Deliver Us From Evil

18

THE VILLA that Evan Waller would be staying at cost over twenty thousand euros per week and he’d leased it for a month, paying in advance, or so the leasing agent had told Shaw. The house was parked next to the cliffs of Gordes and rose five levels high, reachable inside only by a single spiral limestone staircase. The place had six bedrooms and a saltwater pool in the rear grounds where there was also an al fresco dining area under a wooden pergola, along with an outdoor kitchen and propane grill. The villa’s owner had recently renovated it, and all the appliances, including the Wolf gas stovetop in the spacious kitchen, were new.

Shaw knew all of this because he was meeting with the leasing agent at her office in Gordes in the guise of being a potential renter for next year. The agent was polite and informative.

“Don’t take too much time,” she’d warned him in efficient French. She was a Brit transplant but her French was very good. “Just yesterday there was another person here who wants to lease for next year too.”

“Really,” said Shaw. “Who might that be?”

The woman arched her eyebrows. “That is confidential. But she is young, American, and quite lovely. And obviously quite well-to-do. These villas are the best in the area and beyond the purse of most. The same builder did the renovation on the villa next door. They’re not exactly alike inside, but there are many similarities, including the limestone spiral stairs connecting all floors.”

So much for confidences, thought Shaw. “But if the place is leased now as you said, where’s the tenant? The villa is empty.”

The woman appeared uncertain. “It’s true he’s leased it for the month. Paid in advance.”

“So it is a man, then?” Shaw said.

She looked upset with herself. “Yes, but his name is confidential.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, he’s not here yet. It was quite unusual, actually. I mean, to pay thousands of euros for something you’re not even using? Well, it’s not for me to say, I suppose. Rich people are peculiar that way, aren’t they? But you yourself must be rich, if you’re looking at renting such a villa.”

“I’ve done well in life,” Shaw said modestly. “And we can speak in English if you prefer, though your French is far better than mine.”

She looked both pleased and relieved by this. Her demeanor and tone instantly changed, and her British accent rang loud and clear. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say. I’ve been doing these lessons for a month to get that gurgling thing going in my throat, but I can’t say I’ve quite got the hang of it. These French, though, they speak so beautifully, so brilliantly, don’t they? But it just about wrecks my poor esophagus.”

“Mine too.”

“Anyway, since the place is empty I could’ve taken you up for a quick peek, but we don’t want to barge in and find Mr. Waller in his underpants, now do we?” She chuckled.

“So it’s Mr. Waller?”

The woman looked chagrined. “Now look what I’ve gone and done. Okay, that’s the man’s name, but don’t bandy it about. Our work is confidential.”

“Of course. Not a word. Thank you.”

He left her and walked to the place in Gordes where he was staying, a small hotel that also had a spa. Situated on the precipice of the Vaucluse plateau with the Luberon valley and hills beyond, Gordes could be reached almost faster on foot from the villas below by a series of steps cut into the rock. A car ride was quite circuitous and involved a number of switchbacks. The village of white and gray stone structures clung to the rock sides like bees to a honeycomb. The village itself was twice crowned: by the Catholic church with its soaring bell tower and by a medieval castle that now housed part of the town’s government.

He called Frank and filled him in. Ever since he’d arrived here Shaw had methodically reconnoitered each building of note in the town. He probably knew Gordes better than many of its longtime residents. He and Amy Crawford were due to meet tomorrow, but Shaw had been in contact with her since he’d landed in Provence.

There were a number of possibilities in the village for lunch, so he took his time reading menus printed on crisp white paper and tacked onto exterior walls. He selected L’Estaminet Café near the town center and had his meal, supplementing it with a glass of Rhone, which was of course quite popular around these parts. On the other hand, Italian wine was almost impossible to find, Shaw thought with a grin. His smile faded when she walked in. Though the place was teeming with tourists, for some reason he knew this must be the American of whom the real estate agent had spoken; young, lovely, and so well off.

She was in her late twenties, with streaked blonde hair that he sensed wasn’t her natural color. Her skin was tanned to almond with a few freckles on her shoulders the size and color of coffee beans. She was wearing a sundress with a scalloped front allowing a glimpse of her cleavage; leather sandals covered her long, narrow feet. Shaw could only see her in profile as she was escorted to her seat. But as she put her bag in the chair next to her she momentarily turned his way.

It seemed that Shaw’s eyes and brain were disturbingly out of sync, as though his mind had expected his pupils to signal something other than what they had just seen. Yet he didn’t know exactly why he had any expectation at all. Her face was not perfect. Her nose was a bit long and thin and a little too sharply angled; the eyes were a tad large for symmetry when aligned against her face, the cheeks somewhat flat. Yet somehow all put together these elements made her far more memorable than if her features had been flawless. Beautiful women, especially in the south of France, were not so rare, but someone who did not fit neatly into a category was often unforgettable.

Her body was athletic; the shoulders well-developed, her legs long and defined, the calves particularly muscular as though she had walked uphill a great deal in her life. Because of her leanness she looked taller than what he approximated was about five-seven, but she also seemed small to him. Yet since he stood six foot six in his bare feet, just about everyone other than basketball players seemed diminutive to Shaw.

As he continued to think about it, Shaw realized that what had startled him was that though she was obviously young, she seemed old, not physically, of course.

She seems far too serious for someone that young.

Though he’d finished his meal, a curious Shaw chose to stay and have a café and a cup of strawberry sorbet. Once or twice he thought he saw her glance his way, but it might have been his imagination. He finally paid his bill, rose, and left. If he’d turned around, he would have seen definitive proof that she had noticed him, her gaze lingering long after he’d closed the door.

He walked down the uneven cobblestone streets but kept the front of the restaurant in sight. Twenty minutes later she stepped out the door, looked around, and started down the path that would carry her to the villas below. That included one shortcut, down a short flight of worn stone steps that would eliminate about a minute out of the trip by subtracting a switchback from the route.

Shaw followed her, wondering where she was staying. He was surprised to see her approach and then unlock the front door to the villa next to where Waller would be staying. And she’d made inquiries about the other villa too. Despite Frank’s finding nothing on the woman, she would still bear watching. Surprises were never good especially if Shaw was on the receiving end of one.