A Temporary Ghost (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Series 2) (21 page)

I pushed through, hoping the hubbub didn’t mean a line at the telephone, wishing I had a basket and marketing of my own to do. Everyone except me seemed in wonderful spirits. I threaded my way between a truck offering army surplus clothing and a stall purveying used records and tapes (the source of the background music) and found the phone booth empty. They’re all having too much fun for phone calls, I thought crankily, pulling the door closed behind me.

I reached Kitty at home. It sounded as if I’d awakened her, which made me even more cross. I had already suffered a week’s worth of aggravation this morning while she was snoozing. “Where are you? It sounds like you’re at a party,” she said groggily.

“No party. It’s market day here.” She woke up enough to be overjoyed when I told her I was coming back to Paris. She didn’t even ask why.

“Fabulous! When?” she said.

“The bus leaves for Carpentras at one. From there, it’ll depend on what connections I can make. I’ll let you know.”

“Wonderful. Listen—” I heard muffled fumbling on her end. “Jack had to go to Rome unexpectedly, but he gave me a message for you late yesterday, if I can find it.”

“Already? Good.”

More fumbling. “Yes, he said to tell you it wasn’t a good day for channeling, whatever that means, so somebody got right on it.” As she searched, I watched a woman across the way selling beautiful brown eggs. She handled the eggs as if they were precious jewels.

“Here it is,” Kitty said. She cleared her throat. “It says, ‘Dear Georgia Lee, Alexander McBride spent the night in question with a Mrs. Melissa Jean Blake, his employer at Bingo’s Buckaroo Barbecue Restaurant. At least, she said he did. If you move on this without me, your ass is grass. Love, Jack.’ ”

So, as I’d suspected, Alexander’s alibi had been provided by Missy, also known as Melissa Jean. “Great.”

“What’s going on?” It had finally occurred to her something might be.

“A big fat mess. The book is off, for one thing.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back.” I had a thought. Kitty’s journalism assignments had made her a better resource than an encyclopedia, provided the topic had to do with jewelry, perfume, diets, or the jet set. “Kitty, do you know anything about counterfeit watches?”

“Counterfeit what?”

“Wristwatches. You know, like—”

“You mean like the Cartiers and Rolexes peddlers sell on the street?”

Good old Kitty. “You
do
know. Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know everything. I did a piece once about fakes and trademark infringement, or whatever it’s called, and how it costs so many zillions a year. It’s done with other things, too. Vuitton bags—”

“Tell me about the watches.”

“That’s all I know. They’re smuggled in from Asia and distributed to peddlers, and the peddlers sell them.”

“Don’t you think the Rolex people would love to get their hands on his operation?”
Missy had asked. If this was Alexander’s scam, the watches could be shipped from somewhere in Asia to San Francisco, and it might be his job to get them to New York. Here was another lead to give the police. “Kitty, thanks. I’ll see you soon. Oh—how’s Twinks?”

“Fine, really fine. She’s right here. Can you hear her purring?”

Jealousy twinged at the thought of my Twinkie in bed with Kitty, and purring to boot. I was glad it wasn’t loud enough for me to hear. “She hasn’t destroyed anything else, has she?” I asked with a nervous chuckle.

Kitty didn’t answer right away. I said, “She hasn’t, has she? Destroyed anything?”

“Well—”

“Kitty! What happened?”

“It was one of the smaller ones.” I could tell she was trying for a comforting tone.

“Smaller what?” A horrible idea hit me. “Not one of Luc’s statues!” Kitty was the custodian of her estranged husband’s collection of valuable, sexually explicit, pre-Columbian statuary.

“Georgia Lee, you
must
not worry—”

This was the limit. “Tell me what happened,” I said from the depths.

“Twinkie jumped up on a shelf and knocked him off. He didn’t shatter or anything, but his— private parts got chipped.”

“I’m so sorry,” I gabbled. “Of course I’ll pay for it. Oh, Kitty!” The thing was surely worth thousands. I was practically in tears.

“No, no,” she said, her voice soothing. “I rearranged the shelves. Luc will never miss him. He won’t remember what he had, anyway. I’m sure he won’t.”

“Really?” I quavered.

