Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Merci.” He gave a proud smile. “She is a hard worker.”

  “An extraordinary worker for a girl of nineteen,” I said. “From early in the morning until late at night.”

  Jean-Claude, in an uncharacteristic display of awkwardness, shrugged, gave a sheepish look, and mumbled, “She is not pampered.” His word pampered surprised me. Maybe he considered it improper for a father to pass compliments on his daughter. He raised his finger suddenly. “Ah, let me get more coffee for you, Madame.” He made a quick round of other tables, replenishing baskets of rolls, before coming back to my table. He set down one of the small thermal pots of coffee, and said, “You are not eating?”

  “I will,” I said, “but we were speaking about Bettina.”

  His sunny expression darkened. I hadn’t expected him to delve right into the subject that was on my mind, but he said, “I pampered her sister. I will not make that mistake with Bettina.”

  “How old is your other daughter?” I asked.

  He glanced behind him, perhaps to see if Bettina had returned or if other guests needed his attention. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat on the edge, a clear indication that he was still on duty, ready to pop up and do his job, any minute.

  “Mona is twenty-three.”

  I could sense his discomfort. I knew I shouldn’t prod. Bettina’s words echoed in my mind: I am not what my father thinks. I’m not like my sister. But after a moment of watching him make steeples with his fingers and adjust their angles, my curiosity won out over good judgment. “She’s an artist’s model in Paris?”

  Jean-Claude, man of such congeniality, such magnanimous gestures, suddenly seemed to shrink. His mouth tightened beneath his moustache. Even the moustache seemed to droop. “I am sorry if Bettina has troubled you with family stories, Madame,” he said. He stood and made a swift, sharp turn. Before I could speak, he was halfway across the room, raising his hand in a gesture of welcome to Eleanor, Regina, and a couple of other women from Millie’s group.

  So much for my diplomatic tête-à-tête. I wondered how Bettina could ever have imagined I was the one for this sensitive mission. Nothing was going right.

  Alex didn’t come to breakfast. I suspected he’d gone into town—perhaps to see Madame Duvall, but not necessarily. Last night we’d talked about going to Avignon today. I’d told him I needed to check on Felicity, and we’d left it up in the air about Avignon, but the day was young. Plenty of time to make arrangements. The best thing about Fontvieille—one of the best things—was that it was a short drive from the little town to all the places one would want to see in Provence.

  I nibbled at the end of a croissant smeared with jam, drained the last of my orange juice, wiped my mouth, and exited the dining room. I had forgotten to leave my key at the front desk, butnoone wasat Réception to scowl at me. I remembered the assertions Jean-Claude had made about hotel security, the night my room was ransacked. So much for that.

  The only person in the lobby was Paul Broussard.

  “Bonjour, Jordan.” His greeting was cordial enough, but I didn’t detect the smile in his eyes that I’d seen before, and how could I blame him?

  As we exchanged pleasantries, I was reminded of our first conversation in the hallway of the museum at the Château. He had allowed Millie and me a glimpse inside the room that had housed the Van Gogh sketches before they were stolen. Anyone observing us this morning, hearing the tenor of our voices, might have thought we were meeting for the first time. He stated that he was somewhat late starting his day but did not want to miss the fine breakfast that Jean-Claude provided his guests. I said I’d just finished breakfast, and it was delicious, as always. Several of the German entourage came from the dining room, and Paul stepped closer to me to let them pass. I smelled his clean smell, and memory made me feel weak in the knees. Dancing, leaning against him on the plane, our foreheads touching in the car before we said goodnight.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t leave a message earlier—about last night,” I said. “I didn’t find Alex until late in the afternoon.” My words hung in the air. I wasn’t going to lie again, but I was glad Paul filled the empty space.

  “It was not a problem, though I was disappointed, of course.” He backed away from me as the last of the young Germans went by. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Fontvieille. You’re leaving this weekend?”

  My throat tightened. He was making it clear that he didn’t expect to see me again. “Paul, could we talk sometime before I go?” I said. Blurted out would be the apt phrase. I asked the question before I could change my mind.

