The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence (2 page)

It was actually a centennial plus ten. But who was counting? She had suddenly become Chatty Cathy. She rationalized that it was because she wanted to get this interview— or whatever it was— over with and catch her plane. And yet, Havilah was more curious still regarding their inquiry about Kit.

“We know about your travels, Professor Gaie. Your colleague was murdered last evening.” Sensing she had been trying to speed this along, Agent Gasquet apparently thought he’d help. He cocked his head slightly, as if studying her reaction.

“Murdered?” Havilah took two steps back, bumping up against the table where the telephone sat. The receiver slid out if its base. She righted it and then walked a few more paces to take a seat on the white sofa sleeper.

She felt a welling up of sadness thinking about this very solitary, but seemingly contented, man. Kit had severed all ties with whatever family he had had back in Elkton, Kentucky. His mother died while he was in graduate school. He hadn’t known his father, which for him made it easier to plow forward. And he had never really sought out the company of his poorer relations who still lived in those trailer parks along Pond River and Dowdy Roads and Highway 68 East. He was a deliberately rootless man; he liked moving through the world light. He believed he walked lighter in the world because he didn’t have those “Kentucky rednecks” as he called them, with their arcane twang hanging on to him, dragging him down. He was a Princeton Ph.D. He’d swum through his family’s Kentucky muck to the other side of genteel, southern aristocracy. He abhorred poverty: overflowing toilets that needed buckets of water to make the waste go down, roaches, hot water heated by a stove, hand-me downs so worn that they were patched over five times or more, and bluegrass music. All of it he hated except when he wrote about it in his poetry. Kit was always magnanimous in his poetic descriptions of those unwashed Southern whites, even in his condescension, even in his single-minded ambition. He was pulling them out in order to pull himself up.

Havilah then remembered his last book of poetry,
My Southern Way
, which had been panned in
The New Poetry Review
, the Bible of poets, by the truculent critic Clarence Towdaline. Towdaline called him a “poet of mere regional celebrity whose most interesting work revolves around his attempts to merge his poor Irish-American southern roots— which he has left as far behind him as his days as a Yale undergraduate— with those of the blacks whose blues he appropriates.” Kit, whose fastidiousness bordered on vanity, was none too amused to have been found out. Havilah had come to believe that his was the kind of personality that others found too difficult to really dislike, or to like. He certainly did not inspire a froth of ill will, animus, or even ambivalence, or so she had thought until this afternoon’s visit by French law enforcement.

She looked up again from the officers and out the panoramic living room windows. The rain had stopped, and sunlight was now streaming in, picking up the reddish-gold hints in the soft, thick brown curls that fell almost to her shoulders.

Agent Gasquet interrupted her thoughtfulness: “Professor Gaie…”

Just then she noticed there were gold flecks in his green eyes as well as in his softly curled chestnut hair. He stared so intensely at her, she reasoned, that she had no choice but to look at him dead on. Fidgeting would have only made her seem guilty.
Guilty! About what!?
She quietly stamped her socked foot.

“Yes?” she acknowledged weakly.

“Were you and Professor Beirnes especially close?”

“We were colleagues. Close? In a way. Yes. Of course.” She was shaking her head in disbelief, as she spoke of Kit Beirnes in the past tense.

“Did you communicate frequently?” Gasquet pried.

“Meetings. Memos. Occasional cups of tea and lunch. Things like that.”

“When is the last time you spoke with Professor Beirnes?” Noubard followed up.

“He called me yesterday evening. I…” she paused a beat, “returned his telephone call later that evening.”

“You were the last person Professor Beirnes called. You were the last person who called him before he died,” Noubard rattled on. He also said the last word “died” as “di-ed” in the way the French sometimes overemphasize certain syllables when mispronouncing words in English.

“I didn’t speak with Kit.” She trembled slightly at Noubard’s revelation.

“Yes, but when you called, somehow, Professor Gaie, his cell phone answered the call,” Noubard brayed.

“What are you saying?” Her voice was now a low level grumble. She wondered if he was accusing
her
of something sinister.

“You called Professor Beirnes two times, did you not? We have his cell phone records.”

