The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  “But if it was a thief from off the street, why go up to the eleventh floor? Why not—”

  He spread his hands wide, palms up. “Hey, I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m saying it could’ve happened.”

  I thought of something else. “Why did you keep working for Vivien after Carey was killed?”

  He looked uneasy. “It’s a good job. She needed somebody.”

  I wondered if she needed somebody who drove her to near-hysteria, as Marcelle had overheard. “And it worked out all right?”

  He grimaced. “It’s not the same, but— sure.” He glanced at his watch. “Jeez. I’ve got to get downstairs.”

  I turned off the recorder. “Thanks. This is a big help.”

  He bent to look closely at the machine. “So will you listen to this one and type it up, too?”

  “Yes, I guess I will.”

  “When?”

  I didn’t really know but wanted him to think it was important to me. “Tomorrow, probably.” He straightened and turned to go. I said, “Why? Do you want a copy?”

  He looked surprised. “Oh— not really. I mean, not necessarily.” He bobbed his head in farewell and left.

  I looked after him, tapping the headphones on the table. I was glad to have his story, even though he hadn’t made any startling revelations. What did surprise me was his fascination with being taped. He acted more like a child in a third-world village than an adult New Yorker. Still, we all had quirks, and Pedro was entitled to his. I ejected his cassette, wrote “Pedro Ruiz” on the label, and went back to Vivien.

  Dinner that night was informal. Since Marcelle had the day off we ate leftovers, although leftovers of high quality— cold roast lamb, ratatouille, olives, soft new goat cheese, and crusty country bread. Vivien, her hair in a ponytail, was wearing a bright print sundress that showed off the tan she’d gotten during her midday sunbath. Picking an apricot out of the dessert fruit-bowl, she said with a mock-sigh, “Back to work tomorrow, eh, Georgia Lee?”

  Before I could answer, Pedro smirked at me and said, “She worked today.”

  Vivien said, “Really?”

  “Yeah. She interviewed me.”

  Vivien’s face closed. “Is that so?”

  I wasn’t going to apologize. “Yes. Pedro was very helpful.”

  Her nostrils thinned. “Pedro is always very helpful, aren’t you, Pedro?”

  “I try to be.” His tone was uninflected but his lips twitched.

  I could see Vivien didn’t like this development. Tomorrow would bring more problems, which meant tomorrow would be much like today.

  A Glimpse Of White

  The wind picked up during the night. I half-woke and heard it in the trees. Drowsily, I thought, if it rains tomorrow, Vivien’s mood will be even worse. I turned over and slept again.

  I woke to a cool gray drizzle and went downstairs with foreboding. The kitchen was empty, but coffee was already made and a plate of croissants sat on the counter. Breakfast and lunch were informal at Mas Rose, so I helped myself and settled down to eat.

  In ten minutes or so Ross appeared, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. He poured coffee and said, “Look at this weather. Vivien’s going to be pissed.”

  I licked crumbs from my fingers. “I think she’s pissed already.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because of my interview with Pedro.”

  He sat down and reached for a croissant. “Why shouldn’t you interview him?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t like the idea.”

  He dropped a spoonful of strawberry preserves, making a sticky splat on the oilcloth table covering. “Clumsy oaf,” he chided himself.

  Marcelle came in, shaking her head and saying, “Non, Monsieur,” when he started to get up. Wiping the spot with a damp rag, she said to me in French, “Madame Howard isn’t feeling well. I have to take her breakfast upstairs.”

  I didn’t like it. Vivien could be planning to barricade herself in her room to avoid me and the book. I couldn’t let her get away with it. “Fix the tray and let me take it up,” I said, and Marcelle nodded.

  To Ross I said, “Is Vivien sick? Marcelle says she wants breakfast in her room.”

  He shook his head, his mouth full, and said something I took to be, “Not that I know of.”

  When the tray was ready, I carried it upstairs, breathing in the aroma of café au lait and the perfume-like fragrance of the Cavaillon melon Marcelle had cut in half and decorated with fresh mint leaves.

