Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Elvis takes up his guitar and plays along, and they fool around with some harmony. This goes on a while. Virgil backs off and lets Elvis go with it, and it’s amazing. Elvis says, ‘You got something good here,’ but then he leaves the studio, and that’s the end of it. Except that Virgil finds out the sound engineer is still in the sound booth. The machines are still running.”

  “Ah.”

  “Right.” Kyle took another drink of espresso. “Back then they used big twelve-inch tapes in the studios for recording sessions, and then they mastered smaller tapes from those. The version Virgil told was that he and the sound engineer were good buddies, and he talked the guy into making a master for him.” Kyle considered this, frowning. “You’d think the sound engineer would know anything of Elvis was worth a lot, but who knows?”

  “Hard to believe RCA didn’t miss it,” I said.

  “Could be Virgil managed to get it from the tape vault somehow, but it might have been just like he told it, so RCA never knew about his tape. He said nobody else knew except the sound engineer, and he died a long time ago. The point is, Virgil had it for sixty years.”

  “So Virgil Pitt actually told you this story?”

  Kyle nodded. “And he told Barry.”

  My sharp intake of breath brought a smile to Kyle’s face, his mouth and eyes expressing satisfaction. “But I’ll get to that.”

  We were near the old part of the hotel now, the stone chamber that evolved into the tunnel Millie and I had explored. Two young men from the German group were trying to peer into the window, as I had done.

  “That looks like ancient ruins,” Kyle said.

  I was wondering if the men would try to go inside. One stepped back, and I saw he had a camera. He spoke to the other, who faced the camera, crossing his arms, smiling big.

  “Want to sit down over there?” Kyle asked, motioning toward the table with umbrella and chairs, near the cypress trees. By the time we were seated, the young men were walking back toward the patio.

  Kyle’s tone, when he took up the story again, was brighter. Maybe I’d managed to convey how much I did not want him to be one of the bad guys. I had some sense of how this story was going to end, how the valuable tape connected to me. But I was still listening.

  “I met Virgil not long after I started working for Barry,” Kyle said. He closed one eye, calculating. “He had to be around eighty, but he looked ninety-five. Skin and bones. He was a janitor, reformed alcoholic, big on AA. Came in every evening to sweep up, but he liked to stand around and shoot the breeze with Barry. He had some outrageous tales about his glory days, so when he told about that session with Elvis, I didn’t necessarily believe him.”

  Kyle propped his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Now it gets kind of confusing, but you’ve got to believe me, Jordan. I never had any dishonest intentions.” He waited. It took a moment before I nodded.

  Carefully, he laid out the chronology: Virgil was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and died within two months. Barry told Kyle that he’d given Virgil ten thousand dollars to help with his medical expenses and that in return, Virgil had given him the sixty-year-old tape.

  “I thought it was awfully decent of Barry, especially since I figured if there was a tape at all, it was bogus,” Kyle said. “But next thing I know, Barry is saying he’s listened to the master himself, and it’s gold, and he has a buyer. The collector is an Italian guy who lives in Nice.”

  Italian guy from Nice. Master. My thoughts flew to the dinner with Barry and Felicity at Guy Savoy, the girl in the alcove. The words I made out—Antonio and master. Things were starting to make sense, and I didn’t want to pause, to lose a moment. “Go on,” I urged Kyle.

  “I don’t think Barry gave Virgil anything,” he said. “I think he went to Virgil’s shabby little room—that’s how I picture it—and stole the tape while Virgil was dying in the hospital. Just a feeling. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. At the time though, I believed what Barry was telling me.” He paused, bit his lower lip. His expression was earnest. “And I believed him when he asked me to slip the master in your luggage.”

  My heart sank. Though with his first mention of Barry, I had feared something like this, now he’d said it. Anger backed up behind my eyes. What a fool Kyle had been, this young man my daughter loved and trusted. What a mess he’d made of my vacation, not to mention how he’d endangered my life. I struggled to keep a level tone. “So I did have something in my suitcase. You put it there.”

