The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence (8 page)

Chastain was very well aware of her commitment to Astor. He had every intention of putting Havilah at the helm of Warren Institute now that Kit was dead. He had tried once to entice her to join him in the president’s office in some capacity. He would have shoehorned her in somehow. She was young, energetic, leggy, and very easy on the eyes. She had curves and a suppleness that came with not pummeling the female form into gristle and bone at a gym. She would be good for fundraising. Havilah resisted his entreaties, preferring to remain with the morose faculty.

Charles Chastain wanted to look at Havilah Gaie. He admitted to himself that he had a schoolboy crush on the younger professor. He had never been much of a ladies’ man. He was gregarious in his professional life but shy in his personal one. He had had his share of wives, though. Always one to balance his needs and his interests with a Machiavellian practicality, his headlong infatuation aside, he wanted Havilah because his cabinet was composed of hard-legged males and women who reminded him of his bloodless, reed-thin third ex-wife. His administration had no flies in the buttermilk. It was blanched almond white and male, save for one or two appointments that had been made not by him but by his namby-pamby predecessor, Joshua Flint. In fact, Chastain had not been responsible for Havilah and Lucian’s hires, either. Those also occurred under Flint. He was sick of Flint. The polka-dotted-tie wearing old coot had retired two years earlier. And he still came around campus sucking up the oxygen.

Chastain’s honeymoon period at Astor had passed; he was moving into the fussing and fighting phase of his marriage to the university. He needed some accomplishments to mark his administration, to shake things up a bit. Havilah Gaie would do the trick; she was an affirmative action dream: highly qualified, as the rhetoric went, female,
and
African-American. She could provide a fresh perspective. As head of the Warren Institute, she would report to Rina
and
him since the institute was his pet project. He could see her at least twice a month. Just as he re-entered Kettle, his cell phone vibrated again, alerting him that he had a new message.

He padded through the hallway, greeting everyone by name in his path— he was good like that— as he made his way to his office. It was a cavernous space with a huge antique cherry wood desk. He could hold meetings of up to 10-12 at the massive mahogany table at the other end of the office. For all its grandeur in size and furnishings, the space was somewhat dark due to its position on the shady side of the building and the deep, rich woods and dark embroidered carpets used as interior accents.

He sat down at his desk and began to reread Havilah’s email. Relief swept over his shoulders and trickled down his limbs. He would arrive in Cassis in a few days. He would take her to breakfast. He would then make his proposal of the Warren Institute chairmanship. Of course he would say chairwomanship. He reread her email a third time. She had signed it “A.” He liked the intimacy of that. He forgot momentarily of course that Rina was also included on the email.

VIII

Cassis, France, June 21st

Havilah awoke to India.Arie’s song
Beautiful
. She traveled with a pair of miniature external speakers that she could hook up to her iPod. It was her version of a portable alarm clock. She had slept for only thirty minutes. She felt refreshed but not too rested. She sat up. Arie was singing the refrain softly. Havilah then selected the song that captured her mood, Arie’s
Nature
. She began to hum,
“Where we’ll go, baby, I don’t know, Maybe we should just let nature run the show.”
That was generally how she dealt with jetlag. She didn’t contrive to trick her body. Things would eventually flow naturally.

She went to the closet and chose a white linen slip dress and pink sandals. The sandals were flat with a carefully crafted leather rose that slid between her big toe and the second toe. With thin straps that wrapped around the ankles, there was nothing to the sandals except the leather sole, rose, and straps.

After brushing her teeth, she washed her face, making sure to apply the moisturizer with sunblock. The sun would be out well after 6 p.m. in Provence and the meal would be served outdoors. She applied a bit of eyeshadow, a blend of rich golds and bronze, and her favorite Lancôme Volanic Pink gloss. She decided that less was more in the jewelry department, putting on a pair of Swarovski pink crystal earrings. Dabbing herself with a little of Fragonard’s Mimosa, she slipped on the dress and shoes and pulled her hair back into a loose chignon, letting some curls fall where they may.

