Intrigue at a Small Hotel

by Elizabeth Cooke

Overview

Intrigue at a Small Hotel is the 6th book in the series about the fictional Hotel Marcel, near The Eiffel Tower, in Paris. Elizabeth, an American widow in her 60's, pursues the adventures and passions of friends and strangers she encounters on her regular sojourns to the hostelry of which she is so fond.

In Intrigue, a vindictive woman from her past, tries to steal our heroine's identity. With the help of people who have come to know and care about Elizabeth, the malicious woman is confounded by a mysterious man who enters the picture and foils her wicked intent.

Filled with suspense and devious schemes, there is laughter and love as well: seduction in a lavish hotel suite, a would-be marriage ceremony in a French chateau, and a surprise ending that leaves the reader enthralled.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781458219886
Publisher:	Abbott Press
Publication date:	02/05/2016
Pages:	112
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.27(d)

Read an Excerpt

Intrigueat a Small Hotel

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By Elizabeth Cooke

Abbott Press

Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Cooke
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-1988-6

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CHAPTER 1

A Shadow Falls

THE WARNING STARTS this way, at the inn at St. Paul de Vence.

"I have had a strange message. A note – asking about your whereabouts, Elizabeth. Brigitte took the message at the front desk. It was delivered by a messenger service – a boy in uniform."

It is Jean-Luc on the telephone, calling from Hotel Marcel, which I answer at the front desk in the lobby of the delightful inn at St, Paul de Vence, which Brit and I reached only last night. We have just come downstairs, after café au lait in our bedroom overlooking the Côte d'Azur.

"What did the note say?"

"It was addressed to me," Jean-Luc says. "The note is brief. It asks do I know where you are? There is left only a telephone number to call. I tried it. It is again a service, a phone service. I inquired who is asking for this personal information. The girl said 'That person's identity is privileged,' to which I replied, "So is Mme. Elizabeth's whereabouts! Privileged! And I hung up."

I sigh. "Thank you, Jean-Luc, I guess." I am perplexed.

"Imagine! How dare whoever this is, try to find out things without revealing the who and the why. It's dégoutant!" Jean-Luc is sputtering.

"I agree it's disgusting – but I'm sure it's of no importance. If they send another note or call you ... well that would be a different story."

When I hang up, Brit notices my furrowed brow.

"Problem?" he asks.

"No, no. Just a small mystery. Someone wanting to know where I am – not saying who they are or why they want to know."

"That's strange." He takes my hand. "Oh well, beautiful, come on. Let's go for lunch. I want to walk over to Le Petit Vigneau – it's a small, local vineyard. I hear they have great wines and a tasting menu. Come on, now. It'll be fun."

"Bonne idée," I reply, and off we set, in jeans and walking shoes, on this fall morning, the sun at its peak and our psyches in step.

It takes less than 20 minutes to make the journey to the vineyard. As we near the endroit, in the distance, we see the terraced hills of Le Petit Vigneau, the grapes plump and shining on their vines. We spend an hour viewing the property. Then, of greater import, we test the different varietal wines produced in the small shed, with its presses and vats and the verdant, earthy smell of crushed grapes.

Over the third glass, this one, an astonishingly fruity white, the co-owner, Louisa, appears with a tray of amuses-bouches –slabs of smoked ham on croutons, ewe-milk cheese with bits of baguette, cornichons, pungent black olives Niçoise.

"A lunch for the Gods!" is Brit's evaluation of this array of delights, to which I can only agree.

This is only our first day on the Côte d'Azur. But as day two, day three, flow effortlessly, Brit has his sketchpad with him at all times. We sit in a field overlooking the blue of the Mediterranean where he is busily absorbed in drawing the vista before him. (I am absorbed too, in watching my love at his work). We walk the hilly, cobbled streets of the little town, visiting the art shops and small musées along the way.

