Promises to Keep (11 page)

“I would like that, thank you.”

Simone wrote something down on a notepad and slid the page across the table. “Here’s my cell number. Call me first, but do come again.”

Kat wrote her number on another page. “And you must call me any time I can be of help.”

Simone began to stand up, but Kat put out her hand. “Please don’t get up. I will let myself out.”

“Merci, chérie. À bientôt.”

Simone explained there was a short path at the front of the house, which could not be seen from where Kat had found Eeyore.

The path led to a long driveway, ending at a locked gate, which Kat realized was on a different street than Philippe’s property. The gate was slowly swinging open as she approached. Overgrown shrubs and grasses camouflaged where one had to turn in from the street, and a sharp turn was necessary to get around them. She could see how it would easily be missed.

“It was quite remarkable,” she told Philippe that evening at home as he poured their
apéros
. “Simone Garnier must be getting on. I’m guessing she is at least in her mideighties, but she has a luminescent beauty about her that some women that age have. It shines from within and wraps itself around you in her presence. She is an intriguing woman, and her paintings burst with color and passion. I want to get to know her better.”

“There you go again. Yet another adventure.”

Kat took a long sip of her
pastis
. “My life here is definitely not dull,” she said.

Philippe had been stunned to hear that someone lived on that property. And a little worried. “I wonder if she has ever noticed any activity in the cove by Dimitri’s gang,” he said. “I guess she wouldn’t pay attention to it anyway if she is housebound. The house is far enough away from the water, and I believe the view is blocked by trees.”

“Well, she doesn’t miss much. She has her sources, from what she said. If she had seen anything, she probably would have alerted the police about it.”

He shrugged. “They appear to be completely ignorant about anything going on down there, but now they are watching.”

“Do we need to be worried?”

Philippe shrugged again, in the typical Gallic manner, with his arms spread and his hands open. “They assure me they have their best undercover team on the case and we are not to be worried.”

“Then let’s not be,” Kat said, still surprised she was not feeling more anxious about it.

“Her land adjoins ours along the length of the property line, but it is quite thickly forested until a point down by the water. There is a dilapidated boathouse and a stone storage barn down there, but nothing else. Until you discovered your donkey friend, there was never any sign of life. You will have to show me the driveway entrance tomorrow. It’s such a surprise.”

14

A few days later, Philippe was called to Nice to be questioned about Dimitri and Idelle, even though it had been years since he had seen either one. He also had to look through police photos to see if he could identify anyone connected to them.

“The narcs, as you call them, have been after this gang for a very long time,” Philippe explained over dinner that night, “but they have been a slippery bunch. Dimitri is one of the kingpins of the drug trade now, and has built quite a fortress around him. This may be their first break in trapping him.”

“And what are we to do while this operation is ongoing?”

“They’ve put some undercover security people at the market, and someone will be assigned to watch us.”

“That’s scary.”

“I agree, but they said we would never know their people were around. There is one thing they have asked me to do. They want me to go to Lyon to speak with Denise to find out if she knows anything. I have to be casual about it. If she really knows nothing, they don’t want her to learn about it from me. Do you want to come with me and help with the
charade
?”

“Lyon? Yes, please. Not exactly the circumstances I’d pick, but I’m in.”

“I’ll see when works best for Denise and Armand. You’ll like them. I do. It’s the older generation that’s causing the problem.”

They cleared the table and took their unfinished glasses of wine into the salon.

“Now I have a surprise,” Philippe said. “Close your eyes. This will take a few minutes.”

Kat could hear boxes being set down and a great deal of paper rustling, but despite her curiosity, she kept her eyes shut.

“
Eh bien, mon amour. Regarde!
”

A smile spread across her face as she saw he had set up a primitive papier-mâché
crèche
on the mantle. He’d placed several small clay figures around it, and she moved closer to examine them.

“
Santons!
” she exclaimed. “They are so sweet.”

Philippe grinned. “
Oui, santons.
Small saints. My parents and I spent many messy days making this
crèche
, and they insisted that we use it year after year. For a while, as a teenager, it was an embarrassment for me. You know how that is.”

“It’s obviously been a treasure ever since,” she said.

He told her how Adorée had refused to make a new one when she was a child. From the beginning, she too had wanted to use only this one, and it had been carefully stored away every year. Instead, with a little help, she had made some barns and stables, to add to the Christmas setting.

