Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (10 page)

“It's not so much that I love to peek into other people's lives,” Marine had answered. “Which I do, by the way. But I love biography because it's a genre that encompasses so many disciplines—politics,
history, art, science, religion, gender politics, and so on and so on.”

“I get that,” Verlaque answered, getting into bed with his own book, his reading glasses perched at the end of his nose.

“Aren't you interested in the poets' lives?” she asked, seeing that Verlaque had not, for once, an anthology of Philip Larkin poems, but one of Czeslaw Milosz.

Verlaque laughed. “Not at all. I think I'd be disappointed by their lives.”

“That's a shame,” Marine answered. “I think it would help you understand their poetry.”

“I don't think that one's life has much to do with one's art.”

Marine set her book on her lap. “I'm not so sure about that. What about that English poet who composed his poems while walking in the Lake District with his sister?”

“Ah, Wordsworth.”

“Didn't the fact that he walked all the time, in the mountains, affect his poems?”

Verlaque leaned over and kissed Marine. “You're right; I suppose it did. Would that ever tempt you?”

Marine laughed. “Surely you don't mean walking in the mountains and writing poetry?”

“No!” Verlaque answered, laughing. “Writing a biography.”

“With my teaching schedule?”

“Anthony Trollope wrote in the early mornings, before he went to work at the post office.”

“Well, then, your Mr. Trollope was much more talented than I will ever be.”

“Marine,” Verlaque continued, “you do have about five months off each year from the university.”

“Yes,” she answered. “And that's when I research and write papers.”

“So forget about the papers and write a book instead. Take a sabbatical.”

“Mmm. You may be on to something. But on whom?” As much as Mirabeau tempted her, she wasn't sure that his life thrilled her enough to spend what could be years writing a book about him.

“You'll think of someone.”

Now, standing in the small stuffy post office on the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, she was waiting to mail her essay to the French department at Cambridge for a symposium on the history of French law. She drew the envelope to her chest, wishing herself good luck. She could have e-mailed the essay but had decided against it, imagining that a university such as Cambridge might prefer paper copies. Seeing that the line had not budged in the past five minutes, she was regretting her decision. Marine Bonnet, even on her day off and wearing jeans and a pale-pink Petit Bateau T-shirt, was a striking figure, and some of the people in the line looked at her, admiring her curly auburn hair and green eyes. She in turn looked at some of the people around her, trying not to pay attention to how quickly the other lines were moving.

“We'll just have to be patient, Coco,” a woman said behind her. Marine turned around and smiled, not surprised that Coco was not a Labrador or another big dog but a poodle. “I just have to buy stamps,” the woman said. “That takes no time at all.”

Marine forced a smile, knowing that the woman was hinting for Marine to let her pass in front of her. “Me too,” Marine said. “I just have to mail this…letter. It's a shame that both of the automatic machines are down.”

The woman, who had immaculate golden hair and a Chanel suit that Marine thought would be too hot for early September, sighed, making a clicking noise with her teeth. “Oh, what lovely
envelopes,” the woman said, moving ahead, pretending to look at a display of cards and envelopes decorated with regional photographs that the post office produced.

“Oh, here goes,” Marine whispered under her breath, for she could see the woman inching her way toward the front of the line at Marine's right.

“Madame,” a young black teenager said to the old woman, “I'm sorry, but this is a queue.”

“Bravo, jeune homme,”
Marine whispered under her breath.

Mme d'Arras continued looking at the postcards. She quickly selected one and, ignoring the young man, walked to the front of his line, taking advantage of the fact that the two young girls who were at the front were busy chatting. One of the girls then noticed and looked at the old woman. “Hey,” she said to her, “were you always in front of us?”

Her friend looked up from her iPod, just as surprised. “We were in front, weren't we, Eugénie?”

“I was most assuredly in front of you two,” the old woman answered, and then began speaking to her dog.

“I don't think you were,” the girl named Eugénie repeated.

“No, she wasn't,” said a middle-aged woman ahead of Marine, who, like Marine, had been watching. The young black boy sighed and put his earphones on, not wanting to be part of a conflict.

A deep voice with a thick Midi accent then bellowed throughout the post office, and a hand was put on the old woman's small shoulder. “Mme d'Arras,” the man said, “how lovely to see you here at the post office. Nice postcards, eh?” He looked down at her, smiling.

The woman was so flustered that she dropped the postcard and waved her hands in the air as if she had just been attacked. The two young girls laughed, as did the black youth, who had removed his earphones to listen.

“M. Léridon!” the woman squeaked. “Whatever on earth are
you
doing here?”

M. Léridon laughed. “Buying stamps, like everyone else, Mme d'Arras.” Marine looked at him, relieved that her line was finally advancing. He was handsome in a movie-star sort of way, or in the way that some sports stars are after their sporting career has finished and they find themselves in front of the camera as commentators. He had thick black hair—probably dyed, Marine thought—and too-perfect white teeth. He wore linen pants and a shirt, and his tanned feet were tucked inside of an expensive pair of light-brown Italian moccasins. Marine looked down at her bright-green Nike running shoes and grinned, thinking of her best friend, Sylvie, embarrassed, making Marine walk behind her. Marine turned back to the couple, realizing that she had missed part of their conversation.