  “Certainly. I’ll be at the Château or here at the hotel.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll look forward to it, Jordan. A bientôt.”

  “A bientôt.” I headed for the stairs, but not before Paul gave his attention to Jean-Claude, who was standing at the entrance of the dining room, motioning. No doubt our proprietor was holding a table for him. Paul Broussard was not a man who stood and watched a woman walk away from him.

  For the second time this morning, my mind was echoing, Stupid! Stupid! And it was only eight A.M.

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  Back in my room, I called Felicity’s cell and left a message asking her to call me. I tried her hotel room, but she didn’t answer. I couldn’t help being worried about her. Her husband had been murdered. She shouldn’t be alone.

  Then I thought of Hunt and Portia. I called the hotel again and asked for their room. No one answered. Maybe Felicity had gone to breakfast with them. Maybe she was more comfortable with the Nashville friends than with me, and that was all right if it were so. But I couldn’t help thinking about the night Barry died. “Portia was very fond of my husband,” Felicity had said with an eerie smile. Even more bizarre was her intimation that Hunt might’ve had something to do with Barry’s death. Probably she was just rambling because she was in shock—but I wondered.

  I spent a few minutes digging through travel brochures, relishing the breeze from the open window. Ah, Provence. I wanted to stay and I wanted to go. The trip had been more wonderful than I’d dreamed and more difficult than I could have imagined. As I flipped through a pamphlet on Avignon, the phone rang.

  “Good! I was hoping you’d be in your room,” Alex said. Without a cell phone of his own, he couldn’t easily call my cell, but room-to-room was easy, just three digits.

  “Glad to hear from you,” I said. “I missed you at breakfast.”

  “I got up very early, grabbed a baguette from the dining room, and took a long ride on Alain’s bicycle. The young man simply insists. So there I was, riding around town, munching bread, just like a native Frenchman!”

  “Now there’s a photo for your book,” I said. He laughed.

  Alex and I couldn’t be tense with each other very long.

  “Are you up for Avignon today? Palace of the Popes—you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said. “I understand the architecture is extraordinary.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “What time shall we leave?”

  “As soon as possible,” he said.

  “Avignon is a city of tormented and colorful history, of art and culture, of breathtaking architecture,” Alex read from the guidebook as I drove into the city.

  “Avignon is too big,” I said, after we’d looked for a parking place for twenty minutes. We’d finally parked underground, near the massive medieval wall, complete with dry moat, built around the old city. “Impressive, but I think I like the villages better.”

  “You might change your mind,” Alex said, but after another ten minutes, he was showing a little letdown, too. We located ourselves on the map. It was still some distance to the Palace of the Popes.

  “Speaking from an architect’s point of view,” I said, “Avignon simply doesn’t have the continuity we’ve seen in the other cities. Some of the architecture is overwhelming, but the energy is missing. The street life is missing.”

  “Very perceptive observation!” Alex
said, breathing a little too hard.

  “Use it in your book. It’s free.”

  He raised his notebook, which he carried at all times, ready to write as the spirit moved him. “Good idea.” He stopped and scribbled a little. After the brief rest stop, his breathing sounded more regular. We continued on. Could the Palace of the Popes possibly be worth the trouble getting there? I shouldn’t have doubted it.

  The moment I entered the Courtyard of Honor, I began to understand at last why all the fuss about Avignon. The tour, via audio guide, was perfect because it was possible to silence the voice and just look. Just admire. Just soak in. A mesmerizing architectural accomplishment that took twenty years to build, under two popes. Each chamber was unique. Each was stun-ning.You could not go through the Palace of the Popes and not think details. Magnificent arched ceilings, buttresses, frescoed walls. One richly decorated interior after another.

  And finally the Grand Audience Chamber, a masterpiece of architecture, with two naves separated by five central pillars. Shafts of light slanted through two large bays in each of the gabled walls and through five tall windows. Captivated by the exquisite use of space and light, I stood with my hands across my chest as if I had to hold my fluttering heart inside. This was what I had imagined my trip to Provence would be. And for a time, I hadn’t thought of Felicity, Paul, or any of the complications that had developed these two weeks.

