The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(34)

He looked around to see Aurore Bouchard. “Not tonight. Merci!” Rising clumsily from the low fauteuil. “Won’t you sit down?”

“For a moment.” She sank onto a sofa, facing him.

“Another excellent dinner!” Lowering himself into the armchair again, favoring his hip. “Pity there were so few people to enjoy it.”

“We always expect that in this weather.” She clasped her hands on an arm of the sofa. “Why didn’t you tell me who you are?”

“But I did, Madame!”

“Yes, of course you did.” She smiled. “You even wrote your name in our guest book when you arrived. I simply didn’t associate it with the previous owners of this property. In fact, I’d completely forgotten that their restaurant was called Chez Damiot! After Madame Sibilat phoned this morning, I checked through a file of documents and found the names—Pierre and Clémence Damiot…”

“I suppose Madame Sibilat told you I placed roses on their graves?”

“She did.”

“I noticed fresh flowers on your husband’s grave.”

“Oh, yes! I get them every Saturday, when I pick up flowers for the restaurant.”

“Off the record, what do you think of the Sibilats? Mère et fils?”

She frowned. “The truth is—I do not like them. Either of them!” Facing him again. “Madame is much too inquisitive. Most of the village women have sharp eyes—and sharper tongues. Except Madame Mussot, at the patisserie. She’s a love!”

“I’ve known her since I was a child.”

“Madame Sibilat’s the worst! She asks the most personal questions and expects an answer. I also resent the way she dominates her son. Marc must be in his thirties, but he’s completely controlled by his mother. Madame Sibilat is constantly telling him what to do. Even in their shop. I find it uncomfortable to go there, but they do have the best flowers this side of Grasse!” She rose from the sofa. “Eh bien, Monsieur! Now that I know who you are…”

He got to his feet. “Yes, Madame?”

“Would you care to see what Julien and I have done to your old home? To your parents’ kitchen…”

“I would indeed.”

“I shall give you a personal tour.” She led the way, across the lobby and through the dark dining room with its ghostly tables. “My staff has departed for the night and Michel will be leaving shortly, in spite of the rain, for whatever diversion he may have planned for this evening. Perhaps some billiards or a visit to one of his lady friends. He has many local admirers.

Damiot was aware of a note of irony in her voice as she pushed the doors back, into the brightly lighted kitchen.

“We enlarged the old kitchen. Put in more windows…”

His eyes moved from the compact modern ranges to a row of white refrigerators as she talked, noticing the enormous stainless-steel pots, hanging copper pans, and rows of casseroles. Worktables holding electrical equipment—mixers and blenders. “My father would appreciate every change you’ve made in his kitchen, and my mother would admire what you’ve done to her dining room. Especially the chairs!”

“I am so glad, Monsieur.” She glanced toward a corkscrew wooden staircase that rose from a shadowy corner. “Now would you care to see my own suite?”

“If I wouldn’t be intruding…”

“Certainly not!” She started up the curving steps. “I suppose these were your family bedrooms?”

“My parents had the large one. Mine was the smallest. The other room, in front, was available for guests.” He clutched the polished baluster as he climbed after her. “You added this staircase…”

“Julien found it in an old farmhouse that was being torn down. It was his idea to put it here, so that we might have a private entrance to our apartment.” She turned to look down at him. “Oh, Monsieur, I forgot! Your hip…”

“No problem. I’m walking much better today.”

“How thoughtless of me!”

“Not at all.” He followed her to the top, hip barely protesting. All the exercise, these past three days, must have done some good.

“Here we are!”

He saw that they had reached a shallow landing with a carved antique door. She swung it open and snapped a wall switch, sending a spill of light from inside the room across the landing. “Come in, Monsieur.”

Damiot followed her into a spacious sitting room furnished with Provencal antiques. Warm pools of light from handsome pottery table lamps. “This must take up the space of both our old bedrooms! Mine used to be over there, I think, in the corner. And my parents’ room was about here! Where I was born…”

“My bedroom’s through there.” She indicated a closed door. “In the front.”

“That would be where our guest room used to be.”

“We added a new wing for guest rooms and a lounge. Two rooms downstairs, four above.”

“This is very comfortable.” He glanced around at the curtained windows, crowded bookshelves, and framed paintings of Provence.

“You’ve noticed the paintings! These were my husband’s favorites.”

Damiot saw her tapestry workbag, resting on a small sofa. “I’ve something here I’d like to show you.” He brought out the strand of wool from his pocket.