“Yes. That’s true. I thought he had answered. But Kit didn’t respond when I called his name. I assumed I had the wrong number. So I hung up and called back. I got his voicemail the second time.”

“No!”

She startled a bit, shifting up from the small sofa to face the reedy Frenchman.

Noubard bellowed, “You dialed the correct telephone number the first time. When you called Professor Beirnes was more than likely being murdered.”

“What?!” She exclaimed as if someone had struck her. Her head was beginning to throb.

Gasquet glared at Noubard and then asked, “Did you hear anything? Can you remember hearing anything?”

“I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I don’t think so. I didn’t hear anything,” she repeated softly. Havilah pressed two fingers against her temples.

Her apartment intercom buzzed for the second time that afternoon. All eyes looked in the direction of the noise.

“Professor Gaie…” Thierry Gasquet sought again to help her realize the stakes “…the killer doesn’t know you didn’t hear anything. The police retrieved your name from the professor’s cell phone. It was left at the crime scene. He or she could just as easily track your whereabouts.”

“Are you saying that I might be in danger?”

“
C’est evident, non
?” Noubard piped up. “This is why we are ’
ere
.”

“You are a potential witness,” Gasquet clarified.

“
Oui, c’est evident
,” Noubard responded again.

A few beads of sweat began to form on the captain’s pointy nose. He retrieved a handkerchief from his left pocket. Noubard seemed to daub rather than wipe away the droplets. Since Havilah Gaie had plans to leave immediately for Cassis, she had not bothered to cool the apartment down from the rain’s humidity. She tiptoed to the terrace window to let in a breeze. It was a polite gesture.

Gasquet shook his head sympathetically. The professor kept shaking her own head, trying to jostle the murder from her mind.

“Professor Gaie, I think you should come with us until we assess the situation with regard to your safety. Moreover, we’d like to enlist your help. You knew the professor better than anyone else in France at the moment.” He said it first as an invitation rather than a demand.

“My help?” she yelped. “No!… no!… I don’t know anything. I was in Paris.”

The intercom buzzer sounded again.

“You may know more than you think,” Gasquet responded, looking impatiently at the black-faced timepiece that encircled his olive-toned wrist. “You will need to come with us,” he stated with finality.

“There is no way whoever did this to Kit could have made it to Paris this quickly after the murder and discovered where I am staying. Besides, I won’t be in Paris. I’ll be in Cassis. Problem solved.”

“Professor Gaie!” Their voices simultaneously raised a pitch. They both looked incredulous at her assumptions.

“You have no idea what resources the killer may have at his disposal. You are assuming that he does not know you and did not know Professor Beirnes. We are all creatures of habit. How often do you stay in this apartment when in Paris? How can you be sure that the killer may not be awaiting your arrival in Cassis?”

“
’Ow
do you know
’ee
is not downstairs now, waiting for you? Posing as the car service driver?” Noubard harrumphed.

She didn’t respond just yet to the officers’ exhortations.

“
Eh, bien
,” the diminutive Noubard interjected again. “We don’t often
’ave
important Americans murdered at cultural sites in France. Let alone in Cassis. This already
’as
the makings of an international
scandale
.”

Havilah knew she had to leave with the officers. Her rational self had known all along, even as she was irrationally trying to hold on to the last strands of what her life had been like before 12:10 p.m. And her apartment buzzer with its constant, impatient chiming was like an ominous squalling.

“Where are we going?”

“Cassis, of course,” Gasquet said calmly.

“Let me get my bag.” She snatched her Converse sneakers from the mat.

She made for the upstairs to retrieve the carry-on, but the nippy Noubard jumped to attention, meeting her at the loft’s steps.

“
Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle
.”

The buzzer had finally stopped chiming in the last minute or so. Their eyes all locked on each others; hers moved from the agent to the captain in a kind of knowing assent to danger.

While Noubard banged the bag about on the way down from the loft bedroom, Thierry Gasquet closed and locked the opened terrace window. The closure produced an immediate heat; whatever coolness there had been was sucked from the apartment. The humidity felt suddenly oppressive. Yes, she knew she had to leave.

