“Are you ready to order, madame?” the waiter asked when he came back. He was a young man with precise posture and artfully spiked brown hair, intended to be chic rather than rebellious.
“No, but I’m sure you can recommend something.”
He stood a little taller. “I will be pleased to do so. We have several traditional Provençal dishes. Do you like seafood?”
“Very much.”
“Then I recommend the skate with
raïto. Raïto
is a sauce with red wine, tomatoes, olives, capers, and garlic. Or the mussels with lemon, white wine, and garlic. Both are excellent. They are served with a medallion of carmelized vegetables.”
“What kind of fish is skate?”
“It’s the fish that flies on the bottom of the ocean.” He put his arms out and tilted from side to side.
I laughed. “It must be like a stingray or manta ray.”
“Yes. Yes. That’s the word. We use the meat from the wing. It’s delicious.”
“After your demonstration, I think I’ll have to try the skate, please.”
“Would you like a salad as well?”
“May I decide later?”
“Of course. Some wine with your meal?”
“What do you suggest?”
“A Cotes du Rhône will complement the dish perfectly. And we have it by the glass, if you prefer.”
I gave him my sunniest smile. “You echo my thoughts exactly.”
“Merci, madame.”
He grinned. “We try very hard to please.”
“Tell me, are the dishes on the menu specialties of Chef Bertrand’s?”
“Alas, Monsieur Bertrand is no longer here to run the kitchen. A terrible tragedy. We follow as closely as we can his directions. Today, the dishes, they are his. But the new chef, he will choose the next menu.”
“What will happen to the restaurant now? Will it be sold?”
“No, I don’t believe so. The partner, he takes over. He is putting the new chef in charge, and we will see how well he does. We have a Michelin star, you know. It is hoped we can earn it again.”
“I didn’t realize Monsieur Bertrand had a partner.”
“Not in the kitchen, of course, and not to hire the staff, but to pay the bills and take care of other business matters. The chef, he makes all the decisions. It is his name that is connected to the restaurant.”
“Gaspard,” the hostess interrupted, tapping the waiter on his shoulder. “Monsieur Peyraud would like his bill, please.” She smiled at me.
“Pardon, madame.”
“Bien sûr,”
the young man said. “Of course. I will take care of it right away.” He bent toward me. “Madame, your pardon, please.”
“Of course. My apologies for holding you up.”
“Not at all.”
Gaspard went off to bring M. Peyraud his check, and I observed the other patrons in the restaurant. Most appeared to be businesspeople; they were dressed in suits. There were two tables of tourists, easily distinguished by their less formal attire. One young couple was German, and the others—a mother, father, and teenager—were American. I could tell by their accents, their voices carrying in the quiet dining room. The waiter returned shortly with a saucer holding two disks of red-skinned potato topped with a créme fraîche, and sprinkled with a combination of chopped mint and chives.
“A small sample of the chef’s imagination,” he said, setting the plate in front of me. “It is to encourage the appetite.” He stood by while I tasted it “The chef, he is practicing for the summer tourists,” he said. “It is refreshing. No?”
“It’s refreshing, yes,” I said. “And delicious.”
“Bon!
I will tell him you like it.”
“Do you know the name of Bertrand’s partner in this restaurant?” I asked as he placed an empty glass at my place.
“I should,” he said. “He signs the checks. But I do not remember. I can find out for you, if you like.”
“Yes. I’d appreciate that.”
“Are you in the market to buy a restaurant in Provence, madame?”
“Are you making me an offer?”
“I am a wonderful cook myself. And I am handsome, too. You could do worse.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to invest,” I said, laughing, “but it might be fun to explore the opportunity.”
“I’ll see what I can find out for you.”
When Gaspard returned with my entrée, he slid a folded slip of paper next to my plate. “Here is the partner, and his place of business,” he whispered.
“Is everything all right with your dinner, madame?” the hostess said, coming to the table, a concerned look on her face.
I palmed the paper and slipped it into my pocket. “Everything is wonderful,” I said. “I’m enjoying the restaurant very much. And Gaspard is an excellent waiter.”