  “Aren’t you glad we didn’t miss this?” Alex asked, when we came out into the bright sunlight of the festive plaza. What an understatement!

  Hard to believe it was two o’clock. We both agreed we should find a café. We’d been in the Palace for more than two hours. Alex folded out his map. “Lots of cafés here, a very cosmopolitan little area, and—look—we’re not far from an archeology museum!”

  Jean-Claude greeted us in the hotel lobby with his usual exuberance. “A nice day in Avignon, oui?” he said. Alex had asked for a map as we were leaving that morning. I doubted there was much coming and going at L’hôtel du Soleil that escaped Jean-Claude.

  Alex started in about the Palace of the Popes. I patted his arm. Jean-Claude had produced several pieces of paper and was waiting to speak, his mouth already open.

  Alex took the hint, adding only, “It will be one of my favorite memories of Provence.” He put a heavy foot on the first rise of the stairs, grasping the bannister. “Lots of walking. I’ll talk with you before dinner, Jordan.”

  Jean-Claude smiled. I hoped he had forgiven me for sticking my nose into his family’s problems that were none of my business. “You have been much in demand, Madame.” He was not content just to hand me the notes. He proceeded to explain. “Your daughter called. She said to call when you get time”— emphasizing the last words. “She said to write that down. Your daughter, Katrine.”

  I reached for my cell. I’d had to turn it off during the tour. Not one to stay plugged in, I kept forgetting to turn my phone back on. “Catherine must be feeling neglected,” I said, as he handed me the first piece of paper. “What else?”

  “F. Blake at La Regalido. I do not know how to write her name.”

  “Felicity,” I said. He tried the word a couple of times and seemed to find it amusing. “Did she leave a message?”

  “She said she would call later.”

  In any case, I was relieved to hear from her. Jean-Claude handed me the note. I could make out La Regalido. Not much else.

  “Any other messages?” I asked, regarding the last piece of paper.

  “Monsieur Broussard called.” Jean-Claude gave a droll smile. “He did not leave his name, but I know his voice.”

  He handed me the paper with nothing but “M. Broussard.”

  So Paul hadn’t left a message. Jean-Claude had simply felt compelled to inform me of the call.

  I had hoped to hear from Adnan Kemal today. As I checked my watch, confirming that it was too late for me to call Brussels, Jean-Claude said more quietly, “Someone is waiting for you. A young man. He has been waiting for some time.” With a tilt of his head and a shift of his heavy brows, he indicated the dining room.

  I didn’t understand the curious expression on his face until I saw Kyle Delaney at a corner table, wrinkled, rumpled, pouring from a bottle of red wine that was almost empty.

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  We didn’t spend much time on preliminaries. “What’s going on, Kyle?” I asked, pulling out the chair across from him at the small table.

  He looked up, bleary-eyed. “Hey, Jordan. I’m glad you’re all right,” he said.

  “You’ve wasted no time sampling the French wines, I see.”

  “This? Just trying to relax.” He picked up the bottle by the neck, tilted it a little. “If you want the rest of it, I’ll get you a glass.” From the looks of him, I’d thought he was drunk, but his words weren’t slurred. On the contrary, he was quite articulate.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’ve talked to Holly. She’s worried about you.”

  “Yeah, I guess she would be. I got out of Nashville in a hurry. Didn’t do much explaining.”

  “How about explaining to me?” I said.

  “That’s why I’m here.” He took another long swallow of wine.

  “I thought you came to Fontvieille because of Felicity Blake. I assume you haven’t seen her yet,” I said, eyeing his wrinkled striped shirt.

  “Looking like this? No.” He raked his fingers through his sandy hair. “Look, Jordan, I flew all night, rented a car in Nice, made a few wrong turns. I hate those damned roundabouts. I drove here to see you but you were gone. They don’t have any vacancies here, but they found a room for me somewhere else. Saint-Victor, I think. I haven’t been there yet. I’ve been waiting for you. Trying to relax, like I said. So maybe this is not my most shining moment, OK?”

