86 Avenue du Goulet (A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 3)

by Peggy A. Edelheit

  86

  Avenue du Goulet

  A Samantha Jamison Mystery

  Volume 3

  A Novel

  by

  Peggy A. Edelheit

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  86 Avenue du Goulet: A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 3

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright © 2011 Peggy A. Edelheit. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Designed by Telemachus Press, LLC

  Cover Art:

  Copyright © iStockphoto # 000011441470

  Edited by Winslow Eliot

  http://www.winsloweliot.com

  Published by Telemachus Press, LLC

  http://www.telemachuspress.com

  ISBN# 978-1-937387-73-0 (eBook)

  ISBN# 978-1-937387-74-7 (Paperback)

  Version 2012.06.05

  Chase your Dreams

  & Remember,

  Every Day is a Blessing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my family, the best part of me

  Dans la mémoire de Jean, Mercis spéciaux à Martine

  IT Technical Support

  Jon Denz

  A Special Thanks To Editor

  Winslow Eliot

  Publisher

  Telemachus Press

  Steven Jackson

  Steven Himes

  Terri Himes

  86

  Avenue du Goulet©

  A Samantha Jamison Mystery

  Volume 3

  À la vie! (To Life!)

  C'est bon! (It is good!)

  Non? (No?)

  Chapter 1

  Opening & Closing Gates & Chapter One

  I leaned against my car rental, staring at those old iron gates, and then looked to the right at the plaque on the lantern-topped, stone pillar. It read, ‘Villa Palmerose.’ Another plaque on the left pillar with a speaker gave the address, ‘86 Avenue du Goulet.’

  Was I making a mistake staying here?

  Before I changed my mind, I walked over, pushed the button and gave a smile to the camera. In seconds, the old gates creaked open and I drove through, entering the stone courtyard. As they closed behind me, I gave a sigh of relief.

  After successfully keeping at bay my concerns about Martine’s call, and exhausted from my transatlantic flight, I had finally arrived from my landing at Nice Airport forty minutes away. I checked out the views, confirming what I had expected: the Cote d’Azur and this villa were a perfect pairing. Stepping out of the car, I stretched, then turned at the sound of my name, grinning.

  “Samantha! You made good time from Nice. Right after you called, I told the estate agent I would let you in.”

  “Oh, Martine. What a scenic ride! The coast is just as beautiful as I remembered from my last visit.”

  She laughed. “Well, of course! An unbeautiful coast would not be very French of us now, would it, Samantha?”

  We kissed each cheek, as was the French custom, and then, being friends, we hugged.

  I stepped back as we held hands, scrutinizing my friend. She was a striking brunette, but tell-tale dark circles under her eyes belied her cheerfulness. I held her gaze; glad I’d come, but was still mystified by her unusual request.

  “I came as soon as possible. Remember, you promised you’d fill me in when I got here. I was planning on visiting you anyway, since I’m in between writing books. Still, I think it was creative and convenient to time it like that!”

  Why all the secrecy surrounding her anxious call?

  She laughed, making light of my comment. “Ah, the clever novelist! You know me well, Sam! There is plenty of time to explain after you are all settled and rested. A few more hours will not make such a difference. Am I right?”

  “…Okay, but then I insist on hearing the whole story.”

  She reached into her pocket and held out her hand. “Here is the key. Come, I will show you the villa you insisted on renting for your stay, then you can freshen up and unpack.”

  When we finished a brief tour, she instructed, “You will come to me for drinks promptly at six tonight, oui?” She eyed me and smiled, but her skepticism showed.

  She knew me too well; how I lost track of time, writing down my thoughts.

  “Of course!” I replied quickly. “There is no excuse, anyway. After all, you live right next door!”

  “C'est bon! We will talk then, mon ami.” Martine was about to turn and leave, but then paused. “…Samantha, thank you for coming earlier than you had planned, especially after your husband, Stephen’s, unexpected death in that horrible, tragic car accident. You’re resilience is remarkable for accommodating me.”

  I gave her a warm smile. “Let’s reserve judgment on the remarkable part of that statement until later, okay?”

  “Sam, what is more important, you are here!”

  We kissed goodbye, and after squeezing my arm and smiling once more, she quickly disappeared through the extensive gardens and through the walk-in gate, taking the long way over to her property. She never took the easy route, and was always walking or swimming to stay healthy.

  “Au revoir, Martine!” I called out, waving.

  Years before, Martine and I met in New York through my agent, Sandra, and hit it off. Since then, I tried to visit her once a year or so, plus we Skype when we can. Both of us were too busy to do much more than that, she as a travel writer, and me, a novelist.

