Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (11 page)

“Yes, Alain. But even so, we need to know who was in and out of that room.”

Flamant looked at his watch. “Their shift has just ended. I'll quickly call them.”

“Good. I'll call the commissioner on his cell phone and update him.”

When Flamant had left, Verlaque got up and looked out of his window onto the yellow-walled prison, wishing whoever had attacked Suzanne Montmory was already in there.

Antoine Verlaque couldn't remember a time when it took so long to walk the few streets home. On the Rue Rifle-Rafle he had caught himself staring absentmindedly in the window of a chocolate shop until he moved on, crossed the Rue Paul Bert, and made his way up the tiny Rue Esquicho Coude—Provençal for “scraped elbows,” it was more of a sidewalk than a street—toward his apartment. In the entryway of his building, he emptied his mailbox—usually full of bills, but today there was a postcard—and then he walked slowly up the stairs, feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach. At this unusually slow pace he was able to discern just how much the paint was peeling off the three-centuries-old walls and how many of the tomette floor tiles were cracked or loose.

Thankful that he had asked Marine to pick up the steak for tonight's dinner, he entered his apartment and emptied his pockets of cash and his BlackBerry onto the kitchen's white Carrara-marble counter. Just then his cell phone beeped—a text from Marine—“Running late; post office a nightmare! Will be there in half an hour, with the steak and dessert from Michaud!” Verlaque's apartment was three times as long as it was wide, and he walked back to his bathroom, separated from his bedroom by a large glass wall, and began to run a bath. In the bedroom, he looked at the giant black Pierre Soulages painting and then turned and looked out one of the two windows that gave onto a silent and tree-filled courtyard. The only noise was that of the birds, and he was thankful that he had been persistent and lucky enough to find this apartment in the middle of the city. He undressed and
sank into the tub, plugging his nose and dunking his head under the hot bathwater three times, hoping that when he came back up for air, somehow, miraculously, Mlle Montmory would still be alive.

Verlaque reached across to a small Provençal cane-seated stool where a stack of thick white towels lay and looked at the postcard he had brought in with him. Its bright, almost fluorescent colors made it look as if it had been printed in the 1960s. A field of tall green plants with fat leaves filled the foreground; in the background was a thatched drying-hut, beside it a straw-hatted farmer bent over, picking the plant. Verlaque smiled, recognizing immediately the famed tobacco fields of Viñales in western Cuba. He turned the card over and read: “Doing as you instructed and visiting your tobacco-growing friends. Enormous men! They really are the salt of the earth. I can't believe their strength, and pride, and generosity. I feel so spoiled. Back to Havana tomorrow, where I hope, by miracle or lots of rum, to perfect my salsa dancing at the Casa de la Música! OX Arnaud.”

Smiling, Verlaque got out, drained the bath, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, and walked back into the kitchen, where he put Arnaud's postcard on the fridge. Arnaud, at the young age of eighteen, wrote as well as he spoke, and Verlaque felt the tiniest bit of pride that he had given the boy odd jobs to help fund his epic adventure before beginning his serious studies. Arnaud and his mother—who was a widow—lived downstairs in the same building.

Opening the cupboard, Verlaque selected one of his grandfather's Baccarat cut-crystal tumblers and poured himself some of the whiskey that his friends Jean-Marc and Pierre had brought him from Dublin: Writers Tears. He sat down in a club chair and opened his humidor, which sat on a table beside the chair, and looked at his selection of cigars, touching them to feel their moistness.
When he finally selected a robusto from Hoyo de Monterrey, he smelled it, snipped off the end, and slowly lit the opposite end with a new torchlike lighter that he had just bought at the tobacconist's. Puffing, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Lying beside the notebook was the hardbound copy of Czeslaw Milosz's poems, and he grabbed it, opening it at random. He imagined that a real scholar would read all the poems one by one, in the order in which they had been selected and edited, but he never read poems that way. He realized that he read poems in order to find ones that reflected his mood at that time.

The first poem he came to was about Europe and its postwar citizens; although there were some lovely lines, it didn't suit his mood this evening. He turned the page and saw a poem titled “Esse,” written in 1954. Today had been a day of women, he thought: Mlle Montmory; the women at the bank; Mme Girard; even Flamant's fiancée, who he imagined was a kindergarten teacher, or even a nurse: a caregiver to match the gentle Alain Flamant. And now the poet's Esse, whoever she was. Smoking, he read the poem once, then twice. Marine had said the other night that it might help to understand a poet's work if one knew about his life. Verlaque still wasn't convinced of her argument. Did it matter who Esse was? Was she even a real person? And couldn't he enjoy the poem just as words on a page? He found himself forgetting about his cigar and whiskey as he reread the lines toward the end of the poem four or five times over. He grabbed his notebook and wrote them down:

“And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!”

