“I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I don’t think so. I didn’t hear anything,” she repeated softly. Havilah pressed two fingers against her temples.
Her apartment intercom buzzed for the second time that afternoon. All eyes looked in the direction of the noise.
“Professor Gaie…” Thierry Gasquet sought again to help her realize the stakes “…the killer doesn’t know you didn’t hear anything. The police retrieved your name from the professor’s cell phone. It was left at the crime scene. He or she could just as easily track your whereabouts.”
“Are you saying that I might be in danger?”
“C’est evident, non?” Noubard piped up. “This is why we are ’ere.”
“You are a potential witness,” Gasquet clarified.
“Oui, c’est evident,” Noubard responded again.
A few beads of sweat began to form on the captain’s pointy nose. He retrieved a handkerchief from his left pocket. Noubard seemed to daub rather than wipe away the droplets. Since Havilah Gaie had plans to leave immediately for Cassis, she had not bothered to cool the apartment down from the rain’s humidity. She tiptoed to the terrace window to let in a breeze. It was a polite gesture.
Gasquet shook his head sympathetically. The professor kept shaking her own head, trying to jostle the murder from her mind.
“Professor Gaie, I think you should come with us until we assess the situation with regard to your safety. Moreover, we’d like to enlist your help. You knew the professor better than anyone else in France at the moment.” He said it first as an invitation rather than a demand.
“My help?” she yelped. “No!… no!… I don’t know anything. I was in Paris.”
The intercom buzzer sounded again.
“You may know more than you think,” Gasquet responded, looking impatiently at the black-faced timepiece that encircled his olive-toned wrist. “You will need to come with us,” he stated with finality.
“There is no way whoever did this to Kit could have made it to Paris this quickly after the murder and discovered where I am staying. Besides, I won’t be in Paris. I’ll be in Cassis. Problem solved.”
“Professor Gaie!” Their voices simultaneously raised a pitch. They both looked incredulous at her assumptions.
“You have no idea what resources the killer may have at his disposal. You are assuming that he does not know you and did not know Professor Beirnes. We are all creatures of habit. How often do you stay in this apartment when in Paris? How can you be sure that the killer may not be awaiting your arrival in Cassis?”
“’Ow do you know ’ee is not downstairs now, waiting for you? Posing as the car service driver?” Noubard harrumphed.
She didn’t respond just yet to the officers’ exhortations.
“Eh, bien,” the diminutive Noubard interjected again. “We don’t often ’ave important Americans murdered at cultural sites in France. Let alone in Cassis. This already ’as the makings of an international scandale.”
Havilah knew she had to leave with the officers. Her rational self had known all along, even as she was irrationally trying to hold on to the last strands of what her life had been like before 12:10 p.m. And her apartment buzzer with its constant, impatient chiming was like an ominous squalling.
“Where are we going?”
“Cassis, of course,” Gasquet said calmly.
“Let me get my bag.” She snatched her Converse sneakers from the mat.
She made for the upstairs to retrieve the carry-on, but the nippy Noubard jumped to attention, meeting her at the loft’s steps.
“Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle.”
The buzzer had finally stopped chiming in the last minute or so. Their eyes all locked on each others; hers moved from the agent to the captain in a kind of knowing assent to danger.
While Noubard banged the bag about on the way down from the loft bedroom, Thierry Gasquet closed and locked the opened terrace window. The closure produced an immediate heat; whatever coolness there had been was sucked from the apartment. The humidity felt suddenly oppressive. Yes, she knew she had to leave.
Agent Gasquet then moved to open the apartment’s front door for Havilah. She sulked as she secured the locks. At least French chivalry wasn’t dead.
* * *
The red-headed, thirty-something driver of a black BMW 525D parked in front of 82 Rue Notre Dame des Champs. He reached into the vehicle’s pristine glove compartment for a cell phone, and into his pocket for a telephone number. He rang the apartment of a Professor Havilah Gaie to let her know he had arrived and could help her with her bags. On the tenth ring, when the answering machine did not pick up, he hung up. He glanced at his watch and pressed the redial button. It was exactly 12:30 p.m.