  “Barry said someone was following him. He said he’d never get out of the country with the tape, but you wouldn’t be in danger because he planned to get the tape from your suitcase the minute you arrived in Paris.” Kyle ran his fingers through his hair again. “I don’t know why I even mentioned your trip to France. Just something to say when Barry said he and Felicity were going to Paris. Felicity had already told me she was your best friend in college.”

  I wasn’t going to argue about any of it. “Someone was following Barry?” I asked, trying to get Kyle back on track.

  “Virgil’s son, Frank,” he said. “He’d been living on a ranch in Montana. Virgil hadn’t seen him in years.”

  The cowboy.

  “Frank Pitt came to Nashville just before Virgil died,” Kyle said. “After he visited his father in the hospital, he came by the office and made a big scene. He said Barry had no right to anything that belonged to his father.Then they went into Barry’s private office. I couldn’t hear what they said. I just heard the yelling.”

  He finished his espresso and looked out into cypress trees, where the sun was setting, its light shimmering on the leaves. But Kyle didn’t indicate that he noticed the beauty of the scene.

  “Here’s what I think.” He punctuated the points with his finger. “One, Virgil knew what he wanted to happen with the master, and he told both Barry and Frank hoping they’d keep each other honest. Maybe one of them would have the decency to carry out his wish. The sad thing was, neither man cared what Virgil wanted. Both were equally greedy. Two, Barry stole the tape. Three, he had to get it to the collector, and he persuaded me to put it in your suitcase.” He gave a sharp laugh. “He didn’t have to do much persuading.”

  I could’ve said, No time to wallow in remorse, but I nodded, urging him on.

  “I shouldn’t have gone through with it after I saw Frank Pitt in the Atlanta airport. I didn’t want to believe he was following me.” Kyle gave a deep sigh. “But he must’ve seen what I did with the tape. He followed you, and then it looks like he followed Barry and killed him.”

  He said this with a note of certainty. We were silent for a minute. Kyle’s wide eyes reminded me of how my children had looked when they were waiting for me to give a verdict.

  “Frank Pitt didn’t kill Barry,” I said. I told him about the cowboy who was run down in front of my hotel in Paris. Now that I knew who the cowboy was, it fit. He’d been keeping an eye on me, hoping he’d know when my suitcase was delivered, and he could steal the tape.

  Kyle’s shoulders sagged. He looked deflated. “Then I don’t know. Who killed Barry? Who killed Frank Pitt?”

  I shrugged. “I have a question for you. How did you get the tape in my luggage?”

  A sheepish look came into his boyish face. “I didn’t have a meeting in Atlanta, Jordan. I flew down there with one thing in mind, got off the plane, and went back through security. You had given Holly your travel information, so it wasn’t hard to find you and Alex.”

  “You were most helpful when we had to change our flight,” I said. “You waited with our luggage while we were at the ticket counter, I remember.” No way he could miss my icy tone.

  “It was no trouble to stick the master in the outer pocket of your suitcase. I was a big help.” He glanced at his watch, ready to be done with this, I imagined. He frowned. “I’m still on Nashville time.”

  “It’s six twenty,” I said.

  He rubbed his face. “I don’t want to count how many hours since I
slept. I can usually sleep on planes, but not this trip.”

  We walked back, crossed the patio, and left our glass and mug in the dining room.

  “One more question,” I said. “What was it that Virgil wanted to happen to the tape?”

  “Did I leave that part out? Come on. Walk with me to the car.”

  We passed through the lobby and went out into the parking lot. “It happened after Barry and Felicity had left for Paris. One of the board members from the Country Music Foundation showed up and wanted to talk to someone about a letter she had.”

  The sun was setting, and the air was cooler. Kyle fumbled in his pocket and took out a page folded about eight times. “The woman was courteous, but I suppose she was wondering why Barry had not contacted her about the tape.”

  He handed me the paper. “Keep it. I made several copies, you know, just in case.”

