Title: Peril in Provence
Series: The Mary Grey Mysteries, Book Four
Author: Winnie Frolik
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 09/03/2024
Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: Female/Female
Length: 60400
Genre
Historical Mystery, Genre/lit, crime, historical, lesbian, 1930s, Provence, Paris, private detective, murder, chateau, painter
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Description
When Mary Grey hears that Harriet West has been arrested for murder in the beautiful and quaint French town of Munier they take the next train out. To their shock, Harriet confesses to the killing but swears it was self-defense. As they try to piece together the truth, more than one skeleton is unearthed in this seemingly sleepy community.Excerpt
Peril in ProvenceWinnie Frolik © 2024All Rights Reserved
PrologueProvence, October 28, 1937
The weather could not have been better for the Feast of St. Simon and St. Jude. The day dawned bright and sunny without a cloud in the too-blue sky and only the gentlest of breezes. Yes, there was an autumnal chill, but it was a briskness that enlivened and stirred the blood rather than keeping people indoors.
It had been many years since the Feast Day had enjoyed such pleasant treatment from the elements. Throughout the day, the town square was filled with prize-laden raffle stands selling wines and cheeses. Rounds of boules were played with a level of intensity unseen since the days of duels. This year’s festivities had coincided with the arrival of several Gypsy caravans to the area, and they displayed such carnival acts as knife throwing and fire swallowing.
A self-proclaimed seer set up a tent to read tarot cards, and soon a long line formed as all the girls in town waited to learn who their future husband would be. Fronsac, the local artist, made numerous sketches of everything he saw, imagining a new series of oils he would paint commemorating pastoral gaiety. Day became night, but the mood remained merry. The moon itself shone that night with golden radiance. So of course, some form of wickedness had to come along and ruin it. C’est la vie.
All this was quite obvious to everyone in hindsight, but initially on the evening in question, the mood was one of gaiety—even jubilation. For Munier, like all such villages, adored its fêtes votives.
Per tradition, the Feast was held in the town square. A small stage with a microphone had been set up where Mayor Farigoule gave his annual speech, followed by two of the local chevaliers. They spoke at length on the joys of community, fellowship, and the excellent harvest season that year as anxious toes tapped impatiently.
The local priest reminded everyone of the spiritual nature of the occasion; St Jude and St. Simon were two of the original apostles and Jesus’s own cousins who would attain martyrdom in Persia. “Do not forget,” Father Benedict instructed, “that glorious St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Lost Causes,” before offering prayers and blessing.
Finally, all the fine oratory ended, and the true business of gluttony could commence as dinner was served. People sat wherever they could find seats. Madame Dellaire of the chateau and her nephew Maxim sat side by side with the peasants who worked her estate and their wives. The owner of one of the finest local vineyards dined alongside one of the area’s most infamous truffle poachers.
The former had at one time threatened to shoot the latter if he ever caught him on his property. But for tonight at least, all was forgiven and the two happily broke bread together. Literally. They each grabbed a different end of a baguette, tearing it in two. Neighborhood dogs eagerly scampered below the tables, picking up scattered morsels and tossed bones. Neighborhood cats kept watchful eyes out from the alleys for the rats and other vermin who’d inevitably be attracted by the feast’s detritus.
And what a feast it was! Long trestle tables of rough planked wood groaned under the weight of their offerings: cheeses, baguettes, olive oil by the jug, canapés, bouillabaisse, rosemary-flavored chicken, roasted baby lamb with a creamy garlic sauce, and loins of pork stuffed with mushrooms. One platter even held a freshly caught wild sanglier, roasted and served with an apple in its mouth. And of course there was wine.
It had been a fine year for the local grape growers, and in good Gallic tradition, everyone was now enjoying the fruits of their labor. Reds and whites seemed to flow endlessly at the table. It brought color to the English lady’s cheeks, and she talked faster. The young American polished off one drink only to find another thrust into his hands, seemingly out of nowhere, to enjoy. The two of them were a familiar enough sight—the English lady who regularly visited the local boulangerie and the American gentleman who was fond of taking country drives at lightning speed.
“Now this is why I love France!” he roared out to the crowd as he quaffed his glass before making a face. That, he thought, had not been one of the region’s better vintages.
Beside the stage and tables, another area had been cleared for the dancing that must always follow such a feast. By some miracle, people who moments earlier had been almost comatose through overindulgence were now on their feet and moving. An old white-haired Gypsy played the fiddle while his pretty young granddaughter danced with a tambourine.
Monsieur Picard as per usual brought out his prized accordion. Many traditional old favorites were played, then the fiddler struck up the paso doble. Gaston the local innkeeper declined all attempts to cajole him to dance, preferring to instead sit on the sidelines and drink. There were plenty of others, though, who were happy to rise to the occasion. The barmaid danced with the local gendarme. The town butcher paired off with the baker’s daughter.
Maxim gallantly offered his arm to the local schoolteacher to let her have a turn. Mayor Farigoule gallantly led Madame Dellaire in an impromptu waltz that earned a round of applause from all, including the mayor’s young wife Monique, who sadly could not dance that evening due to a sore toe. She, like Monsieur Duval the town’s pharmacist, watched the dancing from the sidelines.
