Free Provence - To Die For by Jessica Fletcher Page A

took my bag of bread and went to the bakery counter.
    “Madame, you owe me another franc,” I said, holding out the change in the palm of my hand so she could count it.
    She looked at my hand and huffed. “You can afford it,” she muttered.
    “And so can you,” I replied.
    She pulled a franc from her pocket and slid it over the counter. I took the coin, walked back to the table, and left it as a tip along with some other coins. Buoyed that I hadn’t been cheated, I left the shop. On the ride back to Martine’s, I reviewed the scene in my mind and started to laugh. I had confronted the “enemy” over one franc, girded my loins to make a fuss over an amount less than twenty cents. But it was the principle of the thing, I told myself, shaking my head. She’d been so disagreeable. Count the change, Martine had said in her note. Now I knew why.

Chapter Four
    “Did you go to the market in St. Marc?” Claire asked when I signed in for the first day of my cooking course at the Hotel Melissande.
    “I did, last Friday. It was wonderful,” I replied. “I’ve never seen so many different kinds of olives. And I finally learned the purpose of the long bag hanging on the side of my pantry.”
    “You didn’t know?” Her eyes widened. “It’s a sac à pain; it’s to hold the baguettes, of course.” She was trying not to smile at my foolishness.
    “I’d been wondering what it was all week. I thought it might be a laundry bag for the dishtowels. Now don’t you laugh at me,” I said, starting to laugh myself. “I’d never seen one before.”
    “But where have you been putting the baguettes?”
    “I cut them in half and put them in the refrigerator.”
    The giggle she’d been holding in burst forth, and she covered her mouth with both hands.
    “I hope you will share the joke,” said a stylish matron who’d come up to the desk, her gaze fixed on Claire.
    The young woman struggled to contain her smile. “Bonjour, Madame Poutine.”
    “ Bonjour , Claire.” She turned to me. “And who is this?”
    Mme Poutine had a beautiful but cold face, with classically chiseled features only slightly softened by age. Her chin-length platinum blond hair was tucked behind her ears; large gold earrings were clipped to her lobes. She was dressed in a black silk blouse, and an amethyst bouclé jacket and skirt with matching heels. A large diamond ring sparkled on her left hand. Her attire seemed more suited to an afternoon at the theater than a morning in a cooking class. I was considerably less turned out in my taupe pantsuit and heather pullover.
    Claire stood up straight and adopted a formal tone. “Madame Fletcher, may I introduce Madame Poutine. She is attending Monsieur Bertrand’s class today.” She turned to the other woman. “Madame Poutine, this is Madame Fletcher. She will be in the class with you.”
    “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
    “You are American?” Mme Routine said to me in English.
    “Yes. I’m from Maine.”
    “I’ve never heard of it. Do you cook?”
    “Yes, but I don’t know a lot about French cooking.”
    “Then you don’t cook,” she said imperiously. “How do you find Provence?”
    “I’m enjoying it very much,” I said, starting to wonder if it was really true.
    “An odd time of year to come, don’t you think?”
    “I think it’s an excellent time of year,” I replied.
    “Well, I suppose there are fewer tourists, and that’s certainly a benefit,” she said, signing her name in Claire’s book.
    “I find there are just enough,” I said.
    “I suppose,” she said, smiling vaguely at me. “I will see you downstairs.”
    As she crossed the hall, Guy came around the comer holding a tray with a coffee service on it. He gave her a wide smile and stopped to inquire about her health. She nodded in acknowledgment, and sailed past him to the elevator.
    We’re a lot nicer to visitors in Maine, I thought, even if we don’t know where you’re from. What a frosty lady! I much