The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence

by Tracy Whiting

  “Pool?”

  “No,” she said shaking her head vigorously.

  A few curls took the opportunity to escape from her high ponytail. He followed Havilah to the property’s edge where they climbed down the ladder to a very large sandstone rock. In the distance, the rocks looked like golden sand.

  Thierry opened their towels. Havilah, he thought, despite her entreaties to swim, just wanted to lie in the warmth of the sun for just a few minutes. She closed her eyes and he imagined she was trying not to think about anything but how good the rays felt against her skin. Thierry entered the cool, clear water.

  * * *

  After ten minutes, she went for a swim to cool off. The water was so clear you could see the marine life— the colorful fish and plants. She saw a small octopus. It scampered off as she swam in its direction. She and Thierry reached the rock’s edge at the same time. Havilah lifted herself back on the rock, letting her feet dangle in the cool water. She felt something around her ankle. She squeaked rather than screamed. Thierry jumped. And she pointed. The octopus had wrapped one of its dark tentacles around her ankle. She slapped its tentacle away. It went back into the water, only to place a tentacle around her other ankle.

  “A persistent suitor. Ansell Neely, is that you?” The agent dove back into the water, smiling. Startled by the splashing water, the creature quickly disappeared into the sea.

  Havilah giggled and then pulled her feet up and lay back on the sandstone rock to dry. Her mind was rapidly putting together different scenarios. Kit’s research was explosive. She had been able to put together a vague outline. He was going to sully the reputations of two very prominent men, their families, the Friedrichs and the Knowltons, and the foundations associated with them. The access to the grounds was another issue. And someone had seen her entering Kit’s apartment. She thought about the motives for the murder. The seemingly unflappable Lowery Jason was at the top of her most likely list. Then she thought that they all could have had a hand in killing Kit. Everyone had a stake, more or less. He had had 10 broken fingers— a lesson to the writer. Perhaps each broken finger represented one of the six, excluding her as the seventh, powerful board members. They had reputations to uphold. Laurent snapped a pinkie because Kit would have ruined the reputation of the foundation; Salazar because he would no longer be able to live in a villa on the Mediterranean, and the cleaning woman who discovered the body snapped a digit because she would have been out of a job. Améline snapped the last pinkie because Kit squelched on the job offer. The imagined conspiratorial scenario was like the denouement of Murder on the Orient Express. Havilah shook her head vigorously at the absurdity of her mind’s machinations.

  Thierry, who had swum up a few minutes earlier, was lying down on a towel beside her. He rolled over on his side. She sensed he was studying her though her eyes were closed and she was wearing sunglasses.

  “You are thinking over all the angles?”

  “Yes,” was all she offered. And then she shot up into a seated position. A bluff. A bluff.

  She asked Thierry if he was ready for breakfast.

  * * *

  “I don’t think I need to tell you to be as composed as the situation calls for. I’ll take a walk around the Académie to make sure everything is fine. Then I’ll pick you up at 10:30.” He glanced down at his watch. “It’s 8:40.”

  She nodded nervously at first. She was collecting her thoughts and glanced down at the meeting agenda: laptops and the centennial celebration. She looked over at the agent, who was dressed casually in khaki cargo pants, a flattering loose-fitting shirt, and leather sandals. His hair was slightly damp and he was beginning to sprout a five o’clock shadow. She wondered how he knew the meeting was scheduled for 90 minutes. She didn’t ask. When he walked her to the Académie’s library, she remembered once again: Bluff.

  XVIII

  Havilah was still a little early for the meeting; not everyone had arrived when she walked into the library. She counted 6, including Laurent, seated around the longish table in the middle of the room. Laurent introduced her to Jean-Luc Cabassol. She smiled and nodded to rat bastard Lowery Jason, cane-wielding Ellis Wise, odious Donovan Betts, and odd Celestine Valens. She took a seat next to Laurent.

  “Would you like something to drink? We have coffee, tea, and bottled water.”

  “I’ll take some water. Where is it?”

  “No, let me.”

