Murder, Voila!: Stranded in Provence, #9

By Susan Kiernan-Lewis

Murder, Voila! Book 9 in the Stranded in Provence Mystery Series shows just how far Jules has come in the three years since the EMP stranded her in Provence. Limited electricity has come back to the area and phone lines are back up—at least for the sick and the elderly. Jules continues to make her living as a private investigator—although she still struggles with the language—but life is full of rose wines, amazing food and the scent of lavender everywhere.

On top of all that, she's getting married! Just when life seems perfect with her pending nuptials to the Chabanel Police Chief, his contentious mother comes to town to stop the wedding—and ends up dead. Will Luc be able to see past his mother's murder—and the fact that it appears as if one of Jules' elderly roommates did the honors?

Murder, Voila! is a cozy crime romp full of gourmet food and wine with the same quirky characters you've grown to love.
This book is a clean read: no graphic violence, sex or strong language
Genre: cozy culinary mystery, women amateur sleuth, cozy animal (dog)

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Kiernan-Lewis
• Release date: Sep 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223192558

Susan Kiernan-Lewis

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Susan Kiernan-Lewis is the author of The Maggie Newberry Mysteries, the post-apocalyptic thriller series The Irish End Games, The Mia Kazmaroff Mysteries, The Stranded in Provence Mysteries, The Claire Baskerville Mysteries, and The Savannah Time Travel Mysteries. Visit www.susankiernanlewis.com or follow Author Susan Kiernan-Lewis on Facebook.

Book preview

1

By midday, the beating sun had already melted most of my brain.

Yet here I still stood—all for the sake of a bag of bad wine and a week’s supply of croissants. Getting paid for honest work had become more and more creative these days as the time of money-for-work faded into the distant past and clients came up with newer and more bizarre ways to compensate me without having to actually relinquish something of value.

Today’s client ran a second tier black market operation. Ergo the bag wine and croissants.

I rested my hip against the fieldstone wall while carefully cradling the camera in my hands. It was a valuable antique and belonged to a friend of mine, so I needed to take care of it. The last time I used a camera as part of my professional duties it ended up smashed to a pile of shards of plastic by my quarry.

If that makes it sound as if I’m a hunter, it’s an apt description. I am a private investigator specializing in infidelity and stolen livestock. I don’t mean to imply that I’m personally good at infidelity nor do I track down fornicating goats.

Actually, the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Not unlike most of the work I do, my job today involved copious amounts of time waiting and trying to be invisible. A well-used pair of binoculars that had cost me nearly a case of homemade blackberry wine as well as a dozen pistachio macarons hung from a mended strap around my neck. I can’t even remember what it would’ve cost in Before Times.

I shifted my position and squinted across the field to see if my game had moved. It is truly surprising to me how much of my fieldwork as a private investigator is actually done in a field. I’m sure that has more to do with the fact that even before the apocalypse, France was essentially rural, but you’d think—since most of my cases have to do with extramarital affairs—there would be a few more actual bedrooms involved.

From where I stood, half hidden in the shade of a large Linden tree, I could easily see my quarry in question. She was youngish, slim and pretty. The way she was snogging for all she was worth with the young farmer in a trench in the pasture forty feet from me it was fairly clear that my client had good reason to be concerned.

Hervé de Bourbon had hired me to get the goods on his wife Madame de Bourbon and had pointed me in several likely directions at which point I had dutifully trundled along with my borrowed camera in order to produce the evidence of his miscreant wife’s naughty deeds.

Not for the first time the thought of getting down in the dirt with my clients came to mind. Invariably after an honest day’s work, I returned home with torn clothes, mud on my knees, cow poo on my shoes and not infrequently a too close encounter with a load of buckshot.

Still, it paid.

And by paid, as I said before, I mean, a gallon of gas or the use of a pre-EMP-era car for a week or possibly a bushel of zucchini. All of which have value in my world today because unfortunately money doesn’t. Even the dress shops in Aix take swappables or des biens as people have been calling those items that are worth something. But no cash. Definitely not cash.

 It’s a delicate situation but then, it’s the apocalypse. I think we always figured if it ever happened, the ATMs were probably going to stop working.

I shifted my position yet again and felt my calves begin to cramp but stopped short of groaning out-loud. The last thing I needed was to get made by my quarry after I’d already ruined my only pair of tennis shoes in the dirt and the brambles.

Ever since the dirty bomb had gone off over the Mediterranean three years ago and stripped Europe and the UK of electricity along with most working vehicles—unless the vehicle was a horse attached to a cart—life had become one long adjustment period. I know that might sound obvious since this is the apocalypse after all, but I have to say it was much harder for me to adjust to it than most people in the Provençal village of Chabanel where I live.