* * *
The tall, sylphlike, male figure was standing inside the courtyard of 82 Rue Notre Dame des Champs. He had rung apartment six’s buzzer several times with no answer. He stared at his watch. A few students at the neighboring school noticed him because he was wearing a black fedora on such a warm Parisian afternoon. He watched quietly as students walked back and forth, only to stir when Havilah Gaie walked down the courtyard in the company of two men— one of whom he noted was clearly with the police prefect. He made sure to get a good look at the professor, for all he had to go on were photos and videos of her culled from the Internet.
He followed the threesome just outside the residence’s gated entrance and moved up the street in the opposite direction towards the Boulevard Montparnasse and La Closerie des Lilas, an old haunt of avant-garde writers and artists. He strolled slowly into the Paris metro where he took the RER towards Versailles.
II
Havilah assumed they would take Air France. They were driving in the direction of the Charles de Gaulle airport. They turned off on what appeared to be a service road instead. She felt queasy, wondering if she had made a mistake driving along this desolate road with two Frenchmen in a police cruiser. It was Thierry Gasquet, if that was his real name, who had declared that she didn’t know what resources were at the killer’s disposal. Police cruisers. Uniforms. Radios. National Police Insignia. Information. She was only slightly relieved to see the small jet. The vehicle came to a stop and Gasquet threw open the door, exiting quickly.
Another officer greeted Havilah. Gasquet was updating someone from his wireless earpiece. Yet another officer helped her out of the car. Her travel bag was placed on the jet and then the officer moved to assist her onto the six-seater plane. She looked for an opening to take off running, but the pilot stepped out of the cockpit to greet her. Her stomach was gurgling furiously and not from hunger; her nerves were fraying. The pilot’s smile had the effect of neutralizing her anxiety momentarily. There was something genuine there. He guided her gently from the officer’s clutches into the plane. She had assumed both Noubard and Gasquet would follow, but only Gasquet boarded.
“It is almost one o’clock,” the pilot said, emphasizing “i” as a long “e”. “It is a thirty-five minute flight. We should land by 1:30 or so, Professor Gaie.”
He must have sensed her apprehension when he offered those words of assurance. They did quell some of her panic. He offered her something to drink. Havilah declined and then she reached into her purse. But Gasquet withdrew a cell phone from the inside of his jacket and handed it to her. She thought it curious, as if he had been anticipating her every move, but she took the phone with a tepid smile.
She dialed her father’s cell phone. The voicemail picked up. She left a rather rambling, urgent message in hushed tones about her whereabouts, naming names, and instructing him to make a national spectacle of himself if he didn’t hear from her sometime today. She also told him to call Laurent at the Félibrige Foundation to follow up.
The flight to Cassis was deathly silent. Havilah listened to the whir of the jet’s engine. She decided she couldn’t feign sleep, so she reached into her bag and pulled out her sunglasses. She wanted to think without Gasquet’s inquisitive gaze. The jet landed
at an airstrip outside of Cassis. A black Peugeot 308CC Cabriolet was awaiting their arrival.
She was glad her moisturizer contained sunblock. During college winterim years ago, she and friends traveled to the French island of Martinique where they carelessly hiked the Mont Pelée volcano; her medium brown skin burned, peeled, and freckled in such a way that an angry red pulsated underneath the sunburnt deeper brown, leaving the skin on her face and shoulders tender to the touch. She never again took her melanin for granted. The pilot retrieved her bag and helped her out the seat, while Gasquet exchanged places with the car’s driver.
As they drove along the narrow French roads, she studied the vineyards and the buds of lavender, wildflowers, and sunflowers of Cassis’s vast countryside while the wind whipped her hair into her eyes and mouth. The spring season’s fields of red coquelicots, or red poppies as they were called in the States, were now withering and dropping their seeds in the fields. The car hummed along. She thought about the smell of lavender and the taste of lavender iced tea, ice cream, honey, and jam. In another week or so, fields of lavender would emerge like purple passion carpets, and bright yellow sundials would sprout along the various back roads and vineyards in Provence.
