Provence - To Die For

by Jessica Fletcher

  He looked confused. “I went to the restaurant to get materials for tomorrow’s class, and then I ... then I came back. There’s a lot of work to do to prepare for these classes. Why do you ask?”

  “How did you manage to get in here without running into the police upstairs?”

  “There are police upstairs?” A few papers slipped out of his grasp and fell to the floor. He made a grab for them.

  “Oh, Guy, the most terrible thing,” Mallory began. I squeezed her arm, and she stopped abruptly.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked, watching his face closely. I sensed someone behind me and whirled around.

  “You’re doing my job again, Mrs. Fletcher.” The fierce eyes of Captain LeClerq bored into mine. “Why don’t you take this young lady upstairs, and leave the questioning to me?”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  Mallory and I left Guy’s office and walked through the silent kitchen to the other set of stairs.

  “Guy doesn’t know, does he?” Mallory whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But Captain LeClerq will tell him.”

  “Do you think they’ll let me get my backpack from the classroom?” she asked, pulling her braid over her shoulder. I recognized the gesture. Mallory fiddled with her hair whenever she was nervous or insecure.

  “I’m sure they’ll let you retrieve it later,” I said. “Unless the police are planning to camp out downstairs and use your sleeping bag.”

  Mallory gasped. “They wouldn’t!”

  “I’m only teasing,” I said.

  Once back on the main floor, we traversed the dining room.

  • A small staff was starting to set the tables for dinner. I checked my watch. Daniel would be coming back in another hour to start cooking. I wondered if the news had gotten out to the local media. If France was anything like the States, the hotel would be overrun with reporters as soon as the police withdrew, and probably even before.

  We returned to the atrium, where the room was buzzing with rumors of the murder. Hotel guests returning from their day’s activities or coming downstairs from their rooms in response to the sirens had seen the emergency vehicles and heard whispers of what had occurred. Every table was occupied, and in the lounge next door, a noisy group crowded around the bar. Mallory went to get herself a Coke, and I found Craig and Jill Thomas, who were still sitting where I’d left them. René Bonassé had rejoined them. He’d changed into a slate blue knit turtle-neck and gray jacket, the colors accentuating his light eyes against his dark skin. His expression was fixed in a frown, and he chewed on the side of his cheek as he listened to Craig tell a story. Mme Poutine was nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, Jessica, thank goodness Mallory found you,” said Jill. “We were really starting to fret.”

  “I’m just fine,” I said, “but I’m afraid our instructor will not be revealing the secrets of his bouillabaisse to us tomorrow.”

  “Then she was right,” Jill said, despondent. “I’d hoped she was just overwrought. The French are so high-strung. Oh, excuse me, René. I meant Madame Poutine was so high-strung.”

  “I thought she was rather a cold fish myself,” Craig said, an opinion I shared.

  “She had that appearance, I admit,” Jill said. “But look how distraught she was.”

  “Understandable, considering the situation. Not every day one discovers a murder,” Craig said, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulder.

  “Did she say anything more after I left?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Jill said. “You heard her say Claire killed him.”

  “Did she say how she knew that?”

  “She was close to hysterical and babbling in French, and we don’t really speak well enough to understand her. René came back right after you went downstairs. He spoke with her. She told him she saw Claire leaning over Bertrand’s body, and when she cried out, Claire ran out the door. René wanted to go downstairs after you, but we persuaded him to wait with Madame Poutine until the authorities arrived.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “When the police came, she collapsed altogether, and they took her off in an ambulance. Poor thing.”

  “If there’s a ‘poor thing,’ it’s the chef, love,” Craig told his wife. “At least Madame Poutine is still alive.”

  “Do you know her well?” I asked René.

  He seemed taken aback that I addressed him. “No, madame,” he replied.

  “But you’d been in the class with her before.”

