The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence (3 page)

As they drove along the narrow French roads, she studied the vineyards and the buds of lavender, wildflowers, and sunflowers of Cassis’s vast countryside while the wind whipped her hair into her eyes and mouth. The spring season’s fields of red
coquelicots
, or red poppies as they were called in the States, were now withering and dropping their seeds in the fields. The car hummed along. She thought about the smell of lavender and the taste of lavender iced tea, ice cream, honey, and jam. In another week or so, fields of lavender would emerge like purple passion carpets, and bright yellow sundials would sprout along the various back roads and vineyards in Provence.

They were at the Félibrige Foundation in ten minutes. Before they entered the grounds, Gasquet turned to her. “Professor Beirnes was struck multiple times on the head with a heavy object. There is something odd about your colleague’s murder, Professor Gaie. Every bone in his fingers was broken. We have found no evidence of struggle. It appears that they were deliberately broken.”

“With what?” Havilah was puzzled for a minute.

“We don’t know as yet.” He removed his black jacket and draped it over his arm.

Before she could ask another question, an officer called them over to the Greek Theater. The foundation’s grounds were still teeming with the criminal brigade in charge of investigating murders, the police, and the French gendarmery, a branch of the French Armed Forces charged with public safety. The prosecutor and fire brigade had already come and gone, taking Kit with them. A forensics team was still milling about. She had forgotten how enchanting and picturesque the ancient fishing village of Cassis and the Félibrige Foundation grounds were, despite the present ugliness of the crime scene.

Cassis had as its plusses a panoramic view of one of Europe’s highest cliffs, the vertiginous yellow sandstone Cap Canaille, which juts majestically out of the sea, not quite tickling the cloudless Provençal blue sky;
falaises
, those stone of Cassis cliffs that open up to sheltered water inlets known as
calanques
; an array of quaint shops, open-air markets, and restaurants whose multihued façades ranged from deep reds, rich golds, and shades of orange; and an almost dainty boat-lined and palm-tree dotted harbor.

The Félibrige sat not far from the harbor’s entrance. Its verdant campus included seven buildings and numerous stone passageways, terraces, and architecturally rich nooks and crannies conducive to contemplation; it was also chock full of hardy plants and flowers— roses, irises, wisteria, lemon trees, rosemary, bougainvillea, myrtles, junipers, palm trees, flowering cacti, and jasmine. The light-filled Provençal village and its environs had been a feast for painters’ eyes and canvasses, and writers’ notebooks, from Paul Signac to Virginia Woolf to Henry Miller. A man-made stone-by-well-placed-stone paradise, the foundation burst and bloomed with all species of flora and now percolated, she thought, with an intrigue introduced by one of its guest residents.

Every ten years, beginning in 1920, and by a secret nomination process, the prestigious Félibrige Foundation offered twelve yearlong residency fellowships to scholars, composers, visual artists, and writers. Those who were considered never knew they were in the running. While other foundations had scores of alumnae, to date there had been only 121 admitted to the exclusive Félibrige ranks. But such was the quality of the April 2009 nominee pool that the board of directors allowed one more. Each fellow was allotted a beautifully furnished apartment for the year— inclusive of free weekly cleaning services— and a generous monetary stipend of $250,000 dispensed over five equal payments for five years. All they had to do was write, compose, paint, or create still or moving pictures. Havilah wondered if Kit had been the lucky soul to make the competitive cut only to bear that unlucky numerical distinction?

Her eyes continued to move about the grounds. The Perched Terrace’s courtyard was awash with Cornelia, Felicia, and Buff Beauty roses, while the various stone buildings, some with balconies perched over the Mediterranean, were breathtaking. There were also blood smears on the stone walkway leading to the Greek Theater.

She followed the trail of smears. The theater was a unique circular stone structure with steps that descended down to a round orchestra. Open-air concerts were held here. The backdrop of the theater was an in-ground pool and the Mediterranean. The orchestra center of the Greek Theater contained a large, three-inch deep circle where the pebbled symbol of the foundation— a seven-pointed star— was nestled.

