The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence

by Tracy Whiting

  “Thanks, but I’d already made arrangements at the Roches Blanches. Besides I don’t think I could stay in such close proximity to Améline. My teeth are already on edge and she’s on the hunt. Who else had access to the grounds?”

  “Oh my,” Laurent clucked. “People can enter the grounds by the Greek Theater rather easily when we have events. Otherwise, someone has to be buzzed in via the intercom, or they need a key or the gate codes. But there were only two fellows, myself, the staff, and naturally the boyfriend here on Sunday. We drove in late from Marseille well after the tourists went home.”

  Salazar. Laurent liked to refer to his partner of five years as the boyfriend. Salazar was a good twenty years younger than the fifty-five-year-old Laurent. They made a handsome pair. Haviland remembered that Laurent had an apartment in Marseille. While many found the city by the sea gritty beyond the harbor, he found it lively and diverse in a New York kind of way.

  “Do you think someone could have scaled the walls and entered the grounds to Kit’s apartment? May I see the list of invitees?”

  “Sure.” He went to his computer to pull the file and print. “The Centennial has been advertised from Marseille to Aix. We sent an announcement of events to past fellows and roughly 25 special invitations. Which list would you prefer? Anything is possible, I suppose, but it’s highly unlikely that someone could have climbed over those walls. It’s just too dangerous because the cars are on that road until midnight on the weekends. Now the determined have tried. Usually drunk tourists, but they were always immediately reported. Plus, the walls are very high on the street side. There are also glass shards and barbed wire at the wall’s tops. The only other way to enter the grounds is by sea. And the cliffs prevent that. Either way, they would have been seen. Havilah, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were conducting your own investigation.”

  Havilah’s hand jerked up quickly from her nail gazing. Though she kept a straight face, he had caught her off-guard. In point of fact, she was acting a bit like a beat cop working a case. And it was the second time he had called her on it. She decided she would spin the truth with Laurent. He loved to be in on secrets. He was just not very good at keeping them. He would probably tell Salazar as soon as she left.

  “I was the last person who called Kit. The French police showed up today at my apartment in Paris, but they haven’t been especially forthcoming. Kit was my colleague. He was always supportive of me, Laurent. I’m involved now because his phone call got me involved whether I like it or not. And since the police aren’t cooperating with me, I figured I might be able to assist them in my own way without getting too much in their way. You can’t say a word, Laurent. Let’s begin with the fellows list, shall we?”

  There it is. The truth. Just not all of it. She wouldn’t dare tell anyone that the police thought she was also a potential target because of that call. It would be akin to giving the killer, whoever he might be, a head’s up. Moreover, she didn’t want her friends or family worried. No. I’ll keep that tidbit to myself, she decided.

  She wanted to be thorough after Gasquet’s revelation that everyone involved with the foundation was a potential suspect. The list of fellows went back to 1920. There were a couple ninety-year old ones still up and at it. Any one of the fellows could have easily killed Kit in the United States, she figured. His murder had to have something to do with the Félibrige society and the foundation. She had ascertained that much at least, from where his body had been placed. William Knowlton was a philanthropist who at the young age of twenty had established the Félibrige Foundation in 1920. A descendant of a prominent robber baron railroad family from the Midwest, he moved to Provence at nineteen instead of attending one of the Ivy League schools as had been the family tradition and used his substantial inherited wealth to support the arts. He brought like-minded individuals to his refuge in the South of France. She always thought of Knowlton as a Renaissance man involved in practically every facet of the creative arts. But Havilah couldn’t fathom how the foundation’s purpose and activities would have led to murder.

  Laurent handed her the special invitation list conspiratorially. She noted some of the names.

  In celebration of the 110th birthday of William Knowlton, Founder, the Felibrige Foundation welcomes:

  Dr. Philippe Friedrich III and Mrs. Annette Friedrich

  Sophie Fassin, the Director of the Museum of African, Asian and Orientalist Art

  Lacy Able, a former fellow and distinguished scholar from Williams College

  Jeanne Priznick, President, Amherst College

  Charles Chastain, President, Astor University

  The invitation went on to mention a gaggle of other VIPs from New York with whom the foundation and the family of William Knowlton had dealings; and a number of local French invitees: a Monsieur and Madame Alain Villepin of Marseille, and Monsieur and Madame Jacques Fleurys of La Ciotat.