  Laurent rose to go downstairs. When he returned with a bottle of Perrier in his hand, he was followed by a very lean, light-complexioned woman with thick, long, professionally straightened dark brown hair with bands of red-gold highlights. She wasn’t pretty, but she was undeniably striking and sensual, with black-brown eyes. She wore very tight white jeans with an expensive loose top and jewelry. She wasn’t as tall as Havilah, only slightly taller than Améline Fitts, but her bejeweled high-heeled shoes gave her the illusion of length. Her Hermès scarf and green tea leather handbag made her look as if she had stepped out of the pages of Vogue.

  Sophie Fassin? Havilah wondered.

  “Sophie is here, everyone. It’s so good to see you,” Laurent said to the newcomer, confirming Havilah’s guess. He gave Sophie deux bises.

  Everyone stood up as if to part the sea for this sweet-smelling, brown Titian maiden.

  “Let me introduce you to Havilah Gaie. She’s our newest board member.”

  “Bonjour, Havilah.” Her voice was very soft and feminine.

  “Bonjour, Sophie.” Havilah smiled brightly as she rose to greet her.

  Havilah decided Sophie’s pretty, dainty ways must have made men and women swoon. In the U.S., she would have been mistaken for black and presumed to be African-American and she would certainly have corrected that assumption. She was all française. Havilah was often described as thin to lean, but next to this well put-together, delicate woman in tight jeans, she felt Amazonian. Sophie was no more than a size 34, US size 4, with the narrowest possible hips and small, pert breasts. She was typiquement Parisienne. Havilah immediately plopped her 5’9”, typiquement Américaine size 8, ta-tas galore self down in a chair.

  Laurent began the meeting by saying they would address the unfortunate events last so that they could get through item one on the agenda: furnishing laptops to fellows. He had already provided various updates on the Centennial via email in order to avoid a drawn out report at the meeting so there was little left to the June agenda. Havilah would wait for an opening.

  After a boring twenty minute back and forth about laptops, Donovan Betts made a motion to put the agenda item to a vote, which was seconded by Laurent. The Félibrige Foundation would have a few loaner laptops on-site and an upgraded computer facility despite objections from the ill-humored, tightfisted treasurer Lowery Jason.

  Betts then turned solemn, as he suggested the board move on to the pressing agenda item.

  “Do the police have any leads, Laurent?”

  “Not as far as I can tell. The news of the murder has spread quickly. I am glad the Centennial events begin in town. However, we do need to figure out what to do about Havilah’s opening on Wednesday at the Académie. And of course we have the problem of Kit’s opening for the “An American in Cassis, an exhibition of paintings and watercolors.”

  “I think we should just allow the exhibit to go forward with no commentary. After all, it’s not on any printed program that he was going to offer some remarks. Thank God. It would have caused a horrible sensation around the exhibit. Dead man talking and all that,” Donovan thundered. He then grinned at what he thought was a witticism.

  His remarks produced a light tittering from the direction of Jason and Wise.

  Havilah was put out by Donovan Betts’ sheer impudence and classlessness. Kit had not been well liked by any of these men. And with the exception of Laurent, she did not like or trust anyone in the room. As far as she was concerned, any one of them could have been responsible for threatening her this morning.

  “I’m glad you brought that u
p, Laurent. Since I was not on a printed program either, I think you should do the welcoming on Wednesday at the exhibit. I would like to give Kit’s written remarks in his stead on Thursday as planned. It’s the least we can do. It would be in bad taste to do otherwise. We can’t simply ignore the death of our colleague. The entire Aix-Cassis-Marseille corridor is abuzz.” She looked around the table to gauge expressions.

  “I think it is a lovely idea,” said Jean-Luc Cabassol.

  “That is a terrible suggestion. Who cares about taste, bad or good? It would be a circus. Surely Charlie would not approve,” yelled the red-faced Betts. His fists were in a ball.

  Wise and Jason nodded in approval. The air was filling up with tension. Havilah wanted to take Wise’s walking stick and cane the three of them.