  I looked up at the old, stone house, admiring it. I always stayed with Martine, so when she had mentioned that the elderly Curat, the owner of this villa, had passed away, and it was vacant for an affordable rent, I decided to stay here without distraction to write. I would start my next book here. But to be honest, I had doubts about the sense of it.

  An unexpected chill whipped up from the cool waters of the sea. I heard rustling and peripherally caught a blur of what? I turned, then shrugged. Nothing. After not sleeping for hours, I was obviously imagining things. Jetlag for sure.

  I hurried toward the door. I barely had enough time to unpack and take a short nap, then I’d be off to Martine’s to find out why she requested I come sooner than we had originally planned. Was a potential book in the air? I hoped
so, but why such urgency? I paused mid-step, scanning Curat’s gardens. I couldn’t believe I was back in France.

  …Yes, but exactly what had I come back to?

  Chapter 2

  Climbing Up The Backdrop

  I exited the villa with ten minutes to spare, taking the shortcut, but promptly stopped in my tracks. A wire fence about six feet high with tall hedges behind it, running the whole length of the two properties, stood before me. Since the thick hedge was on Martine’s side, I had never noticed that fence before. Well, so much for going that way.

  Was that to keep people in, or keep them out?

  I assumed I could walk right over. I was facing a curved arch: a porte cochere, an open ended stone archway that connected the villa with its garage. If I walked through it, I’d go directly to Martine’s backyard patio. But because of the fence, that was out of the question. Luckily, all was quiet so far from her patio. I checked my watch, now pressed for time, trying to think of other alternatives.

  I could go out the gated entrance, but that would make me walk out onto the street and down the hill, making a left turn at the next street, and then another left turn to walk up that steep street to get to Martine’s electric iron gates, tread up her long stone driveway, and then climb up two stories of steps to get to her patio. Exhausting and time consuming.

  There had to be another way. I stared up at the rest of the villa’s property. Hmm. Not too far! It was uphill with more gardens, steps, some statues, and a level area further up, ending at the governmental forest preserve at the top.

  I stared at my feet. Flimsy sandals. Good going, Sam!

  Then I looked up again. There was some kind of odd shaped structure up there, too. Intrigued, I chose that direction, because it looked as if my ten minutes would be cut to the bone. Still, I might make it. So I aimed for the upper back gate, already knowing Martine had an identical one as well.

  I hustled up the stone path, but was startled when confronted by a massive several-foot-high cactus. I barely edged around it and pressed on, briefly turning now and then; noticing the views of the Mediterranean getting better the higher I climbed. A few empty pedestals with broken shards caught my eye, too. What happened to the statues?

  So many pathways crammed this unusual upper garden, but then they always seemed to turn off to a narrower connected pathway, which automatically led you right back toward the villa.

  Why the strange maze of paths?

  I stubbed my toe and looked down. In the dark, these paths could be hazardous. On the edges of the path, stones were angled in an upright pattern.

  Intentional?

  Whoever initially designed all this must have had a specific purpose in doing it this particular way.

  Why? Was I overthinking the garden’s strange quirks?

  I turned back to view the villa and spotted that the flat surface of the roof over the garage was also paved with the same earthy colored stone. At the very end of it, two old cement angel statues faced each other. That was it. Nothing else was up there.

  Why were they the only things up there?

  A metal, spiral staircase led up to them. Like a magnet, this property began luring me in and latching onto me.

  Why was the staircase locked at the bottom with a gate?

  When Martine was showing me the house, she mentioned a newly-married couple originally built the house in 1954. I looked down toward the unique white metal-grilled, glassed-in arched front door. It was a work of art, even from this distance. If you stood facing it, you could look right through the intricate pattern, the foyer, and then the house and view the expanse of the Mediterranean.

  My instincts were telling me I was meant to stay here, but for what reason? I glanced all around; already knowing the writer in me craved the property’s backstory. I smiled. The writer in me would get it, too, but first, I had to get to Martine’s for hers, and so, once more, I forced myself to continue on.

  I finally reached the upper level area where an abandoned swimming pool sat in disrepair, the mosaic tiles around its perimeter falling off or missing. The unusual structure I had noticed from below was a collapsed cabana, a stark contrast to the well-maintained gardens.

  Why the disparity between the pool and lush gardens?

  I turned again. The panoramic view at this height was spectacular, but being on a timetable, I had to keep going. I paused once more at a gated ‘fruit cellar’ that I was tempted check out, but staying focused, I turned away instead and hastily walked out the back gate to head for Martine’s.