“Yes.” She smiled tightly. “I hope he will give as much attention to all our guests.”
“I am a wicked boy,” he said after she’d left. He uncorked a bottle of wine and filled my glass. “Perhaps she is in love with me, too.” He winked at me. “All the girls are.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute.”
My meal was delicious, as promised. Gaspard talked me into a salad, and wouldn’t let me skip the cheese course, but I managed to resist when it came to dessert. The restaurant was nearly empty when he served me coffee. Only one table of businesspeople remained other than myself.
“May I get you anything else?”
I looked up. “Just a check, please, Gaspard. And thank you for everything.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “I will get it for you right away.”
I sat back and sighed, experiencing the sensation of well-being following a satisfying meal. I also promised myself a long walk to counter some of the calories. How did Frenchwomen stay so slim? I wondered, accustomed as they were to having major meals for both lunch and dinner. Fortunately, weight had never been a problem for me—probably because I don’t drive. Having to rely on two pedals or two feet to get from place to place was a good way to work off the sins of overindulgence. Many a time it had saved me after I’d yielded to the special doughnuts at Charlene Sassi’s bakery, or to Mara’s blueberry pancakes at the luncheonette on the town dock in Cabot Cove. Of course, at home I rarely cooked big meals, unless I had guests for dinner. Even then, by the time I served what I’d been preparing all day, I’d often lost my appetite for it.
I pulled the note Gaspard had given me from my pocket and unfolded it. My peaceful musings disappeared instantly when I read the name of Emil Bertrand’s silent partner—P. Franc. That was the name that had been on the letter Bertrand was clutching when he died. Did that paper have any significance in his death? Was his partner aware that Bertrand was talking to others about joining the business? Guy had hopes for a partnership. Daniel said Bertrand had talked to him about going into business together. But did he know Bertrand already had a partner? Had Emil been planning to cut his partner out? Or were they planning together to expand the business?
A burst of laughter from the table of businessmen drew my attention. The chef had come out of the kitchen to join them. Dressed all in white, he stood with his back to me; I couldn’t see his face.
“More investors?” I asked when Gaspard placed a leather folder in front of me.
“One can only hope,” he said. “A chef who is well financed can make himself famous, even without a star.”
“How would he do that?” I asked, placing my credit card in the folder.
“He can go on television, write books, open other restaurants. If he is famous, people will assume he is good, and make his restaurants a big success. And, of course, the more successful he is, the better for his staff.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, I wish you luck with your new chef.”
“Merci, madame.”
He took my card to the cash register at the bar. I watched idly as he chatted with a man sitting on the end seat while he waited for the barmaid to process the bill. The sound of laughter drew my attention back to the chef and his clients. I tried to eavesdrop, but their voices were too low to hear clearly. The chef leaned his lanky frame over the table to shake hands with the men on the other side. As he turned, I caught sight of his profile. Wait a minute. Was that ... ?
“Here is your card, madame. It has been a pleasure serving you.”
“The chef, your new chef,” I said, standing and trying to see around Gaspard.
“Yes?” He turned around, but the chef had left.
“I know him.”
“Yes? He leaves for his other job now.”
“His other job?” I sank back in my seat.
“He cooks for another restaurant at night.”
“The Hotel Melissande, right?”
“Ah,
oui,
you do know him.”
Chapter Twelve
“I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for this address.” I showed the elderly gentleman the paper Gaspard had given me. It was late in the afternoon, the skies were darkening, and there were few people on the street. A cold wind had entered the city. It whipped around the sharp comers and turned what had been a light rain into a horizontal attack.
I’d already visited Héllas, the restaurant where Daniel had said he’d been meeting a supplier during the time Emil Bertrand was killed. Henri, the maître d’, thought he recollected seeing Daniel there on Wednesday, but maybe it was Tuesday, no, definitely Wednesday, or at least probably Wednesday. The book would be no help; the restaurant didn’t take reservations for lunch. But either way, he couldn’t be sure if the young chef was there from noon to three, as Daniel maintained. “We are so busy, madame,” he told me. “I cannot keep watch on all my customers. Did he leave and come back? I didn’t see this, but it is possible.”