  “Mademoiselle Fassin,” Laurent said, “is also on the Félibrige board of directors. She was the only overlap on the board and special invitation lists. The Centennial celebration will take place at three sites— Chicago, Illinois, Knowlton’s place of birth; Cassis-Marseille; and New York. Knowlton had a place in New York and was an artist himself, as you well know. Fassin will join us tomorrow. She’s in Paris meeting with the director of the Louvre. We’re lucky to have her, as she is also helping us set up the New York celebration where we will also do special screenings of several of his documentary films, including the Oscar-winning…”

  “A Man on a Mission!” Havilah completed his sentence. When they screened Knowlton’s documentary on the revered Swiss missionary in Africa, Philippe Friedrich, who had also won the Nobel Peace Prize one evening during her residency at the Félibrige as a fellow, she admittedly found it to be a snoozer. That explained the Friedrich invitations. “Besides Kit, Améline, and myself, you said there was a fourth invited speaker who would be staying in the Académie?”

  “Ansell Neely. A MacArthur Genius award-winning poet at the University of Texas, Austin.”

  “Has he arrived yet?”

  “No.” Laurent then handed her a printout of all the fellow’s project descriptions. “I figured you’d ask about this next.”

  Kit’s project summary. “Book of poetry inspired by Provence, the American South, and dedicated to William Knowlton.” Nothing unusual there. She kept reading the description: “Frédéric Mistral, Joseph Roumanille, Théodore Aubanel, Jean Brunet, Paul Giéra, Anselme Mathieu, and Alphonse Tavan.” She reread it again. The seven poets of Provence. It’s certainly pithy. Then she remembered fellows didn’t have to submit fleshed-out project descriptions. They were nominated by the board, or by former Félibrige fellows, based on their standing as leaders in their respective fields, not by their research projects.

  Laurent began to wring his ruddy hands. His fingers were short like him but lean, almost in defiance of his stocky frame. His eyes were swollen. It was clear to Havilah that he’d had a good cry. She handed Laurent the description of Kit’s project. Two squat fingers attached themselves firmly to the sheets of paper. Laurent nervously flecked a piece of invisible lint off his linen shirt.

  She stared at the fretful Laurent, as she tried to find some connections between Kit’s project and his death. She was coming up snake eyes. She then decided she couldn’t exclude Améline Fitts as a perp. And it was precisely the latter’s ambition that moved her to the head of class. Perhaps Kit had changed his mind about the job offer and she decided to dispense with him in a fit of rage. Améline wasn’t more than five feet two. Havilah couldn’t imagine her dragging Kit through the gardens and tossing him into the Greek Theater’s orchestra. Adrenaline and a woman’s scorned level of anger, though, could compensate for brute strength. And what about his broken fingers? Why would she have done that?

  “Kit believed he had a particular fellowship with the Occitan poets.” Laurent offered this tidbit to the air, for Havilah knew this already.

  “All Southerners
,” she repeated as if in time with Kit. He certainly did. “Did Kit seem troubled during his time here this spring?”

  “He was cagey, even secretive about his work. He wanted it to make a splash, I assumed. He took a trip this spring and returned more downbeat than usual, but I never inquired as to what troubled him. But he did share something from the book with us when it came his time to present his work to the other fellows at our weekly gathering at the Trianon in April. We still host the gatherings with wine and cheese. He seemed quite excited then.”

  “What did he read?” Havilah leaned in to Laurent, hoping for some insights.

  “Part of a poem dedicated to William Knowlton. It wasn’t complete. It was entitled Sweet William, a wonderful meditation on a May-December romance between Knowlton and a younger male lover. He was going to read part of it at the Centennial with some remarks on the day we previewed Knowlton’s artwork in downtown Cassis.” Laurent grinned now, clearly thinking of his own relationship with the much younger Salazar.