Curiously, the American and Englishwoman were not there. Perhaps they did not like dancing. And then a couple of people felt drops of rain. Within a matter of seconds, the sprinkle became a torrent, and everyone was struggling to find shelter under the tents and newspapers. Farmers and gentry alike shook their heads glumly, not just for the end of the evening’s festivities but for what it meant to the broader climate.
These were not the rains of summer with fat, warm, lazy droplets. No, these were the cold, pounding sheets of water that signaled the arrival of winter. Such floodwaters could sweep away entire fields and level streets as surely as a mine detonating. Worse yet, with the rain, they could feel the wind begin to change. The mistral had arrived once more in all its terrible glory. Uneaten crumbs of cheese and scraps of bread from the tables became airborne and blew among décolletage and shirt fronts. Tablecloths snapped and billowed like sails in full wind. Wineglasses and candles tipped over, and there was a moment’s concern for a possible fire when another disaster entirely intervened.
“Regardez!” a young boy called out, pointing above, and all eyes turned. Munier’s rampart walls, built over seven centuries ago, stood two stories high and along them lay a narrow path lined with a parapet. It had become almost as well trodden over the years as the city cobblestones. Atop those ramparts now were two figures. One male. One female. The latter had his arms around the former. Some in the crowd may have recognized the figures in question as being the foreign guests of Madame Dellaire. The American and the Englishwoman.
Normally, the sight of them out on a moonlit night together in physical engagement would signal an affaire de coeur. But this was no romantic liaison. Indeed, the two of them appeared to be yelling at each other, though their voices could not be made out from below. Some would later claim the woman’s face was contorted with unearthly rage. Others would say she looked frightened.
Then there were those who freely admitted to being too far away to really see her face, but they didn’t get much attention. Honesty never makes for riveting testimony. What everyone from the square could see, however, was that the woman tore herself from the arms of the man with a heavy shove.
What was the purpose of the push? Was it, as the woman would later maintain, simply to get away? Was it an act of adrenaline? Or was it, as others would later charge, a deliberate act of malice? There would be a great deal of argument later about intention. It is truly remarkable how willingly people who have never claimed the gift of clairvoyance in the past would be in this instance to assert with full confidence that they—and they alone—knew to have been in the minds of the persons on the wall that night!
What no one could dispute was the result. When the woman pushed him, the man stumbled back on the parapet of the rampart wall…and went over. For one eternal moment, he seemed permanently suspended in the air. His mouth gaped open in shock, and his arms stretched up above him as if reaching for a rope to grab onto. Then gravity overtook him. The man hit the cobblestone street below with a sickening thud and a thick pool of dark liquid began pouring underneath his head. There was a moment of shocked silence.
Then came the screams.
Purchase
The weather could not have been better for the Feast of St. Simon and St. Jude. The day dawned bright and sunny without a cloud in the too-blue sky and only the gentlest of breezes. Yes, there was an autumnal chill, but it was a briskness that enlivened and stirred the blood rather than keeping people indoors.
It had been many years since the Feast Day had enjoyed such pleasant treatment from the elements. Throughout the day, the town square was filled with prize-laden raffle stands selling wines and cheeses. Rounds of boules were played with a level of intensity unseen since the days of duels. This year’s festivities had coincided with the arrival of several Gypsy caravans to the area, and they displayed such carnival acts as knife throwing and fire swallowing.
A self-proclaimed seer set up a tent to read tarot cards, and soon a long line formed as all the girls in town waited to learn who their future husband would be. Fronsac, the local artist, made numerous sketches of everything he saw, imagining a new series of oils he would paint commemorating pastoral gaiety. Day became night, but the mood remained merry. The moon itself shone that night with golden radiance. So of course, some form of wickedness had to come along and ruin it. C’est la vie.
All this was quite obvious to everyone in hindsight, but initially on the evening in question, the mood was one of gaiety—even jubilation. For Munier, like all such villages, adored its fêtes votives.
Per tradition, the Feast was held in the town square. A small stage with a microphone had been set up where Mayor Farigoule gave his annual speech, followed by two of the local chevaliers. They spoke at length on the joys of community, fellowship, and the excellent harvest season that year as anxious toes tapped impatiently.
The local priest reminded everyone of the spiritual nature of the occasion; St Jude and St. Simon were two of the original apostles and Jesus’s own cousins who would attain martyrdom in Persia. “Do not forget,” Father Benedict instructed, “that glorious St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Lost Causes,” before offering prayers and blessing.
Finally, all the fine oratory ended, and the true business of gluttony could commence as dinner was served. People sat wherever they could find seats. Madame Dellaire of the chateau and her nephew Maxim sat side by side with the peasants who worked her estate and their wives. The owner of one of the finest local vineyards dined alongside one of the area’s most infamous truffle poachers.
