I opened my mouth but no sound came out.
“It is not important except that she let herself be drawn into Llorca’s scheme. She just did not know it.” Paul paused again. “You have a strange look on your face, Jordan. Do you know something about this?”
“I met the woman when Alex was in the library,” I said. “I can see how Llorca might have deceived her. She has strong opinions. He played on that. She probably meant no harm.”
Paul nodded, and we were quiet for a moment, finishing our croissants and jam.
“Llorca never mentioned why he told Bettina he was planning another robbery last night,” Paul said, folding his napkin.
“He just needed her to take Louis’s place at Réception,”I said. “He and Louis were leaving, leaving the country, probably. Louis had to help him get as much loot as possible.”
Paul touched his temple. “Of course, it is so simple! Jordan, you are an amazing woman.” I thought he might go on with that idea, but he checked his watch. “My pilot will be at the airstrip soon. I intended to finish my business at the museum and leave this afternoon, to attend a board meeting this weekend in Geneva. Now that our curator is incarcerated, I know I must come back next week.” We exchanged a glance. Right—I would be in Savannah next week.
We picked up our cups at the same moment and looked over the rims at each other as we finished our coffee.What I would’ve given for more time. Another day, another night. If only we could take up where we left off in Paris. Paul smiled and pushed back from the table. That smile of his. We didn’t have to say anything. We were thinking along the same line.
In the lobby, his driver scurried around to take his bags. Paul gave me a lingering look. “It seems it is au revoir for us, Jordan,” he said, with some sadness, I believed. I might have said Au revoir, but I couldn’t swear it.
He reached for my hands and brought them to his lips. And then he left the hotel. The thought hit me like a wrecking ball— He’s walking out of my life.
CHAPTER 44
* * *
Alex had ordered up room service for breakfast. “I’ve been writing like a mad hornet since five A.M.,” he said, when I knocked on his door. I didn’t mention that at five A.M.I was just arriving back from Montmajour Abbey, but I could hardly keep from thinking it.
“I hope you didn’t have to eat breakfast alone,” he said. I assured him I hadn’t.
We made plans to meet at eleven. Initially, Alex had been the one who wanted to get an early start to Marseilles, but now that he was immersed in writing and wanted to make the most of his last morning here, I would have some time to say goodbye to Felicity, if I could find her.
“Alain brought up my breakfast, and he had the most incredible news,” Alex said. “The curator of the Château de Montauban was apprehended early this morning with stolen art from the museum. And not only him, but Louis, the clerk, here at L’hôtel du Soleil. It’s a remarkable story! I’ll tell you about it while we’re driving.”
“I can’t wait to hear,” I said.
“Now I’m afraid I’ll forget what I was writing if I don’t get back to it.” Alex was already closing his door, but, ever the gentleman, he greeted Millie with a bright “Good morning, Miss O’Neill” as she set two suitcases in the hall.
“I didn’t see you at breakfast,” I said.
“I overslept. I can’t believe I fell into such a deep sleep. Three hours, and I feel terrific! I ordered up coffee and croissants while I dressed and finished packing,” she said. “Eleanor has already called to check on me and tell me about what happened at Montmajour Abbey.”
“You could tell her a thing or two,” I said.
“Yeah, but I won’t.” Millie’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “It’s enough that I know what we did. What you did mostly.”
“No—we. You never give yourself enough credit, Millie.”
She mimicked a frown. “You think? I could say the same about you.”
“Anyway,” I said, making my voice cheery, “our time in Fontvieille was an adventure, wasn’t it?”
“A grand adventure. Like nothing I’d ever done.”
And then Regina came hurrying down the hall. “The van is loading!” she said.
“And we know that will take about thirty minutes,” Millie said. “I’ll be there.”
“Let me take one of these.” Regina picked up the larger of the two pieces of luggage, just as Eleanor appeared. A minute later Eleanor left with the other suitcase.
Millie grinned. “I think I’m their project, but it hasn’t worked out too bad.”
