The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence (9 page)

* * *

Gasquet thought it would be best if they appeared as natural in one another’s company as possible. He needed Havilah to be relaxed so no one would suspect who he was. She was understandably on edge. They had laid a lot on her today.

“By the way, you look lovely this evening,” he offered as he opened his door. The compliment was sincere even if the reason for giving it had another motive.

“Thank you.”

“May I have your cell phone?”

“Whatever for?”

“In case you need me. Anytime. For anything.”

“Let’s hope I will never need you
anytime. For anything
,” she said, handing him the cell phone.

“I said ‘in case’.”

“#1?” Havilah Gaie looked incredulously from the agent to the cell phone.

“There was no one else occupying that slot in your cell phone directory.”

* * *

Coy and cute
. She knew what Thierry Gasquet was up to. She would play her role. He needn’t have worried. When he’d opened her door, he extended his hand. She took it without the slightest frisson.
Good girl
, she nearly squealed. She didn’t have time for sexual tension or coy bantering. She had a killer to catch before he or she caught her slipping. She would not allow herself to be disarmed by Thierry Gasquet. She just needed to keep him away from her ears.

* * *

Améline Fitts was at the top of the stairs when she saw Havilah entering the Académie with a tall, bronzed Attis. She hoped he would not suffer the beautiful Phrygian’s fate of castration. She remembered that the younger professor was now single after a messy break-up. She had obviously recovered well. Améline was wearing a light beige sheath dress with a strand of marble-sized, black Tahitian pearls. She had slicked her blonde hair back into a bun. In a profession in which female professors were stereotyped as plain Janes, Birkenstocks and sock wearers, she was an undeniable exception. As was Havilah.

Because Améline wore makeup and refused to wear a sack to teach her classes, sex-starved graduate students and juvenile senior male professors imagined that the very feminine, single, and self-confident professor who wrote about sex only sometimes, was exceedingly libidinous. Yet she had never slept with graduate students despite a paragraph here and there about sex and power in the classroom; they were too needy and prodigious strivers like herself. She did not, however, vociferously shoot down the rumors.

The combination of her looks and petiteness presented unique challenges early in her career with the sexist senior male professors, who for the most part still ran the professoriate, and the petty female ones who were still smarting about how they had been done in by the boys’ club over the years. She had become increasingly forceful and audacious since then. In an interview in the now defunct academic gossip rag
Lingua franca
, she had referred to herself as both “the runt and the bitch of my mother’s Idaho litter.” The forty-something public intellectual had put the academy on notice. From the rotten pot of sexism, she had been able to recreate herself as a sex-positive feminist. Students and faculty bought her books in order to gossip and they paid her huge speaking fees in hopes that she would perform their outsized ideas of her.

Améline had not, however, enjoyed being summarily dismissed the last time she met up with Havilah Gaie. She urgently needed to speak with her. This evening she would not tolerate being stiff-armed. As soon as Havilah crossed the threshold of the entryway of the spacious third-floor apartment, Améline was right in her field of vision. Interestingly, Havilah Gaie immediately made her way towards her. And to Améline’s delight, the Astor professor pronounced her name in French.

“Améline, I’m sorry for my
beastliness
earlier. I hope we can get together for drinks later?”

“Of course. I need to speak with you about a few things as well. How about tomorrow evening?” The imperious Princeton professor grinned self-consciously. It was clear Havilah had hoped her reference to beastliness would produce a smile. It had had the desired effect. Améline wondered what had changed Havilah’s mind. Whatever it was, she was relieved.

“Around 7 then? We can meet at Bar de la Marine. And then move on to Le Bonaparte. The bouillabaisse is to die for and the other fish dishes are incredibly fresh and well-prepared.”

Améline was very pleased with having at least locked in a time and place. She would have preferred this evening after the night’s event at the foundation, but she’d settle for tomorrow. What was clear was that another stiff-arm was out of the question.

“That’s fine. I’ll see you there.”

“Good. Forgive my manners. Let me introduce you to Thierry Gasquet, an old friend from Paris.”

Havilah took Thierry by the hand to introduce him to Améline. She smiled at him affectionately.