  No surprise there. Certainly nothing that should have driven anyone to murder. Everyone knew Knowlton was gay. Kit wasn’t exactly outing Knowlton.

  “Wasn’t Knowlton’s homosexuality an open secret?”

  “He certainly wasn’t closeted or self-loathing.”

  Havilah nodded in comprehension. She knew Laurent Pierce was quite proud of this same fact about himself, that he wouldn’t have worked for the foundation otherwise. It was a matter of principle with him, even as he respected others’ decisions to remain closeted. He was clear that he found outing and shaming equally loathsome— unless the individual was a fire-breathing LBGT-bashing twit secretly on the down low. Then all bets were off.

  “My first year on the board and my colleague is murdered. I haven’t had a chance to meet the other members. There are how many of us anyway?”

  “Seven, like the poets.” Laurent sighed, then turned towards his desk. He handed Havilah a piece of the foundation’s literature with the names of the Félibrige’s board of directors. “Surely you don’t think any of them had anything to do with this? That would be dreadful.”

  She didn’t respond. All Havilah knew was that she had to start somewhere in the inner sanctums of the Félibrige, which included staff, fellows, special invitees, and board members. She would not be lulled into complacency by affiliation.

  “Laurent, I have one more favor to ask.” Her voice was tooth-achingly sweet.

  Laurent looked Havilah over. She could feel his eyes glancing appreciatively at her tight-fitting white Capri jeans, bright orange t-shirt, and floral Converse sneakers. She often thought this particular outfit made her look the part of an innocent but sexier, browner version of Laura Petrie.

  “I need to get into Kit’s apartment.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that one. It’s a mess. Whoever killed Kit was looking for something. They erased files on his computer, went through his mail and email, his file folders, and address book, and even his cell phone. And you know how the French police can be,” he tittered.

  “Since when did a gay American male who gave strict academic life the finger for a job in the South of France with a villa as part of the compensation and a younger Spanish boyfriend care about protocol and rules?” she countered.

  “That is all quite true. I could not agree with you more, dear. Sometimes you just have to remind me of my cheek. Say around eight tonight? We can slip off while everyone is enjoying digestifs on the third floor terrace. We will still have some daylight.” Laurent was beaming. He clapped his hands and did a happy dance.

  “Eight tonight.” She stood up and extended her hand for an agreement.

  “You will so owe me, Havilah Gaie.”

  “Yes I will, dearest.”

  Laurent pushed her hand away and gave Havilah a hug, the top of his head hit her breasts. Had she not known that Laurent was considerably shorter and strictly dickly, she might have given the breasts to the head bump a second thought. They then did air kisses to each other’s cheeks.

  Havilah hated not coming totally clean with Laurent but it was as much for his own good as it was for hers. If the killer thought Laurent knew anything or was aiding Havilah in her turn as Cleopatra Jones, they might draw a bead on him.

  “Tonight then?” She made one last nervous inquiry to seal the deal.

  “Tonight. Apéros at 6.”

  V

  As she closed the door behind her, she walked right into Gasquet.

  “Professor Gaie, I can’t have you taking off by yourself.”

  He was supremely annoyed. She could see it all in his usually opaque face.

  “This place is full of police. I just crossed the road to use the bathroom. I think I can do that safely in the middle of the day.”

  He gave her a look of utter disbelief. She shrugged.

  “I guess hit and run is in the realm of possibility. I did look both ways before crossing the street, if that’s any consolation.” She made an exaggerated gesture of looking right then left as they crossed the road.

  “Can I trouble you for a lift to my hotel? I wouldn’t want to be pushed off into one of the fjords on my way there.” She couldn’t resist nettling the agent.

  They walked towards the car. He had her carry-on on his shoulder. She had left it across the street.

  “We are staying at Les Roches Blanches.” The cool was back, even as he smiled at her.

  “We? You mean ‘Oui’?”