They were at the Félibrige Foundation in ten minutes. Before they entered the grounds, Gasquet turned to her. “Professor Beirnes was struck multiple times on the head with a heavy object. There is something odd about your colleague’s murder, Professor Gaie. Every bone in his fingers was broken. We have found no evidence of struggle. It appears that they were deliberately broken.”
“With what?” Havilah was puzzled for a minute.
“We don’t know as yet.” He removed his black jacket and draped it over his arm.
Before she could ask another question, an officer called them over to the Greek Theater. The foundation’s grounds were still teeming with the criminal brigade in charge of investigating murders, the police, and the French gendarmery, a branch of the French Armed Forces charged with public safety. The prosecutor and fire brigade had already come and gone, taking Kit with them. A forensics team was still milling about. She had forgotten how enchanting and picturesque the ancient fishing village of Cassis and the Félibrige Foundation grounds were, despite the present ugliness of the crime scene.
Cassis had as its plusses a panoramic view of one of Europe’s highest cliffs, the vertiginous yellow sandstone Cap Canaille, which juts majestically out of the sea, not quite tickling the cloudless Provençal blue sky; falaises, those stone of Cassis cliffs that open up to sheltered water inlets known as calanques; an array of quaint shops, open-air markets, and restaurants whose multihued façades ranged from deep reds, rich golds, and shades of orange; and an almost dainty boat-lined and palm-tree dotted harbor.
The Félibrige sat not far from the harbor’s entrance. Its verdant campus included seven buildings and numerous stone passageways, terraces, and architecturally rich nooks and crannies conducive to contemplation; it was also chock full of hardy plants and flowers— roses, irises, wisteria, lemon trees, rosemary, bougainvillea, myrtles, junipers, palm trees, flowering cacti, and jasmine. The light-filled Provençal village and its environs had been a feast for painters’ eyes and canvasses, and writers’ notebooks, from Paul Signac to Virginia Woolf to Henry Miller. A man-made stone-by-well-placed-stone paradise, the foundation burst and bloomed with all species of flora and now percolated, she thought, with an intrigue introduced by one of its guest residents.
Every ten years, beginning in 1920, and by a secret nomination process, the prestigious Félibrige Foundation offered twelve yearlong residency fellowships to scholars, composers, visual artists, and writers. Those who were considered never knew they were in the running. While other foundations had scores of alumnae, to date there had been only 121 admitted to the exclusive Félibrige ranks. But such was the quality of the April 2009 nominee pool that the board of directors allowed one more. Each fellow was allotted a beautifully furnished apartment for the year— inclusive of free weekly cleaning services— and a generous monetary stipend of $250,000 dispensed over five equal payments for five years. All they had to do was write, compose, paint, or create still or moving pictures. Havilah wondered if Kit had been the lucky soul to make the competitive cut only to bear that unlucky numerical distinction?
Her eyes continued to move about the grounds. The Perched Terrace’s courtyard was awash with Cornelia, Felicia, and Buff Beauty roses, while the various stone buildings, some with balconies perched over the Mediterranean, were breathtaking. There were also blood smears on the stone walkway leading to the Greek Theater.
She followed the trail of smears. The theater was a unique circular stone structure with steps that descended down to a round orchestra. Open-air concerts were held here. The backdrop of the theater was an in-ground pool and the Mediterranean. The orchestra center of the Greek Theater contained a large, three-inch deep circle where the pebbled symbol of the foundation— a seven-pointed star— was nestled.
“His body was found here. Inside the circle,” Gasquet said matter of factly, pointing to the pebbled Félibrige symbol.
Havilah gazed at the dark stains on the pebbles and circled the perimeter of the crime scene barrier tape. “Who found the body?”
“One of the cleaning women. She was leaving the Batterie and discovered the professor around 10:30 this morning.”
Havilah wobbled a bit, thinking about how quickly Gasquet and Noubard had tracked her, in less than two hours.
“The Batterie is where Laurent Pierce resides. He’s the foundation’s on-site director. It’s not a direct route to the Greek Theater.”
