The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  I wasn’t paying attention. I’d just seen the view. All along the ridge behind the house the ground fell away in a steep bluff covered with scrub oak, broom, boulders, and wildflowers. Farmland stretched below, neat fields and stands of trees reaching to the folded green valleys of Mount Ventoux. The mountain’s barren-looking summit was almost lost in clouds.

  We got out of the car. The property extended a good way, the wall separating the road from a large lawn of hummocky grass. Near the house a stand of twisted, silver-leaved olive trees sheltered a rustic stone table and white metal chairs. On the table sat a Diet Coke can and an empty glass.

  As Ross was taking my bags from the trunk, glass patio doors on the side of the house, an anomaly surely dating from the renovation, slid open. A dark-haired woman wearing a green cotton sundress and a yellow apron rushed out toward us. For a gut-clenching moment I thought she was Vivien, but this lady was plumpish, with frizzy hair— a total contrast to the thin, languorous, ballerina-like look of Vivien’s pictures. Besides which, I couldn’t imagine Vivien wearing an apron.

  As the woman approached, she called out, “Can I help?” in French, accompanying the question with a broad pantomime of lugging suitcases.

  When I responded, in French, “I think we can handle it, thanks,” she stopped in her tracks, round-eyed.

  “You speak French!” I now saw she was barely in her thirties, dark-eyed and dimpled, cute enough to play the French maid in an old-fashioned farce. I had pictured Marcelle, the housekeeper, as an old woman in backless bedroom slippers, but all my preconceptions were taking a beating.

  I told her my name and said, “I speak a little. I’ll try to help.”

  She seemed overcome. She said, in a rush, “Madame, I’m so glad you’re here. You can’t imagine the difficulties…” She broke off with a glance at Ross and continued, more demurely, “You had a good journey?”

  “Very pleasant.”

  We had reached the stoop in front of the open patio doors. With a nod, she motioned to Ross and me to precede her.

  “You really can talk to her,” Ross said admiringly.

  I felt smug. “I guess I can.”

  Obviously straining for heartiness, he said, “Well, come on in! Let’s see what Vivien’s doing.”

  We entered a huge kitchen, dim and cool after the brilliance outside. The floor was of golden-brown tile. A long table covered with flower-patterned oilcloth was surrounded by ladder-back chairs, and a massive wooden dish cupboard took up one wall. Pieces of bright yellow pottery were lined up on the mantel of a fireplace big enough to roast an ox. If you preferred to roast your ox in an oven, two of them were built into the wall, and I spotted a microwave, too. The oversize, stainless-steel stove would have been perfectly at home in a restaurant. On the table was a bowl almost overflowing with ruby-red cherries, and their sweet smell wafted to me. From somewhere, upstairs I thought, came music— a male voice singing in a nasal whine, accompanied by a dissonant violin.

  Almost the moment we stepped inside, a man’s voice called, “Ross? Is that you?” and a slight man with dark eyes and crisp gray curls, wearing a blue velour sweatshirt, white slacks, and a gold neck chain, appeared in the doorway at the other end of the room. He glanced at me and said, “Hi.”

  I felt myself do a double take and hoped it didn’t show. This must be Pedro Ruiz, Carey Howard’s male housekeeper, the one who had found Carey’s body. What was he doing here? His testimony at the inquest two years ago had hardly been favorable to Vivien. Mas Rose came equipped with a French housekeeper. Surely our group didn’t need two.

  When Ross introduced us, Pedro gave me a perfunctory handshake. He smelled like cigars. He said indifferently, “Pleased to meet you,” before turning back to Ross. “Can I see you for a second?”

  Ross glanced at me. “I need to take Georgia Lee up to her room, and I know Vivien—”

  “It’ll just take a second.”

  Ross raised his eyebrows, told me he’d be right back, and followed Pedro through the door. Overhead the music scraped on, the words incomprehensible and the sound barely tolerable.

  Marcelle was at the sink washing fat white asparagus, a task our arrival had apparently interrupted. She glanced over her shoulder at me, then rolled her eyes upward. My knowledge of French had made us instant allies.

  “What is that music?” I asked.