“Promise. He never comes here. You know that.”

I knew, but possibly one day Luc would straighten himself out, and remember the particulars of his collection. I was willing to wait until that day to settle the matter if Kitty was. “If you’re sure—”

“Positive.”

“Oh,
God!
Why did she have to do it?”

“Please,
Georgia Lee.”

“See you soon, Kitty.”

“Take care.”

I hung up, quivering. It was a sunny market day in Beaulieu-la-Fontaine. The loudspeaker was booming somebody’s rendition of “Feelings.” I stumbled out of the booth and stood on the edge of the cheerful scene. I should start a special savings account, in case Luc found out what had happened. Nothing Kitty had ever said about Luc made me think he was an understanding, forgiving sort of person. Or a cat lover, either.

I rambled aimlessly, jostled on all sides, staring unmoved at wreaths of lavender, handmade teapots, screened boxes for keeping cheese, and God knows what other items that would have sent me into ecstasies if I’d been myself. My one thought, obscuring all else, was to get back to Paris before Twinkie did any more damage.

Because I was so distracted, I was within a few feet of Alexander when I saw him. He was leaning against a plane tree next to a woman who was selling gaily packaged sachets. He was looking at me with intense absorption, an unattractive smile on his lips. If I hadn’t glanced up I would’ve walked right into him, which was evidently what he’d been waiting for.

I stopped abruptly and stepped backward, colliding with a woman who said, “Excuse
me,
Madame,” with a fine sarcastic edge. Alexander straightened, his eyes locked with mine. I pushed sideways, putting two women with shopping bags, one pushing a child in a stroller, between us. I pulled my eyes away from his and ran, searching for a place to hide.

A GAME OF BOULES

Reason told me (if the thoughts rocketing through my head could be called reason) I should stay at the market, where people were around, instead of taking off for the empty streets beyond. Unfortunately, the market at this point had spread out into a gravelly parking lot, and the density wasn’t nearly as great as on the main street. The shaded tables set up in rows and lining the edge of the lot didn’t offer much in the way of cover. I dodged between two of them and glanced back to see Alexander in determined pursuit. Since he was so tall, it was easy to pick him out over the heads of the crowd.

I slipped along behind the vendors as he worked his way toward me. This tactic wouldn’t work for long. I looked around for a better alternative.

Parked sideways across the end of the lot was a large, snazzy, red-and-white panel truck. The side of the truck was open, and set up in front of the opening was a long table with a display of
boules,
the steel balls used in the bowling game that’s a French national pastime. At the moment, several men, probably including those in charge, were deeply absorbed in a game, or possibly a demonstration, in an open space some distance from the display. My eye fixed on the dark, safe-looking space inside the truck. If I could get in there without being seen, I could wait until Alexander got tired of searching and gave up. Not a bad idea, but pulling it off would be the trick.

These observations took an instant. I was standing between a line of tables and the trees bordering the parking lot. Beyond the trees was a road with parked cars along its edge. I darted past a tree and ducked down behind a parked car. I’d attract attention if I stayed here, but maybe I could evade him for as long as it took to reach the truck. I peeked from behind the car and didn’t see him. Bent over, I scurried to the next car and peeked again. This time I saw him craning his neck, looking for me. So I’d lost him, at least momentarily, and the truck was only a couple of cars plus a mad dash away. I went into a hunched-over sprint and reached the last car. Alexander was now on my side of the parking lot. When his head was turned I made my final scramble, ending up behind the truck, breathless.

In some barely conscious calculation, I’d figured the best way to get inside was to go along the back and slip around. Trying to look casual but purposeful, I strode to the back end of the truck and peered at the scene. The
boules
players were intent on the game. Everybody else was intent on selling, buying, or looking. Alexander was near the trees where I’d disappeared. I slid around the side of the truck, walked swiftly to the open door, and stepped inside. Nobody shouted and asked what I was doing. I moved out of the doorway and looked around.

The inside of the truck was fitted with racks on which were stacked cartons of
boules.
Just inside the door, by my feet, stood an open carton of
boules
and a half-empty plastic bottle of Evian water.