“Everyone, except you, Professor Gaie, is a suspect,” he replied dispassionately.
Havilah took note of his precision. So any and everyone, from the cleaning staff to the foundation’s director, were under suspicion. She decided she didn’t much like Thierry Gasquet, with his natty suit and probing green eyes. He was cool, smooth even, which she had to admit added a certain mystery to his comportment, but he was also deliberately reserved with her. She supposed that was part of the job. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance and allowed her eyes again to follow the bloody trail.
“The body was dragged?”
Gasquet nudged her by the back in the direction of the blood smears on the paving stones. “It appears that he was dragged from the Perched Terrace to the Greek Theater, resulting in more contusions to his head and blood loss. He died from a loss of blood, not blunt force trauma, which suggests that whoever assaulted the professor may not have been necessarily trying to kill him.”
“But he’s dead all the same,” she stated flatly. Why the Greek Theater? She mulled over that idea.
As if reading her thoughts, Gasquet suggested, “Our killer certainly has a flair for the dramatic, non?”
“A Greek Tragedy?”
“That would be too obvious.” The agent ran his hand over his chestnut curls in frustration. “The killer could have just as easily left the body on the steps leading down to the orchestra. That message would have been just as clear. The real question is: why place the body there?” He pointed to the Félibrige Foundation symbol.
She peered through her dark glasses at the symbol, shifting them slightly upwards to take in its colors. The sun caused her to squint. She didn’t like taking in Kit’s blood. But it was unavoidable. Some sadistic bastard was making a point. She began to recall her Félibrige Foundation history.
“The symbol is a seven-pointed star made of beach pebbles. It’s an homage to the seven Provençal poets who wanted to revive Occitan rituals, customs, and the language in the nineteenth century. They founded a literary society called the Félibrige in the 1800s. The name was taken from a Provençal song where there is some mention of the seven félibres, scholars, or scribes. The poets numbered seven. The only poet who readily comes to my mind is Frédéric Mistral. He won a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1904 for his efforts. I also read Judith Krantz’s novel, The Mistral’s Daughter,
when I was in high school. Her Mistral was a painter. The setting was Provence nonetheless. And everyone in Provence talks about the cold, dry wind that blows along the Mediterranean coast and Provence in the winter; it’s called a mistral. But Cassis doesn’t really get them. It’s insulated by the Cap Canaille and the calanques.”
Gasquet studied her intently, as if he’d forgotten that she was a learned woman. “Most Americans come here for the lavender, sun, and wine.” He continued, “Le pays de langue d’oc. The country of the language of oc. The Provençal language, or Occitan, uses oc for ‘yes’ as opposed to the French oui. But why there?”
He pointed with the focused persistence of the Belgian Hercules Poirot rather than the bumbling French Inspector Jacques Clouseau.
Havilah looked at him oddly, as if he had now asked an obvious question.
“Kit was a poet. He was also a Southerner like the members of the original Félibrige society. They were all poets from the South of France.”
“Those last details I did not know, Professor Gaie. I knew you would be of some assistance.”
Gasquet turned his back to her and began speaking again into the earpiece that was lodged deeply and quite invisibly into his ear. She watched his gestures closely. He moved confidently with a natural smoothness and an economy. But had she not known what he was doing, he would have looked insane, as if he were crazily but calmly muttering to himself in French at a quick pace. After rapidly conveying information to someone perhaps a few meters away, he turned to face her again.
“Do you know if Professor Beirnes was writing something important? Controversial even?”
“Controversial?”
Gasquet shook his head in the affirmative.
“He was a poet. Of course he was writing something. He was always inspired by this or that.”
Gasquet took a few steps back and turned away from her, answering another call. She was agitated. The last thing she wanted to do was to have to outmaneuver a clever killer. Why did I promptly return that call that night of all nights? She placed her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes. Between bad nerves and the way the sun was glaring down like the sun in The Stranger, she could sense a headache was closing in on her. She rummaged around her purse and popped a Tylenol, hoping for some relief.
The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence Page 2
