* * *
Paul Giéra, Havilah suddenly remembered.
“Paul Giéra,” she said aloud pointing at a house. Thierry looked puzzled.
“One of the poets Kit had been researching lived at #15 rue de la Banastiere. He’s one of the star points in the Félibrige Foundation symbol.”
They walked slowly towards the maze of streets. Havilah pulled out her cell phone and began Googling the other poets. They were directed to rue des Ciseaux d’Or where the tapioca-colored Maison Théodore Aubanel stood, and then over to the college where Frédéric Mistral had studied. The phone buzzed twice, causing her hand to slide over the wrong key. She saw the first message was from Ansell Neely. He didn’t type anything in the body of the email, only in the subject line: “How about dinner tomorrow, then?”
She smiled a little at his persistence. She hadn’t bothered to respond to his breakfast request from the previous evening. Her silence, she felt, had been a form of rudeness. So she emailed back, “Can’t.”
The next sender made her wrinkle up her nose. Charles Chastain.
“Is everything okay? Still looking for poets?” Thierry Gasquet had been studying her face as she interacted with her cell phone.
“Fine. A message from Chastain, that’s all,” she said absently, clicking on the email link. “No, no, no! It’s not fine!”
She almost dropped the phone. She handed it to the agent. The message was wall to wall: “STOP!”
“Havilah?” Gasquet stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
She started out low, “That’s it for me, isn’t it? Third time’s the death knell. Just like Kit. He received three notes with STOP.” Her voice grew louder and she felt her eyes well up again as she muttered to herself, “But he wasn’t in Cassis. I bet he’s in on it with Ellis Wise. They’re conspiring. The Nashville provenance of those envelopes.”
“I need you to take a deep breath. D’accord?”
She nodded like a small child and began to bite her bottom lip. She was vaguely aware that Thierry was making a call— tasking someone to do an Internet Protocol trace— as they fast-walked to the car.
“Do you think it’s Charles Chastain? It is from his personal email.”
“Our killer is skillful with technology,” the agent said as he opened the door for her.
“It doesn’t mean that Chastain’s not in on it. He told me to stop. He said he wanted to do something about Kit.”
“Havilah. Havilah. We will know shortly.” He spoke softly.
And he touched her hand gently as the convertible top began to open, letting the sun fall on her face.
XXII
They arrived back at Les Roches Blanches close to 5:30. She was silent during the drive back.
“We’re down the rabbit hole.” She tried to sound sanguine as they walked through the hotel lobby. She didn’t want to appear useless or helpless. “There’s evening cocktails with the murderous board at 6 p.m. and Améline at 7 p.m. At least I have their full attention and they have mine now. I need a shower.”
“I can’t leave you alone,” he said, guiding her into his room. “I’ll have your things moved in here as well.”
He put a finger to her lips before she could protest and gathered up both her hands with his free hand. “Who goes first?”
* * *
“Thierry! Thierry!”
Thierry Gasquet recognized him immediately from the foundation board dinner. It was the Casanova, Ansell Neely. The agent was sure he had pegged him correctly, even if his judgment may have been slightly clouded by the latter’s blithe flirtations with Havilah Gaie.
“Ansell, right?”
Havilah came up beside him.
“Yes. Would you two care to join us for cocktails?” Neely directed Thierry’s gaze to a large table, giving Havilah a smile.
“Can’t or won’t, Professor Gaie?” he asked Havilah, leaving Thierry a bit in the dark.
* * *
Havilah gave Ansell a onceover. He was a striking man, especially dressed as he was, casually in white washed jeans and a crisp white shirt. “A little of both.”
She was trying to stay calm but she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She looked out onto the patio, trying to discern guilt. Ansell shrugged at what he evidently perceived as her continued coyness.
“Shall I keep trying, then?”
But oddly, she thought, he didn’t wait for an answer. He turned quickly to Thierry and offered to introduce him to Sophie Fassin. Havilah couldn’t help thinking that he was attempting to pawn the agent off on Sophie, just as she had done the last evening with Améline, so he could continue his flirtations undisturbed. Good luck with that one, she thought.