  I found Vivien huddled in bed, wearing a robe of heavy green silk, her hair loose on her shoulders. She looked surprised, and not pleased, to see me, shrinking back against the pillows. “Where’s Marcelle?” she asked.

  “I told her I’d bring your breakfast up. I wanted to see how you were feeling.”

  “Not very well. I don’t think I can work today.”

  I put the tray on the bedside table. “Vivien—”

  “I don’t feel well, Georgia Lee.”

  “All right. You don’t feel well. I believe you. But either we’re going to do the book or we’re not. If we’re not—”

  “We are! I have to!”

  “If we are, then let’s do it. I can’t write it with you fighting me every step of the way.”

  She lay back, staring at the pretty tray with its melon, croissant, and mug of café au lait from which the steam was now barely visible. After a moment she snapped, “All right! Go get your recorder!”

  “I can wait until you’ve had your—”

  “No! Go get it. If you want to work, let’s work.”

  Seething, I went to my room and got the recorder, inwardly damning to hell Vivien Howard and all prima donnas. I was a writer, not a hired hand; I was a professional, and I deserved to be treated like one.

  When I returned to her room, she was standing in the glassed-in alcove where we worked in bad weather. Her back was to me, and she was bent forward, staring out.

  More dramatics. I was about to make some upbeat remark in an attempt to avoid more snarling when she said, without turning, “Come here.”

  I crossed the room to stand beside her. She nodded toward the glass. “What do you see out there?” Her voice was hushed, with no trace of the petulance of a few minutes before.

  I looked out. I saw rain. Rain, the shed, the olive trees, the stone table. Beyond those the bluff, a steep tumble of gray-white boulders, broom shrubs with yellow blossoms vivid in the subdued light, clumps of irises, a scattering of poppies. The valley below and Mount Ventoux were all but dissolved in mist.

  “There,” she said.

  I looked where she was pointing. Past the shed, far down the slope, a white object was partially obscured by flowering broom. For an absurd moment I thought she’d thrown away her shawl again, and I actually glanced around to see it draped on the back of a chair.

  “Something white,” I said, straining my eyes.

  “Oh, God.” Her hand closed tightly on my arm. “This can’t be happening.”

  “What is it?”

  “No. It can’t be.”

  Her grip was hurting me. “Should I go see what it is?”

  “No.” She said it softly, but then with mounting volume, “No! No!”

  Thoroughly alarmed, I tried to pull away from her, but she wouldn’t let me go. As I struggled, Ross appeared in the doorway. “Ross! Please!” I cried, and he ran to us and put his arms around Vivien.

  “Stop, stop,” he murmured, and at his touch she loosed her hold on me. She fell against him, her hair falling across her face.

  I was desperate to escape. I said, “I’ll go see. All right?” and bolted from the room.

  Outside, I ran through the rain to the edge of the bluff and looked down. The white object was as unidentifiable from here as it had been from the house. The thought tore through me that it was a person. That it was Blanche.

  I wiped rain from my face. In the mud at my feet I saw the butt of one of Pedro’s black cigars. I’d have to fi
nd a place to climb down where the slope wasn’t so steep. I ran past the shed, away from the house.

  Some yards along I found a gully lined with small stones, devilishly slick in the wet. Sliding, grasping the bank with my hands, I scrambled downward. My hair clung to my forehead and water kept dripping in my eyes. Despite the cool rain I was sweating. I thought I heard somebody— Ross maybe— call my name, but I didn’t look up or respond.

  I reached the bottom and clambered toward the white mass, which was still partially obscured. Getting to it took a nightmarishly long time, and I stumbled over uneven ground, wiping water from my eyes.

  It was Pedro. He lay carelessly sprawled, his neck at a weird angle. His own words about Carey came back to me: Like he’d been picked up and dropped. Blood from a wound in his head had stained his white shirt. Now it flowed again, mixing with rain. His eyes were half-open, and his face had a heavy, blank look.

  I felt sick and dizzy. My knees went, and I sat down, hard. I dug my fingers in the stony earth, bent my head against the rain, and held on tight.

  Aftermath

  “He must’ve fallen. Drunk, probably.”