  She added an elaborate shrug to her eye-rolling. “The young lady plays it. Mademoiselle Blanche. She has tapes she plays for hours and hours.”

  Blanche was twenty. Weren’t people that age supposed to like rock? I’d have preferred the heaviest of heavy metal to whatever this was.

  I wandered over to the sink. “The asparagus look delicious.”

  “It’s the season. I hope they’re good.”

  Thinking of Pedro, I said, “You do all the cooking?”

  “Oh, yes. I love to cook.” Her face fell. “I don’t think they like my food, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “I made rabbit two nights ago. The way my grandmother taught me, with garlic and tarragon. They were eating it, and then they asked what it was. When I made them understand it was rabbit, they wouldn’t eat it anymore.”

  I could imagine. “Some Americans aren’t accustomed to eating rabbit.”

  “Mademoiselle Blanche started to cry.”

  I wanted to offer comfort. Nothing about these beautiful asparagus was likely to offend. “What will you have with the asparagus tonight?”

  “Larks.”

  “Oh.”

  “Without the heads.” That was a plus. I’d tell everybody they were squab, or something.

  Ross, a flush on his cheeks, walked briskly in and said, “Sorry for the delay. Let me take you up to your room.”

  Beyond the kitchen, a narrow stone staircase spiraled upward. I followed Ross, who was still maneuvering my bags. The music got louder as we ascended. Ross muttered, “Dammit,” but offered no explanation. At the top of the stairs he opened a door and gestured. “Here it is. Would you excuse me for a second, while I see if I can do something about that goddamn—”

  He broke off and walked down the hall, leaving me and my bags at my bedroom door.

  I was still holding the hollyhock he’d given me. I walked into my room, accompanied by the music’s sonorous lamentation.

  The room was obviously converted from part of the attic, with a slanting beamed ceiling and the bottoms of the windows almost flush with the tile floor. The walls and ceiling were white, and on the bed was a Provencal cotton print coverlet in a blue, white, and yellow design. In front of one window sat a spindly-legged wooden table and a cane chair, making it the perfect work place. Right off the bedroom, wonder of wonders, was a walk-through closet with, at the other end, a private bathroom.

  I moved to the window and looked down on the shed, the olive trees, the rocky tumble to the valley, the fields spread out below. After an interlude of enraptured gazing, I noticed the envelope on my work table.

  It was the same as the other. Typed address, New York postmark. This time it had been sent to me at Mas Rose. I felt sick and furious. Most of all, I dreaded opening it.

  I opened it, though. Again, a couple of typed lines and no signature: “Don’t be an accessory to murder! You still have time to change your mind.”

  Suddenly the music stopped. For an instant, the house was utterly silent. Then I heard wild sobs, a door slamming.

  I sat at my table and watched the wind stir the leaves of the olive trees, making them ripple silver.

  COURTLY LOVE

  I didn’t meet Vivien that day. Ross told me she had gotten a migraine after he left for Avignon to pick me up. Her migraines and their aftermath sometimes put her out of commission for several days, he said. She wouldn’t be down for dinner.

  Ross and Pedro and I were in the living room, which was cool, barrel-ceilinged, and cavelike, the furniture overstuffed, braided rugs on the floor. After mixing paralyzingly strong gin and tonics for
Ross and me, Pedro lounged by the built-in bookshelves next to the fireplace, jingling change in his pockets while apparently studying the titles of the French classics. Marcelle’s larks had started to smell divine. “She’s completely wiped out afterward,” Ross said, expanding on Vivien’s headaches.

  My own head, especially the forehead, was numb from the gin, and I’d consumed less than half my drink. Ross, I couldn’t help noticing, had guzzled his and was almost through. Since it would’ve been a desecration not to have wine with dinner, I vowed to go slow. “How often does she get migraines?” I asked.

  “She might go for months without one, and then have several— bam, bam, bam.” With each “bam” Ross made a punching motion in the air with his fist. “Knocks her right out.”

  What lousy news. When would Vivien be migraine-free and ready to start the book? I slouched lower in my armchair and, despite my vow, took a generous swallow of my drink.

  I had decided, after serious thought, not to mention the anonymous warnings I’d received. I didn’t want to put a strain on the work situation. I did ask Ross when the letter had come, and he said this morning— nicely timed for my arrival.