  He said he had to clean up and contact Felicity. I told him we’d talk later. He shifted from one foot to the other. It seemed he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He got into his rental and drove away.

  I stood in the parking lot and read the handwritten letter. The original paper had been lined. The writing was small, tight printing, not much better than a second-grader might do. “To someone at the Country Music Foundation,” the letter began.

  “I myself was once a fair studio musician and in 1956 I came into receet of a master tape that I want to give to the Country Music Hall of Fame. It is the one and only recording of Elvis Presley singing a little ballad I wrote. I could have sold it, but I would have run through the money. I’ve not done much with my life but now that I am dying, I want to do this one good thing. Mr. Barry Blake is supposed to give it to you. I am proud this piece of music history will have a good home. Would it be ok to say that the tape was donated by Virgil Pitt? Yours truly.”

  He had signed his name in a large, sweeping scrawl, as if perhaps he had hoped his signature might be reproduced, as an important benefactor.

  CHAPTER 31

  * * *

  Reading the letter in the parking lot might not have been a smart move, I thought as I folded the paper and slipped the thick square into the pocket of my jeans. Anyone could have been watching. But Kyle had copies, and the Country Music Foundation had the original. I shook my head, shaking the thought away as a dog might shake off water, annoyed that I had become suspicious and apprehensive at every turn. And this was supposed to be a vacation.

  I was heading toward the entrance to the hotel when the blue van that transported Millie’s tour group came through the gate. I stopped and waited for Millie and was not surprised that she was the first one off the van.

  “Tonight we’re having dinner at Le Patio,” she said, by way of hello. “Wasn’t that where you told off the guy that was following you?”

  “Told off gives me too much credit,” I said. Now I knew why the man with hairy arms had been following me. I wanted to tell Millie everything I’d learned in the past hour, but the other ladies were filing by, chattering. A few greeted me, and I smiled back. “Le Patio is a wonderful restaurant,” I told Millie. “Try the ratatouille Provençal.”

  Inside the hotel, I lowered my voice. “Want to meet for a nightcap around the pool at about ten o’clock?”

  “What’s up? Something really big?”

  I shushed her, just before Eleanor appeared at Millie’s side, reminding her that the van was leaving in forty-five minutes for the restaurant. “Just enough time to clean up,” Eleanor added.

  “I don’t know why we can’t just walk,” Millie said.

  I left them to it.

  Alex answered his door, still in the clothes he’d worn to Avignon, but barefoot. “I tried to call your room,” he said. “Would you mind terribly if I didn’t come down for dinner?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Is everything all right?”

  “Just tired. Not up to getting dressed for dinner. Nor am I the least bit hungry.”

  We’d had a late lunch, a substantial meal of pasta and salad and even fruit tarts for dessert. I wasn’t hungry, either.

  “I think I’ll just organize some of my notes, and later I might order up something light.You don’t mind, do you?”

  “What was it you said to me? ‘I won’t starve and I won’t feel neglected’?”

  Alex gave a rueful smile. “You had an important dinner date that evening.”

  I skirted past the remark, refusing to let myself think about Paul. “Actually, I should try to reach Felicity.” As an afterthought, I said, “You probably didn’t know Kyle Delaney is here.”

  “Holly’s young man is here? But why?”

  We were standing in Alex’s doorway. I waited until two women passed by. They must have just checked in because I could recognize all the other guests, and it was obvious they were looking for their room.

  “Come in, Jordan,” Alex said, stepping back. “What’s the story?”

  I had so much to tell Alex that I didn’t know where to start. But not now. I shook my head. “Kyle works for Barry Blake, you know. I should say worked. Now I guess he’s working for Felicity. I really need to try to find her.”

  Alex frowned, and I could tell he knew there was more, but he didn’t press the issue.

  “Get some rest, Alex,” I said.

  “You, too, my dear,” he said.

  Rest was not what I anticipated.