I didn’t want to stay where I could be seen by a casual glance through the door. At the end of the truck there was a narrow space between the rack and the wall where I would be more hidden. Before moving back, I took one of the smooth, shiny
boules
from the open carton. It was heavy and cool in my hand, near baseball size. I had no idea what I might do with it, but it seemed a possible weapon if I needed one. I got an unlikely mental picture of myself hurling it at Alexander and catching him between the eyes. Then I went back and fitted myself in the niche. If I rounded my shoulders, it was fine.

I’d been there an eternal ten minutes, listening to a salesman who had left the game to give a pitch to a potential customer, before I calmed down enough to try and figure out what was happening. Clearly, Alexander knew or suspected I was on to him. I remembered the letter I’d taken from his duffel bag. If he’d missed it, he could easily conclude I was the thief. Which meant I had to get out of Beaulieu-la-Fontaine before he got to me.

The longer I waited, the less imminent his getting to me seemed. I slipped the
boule
into my shoulder bag, ready to hand if he
should
pop through the doorway. I wished I could see outside, see if he were lingering around or if he’d given up. Surely he’d given up.

I was planning to risk a quick look when the two
boules
salesmen decided to take an Evian break. One of them reached for the bottle without really looking inside the truck. Then they positioned themselves in the doorway, passing the bottle back and forth while they discussed business, which, they agreed, was terrible.

Wedged in my uncomfortable hiding place, I listened as they excoriated the
boules
players (and buyers) of Beaulieu-la-Fontaine and lauded those at another village down the road. Then they widened the comparison to take in the entire Vaucluse region, and soon it seemed that the
boules
community of Beaulieu-la-Fontaine was the most unskilled and parsimonious in Provence. I expected the discussion, which had by now continued for a considerable time, to expand to all of France, and it probably would have if a man hadn’t approached and proved them liars by purchasing a set of
boules.

My shoulders were aching, my feet were prickling, and I wanted nothing so much as to get out of this truck. Beyond stir-craziness, I could add another compelling reason: Time was getting short. It was almost noon. The market ended at twelve-thirty, and if business was bad these guys could decide to close up early. The bus for Carpentras left at one, and I had to go back to the hotel, gather my things, and pay my bill. If the salesmen didn’t get out of the doorway, I would have to emerge and brazen it out with some excuse. The problem was, I couldn’t imagine any possible excuse.

I was sorting through feeble possibilities when one of the salesmen said, “My God! What a beauty!” and the two of them left the doorway and, as far as I could tell, the immediate vicinity. I scuttled for the door and hopped out, lingering at the
boules
display to get my bearings. The salesmen were over by the road. They weren’t chatting up some gorgeous woman, as I’d assumed, but had joined a knot of people admiring an antique car whose driver was proudly answering questions. Alexander was not in sight. Relieved and liberated, I started back for the hotel.

The crowd was thinning out now, and some vendors were knocking down their tables or packing up unsold goods. I kept an eye out and proceeded as inconspicuously as I could, but I saw neither Alexander nor his motorcycle.

By the time I got back to the hotel, my mind was running on practicalities like buying my bus ticket and whether to pay the hotel with cash or credit card. The lobby was empty and somnolent. I leaned across the desk, got my key, and climbed upstairs to do the little packing that was necessary.

I was jiggling the key in the lock when the door flew open. Someone inside the room dragged me in and clamped a hand over my mouth. My suitcase lay open on the neatly made bed, with my clothes trailing out of it. Clippings, notes, and transcripts were strewn across the floor. My head was pulled back and a voice said in my ear, “Predictable, aren’t you, bitch?” It was Alexander.

MONOLOGUE

Predictable was the word for it. My shock and fear were secondary, in that instant, to anger at myself. I had expected to prance back here, get my suitcase, and leave town unimpeded? I flushed with shame at my naïveté. Alexander shoved the door closed and marched me to the bed, where he pushed me down next to my suitcase with my face buried in the pillow. I writhed, but he planted his knee on my back as I struggled for breath. He wrenched my arms behind me and tied my wrists together with some springy material. Then he pulled my head back roughly and bound my mouth. I realized he was trussing me up with pantyhose. My own pantyhose. I’d always hated pantyhose, and here was the final justification.