“Sophie is on the board of directors. She couldn’t make it to yesterday evening’s dinner. And here is Ellis Wise.”
Thierry and Havilah both turned to see Wise with his cane making his way across the terrace to the table.
“Good evening,” the dapper coot offered loudly to the gathering. “Donovan and Celestine should be here shortly. We had quite the meeting today.” He winked at Havilah, which had the effect of making her shift nervously.
“We needed to come here to kiss and make up,” he continued, baring his yellowing chops in a lopsided grin. “It’s what we do. I must say Havilah has a knack for gumming up the works. All is forgiven, I hope.”
“I was only trying to do the right thing by Kit.”
Thierry nodded in Havilah’s direction. “She does like to stir the pot. She has been that way since I first met her. I’m afraid we can’t stay much longer. We’re meeting Améline in town at 7. In about 15 minutes we’ll be off. Where is she, by the way?” He took a sip of the sparkling water the server had just handed him.
“I wondered where she was heading off to. She said she wouldn’t make it this evening for cocktails,” Sophie answered.
Havilah and Thierry lingered for a few minutes more before heading off to the harbor. They parked in the harbor lot and walked to the Bar de la Marine.
Améline had not yet arrived, so they found a table large enough to accommodate three. The Bar de la Marine had coveted views of the marina. Cassis’s harbor was small and filled with rows of boats. The last of the tourists were coming in from boat rides to the calanques.
The server took their order, a Marin’s Champagne for Havilah, a mix of champagne, Cointreau, grapefruit juice, and grenadine, decorated with orange and pineapple slices, while Thierry went for the scaled down Panaché, lager with lemonade.
“What is your strategy with Améline?” she asked.
“I don’t have one,” he said, sipping his beer while scanning the place. “This was your meeting. I’m along for the ride.”
“I don’t believe it,” she responded incredulously. “What time is it anyway?”
“She’s late. It is a quarter past seven.” He glanced at his watch.
“Do you suppose she decided she didn’t want a job at Astor?” Havilah was tapping nervously on the tabletop with her straw.
“I’m convinced she didn’t want to talk to you about Astor. She was smooth but too persistent. I think she might have throttled you on the spot had you not agreed to this meeting. And I didn’t want you to have that meeting with her alone.” Thierry ordered her another drinking straw.
“So why do you think she allowed you to come along?”
“A woman can want more than one thing at the same time, Havilah. She’d hoped for a rendezvous in Positano later this summer,” the agent responded offhandedly.
“Perhaps I should call?” Havilah asked, slightly annoyed by his cavalier Frenchness and Améline’s sexual forwardness.
She was envious of Améline’s upfrontness about her wants and needs. Havilah was convinced her New England upbringing had made her too conventional. She could never see her way to that sort of straightforwardness with the opposite sex, particularly on matters relating to sex without entanglements.
“We’ll wait just a few minutes more.”
At
7:20, Havilah told him she couldn’t take it anymore. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone. Améline didn’t answer.
“I don’t like this. We have to do something.”
* * *
Thierry looked out at the harbor, running the scenario through his head. He considered what Havilah had just said, as his eyes moved slowly over her expressive face. He was torn between leaving her unattended and finding Améline, who could be waist deep in Kit’s murder. He suspected Havilah had had her suspicions about her as well. She could also be in serious trouble if she had intended to impart some information about Kit to Havilah.
“Let’s go, then.” He rose from his chair.
Havilah looked up at him, clearly perplexed. He could tell she too was torn by the circumstances: to leave together and search for Améline or wait? “What if she’s just late? I can’t leave.”
“Okay. Then we’ll wait,” he said, sitting back down to his Panaché.
“I have to use the restroom,” she said, rising to go. “But what if Améline comes by while I’m attending to nature’s call and you’re playing bathroom lookout? No, she’ll think we ditched her.”
“Text her then,” he suggested coolly.
He watched Havilah texting when the rush of “excusez-moi” and “désolée” began. A cigarette-puffing Frenchwoman had bumped against their table and tipped the beer into his lap. Thierry sprung from his chair and held up his hand to calm the effusive cascade of apologies from the woman. “It looks like I’ll need the bathroom as well.”
