PENGUIN BOOKS
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Copyright © 2018 by Mary Lou Longworth
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Longworth, M. L. (Mary Lou), 1963– author.
Title: The secrets of the Bastide Blanche / M. L. Longworth.
Description: First edition. | New York, New York : Penguin Books, 2018. | Series: A Provenðcal mystery ; 7
Identifiers: LCCN 2017042241| ISBN 9780143131427 (softcover) | ISBN 9781524705152 (e-isbn)
Subjects: LCSH: Judges—France—Fiction. | Women law teachers—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Crime. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Traditional British. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.L596 S43 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017042241
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Roseanne Serra
Cover illustration: Tatsuro Kiuchi
Version_1
For Kathy, Bev, and Sue
Contents
Praise for the Provençal Mysteries
M. L. Longworth’s Provençal Mysteries
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Je te tiens, tu me tiens, par la barbichette;
le premier de nous deux qui rira aura une tapette!
(I have you, you have me, by the little beard;
the first one of us who laughs will get a smack!)
—French children’s game sung by two children who stand face-to-face, holding each other by the chin
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude”
Chapter One
New York City,
September 22, 2010
Justin Wong grew up in New York City, but he had never walked its streets as quickly, nor with such intent, as he did that afternoon. He felt like he could fly. It had only been seven years since he graduated from the Liberal Studies department of NYU, and here he was, working at a major publishing house—even if he was a lowly associate editor—and about to meet one of the most famous authors in the world. Prix Goncourt 1982. Voted into France’s Légion d’honneur in 1986. Short-listed for a Nobel in 1987. Millions of sales and translated into forty-two languages. Justin stopped to catch his breath, with his hands on his hips and bending over slightly. Don’t blow it, he told himself. You have to get this deal tonight. Maybe then Mom and Dad will forgive you for not studying medicine.
He straightened up and looked at his reflection in a design shop’s window. Average height, slim, jet-black hair freshly cut, and new clothes purchased specially for that evening (chinos, a pressed white cotton shirt, and for added flair a blue-and-green-checkered waistcoat and blue brogues that were too expensive even on sale). Ready.
He turned at the Flatiron, and then slowed down as he got closer to East Twentieth Street. He knew this neighborhood well; he and a few buddies used to go to a cheap jazz club nearby. Not only his boss but also the publisher had met with Justin to decide on the evening’s venue. They chose a restaurant famous for its food and extensive French wine cellar. The writer was known for his love of wines and cigars. Justin liked both, but that wasn’t why he had been chosen for this meeting. The editor in chief or publisher could have easily gone instead. Justin had been singled out by the great writer himself, whose lawyer had written a letter to New York on very old-fashioned embossed letterhead. Justin walked slowly now—he was early—with a huge smile plastered on his face as he recalled part of the letter for the millionth time: “My client, Valère Barbier, would like to meet with Mr. Justin Wong, an employee of your esteemed publishing house. M Barbier will be in New York for three days in September. Merci beaucoup. Maître Guillaume Matton, 15 avenue Hoche, 75008, Paris.”
The letter surprised Justin as much as it did the publisher, who immediately called Justin into her office (They had never met; it was a big company). “Did you call Barbier’s lawyer, this Maître Matton person?” she hollered, pacing the room. “How did he get your name? You can’t just contact world-renowned authors without your boss’s consent!” She was red in the face, almost as red as the Chanel jacket she wore. Justin looked at the floor, hiding his grin. He always laughed when he was terrified. He sat down in a leather chair, resting his sweating palms on his thighs. There had to be an explanation. Think. What connected him to this French writer? He had spent a year at NYU’s Paris campus, but he never even read Valère Barbier’s works while he was there. He had been too busy chasing French girls. Besides, Barbier had switched genres by then, infuriating his critics but gaining even more readers.
Clothilde had thought it a wild joke. “It looks so good on us!” she laughed over beers in the Latin Quarter. “We French are such snobs! And Valère Barbier has shoved it back in our Gallic faces!” She reached over and rubbed
