“I hadn’t even thought of—”
“Of course, we will have classes again next week. And these are with Christian Étienne. You are welcome to take them, even though we charge a bit more for him.”
“No. No. That’s not why I’m calling,” I said.
“It’s a very good bargain.”
“I’m sure it is, but—”
“Then why do you insist to speak with me?” The edge was back in his voice.
“I’d like to talk with you about Monsieur Bertrand,” I said quickly, hoping to get in a full sentence before he interrupted me again. It worked. He was silent. “I understand you know everyone in the restaurant business in Provence,” I continued. “I just have a few questions and—”
“Absolutely not!”
“But I won’t take up very much of your time.”
“You will take up none of my time,” he spat. “I have already spoken to the police. Those imbeciles! They removed every knife from my kitchen. I have to cancel dinner. How am I expected to run a restaurant without knives? The only person I wish to speak with is my cutlery supplier. That is all I have to say about this incident.”
“Yes, but Monsieur Bertrand was your colleague. Surely you would want to help anyone who could assist in finding his killer.”
“I have no responsibility in this matter.”
“I wasn’t accusing you, but—”
He interrupted me again. “You interfere with a police matter. This is not something for amateurs.”
“If you’ll just listen—”
“Non!
I don’t listen.”
“But he was—”
“I am hanging up, madame. I am finished with you. If you call again, I will report you to the
commissariat.”
He slammed the phone down.
“Another temperamental chef,” I said to myself, and replaced the receiver on the telephone. If he thought he was “finished” with me, he had another think coming. When people don’t want to talk with me, it only fortifies my resolve. I’
ll find a way to change his mind,
I thought I turned back toward the kitchen and saw Mallory dart away from the door. She’d been eavesdropping.
“I thought you went up to unpack,” I said, entering the room.
“I wanted to put these away for you.” She busied herself with the carrots and potatoes.
“Don’t worry about them,” I said, shooing her out of the kitchen. “I’ll take care of them. You go unpack.”
Mallory hurried upstairs, and I tried to shake off a feeling of discomfort. More than a week had passed since I’d arrived in Provence, and I could see the time slipping by too quickly. Instead of relaxing, I found myself getting ready to embark on another investigation. But I knew I couldn’t rest until I learned more about Bertrand and why someone would want to kill him. Martine had said there was a scandal in his past. Could that have been the motive for murder? Could a jealous spouse or lover have caught up with Bertrand? Or a rival for the coveted Michelin star? Why did Daniel refuse to talk with me about him? Where was he when Bertrand was killed?
And the murder was only half the problem. Now I had a teenager in the house, an adolescent who, all her lovely manners aside, did not always tell the truth. How much of what I knew about her was fact, and how much fantasy? Could I trust her? This wasn’t my own home, after all. Was I inviting trouble by encouraging her to stay at Martine’s?
I piled the dried-out potatoes and carrots in a bowl and left them on the counter—they’d probably be good for soup—and went outside. The air was crisp but not cold, and reminded me I was due for another walk in the woods. I pulled open the garage door to hunt for a paper or plastic bag. The gray cat pushed her head through the hole under the stairs and meowed at me.
“Hello, kitty,” I said, kneeling down so I could reach behind her ears, her favorite place for scratches. She accompanied me as I circled around the bicycle and waded through the machinery and cast-off furniture to the back of the garage. A large shopping bag stood against the wall. Inside were unopened cans of acrylic paint. As I stacked them on the floor, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d never seen Martine’s studio.
She must have a special place to paint,
I thought. I eyed the rickety stairs to my right, wondering if they led to her workroom.
“That’s where you are,” Mallory’s voice said from behind me. “I wondered where you’d gone to.”
“I’ve found something to hold Martine’s clothes,” I said, lifting up the empty shopping bag, and angling to avoid the sharp edge of an old scythe that was lying against a box.
“I’ll take it,” she said, reaching for the bag and putting a hand out to steady me as I stepped gingerly over a pile of wooden planks. “You’ve got another visitor, and this one’s brought eggs.”
“Monsieur Telloir,” I called out as I exited the garage, brushing cobwebs off my sleeve. “You’re just the man I want to see.”