That’s because even before the EMP—which obliterated all electronics in the country—many people in my village already did things the old-fashioned way when it came to cooking, socializing and getting on with things. For them, not much actually changed when the lights stopped working. Oh, they missed their television sets and cars, at least in the beginning, but the rest of it—meh.

Not so, me.

I’m a twenty-seven-year-old ex-journalist from Atlanta where I’d been a single girl in a fast-paced city with a good-paying, occasionally prestigious job. My reliance on electronics in my work as well as in my daily round was one hundred percent. I’m honestly not sure I’d gone a single day since I graduated from high school without my iPhone in my hand, earbuds in my ears, and a Fitbit on my waist.

So after an impulsive vacation three years ago when my boyfriend dumped me, at which point I found myself stranded in France well, let’s just say it’s been one long learning curve. And I’m not even talking about the language.

I glanced at my watch. Les soeurs—the two elderly women I live with—had recently been insistent about my not being late for dinner. Evidently, they felt I was developing a habit in that regard.

I glanced again at my prey. The two of them were still blissfully unaware that anyone might be watching. Unfortunately, there was nothing near them in the way of a hiding place that might allow me to sneak up on them, so it was looking more and more like I was going to have to get my shot the hard way.

I say the hard way since this approach has literally led to bodily harm in the past—my bodily harm. It’s much tidier to get the photo evidence from afar—with no one the wiser—and then slink back to my hole, er, office to develop the photo, hand it over to my client and cash the check. (Metaphorically, of course. There are no more checks these days either.)

It’s a lot harder when you know that rushing up to get the shot will either result in the objects-in-question no longer doing the deed because they took off at a run thereby spoiling the shot—or being annoyed enough at being interrupted to beat me up before taking off at a run.

I wiped my damp hands on my jeans and hefted the camera into both hands, getting ready to bolt from my cover to attempt to get the shot or die trying. There was every possibility that I wasn’t going to get it today and by my running up to them, they’d then know to be wary in the future, making my job much harder next time. I consoled myself with the idea that I could at least get home in time for a bath before dinner. That would give me time to dry my hair over the oven before my fiancé came over for dinner.

I’d give anything for five minutes with a working hair dryer.

The French government has been telling us for three years that we’re about to get electricity back, but it still hasn’t happened. Some of the local government offices and services do have limited electricity. And the police here in Chabanel and Aix have vehicles that are post-EMP vintage so they get around pretty much as before.

Plus, many elderly Chabanel citizens got working phones recently, so that was something. You can only call within France and weirdly the further away you call, the better the connection is. But still, having a phone again beats running up the street to contact a neighbor or hopping on a bicycle for the three mile trip to town in the case of your house burning down.

After three years the nearby city of Aix now has streetlights on the Cours Mirabeau for four hours each evening. It’s of course very pleasant but honestly, I think most of us thought there’d be more improvements in three years.

If it had been up to me I think I would’ve used the EMP as an opportunity for France to address a few things they hadn’t gotten around to since the last war like maybe widening all their medieval village roads or flattening out these damnable cobblestones which have me trying to break my neck nearly once a day, or maybe even replacing the Roman washhouses that, even with no working washing machines any more, really only serve as an opportunity for some clueless kid to fall into.

But hey, that’s just me. I’m sure the French president has other ideas, and any day he might actually get around to letting us know about them. Don’t get me wrong. I love all the quiet moments in front of the fire not to mention the whole foods and the extra time we all have now that there is no more social media to scroll through or cable TV to watch.

Even so, you can have your grapevine fires and homemade chutneys and staring at evening sunsets. I’d still kill for five minutes with that electric hair dryer.

I blew out the breath I was holding and shifted the camera to my other hand. I’d nearly made up my mind that there was no point in me hanging out here any further. Any moment they were either going to do the deed right there in the ditch—which would be payday for me, to be crude about it—or they were going to get up and leave, which would mean I’d wasted my day.

Would a photograph of them making out be enough to satisfy my client? Although, of course, by the time I vaulted over the little stone wall and ran up to the couple to get the shot they would no longer be making out. I scanned the field. There was no way I could approach them without them seeing me. I sighed. My only hope was to sit tight and hope they took things further. Once they were committed so to speak, I should be able to approach without being noticed.