Havilah shook her head, as the pool of beer in his lap splashed off his dark wash jeans and into his sandals when he stood. He followed her into the bowels of the café’s interior. It was sweltering inside. She pointed upstairs to the brightly lit landing where she saw two lines. There were two unisex toilets. Havilah went to one side, and Thierry to the other, though his line seemed to be moving faster. He watched as Havilah began to fidget.
“Small bladder.” She smiled uncomfortably. She then puckered her lips and opened the top of her shirt slightly and began blowing air to cool off.
“Ladies first, then,” he said, switching places with her in the slower moving line.
* * *
Havilah looked at her watch. 7:30. Thierry was entering the stall, just as she had exited. It was like a sauna inside the café, so she went back outside to wait for him and Améline at the table. She pretended to be interested in people and boat watching. Seconds later, her cell phone rang. Améline Fitts’s name came up on the caller ID.
“Améline, where are you!? Is everything all right?”
“Hello, Havilah,” a male voice she didn’t recognize spoke softly. “Someone would like to speak with you.”
“Havilah, help me. It’s…”
Before Améline completed her sentence, he, whoever he was, was back on the cell phone. “I can see you, Havilah. Come to Quai Carnot. Leave Mister Frenchie to finish up his business with Mister Winky. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t call anyone, or Améline will end up like Kit. It’s all up to you how this goes down,” he said calmly.
Against this calm, she could hear Améline screaming loudly as if someone was beating the holy crap out of her.
“Now MOVE,” the man boomed and hung up.
He had yelled so loudly that Havilah physically startled. She stood up. She was conflicted. She looked back into the restaurant’s dark interior. She couldn’t see the stairs from here. She squinted her eyes into the darkness, hoping to catch a sliver of Thierry’s cream linen shirt. There was no natural light inside. There was a part of her that wanted to rebel and call the police and let them sort out all the bodies later. But she couldn’t allow Améline to be murdered, even though she knew she could be walking into a trap that Améline had sprung. But then she remembered Améline’s screams. That shit is real. Somebody was working Améline over. Quai Carnot was an isolated part of the harbor, which was why the man had directed her there. If there was one café in that little corner, she’d be lucky.
She had to do something. In a split second, she gathered up her cell phone. She was also desperately hoping that the wonders of technology would assist in her own rescue when she enabled her cell phone GPS tracker. She ran like Améline Fitts’s life now depended on her in the direction of the Quai Carnot. Not leaving anything to chance, when she had enabled the GPS, she pressed #1. She saw the small screen flash the word dialing before she slid the cell phone in her back pocket.
She was moving brusquely towards the pedestrian path. In her haste she forgot to look down. One sneaker slid through a freshly laid pile of miniature dog poop. “Merde!”
She kept running. She saw the chicly dressed, unmistakable gamine figure of Sophie Fassin walking away from her and called out feverishly, “Sophie, Sophie!”
Sophie turned around, smiling. “Havilah!”
Sophie reached out and slapped Havilah hard on her right cheek. “Salaupe!”
XXIII
Havilah was about to slap Sophie back and call her something way more unladylike than “Bitch” when she felt a hand grab her own. It was Ansell Neely. He was trying to break up the bitchslapfest. He pulled her close.
She pushed him away and took aim. “Ansell?! Get your damn hands off me!”
She kicked out hard with her shit-smeared sneaker, targeting his groin. He jumped back quickly but the kick grazed him, which, she recalled from dealing with meddlesome boys in the schoolyard, was all it took. Her sneaker slid down hard on his pant leg, leaving a streak of dog ca-ca. He doubled over, moaning, and took a few stunted steps in her direction.
She had learned in her Gracie sexual assault classes that women’s hands could be easily broken trying to punch someone in the face; it would be better to poke at the eyes, go for the nose, or kick hard. She was winding up to deliver a roundhouse kick to Neely’s forward-leaning, pain-ridden face when Sophie grabbed her by the hair, pulling her backwards and off balance.