  “We are here to learn from a master chef,” he said, “not to make friends. Madame Poutine was a student in the last class I attended, yes, and she was at this one. As you saw, there is not a lot of time to spend on conversation in these classes. Under the circumstances, I doubt I will meet her again, or you, for that matter.”

  His voice carried a world-weary note, as if the death of the chef were nothing more than an inconvenience, but his fingers trembled when he passed his hand over his dark, close-cropped hair. I decided not to question him further, for now. People respond so differently to murder, I thought. Some withdraw, feeling depressed or sad. Others are shocked or angry or frightened. Still others become hysterical. It is rare for someone to have no reaction at all. René’s shaky hand betrayed some response, but it wasn’t clear to me what he was feeling. Yes, I decided, put away your doubts, Monsieur Bonassé. You will definitely meet me again. I’m sure we can find some things to talk about.

  Mallory came back from the bar, walking slowly and trying not to spill her full glass. “Everyone in there is talking about the murder,” she said. “I heard someone say his restaurant will probably lose its star now.” She took a sip of her soda and sat on the sofa.

  René glared down at Mallory but, catching me looking at him, schooled his features into an impassive expression and looked away.

  “Has anyone seen Claire since the police arrived?” I asked.

  “I saw her,” said Mallory. “She was getting in the back of a patrol car when I returned from my walk.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “I hope they’re not too hard on her.”

  “Why would they be?” she asked.

  Jill looked at me. “Do you think Madame Poutine was right? After all, she didn’t actually see Claire do it.”

  “Claire would never hurt anyone,” Mallory said vehemently, although the statement was aimed at me.

  “I agree,” Craig said. “But it’s not a stretch of the imagination to see Madame Poutine putting a spotlight on her rival.”

  “Was Claire really her rival?” Jill asked. “I can’t see her having an affair with Bertrand. She’s so much younger than he is—or was. What do you think, Jessica?”

  “I think Claire thought she was in love with him,” I said. “I don’t really know anything more than that.”

  “I hope you will all excuse me,” René said stiffly. “I am going to return to my room.” He turned to Craig. “Would you kindly inform the police where I can be found, if they ask?” He strolled off toward the stairs.

  “Odd chap,” Craig muttered.

  An hour later, Captain LeClerq’s lieutenant came to take our names and the addresses where we were staying. I asked him to bring up Mallory’s backpack and my jacket, if that was permissible. We were tired and ready to go home.

  “I believe the men have finished their search of that room,” he said. “They’re going to bring the body out now. After the ambulance leaves, I can ask the captain if you can sign for your things, and we should be able to release them.”

  “How long will that take?” I asked.

  He scratched his chin and shrugged. “Police work takes time, madame. The captain doesn’t like to be rushed. Since your things have been examined, he probably won’t mind if I set them aside for you. Maybe another hour. Maybe two.”

  Chapter Six

  “Did you hear the scratching last night?”

  “What scratching?”

  “There was scratching at the door.�
�

  “It was probably the wind blowing a branch against the side of the house,” I said. “I’ve heard it before.”

  “And what about the howling?”

  “I think it must be a dog. There aren’t any wolves. I’ve asked.”

  “So you’ve heard the howling before, too.”

  I was in the bathroom, elbow-deep in soapy water, rinsing out some of my things. Martine’s farmhouse had many amenities but a washer and dryer were not among them. There was a sharp rap on the front door, loud enough for me to hear upstairs.

  “I’ll get it,” Mallory said, popping up from the edge of the tub where she’d been perched, keeping me company. She was terribly pale and had spent half the morning braiding and unbraiding her hair. I worried that yesterday’s murder was weighing heavily on her mind. I intended to talk with her about it and insist she call her parents. Just hearing a familiar voice could be very soothing. Whatever had occurred to prompt her to run away could surely be put behind her now. It was time to face the telephone and call home.

  A minute later she was back at the bathroom door. “Mrs. Fletcher, the police are here.” She chewed on her lower lip nervously.

