What are you trying to tell me? Annja wondered.
"One thing you should start doing immediately is taking better care of this charm." Roux said. "After all, it could prove to be a significant find if you discover its history." Roux took a handkerchief from his pocket and dropped the charm into the center of it. Picking up the ends of the handkerchief, he folded the charm inside. Then he handed the makeshift package to Annja with a smile. "There. That should better protect it until you can put it in a proper storage container."
Annja closed her hand over the handkerchief and felt the hard outline of the disk inside. She put the handkerchief into her shorts pocket and closed the Velcro tab.
"Thank you," she said.
Roux looked around, then tapped the table and said, "I'll be back in just a moment. Too much wine."
Comfortable and almost sleepy, Annja settled back in her chair and relaxed. Thoughts of the cozy bed at the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying danced in her head. She tried to marshal her thoughts and figure out her next course of action.
Identification of the charm was paramount. Doug Morrell would love the story and not hesitate at all over the digital pictures she had taken of La Bête. The television producer wasn't like some police inspectors Annja had met.
Thinking of Inspector Richelieu reminded Annja of Corvin Lesauvage. It didn't make sense to think that a well-organized crime figure would send a team after her for the camera equipment and whatever cash she carried.
But that wasn't what they were after, was it? The man had wanted her. Lesauvage had wanted to talk to her.
She started to feel frightened.
Suddenly she realized how much time had passed since Roux had quit the table. He had been gone a long time. Too long.
Glancing around the bistro, Annja discovered that the server and the manager were watching her. She stood and looked outside. Sure enough, the bullet-scarred SUV was no longer parked at the curb.
"Mademoiselle?"
Annja turned and found the young brunette server standing at the table.
"Is something the matter, mademoiselle?" the young woman asked.
"I don't suppose he paid the bill before he ducked out, did he?" Annja asked.
"No, mademoiselle."
Annja sighed and took out the cash she carried. "How much is it?"
The server told her.
"That much?" Annja was surprised. She put her money back and reached for her credit card.
The waitress nodded contritely, obviously still hopeful of a large tip.
"He was supposed to be independently wealthy," Annja said. "Several times over."
"Yes, mademoiselle." The server took Annja's credit card and retreated.
Then Annja remembered how Roux had effortlessly shuffled and cut the deck of cards one-handed at the police station. A sick feeling twisted in her stomach.
She removed the folded handkerchief from her pocket. The disk shape was still there, but the panic within her grew as she opened the cloth package.
Inside the folds she found a two-euro coin. It was two-toned, brass and silvery, bright and shiny new.
Just the right size to make her think Roux had handed her the charm. Not only had he stuck her with the bistro tab, but he had also stolen her find.
Carefully, she folded the coin back in the handkerchief, noting that it was monogrammed with a crimson R.If she got lucky, he'd left her with more than he'd intended.
Chapter 9
"YOU'RE GETTING BACK quite late, Mademoiselle Creed."
"I am, François. I'm sorry. I should have called." Annja stood in the doorway of the bed-and-breakfast. She'd come in feeling inept and foolish, and angry with the local police because they didn't know Roux and hadn't even bothered to ask his name. No one had even taken down his license plate. She'd wasted an hour and a half discovering that.
She hated feeling guilty on top of it.
The clock on the mantel above the fireplace showed that it was almost eleven p.m.
François Lambert was a retired carpenter who had thought ahead. While building homes for others, François had also built for his own retirement years. The bed-and-breakfast was located a few miles north of Lozère, far enough out of the town to afford privacy and a good view of the Cévennes Mountains.
One of the things that Annja loved most about her vocation was the endless possibility of meeting people. They hailed from all walks of life, and were driven by all kinds of dreams and desires.
Over seventy years old, François was long and lanky, a whipcord man used to a life filled with hard work. He had a headful of white hair brushed back and touching his collar. His white mustache looked elegant and aristocratic. He wore slacks and a white shirt.
François waved away her apology. "I was worried about you, that's all. Lozère can be dangerous sometimes when it is dark." He studied her. "But you are all right, yes?"
"I am. Thank you."
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out. He lit up with a lighter. "I heard the police were involved."
Small towns, Annja thought, you have to love them. She did, too. They were usually quaint and exotic and moved to their own rhythm.
But gossip spread as aggressively as running bamboo.
"I was attacked," Annja said. "Up in the mountains."
François shook his leonine head. "A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn't be out alone. I told you that."
"I know. I promise I'll be more careful in the future." Annja started up the stairs.
"Were you injured?"
"No. I was lucky."
"I heard Corvin Lesauvage was involved."
Annja froze halfway up the stairs. "Do you know anything about him?"
A pensive frown tightened her host's lined face. "Very little. I'm told that is the best thing to know about him. Lesauvage is a bad man."
"Inspector Richelieu told me that, as well."
"You went to him for help?" François looked concerned.
"He was assigned to the investigation."
"He is not a good man, either, that one. He tends to take care of things his way."
Annja hesitated a moment. "I was told he shot Avery Moreau's father."
"Yes." François looked sad. "It is a bad way for a boy to lose his father. Avery, he struggles with right and wrong, you see. At least when his father was around, knowing that his father was a thief, he had an idea of what he didn't want to be when he grew up."
"You didn't mention this when I hired him to help me," Annja said.
François's face colored a little. "If I had, would you have hired him?"
Annja answered honestly. "I don't know."
"I was only looking out for the boy. Someone needs to. But I should have told you."
"This," she said, wanting to let the old man off the hook, "had nothing to do with that."
"I hope not."
"I'm sure it doesn't."
François nodded. "Camille wanted to know if you would be joining us for breakfast."
"Yes," Annja said. "I've got a lot to do tomorrow. There is one thing you could help me with."
"If I may," he agreed.
She asked for some rosin from his violin kit and was quickly supplied with a small portion in a coffee cup. After thanking François, Annja said good night and went up to the room she'd rented.