She settled on a small vintage clutch and picked up her cell phone. That’s when she remembered. Dialing into her voicemail, she heard the dead man’s voice. “
Hello, Havilah
,” Kit Beirnes began in his part Southern, part cultivated British clip:

I’ve just put the finishing touches on my remarks for the Centennial. I think it will be electrifying. I’m over the moon about it since it’s part of the book. It was the most difficult part. I’ve had some setbacks but I am determined to see the work through. I also sent the final book proposal off this evening. So I am celebrating. I will send a copy of both to you so you can give me some feedback. Call me when you get a chance. I want to know when you are arriving. It’s about 8:40 now. Going for a stroll in the harbor for a quick drink with Améline Fitts. I should be back in an hour. I still have some work to finish up so I can’t dawdle for long. You remember her? She was invited to give a lecture last fall. I need to talk to you about her as well. Bisous.

Havilah needed to sit down to compose herself. With each new discovery about Kit’s death, she was thrown off balance. His crushed fingers. His body lodged into the Félibrige star at the Greek Theater. His blood smears. And now his voice. She listened again to the message.

Ever since Tayden Smith had bragged about receiving a $100,000 advance for his book on poverty, Kit had believed he needed to top it. The advance became something of an obsessive topic in their monthly “Let’s have a cup of tea to catch-up” meetings leading up to his residency at the Félibrige.

Give me something to work with, Kit
. He had. She accessed her email from the cell phone.
Nothing.
She typed two appointment reminder alerts for 9 and 10 p.m.:
Call Hezekiah at IT
. She was also going to have that drink with Améline Fitts.

She got up to walk towards the door to slip out undetected. She was torn between leaving the iPod playing to give the illusion that she was in the room and saving electricity. John Legend was crooning,
“Let’s get lifted.”
Just as her hand touched the door’s handle she heard a light tap. She looked through the peephole to find Thierry Gasquet decked out rather fetchingly in a white linen suit.
Quel surprise! No black.

She opened the door. Gasquet looked good, she had to admit. He smelled even better. He gave her an appreciative onceover.

“John Legend. One of my favorite artists. You’re wearing white, as well. Are you ready?”

Despite various protectionist measures and quotas to prevent the Americanization of French culture, the French still loved American popular culture and Hollywood.

“And so are you. Yes, I’m ready.” It was all she could muster.

She tried not to look annoyed. She had certainly not intended for them to go to the dinner matching in white getups like some odd variation of the Gold Dust Twins. Indeed, she had not intended for him to go at all.

“I thought you would enjoy some company this evening at the dinner.” He was clearly being facetious now but he pressed on anyway. “I couldn’t let you to go unescorted. You remember telling us about it in Paris?”

“There are probably several unescorted women at the dinner. And I didn’t think you’d remember that very small detail.” She tried to disguise the huff in her voice.

“But God is in the details.”

“You’re citing Gustave Flaubert now? More like the devil,
non
? And it’s clear that you are quite the demon for details.”

“That I am, Havilah.”

They walked towards the elevator. Not wanting to replicate the discomfort of earlier that afternoon, she suggested she take the stairs.

“I wouldn’t think of having you take the stairs alone. There is too much that could happen between here and down there.” He pointed up and then down before pressing for the elevator.

“Let’s walk down together then.”

As they entered the lobby, he held out his arm. She hesitated to take it. Thierry Gasquet then leaned in. And this time when he whispered, he accidentally brushed his lips against her ear, “Havilah, remember, we are old friends.”

He sent a jolt through her body. She had had six blissful months of clarity, celibacy, and man-free drama. She chalked it up to a purely physiological response devoid of physical attraction and exacerbated by celibacy. She latched onto his arm to accommodate his request. She smiled up towards him as they exited the lobby so that those who knew they had separate hotel rooms would understand that they were indeed old friends being as discreet as possible.
Old friends with benefits
.