“Fuck!” she yelped, feeling Sophie’s fingers wrap into her curls. She pulled her head away from the hellcat’s grasp. What did she care about a few lost curls? She was so hyped she didn’t feel any pain when she snatched her head back.
Despite the distraction, her kick landed hard on Neely’s shoulder. He winced but still slid forward towards her. And just as she was about to start yelling and accusing him of everything but shooting marbles with Jesus, she felt the gun at her in her ribs. Neely had hobbled quickly to her side.
“I’ll shoot you and then Améline, and be off on that nice boat anchored in the harbor before any help could arrive,” he whispered in her ear. He nodded his head in the direction of the water. She turned to see a beautiful, fiberglass power yacht called The Errant Lover.
Améline, she thought. She understood it now. Sophie Fassin was Neely’s dark and light woman, the tormenting, temperamental, errant lover from his book of poetry. She hadn’t seen this one coming. And she hadn’t recognized his voice on the telephone because he had deliberately spoken softly. Neely pushed her along towards the boat at the dock’s edge, where Sophie stood smiling.
She began calculating. He’ll probably kill us both anyway. She opted to start screaming. But Ansell Neely was watching her face closely. The moment he saw her mouth open, he clamped it shut with his hand. Havilah began to go over his bio. Ansell Neely. Ansell Neely. Ansell F. Neely. Ansell Fucking Neely. Friedrich. BSc, Amherst College; Computer Science probably. How she missed those details, she didn’t know.
Neely smirked as he saw the lights of recognition in Havilah’s eyes.
“Ce sont ma femme et ma maîtresse,” he explained loudly to the elderly couple sitting on the terrasse at the tucked away café. The man chuckled slyly; the woman shook her head over the wife and mistress fighting publicly. Havilah was seething.
Neely grabbed the cell phone from her back pocket and tossed into the Mediterranean. She had hoped Thierry got more than an earful. Her eyes darted around the near desolate quai. Neely nudged her onto the boat and dir
ected her to sit down on the white and burgundy leather bench on the deck; in front of the bench was a beautifully crafted table with a teak top. The decking was also teak. The yacht had a sleek interior as far as she could see into it, with stainless steel appliances and some kind of stone countertops, a flat screen television, dark wood floors, and more leather seating. The cockpit was inside.
Neely was taking in mouthfuls of air as he sat down next to Havilah, trying to catch his breath. He was still recovering from her well-placed kick. He waved for her to take off her shoes and step down into the interior. He continued to wave as she passed the cockpit to a door. Blindfolded and bound at the wrists, Améline Fitts sat in a well-decorated stateroom with a porthole, queen-sized berth, and flat screen television inlaid in cherry wood. Soft music played inside the roomy cabin. Améline could have called out until she was hoarse and no one would have heard her over the music, the din of the waves, and the harbor activities. It was a perfect place to hide someone. And now here she was, too.
* * *
“Améline, it’s me Havilah.” Havilah noticed the red marks on Améline’s face where someone had repeatedly slapped her.
“Havilah?”
“Sit down,” Neely commanded. Havilah continued to stand.
“Oh, they got you, too.” Améline’s voice couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“Why is she blindfolded and bound?”
“We had that awful Félibrige board cocktail party to attend at Les Roches Blanches this evening. We couldn’t very well leave her here with instructions to just sit tight until we returned. Now could we? Not Améline Fitts.” He said this as he took Havilah’s sneakers to the kitchen to rinse the rubber bottoms. Clearly he didn’t want dog crap on the plush boat.
Havilah was still dumbfounded about the denouement of the ruckus they had made in the harbor. She hoped the French motto of “Live and let live” wouldn’t be honored after that knockdown dragout brawl. She couldn’t be certain. After Neely’s explanation, the couple had looked on dispassionately. She shook her head. Sophie attended to casting off with the click of a few switches and the release of a rope. She started the boat and pulled forward. As they moved into open water, they passed the lighthouse and the Félibrige Foundation’s Perched Terrace, which you could see from various points in the harbor. Neely removed Améline’s blindfold and pushed her out of the bedroom towards the galley kitchen and cockpit area. He pointed to the sitting area. Améline was cursing and kicking— all to no avail.
The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence Page 14