The fourth night, we dine on fresh fish, under stars at an outdoor bistro, which provides an upright heater outside against the cooling wind off the water. Later, under a full moon, on the wide terrace of our inn, I watch the barman spear the cork of a bottle of champagne with a saber (one of the 'specialties' at this particular hostelry). As the bubbles fly and leap in the moonlight, I delight in the knowledge that I am on the way to a rendezvous on the second floor of this magic place, in the arms of the man beside me.

Before we rise to go upstairs, the deskman appears on the terrace from inside the lobby with a note addressed to me, a message from Jean-Luc.

His note reads: "Another call - this time a voice, a real person. She says something odd, and I quote, 'Hey, Elizabeth. I'm back. Don't ever under-estimate the power of a woman like me!' The woman's voice was so threatening. She sounded so vindictive. I think you should know about this, Madame. She does not sound like your friend."

She? A woman's voice? 'The power of a woman like me?' Just what woman do I know who is a threat?

And as when the bubbles burst in a glass of champagne, I am left with a very flat taste in my mouth and an acid burn in my throat.

Who? Who in my past? And why?

Most of all, why now?

CHAPTER 2

Le Couvent

IT IS FRIDAY, the 6th of October. Brit is as curious as I concerning the strange woman from my past seeking me out so mysteriously. As we drive north, back to Paris and to the Hotel Marcel, we decide it best I stay there, rather than at Brit's Marais house, in view of the fact someone may be stalking me.

"You will have Jean-Luc to run interference if she comes to the hotel – and of course, policeman René, to put the cuffs on her," Brit says, smiling, trying to relieve my anxiety.

"That's not funny," I respond.

"And of course, I would like to stay upstairs with you too, if that's okay?" he says, his voice tentative.

"More than okay," I say hugging his arm. Even so, the atmosphere in the car is fraught with disturbing internal questions, on my part, and perhaps even suspicions on his.

"Who would want to show up and bug you?" he says, as we turn into a small vegetable stand on the side of the road, to buy some apples, and red ripe tomatoes.

With a baguette and some slices of smoked ham from the St. Paul de Vence inn, we make a picnic under a huge aspen tree, on the edge of a grassy field.

"I have no idea," I say, sullenly. And I don't.

"You'd think she'd at least have the balls to identify herself," Brit says, almost angry, biting into an apple with a great crunch.

"Can't we leave the subject of the strange woman? Please," I say, more uncomfortable than I'd like to be.

Returning to the Peugeot, buckling in, I say tentatively, "Could we stop at Sue's on the way?" "Sure," he says, glancing over at me anxiously.

"She might be able to remember something ... someone ..."

"I thought you wanted to forget about that mysterious woman."

"I can't."

After a moment, Brit says, "You've known Sue long enough to maybe remember some female person out to trash you?"

"I've known Sue since forever. We were girls together in New York – and at college ... and here, in France – when I lived here some years ago. That was before she married her Marquis."

"Wow. A Marquis. How did she manage that?"

"It was a real love story. But that was then. He died a few years ago."

Brit is silent, then, "I never realized you lived in France. When? You never told me."

"Well, no. It didn't seem important."

There is a diffident silence between us. I break it by speaking of Sue. "She might be able to identify just whom I wounded along the way ..." my words drift off. Suddenly I feel very, very sleepy.

We pull into Sue's château, Le Couvent, late at night. Brit had phoned her earlier from the automobile. My friend was delighted at the thought of our revisit. "Whatever hour of the early dawn you arrive, I'll be waiting," she had responded, her voice aglow as always when she is pleased. "I'll make us omelets."

"No need," Brit had said, laughing. "All we'll need is a bed!"

Tumbling out of the automobile, onto the gravel driveway in front of the château, I am surprised to see Sue, in peignoir, standing in the large doorway, with Franco de Peverelli, in dressing robe, at her side. Franco is a recent attachment in Sue's life.