  Felicity still didn’t answer her phone. The message she’d given Jean-Claude was that she’d call me later, but I didn’t intend to wait. I was caught between the wish to be available to her during the aftermath of her husband’s murder and the need for answers from her, now that I knew about the master tape.

  I tried to return Catherine’s call. By now she would have been calling again if anything were wrong. “Sorry I’ve missed you. Maybe we can talk tomorrow,” I said when her voicemail came on. So I wasn’t the only one who was hard to reach.

  I bathed, slipped into a skirt, pulled on a cotton sweater, and started out with my keys and purse. As an afterthought, I went back to the jeans I’d worn, flung over a chair, and dug out the thick little square of paper Kyle had given me. If I was able to find Felicity, I might want to show the letter. How I dreaded asking her about Barry’s dirty business!

  Felicity’s Renault Twingo was parked in front of her hotel, the only fire-engine red car in sight. I found a spot further down the street and walked back to La Regalido.

  I’d failed to notice, in those blurry early-morning hours after Barry’s murder, that La Regalido was a very fine hotel. Built in the style of a Provençal mansion, the hotel was surrounded by lush gardens. The architects and designers had used a rich palette of colors that reflected the Provençal landscape: red tile roof, yellow exterior and deep mauve shutters. Wooden beams in the grand lobby, shades of yellow and gold draperies, large clay urns, rugs of muted greens and blues and lavender on hardwood floors. Decorative ironwork formed the handrail of the curved staircase. I cast appreciative glances as I passed through, wishing I had more time to pause and admire.

  I went to the second-floor room where I’d spent several hours with Felicity the night Barry was murdered. I knocked several times and was about to go to the dining room to look for her when she opened the door. She was wearing a pale peach silk caftan, holding a drink in her hand. I had the fleeting thought that she might have company, but of course Felicity didn’t have to be entertaining to fix herself up.

  “Jordan! Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” she greeted me. She pulled me inside and gave me a long, hard hug. Her expensive perfume was nice—but overly-applied.

  “You didn’t answer your phone. I took a chance you’d be here,” I said.

  “Can I make you a drink?” she offered. I declined. She motioned for me to sit in the chair where I’d slept, the night I stayed here, just two nights ago. Hard to believe.

  “I just had the feeling I couldn’t take one more call,” Felicity said. “My phone has rung off the hook—my cell, too.�
�

  “Have you seen Kyle?” I asked.

  “No, but he called.” She’d taken his call, but not mine. I didn’t point that out. “I was surprised he showed up in Fontvieille. My goodness. I asked him to make that meeting in Paris on Friday. I really can’t think of a thing he can do here.” Her exaggerated sigh ended in a smile. “He seems like a sensitive young man, so I shouldn’t be surprised that he was worried about me. I guess he thought he could help.”

  Could be, but he’d led me to believe he needed to confess, face to face, that he was responsible for putting me in danger. Confess and explain. Given that I was Holly’s mother, he had a lot at stake. But there was no point in saying this to Felicity.

  “Kyle’s still new to the business,” she said, “but I’ll go over all the details with him tonight. We’re meeting for dinner at eight thirty. This contract—for our blues artist, you know—it’s a big deal. Could make her career in Europe.” Felicity pulled her legs up under her. “Have dinner with us, Jordan. Kyle would like that.”

  “He was waiting at my hotel when Alex and I returned from Avignon,” I said.

  “Oh, really? So you’ve already had a chat,” she said, with a trace of coolness. “You should still have dinner with us. We’re just going downstairs to the dining room.” I hesitated, and she said, “Please. No argument!”

  She might change her mind. It was time to plunge into the hard stuff. “Kyle had some information that throws a new light on things,” I said. “I know what was in my suitcase now because he put it there.”

  Felicity’s eyes opened wide with curiosity. Whether genuine or not, I couldn’t tell.

  “Kyle?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “A master tape. Elvis singing a song never heard before by the public,” I said.

  “Elvis? My goodness! How did Kyle get hold of such a thing?”

  “Barry,” I said.