02_Coyote in Provence (2 page)

“When can you start? By the way, this meal is wonderful. You’re a very good cook. As you know, I like to frequently change what I serve so it reflects the freshness of the seasons. Have you ever worked in a restaurant?”

“I can start tomorrow if you’d like. And no, although I’ve cooked a lot, I’ve never done it for large crowds like you have at lunchtime.”

“I think you should begin with a main dish, something like this, and a salad. You can fix whatever is in season, but I would like to see a variety of things. Be creative. Let’s see what you come up with.”

“Where will I get the ingredients? Do I order them, or do I buy them at the
épicier?
”

“I order food for the kitchen several times a week.  In fact, Jacques, the man who provides my groceries, should be here soon. Why don’t you begin in three days?  You can talk to Jacques and think about what you’d like to start with, then place your order with him. He’s very good at suggesting things that are in season. Ahh, here he is now.”

He waved to a fair-haired bearded man who was approaching their table. “Jacques, come, I want you to meet my new assistant chef, Elena Johnson.” He poured Jacques a glass of rosé from the large bottle in the center of the table.

Jacques and Elena spent the better part of an hour deciding what she would need, and what dishes she should make for the coming week. While they were talking, the tables began to fill up and soon it was time for Henri to go back to his usual place behind the glass display shelves.

Elena walked back to her cottage, excited, and for the first time in months, looking forward to the future.

SEPTEMBER, 2010

CHAPTER 2

Jordan woke up rested after a good night’s sleep with almost no jet lag. He wondered what the day would bring.  Hopefully, it would be a repeat of last night: more great food, wine, and art
. 

Why hasn’t Provence been on my list of “must visits?” What a fool I was not to have come here when I was a student at the Cordon Bleu, but it’s just gone to the top of the list of places where I need to spend more time!

The breakfast Madame Pascal, the owner of the chateau, had told him about when he arrived the night before was even better than she’d promised. Promptly served at 9:00 a.m., there were muffins, fresh eggs gathered within the hour, fruit from the chateau’s orchard, and European-style cured bacon. It was absolutely one of the best breakfasts he’d ever eaten. Just as he was finishing, Marc, the bellman/handyman who worked at the chateau, arrived and told him his rental car had been delivered.

“Thank you Marc,” he said walking to the front door. “Do I need to take the driver somewhere?”

“No, I will drive him to the village. The rental agency from Marseille has a driver and car there to take him back. Here are the keys. He said you can return it either in the village or in Marseille, whichever you prefer.”

Jordan opened the door leading to the circular driveway and was taken aback by the sleek silver Renault two-door parked there.
Wow, I’ll be driving, eating and looking at art in style!

By the time he showered and got dressed, it was eleven in the morning, meaning he had an hour before the shops closed for lunch. The time had come for him to look at the Alfred Mitchell painting he’d traveled so far to see. If the painting Lydia and Sam Martin had seen in the village was an original, it might be the painting that had been stolen from the Laguna Beach gallery. Knowing the Martins, Jordan was pretty sure the painting would be authentic.

He got in the Renault and listened with appreciation to the quiet purr of the engine when he turned the key in the ignition. He pulled out from the chateau’s circular driveway and headed down the lane to the nearby village of St. Victor la Coste. Vineyards and olive trees lined the main road. Judging how heavy the vines were with grapes, he knew the annual wine crush would be starting soon.

Jordan parked just outside the village limits in a parking lot. The medieval streets in the village were too narrow for modern cars, and everyone walked or rode bicycles when they were in the village proper. He couldn’t help but look around in amazement. It was a step back in time. The small streets were flanked by stone buildings, both residential and commercial, with tubs full of brightly colored flowers located next to almost every door. He easily found his way to the Galerie Reynaud on the Rue de la Republique.

As he approached the gallery, there in the window, just under the bright yellow canopy with the black letters, “Galerie Reynaud,” was a painting attributed to Alfred Mitchell. Even from a distance, he knew it was an original. The artist was known for using dramatic contrasts and strong colors in his paintings of outdoor scenes. There was no mistaking it; the work had to be Mitchell’s. A sign was posted on the door, “Closed for family business until 2:00.
”

Jordan looked up and down the street. It was after the tourist season and there were very few people on the streets of the small village. No one was paying attention to him. He slipped his smart phone out of its case and took a couple of quick photos of the painting. If it was the stolen one – which looked certain now – he needed to be very careful when he talked to the owner.

I wonder if the gallery owner has it on consignment or if he bought it, and if so, for how much, and from whom.  I don’t think the painting would be in the window if the owner knew it was stolen.

He walked around the village, admiring its quaintness and enjoying the diversion. In the middle of the village was a stone base with a plaque, honoring the men and women who served in World War II. Everywhere he turned, he was immersed in history; the charming buildings and streets had the settled look of having been there for several centuries. He thought how strange it was that in America you could see ads for antique televisions, as if there was such a thing. He remembered from his art classes that an antique had to be over one hundred years old before the term could properly be used. By any definition, the village definitely had an antique feel to it.

At the end of the street he saw a number of people sitting outside a building with the name “Henri’s Bakery” on it. Jordan remembered reading about this particular bakery and that his Michelin guidebook had given it two stars. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was lunch time.

Jordan walked down the street and sat down at one of the bakery’s outdoor tables. The menu was written on a black chalkboard. The daily special, written in white chalk, was shrimp bisque with a shaved fennel and apple salad.  Jordan had only been seated a few minutes when a lovely dark haired young woman brought him a plate of fresh bread and butter with a ramekin of Camargue salt.

“
Bon jour, Monsieur
,” she said, “What may I bring you today?”

“How is the shrimp bisque? I rarely see it on a menu. I assume that the shrimp are fresh from the Marseilles area.”

