Provence - To Die For (17 page)

“Madame, may I help you?” a woman’s voice asked.

I looked at the woman and back at the window I’d been hiding behind. On display were several coils of wire and electrical appliances I’d never seen before.

“Non, merci,”
I said, smiling with a shrug, and stepped back out into the street. Albert was pulling out of his parking space, and Daniel was walking away with the heavy bushel basket of what were purported to be potatoes. I crossed the street and followed Daniel until he reached his car, a blue Renault wagon. Quickly, he pushed the basket into the back of the car and opened the driver door. Luckily for me, he didn’t use a key, which meant his car was unlocked. I ran to the passenger door, pulled it open, and jumped inside as he started the engine. His face paled when he saw me.

“You are from the government, yes?” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and held them out to me. “Take what you want,” he said. “This is my business. A chef cannot make his name without truffles.”

“I’m not from the government,” I said, “so put your money away.”

His fear turned to anger as he stuffed the wad back into his pocket.

“If you’re a reporter, I don’t speak to you. Get out of my car.”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said calmly. “I spoke to you on the phone yesterday—”

“I spoke to a hundred people yesterday. I don’t recall your name.”

“It’s not important,” I said, pulling the seat belt around me and clicking it into place.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not getting out of the car until you talk to me. I want to ask you some questions about Emil Bertrand.”

“I wasn’t even in the hotel when he died,” he argued. “I was at Héllas, having lunch with a supplier. You can ask the
maître d’hôtel.”
He looked at his watch. “I was there from noon to three.”

“That’s good to know.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “You’re not a reporter.”

I shook my head.

“You’re not from the police?”

“How many Americans work in the Police Judiciaire?”

He relaxed back in his seat and turned off the engine. “None, of course.”

“Did you know Emil Bertrand well?”

Daniel stared at the dashboard, thinking back. Myriad emotions flitted across his face.
“Non,”
he said. “No one knew him well.”

It was barely daylight when I steered the bicycle out of the garage and leaned it against the tree. My feline friend was also up early and came to greet me, pushing her head and side against my calf, leaving a smear of gray fur on my navy sweatpants. I gave her a scratch behind the ears and prodded her back toward the barn. I’d dressed in layers and needed all of them against the chill that froze my breath in little clouds. I hadn’t been able to reach the baker, Mme Roulandet, yesterday; M. Telloir and I, along with the newest addition to his household, had arrived home after she’d closed for the day. When I’d tried to call again this morning, there was no answer. Either she was late getting in, or was ignoring the ringing while she fired up the huge ovens in preparation for her first customers.

I needed a ride into Avignon. M. Telloir would be occupied training his new dog, a disheveled terrier with a cocoa-colored coat, who took every opportunity to lie down on the ground, back legs splayed, looking more like a miniature shag rug than a valuable hunter of “black diamonds.” Mallory had fallen in love instantly, and M. Telloir had promised to bring “Magie”, with him this morning for a test run behind the house. I thought it would be “magic” indeed if the dog proved to be a good truffle hunter, but kept my opinion to myself. We were to benefit from any truffles the dog turned up on Martine’s property. Of course, based on all the little mounds of earth I’d seen on my last walk, there might not be any truffles left to find.

Since M. Telloir wasn’t available, Marcel was my second choice as chauffeur—that is, if Mme Roulandet was able to raise him. Otherwise I’d have to put the trip off until Monday. Captain LeClerq hadn’t returned our passports yet. If he was on duty, it was the perfect excuse to inquire about them and also to ask how the case was going. Too, if Claire was still in custody, I could check off another name on my list of people to interview. But even if I struck out at the police station, I had other stops on my itinerary. I planned a visit to Bertrand’s restaurant to speak with his staff, and to call at the Melissande to see Guy and get Mme Poutine’s address. Then there was the real estate office on the paper the chef had been clutching when he died. I pedaled down the driveway, mentally ticking off the errands I could accomplish with a ride into Avignon. Where was Héllas? I wondered. It was the restaurant where Daniel said he was having lunch when someone drove a knife into Emil Bertrand.

 

After all my trouble pursuing him and following him into his car, Daniel had not proven to be very helpful.

“Tell me about Bertrand,” I’d said. “Did he have any enemies?”

“He was a great chef,” he told me, “known for the classic dishes, but prepared with imagination.”

“Yes, but what was he like as a man?”

“He was a man, nothing so different. You met him. What did you think of him?”

I ignored his diversion. “Tell me,” I said, “how would you describe him?”

“He runs a good kitchen. He is a good teacher. He is a smart businessman, too, buys his own building, invests in the future. I learn a lot from him.”

He spoke of Bertrand as if he were still alive. It had disconcerted me at first, but I soon realized it was the French way of speaking, to use the present tense. I tried another tack. “Did he get along with his students?”

“Everyone is always pleased with his classes. I hire all the best chefs in the region.”

“You never had any complaints? He never made anyone angry?”

“I heard there was a scandal associated with him. Can you tell me about it?”

“I know of no scandal.”

“Was he a ladies’ man?”

“What is this ‘ladies’ man’?”

“It means he flirts with women. Maybe he has a lover, or more than one.”

He laughed. “You have described a great many men in France, madame.”

“Do you know who his female friends were?”

“I only pay attention to
my
female friends.”

“What about Claire in the hotel? Was she his lover?”

“She is young and easily impressed.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“I am not in bed with them. I do not know who he sleeps with.”

“What do you know about Mme Poutine?”

“She is Emil’s student. She attends all his classes.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “All the good chefs have their followings, people who want to learn everything a master chef is willing to teach them. Some go from chef to chef; others stay with just one.”

“Did they have a personal relationship?”

“It’s possible. I don’t notice these things. In France, a man may have many mistresses. It is not unusual.”

