Free Provence - To Die For by Jessica Fletcher Page B

preferred the open antagonism of the baker in St. Marc to the veiled insults of Mme Poutine. What was it about French women? Were they all this way? No, of course not. Claire was delightful. Then again, she was barely out of her teens. Perhaps the peevish veneer came with age—and disillusionment.
    “Madame Poutine attends all of Chef Bertrand’s classes,” Claire told me, apparently unaware of my churning resentment.
    “She must be an excellent cook by now,” I said.
    “She used to demonstrate cosmetics on television. She has a beautiful complexion, doesn’t she?”
    “She certainly has no smile lines,” I said.
    “Madame, how are you today?” Guy said, coming to the desk and sliding the tray on top. “No lingering bruises, I hope.”
    “None whatsoever, thank you. How are you?”
    “Good. Good,” he said. “I’ve brought some coffee for my girlfriend over here.” He winked at Claire.
    “You are being silly, Guy,” she said.
    “I am a man in love, but she doesn’t see me,” he said. For a fleeting moment, the dark eyes behind his thick glasses looked sad. Then he shrugged and looked down at Claire over his shoulder, teasing her. “She has this beau with gray hair. Her heart is only for him.”
    “Guy ! ” Claire’s cheeks were bright red.
    “Ah, here are more of your classmates,” he said. He looked back at a middle-aged couple descending the grand staircase. The man waved at Guy, and took his wife’s elbow to keep her from going toward the elevator. “Good morning. Good morning, all,” he said cheerily, rubbing his hands together. “Great day for cooking. Thank goodness the sun’s not out. It’s such a rare occurrence, I’d hate to waste time inside when the sun’s shining. But this weather? Certainly makes me feel at home.” They were dressed as informally as I, he in a striped shirt and slacks, his wife in a khaki shirtwaist dress and flats, the arms of a sweater tied around her neck.
    Guy introduced me to Craig and Jill Thomas, visiting from Sheffield, England.
    “Retired now,” Craig said, “but used to work for the government.”
    “Yes, you were a boring sot,” his wife Jill teased him, poking his arm. “Much better now that you’ve got your head out of those books.”
    “She just likes the fact that I’ve got more time to escort her,” he said, winking at me. “Someone to carry the bundles when she shops. Someone to stagger under the masses of linens, boxes of soaps, and tins of olives we’re bringing back to a family desperate for a whiff of Provence in their deprived homes.” He mimed a man staggering under a pile of packages, trying to juggle them before they fell.
    Jill laughed at her husband’s dramatic performance. “Oh, you,” she said fondly. Still smiling, she asked me, “Where in the States are you from?”
    “Tell them while we go downstairs,” urged Guy, shepherding us toward the elevator. “The class is about to begin. The chef will be upset if we’re late.”
    “But we haven’t signed yet,” Craig said, hurrying back to the desk, then returning a moment later. “Signed for you, too, my dear,” he said to Jill. “Do you think it’s legal?”
    “I doubt they’ll arrest us,” she replied.
    The elevator door opened downstairs, and I felt a shiver of trepidation as we walked through the arch into the damp and dim interior courtyard. The table was set for eight, with several unopened bottles of wine at one end.
    “Creepy-looking place, isn’t it?” Jill whispered to me.
    “I feel the same way.”
    “It looks as if they should have torches burning here and instruments of torture rather than a dinner table.”
    In contrast to the medieval dining room, the kitchen classroom was brightly lit and inviting, but uncomfortably warm. I removed my jacket. Chef Bertrand was busy preparing his ingredients in the front of the room, a white apron covering him from chin to knees. Mme Poutine had already taken a seat on one side of the wooden table in