Free The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence by Tracy Whiting

a pair of Swarovski pink crystal earrings. Dabbing herself with a little of Fragonard’s Mimosa, she slipped on the dress and shoes and pulled her hair back into a loose chignon, letting some curls fall where they may.
    She settled on a small vintage clutch and picked up her cell phone. That’s when she remembered. Dialing into her voicemail, she heard the dead man’s voice. “ Hello, Havilah ,” Kit Beirnes began in his part Southern, part cultivated British clip:
I’ve just put the finishing touches on my remarks for the Centennial. I think it will be electrifying. I’m over the moon about it since it’s part of the book. It was the most difficult part. I’ve had some setbacks but I am determined to see the work through. I also sent the final book proposal off this evening. So I am celebrating. I will send a copy of both to you so you can give me some feedback. Call me when you get a chance. I want to know when you are arriving. It’s about 8:40 now. Going for a stroll in the harbor for a quick drink with Améline Fitts. I should be back in an hour. I still have some work to finish up so I can’t dawdle for long. You remember her? She was invited to give a lecture last fall. I need to talk to you about her as well. Bisous.
    Havilah needed to sit down to compose herself. With each new discovery about Kit’s death, she was thrown off balance. His crushed fingers. His body lodged into the Félibrige star at the Greek Theater. His blood smears. And now his voice. She listened again to the message.
    Ever since Tayden Smith had bragged about receiving a $100,000 advance for his book on poverty, Kit had believed he needed to top it. The advance became something of an obsessive topic in their monthly “Let’s have a cup of tea to catch-up” meetings leading up to his residency at the Félibrige.
    Give me something to work with, Kit . He had. She accessed her email from the cell phone. Nothing. She typed two appointment reminder alerts for 9 and 10 p.m.: Call Hezekiah at IT . She was also going to have that drink with Améline Fitts.
    She got up to walk towards the door to slip out undetected. She was torn between leaving the iPod playing to give the illusion that she was in the room and saving electricity. John Legend was crooning, “Let’s get lifted.” Just as her hand touched the door’s handle she heard a light tap. She looked through the peephole to find Thierry Gasquet decked out rather fetchingly in a white linen suit. Quel surprise! No black.
    She opened the door. Gasquet looked good, she had to admit. He smelled even better. He gave her an appreciative onceover.
    “John Legend. One of my favorite artists. You’re wearing white, as well. Are you ready?”
    Despite various protectionist measures and quotas to prevent the Americanization of French culture, the French still loved American popular culture and Hollywood.
    “And so are you. Yes, I’m ready.” It was all she could muster.
    She tried not to look annoyed. She had certainly not intended for them to go to the dinner matching in white getups like some odd variation of the Gold Dust Twins. Indeed, she had not intended for him to go at all.
    “I thought you would enjoy some company this evening at the dinner.” He was clearly being facetious now but he pressed on anyway. “I couldn’t let you to go unescorted. You remember telling us about it in Paris?”
    “There are probably several unescorted women at the dinner. And I didn’t think you’d remember that very small detail.” She tried to disguise the huff in her voice.
    “But God is in the details.”
    “You’re citing Gustave Flaubert now? More like the devil, non ? And it’s clear that you are quite the demon for details.”
    “That I am, Havilah.”
    They walked towards the elevator. Not wanting to replicate the discomfort of earlier that afternoon, she suggested she take the stairs.
    “I wouldn’t think of having you take the stairs alone. There is too much that could happen