Chapter Eight
We got on the road at seven. M. Telloir had declined a cup of coffee and a slice of Mme Roulandet’s cake; he was impatient to start out. It was a chilly morning, but high, wispy clouds promised a sunny day. Dressed in a warm sweater, long woolen skirt, and low-heeled shoes, I locked the door to the farmhouse behind me. I’d decided not to invite Mallory to join us—she seemed perfectly content with that—and had left her sleeping in Martine’s bed. It was going to be hard enough to find Daniel and get him aside for a private conversation without the added worry of keeping an eye on a teenager.
On reflection, it seemed silly to worry about a girl who’d been traveling around France on her own for months. But now that she was, nominally at least, under my care, I felt I owed her parents the courtesy of keeping track of her. I was eager to speak with them when they called, and contemplated calling them myself if I could figure a way to pry their number out of Mallory without her getting upset and leaving in a huff. I couldn’t imagine what the Cartrights had been thinking when they agreed to allow Mallory to wander abroad by herself.
While I’d never had children of my own, I did have young nieces and nephews and cousins, and knew that none of their parents would have considered for a second allowing a teenager to wander in Europe, not only un-escorted but without an adult informed of her whereabouts. But maybe I was old-fashioned. In Paris I’d seen groups of teenagers who seemed to be touring together without a grown-up leader. Perhaps today’s teenagers were more mature than they’d been years ago; maybe their parents trusted them to behave appropriately, and that trust was rewarded. Mallory certainly was polite, and, truth to tell, I hadn’t seen her act irresponsibly. It was possible she’d been calling her parents every step along the way. Still, no matter how trustworthy a young person was, there were many untrustworthy adults ready to prey on a youngster without adult supervision.
Mallory had said she was eighteen, technically an adult herself in many parts of the world. But I suspected she wasn’t being honest about her age. That was another concern altogether. “Oh, stop it, Jessica,” I told myself. “She’ll be fine back at the farmhouse, and you have things to do.”
I’d given M. Telloir only the barest facts yesterday when I’d asked to accompany him to Carpentras, but he was well informed by the time he drove up in his old red Peugeot. Marcel and Mme Arlenne had been very busy making sure all of St. Marc was up to date on the
on-dit.
“Too bad about the chef,” he said, when I’d settled myself in the passenger seat.
“Yes, it was,” I replied.
“And your passport.”
“I’ll get it back soon, I’m sure.”
“Did they find the weapon that killed ’im?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“ ’E had a good restaurant.”
“Have you eaten there?”
“Non! Trop cher
Too expensive.”
He let out the clutch and we bumped along on the dirt drive as he turned around the big tree in front of the house and started toward the main road. The car had an earthy, moldy odor to it, the air inside damp, and the windows clouded with condensation. I loosened the top button of my jacket, and wondered what could have happened to create such a strong smell. Perhaps the car had had a leak and the upholstery was mildewed. I cracked the window to let in a little fresh air.
“Non!
You must leave the windows closed,” he cried out in agitation, gesturing frantically.
I jumped at the outburst. “Why? What’s the matter?”
“Pour les rabasses,”
he said, cocking his head toward the backseat.
I turned around to see a wet towel draped over a lumpy canvas bag on the seat.
“What’re
rabasses?”
I asked.
“Rabasses?
Truffles. It is the Provençal word for truffles.”
“You have truffles in there?”
“Oui!”
“That’s what I smell?”
“Oui!”
“Why do you want them wet?” I asked.
“Not wet, just ‘umid. I try to keep them like the soil they were found in. If they dry out,
c’est terrible.”
He made a fist and shook it.
“I see,” I said. “That would spoil the flavor.”
“No, no,” he said, disgusted. “Do you know what they call them? Black diamonds.”
“Black diamonds,” I echoed.
“Yes. And like diamonds, one sells the truffles according to the weight.”
“Oh!” Now I understood. If the truffles dried out, they’d lose weight, and M. Telloir would receive less money for them. At several hundred dollars per kilo—more, by the time they reached Paris—his truffles were a precious crop indeed, and every lost ounce was costly.