  “Charlie? What has he to do with this Centennial? He’s a guest. Nonetheless, I will inquire as to whether he approves in short order. A circus?” she countered innocently.

  She began texting Charles Chastain on her cell phone. Betts too began furiously texting. Everyone in the room began texting feverishly, and Havilah hated texting. All at once the tapping seemed deafening.

  Lowery Jason, at the end of the table, was sputtering, moving to an apoplectic fit. “I think we should leave well enough alone. This Kit business is a nuisance.”

  “A nuisance? A circus? Did you feel that way when you reviewed his nomination for the fellowship? Kit was my colleague at Astor. To hear you speak of him as if you were glad that he’s dead is offputting. I know we are all feeling some kind of way about this turn of events, but we must be more sensitive.” Havilah tried to speak in soothing tones to the brooding Lowery Jason. He had already lost a purse strings battle this morning, so he was clearly smarting and gearing up for a win on this point.

  She didn’t know how much more of this churlish cabal she could take. She began pulling nervously at a curl though she knew she probably looked ridiculously childlike. It was all she could think to do with her hands, which were now itching to slap Lowery Jason for that last callous remark.

  There was low-level grumbling in the room as everyone placed their cell phones back in their pockets, purses, and on the table. The board members began shifting in their seats.

  “You liberals and your political correctness. Why can’t Lowery and I say what we feel about this inappropriate blather you are proposing and this other board newbie…” he pointed a plump finger at Jean-Luc Cabassol, “…just cosigned?” Donovan Betts scoffed and looked around the table at his backup chorus.

  The odd Celestine Valens’ face was in its usual impassive mode.

  “You cou rouge Republicans are so anti-intellectual.” Waving her hands casually, Sophie Fassin had suddenly sprung to life.

  Havilah whipped around to face the elegant woman. Had Sophie just called him a redneck? She nearly guffawed. And she had noticed that not a one of them tied their opposition to her presenting Kit’s work to the substance of the remarks— which she found all the more odd. Instead “appropriateness” at a celebratory event for the founder was being bandied about. On one level, Havilah could see their rationale. It wasn’t about Kit. But she knew that his death was connected to this work. And after that note today, she felt one of these assholes knew more than he or she was letting on. They all knew something. She was sure of it as she scanned the room with narrowed eyes. What was evidently clear as well was that these board meetings were knockdown dragouts. She wasn’t looking forward to three years of this acrimony. She had enough high drama at Astor.

  “As I said, I would like to deliver Kit’s remarks on Thursday.”

  “This Centennial is not a time for such moroseness!” Ellis Wise tapped the table with his cane several times as if it were a gavel. Havilah would have liked to yank it out of his hands and wallop him on the knees.

  Celestine Valens finally spoke up. “We discussed the program in April when we met here for the fellows’ presentations. This was before you and Jean-Luc joined the board, Havilah. I agree with Havilah, though. We can’t ignore his death. I am certain Havilah will use discretion in terms of the content of the address so that the convivial spirit will not be compromised. It is a time of celebration and simultaneously represents a moment in which we should honor one of our fellows. I move we allow Havilah to give Kit’s address on Thursday and Laurent will open the program on Wednesday.”

  Havilah could scarcely contain her shock. They had met in April? There was nothing about that in the notes Laurent had provided her. Who, she wondered, had been here? That meant they had heard of Kit’s book project. Shit! Havilah was again bewildered by the opaque Valens. She was also curious about Donovan Betts’ outburst about Charles Chastain. She needed to know what Astor’s president knew and didn’t know.

  Betts pointed accusingly at Fassin. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be dealing with this at all.” He hissed and threw himself deep into his chair.

  Havilah couldn’t figure out what he was implying. So she waded into the fray.

  “What did Sophie do that was so terrible?”

  “She nominated him.” Lowery Jason whined.

  “He was an excellent poet who has now been done a grave injustice by this murder and now by this board. Vous êtes tous des assassins.” Fassin was standing now, impassioned in her defense of herself and Kit. Her jewelry clinked as she moved her lithe fingers from Wise, Betts, and Jason.

