Provence - To Die For (11 page)

“I never realized how complicated it was,” Jill whispered to me.

“We’ve had fresh rolls and bread every morning,” Craig put in. “Do you make them, or is there a bakery service that supplies the bread?”

Daniel put his hand over his heart and feigned an attack. “My baker would be stricken to hear you,” he said. “Everything you eat here is made here. Come, I’ll show our little secret.” He led us to a steel cabinet with glass doors, near where Guy stood opposite the ovens. “This wonderful machine helps make the bread,” Daniel said. “One puts in the shaped rolls and breads. The machine lowers the temperature to keep the dough from rising; it can stay that way for hours. In the morning, it is timed to turn on automatically, warm up the dough for the last rise, and bake the bread and rolls just in time for breakfast, and again in the afternoon in time for dinner.
C‘est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”

“Bravo!” said Craig. “I’d like to get one of those for home.”

“So would I,” his wife deadpanned.

Guy looked at his watch.
“Merci,
Daniel. The rabbit should be ready now. We don’t want to overcook it.”

“No, we probably want it all bloody and rare,” Mallory muttered under her breath.

We trooped back to the dining room with Guy leading the way, the hot roasting pan on a folded towel in front of him like a crown on a pillow. Chef Bertrand was waiting in the kitchen. “Now we will see how well we have done today,” he said. He had eight plates set out on the table and proceeded to fill them with sliced rabbit, chestnut blini, and sautéed wild mushrooms. Over the meat, he poured a sauce made from the strained marinade. While Guy took the quince charlottes to the hotel kitchen to bake, we removed our aprons, picked up our plates, and carried them to the medieval dining room next door, lining up at that table in the same places we’d occupied in the school kitchen. Several bottles of red wine had been set out, along with a basket of sliced bread. René began filling our glasses.

Bertrand, minus his toque and bloody apron, but still in a white jacket, joined us in the dining room, carrying in a platter with the remains of the rabbit, blini, and mushrooms, which he set on the table. He picked up his wineglass.
“Bon appétit!”

“Bon appétit!”
we chorused back.

The meal was consumed along ethnic lines. The two Americans and the British couple reached for the bread, and pushed the meat around the plate, nibbling on blini and mushrooms that had escaped the sauce. The four French ate everything on their plates, and sopped up the leftover sauce with the bread. The quince charlottes, however, were a complete success. Covered with a sauce made from frozen berries—“red fruits,” Bertrand called them—they disappeared off everyone’s plate, and afterward were followed by tiny cups of very strong coffee.

Conversation during the meal followed a similar pattern. Mme Poutine attempted to engage René Bonassé in a discussion of Paris theater, angling her body toward him and pointedly away from Bertrand. The young man listened politely, but had little to say. Bertrand spent the meal sorting through a stack of papers he’d drawn from a breast pocket. The Thomases, making up for earlier neglect, drew Mallory out and quizzed her on all she had seen in France, and gave her a list of must-sees in London, which she said she planned to visit next.

At the end of the meal, the chef walked around the table, stopping to share a word or two, complimenting us on how well we did. He ended up behind René Bonassé. He rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders and addressed all of us.
“Merci, mesdames et messieurs.
Thank you for coming to the cooking school. Today’s lesson shows you the basic marinade, and the creation of the sauce from the marinade. Also the charlotte. You can vary the filling and the sauce. Perhaps even use a simple bread and fill it with vegetables. It is a flexible recipe.” He gave René’s shoulder a slap, returned to the head of the table, and leafed through his papers, then pulled out one and squinted at it. He raised his reading glasses, which made his blue eyes look very large. “Tomorrow we will make the famous fish soup of Marseilles, the bouillabaisse.” He looked at all our faces to see the pleasure his announcement had given. “To prepare for this class, I will require you to return here in one hour for your assignment. Each of you will be responsible for contributing an ingredient. We will discuss where they are available and what markets to visit. Right now, however, Guy and I will handle the cleanup.” He looked at his watch. “You have one hour, and then back here, please. You may leave your folders and belongings where they are. They serve coffee and tea in the atrium upstairs.”

