said good morning. Millie mumbled a bland greeting to the ladies but gave Alex a bright smile. He invited us to join them. It was apparent from their plates that they were just starting to eat.

  “We had croissants and coffee at the bakery after our early morning outing,” I said, proud of myself that I had told the absolute truth. Not even a little white lie.

  I touched Alex’s shoulder as he settled back in his chair. “I hope you don’t mind that we didn’t ask you to come along, but I wanted you to get some extra rest this morning,” I said.

  “And right you were,” he said. “I feel renewed, ready for St Remy de Provence. Shall we meet at nine thirty?”

  “Oh—is that today?” I stammered.

  “It’s quite near. Did you say ten or twelve miles?” he asked the ladies.

  “Not more than twelve, I’m sure,” Eleanor said.

  “And well worth your time.” Regina flashed an exaggerated smile at Millie. “You are going on the Avignon trip, aren’t you?”

  Millie shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be going?”

  “Well—we leave at nine thirty.” Regina checked her watch.

  “You probably have time to freshen up.”

  Millie did look like someone who’d been up for several hours and had spent some of that time prowling in a tunnel. Her hair was mussed, and I had to say she was dressed more for spelunking than for sightseeing, though the other ladies didn’t have my frame of reference. I looked down at my jeans and brushed away a little dust. My hair probably looked no better than Millie’s, but no one commented on my appearance.

  Millie excused herself, assuring the ladies that she would be on time for the tour.

  “Such an unusual person,” Regina said in a honey-sweet voice. “Oh, she’s very nice, but a wee bit standoffish. Some of the girls take offense, but not Eleanor and me.”

  Eleanor toyed with her curls, which were flat, as if she’d slept in a hair net. “Honestly, I wonder if she’d ever make it to the tours if we didn’t nudge her a little bit.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Millie,” I said. Both ladies managed tight smiles. I left them telling Alex all about St Remy.

  Bettina was standing at the front desk now. I approached her with a cheerful “Bonjour.”

  She sniffled and wiped under her lower lashes with her forefinger. “Bonjour, Madame. May I help you?”

  “I was wondering when Louis would be back,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s supposed to be working this morning. I took over for him earlier, and my father is angry at me. That is what I get for doing a kindness for someone.”

  I waited while she paper-clipped what looked like invoices and laid them on the table behind her, beneath the pegboard of yellow tennis shoes and keys.

  “I’d like to speak with him when he returns,” I said.

  “I will tell him.” She glanced at the wall clock. “No one thinks I might have my own life to live.” I gave a sympathetic smile. That was all it took. She leaned forward. “Madame, you have four daughters. I think you must be a very kind and understanding mother.”

  It took a moment to find the right words. “My girls would say that’s not always true, but I try. Most mothers try, I think.” I knew at once I’d said the wrong thing. Bettina didn’t have a mother, hadn’t had one for a long time, I recalled from our earlier conversation.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “But fathers—Mon Dieu! Fathers know nothing about girls!” She gave a long sigh, and then in a lower voice, she said, “My papa likes you very much, Madame Mayfair. He has said how fortunate your daughters are to have a mother like you, and he has said that you remind him of my own mother.”

  “That is quite a compliment, Bettina,” I said.

  “So I know he would listen to you if you . . . gave him advice.”

  There it was, at last. “Now you’re getting into a thorny place,” I said. She frowned at the idiom. “What I’m saying is that one has to be very careful about telling parents how they should handle their children. I wouldn’t want to try to give your father advice.”

  Bettina gave another heavy sigh, as if the burden she carried was almost unbearable. “I thought you might understand, when a girl wants something so much—”

  I took the plunge. “Is this about a man, Bettina?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “You’re young and beautiful. It makes sense that there’s a man in your life.”

  My answer seemed to relieve some of her gloom. She actually gave a
small nervous laugh. “I am not in love, Madame, if that is what you are thinking. But there is a man, someone who can help me go to Paris. He has friends. I could be an artist’s model.”

  “Your father knows about your relationship with this man?” I tried to remember what Jean-Claude had said about Gerard Llorca. He’d made a remark that Bettina was too beautiful.

  “It is not a relationship!” She raised her palms in a manner that reminded me of Jean-Claude. “But my father thinks I am a bad woman. I have tried to call this man, and he will not return my calls. My father has sent him away, and now I will never be able to go to Paris!”

  I nodded as I tried to string together the details. It appeared what I had believed was a romance between Gerard Llorca and Bettina was, in essence, a business arrangement—from her point of view. But what was Llorca getting out of it? Not a question I felt I could ask.

  “I know this, Bettina,” I said. “Your father loves you, and whatever he has done to discourage this man, I’m sure he did it with your best interests at heart.”

  “But he is mistaken. I am not what my father thinks. He thinks I am like my sister. I wish he would let me live my own life!”

  Where had I heard that one before? I want to live my own life! With five children, I’d heard it a few times, to be sure.

  “What are you asking me to do, Bettina?” I said.

  “You could convince my father to trust me, to let me do what I will do!” she said. “I do not want to run away, like my sister. I do not want to hurt Papa like that. But I am nineteen!”

  Bettina looked down, through long, dark lashes. She was right about one thing. She’d picked a woman with strong motherly instincts. How could I not think of Catherine or my other daughters when they were nineteen, fighting to make their own decisions, for good or for bad?

  “If I get the right opportunity—” I began.

  “Oh, Madame. Merci!” She reached for my hand and squeezed it with a hearty grip that astonished me.

  “If I get the chance, the right time,” I went on. “I can’t promise anything, Bettina.”