Read Online Provence - To Die For by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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“There is old Peristolle’s son, but ’e is very reckless. You are safer with Marcel.”
I sighed. Without an alternative, I would have to ask Marcel to drive me to Avignon next week.
M. Telloir put down his eggs, squatted in front of the bike, and tipped his head from side to side. His blue hooded jacket was unzipped, allowing his solid stomach to push out over his belt. He pinched his nose. “How are you going to attach that?” he asked, pointing to the wicker basket, which dangled from the handlebar by a thread of wire.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I should be able to find something in the garage, but I haven’t looked yet.”
“Let me see,” he said, putting his hands on his knees and pushing up. He walked toward the barn before I could say not to bother, moving with the ease of someone accustomed to working outside, his bowed legs giving him a rocking gait that reminded me of a children’s toy.
I picked up the wet rag I’d been using to wipe down the saddle seat, and continued my chore, keeping an ear toward the barn where I could hear M. Telloir rummaging through the toolbox. The front half of the bicycle was indeed “pas mal,” or “not bad,” as he’d said, but the rust on the wheel spokes resisted my scrubbing. I’d finished removing the encrusted dirt and was wiping the bike with a clean, dry cloth when M. Telloir emerged from the barn. He clipped the wire holding one side of the basket to the bike, banged the basket against his leg, dislodging a sprinkle of dirt, and handed it to me. “It ’ave to be rinsed,” he said. “Then I attach it for you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I said, straightening from my polishing. “May I offer you something to drink, Monsieur Telloir? Martine has some English breakfast tea, and I think there’s a bit of cake as well.”
“I wouldn’t say no to some tea,” he replied. He followed me into the kitchen, and while I filled the kettle, he removed a bowl from the cupboard, put his eggs in it, and deposited the bowl in the refrigerator. It was a familiar routine for him, I imagined, Martine entertaining him just as I was about to do. I put the kettle on the stove and took the bicycle basket to the sink. M. Telloir shambled over to the side door off the kitchen as I poured water over the grimy wicker.
“I will be right back,” he said. The side door squealed as he opened it, and cold air circled around the kitchen, raising goose bumps on my arms. Two minutes later he reentered with an armload of wood and proceeded to fill the wood boxes next to the fireplaces.
“Would you like for me to lay a fire?” he asked.
“Are you cold?” I asked, placing two cups and saucers on the table.
“No. No, I’m fine,” he protested. “But you ...”
“I’m planning to go for a walk this morning,” I said, “and I wouldn’t want to leave a fire burning. But thank you for bringing in the wood. I’d wondered where the woodpile was.”
“It is just outside your door,” he said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “The wind was bad last night, eh? It knocked down a few of your logs.”
Okay, I told myself. Those were the thuds I heard. There’s always a rational explanation for everything, I thought. But why was someone digging in the woods behind the house? I eyed M. Telloir’s hooded jacket. No, I thought, I doubt he would be able to move as fast as my nocturnal prowler, but better not say anything yet. I poured water over the tea, sliced a small cake Martine had left in the fridge, and put plates and silverware on the table along with a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s no lemon.”
“Don’t take it,” he replied around a mouthful of cake.
We sipped and chewed in companionable silence, enjoying the early morning sunlight streaming in at an angle through the kitchen window.
“I thought I heard a wolf howling last night,” I said to open the conversation. “Are there wolves in
I sighed. Without an alternative, I would have to ask Marcel to drive me to Avignon next week.
M. Telloir put down his eggs, squatted in front of the bike, and tipped his head from side to side. His blue hooded jacket was unzipped, allowing his solid stomach to push out over his belt. He pinched his nose. “How are you going to attach that?” he asked, pointing to the wicker basket, which dangled from the handlebar by a thread of wire.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I should be able to find something in the garage, but I haven’t looked yet.”
“Let me see,” he said, putting his hands on his knees and pushing up. He walked toward the barn before I could say not to bother, moving with the ease of someone accustomed to working outside, his bowed legs giving him a rocking gait that reminded me of a children’s toy.
I picked up the wet rag I’d been using to wipe down the saddle seat, and continued my chore, keeping an ear toward the barn where I could hear M. Telloir rummaging through the toolbox. The front half of the bicycle was indeed “pas mal,” or “not bad,” as he’d said, but the rust on the wheel spokes resisted my scrubbing. I’d finished removing the encrusted dirt and was wiping the bike with a clean, dry cloth when M. Telloir emerged from the barn. He clipped the wire holding one side of the basket to the bike, banged the basket against his leg, dislodging a sprinkle of dirt, and handed it to me. “It ’ave to be rinsed,” he said. “Then I attach it for you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I said, straightening from my polishing. “May I offer you something to drink, Monsieur Telloir? Martine has some English breakfast tea, and I think there’s a bit of cake as well.”
“I wouldn’t say no to some tea,” he replied. He followed me into the kitchen, and while I filled the kettle, he removed a bowl from the cupboard, put his eggs in it, and deposited the bowl in the refrigerator. It was a familiar routine for him, I imagined, Martine entertaining him just as I was about to do. I put the kettle on the stove and took the bicycle basket to the sink. M. Telloir shambled over to the side door off the kitchen as I poured water over the grimy wicker.
“I will be right back,” he said. The side door squealed as he opened it, and cold air circled around the kitchen, raising goose bumps on my arms. Two minutes later he reentered with an armload of wood and proceeded to fill the wood boxes next to the fireplaces.
“Would you like for me to lay a fire?” he asked.
“Are you cold?” I asked, placing two cups and saucers on the table.
“No. No, I’m fine,” he protested. “But you ...”
“I’m planning to go for a walk this morning,” I said, “and I wouldn’t want to leave a fire burning. But thank you for bringing in the wood. I’d wondered where the woodpile was.”
“It is just outside your door,” he said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “The wind was bad last night, eh? It knocked down a few of your logs.”
Okay, I told myself. Those were the thuds I heard. There’s always a rational explanation for everything, I thought. But why was someone digging in the woods behind the house? I eyed M. Telloir’s hooded jacket. No, I thought, I doubt he would be able to move as fast as my nocturnal prowler, but better not say anything yet. I poured water over the tea, sliced a small cake Martine had left in the fridge, and put plates and silverware on the table along with a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s no lemon.”
“Don’t take it,” he replied around a mouthful of cake.
We sipped and chewed in companionable silence, enjoying the early morning sunlight streaming in at an angle through the kitchen window.
“I thought I heard a wolf howling last night,” I said to open the conversation. “Are there wolves in
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