We abandoned the table as a group and ambled toward the elevator, basking in the glow of self-satisfaction from having assisted in the creation of a Provençal dinner, our mood only slightly improved by the addition of a few glasses of wine. Behind us, the clatter of dishes as our plates were gathered up was punctuated by a stem “Guy!” from Bertrand. “Where are those papers I asked for?”

The elevator was too small to hold the six of us. The Thomases said they would take the stairs and meet us. “Be happy to treat you to a spot of tea,” Craig offered. “We’ll save you seats, as we’ll probably be there ahead of you. This old lift is as slow as a hound that’s lost the scent.”

Only one table in the atrium was occupied; a couple of smartly dressed men frowned over some documents. We found a table with enough chairs for everyone, but René Bonassé excused himself to make a phone call, not indicating whether or not he would return. Mme Poutine dispensed with the niceties altogether and walked straight past us to the front desk.

“Ah, don’t you find the French so warm and friendly,” Craig said, settling into an upholstered armchair, while Jill and I sat together on a sofa. Mallory remained standing, shifting her weight from side to side.

“Bertrand was telling Guy off as soon as we left,” Craig said. “We could hear his scolding echoing up the stairwell.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. “Guy seems like such a nice man.”

“Well, I don’t see how he could be a fan of the big guy. There probably aren’t many. What an arrogant one that Bertrand is.”

Jill made a face at Craig, and glanced at Mallory. “Claire at the desk is lovely,” she said.

Craig took the hint. “Yes, she is,” he said. “I stand corrected.”

Mallory hopped on one foot and then the other, saying, “The French are only nice to the people they know. If they don’t know you, they usually don’t make the effort.” She ran her hand across the back of the sofa, and craned her neck to look up at the skylight several floors above us.

She’s a restless teen,
I thought,
and has been cooped up too long this morning.
I wondered, not for the first time, what happened in Marseilles to make her seek me out. Did some incident spook her? Or was it just loneliness that brought her to Avignon? Where were her parents? Shouldn’t she be in school?

“Would you mind if I took a walk?” she said, polishing her glasses with the tail of her yellow shirt. “I’m feeling antsy.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “But don’t forget your backpack is still downstairs.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time for tomorrow’s assignment, as instructed.” She saluted like a soldier, clicked her heels, and walked off.

We watched her stride across the atrium to the front door of the hotel, braid bouncing on her back, long legs encased in jeans, and arms hugging her blue ski jacket.

“She’s charming,” Jill said. “How do you know her?”

“We met on the train coming down,” I replied. “I’m worried about her. She’s so young, and seems to have nowhere to go.”

“Then you don’t know her parents?”

“I really don’t know anything about her except that she says she’s been in France since August.”

“Let Jill have a go at her,” Craig said, scanning the tea menu. “She’s a real archeologist when it comes to digging secrets out of the close-mouthed. She’s exposed all of mine, haven’t you, love?”

Jill ignored him and said to me, “I can see why you’re concerned. She may be a runaway. So many children run away from home or school. Perhaps she had a fight with her parents. Why don’t you ask her?”

“I don’t want to scare her off,” I said. “I’ve been hoping she would come to me, and I think she has. I’m going to invite her to the house I’m staying at in the country.”

“That’s a good idea,” Jill said.

“Yes, but I’ve taken a room at the hotel for tonight. I thought it would be easier than going back and forth from St. Marc. That reminds me—I need to confirm with Claire that my room will be ready soon. The usual check-in isn’t until three, but she said she’d try to accommodate me earlier.”

“Go ahead,” Jill urged. “What kind of tea would you like? We’ll order for you.”

“Any one is fine,” I said, getting up. “English breakfast is my favorite.”

Claire was not at her post, but the office door behind the front desk was ajar. I couldn’t see inside, but I could hear Mme Poutine arguing with her.

“You’re a fool, Claire. Emil is simply playing with you.”

“He loves me and he needs me. And I’m free to be with him.”

“You bore him. He told me. And it’s only a matter of time before he will cast you aside. I’m only trying to warn you.”

“He never said that. You’re jealous, that’s all.”

“Why should I be jealous? He is not important to me.”

“No? You were lovers once. You probably want him back. Why else would you follow him from class to class?”