* * *

It was then that Havilah was able to put her strategy into play. Her smile broadened from pursed lips to a toothy one; she even placed his hand at her waist. Thierry’s eyebrows rose slightly; otherwise his face was inscrutable.

As she turned on her flats to leave, Thierry grabbed her hand again. He smiled and pulled her close, whispering, “
Pas si vite, ma chère
. Not so fast. Where are you going?”

“I’m just going to find Laurent. It’s okay. He’s on the terrace with the other board members.” With that, he released her hand.

IX

There were three other people in the apartment. Havilah decided she would first introduce herself to them and then move on to the terrace to find Laurent and meet the other board members. Seated with a drink in his hand was a handsome fortyish man, tanned with dirty blond hair, a Ralph Lauren model type who would have been a standout in any crowd because of his looks and fitness. His suit and shoes were definitely high-end and European. He seemed ill at ease hanging back all by himself, so Havilah began with him.

He was a mere few steps from her. Améline now had Thierry in a huddle, relating some adventure in French. He was smiling while his eyes darted around the combination kitchen/sitting area of the apartment. There wasn’t any place to go besides the bedroom behind a set of doors off the kitchen, a bathroom, or the terrace. He seemed to be observing exit and entry points.

“Hello, I’m Havilah Gaie.” She sat down beside the handsome man on the black leather sofa.

“Havilah Gaie? I’m Ansell Neely. It’s nice to meet you. You’re on the board. Weren’t you also a fellow at the Félibrige?” Fair-haired Neely pushed a wayward lock of his off his forehead.

“Ages ago it seems. And you? Were you a fellow?” She recalled that Neely was also the fourth speaker for the Centennial.

“Yes. I was here in 2000, working on a book of poetry.”

“You’re a poet?” She feigned ignorance.

“At UT-Austin. I don’t think any us of could support ourselves selling poetry these days.” He laughed. “You’re at Astor, right? I just spent two months of my semester research leave there, using the archives in the Halstead Library. I’m sorry to hear about your colleague. We were on a panel together about two years ago in Washington, DC. He was very solicitous of us younger poets. His poetry helped to define a generation.” Neely looked genuinely saddened by Kit’s death.

She knew Kit didn’t especially like being feted as a regional poet, but he had made a mark, a clearly impressionable one, on the likes of Neely and his younger generation of poets.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone. I’m delighted to hear that Kit was supportive of you. I’ve been at Astor for close to eight years now. It was my first job. He mentored me in his own way as well. So when did you arrive in Cassis? I arrived this afternoon. Are you on the board as well?”

She thought she’d volunteer some information so he wouldn’t think she was prying. She couldn’t be deterred by pleasantries, impressed though she was by Ansell Neely’s graciousness.

“No, I’m not on the board. I’m giving some remarks on Friday. I arrived today as well. Needless to say, I’m still jetlagged. I heard it takes one day for every hour of the time difference to recover from jetlag. France isn’t that far from Texas. I should be over it by now.” Laughing, he took a sip from his wine glass. “May I get you something to drink, Havilah? I hope I’m not being too forward by calling you by your first name?” He gave her a winsome smile.

“Not at all. Sparkling wine, if they have it. Thank you.”

He rose to search out her request. She couldn’t tell if he was being cautiously flirtatious or just considerate. She hadn’t played the flirt game in a very long while. But he was easy on the eyes, so she decided to just go with it.

Ansell Neely returned with the wine. “You are in luck, Madame,” he said, eyeing Thierry. “Or it is Mademoiselle?”

“Mademoiselle.”
Definitely flirting.

“That is Elizabeth Barrett to my ears. How long will you be in Cassis, Paris, or anywhere in France, even? I’d like to see you again.”

He sat down close to her. She stiffened, visibly, she suspected; he sought to put her at ease.

“I’m always transparent about my intentions, Havilah. I don’t like having regrets.” His smile this time was earnest.

“I’m sure. A man of conviction who is probably accustomed to getting exactly what he wants.” She pulled her wayward dress down and moved an inch away from the creeping poet.

She tried to loosen up, but she was still wound up from a bout of nerves and very rusty from years of not engaging in flirtatious repartee.