  Havilah angled her head sideways when Fassin called the motley crew “assassins.” She was wondering if Fassin meant it literally, and more to the point, how would the Frenchwoman have known?

  “I think the board should put Celestine’s motions to a vote,” Laurent interrupted, evidently hoping to calm the already flared tempers.

  “I second the motion,” Jean-Luc Cabassol jumped in.

  The motion passed narrowly: 4-3. Havilah Gaie didn’t feel like that was such a good omen. She now knew at least that whoever was at that April meeting had heard something about Kit’s project. She knew as well who had nominated Kit and that nearly half the board dearly hated Fassin for it.

  XIX

  The meeting was adjourned 30 minutes ahead of time. Donovan Betts stormed out of the room, shaking the fragile paintings on the library’s wall. Havilah thought she should stop calling Celestine Valens odd. Celestine said goodbye warmly, just as Sophie Fassin approached her.

  “I met your colleague in New York at an event at the New York Public Library. He presented a fabulous talk. His delivery was moving. He received a standing ovation. J’ai fait mon choix. J’ai pas de regrets.”

  Sophie Fassin smiled up at Havilah as she extended a hand. Havilah snickered inwardly thinking it was quite dramatic for the Parisian to conclude by citing a French chanson by the leftist artist and hero of the 1968 French student movement, Serge Reggiani. Fassin was Gallic through and through.

  Havilah took her small, café au lait hand. “Thank you. For Kit.”

  She watched the delicate Fassin sashay off, slightly perfuming the room with Issey Miyake’s Summer. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ellis Wise and Lowery Jason tucked over in a corner, glowering in her direction. She wondered if one of them had sent her the note. She walked over to the huddled duo. She was also curious as to where the other musketeer had gone.

  “That was quite a to-do, gentlemen,” she said sweetly.

  “Yes, it was,” Wise followed up. She could see he wanted to add “thanks to you.” But he was supposed to be a gentleman after all.

  “Lowery, I was hoping to ask you a question since I’m now presenting Kit’s remarks. I need some clarification.”

  The treasurer started noticeably when she reminded him about those remarks.

  “What may I help you with? I gather this niggling detail is about my late uncle.”

  “It is. Did he have any children?” Havilah waited to see if Lowery Jason would attempt to strangle her.

  Jason turned ashen. Wise’s mouth fell open and stayed that way for a good minute of sile
nce.

  “Another one of Kit’s theories, I’m afraid,” Wise finally chimed in, tapping his cane against the library’s wood floors; the cane made a repeated light and annoying rapping sound.

  “No, he did not. My uncle made sure to avoid all predicaments that would have produced offspring.”

  Voilà! she thought. Jason knew his uncle was gay. “Thank you. I will need to amend Kit’s notes then.”

  * * *

  When she had slinked off quietly from the seething Jason and Wise, Laurent whispered into her ear: “Welcome to the other side of academe.”

  She was still watching with great curiosity as Ellis Wise pulled out his cell phone to begin texting. It was fascinating to study his balancing act with the cane and phone. He appeared more nimble than he let on.

  “Perhaps it’s the corporate involvement. They really don’t get us. Are the meetings always so explosive?”

  “We only meet three times a year. Once a year they can get pretty heated. They really are a good bunch though.”

  That’s highly debatable, she thought. “Yes,” she tried to sound amenable to the idea that this board wasn’t filled with a clique of murderous bastards, “The tone reminds me of faculty meetings in the Warren Institute. Kit used to always say that we were a family no matter how downright brutal the meetings would become. By the way, I didn’t know there was an April board meeting.”

  “That is our farewell meeting for members rotating off. But listen,” he said, “Don’t worry about any of this. They’ll be having cocktails tonight at Les Roches Blanches at 6 p.m. It’s a tradition. You’ll have to join in.”

  “Was Kit the thirteenth fellow?”

  “Yes. Sophie was absolutely correct. No matter how they may feel now. He was too prestigious a nominee to ignore or deny a fellowship. It was a laurel for the Félibrige Foundation. And they were all eagerly on board then.” He shifted from one hip to the other.