“Don't think I don't know what you're up to in that house of yours,” Mme d'Arras said. “The Hôtel de Panisse-Passis has seen lots of owners over the years, but none as active as you are during the evening, M. Léridon.”

Marine, and the woman in front of her, exchanged looks. Marine thought that the
hôtel
's name rang a bell. She was sure it was on the Rue Émeric David. Come to think of it, d'Arras was a family name she knew as well.

“What do you mean?” M. Léridon said, now not looking so friendly.

“All hours of the night, walking around your back garden with a flashlight…people coming and going. I've heard from tradesmen that you have secrets….”

M. Léridon shifted from foot to elegant foot. “I didn't realize I was being watched in my own home,” he said sternly.

“I know everything,” Mme d'Arras continued. “Don't I, Coco?”

“I've offered to pay for any damage that my renovations have
done to your home, madame, as I explained to M. d'Arras.” His voice became softer, as if he was making an effort to be civil and perhaps charm the old woman.

“Anything dealing with the house is my department,
cher
M. Léridon,” she said. “I've always prided myself on that. Most women have their husbands do everything….”

“I wish!” the woman in front of Marine whispered, and then winked.

“But I insist on making all household arrangements,” Mme d'Arras went on. “Which is why, as I already told you, my lawyers will be contacting yours.” With that she picked up Coco, who had begun to bark, and left the post office.

“
Merde!
Quelle chiante dame!
” M. Léridon said. “The earth should be rid of women like her!” And he too left.

“Exactly as I would have described her,” the woman in front of Marine said.

“Yes,” Marine agreed, “she was a perfect pain in the ass.”

“They both forgot to buy their stamps,” the woman said.

“You're right!” Marine answered, laughing. “Oh! It's your turn!”

Finding an Edmond who worked at the Marseille airport had been easy for Alain Flamant, as was finding Edmond Martin's phone number and address in Montreal. Understanding the young man's roommates on the telephone had not. He held his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Verlaque, “I'm sorry, Judge! Their accent is too thick! It doesn't sound like any French I've ever heard. Would you mind talking to them?”

“No problem,” Verlaque said, taking the telephone. “Hello,” he said in English, and the conversation switched into English.

“They also speak English in Montreal?” Flamant asked Bruno Paulik.

“I think so,” Paulik said, not very sure if all Québecois were bilingual or if the judge had just been lucky.

Verlaque went on talking, but neither the commissioner nor the officer was able to understand. Verlaque raised his eyes a few times, and once shook his hand back and forth, Italian style, as if something the Montrealer had told him was surprising, or even shocking. After five minutes, Verlaque said goodbye and set the receiver down, then pulled up his chair closer to Flamant and Paulik.

“Edmond Martin's roommate tells me that M. Martin is out of the country at the moment, on vacation.”

“Where?” Paulik and Flamant asked in unison.

“Here. The roommate also said that Martin was strangely secretive about the trip.”

Paulik whistled. “Let's contact his family.”

“What if they're protecting him?” Flamant asked.

“If we speak to them in person, it should be obvious that they're lying. Most people are terrible at it,” Verlaque said. “Martin flew out of Montreal last Friday, to arrive Saturday. He's due back at work in Montreal next Monday.”

“I'll go speak to the family right now,” Paulik said. “They own a winemaking château in Puyricard, not far from where Hélène works. It's on my way home.”

“Perfect. Try to get an idea of where he is and who he's with,” Verlaque said.

“I'll do my best.” Paulik grabbed his jacket and cell phone, said good night, and quickly left. Almost immediately there was a knock at Verlaque's office door.

“Come in!” he said.

It was Mme Girard. She stood awkwardly in the doorway, playing with a long pearl necklace. Verlaque and Flamant looked on, surprised. Mme Girard was usually so composed.

“I've just had a phone call from Officer Schoelcher at the hospital,” she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly.

“Go on, Mme Girard,” Verlaque said. He shifted in his chair, feeling uncomfortable. Flamant, obviously feeling the same way, got up and stood by the bookcase, where he pulled out a book at random.

“It's bad news,” she went on. “Mlle Montmory went into cardiac arrest and died about an hour ago.”

Flamant sat back down, and Mme Girard left, quietly closing the door. The young officer looked down at his knees and stayed silent. Verlaque took the opportunity to look at Flamant, someone he liked more and more every day. Alain Flamant was of medium height and build, but was lean and strong. He had begun his career on a bicycle, riding through Aix's narrow streets, until a recent promotion had brought him under the wing of Commissioner Paulik. Flamant had brown, saddish eyes, and his light-brown hair was receding very quickly. But he had high cheekbones and good teeth, and Verlaque imagined that he had good luck with the ladies. He then remembered that they had just held a
pot
to celebrate Flamant's engagement.

Verlaque leaned back in his chair. “This is bad news.”

“Yes, it is, sir. Shocking, even.”

“Could you please call the officers who were guarding the room and have them come here first thing tomorrow morning?”

Flamant looked surprised. “But it was a heart attack.”