Provence - To Die For (25 page)

At the bottom of the village, most of the shops were shuttered. Only one was open, its shelves filled with aromatic soaps and candles, linens and dishware in the colorful Provençal designs, as well as regional cookies and candies, and bottles of oil and vinegar with sprigs of herbs floating inside.

“You probably can ask in there if they know where to find René’s aunt,” Jill added. “It doesn’t look like many people live here in the winter.”

The young salesgirl didn’t recognize the name of René’s aunt. “I work here part-time,” she said. “The owner, she knows everyone in the village.”

“Is she coming in today?” I asked.

“Non.
In the summer she lives here,” the girl replied, “but now she comes only on the weekends.”

We wandered up the main street, peering through dark windows, ducking into the occasional store open for business, more to escape the chilly wind than out of interest in the wares. I tried to imagine the village besieged by the one and a half million visitors it received every year, most of them crowding the narrow confines of the streets from May through September. It would have been impossible to find anyone in such a throng.

“There’s a
crêperie
up ahead,” Craig said, his eyes lighting up. “Let’s fortify ourselves before we continue the ramble.”

We climbed a short flight of stone stairs and entered the little café that specialized in making crepes. The only other diners were four young people from Germany chatting with the waitress in broken French. We took a table next to a window and piled our coats on an empty chair.

“Egg and cheese sounds good to me,” Craig said, scanning the paper menu that was divided into luncheon crepes and dessert crepes.

I ordered a spinach-and-cheese crepe and a small side salad. Jill did as well.

“What are you going to ask his aunt when you find . her?” Craig asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m really hoping she’ll tell me where to find René.”

“He may not be very cooperative, you know,” he said. “Didn’t strike me as the forthcoming type.”

“He didn’t strike me that way either,” I said, “but we were coming here anyway. It’s worth a try to see if he’ll speak with me.”

“There was something going on between René and Bertrand during the class,” Jill said.

“I noticed it, too,” Craig said. “Bertrand seemed to be taunting him.”

“Madame Poutine thought René had been sent to rate him,” I said. “She was trying to read his notes, and cautioned Bertrand to be careful around him.”

Jill and Craig looked at each other and a silent message passed between them. Did they know more about René Bonassé than they were letting on?

“Why are you interested in René?” Jill asked. “If Mallory had the knife and the police are looking for her, doesn’t that mean they think she’s the killer?”

“They probably do,” I said. “But they still have Claire in jail, as far as I know. Evidently they’re not sure.”

“How many people can they hold for the same crime?” Jill asked.

“Good question,” I said.

The waitress brought our plates and we ate the simple fare in silence. It was pleasant to have a light meal. I wasn’t quite ready yet to follow the French regimen of four-course meals at both lunch and dinner.

Craig broke the silence. “Where does René come into this?” he asked.

“He may not come into it at all,” I said. “But his time is unaccounted for during the period when Bertrand was killed.”

“He said he had a phone call to make, and was going to his room,” Craig said.

“Which may be the truth.” I said. “I just want to ask him a few questions about the chef. He’d taken the cooking class with Bertrand before. Perhaps he can give me some insight into the man.”

“If he’s willing to talk with you at all,” Jill said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “If. And if his aunt can tell me where to find him in the first place.”

“You’ll want to speak with them in private, I assume,” she said.

“I would appreciate that.”

“We’ll go up to the Château and wander around the ruins,” Craig said. “You can meet us there when you’re finished.”

On the way out of the café, I showed the waitress the paper with the name and number of René’s aunt and asked if she knew her.

“Ah, oui,
Jeanne Bonassé,” she said. “She has the restaurant up the street, next to the Hotel de Ville.”

“Had we known, we could have eaten there,” Jill said.

“No harm done,” I told her.

