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

the same for me.
    The next hour was spent settling in and ferrying clothes from my luggage up the stairs to the bedroom I now thought of as mine. The suitcase was too heavy and awkward to maneuver in the small stairwell, and I wasn’t willing to risk a wrenched back just to make unpacking a little easier. Plus, I was a bit sore from my tumble at the hotel. Half the contents from the duffel had to come downstairs anyway. I lined up my winter boots on the floor under the hooks and put a pile of books on an end table in the living room, making efficient use of the round-trips.
    As I’d done for her, Martine had left a letter for me in the kitchen detailing useful information, such as where things could be found in the house, and who the neighbors were.
     
    M. Telloir will stop by with fresh eggs. He takes my olives to market in the picking season; we have a fair exchange. No need to pay him. Mme. Arlenne has a house directly across the paved road from our driveway. She will be happy to sell you root vegetables if you run out before the market day, which is Friday. I left you some food in the refrigerator, so you won’t have to shop right away. Help yourself to anything in the pantry, and anywhere else, for that matter. The bakery in the village opens at seven. It’s best to go in the morning when there’s a good selection, and make sure to count your change! You’re welcome to use my car. It’s in the barn. The key is under the mat.
     
    I wouldn’t take her up on this last offer. Martine had forgotten I don’t drive.
    I found milk, butter, eggs, and a loaf of sliced bread in the refrigerator, and laughed at the irony as I made myself French toast for lunch. I wondered what the French called this dish. Following my first meal as a temporary resident of Provence, I wandered around the house, Martine’s note in hand, locating the references on her list, starting in the kitchen. The “pantry” turned out to be a large bookcase covered by a yellow-and-white curtain that hung from a rod secured to the top. One shelf held rows of fruit preserves, another jars of olives, tomatoes, onions, cauliflower, and other vegetables; a third was filled with tins of fish and meats, boxes of pasta, and dry soup and other staples. Suspended from the side of the pantry was a narrow fabric bag with a flap at the top like an envelope. There wasn’t anything in it, and I wondered what it was for.
    The pantry stood to the left of the kitchen fireplace, which had a small, square, raised hearth. A massive mantel supported by carved wood columns framed the blackened grate. Resting on top was a squat yellow flashlight. Martine had told me that she’d had a new heating system installed, but because of the expense, she usually used both the downstairs fireplaces to combat the cold. Since hot air rises, the heat they generated would warm the bedrooms, at least for an hour or two, plenty of time to get comfortable under the quilts. I checked the stack of wood to the right of the fireplace. There were enough logs for one night of burning but not more than that. I assumed there was a woodpile outside.
    I slipped into my boots, pulled on Martine’s barn jacket, and tied the scarf I found in her pocket over my hair. While I’d been unpacking, the threatened storm had come through. The full brunt of the weather had passed, but clouds still obscured the sun and a stinging mist hung in the air. I let myself out the front door, crossed the patio, and headed toward the barn, really more of a low stable, catty-corner to the house. The barn doors were on well-oiled hinges, and one easily yielded to my tug. Happily, it was the side of the barn without the car. Daylight spilled in through the open door, illuminating the accumulation of old tools, discarded furniture, paint cans, and tarpaulins. It was like finding a private junk shop. I pulled the scarf from my hair and wandered among the flotsam and jetsam that had washed up in Martine’s garage.
    The barn