I was already bored and tired—the main hallmarks of my chosen profession I have to say—but there didn’t seem to be any other way around it. I leaned my arms on the stone wall and felt the heat of the sun permeate through my chambray shirt and allowed my mind to wander a bit. I was looking forward to tonight for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Léa, one of the two women I live with, had promised to make coq au vin, one of my all-time favorite dishes and one that Léa is a master at making. I have to admit I’ve eaten better the past three years and because les soeurs work my ass off running around working on La Fleurette I look better in spite of it.

La Fleurette is a giant eleventh-century carriage house I live in on the outskirts of Chabanel—the nearest town—with les soeurs Léa Cazaly and Justine Becques—neither of whom speak English—along with three cats, a part-time horse and a dog. I’m sure there are other assorted varmints I’m leaving out, but I don’t like to think of that.

Situated on a small rise surrounded by fields, La Fleurette has a wonderful little potager—a kitchen garden that we get half our meals from, and also a tangle of honeysuckle and lavender which run riot on the perimeter of the small terrace at the back of the house. Justine makes the most delectable honeys and tea from the flowers.

The house had been vacant for decades and was nearly falling down when we moved in.

So, for us it was perfect.

Back to my fiancé. Luc DeBray, the village of Chabanel’s police chief, is like a man who’d stepped right out of the nineteen fifties. With the current state of backwardness we’re all living in, that’s really kind of perfect. He and I had done a seriously involved mating dance around each other for nearly the whole of the three years that I’ve been stranded in France. Only recently, after many travails, misunderstandings and downright errors in judgements had we finally been able to come together. Sexist and fiercely protective, I have to say that Luc is like nobody I’ve ever known before, certainly not anybody I ever knew back in the States a million years ago.

I lifted my head to see if I could catch a glimpse of my two recumbent lovebirds and when I did, I got a sudden and potent whiff of the most putrid odor I’d ever smelled.

Fear shot straight into my heart and my fingers tightened around the camera grip as I slowly turned my head. There, not ten feet away from me, was a sight to strike terror in the hearts of even the toughest farmer.

A mature black wild boar. It’s spiky hair bristling down its back as its beady evil eyes drilled into mine.

Worse than that, its tusks gleamed like two sharpened steak knives jutting out of its mouth.

2

The scent of strong coffee permeated the small police station. Luc thought it was especially noticeable from his office which was situated just beyond the small alcove where Madame Gabin, the station’s elderly female receptionist, greeted all visitors but not always warmly. 

He repositioned his phone on his shoulder as he sat in his office. The room was comprised of a wooden desk, along with two filing cabinets, a rickety visitor’s chair—so as not to encourage lengthy stays—and a small bookcase. Maps of the village and surrounding area covered parts of the walls.

 Despite its severity, Luc always felt the police station gave off an air of orderliness and calm efficiency. He thought that was a good message to send to anyone needing his help. He felt it conveyed that the needs of the village came first. He believed that relationships with the community were built on mutual trust and respect. And that started the moment they stepped across his threshold. Crimes were few in Chabanel, but Luc liked to think that those breaches that did occur were solved with intuition, persistence and a knowledge of human nature—rather than high-tech gadgetry.

That was just as well since there was damn little high-tech anything left in the world anymore.

I don’t see why you have to be so stubborn about this, his mother said to him on the phone. You were willful as a child, too, but I’d hoped you’d matured.

I’m sorry you feel that way, Luc said.

It was astonishing to him that she had the nerve to challenge him about maturity since he was the police chief of a village—pretty much the very definition of maturity.

Are you saying you’d prefer we married in Chabanel instead of Paris? he asked mildly.

Don’t be obtuse, Luc! his mother said sharply. I haven’t even met this woman. And an American! I told your sister I was sure you’d come to your senses before now.

Is Colette there? he asked.

She is, but don’t change the subject. She’s as bad as you. I swear I don’t understand her. I should be a grandmother by now but she’s not even dating!

"I need to go, Maman," Luc said.

But we’ve solved nothing about the wedding!

Why don’t you come to Chabanel and meet Jules? Luc said. At least then you’ll know what you’re railing against.

He was sorry she was choosing to be obstreperous about Jules, but he’d expected it. His mother was a difficult woman and determined not to be happy.

Do not disrespect me! I only want what’s best for you. And dear Lord, what are you suggesting? Do you truly expect me to ride a bus four thousand kilometers to meet this American of yours?

Well, first of all, it’s only three hundred kilometers from Chabanel to your village and, secondly, the trains are running part-time again.

It’s out of the question! I can’t believe you’re even contemplating getting married when I haven’t even met her!

Then come to Chabanel. Or you could always trust my judgement in these things and be happy for me.

