The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(31)

His hip throbbed from all the walking at the Chateau. Back at the Auberge he would soak in a hot tub and have a long nap.

Rest his aching bones, in preparation for another visit to the Chateau after dinner. Meanwhile, perhaps, a sandwich or…

Madame Mussot’s! Would she still have her apricot tarts?

Damiot walked to the patisserie on the corner and was enveloped by a familiar mouth-watering aroma as he opened the door. Madame Mussot and a young girl were busy behind the counter, serving several customers. Madame smiled when she recognized him.

He hung his hat and waterproof on wall hooks and then sank cautiously onto one of the metal chairs as he glanced at the trays of pastries in the display cases.

“M’sieur Damiot!”

“Madame!” He got to his feet as she came from behind the counter, hand outstretched, beaming in welcome.

“I’ve been expecting you!” She shook his hand firmly, kissing him on both cheeks. “Ever since they told me you’d come back.”

“You’re looking well, Madame.”

“No complaints! Everything goes as usual. Mine is still the only patisserie in Courville. So there’s no competition! I know exactly what you’ll be wanting. Told the girl to set them aside, this morning, when I heard you were here. It will only take a moment.” She turned and, waving the girl ahead, marched her toward the kitchen.

Damiot realized as he sat down again that he was smiling in anticipation.

Madame Mussot must be in her late seventies but, in spite of her gray hair, looked twenty years younger. Petite and slim, as though she never touched her own pastries! She had been his mother’s closest friend and confidante.

Madame returned with a platter of tarts, followed by the girl with a tray holding a coffeepot and dishes. Damiot stared at the golden apricots in their nests of pastry. “Six of them?”

“You ate five last time.” Madame placed them on the table as the girl set a plate in front of him and poured the coffee.

“In all Paris, Madame, I’ve never found apricot tarts like yours!”

“Bon appetit, M’sieur. Pardon…” She hurried toward the counter, where more customers were waiting.

He had never been able to analyze the golden glaze covering the fruit, but there was a hint of lemon and, he suspected, honey. Finishing his first tart, he finally tasted the coffee, relaxing in a glow of contentment, savoring the moment.

He poured a second cup and reached for another pastry. “Caught in the act!”

Damiot looked up, startled, to see a girl in a pale green dress. Long blond hair…“Mademoiselle Tendrell!” He lurched to his feet, still holding the pastry in his fingers.

“I never imagined I might find you here, Monsieur Inspecteur! Devouring apricot tarts in public.”

“But, I—I’m…”

“The incriminating evidence half-eaten!”

Damiot laughed as he placed the remainder of his pastry on the plate. “Won’t you join me, Mademoiselle? I was hoping to see you again.”

“Were you?” She sank onto the other chair, hanging her shoulder bag over the back. “I’ve been doing my usual Saturday chores for our cook. Madame Mussot’s is always my last stop.”

“Have one of these apricot tarts. They’re my favorites.” He glanced at the remainder of the tart on his plate.

“They’re also my favorites!” She took a tart in her fingers and bit into it. “We enjoyed meeting you, last night, Allan and I…”

“I look forward to seeing Monsieur Tendrell another time.”

“You must come up to the farm again. Perhaps dinner, one night next week? Allan has so few friends here. He’s painting this afternoon because the light’s rather good, but one of the farmhands told me it should rain tonight.”

“More rain?”

“Allan says he had enough rain in England for the rest of his life. It’s very bad for arthritis…”

As Jenny chattered, Damiot signaled for Madame Mussot’s assistant, motioning for more tarts and fresh coffee, but missing nothing that the English girl was saying.

“Are you enjoying your stay at the Auberge?”

“Indeed, yes. The food is excellent.”

“Michel’s a first-rate chef. At least Allan thinks so. I’m not really into food… I suppose like all the other males, you’ve fallen in love with Aurore!”

“Is that what usually happens?”

“My father is most certainly in love with her! For a time last year, I thought they might be getting married. Which of course would be fine! But unfortunately,” she continued eating the pastry as she talked, “Aurore has this passion for Michel! Perhaps because her husband was also a chef. Of course, Michel will never marry her. He’s rather a Don Juan, you know.”

“A Don Juan?”

“Women know it but they still fall for him. Allan gets very uptight if Michel so much as looks at me.”

“You like this young man?”

“Like him? I find him amusing. Intelligent and unpredictable. Actually, I s’pose, I see Michel now and again because it would annoy Papa if he found out. We meet when I know Allan will be busy painting in his studio. That’s the only time I can take the car. I tell him I’m going down to the village, but instead I drive into the hills, where Michel and I have a bottle of wine at some roadside cafe and talk for hours. Or, if I’m certain that Allan’s going to be out for the evening, I phone Michel at the Auberge and tell him he can come up to the farmhouse.”