The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(12)

“Plaisir, Madame.” Jean-Paul rested his tray on the coffee table, within reach of Damiot.

Fric-Frac, bounding with excitement, ran toward Madame Bouchard, yelping with pleasure as she pawed at her owner’s skirt. Then she came straight to Damiot and jumped into his lap.

“Non, Fric-Frac!” Madame protested. “Naughty girl!”

“That’s all right.” Damiot stroked the curly black head. “She’s welcome to stay.”

The dog gave his hand a rapid lick with her pink tongue.

“Did she behave today while you were out?”

“She was a little lady.”

“Sometimes she can be a large nuisance.” Setting her needlepoint aside and accepting a glass of Calvados from the waiter. “Merci, Jean-Paul.”

“Service, Madame.”

Damiot raised his glass as the waiter departed. “A v?tre santé, Madame!”

“V?tre santé…” She made a small gesture with her glass before sipping the brandy.

“Someone lighted a fire in my room this afternoon while I was out. Left a bowl of lilac…”

“Claude made the fire and I brought fresh flowers back when I returned from shopping. The first lilacs are so beautiful! I get all my flowers from Sibilat Fleurs in the village. Marc Sibilat is the best florist this side of Nice.” Her needle flashed in and out as she talked. “Marc bought the shop two years ago, when the former owner retired.”

Damiot made a mental note to visit Sibilat Fleurs tomorrow and buy some flowers for his parents’ graves.

He watched her needle, with its thread of golden brown, moving back and forth. She was apparently a woman who was comfortable with silence. “Madame Bouchard… What can you tell me about the Chateau de Mohrt?”

She looked up. “The Chateau?”

“When I drove past there this morning, I noticed that the entrance gates were padlocked.”

“They’re always locked. No one is permitted to enter the grounds.”

“Does anyone live there? In the castle…”

“I believe there’s a caretaker on the premises.” She dropped her eyes to the needlework again. “I’ve never been inside. Except for poachers, I don’t think anyone goes there.”

Damiot saw that the dog, curled in his lap, was asleep. There were other questions he wished to ask. “I noticed a girl in the village yesterday and again last night, dining here with an older man. Blonde girl?”

“That’s Jenny Tendrell. The man’s her father, Allan Tendrell. He’s an artist—British—and, I believe, rather famous.”

“Attractive girl…”

“They have a farm in the hills. Allan bought it, some years ago, and spent a fortune making the place comfortable. The night we opened this restaurant, they were our first customers. When Julien was alive we often dined chez Tendrell on the nights we were closed. They have an excellent cook.”

“Then they live here all year?”

“Oh, yes! They’re permanent residents. Although I fear the villagers have never really accepted Allan. They resent the fact that he brought his staff with him from Burgundy and hired none of the locals. Which, however, he had every right to do! They, including the cook, had worked on his other farm for years. Allan moved south for the warmer weather. He suffers from arthritis.”

“Is there a Madame Tendrell?”

“Not at the moment. Allan was divorced, years ago, and given custody of his daughter. I don’t know the circumstances involved… Today Jenny’s old enough to do as she pleases—which she most certainly does—but she continues to live with her father. They dine here at least once a week. Allan enjoys good food. Jenny, however, doesn’t care what she eats!”

“You say Tendrell is an artist?”

“His paintings are in many museums, but I’m afraid they don’t really appeal to me. I find most of them rather—unpleasant.” She hesitated, her eyes on the petit point. “I’ve been wondering, Monsieur, have you come here like the others—there’ve been several visitors recently—to look at property for the new hotel?”

“Certainly not! Matter of fact, I don’t approve of these modern hotels springing up all over France.” He darted his next question at her. “Tell me, Madame, what is the Courville monster?”

She faced him again. “How did you hear about that?”

“A talkative waiter where I had lunch today.”

“Most waiters talk too much! I thought you had come to Courville about the new hotel.”

He sighed. “I am with the Police Judiciaire in Paris. Chief Inspector Damiot.”

“So! You were sent to find the killer?”

“I never heard of the Courville monster until today. I’ve come here to rest. As I told you, I’m recovering from surgery. When the hospital released me, my doctor suggested I get away from Paris and recuperate somewhere in the sun. That’s why I came to Provence. But tell me, why is he called the Courville monster?”

“Because two people—two young women—have been brutally murdered. One girl from the village and another, a stranger, who has never been identified.”

“How exactly did they die?”

“Their throats were cut…”