The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(6)

He watched as she went back toward her desk, pausing at several tables en route. From a distance he could get a better impression.

An attractive woman. Wearing a smart gown she had surely bought in Paris. Made of some soft, dark green material that clung to her body as she walked. Copper-colored hair, brushed away from her face and arranged in a heavy knot at the back.

Damiot looked up to find a young waiter at his side.

“I am Jean-Paul. Would you care for an apéritif, M’sieur?”

“A dry vermouth.”

The waiter bowed and hurried away.

There was a diffused glow of light from the candles on the tables and the candelabra on the walls. The effect was handsome against the wallpaper, which was a rich mustard color with cream stripes. More green plants in white pots, hanging from the ceiling and set on low pedestals. Curtains at the windows, patterned with white flowers against a yellow background. And all the chairs had petit point seats…

Two people were seated at another table shielded by potted plants, across the room. It was the blonde he had noticed earlier in the square, dressed attractively, her hair neatly arranged now, dining with an older man. Her companion had a thick crest of silver hair and a striking face, deeply tanned, with prominent jaw, twisted nose, and shrewd eyes. Was he the girl’s father or her lover? Could be either, from the possessive way he looked at her as they ate their dinner.

The waiter served his vermouth with an order of tapenade and placed a menu within easy reach. “I can recommend the woodcock, M’sieur.”

“Merci, Jean-Paul.” He picked up his apéritif, realizing that he hadn’t felt so relaxed in months.

When he had returned to the Auberge after lunch, he’d left his car in the parking lot and had sensed someone observing him from the kitchen windows as he limped through the rain around to the front. The lobby had been silent, the registration desk unattended.

His room was warm and inviting, lamps lighted, bed turned down. Somebody had closed all the curtains and started a fragrant fire of olive logs in the fireplace.

He had soaked himself in a hot tub until the pain in his hip subsided to a bearable ache. Put on fresh pajamas and eased into bed.

Oblivion came quickly. No dreams about Valzo or his gang! Nothing to make him twist in bed and start his hip throbbing…

“M’sieur has decided?” The waiter hovered beside him.

Damiot glanced at the list of hors d’oeuvres again. “I think, to start, the thrush pate. No soup. Then, perhaps, the grilled lamb…”

Dinner was a miracle of many perfections.

As he ate, he studied his fellow diners, mostly married couples, some with teenage children. The men appeared to be businessmen; their wives were expensively dressed. All of them seemed to know Madame Bouchard who, from time to time, made a discreet inspection tour of all the tables. He was the only person dining alone.

After his lamb was served, he saw the chef come through the swinging doors from the kitchen in white-aproned uniform, starched toque blanche perched on his curly black hair, visiting each table, bowing to the men and kissing the ladies’ hands. Young, and surprisingly, for a chef de cuisine, not an ounce overweight.

“How is the lamb?”

He looked up to face Madame Bouchard again. “Excellent! You have a first-class chef.”

“I’m delighted that you think so. Pardon, Monsieur…” She moved on toward a table where a family of four was studying the elaborate display of pastries their waiter was offering from a chromium cart.

Damiot remembered his mother, an apron over her plain cotton dress, taking orders and moving among the tables. Arguing with some of the diners, most of them old friends, but always smiling…

The chef bowed on his way back to the kitchen, and Damiot nodded.

As he ate, his thoughts returned to his last dinner with Olympe. More than four weeks ago! The night before he was shot, they had gone to Drouant for supper. As usual, she had been full of plans. Someone wanted her to join a new opera company for a tour of the provinces. That must have fallen through—like so many of her other projects—or she wouldn’t have gone off to Mexico. He had been more disturbed by her sudden departure than about his wife going to Cannes…

Sophie would come back. All he had to do was phone her in Cannes and apologize.

Not this time!

Yet he loved Sophie in a way he had never loved any other woman. In fact, he hadn’t looked at another woman seriously, after his marriage. Not until Olympe…

Damiot finished the last of his wine with one of the small Banons, a local goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, which he could seldom find in Paris.

“Coffee, M’sieur?” the waiter asked.

“Black, please.”

“Since M’sieur is a guest, he might prefer to have his coffee served in the lounge.”

“That sounds fine.”

He sank into a comfortable fauteuil upholstered in deep yellow, near the blazing fireplace in the lounge, aware that his hip had barely twinged in the last hour. That Chateauneuf-du-Pape he had enjoyed with dinner was better than any medicine.

“Your coffee, M’sieur…”

“Ah, Claude!” He watched the gar?on set a coffee tray on a low table. “Was it you lighted a fire in my room?”

“Thought it would be warmer for M’sieur when he returned from the village.” Pouring the steaming coffee as he talked. “Service, M’sieur.” He bowed and scurried away.