  I barely heard Ross. I was looking at the ground right in front of me: stones, mud, tufts of grass. The drenched toes of Ross’s blue running shoes came into my view.

  “Did he drink a lot?” I was impressed with myself for forming a rational question. Then I realized I hadn’t actually said it out loud. I cleared my throat and asked it again.

  “He’d get blasted now and then.”

  Ross’s knees came into my view as he knelt to face me. His freckles swam through the moisture on his face, and his hair was plastered to his forehead in sharp points. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Not great.” His T-shirt was clinging to his body. I reached out and plucked it loose. “1 can’t believe this rain,” I said, knowing as I spoke it was an inappropriate remark.

  “Madame!” Marcelle was at the top of the bluff looking down at us, twisting her apron in her hands.

  I called, “Pedro is dead! Notify the police!”

  She gave a sharp, startled cry and hurried towards the house. “What did you say to her? I caught ‘police,’ ” Ross said.

  “I told her to call them.”

  “Right. I guess we shouldn’t touch anything.” When he helped me up, black specks danced before my eyes. I swayed and grabbed his arm. I wondered if he ever got tired of ministering to needy females.

  Like invalids, weak and wasted, we made our way up the gully. My knees didn’t want to lock. Ross’s breathing sounded hoarse and ragged behind me. When we reached the top, he collapsed on the grass and dropped his head between his knees, panting. I left him there and went on to the house.

  Marcelle was talking on the phone at the foot of the stairs, her voice coming in excited bursts. I walked past her down the hall to Pedro’s room.

  The door was ajar, and I pushed it open. The small, tidy bedroom was darker than the ones upstairs, but pleasant enough, with a window overlooking the back. The bed was made up, but the pillow had the indentation of a head in it, and the striped coverlet was wrinkled as if Pedro had lain down to rest without going to bed. On a plain pine dresser was a nearly empty bottle of Early Times bourbon and a glass. I crossed to the dresser, dripping on the braided rug, and sniffed the glass. It smelled like bourbon. Maybe Pedro had been drunk, as Ross surmised. Also on the dresser was a bottle of Old Spice cologne, a hairbrush with gray hairs in it, and a couple of boxing magazines.

  Vivien’s voice, high-pitched and anxious, called from upstairs, “Ross! Ross!”

  No answer. He must not have come in yet. I left Pedro’s room and went to the foot of the stairs.

  Marcelle finished talking and put down the phone. She said, “They’ll be here soon. What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ross!” Vivien sounded almost hysterical.

  I exchanged a look with Marcelle and ran up the stairs. Vivien was standing at the top, clutching her robe around her, her hair disheveled as if at some point she’d buried her hands in it. “What’s happened? Where’s Ross?” she cried when she saw me.

  “Outside. He— Pedro’s dead.” I didn’t know much about breaking bad news. Maybe the direct approach was as good as any.

  She looked so furious I thought she was going to attack me. “Don’t say that!” she screamed.

  I backed up a step. She glared at me. Then she grasped the stair rail convulsively and bent over it as if in pain. “Oh, shit!” she cried, and then, more softly, “Oh, Alex. Alex.”

  I heard Ross pounding up the staircase. Simultaneously, the door of Blanche’s room at the end of the hall opened and Blanche came out in her quilted white satin robe. Her face was puffy, her hair standing on end. She’d obviously just awakened. As she came toward us, Ross reached the top of the stairs. He said, “It’s Pedro, Vivien.”

  Vivien straightened. As Ross reached out to her, she drew her hand back and slapped his face. My stomach clenched at the sound of the blow. Behind me, Blanche gave a strangled cry.

  Ross shook his head as if stunned. He didn’t touch his reddening cheek. Vivien put both hands to her face as if surprised by what she’d done, and in a moment she began to giggle breathlessly. Ross glanced at me and said, “I’ll handle it.” He took her by the shoulders and guided her to her room as the giggles turned to high-pitched laughter.

  Blanche didn’t seem to be taking it in. “I was asleep. I took a pill. What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Pedro’s dead. I— we just found his body at the bottom of the bluff.”