Their welcome is warm and embracing, and Brit and I ascend upstairs quickly to bed. In the morning, we go down to the stone kitchen at the bottom of the building to the aroma of sizzling pancetta in a pan, Franco presiding. He is wearing boots and riding breeches, and a clean white shirt. Sue is whisking a bowl of eggs, readying them to scramble in a second pan on the small hot plate.

Over a breakfast, with café au lait and warm biscuits accompanying the main event, we speak of the sweetness of St. Paul de Vence, the saber/ champagne ritual on the terrace of the inn, and the beauty of the view.

"It's famous," Franco remarks. "Even in Italy ... People love 'the sword and the cork ritual'."

As Sue and I take care of the dishes, Franco leads Brit out into the October morning to view the new grape plants he has terraced into the hill to the rear of the château.

I tell Sue of Jean-Luc's note from a mysterious person who later phones him with a threat towards me in her voice.

"How weird!" is her first reaction. She pauses in her wiping of a coffee cup. "Now who in the world has it in for you, Elizabeth?" "I don't know. I am racking my brain. It's a puzzlement."

"Someone from your days in real estate? Someone you did a dirty deal?"

"Oh, come on," I laugh. "That was years ago, and I did not do any dirty deals. Besides, who would be scheming against me over a stupid house or an apartment or an acre of land!"

"Did you steal someone's husband?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"Well, maybe. But nothing so dramatic as to remember years later – and still care about it."

"Hmm," Sue murmurs as she sits down at the breakfast table. "Is there anyone you've harmed in some way, whose money you have made disappear ... or whose good name you might have damaged? You know, status is highly important to a certain kind of female."

"Not that I can think of," I say, but all of a sudden, a shadow crosses my mind, a face appears in my memory, and I shake my head. Impossible! How could she hurt me? And why at this moment? I put the whole image out of my mind.

Our two men return, flushed and positive in demeanor.

With more baguette and some soft, Brie cheese in a little cooler, Brit and I remount our vehicle and continue north on our journey to the City of Light, refreshed. However, as he drives, to the sound of an old Edith Piaf song on the radio, the thoughts in my mind spin uncontrollably around the enigma of a woman who apparently is eager to do me ill.

CHAPTER 3

Fusion Fiasco

ON ARRIVAL AT the Hotel Marcel, Sunday, late afternoon, Brit and I are invited for drinks with Jean-Luc and Isabella at their new apartment across the street in apartment building number 2.

"Any more calls from the mysterious lady?" I ask Jean-Luc. He shakes his head, with the remark, "No, but I am on the case, Madame. Believe me, you will be the first to know."

It is a brief encounter, this evening cocktail, Brit and I being quite exhausted. We decide to have a real 'homecoming' dinner at – of all places – The Maj – as The Majestic Hotel is called, "just to test it again to see if it has improved!" I declare. Jean-Luc calls and makes a reservation. "A Monday dinner experiment", he says with a laugh.

"I think I should ask the Frontenacs," I say. "Perhaps they have news of Duke and Lilith and new little baby?"

And I call, and they accept. I make it clear to one and all that it is my treat.

At 8:00 o'clock Monday evening, October 9th, we assemble in the Fusion dining room of the Hotel Majestic, directly next door to Jean-Luc's Hotel Marcel. Our party of six consists of Pierre and Elise Frontenac, Jean-Luc and Isabella, Brit and me.

The black and white décor of the huge entry hall and its bright lighting still manage to affect one with a cold feeling, which we all acknowledge. "I don't know why I insisted on this place," I mutter to Brit.

"An 'experiment' to see if it had changed?" he replies with a grin.

"Bad choice," I say. "Big mistake ... ah, well. At least, we are among friends."

"Not all of them," Brit says. "Look over there." And I do, only to see Sylvie LaGrange of the flaming red hair and bold make-up in a low-cut black dress, accompanied by the rake of Paris, Dr. Guillaume Paxière!

"Well, I'll be," I say. They're together again?"

"Guess so," Brit says, as I notice Guillaume looking at me, sending a little wave.