He drove slowly down the dirt lane before stopping at the end of the drive across from Mme Arlenne’s house. He looked both ways, then pulled out into the lane of traffic even though a car was speeding toward us. There was a blare of horns as the infuriated driver jammed on his brakes and swerved around the Peugeot. M. Telloir honked back in irritation.
We rode in silence. I tried to ignore M. Telloir’s driving and concentrated instead on taking shallow breaths until I became accustomed to the pungent aroma of the truffles. It was a smell I would not soon forget.
The road wound away from the village and merged with a larger one, snaking down the hill toward the highway. Here and there were lines of tall cypress trees that defined a farm’s border or served as windbreaks for the occasional stone houses that hugged the thoroughfare. We passed fields of grapes, their bare vines twined around lines of string or propped up by wooden supports. M. Telloir pointed to a grove of olive trees. Their trunks were gnarled and their branches reached out, nearly touching those of the neighboring trees.
“It’s good Martine, she keeps ’er trees.”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
He smiled. “Beautiful, yes, but what is of importance, they give fruit,” he said. “Today, too many farmers, they are cutting them down.” He made a slashing move with his arm.
“Why would they do that?”
He shrugged and raised both his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “Why? They cut them to plant the grapes instead,” he said. “There is more money to be made with grapes. But they will learn it is not so easy. Martine’s trees, they’re old and don’t require much. Grapes are more work.”
“Martine told me you pick the olives for her,” I said. “What do you do with them? Do you cook with them yourself?”
He shook his head.
“Non.
I bring them to the market, or if there is a big ’arvest, I sell them to the mill, where they press them for olive oil. We share the profits.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted olive oil from Provence.”
“The best olive oil comes from Provence,” he said, tapping the steering wheel vehemently.
“The only olive oil I’ve ever seen is from Italy.”
He grunted and a frown creased his brow.
“But of course, all the Mediterranean countries make olive oil,” I said, half to myself, hoping I hadn’t offended him. “And Provence is on the Mediterranean, too. I’ll have to make sure I bring home some olive oil. Perhaps you’d recommend one for me when we’re at the market?”
Mollified, he launched into a discussion of the merits of different olive varieties and the best blend for oils. I listened but looked away from him, focusing on the scenery so I couldn’t see him gesturing with both hands off the steering wheel at what must have been seventy miles an hour.
Shortly before eight, we arrived in Carpentras. The city was much larger than I’d expected, and I was glad M. Telloir knew the way. He followed the broad avenues that led to the center of town, and then turned off into a warren of small streets. They reminded me of the narrow lanes of Avignon, built for mules, not cars. Finding a place to park was a difficult assignment, especially with the competition from vehicles owned by merchants who’d arrived before us to set up for market day. Eventually, M. Telloir crammed the car between two others in a space in front of a notice posted on a pole that threatened dire consequences to all who left their cars there. Once in the space, however, he had to back up again to let me exit the car. How he managed to squeeze himself out, along with the damp sack of truffles, I’m not sure, but at eight A.M. we presented ourselves at Le Club on Place Aristide Briand along with close to a hundred others milling about in front of and inside the bar.
A combination brasserie and pizzeria, according to a sign that ran along the awning, Le Club was jammed with people apparently unaffected by the overpowering mixture of truffles and cigarette smoke that permeated the air. My eyes watered, and I tried to maneuver myself to stand near the door, hoping for a little air as people entered and left. A group of men had gathered around the bar in the back, some drinking coffee, others sipping beer, wine, or brandy. M. Telloir had elbowed his way to the counter and emerged ten minutes later with two cups of the strongest coffee I have ever attempted to drink. A few of the tables in the front were available. We took a seat near the door and watched the parade of farmers and trades-men, housewives and students, sophisticates and peasants, all of whom had come to sell their
Tuber melanosporum
. On the table next to us, someone had laid a portable scale for use when the bidding got serious. A dangerous instrument, it had a sharp hook at the end of a chain attached to a long metal bar. A movable lead cylinder allowed its user to determine the weight by sliding it along the calibrated bar till the two sides balanced.