Ever since Philippe had told her the story of Viv and her final days, Kat was aware of a slight change in his demeanor around the topic. It seemed as if he’d been relieved of the tremendous pressure he’d put himself under all those years when he kept the real story of his wife’s illness a secret.

His excited voice broke into her thoughts, and she was soon caught up in his enthusiasm. “There are a lot more
santons
in the box.
Tiens
, help me put them out. I only did a few as a surprise. I thought we would set up the rest together.”

Kat opened another bottle of wine. Philippe lit the fire. Soon the mantle was covered with the painted clay figures, none more than two inches high, representing village characters from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries: farmers, fishmongers, a doctor, a priest, a wine merchant, a teacher, a shepherd, a few children, musicians, and dancers, along with an assortment of farm animals.

“At home, the
crèches
only have biblical figurines,” Kat said, picking up a miller with a sack over his shoulder. “Their faces are all so expressive. The painting is simple but yet so detailed.”

“
En fait
, the whole social structure of a Provençal village is here, all ages and occupations. During the
Revolution
, when churches were being looted and practicing religion was forbidden, people began to make
crèches
secretly in their homes. Later, as
santons
grew in popularity, some would even resemble celebrities. Families pass them from one generation to the next.”

She inspected each one carefully.

“The painted figures are
santons d’argile
and the ones with fabric clothes are
santons habillés
,” Philippe said.

“They are so detailed.
J’adore tous
.”

Closer to Christmas, he explained, they’d place the Holy Family around the manger in the center. Then, at midnight on Christmas Eve, they would add the baby Jesus, along with the three kings and an assortment of angels. “That’s how we do it in our family, but everyone is different.”

Kat laughed. “You’re going to need to extend the mantle if you add any more to your collection.”

“You’ll find some irresistible ones when I take you to the Foire aux Santons in Marseille,” he told her, grinning as she clapped her hands in delight at the news of another trip. “Then, if you like, we’ll go on up to Aubagne. That’s where we will find some of the finest
santons
. Some families there have been crafting them for generations, ever since the first ones were shown in Marseille in 1803.”

Kat hugged Philippe, she was so excited.

They finished the wine while they decided when they would make this trip. Their calendar was quickly filling up. As the market was closed on Mondays, they decided that would be the day to go out of town.

Later that evening, the throwaway phone rang. They both stopped what they were doing and looked at each other. Philippe answered it and had a brief, terse conversation while he wrote something on a piece of paper. Kat was surprised that the call ended with him laughing.

“Tim and Twig send their love,” he said. “They are well but longing for a fresh baguette from Le Palais du Pain. They hope to be back by the summer. Tim says that Nick has information for us. I told him we are going to Marseille and he gave me a number to call when we get there. Someone will meet us.”

“It’s good news that they plan to be back here in the summer, but this is all sounding very cloak-and-daggerish,” Kat said.

At nine thirty the following Monday, once rush hour had eased on the
autoroute
, they headed off on the two-hour drive to Marseille. Cold weather had set in, and they were bundled up.

“I’ve both read and heard that Marseille is not the safest place to visit. Some say that it’s best avoided,” Katherine said.

“Pffft!” Philippe shrugged. “Every city has its rough spots, and Marseille is no different. But not every city has the history and character of this
grande dame
. You will find it is a welcoming place”—he chuckled—“as long as you are not from Paris.”

He glanced at her and saw her puzzled look. “The two cities have been archrivals forever. Parisians say Marseille is sleazy. Marseillais say Paris is snooty. The bottom line these days,
à mon avis
, is the rivalry between their football teams—that’s soccer to you—Paris Saint-Germain and Olympique de Marseille. It’s intense, very intense.”

With a grin, Philippe nudged her, “
Ne t’inquiète pas.
Don’t worry. With your accent, no one will think you are from Paris.”

Kat snorted and punched him on the arm. “Too true!”

“You know, Marseille was the 2013 European City of Culture. That included the surrounding area over to La Ciotat and up to Aix.”

“I read that in
Nice-Matin
. I get all the good info from my morning newspaper. You know, I think M. Bouchard is beginning to like me. He almost smiled the other day.”

Philippe laughed. “M. Bouchard is an old softie under that tough exterior. He used to be my football coach back in the day, as you say.”

It took them a while to wend their way into Marseille’s Old Quarter and to find a parking spot. Eventually—in a way Kat could never quite understand—Philippe squeezed the car into what seemed like an impossibly small space.