"From your past?" Brit asks.

"You could say so," I say with a little moue – "long gone, long forgotten."

Pierre leans forward. "Duke and Lilith are home and happy – she's growing big, he tells me." Pierre has a great smile on his face.

"If it's a girl they re going to name her Eliza – for you, Elizabeth, for me, Elise, and the 'z', especially for his mother, Suzelle." Elise, too, is beaming.

"That's adorable," I say, genuinely pleased.

A waiter in black suit with long white apron approaches with menus. We order drinks and water bottles, and as we peruse the enormous black and white menus, Isabella, leans across Jean-Luc, who is sitting beside me, and whispers, "Why didn't you ask for me?" She is looking at me curiously.

"When?" I am genuinely confused.

"Today. And why aren't you wearing it tonight?"

"What?"

"The new pale green Yves."

"Which?"

"The one with the darker green, cashmere scarf." I look quizzical. "I thought you would surely be sporting it tonight," Isabella continues.

"I have no clue as to what you're talking about." I am mystified.

Isabella looks stunned. "Elizabeth," she starts. "I was upstairs as usual in the atelier. You could have asked for me...."

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"The dress, silly. The new dress you bought today. At Yves St. Laurent."

"Look, Isabella. I was nowhere near Yves St. Laurent today."

She looks even more nonplussed. "When I went over the receipts earlier this evening, I saw your signature on a credit card slip – it was payment for the green dress."

"What?" Now it is I who am stunned. "Impossible!" I exclaim. "Brit and I were in the Marais all day." The whole tableful of people is silent, listening.

"It's true," Brit says, "at least in the afternoon."

The waiter arrives with our plates of food on a huge tray. Each dish looks more complex and ornate than the next – with sprays of lemon grass, bright red pepper curls, lemon zest and curry paste garnishing the various entrées.

As we start to inspect our dinners and attempt to eat, Isabella continues, "I remember thinking what a great purchase you made – the green shift with its darker green scarf. How perfect on you with your dark hair."

"This is ridiculous!" I say, sounding annoyed. Isabella glances at Jean-Luc, who sits there subdued. I see a curious look pass between them.

The dinner party passes in silence as we scrutinize and dissect the food in front of us. After doing as best we can with our various dishes, we all decide to go down the street to the bistro on the corner for coffee and tartes. The bistro purchases its desserts from the famed Le Nôtre, on an adjacent avenue, and the delicacies are superb. It may assuage our sense of deprivation after this off-putting bizarre Fusion diner.

Everyone at the table seems uncomfortable at this moment, but not as uncomfortable as the atmosphere becomes in the next few minutes.

L'Addition for the dinner party arrives on a small silver tray, and I place my credit card upon it. We finish our espressos, the conversation desultory. Many minutes pass, when of a sudden, Nelson, the supercilious manager of The Majestic, and keeper of the desk in the lobby, appears at my side, with the tray and my credit card lying on it.

"Madame," he says, leaning down. "Have you another card?"

"Why?" I ask.

"This has been refused."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say," he half-whispers, hissing, looking down his aquiline nose. "Your card is not accepted."

"No way," I growl. "My account is absolutely up-to-date. The bills are all paid! I made sure before I left the States to come to France." I am outraged, offended.

"Well, I am sorry, Madame," Nelson says, standing straight, reaching his full height. He looks around the table, as Pierre Frontenac gets to his feet and says, "Pas de problème, Monsieur," producing his own card and passing it to Nelson. I notice the expression of disapproval on Elise's face.

Never in all my life have I felt so deflated. As we rise to exit the formidable dining room, I see Sylvie LaGrange and Dr. Guillaume Pàxiere, leaning over their coffee cups and devouring the scene of my humiliation, each with a smirk from ear to ear.

This only compounds my embarrassment, and it is with great effort, I walk past their table with a smile on my face and head held high.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Intrigueat a Small Hotel by Elizabeth Cooke. Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Cooke. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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