“Not always. But I think I’d regret not getting to know you better.”

She wasn’t going to answer his question about where she would be and for how long. He was blindingly hot, but she had more urgent concerns.

“Probably. And though I really, really hate to disappoint you, I’m not taking date requests at the moment.”
That was an adequate retort
, she assured herself.

“Fair enough. I’ve been warned that you could never be serious about me, that you’d probably break my heart.”

She laughed at his wit. He really was charming and persistent.

“So how about a harmless dinner tomorrow or the next day between colleagues? I promise it won’t be the end of you.”

Her head almost did a whiplash at the words, “the end of you.” Her smile suddenly vanished.

“It may very well.” Havilah stood up.

Before Ansell Neely could continue to pursue his cause, Thierry had turned around to face them.

“I’m afraid she’s engaged to go to dinner with me. For the next few evenings. Thierry Gasquet.” The agent extended a well-manicured hand to Ansell Neely, who was still seated.

* * *

Neely graciously took the offering, but he wasn’t the least unmoored by the intrusion. Havilah had told him she was single, so he didn’t give a rat’s ass about Mr. French here, even if he approved of his impeccable yet understated taste in clothes. Besides, Frenchie seemed bemused by that dreadful Améline Fitts. He, though, found Havilah Gaie intriguing. He could write sonnets about this woman.

He stood up beside Havilah, in between the demure professor and her irritating French friend, to whom he turned his back.

“After those next few evenings with Monsieur Gasquet, then?” Ansell Neely blithely ignored the other’s man bold intervention. “I’ll send you an email, Professor Havilah Gaie.”

Neely smiled again at Havilah as he smoothly pushed off towards the outdoor terrace. “Havilah can take care of herself, Thierry,” Améline piped up softly, pulling the agent’s attention back towards her.

* * *

Havilah had already redirected her sights. She didn’t think twice about taking Professor Neely up on his request. It was nice to be appreciated by someone other than Lucian.
No entanglements,
she reminded herself, at least until she could clear the bar about her feelings for her ex-fiancé. She wondered how long that would take.

She dipped her head in Thierry’s direction and walked over to introduce herself to a couple huddled together on the other side of the apartment: a burly, graying white man and his small, dark-haired female companion of unknown racial origin. She decided to horn in on their conversation.

“Hello, I’m Havilah Gaie.”

The two looked up and relaxed.

“Havilah Gaie,” the man blurted out. “How’s your boss Charlie doing at Astor? I’m Donovan Betts, chair of the foundation’s board of directors. Welcome aboard. And this is Celestine Valens; she’s also on the board.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Celestine offered her hand in a hard, firm handshake.

Havilah nearly spit out the mouthful of Bugey Cerdon sparkling wine she’d just imbibed when she heard Charles Chastain being referred to as “Charlie.”

“Yes it is,” Donovan Betts followed up. “When did you arrive?”

“This afternoon. I guess you have been here for awhile, though?”

They both looked at one another and then down. Donovan smiled and then said, “I wish the Centennial was not marred by this turn of events.”

Havilah was taken aback at his referring to Kit’s murder as having marred the celebration.
What an ill-bred lout
.

She couldn’t help but offer a pointed riposte. “I’m sure Kit Beirnes wouldn’t have wanted to intrude upon the festivities in such a manner.” She was sublime at fighting but a featherweight at flirting.

“Of course, he didn’t. I didn’t mean it that way. It came out all wrong.” Donovan Betts shuffled his feet like a scolded child.

Celestine Valens stood there with a smile frozen on her face, not offering any response whatsoever. Havilah studied them both quickly.
Odious and odd.
She had noted his name on the list Laurent gave her. He was from Kansas City, Missouri. He was a tell-it-like-it-is Midwesterner through and through. Valens was more circumspect. Her hair, though, offered some clues as to what she may have been ethnically. Mixed-race, Italian, Greek, or even Jewish. Her hair had as much texture if not more than Havilah’s, and she was definitely darker in hue than your run-of-the mill olive-toned white brunette. Her appearance seemed as opaque as her unreadable smile.