  She rubbed her hands over her face. “I guess he jumped,” she said.

  I thought of Blanche herself, on the promontory at Les Baux. I couldn’t imagine Pedro a suicide. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’d lost his job.” She still sounded groggy.

  “What?”

  We were walking down the hall toward her room. She said, “Those pills are horrible. I can barely move.”

  I followed her into her room. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. I said, “What do you mean, Pedro had lost his job?”

  “My mother fired him.” A thought seemed to prod her to fuller consciousness. She raised herself on an elbow. “Do you think they’ll blame her for this, too?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. “She’d fired him? When?”

  “Before we left for France. But he was so upset about it, she let him come with us after all, as a farewell present.”

  “Why did she fire him?”

  Blanche had lain down again, her hand tucked under her cheek. “Money,” she said, her voice trailing off in a sigh. She lay so still I thought she’d gone back to sleep. Then I saw a tear slide from the corner of her eye. “Poor Pedro,” she said.

  “Did you like him a lot?”

  She shook her head. “Not a lot. But he was there, you know?”

  I knew. In a world as damaged by upheaval as hers had been, continuity is rare and precious. Pedro had been there. Now he was gone.

  I sat beside her as she cried quietly. So Pedro had been fired. This had to be the context of the scene Marcelle had overheard. Yet Marcelle had said Vivien, not Pedro, had been distraught. Apparently, Pedro had gained the upper hand.

  Pedro had been Carey’s ally. I had never understood why Vivien kept him on after Carey was killed. The two of them didn’t like each other. Housekeepers couldn’t be that hard to find.

  Blackmail is a tacky business, which wasn’t out of line with my concept of Pedro. Do you think they’ll blame her for this, too? Why not? If Pedro had been blackmailing Vivien, he was now out of her way. The obvious loomed: Pedro didn’t necessarily jump or fall. He might’ve been pushed.

  It was a disturbing theory and worthless on the open market, since as far as I knew there was no evidence to support it.

  Blanche stirred. I patted her shoulder. I wondered, why, when I’d told her about Pedro, Vivien had called her son’s name. Oh, A
lex. Alex.

  Blanche sat up and blotted her eyes. She said, “You aren’t going to leave us now, are you, Georgia Lee? You’ll stay, won’t you?”

  A Walk To The Village

  The rain had stopped by the time they took Pedro’s body away, and sun glistened on the wet leaves and grass. As the doors of the black hearse-cum-ambulance slammed shut, Constable Reynaud, who had come up from Beaulieu-la-Fontaine to oversee matters and interview us, sketched a farewell wave. His relief at escaping was almost comically obvious. A rotund man with an extravagant moustache, he would surely have been more at home playing boules than dealing with a dead body and a houseful of neurotic Americans.

  I had helped translate at the interviews. Vivien had made an astonishing recovery, presenting a stainless image of the concerned employer. Ross seemed deeply disturbed, which I attributed more to Vivien’s behavior than to Pedro’s death. Blanche, still in her robe, was predictably monosyllabic.

  The story boiled down to this: Nobody saw anything, and nobody heard anything. Our rooms were upstairs, Pedro’s on the ground floor, Marcelle’s on the other side of the house. If Pedro had gotten a notion to drink half a bottle of bourbon and stagger out during the night to have a cigar, his fall was unfortunate, but hardly extraordinary. Constable Reynaud’s attitude, which he didn’t bother to hide, was that this accident— he used the word “accident”— could be best dealt with by disposing of the matter as rapidly as possible. Monsieur Ruiz walked at the edge of the bluff to smoke his cigars? Monsieur Ruiz occasionally took a drink of bourbon? It was, therefore, highly likely, in the opinion of Constable Reynaud, that Monsieur Ruiz had stumbled in the dark, after an overindulgence. The formalities need not be drawn out too long. How would the body be disposed of, once they were complete?

  The matter of Pedro seemed all but closed. I didn’t feel justified in opening the question of foul play without more to go on, and I was pretty sure Constable Reynaud wouldn’t thank me if I did. I caught him on his way out, though, for another question: “Can you tell me the rules about camping around here?” I asked.