Read Online Provence - To Die For by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online Page B

meandered uphill. When I stopped several times to look around or admire the view, I noticed little piles of dirt mounded around holes in the ground circling the trunks of oak trees. A truffle hunter had obviously been pursuing his quarry on Martine’s property. I doubted she’d given him permission.
     
    “I’d like two croissants, one for now with some coffee, and one to take home. And a baguette, please,” I said in French, eyeing the tall, thin, crusty loaves of bread that stood on end in a crockery canister. “I think I’ll get a little cake as well.” A quiet day yesterday and a restful night’s sleep at last had inspired this morning visit to St. Marc—that and the diminishing supply of food in the refrigerator. I had taken Martine’s bicycle—she would never recognize its cleaned and polished frame—and walked the last half mile to the village, set atop a steep hill.
    The baker, Mme Roulandet, was a birdlike woman, small and thin, with a pointy nose and narrow chin. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a long scarf. She plucked two croissants from the pile, put one on a plate, and wrapped the other, twisting the ends of the white paper to seal it closed. She pulled a baguette from the canister and tied a piece of paper in the middle, leaving both ends of the bread uncovered.
    “What else?” she demanded, as my eyes scanned the array of tempting cakes and tarts. “I haven’t got all day.”
    I looked up. The only other person in the shop was a young man wearing a white jacket and black-and-white-checked pants, who was reading a newspaper at a table in a small adjoining room.
    “I’ll take the one on the end,” I said, pointing at a rectangular cake. “No, not that one. The one with the sugar on top.”
    Mme Roulandet shoved a flat knife under the little block I’d selected and wrapped it in another piece of white paper, this time deftly folding the ends and securing the little package with a piece of string. She put the three items in a plastic bag, and passed it over the counter; half the bread stuck up out of the opening. She looked at me impatiently.
    Confused, I opened my bag to get out some francs, thinking she was waiting to be paid.
    She clicked her tongue and barked, “What kind of coffee do you want?”
    “Café au lait,” I said, handing her some money. “Will that be enough?”
    She grunted at the bills, pocketed them, handed me the paper plate with my croissant, and waved me away. “Take a seat anywhere. I’ll bring you the coffee in a moment.”
    I turned toward the room next door just as the young man was leaving.
    “À demain, Marie,” he called out to the baker, telling her he’d see her tomorrow.
    “ Attends , Charles.” She quickly gathered some of her baked goods, put them in a bag, came around the counter, and handed it to him. “Send your mother my regards. Tell her I hope her liver will improve.” She kissed him on both cheeks and smiled as she watched him lope down the street. Her expression sobered immediately when she caught me observing her. Had I said something to offend her, or did she simply dislike Americans, or perhaps all foreigners?
    The bakery was divided into two parts; on one side was the shop with its baskets of breads and large glass case displaying trays of breakfast pastries, cakes, tarts, and rolls. On the other side was a small room that served as a café. On the café side there was barely room for the four tables and twelve chairs. They shared the space with a tall glass-front refrigerator filled with juices, sodas, and teas, not so very different from the beverages offered in Cabot Cove’s village deli.
    I walked to a table by the plate-glass window facing the street, and put down my croissant. I hung my bag of bread and cake from the top of a chair, took off my jacket, and folded it over the seat. The ride into town had given me an appetite that hadn’t been diminished by visiting several food