  “Would you tell them I’ll be right down, please? See if they’d like some tea.”

  Mallory and I had returned to St. Marc late in the evening following the murder. I’d decided not to stay overnight at the hotel after all, and had called off my dinner reservation at Christian Étienne, the well-known Avignon restaurant owned by a friend of Jean-Michel Bergougnoux, the chef at L’Absinthe in New York. The young man who took over the front desk at the Hotel Melissande for the absent Claire was very understanding about my cancellation, but I could see he was worried that the bad news would cause other guests to leave or change their destinations. The Thomases, I knew, would be staying, and so would René Bonassé. Captain LeClerq had asked all those who had been in the chef’s class to remain in Avignon or nearby until the investigation was concluded and he told us we were free to leave.

  I’d insisted that Mallory come back with me, and she’d readily agreed. Fortunately, Mme Roulandet at the bakery was able to reach Marcel, who came to collect us. Mallory and I were so wrapped up in what had occurred, and Marcel peppered us with so many questions—he’d had to breach the police barrier to pick us up at the front of the hotel—that we’d barely noticed the ride back to the country, and were grateful to get there quickly.

  After a light supper, Mallory had fallen into bed—into a living room couch, to be more precise—still dressed in her clothes. I’d offered her Martine’s room, but she’d declined to sleep there.

  “I’m imposing as it is,” she’d said, stifling a yawn. “I’d feel worse to be in someone’s private room when she doesn’t even know I’m in her house.”

  Mallory’s sensitivity impressed me, even though I was sure Martine would have had no objections to allowing the teenager to sleep in her bed.

  We’d drowsed in the living room, sitting across from each other on the colorful sofas. The peacefulness of the wood fire in the hearth was lulling after such an emotional day, and she’d fallen asleep sitting up. I covered her with a blanket and quilt, and stared down at her troubled face. Was I doing the right thing taking her in?

  Now the police were here for a follow-up interview. I pulled the plug in the sink, then dried my hands.

  Captain LeClerq, in another elegant suit, this one dark blue, and a yellow-flowered silk tie, was examining one of Martine’s paintings when I entered the living room. Fingers linked behind his back, coat thrown carelessly over one shoulder, he leaned back to allow himself a wider view, then stretched forward, squinting to take in some detail of the artwork.

  “She is very talented, your friend,” he said in English. “Where is she? I would like to offer my compliments.”

  “Your compliments will have to wait a month, I’m afraid,” I said, taking a seat next to Mallory on the sofa. “Martine is in America right now. She’s staying at my house in Maine.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I expect her back in a few weeks,” I added. “I’ll be sure to tell her how much you like her work.”

  “Merci,” he said, walking to the fireplace and resting his arm on the mantel.

  I could see he was formulating his questions for us, but I headed him off. “How is Madame Poutine?” I asked. “I heard she was taken away in an ambulance.”

  “Seulement une crise de nerfs,” he replied. “Only a case of nerves.”

  “I wonder,” I said, almost to myself.

  “It is not so surprising,” he said. “A bit of a trauma for her; the Poutines and Bertrand were old friends.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “And her husband said the same when he came to collect her. But we are getting away from our—”

  “And Claire?” Mallory interrupted. “Is she okay?”

  “Yes,” I added. “How is Claire today? I understand you took her in for questioning yesterday.”

  “That is correct,” he replied patiently. “We have taken her into custody. She cannot account for her time, and we are holding her under suspicion of murder.”

  “Captain—” I started.

  “No more,” he interrupted. “I am the one to ask the questions. This is a murder investigation, not a discussion. We must address the facts, not your opinion.” He nodded at Thierry, who’d taken a chair in a comer of the living room next to Mallory’s backpack, where he could observe us sitting on the sofa. The lieutenant removed a narrow notebook from his breast pocket and waited while LeClerq paced in front of the fireplace.