The former had at one time threatened to shoot the latter if he ever caught him on his property. But for tonight at least, all was forgiven and the two happily broke bread together. Literally. They each grabbed a different end of a baguette, tearing it in two. Neighborhood dogs eagerly scampered below the tables, picking up scattered morsels and tossed bones. Neighborhood cats kept watchful eyes out from the alleys for the rats and other vermin who’d inevitably be attracted by the feast’s detritus.
And what a feast it was! Long trestle tables of rough planked wood groaned under the weight of their offerings: cheeses, baguettes, olive oil by the jug, canapés, bouillabaisse, rosemary-flavored chicken, roasted baby lamb with a creamy garlic sauce, and loins of pork stuffed with mushrooms. One platter even held a freshly caught wild sanglier, roasted and served with an apple in its mouth. And of course there was wine.
It had been a fine year for the local grape growers, and in good Gallic tradition, everyone was now enjoying the fruits of their labor. Reds and whites seemed to flow endlessly at the table. It brought color to the English lady’s cheeks, and she talked faster. The young American polished off one drink only to find another thrust into his hands, seemingly out of nowhere, to enjoy. The two of them were a familiar enough sight—the English lady who regularly visited the local boulangerie and the American gentleman who was fond of taking country drives at lightning speed.
“Now this is why I love France!” he roared out to the crowd as he quaffed his glass before making a face. That, he thought, had not been one of the region’s better vintages.
Beside the stage and tables, another area had been cleared for the dancing that must always follow such a feast. By some miracle, people who moments earlier had been almost comatose through overindulgence were now on their feet and moving. An old white-haired Gypsy played the fiddle while his pretty young granddaughter danced with a tambourine.
Monsieur Picard as per usual brought out his prized accordion. Many traditional old favorites were played, then the fiddler struck up the paso doble. Gaston the local innkeeper declined all attempts to cajole him to dance, preferring to instead sit on the sidelines and drink. There were plenty of others, though, who were happy to rise to the occasion. The barmaid danced with the local gendarme. The town butcher paired off with the baker’s daughter.
Maxim gallantly offered his arm to the local schoolteacher to let her have a turn. Mayor Farigoule gallantly led Madame Dellaire in an impromptu waltz that earned a round of applause from all, including the mayor’s young wife Monique, who sadly could not dance that evening due to a sore toe. She, like Monsieur Duval the town’s pharmacist, watched the dancing from the sidelines.
Curiously, the American and Englishwoman were not there. Perhaps they did not like dancing. And then a couple of people felt drops of rain. Within a matter of seconds, the sprinkle became a torrent, and everyone was struggling to find shelter under the tents and newspapers. Farmers and gentry alike shook their heads glumly, not just for the end of the evening’s festivities but for what it meant to the broader climate.
These were not the rains of summer with fat, warm, lazy droplets. No, these were the cold, pounding sheets of water that signaled the arrival of winter. Such floodwaters could sweep away entire fields and level streets as surely as a mine detonating. Worse yet, with the rain, they could feel the wind begin to change. The mistral had arrived once more in all its terrible glory. Uneaten crumbs of cheese and scraps of bread from the tables became airborne and blew among décolletage and shirt fronts. Tablecloths snapped and billowed like sails in full wind. Wineglasses and candles tipped over, and there was a moment’s concern for a possible fire when another disaster entirely intervened.
“Regardez!” a young boy called out, pointing above, and all eyes turned. Munier’s rampart walls, built over seven centuries ago, stood two stories high and along them lay a narrow path lined with a parapet. It had become almost as well trodden over the years as the city cobblestones. Atop those ramparts now were two figures. One male. One female. The latter had his arms around the former. Some in the crowd may have recognized the figures in question as being the foreign guests of Madame Dellaire. The American and the Englishwoman.
Normally, the sight of them out on a moonlit night together in physical engagement would signal an affaire de coeur. But this was no romantic liaison. Indeed, the two of them appeared to be yelling at each other, though their voices could not be made out from below. Some would later claim the woman’s face was contorted with unearthly rage. Others would say she looked frightened.
Then there were those who freely admitted to being too far away to really see her face, but they didn’t get much attention. Honesty never makes for riveting testimony. What everyone from the square could see, however, was that the woman tore herself from the arms of the man with a heavy shove.
What was the purpose of the push? Was it, as the woman would later maintain, simply to get away? Was it an act of adrenaline? Or was it, as others would later charge, a deliberate act of malice? There would be a great deal of argument later about intention. It is truly remarkable how willingly people who have never claimed the gift of clairvoyance in the past would be in this instance to assert with full confidence that they—and they alone—knew to have been in the minds of the persons on the wall that night!
What no one could dispute was the result. When the woman pushed him, the man stumbled back on the parapet of the rampart wall…and went over. For one eternal moment, he seemed permanently suspended in the air. His mouth gaped open in shock, and his arms stretched up above him as if reaching for a rope to grab onto. Then gravity overtook him. The man hit the cobblestone street below with a sickening thud and a thick pool of dark liquid began pouring underneath his head. There was a moment of shocked silence.
Then came the screams.
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