Before we said au revoir, we took down each other’s information: “Telephone, e-mail, and snail mail,” Millie said. “You’ll be hearing from me. Good luck getting your suitcase back.”
The phone in Felicity’s hotel room had been busy for half an hour. I wondered if she’d taken it off the hook. Her cell phone went straight to voice mail.
I closed my suitcase, set it at the door, and lay across my bed, knowing Alex would knock and wake me if I should happen to drift off. But I was too jittery from too much coffee. Too wired from everything. I went to the window and looked out across the vineyards to the purplish horizon. The breeze was cooler since the rain. One more photo, I thought, and I was digging in my tote bag for my camera when my phone rang.
“Jordan, hello,” Paul said.
I had to catch my breath. “Paul? I thought you’d already left.”
“Yes, we left some time ago. We are in the air.” I could imagine his amusement as he sensed how delighted I was to hear his voice. “I received a call from Inspector Bouvier on my way to the airfield. Jef Cauvin and the woman who was driving the black sedan have been arrested in Toulon. He believes they were headed to Nice.”
A lot had happened since my encounter with Jef Cauvin, but the mention of his name brought it all back. I rubbed the gooseflesh on my arms.
“The authorities in Toulon don’t have a confession from Cauvin or his accomplice, but Inspector Bouvier is confident that they will eventually implicate Antonio DeMarco.”
I knew Paul had his own reasons for wanting DeMarco arrested.
“Will you let me know what happens? If you keep up with the case.”
“I do intend to keep up with the case, and I would be delighted to keep you informed.” He laughed. “Inspectors Bouvier and Castanier are attending a meeting of law enforcement professionals in Paris next week. He asked me about a restaurant he’d heard of. Lassare. He was wondering if he could get reservations.”
“Doesn’t sound like a business dinner to me,” I said. “And you offered to make the reservations for him, I assume.”
“I’m happy to assist him in any way I can. If anyone deserves time off, time to do something besides chase criminals— whatever that might be—it is Inspector Bouvier. He’s still at the police municipale today, working on reports.” And then something about “loose threads.”
“Paul, you’re cutting out.” I sounded a little breathless, not wanting to lose his voice.
“I will tell you this quickly. My pilot spoke with the pilot of a Citation, waiting at the airfield. The plane had come from Nice—” His voice cut out, back in, and out. I heard “American woman whose husband was murdered,” and then the connection was broken.
Felicity and the clerk at the front desk of La Regalido had finished their business when I entered the grand lobby. He handed her a paper, presumably a copy of her bill, and told her he hoped she would visit La Regalido again. He clasped his hands to his heart and spoke in a quieter voice, probably expressing his sorrow for what had happened while she’d been a guest of the hotel. She thanked him and smiled. It was a smile I’d seen a thousand times, a quick surface movement of her lips, no smile in her eyes.
She was wearing the white satiny jumpsuit she’d worn the day she and Barry met Alex and me at Gare du Nord in Paris. As stunning as ever, Felicity looked like no widow—especially one of just four days—that I’d ever met. She had only two pieces
of luggage, a rolling suitcase with a smaller bag attached. I called her name.
“Jordan! I wasn’t expecting you!” She tried her squeal-ish voice, but it didn’t ring true.
“Looks like you weren’t even going to say goodbye. What happened to calling me every day? I’d swear you’ve been avoiding me.”
I caught a twitch of irritation around her pretty mouth as she cut her eyes at me, but she compensated with a wide, too-bright smile. “Oh, Jordan, you had me going there. I thought you were really upset with me, but you understand, don’t you? It’s been a tough week.” She stopped at the door, raising her finger to me to make a point. “I tried your room just a few minutes ago, but obviously you were on your way here.”
She was a skillful liar, and I felt a stab of sadness, admitting it to myself.
The doorman held the door and asked Felicity if she needed a taxi. I hurried to say, “I have my car.” She started to protest, but I said, “I insist. I’ll drive you to the airfield.”