“It’s a French talent,” he told her.

Even on a weekday morning, there was a festive atmosphere down La Canebière, the mile-long street running through the old part of town. It was lined with covered stalls where
santonniers
displayed their wares. The air was filled with laughter and the cheery calls of vendors.

Philippe called the number Tim had given him. They arranged a rendezvous with Nick’s contact in an hour’s time at a specific food stall. Tim gave him detailed instructions: “Order three pieces of
pissaladière
and sit at the back, at the last table by the garbage bins. Put one piece on a separate tray with an espresso.”

“But who is meeting us?” Katherine asked him, after he told her. “It’s not the most pleasant spot to sit. Maybe that’s why they picked it.”

“
Aucune idée
—I’ve no idea. We will just have to go there and see what happens.”

“Now I’m hoping the undercover guys really are watching us.”

They walked on, through a lively Christmas market at the far end of La Canebière, where excited children were lined up for rides on traditional roundabouts and were entertained by street musicians and clowns while they waited.

They were both jittery, so they stopped at a coffee bar but discovered they could not sit still. Quickly draining their cups, they strolled back and paused at a few stalls for distraction.

“I can’t believe the variety of the
santons
,” Katherine exclaimed as they made their way along the street, but she resisted buying any.

Soon they arrived at the specified food stall. Philippe ordered the three slices of
pissaladière
, the traditional snack he’d been told to buy, and they carried their trays to the patio behind the stall, where a few tables were being warmed by a heater, and sat down at the table Tim had mentioned.

“If anyone ever told me I would enjoy eating anchovies and onions for breakfast, I would have thought they were crazy. And even more crazy if they’d added that I would be meeting a mysterious stranger—possibly a criminal—in Marseille while eating it next to garbage bins.” Kat laughed nervously, and Philippe put his arm around her.

The patio was jammed with people, and two others joined their table, leaving a few empty seats between them. Philippe put the separate tray next to his place.

After a few minutes, a man in a long dark coat, scarf, woolen hat, and sunglasses slid into the chair next to Philippe. His hat was pulled down almost to his glasses, hiding most of his face. Stubble, too long to be fashionable, covered his cheeks and chin.

He pulled the tray roughly toward him and said,
“Merci. J’ai faim.”

Then he looked at Kat. “As gorgeous as ever.”

Kat gasped, “Nick! Oh my God, it’s you,” before she put her hand over her mouth and looked to see if anyone was listening.

Philippe attempted to stifle his surprise.
“Incroyable!”
he whispered, his eyes about to pop. “You’re the last person we expected. Are you okay? Is it safe for you to be here?”

“
Ah, mes amis
, Marseille takes care of me. You know how it is here. Money talks. I’m okay, mate. I flew in only to see you two and give you this.”

He picked up a napkin and, with a sleight of hand, tucked a piece of paper into it before sliding it under Philippe’s tray. “When you get up, pick that napkin up with the others and slip it in your pocket when you throw the rest in the garbage. You can do it.”

He grinned at them. “It’s so good to see you both, and I’m happy to hear you are together. Sorry about this mess you’re in, and I hope I can help. I’ve given you the private cell phone number for Inspecteur Roget Thibideau, who is a reliable senior member of the narcotics division in Paris. He is smart and honest—that’s the key. And he would love to get this gang. He will contact you directly, but if you don’t hear from him within three days, call him at that number.”

Philippe began to thank him, but Nick was already on his feet, gulping his espresso as he got ready to leave.

“Gotta get out of here. I’ve got my chartered plane waiting. I’m going straight to Oz. I’ll be back in Antibes in the summer.”

Kat had been sitting speechless. Stunned, really. Finally she spoke to Nick. “We’re so happy to see you and to know things are okay with you. What a reunion we’ll have next summer. Thanks for helping.”

Nick spoke into a napkin as he wiped his lips with it. “No worries, but be careful. These people can be dangerous. Do exactly what Thibideau says.”

With that, he turned his back, tossed his napkin and paper plate into the bin, and disappeared into the crowd.

Kat and Philippe stared at each other in astonishment.

“This just keeps getting crazier.”

“God bless Nick. What a good guy.”

They agreed that they might as well carry on with their day, and as they stood to leave, Philippe slipped the napkin from under the tray and into his pocket. Then he tossed the others, along with the uneaten
pissaladière
, into the bin. They had completely forgotten the food during the rendezvous.