Provence - To Die For Read Online Free PDF Page A

why do you stay with him?”
    “He needs me. He’s sensitive and sad.”
    “Apparently there are several women he needs.”
    “That’s not so.”
    The conversation was in French, and I heard a rush of air escape the man’s lips in the characteristically Gallic expression of disgust. I couldn’t see his face—he was in the office behind the hotel’s front desk—but the young woman he was chiding had her back to me, standing in the doorway just past the battery of numbered wooden slots that held messages and room keys for the hotel’s guests. I cleared my throat and she started when she saw me, immediately flushing a bright red.
    “Oh, madame, je suis désolé.” She immediately switched to English. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were waiting.”
    “Not a problem,” I replied.
    “I am so embarrassed,” she said, crossing to the front desk. She fussed with the hotel computer, staring at the keyboard. “Did you sleep well? Was your room all right? Was everything to your liking?” she asked, gray eyes under dark lashes looking everywhere but at me.
    “I slept like a log, thank you. My room is beautiful, and breakfast was fine: The coffee is delicious, the best I’ve ever had,” I said, prattling on, hoping to stave off any more questions, and giving her another moment to collect herself. “Your English is excellent, by the way. Where did you learn to speak so well?”
    She smiled up at me, cheeks still pink. “I was an AFS student,” she said, referring to the American Field Service, which arranges student exchanges, placing American students with families abroad and foreign students in American homes. “I stayed with a family in Ohio and went to the high school there.”
    “You learned well,” I said.
    “You are very kind,” she said, the blush beginning to fade. “Is there something I can assist you with this morning?”
    “Yes,” I replied. “I’m checking out today. In fact the bellman can bring down my bag whenever it’s convenient.”
    “I will let him know,” she said.
    “And another thing.” I opened my handbag and pulled out a piece of paper on which my travel agent, Susan Shevlin, had printed my itinerary. I put on my reading glasses and scanned the page. “A car is supposed to come for me at ten. Is there any way you can see if that arrangement has been made?”
    “Yes, of course,” she said. “I will look it up for you right now. Your room number, madame?”
    I gave her the number, and she tapped the keys skillfully, secure in the task. While she researched my ride, I studied her. Her name was Claire, according to the pin she wore on her right shoulder. She was tall and lissome, with a cap of dark, curly hair. She had a short nose and a full mouth, and was not especially beautiful, but there was something interesting about her angular face that was very attractive. Right now she was looking distressed again.
    “Marcel will be a little late, I’m afraid,” she said. “Will that be terrible if he comes at twenty past the hour?”
    “No. That will be fine.”
    “Is there anything else?”
    “Yes, there is,” I said. “I’m taking one of your three-day cooking courses next week, starting on Wednesday. Can you check to see if there’s a record of my registration?”
    “Certainement.” She pulled a heavy appointment book from a shelf under her desk, laid it on the marble counter between us, flipped through the pages till she found the proper date, and ran her index finger down the list of names for the Wednesday class. “Oui, madame, here it is. J. B. Fletcher, this is you, yes?”
    “Yes. I’m J. B. Fletcher, Jessica Fletcher.”
    “The class is being taught by Chef Bertrand, owner of the restaurant L’Homme Qui Court. It has a Michelin star,” she said proudly. She coughed delicately, and excused herself. “He is an excellent chef.”
    “And an excellent teacher, you must tell her,” a hearty voice said from a few feet away. The man was dressed in