  However, my fascination for the villa and its property wouldn’t let me go. I stole one last look at the gardens that seemed to be calling me back for further scrutiny.

  Strange. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it.

  Chapter 3

  A Dog, A Drink, & Disbelief

  I made my way down from Martine’s back gate, through her fruit orchard and lush lawn, stepped down a level, passed her enclosed outdoor kitchen, more gardens and in minutes reached her outside patio that was attached to her house. Sonia, her sandy-colored Labrador, jumped up enthusiastically as her husband greeted me warmly.

  “Ah, my favorite American neighbor!” announced Jean, as he kissed both of my cheeks and handed me a glass of French wine. He winked. “Vintage, as always.”

  I sipped some and laughed. “I’m your only American neighbor! Everyone around here is from Paris.”

  Jean chuckled, waving off my remark. “Please! Don’t bore me with details.” He then guided me over to the patio table where Martine had already placed hot and cold hors d'oeuvres. Jean pulled out a chair. “Sam, please sit,” he said, gesturing. “Martine will be here shortly.”

  “Merci, Jean. It all looks delicious! I like Martine’s version of come over for drinks.” I spread some Brie on a slice of crusty baguette that Jean had handed me. “I will not be making dinner tonight. This is a feast.”

  Martine entered from her kitchen, carrying a dish of hot dip with crackers spread out around it. “Ah, you made it!” she greeted, and then laughed after checking her watch. “How do you always say it? Ah, yes! By the skin of your teeth! What a strange saying that is!”

  “You see, Martine? That’s what makes Americans so unique and frustrating, all at the same time. You never quite get what we are really trying to say! It’s another language we use; one of illogical and unexplainable phrases that somehow, to us at least, gets our point across. By the way, you used that phrase perfectly. If only I was that good with my French.”

  She laughed. “I have Skyped with you enough, Sam, to pick up many strange phrases you Americans use!”

  Jean poured us more wine, as we all bantered back and forth, half in English and half in French, catching up on all the gossip on both sides of the Atlantic.

  I finally stared pointedly at Martine. “You know, you are killing me with curiosity. Come on, out with it. I can’t wait any longer. It has been pure torture sitting here.”

  Martine smiled. “My friend, I am surprised you lasted this long!” She turned to Jean and gave him a look.

  He then shook his head sadly, saying, “It is such a pity, this matter. Cheri, tell her what we know so far.”

  I glanced at each of them. “What do you mean, so far?”

  “I am afraid,” said Martine, “it all started at your villa.”

  Uh, oh! Where I’m staying…alone?

  Chapter 4

  Chewing On A Bone Of Contention

  I wasn’t expecting that. Unfortunately, that’s how my life happened to be playing out lately, with incidents taking place that consumed me with curiosity, followed by out-and-out mayhem and danger, exactly in that order, too. Would this be any different?

  Did I hear her correctly: at my villa?

  As though reading my thoughts, Martine said, “Yes, Samantha, at the villa where you are staying.”

  I took another sip of wine. “What happened? Why would you ask for my help? What could I possibly do? I only write mystery novels.”


  “Ah, but you help solve them too!” she countered.

  I leaned in for emphasis. “If it’s a police matter, I think they should be handling this, instead, not me.”

  Martine shook her head. “That will not work. It is too delicate a situation. Finesse is what we need in this matter. We need someone who our neighbors already know, someone who will use discretion and will not be easily influenced, certainly not one of us. You are the person we need for this.”

  “I still don’t understand. You know I’m more than willing to assist anyway I can while I’m visiting you on vacation, but why me? Does this have something to do with someone I know?”

  Martine laughed. “Yes, of course! It is you!”

  I cleared my throat, confused and annoyed. “Maybe I should explain that, when it comes to discretion, I don’t exactly fit the bill. I’m more like a thorn in your side to be more accurate, or a stone in your shoe you can’t seem to get rid of. No, I don’t think you want me getting involved with this—whatever it is.”

  “But we insist! Everyone has agreed that this must be done in secret. There is no one we can trust who won’t gossip about what is uncovered. You could ask questions, like they expect an American would ask, whereas someone who is French wouldn’t think of asking.”

  I gave that some thought. In a way, it kind of made sense. “Okay, I’ll keep an open mind,” I said cautiously. “So, tell me more about what you want me to do. And… are we talking dangerous?”

  Jean waved his hand dismissively. “Of course not! It is merely about some buried bones we found.”