Free Provence - To Die For by Jessica Fletcher

stores. Without waiting for the coffee, I tore off a comer of the croissant and ate it. It was delicious, the dough crisp, light, and rich, crumbling in my mouth. I savored the unique flavor, thinking, This can only be had in France, and looked around for a napkin to wipe off the film of butter the croissant had left on my fingers. There was no napkin holder in sight. I went back to the bakery.
    “May I have a napkin, please?”
    “I’ll bring it with your coffee. Go sit down.”
    “I’d like one now, please.”
    Irritation plain on her face, Mme Roulandet handed me a small piece of folded paper. I thanked her and went back to my seat, wiped the grease from my fingers, and patted my mouth. I’d heard rumors about the French being rude, but my recent experiences in Paris and Avignon had contradicted them. I’d been greeted warmly and made to feel at home. Certainly M. Telloir had been agreeable. Here was my first encounter with someone who was less than welcoming.
    “So Martine is gone for a month,” Mme Roulandet said crisply, setting down my coffee in a plastic foam cup. She pulled a bowl of wrapped sugar cubes from another table and placed it in front of me along with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. She frowned in disapproval at my cornerless croissant, and pursed her lips.
    “Yes. She’s visiting her sister.”
    “And you stay in her house?” she asked, as if this were a disturbing development.
    “Yes,” I replied. There was a long silence, and I had the feeling that she wouldn’t trust me with Martine’s house. “She’s staying at my house in Maine,” I added, immediately annoyed at myself that this woman had put me on the defensive.
    “Where is this Maine?”
    “Maine is one of the states in the United States,” I explained, trying to be pleasant. “It’s in the northeast, at the top of the map, just below Canada.” I wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t heard of Maine—geography isn’t as popular a school subject as it once was—but I was a bit taken aback by her hostile attitude toward me. Mme Roulandet owned the only bakery in St. Marc. I would be a customer of hers for two months. Yet there she stood, glaring at me as if I’d told her I’d come to steal her bread.
    “Her sister should come here instead,” she said, pulling my change and a wrinkled sales slip from her apron pocket and dropping them on the table.
    I was grateful when she marched back behind the counter and left me in peace to contemplate the prospect of eight weeks of cold shoulders from the village baker. At least Martine would be back the second month. Hopefully Mme Roulandet’s attitude would change then. I unrolled the napkin from the silverware and finished my croissant. A knife and fork. Did the French really use a knife and fork to eat their croissants?
    The view from the bakery window was considerably more pleasing then its proprietor. On the other side of the square was Brasserie St. Marc, a restaurant and bar with chairs lined up outside for those hardy souls who liked their wine accompanied by a brisk breeze. It was open for lunch and dinner. Marcel had told me it was worth a visit. “Ask when the chef will make bouillabaisse. Then go,” he’d said, “but go for lunch. It will be all gone by dinner.” Beyond the brasserie was a charcuterie, a shop that sold cooked meats, like hams and sausages and pâtés, and beyond that an épicerie, a grocery, both of which I had visited earlier.
    I would see the rest of the village another time, perhaps on Friday morning when the outdoor market was open. Idly I pulled my change over to the edge of the table and swept it into my hand. I looked at the wrinkled sales slip Mme Roulandet had left with the coins. I counted the coins and looked at the bill again. She had shortchanged me by a franc. I debated whether or not to tell her, and decided I would.
    I finished my coffee, dropped the cup, plate, and napkin in a large wastebasket, and donned my jacket. I