  “Tell me, Madame Fletcher, how long did you know Chef Bertrand?”

  “I met him last week,” I said. “When I arrived in Avignon, I stayed one night at the Melissande before coming out to St. Marc. I was introduced to him the next morning when I asked Claire to confirm my registration for the cooking class.”

  “And you, Mademoiselle Cartright?”

  Mallory was sitting on the sofa looking sick. She’d pulled the rubber band off the end of her braid and was concentrating on unraveling a knot in the elastic. She jumped when the captain directed his question at her. “I ... I ... I never met him before yesterday,” she stammered.

  “And Claire, Madame Fletcher. Had you met her for the first time last week as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” he asked.

  Mallory glanced up, confused. “Yes, I only just met her. ”

  “That is interesting, mademoiselle, because one of the bellmen reported that he saw you talking together, and that you appeared to be old friends.”

  “No. That’s not true,” Mallory said, looking at me. “I mean, I liked her right away, but this is the first time I’ve been to Avignon.” Mallory’s glasses had slipped down her nose. She pushed them up with the hand that wasn’t fisted around the end of her braid.

  “So you just met her for the very first time yesterday?” he pressed.

  “Yes.” Her eyes were still on mine.

  “Do you think you could look at me when you answer my questions?”

  “Captain, that tone isn’t necessary,” I said.

  He put a hand up to stop me, still staring intently at Mallory. “Silence, madame. You will have your turn.”

  Mallory raised her eyes. She was close to tears and her lips trembled.

  I took her hand and held it Speaking to the policeman, I said, “Captain LeClerq, Mallory wasn’t even in the building when Bertrand was killed. You’re trying to intimidate her for no reason.”

  “My apologies, madame, but I must follow up on all leads.” He addressed Mallory again, but his voice was less harsh.

  “Tell me where you went at the end of the class.”

  Mallory cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “We all came upstairs together,” she recited. “We were supposed to meet back in the classroom
in an hour. I’d been sitting all morning, so I asked Mrs. Fletcher if she minded if I took a walk.” Her eyes sought mine again, and I nodded.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I don’t know the name of the streets,” she said, raising her hazel eyes to LeClerq’s, “but I ended up in the square with the merry-go-round.”

  “What is this ‘merry-go-round’?” LeClerq asked, irritated.

  “She means a carousel, Captain,” I explained.

  “Ah, Place de l’Horloge.”

  “That’s it,” Mallory said, brightening.

  “Who saw you there?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly, pondering the question. “No one, I guess. I didn’t talk to anybody.” She looked worried again. “I was just watching the children riding the carousel.”

  “May I see your passport, please?”

  “Really, Captain,” I said. “You can’t believe that Mallory had anything to do with Bertrand’s murder.”

  “Madame Fletcher, you are interfering with my investigation.” He looked at Mallory and put his hand out, palm up.

  Mallory looked at me, eyes pleading.

  “You’d better give it to him,” I said softly.

  She went to her backpack, unzipped an outside pocket, withdrew her blue American passport, and placed it in LeClerq’s hand. She stood before him, smiling uneasily. “You know,” she said, “it’s a couple of years old, and I’ve grown.”

  LeClerq scrutinized her photograph, his eyes moving up and down and up, from Mallory’s face to her passport and back again. “I can see that it’s you,” he said, flipping the pages to check her date-of entry stamp. “You are due to leave the country soon. Did you know this?”

  She nodded.

  “Where do you live in the States?”

  “Cincinnati.”

  “Mallory, you told me you lived in Portland,” I said.

  “Did I?” She frowned, her eyes roaming the room to avoid the stares of the three adults. “Well, we did live there, but my father got a new job—he’s a record promoter and he has clients all over the country. We can always get tickets to the best concerts, my brother and I—so we moved to Cincinnati. I liked Portland better, actually.” She watched Thierry, who was writing furiously in his notebook, and her expression softened, her frown smoothed away.