We parted company in front of Jeanne Bonassé’s restaurant, the Thomases going on to the ancient ruins at the top of the village. I walked up three stone steps, through an archway to an empty stone courtyard that doubtless was filled with tables in the summer. A lion’s-head fountain, now dry, hung on one wall, and empty flower boxes lined the others. The glass door to the restaurant was locked; a curtain concealed the view inside. A sign said
FERMÉ,
closed. I knocked. A minute or so later, a man in shirtsleeves responded to my rapping.
“Bonjour, madame.
The restaurant is only open for dinner. Would you like to make a reservation for tonight?”

“I’m here to speak with Jeanne Bonassé,” I said.

“She requires that salespeople call in advance. Do you have an appointment?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

The gentleman’s eyebrows lifted, but he opened the door wide to allow me to pass inside. “Is anything wrong? Any trouble?”

“Not at all,” I assured him. “I just want a few minutes of her time.”

“May I tell her what this is about?”

“It’s about her nephew.”

“René?”

“Yes.”

The man pulled out a chair, invited me to sit, and disappeared through a swinging door into the kitchen. I unbuttoned my coat, but left it on. This might be a short interview.

The restaurant was small, no more than twenty tables. I admired the simple country decor, most of the material available from stores around the village. On each round table was a long yellow-and-blue paisley cloth covered by a square of white linen. Blue napkins bloomed from the heavy glass goblets, and rough pottery plates the color of egg yolks made up the place settings. The walls were the same gray stone seen everywhere, but the bottom two-thirds had been plastered and painted a soft sky blue. The effect was both cheerful and elegant, an unusual combination.

The door from the kitchen swung open and a woman in her mid-fifties emerged. She was simply dressed in a beige cashmere sweater and skirt. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was shoulder-length and held back on the sides by two combs. In her right hand she held a handkerchief with lace edging.

“Madame, I understand you wished to speak with me.” She walked to where I was sitting and stopped behind the chair opposite mine.

I stood and extended my hand. “Yes. I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said.

She shook my hand tentatively, transferring the handkerchief to the other hand.

“And how may I help you, Madame Fletcher?”

“Won’t you sit for a moment? I won’t keep you long.”

Reluctantly, she sat down. She rested her hands in her lap, the handkerchief held loosely between them.

“I’m looking for your nephew,” I said, “and someone in Paris told me he was visiting you.”

“And what would you want with my nephew?”

“Just to speak with him.”

“Are you a reporter?” She started to rise from her seat.

“I promise you I’m not.”

She sat again, but stayed on the edge of the chair. “Does he know you?”

“We’ve met before. Yes.”

“And why do you wish to speak with him?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of what occurred in Avignon last week.”

“You mean the murder of Emil Bertrand?”

“Yes.”

“Of course I know about Emil. All France knows about Emil. It has been on the television, in the newspapers. They have arrested his lover. She killed him.”

I realized I’d been out of touch with the news media since I’d come to France. Martine didn’t have a television, and although she did have a radio, I hadn’t thought to turn it on. “They arrested her, it’s true,” I said, “but I’m not sure she killed him.”

“And what would René know about this?”

“He was in Bertrand’s class that morning.”

She seemed shaken by that revelation. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m not accusing him,” I said quickly. “I’d just like to talk with him and see if there was anything he noticed that could be helpful in the investigation.”

“What do you have to do with the investigation? You are American, are you not?”

“I’m giving the police a little assistance in the matter,” I said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. I was giving the police assistance, or at least I would be when I had useful information for them. That they didn’t want me to assist them was irrelevant right now.

“He has spoken to the police already,” she said. “And they know all about it.”

“All about
it?”

“Yes, of course. He had to tell them. If he didn’t, they could have found out later. And then there would have been trouble.”

“True.”

“They promised not to release it to the newspapers. We would have no peace if they did. That’s not the kind of publicity one wants.”

“Certainly not.” What was she getting at?

“And they might have made him a suspect,” she said. “I advised him to let the police know right away.”

“Why do you think he would have been a suspect?” I asked. I noticed that her hands no longer lay quietly in her lap. She’d begun twisting the handkerchief.