And then it was Havilah’s turn to lay some ground rules. “Okay, old friend, I need to share a few things with you.”

They moved towards the car. It was still too warm to walk to the Félibrige without working up a sweat trudging up the hills of Cassis before the dinner. Not to mention having cars whizz by on the narrow road and pedestrian walkway leading from the hotel to the foundation. Gasquet opened the door. Once he was buckled in, she gave him some details in case anyone— that meant Laurent— asked.

“I’m single. 34. Broke off an engagement two years ago with Lucian Patrick, Astor Law School’s dean. No children. You and I met while I was studying abroad in Paris as an undergraduate at Brown. We’ve kept in touch over the years. When did you have time to pick up the suit?” she had to ask. He had had no luggage when they arrived.

He then obliged by giving her some background on himself. He was 38 and single. No children. One sister. He was French and Moroccan.

“I lived in New York for two years and then went to London for a year. Did I see you then, Havilah?”

“When was that?”

“About ten years ago. I would have been 28.”

“Why not? Sure. I was in graduate school at Yale. So nothing improper about a visit to New York to see an old friend. Lucian and I didn’t even know one another.”

No, they had met when she was 26. She graduated at 27 and they were hired at Astor as a couple— though he had not yet even proposed marriage.

* * *

Gasquet’s lips turned upwards in a half-smile. Americans and their concerns about propriety, appearances, and respectability even though they typically wilded out when they arrived in Paris because of how repressed they were in America. There was something refreshing about it, he guessed.
An innocence
. He resisted going into a foreign policy or any other political direction with this analysis. It always ended up less flattering for the Americans, to his mind anyway.

“I had the concierge arrange the purchase and delivery of the suit from a boutique in town. Did you find your things put away to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I didn’t put them away, Havilah. I tipped the concierge. She sent a room attendant up to do it.”

He didn’t want her thinking he had rifled through her belongings. He sensed that the thought of it would bother her terribly.

“Thank you for having my things arranged just so, then.” He thought she had tried to sound casual but was actually immensely relieved.

They pulled in front of Avenue Jermini at the foundation’s main entrance.

“This Lucian. Is he French? Why did you break off the engagement?”

“His family is from New Orleans. So he might very well have some French or Spanish ancestry. But in America, he’s African-American. He didn’t want children. Though he assured me he did or maybe he didn’t and I presumed as much. At 32, all I could hear and see were my biological clock clanging and my best eggs releasing themselves monthly. Do you like children, Thierry?”

Her directness and the question caught him flatfooted. He was again struck by the American’s openness. “Yes. Why?”

“Do you want children?” she followed up. “I mean you are 38 and not married. I know Frenchmen marry late but by 38 there is usually at least one marriage or divorce and 2.02 children. Besides you have an enviable safety net in France. And yet you are single. But then again I shouldn’t assume that you are without a lover, male or female.”

He offered a simple but truthful retort, “I’d like to marry and have children. It’s been difficult to manage in my line of work. Is there someone else I should know about? Do you still see your ex-fiancé?”

“That’s none of your business,” she sniped.

* * *

Of course she had been seeing her ex. That
was
the problem, wasn’t it? Now Thierry had gone and kicked the hornet’s nest and made her think about how stupidly she had been conducting herself with that hopeless relationship— which was why she had done a six-month time out and fled to France. She pulled at her dress. To her everlasting aggravation, it had inched up to her mid-thigh.

“I thought we were getting to know one another.”

Havilah stared at Thierry, narrowing her eyes. They had been in the car talking at least five minutes in front of Académie.

“Is there someone else
I
should know about?” she asked pointedly.

“No,” he said softly in response.

“No, I don’t need to
know
about them, or no there isn’t anyone?”

“No to the second part of your question.”

“Well, no and no to yours.” She fumbled around trying to open her door.

“Havilah, despite my shortcomings in the areas of marriage and fatherhood, there are some customs I continue to abide by as a Frenchman. I’ll get the door for you.”