Agent Gasquet then moved to open the apartment’s front door for Havilah. She sulked as she secured the locks.
At least French chivalry wasn’t dead.

* * *

The red-headed, thirty-something driver of a black BMW 525D parked in front of 82 Rue Notre Dame des Champs. He reached into the vehicle’s pristine glove compartment for a cell phone, and into his pocket for a telephone number. He rang the apartment of a Professor Havilah Gaie to let her know he had arrived and could help her with her bags. On the tenth ring, when the answering machine did not pick up, he hung up. He glanced at his watch and pressed the redial button. It was exactly 12:30 p.m.

* * *

The tall, sylphlike, male figure was standing inside the courtyard of 82 Rue Notre Dame des Champs. He had rung apartment six’s buzzer several times with no answer. He stared at his watch. A few students at the neighboring school noticed him because he was wearing a black fedora on such a warm Parisian afternoon. He watched quietly as students walked back and forth, only to stir when Havilah Gaie walked down the courtyard in the company of two men— one of whom he noted was clearly with the police prefect. He made sure to get a good look at the professor, for all he had to go on were photos and videos of her culled from the Internet.

He followed the threesome just outside the residence’s gated entrance and moved up the street in the opposite direction towards the Boulevard Montparnasse and La Closerie des Lilas, an old haunt of avant-garde writers and artists. He strolled slowly into the Paris metro where he took the RER towards Versailles.

II

Havilah assumed they would take Air France. They were driving in the direction of the Charles de Gaulle airport. They turned off on what appeared to be a service road instead. She felt queasy, wondering if she had made a mistake driving along this desolate road with two Frenchmen in a police cruiser. It was Thierry Gasquet, if that was his real name, who had declared that she didn’t know what resources were at the killer’s disposal. Police cruisers. Uniforms. Radios. National Police Insignia. Information. She was only slightly relieved to see the small jet. The vehicle came to a stop and Gasquet threw open the door, exiting quickly.

Another officer greeted Havilah. Gasquet was updating someone from his wireless earpiece. Yet another officer helped her out of the car. Her travel bag was placed on the jet and then the officer moved to assist her onto the six-seater plane. She looked for an opening to take off running, but the pilot stepped out of the cockpit to greet her. Her stomach was gurgling furiously and not from hunger; her nerves were fraying. The pilot’s smile had the effect of neutralizing her anxiety momentarily. There was something genuine there. He guided her gently from the officer’s clutches into the plane. She had assumed both Noubard and Gasquet would follow, but only Gasquet boarded.

“It is almost one o’clock,” the pilot said, emphasizing “i” as a long “e”. “It is a thirty-five minute flight. We should land by 1:30 or so, Professor Gaie.”

He must have sensed her apprehension when he offered those words of assurance. They did quell some of her panic. He offered her something to drink. Havilah declined and then she reached into her purse. But Gasquet withdrew a cell phone from the inside of his jacket and handed it to her. She thought it curious, as if he had been anticipating her every move, but she took the phone with a tepid smile.

She dialed her father’s cell phone. The voicemail picked up. She left a rather rambling, urgent message in hushed tones about her whereabouts, naming names, and instructing him to make a national spectacle of himself if he didn’t hear from her sometime today. She also told him to call Laurent at the Félibrige Foundation to follow up.

The flight to Cassis was deathly silent. Havilah listened to the whir of the jet’s engine. She decided she couldn’t feign sleep, so she reached into her bag and pulled out her sunglasses. She wanted to think without Gasquet’s inquisitive gaze. The jet landed at an airstrip outside of Cassis. A black Peugeot 308CC Cabriolet was awaiting their arrival.

She was glad her moisturizer contained sunblock. During college winterim years ago, she and friends traveled to the French island of Martinique where they carelessly hiked the Mont Pelée volcano; her medium brown skin burned, peeled, and freckled in such a way that an angry red pulsated underneath the sunburnt deeper brown, leaving the skin on her face and shoulders tender to the touch. She never again took her melanin for granted. The pilot retrieved her bag and helped her out the seat, while Gasquet exchanged places with the car’s driver.