  “And while her mother lies there suffering, Blanche is rattling the windowpanes with Bernart de Ventadorn’s greatest hits,” Ross went on querulously.

  “Who’s Bernart de Ventadorn?”

  Ross feigned shock. “You never heard of Bernart de Ventadorn? Hey, Pedro”—he spoke over his shoulder— “Georgia Lee never heard of Bernart de Ventadorn. Can you believe it?”

  Pedro jingled change. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes not moving from the spines of the Pléiade editions.

  “Let me tell you,” Ross said to me. “You may not yet have heard of Bernart, but you will.”

  Actually, I was now beginning to believe I had heard of Bernart de Ventadorn. His name had turned up in my guidebook. “Wasn’t he a troubadour poet?”

  “No fair! You do know!” cried Ross. He set his empty glass on the coffee table with an ice-tinkling thump. “Wait until Blanche hears—” A movement in the doorway caught my eye, and his, too. “Hey, Blanche! Come in! Listen to this!”

  A young woman hovered uncertainly outside the door. Ross beckoned vigorously, and she came in. The bulky sweater of fuzzy pink wool she clutched around her made it difficult to judge her size, but her face was gaunt and her blue eyes, with deep rings beneath them, looked unnaturally large. Her wispy hair, dishwater blond, was held back with tortoiseshell barrettes.

  Blanche, I knew, was the younger of Vivien’s two children. She and her brother Alexander were the products of Vivien’s first marriage, to the roistering poet Denis McBride. In the photos, Blanche was the one hurrying along behind, or half out of the frame, or with her back to the camera. At the time of the murder she’d been living at home, a freshman at Barnard.

  “What can I get for you, Blanche?” Pedro asked.

  “White wine?” Her voice was hushed and hesitant.

  “White wine for Blanche,” Ross said. He patted the sofa beside him. “Have a seat. Say hello to Georgia Lee Maxwell, the writer who’s going to help Vivien with the book.”

  Obediently, Blanche sat next to him. She nodded at me and said, “Hello.”

  “As long as you’re going, Pedro, how about a refill?” Ross said, and Pedro picked up Ross’s glass and left the room.

  “Get this,” Ross said to Blanche. “Georgia Lee knows about Bernart de Ventadorn.”

  Blanche flushed. Wishing Ross would sober up, I said, “I don’t, really. I just saw the name in a guidebook.”

  Blanche said nothing, her face blotchy red. Ross, so willing to shoot off his mouth up to now, lapsed into silence. Feeling it was up to me to soldier on, I said, “Wasn’t Bernart de Ventadorn one of the Provencal troubadour poets?”

  “Yes.” Blanche’s answer was barely louder than a whisper.

  I was at the end of my expertise. Blanche, picking at a pill of wool on her sleeve, didn’t look ready to open up on the subject. Pedro saved us from awkward silence by showing up with the drinks. He handed them out and resumed his post at the bookcase.

  After a long swallow Ross said, “The troubadours invented romance. You tell it, Blanche.”

  She looked as if she’d rather die. I pushed along. “When did the troubadours write?”

  “The twelfth century.” At this point, to my relief, she made eye contact with me.

  “The days of old when knights were bold,” Ross said.

  To forestall him I said, “And you’re making a study of Bernart de Ventadorn?”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head energetically. “I’m not doing a study. I don’t even read Provencal.”

  “Don’t let her kid you,” Ross interposed. “She knows a hell of a lot about it.” He jiggled her elbow. “Tell about the Courts of Love.”

  Blanche bit her lip and said nothing. Ross went on, “The troubadours invented courtly love. Before courtly love, there was just screwing. Afterward, there was fancy screwing, the difference being that they wrote poetry about it.”

  Blanche took a breath. She looked straight at me and said, sweetly, “Ross has been fascinated by the troubadours since I told him they all lusted after their patrons’ wives.”

  The deliberate reference to Ross’s affair with her mother proved Blanche wasn’t as defenseless as she seemed. After an interminable moment Ross patted her gently on the back and said, “Touché, kiddo.”