“And a woman having an affair outside her marriage?”

He shrugged. “It can happen.”

“How long did you know him?”

“Oh, ten years or so.”

“How did you meet?” I asked.

“We all know each other in Avignon. It’s a small community, after all.”

“Where did he work before he opened his restaurant?”

“He travels the world. Tokyo. New York. Rio de Janeiro.”

“Did he ever talk about the other places he worked?”

“Only the ones with famous chefs.”

“Why only those?”

“A chef makes his reputation by working with the masters who come before him. You don’t need me for this. Go to his restaurant. They have his life on the back of the menu.”

“I’ll do that, thank you.”

“Are we finished now?”

“Just a few more questions,” I said, trying to think of how to break through his reserve. “Bertrand was very successful, wasn’t he? He had a Michelin star.”

“Oui.
He had a star.”

There was just the hint of something in his eyes that put me on alert. Earning a Michelin star is the goal of every chef around the world. Bertrand had been awarded one. Daniel had not. Of course, Daniel was still young, only in his thirties. Was he jealous of the older man’s success?

“Do you agree that he deserved the star?”

“I don’t dispute the findings of
The Red Guide,”
he said. “They are, after all, the experts.” Whatever I’d seen was fleeting. He had put on a bored expression, and was not about to reveal himself to me.

“Did Bertrand have family?” I persisted.

“Maybe a wife and child, once.”

“But you’re not sure of that?”

“It is only a rumor.”

“You never spoke with him about his family.”

“We only talk about cooking and the restaurant business.”

“Then how do you know about a wife?”

He shrugged. “Someone in the restaurant may have told me.”

“But not Bertrand?”

“No. He never discusses his private life.”

“And your relationship with him? Was it good?”

“Oh, yes, we are old friends. We talk of going into business together.”

 

I rode down the hill; the crunching noise of the tires on the dirt road was loud in the early-morning stillness. Even the birds were still asleep. A faint breeze rustled the leaves on the olive trees, and the air smelled clean. I inhaled deeply and let out a stream of vapor into the cold. I’d awakened early again. I couldn’t shut off my imagination, couldn’t ignore the lure of the puzzle that a murder presents. As the wheels turned so did my mind. Perhaps I could talk to the Thomases again at the hotel. And René Bonassé. Had he been rating Bertrand the morning of the killing? And if so, why? For what organization? When would Bertrand’s funeral take place? Would Mme Poutine be there? Would her husband?

I stopped at the bottom of the drive. Mine was the only vehicle on the road at that hour. I turned left toward St. Marc, and as my eyes roved over the peaceful landscape, I let go of the murder and let the beauty of the French countryside wash over me.
This is what I came to France for,
I told myself. An
early-morning ride. A beautiful
view.
A new culture to experience.

There were only a few homesteads between Mme Arlenne’s house and the village. The land rolled away into fields that must have captured the palette in the summer, but now were exploring what it meant to be brown. Ocher, russet, taupe, fawn, sienna, bronze, rust. In the patchy bark of the trees, the stubble of crops cut down, the exposed roots on the hard ground, in bushes and branches and brush, every shade of brown was represented. Ahead of me a road crew was digging by the side of the road, their blue uniforms cheerful against the not-quite-monochromatic landscape. I waved as I pedaled by.

“Bonjour. Bonjour,”
they called to me, and I returned the greeting.

For the first time I began to feel at home in France. The experience of riding a bicycle on a country road, my muscle memory engaged, making each move automatic. The vibrations of the road under my hands and feet, the hum of the wheels, the slap of the wind at my face as it colored my cheeks. These sensations were comforting, known to me, and now I enjoyed them in a new country, on a route I’d traveled before and that was becoming familiar.

The road curved sharply to the right, past a stand of dark cypress trees and just before the turnoff to town. I rode around the arc and had to swerve wide to avoid hitting a green car stranded in the right lane. A woman was walking on the shoulder, kicking at the dirt in obvious frustration. It was Mme Roulandet.

“Is this your car?” I asked, braking the bike and pointing behind me.

She scowled at me. “And who else’s car would it be?”

“If you leave it in the road, it’ll be the junkyard’s,” I said. “The next automobile along will crash into it.”

“There have been no automobiles,” she said, furious. “I want there to be an automobile, but no one comes, except you.”

“What happened?”

“Stupid machine! The engine, she won’t start.”

“Let me help you,” I said, looking back toward the dead sedan.

“Do you have a phone with you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m sorry. Mine only works in the States.” I walked the bike back to her car. “Do you have a sign or a light or something we can put in the road to alert any oncoming driver there’s a problem ahead?” I asked.

She shook her head, but opened the trunk. We peered inside. It was filled with crates of fruits, bunches of herbs, sacks of flour and sugar, baskets of eggs—she must have just come from the market—but nothing I saw could serve as a flare or warning sign. “I’ll be right back,” I said, climbing on the bike and pedaling back the way I’d come.

She was standing on the shoulder when I returned with three strapping members of the road crew trotting behind me. A rapid-fire exchange ensued, from which I gathered that the men would push the car off the road, but their crew chief had the only phone, and he wasn’t due back for several hours.

I circled back on my bike to head off any traffic that might unknowingly round the curve and threaten the lives of our good Samaritans. Fortunately, the road was still deserted, but might not be for long as a thin slice of the sun edged over the horizon. Mme Roulandet was going to be behind schedule. Her customers might have to do without their baguettes today.

Minutes later, the road crew reappeared from around the curve, laughing and talking, happy for the break in the routine of their digging. I thanked them and caught up to the baker, who’d started walking down the road again toward the village, this time at least with her car safely parked on the shoulder. When I reached her, I hopped off the bike.