“His body was found here. Inside the circle,” Gasquet said matter of factly, pointing to the pebbled Félibrige symbol.

Havilah gazed at the dark stains on the pebbles and circled the perimeter of the crime scene barrier tape. “Who found the body?”

“One of the cleaning women. She was leaving the Batterie and discovered the professor around 10:30 this morning.”

Havilah wobbled a bit, thinking about how quickly Gasquet and Noubard had tracked her, in less than two hours.

“The Batterie is where Laurent Pierce resides. He’s the foundation’s on-site director. It’s not a direct route to the Greek Theater.”

“Everyone, except you, Professor Gaie, is a suspect,” he replied dispassionately.

Havilah took note of his precision.
So any and everyone, from the cleaning staff to the foundation’s director, were under suspicion
. She decided she didn’t much like Thierry Gasquet, with his natty suit and probing green eyes. He was cool, smooth even, which she had to admit added a certain mystery to his comportment, but he was also deliberately reserved with her. She supposed that was part of the job. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance and allowed her eyes again to follow the bloody trail.

“The body was dragged?”

Gasquet nudged her by the back in the direction of the blood smears on the paving stones. “It appears that he was dragged from the Perched Terrace to the Greek Theater, resulting in more contusions to his head and blood loss. He died from a loss of blood, not blunt force trauma, which suggests that whoever assaulted the professor may not have been necessarily trying to kill him.”

“But he’s dead all the same,” she stated flatly.
Why the Greek Theater?
She mulled over that idea.

As if reading her thoughts, Gasquet suggested, “Our killer certainly has a flair for the dramatic,
non
?”

“A Greek Tragedy?”

“That would be too obvious.” The agent ran his hand over his chestnut curls in frustration. “The killer could have just as easily left the body on the steps leading down to the orchestra. That message would have been just as clear. The real question is: why place the body there?” He pointed to the Félibrige Foundation symbol.

She peered through her dark glasses at the symbol, shifting them slightly upwards to take in its colors. The sun caused her to squint. She didn’t like taking in Kit’s blood. But it was unavoidable. Some sadistic bastard was making a point. She began to recall her Félibrige Foundation history.

“The symbol is a seven-pointed star made of beach pebbles. It’s an homage to the seven Provençal poets who wanted to revive Occitan rituals, customs, and the language in the nineteenth century. They founded a literary society called the
Félibrige
in the 1800s. The name was taken from a Provençal song where there is some mention of the seven
félibres
, scholars, or scribes. The poets numbered seven. The only poet who readily comes to my mind is Frédéric Mistral. He won a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1904 for his efforts. I also read Judith Krantz’s novel,
The Mistral’s Daughter
, when I was in high school. Her Mistral was a painter. The setting was Provence nonetheless. And everyone in Provence talks about the cold, dry wind that blows along the Mediterranean coast and Provence in the winter; it’s called a mistral. But Cassis doesn’t really get them. It’s insulated by the Cap Canaille and the
calanques
.”

Gasquet studied her intently, as if he’d forgotten that she was a learned woman. “Most Americans come here for the lavender, sun, and wine.” He continued, “
Le pays de langue d’oc
. The country of the language of
oc
. The Provençal language, or Occitan, uses
oc
for ‘yes’ as opposed to the French
oui
. But why there?”

He pointed with the focused persistence of the Belgian Hercules Poirot rather than the bumbling French Inspector Jacques Clouseau.

Havilah looked at him oddly, as if he had now asked an obvious question.

“Kit was a poet. He was also a Southerner like the members of the original Félibrige society. They were all poets from the South of France.”

“Those last details I did not know, Professor Gaie. I knew you would be of some assistance.”

Gasquet turned his back to her and began speaking again into the earpiece that was lodged deeply and quite invisibly into his ear. She watched his gestures closely. He moved confidently with a natural smoothness and an economy. But had she not known what he was doing, he would have looked insane, as if he were crazily but calmly muttering to himself in French at a quick pace. After rapidly conveying information to someone perhaps a few meters away, he turned to face her again.