  Blanche looked down at her wine. Then, to my relief, Marcelle put her head in the door and said, “Dinner,” with an intonation somewhere between French and English.

  We got up. I was sweating from tension and gin, my fingers closed convulsively around my glass. So this was an evening of chitchat in Provence.

  The larks were delicious, if bony. Nobody asked what they were, perhaps having learned from the rabbit fiasco. Blanche loosened up enough to make polite conversation, showing an interest in “Paris Patter.”

  When I countered by asking whether she was still at Barnard, however, she shook her head as if dumbstruck and shot a scared look at Ross. The instant passed with Ross saying, smoothly, “Blanche is taking time off.”

  So— Ross was no longer an artist, and Blanche was no longer a college student. It was difficult to say whether Pedro, bent over his plate next to me, was still a housekeeper.

  Nobody lingered after dinner. Blanche excused herself, saying she was tired. Ross thought he’d better check on Vivien. Pedro simply wandered off. I was weary but keyed up. As Marcelle cleared the table, I stepped out the glass doors to get some air.

  The night had turned chilly. The moon, unbelievably luminous, covered everything with a wash of silver. I could almost see my shadow as I strolled past the stone table under the olives and crossed the lawn. The silence was profound, almost eerie, and the air had a faint herbal smell.

  I reached the end of the wall and looked back at Mas Rose. Light shone from the open kitchen door and upstairs windows, and it looked like the calm haven I wanted it to be and suspected it was not.

  On my way back I saw the glow of a lighted cigarette and made out Marcelle, sitting at the stone table, smoking. I sat down across from her. “Finished for the night?”

  “Almost. I came out for a cigarette. They don’t like me to smoke in their part of the house.”

  I couldn’t see the expression on her face, but could tell she thought this another piece of American lunacy. “You live here in the house?”

  She nodded. “On the other side. Antoine and I.”

  “Antoine is your husband?”

  “Yes. He’s a mason. He’s away on a job right now. We both look after the place.”

  We sat in companionable silence, which I finally broke by saying, “You’re a wonderful cook.”

  “Thank you. My grandmother taught me.” She sounded gratified.

  “It’s too bad Madame Howard was ill and had to miss dinner.”

  “Ill!” The word was accompanied by a sniff. Her face was in
shadow.

  “I understood she had a terrible headache,” I said carefully.

  “I suppose she’s much better now,” said Marcelle sarcastically. “And that’s why she could eat the ham sandwich, potato chips, and Diet Coca-Cola Monsieur Pedro prepared for her on a tray. She ate every morsel. I picked up the tray myself. Only a crust of bread was left, and Madame Howard was sitting up on her bed with magazines all around her, painting her toenails!” She took an angry drag and expelled smoke sharply.

  Vivien didn’t sound like a person wasted with migraine. She must’ve been determined to miss Marcelle’s larks. Or was she? Wasn’t it equally likely she’d been evading me?

  I told Marcelle that Madame Howard had probably made a miraculous recovery but had not wanted to risk another headache by coming down for dinner. For all I knew, it was true. As I bid her goodnight, Pedro came out. He nodded to us and walked to the edge of the bluff. I saw a flame flicker, and in a moment the poisonous smell of cigar smoke drifted our way. The house no-smoking ban obviously included him, too.

  I climbed up to my room, feeling every narrow and uneven step of the winding staircase. In the hall I heard troubadour music, but faintly. I got in bed as fast as I could and, against all odds, fell immediately asleep.

  VIVIEN

  I saw Vivien for the first time from my window early the next morning. She was standing at the edge of the bluff, looking out toward Mount Ventoux. Her dark hair was pulled back in the chignon familiar from her photographs, and she wore a loose black dress that stirred in the breeze. All around her, fist-sized irises nodded and swayed.

  The scene was pretty and peaceful. Vivien wasn’t clutching her head, so I couldn’t tell if real or pretend migraines were imminent.

  Idly watching, I saw Ross approach her from the direction of the house. Over his arm was a piece of fringed, loosely woven material, cream-colored, very likely a shawl. Standing behind Vivien, he said something. She shook her head without turning. He spoke again, and when she didn’t move he placed the shawl around her shoulders.