The address Gaspard had given me for Emil Bertrand’s partner in the restaurant business was in a section of town I’d never been in before. I’d followed my map but had become disoriented by the twisting, narrow alleys—were they streets?—that angled off other streets, by the intersections with two or three unlabeled possibilities, by passageways that proved to be dead ends.
“Oui.
Avignon, she is confusing,” the old man said. “I will try, but I don’t have my glasses with me.” He squinted at the paper in my hand.
“Would you like to use mine?” I slipped the cord that held my reading glasses over my head and offered them to him.
He took the glasses, positioned the lenses in front of Gaspard’s neat handwriting, and read the address out loud. “Ah, oui. This is not too far, but you must go back there, and take the second left, not the first.” He pointed with a pudgy finger in the direction from which I’d come. “It is a small street but it will take you to a larger one. There you turn right, and then left at the next intersection. It should be down that street.”
I thanked him and headed toward the street he’d indicated, debating whether I should abandon the search and come back another day. It was getting darker by the moment. I’d long since given up using my little umbrella; the wind had turned it inside out several times. I’d put on a scarf instead and dropped the disappointing contraption in my coat pocket.
I turned left at the second intersection, as instructed. It was more an alleyway than a street—I doubted it was wide enough to accommodate a car—and it was deserted; there wasn’t another pedestrian in sight. At least the wind was calmer here. I walked quickly toward a store window halfway down the block, its fluorescent glow a comforting beacon as the daylight died away. When I neared the window, the light went out. A man emerged from the shop door, locked it behind him, and scurried past me in the opposite direction. I listened to the fading sound of his shoes on the cobblestones as he lengthened the distance between us. But then there was another set of footsteps behind me. They weren’t vanishing; they were getting closer. I increased my pace and the footsteps sped up. Was someone following me? Or was it my imagination again, spurred by the drama of being lost and alone in a gloomy, unfamiliar city?
I reached the end of the alley and rounded the comer. The street was larger, as promised, but just as quiet as the previous one. I jogged to the next comer and glanced back to see a tall man in a trench coat standing at the intersection from which I’d just come. A hat hid his face. He hadn’t been there less than a minute ago. I turned left, hoping to find the company of fellow pedestrians. A couple under an umbrella was leaning against a car about twenty yards ahead, completely absorbed in each other. Relieved, I walked past them, searched for the right address, and spotted it on the other side of the street.
The wooden door creaked when I pushed it open and entered a small vestibule. I peered at the names on the mailboxes but didn’t find a listing for P. Franc. The interior door was also unlocked. It was glass but had been painted over, preventing anyone from seeing into the poorly lighted hallway. There were doors to three offices, one of which stood open, and just past them an emergency exit marked by a red light. At the end of the hall was an elevator. I poked my head into the open office; the lights were on but there was no one inside. Perhaps they’d gone on an errand, never thinking a stranger would walk in uninvited. I checked the names painted on the frosted-glass windows of the other doors; nothing sounded familiar and no lights shone through the glass. I knocked anyway and tried the doorknobs, but they were locked. Either the offices weren’t open on Saturday or they had closed early. Should I wait in the open office until someone returned? Or should I see if I could find Franc’s name on the second floor?
There was no knob on this side of the emergency exit. I rang for the elevator. It opened immediately and I took it to the second floor. One dim ceiling fixture, fitted with a red bulb, hung between a stairwell door and the elevator. At the far end of the corridor, twilight leaked in through a smudged window. The rest of the hall was in shadows. I walked slowly, trying to make out the names on the darkened glass panes of the doors. At the last one, nearest the window, I found what I was looking for. The sign said
AGENT IMMOBILIER,
real estate agent, and underneath the gold letters were two names. The first was the one I was seeking: P. FRANC. But the second name was a surprise: M. POUTINE. Was this Mme Poutine’s husband?