“You are misinformed,” came the icy reply. “I have known Emil many years, yes. All the chefs have their loyal followings. I have my reputation as a hostess to uphold. But you, your reputation is in tatters, and for what? He throws you a little smile, chucks your chin, tells you how beautiful you are, and you fall into his arms. I’m telling you, he has another fool, just as young, just as pretty, at the Hotel de la Mirande.”

“You’re lying.” Claire’s voice was tearful.

“We’ll see. Just don’t cry to me when he tosses you aside.”

Claire burst from the office, a hand over her mouth, skirted the desk, ran across the atrium, and disappeared around a comer. A moment later Mme Poutine emerged, her face impassive, pulling on the cuffs of her jacket. She walked to the other side of the desk and stopped in front of me. “You have a bad habit of listening in on others’ conversations, Madame Fletcher,” she said coldly.

“And you have a bad habit of standing where you can be overheard, Madame Poutine.”

She followed the direction Claire had taken, but stopped at the table with the two men and sat down. I returned to my seat with the Thomases.

“I take it she won’t be joining us,” Craig said, stirring a lump of sugar into his tea.

“What happened?” Jill asked. “Claire went flying by us in tears.”

“Now, don’t be nosy, darling.”

“Jessica will say if she doesn’t want to tell us, won’t you?”

“Apparently Claire has a crush on Bertrand, and Madame Poutine was warning her off,” I said.

“Poor Claire,” Jill said. “She’s no match for that sophisticated woman.”

“However, their confrontation has left the front desk unattended,” Craig added, “so you’ll have to wait to get your room.”

“You’re welcome to use ours if you’d like to freshen up,” Jill offered.

“That’s very kind,” I said, pouring milk into my tea, “but I’m sure she’ll be back shortly. I’ll wait.”

As it happened, Claire didn’t return. But we didn’t miss her. The Thomases and I chatted about our lives back home and what had brought us to France. Like me, they were childless but with a large family of nieces and nephews. They were both retired and attempting to make up for all the travel that they’d put off when they’d been focused on their careers. This was their third “cookery course,” as they called it. As we talked, we marveled at all the things we had in common, and how we felt as though we’d known each other for years. Theirs was a warm, relaxed relationship that easily accommodated others. I invited them to visit me in Cabot Cove if their travels brought them to the States, and they insisted I should stop off in England, particularly at Sheffield, on my way home from France.

Jill and I were laughing so hard over some story Craig had told that we barely noticed when Mme Poutine approached our table, stumbling into the back of the sofa on which we sat. Craig stood up, immediately sensing something wrong, and guided her to his seat. Her platinum hair hung down in her face. She was very pale, and visibly shaking.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, sobering instantly. I leaned over to take her hand. Something had given her a shock. I had a terrible feeling that Claire had done some harm to herself. “Is it Claire?” I asked.

She nodded her head and attempted to talk, but her throat was so dry, it came out as a whisper.

“We can’t hear you, dear,” Jill said. “Try to tell us again what’s wrong.”

“Here, take some tea,” I said, putting my cup in her hands and holding it with her as she took a sip.

Mme Poutine looked up at me gratefully, tears filling her eyes and flowing down her perfectly made-up cheeks. “It’s Emil,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“What about him?”

“Claire has killed him.”

“Jessica, where are you going?” Jill called out.

After Mme Poutine’s shocking statement Craig had run to the phone at the front desk to call for an ambulance and the police. I’d decided to see for myself if Chef Bertrand were indeed dead or if his paramour was exaggerating.

“He may have suffered a heart attack,” I said. “Perhaps there’s still time to help.”

“No. No. He is dead.” Mme Poutine moaned, dropping her head into her hands and sobbing.

I rushed across the atrium, hoping he was still breathing. As I reached the entrance to the stairwell, the elevator door opened across the hall, and René Bonassé stepped out. I ran past him into the elevator and took it to the lower floor. The table where we’d eaten lunch had been partially cleared, but the large serving plate was still there, the sauce congealed around the leftover rabbit. There was no sound from the hotel kitchen and no sign of the sous chef, but the lights in the cooking classroom still blazed. I could see Mallory’s backpack leaning against the wall, and while I’d taken my handbag with me, I’d left my jacket, which still hung on the back of my chair. The brilliance of the classroom only emphasized the murky shadows of the interior medieval courtyard that had been our dining room. I looked around. It took a moment for my eyes to find Bertrand.