Felicity’s puzzlement wasn’t surprising. I wasn’t supposed to know where she was going. As we headed out past the lush gardens, toward the street where my car was parked, I said, “Where’s the plane taking you?”
“Paris. I’ll take care of some things, then fly home in a few days.” It might have been God’s truth, or not.
“Where are your bags?”
“I’ll have to send for them later. The hotel was very helpful. They’re even packing for me.” She gave a husky laugh, a departure from her usual high-pitched giggle. “Do you know how long it takes to pack eight bags? More than that. Barry had three. But I have these two with me. Oh, I don’t know. You do the math.”
The high heels of her gold sandals made impatient clicks on the sidewalk. I was wearing soft-soled flats, which were helpful in keeping up with her. I pointed out my car. She never slowed down, leading the way. “I would’ve been happy to take a taxi,” she said. “I thought you were leaving this morning.” She tossed her bags in the back seat.
“Alex needed some time. It’s not far to the airfield.” Felicity didn’t ask how I knew this.
The clock on the dash read ten-fifteen. I said, “I thought it was important to see you, even if it meant a later start for Alex and me.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, as our car doors slammed simultaneously.
“Provence has its charm,” she said, when I had pulled out of my parking space and headed toward the town center, “but honestly, I’m glad to get the hell out of here.” She lit up a cigarette.
“I don’t understand the urgency,” I said.
“Urgency? You’ve got to be kidding!” She gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “It seems like a month since Monday night. You can’t imagine.”
“Whose plane?” I asked.
“A friend’s. Jordan, I’m sure you mean well, but these questions are annoying.”
I let that pass. “A friend from Nice? Maybe Antonio De-Marco? The collector who’s willing to pay big bucks to own a tape of Elvis that the world hasn’t heard? Even murder your husband?” My eyes were fixed on the roundabout that lay before us at the town center, but in my peripheral vision I caught the small jerk of her head. She must have been studying me, trying to figure out what I knew.
“Did you know Antonio DeMarco tried to have me kidnapped, yesterday in Arles?” I said. “He sent Jef Cauvin and a woman I saw talking to Barry when we were at Guy Savoy. But they’ve been arrested. DeMarco’s house of cards may be about to tumble.”
She didn’t say anything until I had come out of the roundabout and had turned completely around, heading back the way we’d come. “You’re going the wrong way, Jordan,” she said, her voice suddenly uncertain.
“You promised you’d go to the police station yesterday.That’s where we’re going.You need to tell Inspector Bouvier everything you told me about Barry and the hit-and-run.” Paul had said the inspector was still at the police municipale. I was counting on it.
“Jordan. Jordan.” She tried for the sweetness of the old Felicity but couldn’t quite nail it. “OK, I should’ve gone to the police station, but now there’s a plane waiting for me. I’ll call the inspector from Paris. He didn’t say I shouldn’t leave the country.” Her words were sharper as she said, “What do you plan to do? Drag me into the station?”
“I’m hoping you’ll want to do the right thing, Felicity.”
“I’m hoping you’ll do the right thing—turn this damn car around! Take me to the airport.”
“You know, Barry didn’t deserve to be murdered. He may have been a jerk of a husband, but his murderer deserves to be punished.” I took a deep breath. “You’re flying away in Antonio DeMarco’s plane—the man who had Barry killed. I don’t get it.”
Felicity took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. “So tell me, Jordan, why would Antonio DeMarco have Barry killed?”
We passed the entrance to La Regalido. Five more minutes, tops, and we’d be at the police station. I hadn’t expected Felicity to acquiesce without a word of complaint, but this was harder than I’d thought it would be.
“I don’t know why, but you know, don’t you? Probably DeMarco wasn’t offering Barry enough for the tape.”
“Barry didn’t have the tape.”
“But he still planned to get it—from me, when my suitcase arrived.”
“If you say so.You were the one who told me about the tape, remember?”
Up ahead was a modern-type convenience store with gas pumps in front, on the corner of the main street and the street that led to the police station. I slowed down, approaching the turn.