“Do you know if Professor Beirnes was writing something important? Controversial even?”

“Controversial?”

Gasquet shook his head in the affirmative.

“He was a poet. Of course he was writing something. He was always inspired by this or that.”

Gasquet took a few steps back and turned away from her, answering another call. She was agitated. The last thing she wanted to do was to have to outmaneuver a clever killer.
Why did I promptly return that call that night of all nights?
She placed her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes. Between bad nerves and the way the sun was glaring down like the sun in
The Stranger
, she could sense a headache was closing in on her. She rummaged around her purse and popped a Tylenol, hoping for some relief.

Gasquet concluded the call. Havilah began to retrace all of her conversations with Kit over tea, in the hallways, in the office, on the telephone.
The telephone
. She choked off the thought before Gasquet could register a change in her demeanor, as he was watching her face. Havilah fidgeted, trying to distract him first by again lifting her sunglasses atop her head and then unnecessarily rummaging around her purse. With its many compartments and pockets, the white patent leather bag served as both a purse and computer carrying case.

“Have the police checked Kit’s apartment?”

He nodded in the affirmative. “We have found nothing compelling so far. We do have his computer. His emails had been accessed and the hard drive erased. They had nothing but time on their hands, it seems. Why?”

“I’d like to go over it myself, if possible?”

“Why?” He waved his hands dismissively. “You wouldn’t know what to look for. Besides, it’s not possible.”

That was it!!
This was what she didn’t like about Gasquet. He was dismissive and aloof all at once, swatting her like a meddlesome fly.

“Since I have a stake in this I’d like to take a look for myself. You didn’t even know he was a poet and Southerner.”

Gasquet stared blankly at her. “I’m sorry I can’t let you into the apartment. It’s part of the crime scene.”

“This,” she pointed a finger in the direction of the Greek Theater and the Perched Terrace, “is the crime scene.”

“It is protected by a barrier, Professor Gaie. But
it
is all—” he pointed his finger in every direction of the foundation’s grounds, “— part of the crime scene.”

He sounded as if he hoped that, with that last gesture, she would understand she would no longer be welcomed on these parts of the foundation grounds— until the investigation was completed.

She moved the bag’s flap until she heard the magnets click to a firm close. She decided she needed to figure out a way to get into Kit’s apartment without Thierry Gasquet’s assistance. He had left her no choice.

III

To her mind, things had been settled between them.
I will keep my own counsel from now on.
She pursed her lips with the understanding that she was ill suited for the role of damsel in distress. Despite her usual preternaturally calm demeanor, Havilah Gaie’s stomach was stirring again.

She made her way to the Trianon, the director’s residence. She had told Gasquet she needed to use the restroom there. He could see the entry to the director’s quarters from where he was standing. So he agreed. She made another visual sweep of the grounds. She didn’t see Laurent anywhere. She entered and exited the Trianon at different points. She decided to cross the street to the foundation’s main building, the Académie, where the administrative offices were located on the first floor.

Havilah looked upwards to the third floor apartment.
My apartment
, she mused proprietarily. She’d spent many afternoons with all six balcony doors open. She would have her tea on the middle one in the morning as the sun rose up over Cap Canaille, giving the sandstone a reddish-yellowish hue.

The lighthouse in Cassis’s small port would shine into her opened bedroom while she listened to the sea on those summer evenings. The lapping of the Mediterranean’s dark waves against the incandescent bluffs of white limestone lulled her to sleep. The greenish glow from the harbor’s lighthouse cast shadow and light across the sea, as it floated above the blue-black swells of water. She woke up mosquito-bitten on many August mornings. She had wondered if Winston Churchill had felt the same way about the Académie and Cassis when he was here painting during the heady years of the 1920s. She had also wondered if he had stayed in
her
apartment. There was so much history in Cassis and at the Félibrige Foundation. Kit’s murder would become part of that history.
Who else was here? Who else knew Kit was there?
Havilah Gaie was unfortunately compelled to find out. Thanks to her phone call, she was now wondering if her time on earth would also end prematurely and so grotesquely.