  “No, Professor Gaie. I cannot leave you by yourself in a strange hotel.”

  “Why that’s mighty nice of you, Agent Gasquet. But you don’t have to trouble yourself on my account. The hotel is not unfamiliar to me. And thank you for remembering my carry-on bag.”

  “Pas de problème. The hotel though is unfamiliar to me.” He was the one now doing the nettling.

  “How did you know which hotel I booked?” She sulked inwardly, and thus opted to make small talk.

  “You’re a professional American woman accustomed to certain luxuries. Americans typically overspend on accommodations; there is only one four-star hotel in Cassis, and I am part of the French police.”

  She tilted her head sideways and thought about all of his possibly unintended and intended inferences. High maintenance. Typically American. She wouldn’t have minded the three-star Hotel Mahogany. She decided not to protest, allowing his misperception to stand. It might be to her advantage later.

  They drove off, making a right onto the Routes des Calanques. They passed the crowded beach and tourists having late afternoon refreshments at the cafés and restaurants across the street, zipped up a steep hill and turned left into the car park in front of Les Roches Blanches. It was no more than a five-minute drive from the foundation.

  The imposing building had a stone façade covered in leafy sprawling green vines. The hotel’s name, The White Rocks, suited the place, given the white Cassis stone peaking out from every possible vista. The surrounding grounds were made of cascading, multileveled stone terraces covered with pine trees, potted palms, and flowering gardens. At the hotel’s perimeter, fronting the Bay of Cassis, were steps that led down to beds of large white rocks where the hotel’s clients could sunbathe and then dive directly into the sea just below.

  She rushed out of the car and reached for her bag in the back seat. Gasquet nabbed it just out of her reach and then moved quickly to her side of the car. He turned, putting his hand on her elbow and leaned into her ear. She got a faint whiff of something spicy, but floral.

  He whispered discreetly, “You may call me Thierry. We are old friends on vacation together, Havilah. Remember that. I will see about the reservations and then check out your room. Please don’t wander off in search of an out-of-the-way bathroom or talk to strangers.”

  Before she could respond, he guided her into the lobby. He did say ‘rooms’ at least. She exhaled.

  “Don’t go too far, Havilah,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Wouldn’t think of it, Thierry.”
>
  She had decided to take a stroll by the infinity pool. She took off her shoes and sat down on one of the pool chairs. The view was spectacular. The Mediterranean, the Cassis bay and harbor, the Cap Canaille. They were all there for the taking in. The sun was streaking across the sea, leaving splashes of cerulean and brandeis blue and ultramarine. Cassis was quite warm. The weather was perfect for eating on the hotel’s terraces. Just as she took out her sunglasses, a server appeared.

  “Voulez-vous quelque chose à boire?” he asked.

  “De l’eau pétillante, s’il vous plait.”

  “Perrier, Badoit, ou San Pellegrino?”

  “Un Badoit. Et une salade niçoise, si c’est possible, s’il vous plait.”

  She realized she was famished. She looked at her watch. She knew she was past the bewitching hour when French kitchens closed until dinner. It was 3:15. She hadn’t eaten since the early breakfast of a pain chocolat, orange juice, and a hot chocolate. Crashing from the carbs, adrenaline was the only thing sustaining her. So she gave him her best pretty please smile and a wink for the cause. That always seemed to work with French men. He’d think she was easy, which was also typical of French men. To hell with it. I’m hungry.

  She could overhear Gasquet at the reception. He had asked to see Havilah’s room. The svelte young blonde graciously and coquettishly obliged to escort him there.

  * * *

  As the agent had expected, the professor had reserved herself a junior suite with a private balcony with views that rivaled those by the hotel’s pool. The large bed had a white matelassé coverlet with bed skirt and pillows of the same fabric. The room’s chairs were covered in the whitest muslin. Except for the splashes of color from the silk red, gold, and green pillows, silk damask curtains, and a Persian rug that left parts of the hardwood floor exposed, the room was awash in whites, which made it seem brighter and larger. It was scented with a mix of lavender and vanilla.