“I have given my statement. What else do you think I can tell the police?” Felicity said.
Something about her tone was not right. A quick glance, and I saw that her face had paled, but she held her chin at a high, defiant angle.
“I hope I’m wrong, Felicity. I do. But if I’m right, you know everything,” I said. “That’s why you can connect DeMarco with Barry’s death.You’re in this thing up to your neck.”
At the corner now, she said, “Oh, you are so clever, Jordan. I told Barry he was a fool to think he could put anything over on you. It was a stupid plan. He was so stupid!”
I wondered, suddenly, how clever I was, because I detected a movement of her hand, slipping into her sling purse. “Turn around right here,” she said, as she produced a shiny little gun. Toy-like—was it real? She motioned toward the concrete area at the gas pumps. Why was I so surprised that she had a gun? Yet I was. Not Felicity. Not spacey, flirty Felicity. But the woman holding a gun on me was not the sorority sister I had known. My hands were sweating on the steering wheel, as I whipped the car around the gas pumps and pulled onto the main street.
“Good girl,” she said. “Don’t break the speed limit now, but I do have a plane to catch.”
We passed La Regalido again, came to the roundabout, and this time, I took the road that led to the airfield. A minute later, Montmajour Abbey loomed up ahead.
“You can put that away,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I’ll get you to your plane.”
“You’ll never guess who gave me this little fellow,” she said with a laugh that had no mirth in it. My whole body was electric, nerves tingling, as she turned the gun in her hand. “Hunt. He told me I should protect myself from whoever killed Barry. Wasn’t that sweet?” Her tone changed after we had made the downhill slope and were on a straight, barren stretch. “You know, it didn’t have to come to this. Why couldn’t you leave it alone? Why couldn’t you let me put everything behind me and start over. It wouldn’t have hurt you to do that for me.”
I glanced at her, caught an eerie light in her eyes. “My God, Felicity, you didn’t kill him, did you? Please tell me you didn’t!” I said, with a sorrowful wail.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” She pushed the automatic window button—whoosh of air—and tossed out her cigarette butt. “All I did was open the patio door for Jef Cauvin.”
Nothing could h
ave prepared me for that. Even as I had come to believe the truth about Felicity’s other wrongdoings, I had resisted the notion that she’d had any part in killing Barry. Now she’d just admitted she had. “No,” I said. It came out in a hoarse whisper.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Jordan. You’ve had it all. A perfect marriage, and then you were a beautiful, smart young widow that everyone adored, with beautiful children—all that love around you all of your life.” Her words turned brittle. “My three marriages have been disasters, and the last one was the marriage from hell.”
My heart was hammering. I figured we were about halfway to the airfield. Buy some time was all I could think. I eased up on the accelerator, relieved that Felicity didn’t seem to notice.
“Barry was all the things you’d never tolerate. A liar, a drunk, and a cheater. Do you know what the sonofabitch did, after I set up everything with Antonio DeMarco?”
“You set up things with DeMarco?”
“Does that surprise you, Jordan? So maybe I’m not as ditzy as you’ve always thought.”
I opened my mouth to protest but she raised the gun, pointing at my face. “Antonio was my contact. I met him when I was married to Lorenzo. He’s crazy about all things Elvis. It’s an obsession! He has stuff from the sets of those pitiful movies like Blue Hawaii and Girls! Girls! Girls! and that sappy one, Love Me Tender. So I make the deal with Antonio—I do—and how does Barry show his gratitude? He was going to leave me for that little slut Paloma!”
The Italian beauty in the black sedan, I assumed, but I asked, “Paloma?”
“She works for Antonio. I should say, he owns her.” Felicity was sounding a little out of control. “I’m glad she’s been arrested. Antonio should’ve had her killed, too. But when you’re young and beautiful and sexy, you can get by with things that the rest of the world can’t.”
“DeMarco sent Jef Cauvin to kill Barry because of Paloma,” I said, “and you let him in.”
Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery) Page 31