  We exchanged a glance. Scrutinizing the young man who might become my son-in-law, I realized he was probably assessing me as a potential mother-in-law, and my rating wasn’t any better than his at this moment. I should cut him some slack for jet lag. As for his polishing off the better part of a bottle of wine before five o’clock, I would save judgment on that.

  “OK, Kyle. I get it,” I said, finding a tone not so steeped in disapproval. “I’m listening.”

  He turned up his glass and finished it off, and then he seemed to gather himself up, gather courage, perhaps. He sat taller and placed his palms flat on the table. “You’ve got to believe I would never do anything to hurt Holly. So I wouldn’t hurt you. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “You really aren’t drunk, are you?” I said, with a keen look into his boyish face.

  “Not yet I’m not. I’ve caused a lot of trouble and put you in danger, and I’m really sorry, Jordan.” He pushed his chair back, with a scraping noise. “Let’s get out of here, get some air. And I wonder if that guy would fix me a double-espresso in a to-go cup.”

  Jean-Claude did just that. He retrieved the bottle from our table, poured the remaining wine into a glass, and handed it to me. “It is a good cabernet,” he said. I took it to mean I shouldn’t waste it. So I didn’t.

  The sun was low in the sky as we headed out onto the grounds. We left behind a few guests on the patio. A young couple was paying chess on the big board, and a peal of laughter rose from the mini-golf course.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Kyle said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “From the beginning.”

  He gave a weak laugh. “Yeah.”

  He sipped from his double-espresso. Jean-Claude had prepared it in a porcelain mug. Kyle had kept saying, “to-go” and “to-go cup,” and finally, “Styrofoam?” and Jean-Claude kept nodding, indicating the mug, finally saying, “It is to go, Monsieur. Go.” And he made a gesture like he was shooing away a fly. I raised my wine glass to Kyle and told him I had not seen any Styrofoam at L’hôtel du Soleil.

  “The beginning,” Kyle said, as we walked across the soft, thick grass. He took a long breath, and it seemed like a whole m
inute before he said, “It was the winter of 1956, and RCA had just bought Elvis Presley’s contract from Sun Records for thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  Kyle assumed a storytelling voice. “Virgil Pitt was a studio musician. He played guitar. Must have been good. He was buddies with the A team, maybe could’ve been one of them if booze hadn’t ruined him.”

  “The A team?” I said.

  Kyle’s halfhearted smile was the first I’d seen him attempt on this side of the Atlantic. “The A team were musicians all the big artists wanted on their sessions. The first-string studio musicians, you might say, back in the fifties. Grady Martin on guitar, Bob Moore on bass, Buddy Harmon, drums. There was Hargis Robbins on piano, and later, Floyd Cramer.”

  I nodded, and Kyle went on about Virgil Pitt, how he’d come from the Mississippi Delta to Nashville to try his luck with his old Gibson guitar. He’d managed to get steady work with the studios and earned enough to keep himself in cheap whiskey.

  “And every now and then, he even filled in for Grady Martin,” Kyle said.

  “There’s a point to this?” I asked.

  “I’m starting at the beginning.” Kyle raised the mug to his lips.

  I gave him a grudging look and sipped my wine.

  “One night Virgil got a call from the studio,” Kyle continued. “Somebody had cancelled. Would Virgil come in? He had no idea that Elvis Presley was recording. It’s 1956. Elvis is not as big as he will be, but he’s big. Virgil does the session and the guys start packing up. Elvis thanks everybody. ‘A polite boy,’ Virgil called him. Virgil mentions he’s from Mississippi, and next thing Elvis is listening to a song Virgil wrote. Makes a few suggestions about the lyrics, but he likes the music.”

  Kyle was caught up in the story now, the unfolding of long-ago events, as if it were his own memory tumbling into words. He even sounded like Nashville—with lazy cadences and flat vowels and one-syllable words stretched into two. I didn’t interrupt him. It was an intriguing story, though I’d yet to see any connection with anything that had happened in Provence.