“Yes they are. People are raving about it and ordering seconds and thirds. I think we’ll be out of it shortly.”

“Really! Well then, I must try it.”

“I’d be happy to get you a bowl. And may I suggest some rosé wine to go with it? It’s a little warm today and the chilled rosé will go well with the bisque.”

“Perfect. Yes, I’d like to order exactly what you suggested.”

He buttered a piece of bread and slowly ate it as he took the picture of the Mitchell painting he had brought with him from California out of his pocket. He compared it to the photos displayed on his phone. There was no doubt in his mind - this was definitely the stolen painting.

Good God, that bread and butter may be the best I’ve ever had.
He patted his lips with the napkin as the smiling waitress brought him another basket of bread.

So
how does one smuggle a stolen painting into France? How does one sell it to a gallery owner without questions being raised? I can understand why the thief would try and sell it here, rather than in Paris where there would be far more knowledgeable collectors and gallery owners. I wonder if the gallery owner knew it was stolen, but decided no one in this small village would recognize that it was stolen.

 He looked up and saw that the waitress was walking towards his table with his soup and salad. He stuck the picture back in his pocket. “
Merci bien
,” he said. “I have a question. I like art and noticed a painting in the window of the art gallery down the street. Do you know anything about that particular painting?”

“
Non,
Monsieur
. It’s been there for several weeks. I walk by the gallery every day when I come to work, but I don’t recognize the name of the artist whose work is currently on display in the window. I probably would know the name if he was from this region, since I’ve lived here all my life.”

Jordan had taken several spoonfuls of the soup while the lovely waitress answered his questions regarding the gallery. “Thank you. I have another question for you.  Would it be possible to meet the person who made this bisque? It’s the best I’ve ever had. I’d like to compliment the chef.”

“
Certainement.
Her name is Elena and I will tell her that you would like to speak with her. I’m sure she would like to hear your comments.”

Just as Jordan was finishing his glass of rosé, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen approached his table.

“
Monsieur,
I am Elena, the luncheon chef. You appear to be an American. I am too, so we can speak English to one another. My French is good, but I prefer to speak English.”

She took a long look at Jordan as he stood up to greet her. He was about 6’2” and quite handsome, with a strong, physically fit appearance. His black hair was beginning to show a bit of grey at the temples, and intelligent, large brown eyes sparkled as he looked at her with appreciation.

“If you have a minute, would you sit down?  I’m Jordan Kramer and your shrimp bisque is the best I’ve ever tasted. You are a master chef. I’m a gourmand, and eating is one of my hobbies. If I died today, I would die happy knowing that my last meal was your bisque.”

“Please, don’t do that. It could be very bad for business and Henri might fire me,” she said laughingly as he pulled out a chair for her. “Tell me, what brings you to this small village?”

“Well, I could counter that by asking what brings a beautiful American woman who’s a gifted chef to this small French village. How about if you tell me first, then I’ll tell you?”

“It’s no secret. I was widowed and decided to leave the United States. There were too many memories there.” She paused, and smiled again. “I’ve been very happy here, particularly now that I am working at Henri’s. I love to cook, but cooking for one is not very much fun. I much prefer hearing compliments from other people, rather than telling myself how good something tastes. Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m an art consultant. Some clients of mine asked me to come to this village and look at a painting they had seen in a local art gallery. As long as I was coming here, I decided to spend a few extra days and enjoy two of my other favorite things, food and wine. So far, I haven’t been disappointed.”

I don’t want to alarm this beautiful lady by telling her the real reason I’m here. It’s probably best to stick to my art consultant story as a cover. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve scared someone off when they found out I’m a police detective employed by the City of Los Angeles Police Department.

“That’s interesting. I really don’t know anything about art, but I like the painting in the front window of the gallery down the street. Uh-oh, I see that Henri is waving at me. I must go. Again, thank you for your compliment about my bisque,” she said as she stood up.

“Elena, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. I noticed that the restaurant isn’t open in the evening. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? I’d love to take you to one of your favorite restaurants.”

“I wish I could help you, but since I’ve been here I’ve pretty much stayed in this village. However, if you like, you could come to my cottage this evening and I’ll serve you something traditional from the area.”

What am I thinking? I just asked some strange man to dinner. It’s like someone else was speaking through my mouth. Well, now it’s too late. I can’t take back the invitation. Anyway, it’s just for one night and after all, he is quite handsome.

“Thank you. I’d like that very much. I’ll bring some wine and we’ll have a good American conversation. What time should I plan on being there? And where is your cottage?

“Why don’t you come at 7:00? Take the winding road on the east side of the village and go north. A few minutes after you leave the village, you’ll see a stone fence with flowers growing on it. Look up to your right and there’s a cottage with blue window frames. That’s where I live. It’s small, but it’s perfect for me.”

Elena gave him an encouraging smile and hurried back to the kitchen. A crisis was brewing. They had run out of the shrimp bisque and patrons were demanding more.

Jordan looked through the bakery window and followed her with his eyes as she hurried back to the kitchen. He definitely was looking forward to spending the evening with this beautiful woman.

CHAPTER 3

When she returned home from Henri’s, Elena stood on the patio of her small stone cottage for a few minutes, looking at the village below. The view never failed to please her with its charming simplicity.  She’d been in Provence for six months now and was finally beginning to feel comfortable. The numbing fear of being arrested and extradited to the United States was finally easing. She was certain the authorities knew she’d come to Marseille, but from there she’d been very careful not to leave a trail.

Elena had used her passport with her real name, “Maria Brooks,” when she left the United States. Spending extra time in Phoenix and trying to find someone to sell her a false passport had not been an option. She’d been intent on one thing and one thing only, getting out of the country before she was detained as a suspect in the murder of her husband.