“Well, of course he would have been a suspect. It’s obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“There was bad blood for years.”

“Why was there bad blood?”

“Why? Because until recently, Emil never acknowledged him.”

“Acknowledged him,” I echoed.

Her voice grew bitter. “For all the years of René’s growing up, Emil never acknowledged him. His only son.”

“His son!” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice, but wasn’t completely successful.

“Of course he’s Emil’s son. Didn’t you know? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“He looks a lot like him,” I said, realizing as I spoke that it was true. Emil Bertrand and René Bonassé shared the same vivid blue eyes. They both had ebony hair, although Emil’s had been shot through with gray. The son had cut his hair in the close-cropped style his father favored, but whether that was a deliberate imitation or simply a coincidental preference I didn’t know. René was also the same height as Emil, with the same broad chest and muscular arms. He would have had the strength to kill; did he have the desire?

“Why does René use your last name and not Bertrand?” I asked Jeanne Bonassé.

“Emil abandoned him when René was a small boy,” she said. “My husband and I raised him. For a child, it is much easier if he has the same last name as his parents.”

“What happened to his mother?”

“My sister was not a strong person. When her husband left, she could no longer cope with the responsibilities.”

“She left as well?”

“Non.”
There was a long pause before she said, “She took her own life.”

“How awful. I’m so sorry. It must be distressing for you to speak about it.”

She sighed. “It was a long time ago. The hurt, it never goes away, but for me the pain is not so intense anymore. For René it still lingers.”

“I’m sure it must,” I said.

“His
maman
would have been so proud of him.” She blinked back tears. “He could have stayed right here, joined us in the restaurant We would have been happy if he did—he is our only child. But he dreams of a bigger stage. He goes away to school. He works hard.
Et voilà!
Success, it comes to him. He is in charge of his own department.”

The banker,
Bertrand had called him. I visualized the sober young man with his starched shirts and stiff comportment, and easily imagined him a corporate executive in a boardroom. Where I couldn’t picture him was behind a stove.

“Is he still in Les Baux?”

“Oh, yes, he will stay till after the funeral, and perhaps longer. After all, there is the matter of his inheritance.”

“Of course,” I said. “Where can I find him now?”

“He is up at the Château,” she said. “He goes every day. I think it comforts him to wander among the old ruins. His mother, too, was very fond of the place, and used to bring him there as a child. I guess that’s why ...” She trailed off, her eyes seeing a picture denied to me.

I stood. “Thank you for speaking with me, Madame Bonassé.”

“Je vous en prie.
You’re welcome,” she said. “But you must promise not to let the newspapers know René’s secret. It will come out soon enough, I’m sure. For now, he needs time to mourn in private.”

“They won’t learn it from me,” I assured her.

While I had been inside, the temperature had dropped and the wind had begun to kick up. I buttoned my coat, pulled my scarf over my head, and trudged up to the entrance to the Citadelle de la Ville Morte, Citadel of the Dead City. A few hardy souls passed me on their way downhill, their cheeks red from the blustery weather.

I paid the entrance fee, declined to take a handheld electronic tour guide, and stepped out of the shelter of the small exhibit introducing the site onto a broad plateau. To my left was a little chapel. I could hear music from a slide show that played inside. A rocky plain sprawled before me, reaching a hundred yards out to an iron railing that marked the edge of the cliff. Dropped into the barren field, at wide intervals, were medieval engines of war, siege machines, crouching like huge insects, their wooden skeletons stark against the leaden sky.

Not another soul braved the coming storm to stand at the railing and gaze south across the valley floor to mountains miles away. No awestruck child gaped at the catapult or its sister weapons. I was alone with the wind. It swirled around me, whipping my coat against my legs, blowing up my sleeves, tearing my scarf off, threatening to carry me away, along with everything else that challenged its rule. I put my back to the tempest, pulled the scarf tight, and stuck close to the crumbling ruins, following the path to the remains of chambers that once housed the lords of Les Baux and their vassals.