"Oh, now you are being ridiculous! Promise me you won’t do anything, Luc. You remember what happened last time you married? Une catastrophe!"

Luc ground his teeth. He didn’t need to be reminded of his disastrous marriage to Louise. Nor did he need to be reminded of how it ended—not in divorce but in drug addiction and death. And it hadn’t been that long ago either. He knew his mother would bring up Louise. He’d told himself to ignore it when she did. Jules and Louise were about as different as two people could be.  

Luc? Are you still there? I’m serious. If you attempt to go through with this, I’ll find a way to stop it. Do you hear me?

Luc fought to control his temper. He was seconds from hanging up on her—the least damaging option he could see before him—when a different, saner voice suddenly came on the line.

Luc? his sister said.

I can’t believe that woman! he blurted out.

I know, I know. But don’t get yourself all worked up.

How did you get her off the phone?

I told her the neighbor’s dog was digging up her petunias.

Luc laughed in spite of himself. Leave it to Colette to lighten things up. How she lived with their mother was a total mystery to him.

I’m tempted to elope, he said.

I don’t know why you don’t. What does Jules say?

He ran a hand through his hair and felt some of the tension release from his shoulders.

She says we can do whatever I want.

Are you sure she’s female? Colette said with a laugh. Or is that the American in her? I have to say, it’s very un-bridelike.

Luc grinned. Jules was like nobody he had ever met. To him, she embodied all the best—and the worst—qualities of her country. She was independent, she was courageous, she was fresh and original, but she would always chart her own course.

Which of course was usually the problem.

 Did you hear me, Luc? Colette said. "Ignore Maman and do things your way. Yours and Jules’ way. Okay?"

"Yes, thank you, chérie, he said. Good advice. I know you’re right."

Of course I am. And for God’s sake, keep your temper. That won’t help anything.

Just then there was a tap on the office door and Madame Gabin poked her head in. She looked discomfited, which wasn’t typical at all for Madame Gabin who always tended to be completely self-possessed.

I have to go, Colette, he said. Something’s come up.

"Okay, just remember what I said, chérie," she said.

Luc hung up the phone seconds before Abrielle Dubois swept into his office, pushing past Madame Gabin and giving a critical pass over the room. Her eyes quickly revealed her judgement of its shabbiness.

It’s okay, Madame Gabin, Luc said.

Madame Gabin gave the newcomer a sour look and retreated, shutting the door harder than necessary.

Luke thought Abrielle Dubois might have been pretty if her pale features weren’t framed by her thick black hair, obviously dyed and pulled back in a severe bun. Her clothing was plain but neat. In Luke’s view, her attention to detail was a telltale beacon of what he considered her relentless ambition.

He stood up from his desk and extended his hand.

Madame Prosecuting Attorney, he said with a smile.

He’d been told that Abrielle would take up her post in the ministère public office in Aix after a brief stopover in Chabanel while the mas she was renting outside the village was being renovated.

Even so, he hadn’t expected her today. Certainly not without a warning phone call.

Chief DeBray, Abrielle said, squeezing his hand tightly as they shook hands. I am delighted to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you. For such a small village, you have an astonishing case closure rate—especially with capital crime.

Luc was surprised to hear she’d read up on him. It was true that Chabanel had seen more than its share of murders and general mayhem since the EMP, but he didn’t realize he might have made a sort of name for himself. He shook off the uneasy feeling that thought brokered and quickly decided her research on him and Chabanel was entirely appropriate given that she would be handling all capital crime cases in the area. Abrielle settled herself in the seat opposite his desk.

"I was hoping I might use your office as my base of operations until I start at the bureau de ministère public in Aix, she said. Would that be too much of an inconvenience?"

Luc blinked and tried not to let his dismay show on his face. Had he heard her correctly? All she had to do was look around to see what a small shop they had in Chabanel. And with four full time employees, and two holding cells taking up over half the space, it was tight as it was. He had no idea where she expected he might put her.  

 Abrielle's gaze held him in a trancelike state. 

I won’t need much, she said, waving to his office. I can set up in the corner here. I just need a desk and access to your office equipment, and of course the receptionist. Rest assured I will not interfere with your cases in any way. Unless of course, you want me to.

There was something about the way she delivered that message that gave Luc an uncomfortable feeling.  But he just smiled.

Of course, he said. No problem.

3

It took me nearly an hour to get home. It would’ve taken a lot longer if Madame de Bourbon and her boy toy hadn’t been alerted by my screams and come to my aid. And by come to my aid , I mean watch the