“‘I am, she is,'” Verlaque repeated aloud. “‘I am, she is.'” He
closed the book and smoked his cigar, taking tiny sips of his single malt. He had to make a conscious effort not to fall asleep, for the night before he had tossed and turned. He had dreamed of Monique, only in the dream her name was Suzanne. He had been thankful that Marine had not been beside him, however much he missed her, for he was sure he had said Monique's name aloud, and then woken up, sweating.

The intercom buzzed and he jumped up, running barefoot to answer it. “Come up!” he said, realizing that he had almost yelled. He couldn't hear her high heels on the tile steps and became concerned. Perhaps it was a delivery? But then her auburn hair became visible through the wrought-iron balustrade—even though she was still two flights down—and he could hear her familiar humming. He stood in the doorway, anxious to see her. She arrived at the last step, and he saw why she hadn't made any noise: she was wearing bright-green sneakers. He lurched out of his doorway and stood on the landing, then ran across it to greet her. “I love you,” he said, holding her as tight as he could without hurting her. He was grateful that Marine had the good sense not to speak, just to hold him back.

I
t was a warm September morning as Jules Schoelcher left his small apartment on the Rue du Cancel, making his way toward the Palais de Justice. The mistral had cleaned the air and left a clear blue sky, and he knew that his hometown of Colmar was already covered by low gray clouds and would stay like that well into the new year. His mother had telephoned the previous evening to keep him informed of family news and the weather in Alsace: cool and drizzling, as was most of northeastern France at that time of year. Jules realized that somehow he was becoming acclimatized to the dry heat of Provence, and he began whistling as he walked through the giant Place des Cardeurs; at 9 a.m., its cobblestone surface was empty of the restaurant tables that would fill it up at noon.

He went under the Tour d'Horloge, ducking to get out of the way of a tourist who was taking a photograph of the sixteenth-century golden stone clock tower. After passing by the town hall, he descended into the Place Richelme and decided that he had
time for a quick espresso at a small café that he had recently discovered, the only one in Aix to roast its own coffee beans. He went in and ordered an espresso with a glass of water and sat himself down at one of the outdoor tables, watching the fishmongers across from him chat with each other and their customers, many of whom they greeted by name. It surprised Jules that, although the café's tables were within reach of the rows of fish stacked neatly on ice, there was almost no smell. He looked over and smirked to see a statue of a wild boar that looked anything but wild.

The sun felt good on his forearms. He reached into his pocket and put on his Ray-Bans, smiling at the pretty waitress as she brought him his coffee and water balanced on a small tray. “Not bad, this September weather, eh?” she said, passing Jules a demitasse with a small piece of chocolate set on the edge of the saucer.

“Glorious,” Jules found himself saying. “I'm from Alsace,” he added, opening a sugar packet and slowly stirring it into his coffee.

“Oh la la,” she said, laughing. “Different weather up there! Do you have all of this in Alsace?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, indicating the market, its tables laid out with colorful displays of fruit and vegetables, fish and shellfish, honey and soaps, mounds of spices, and tubs of olives.

Jules shrugged. “A little less colorful. More potatoes and turnips.”

“Ha!” She laughed again. “Still, it must be nice up there. I've never been to Alsace. In August it's too hot for me in Aix, and I was born here.”

Jules smiled, taking in her petite figure and big brown eyes. “Yes, I suffered this summer too, especially at work.”

“What do you do?” she asked, clearing the next table and putting the empty cups on her tray.

“Um, I'm a policeman.”

“Oh! I'll let you know if I ever need assistance!” she said, laughing once more. “You've been here before, haven't you?”

“Yes, usually on my way to the Palais de Justice.”

“You're not wearing a uniform,” she said.

“I'm supposed to be off today,” he answered, “but I have to go into work for a quick appointment.”

“Next time wear your uniform,” she said, winking.

“Hey, Magali!” the fishmonger yelled from across his display of freshly caught Mediterranean fish. “Stop flirting with the customers!”

Jules and Magali—he was glad to know her name—laughed, and the fishmonger, encouraged and now with an audience, continued. “You have a half-dozen customers inside dying for their first coffee of the day! They need to get to work and make some money! The European economy is going to crash, thanks to you!”

“Oh, Anne can serve them!” Magali called. “The customers on the terrace take priority at the moment!” She looked at Jules and winked again.

“Yeah, I can see that!” yelled the fishmonger. “I'll have espresso, whenever you think you have the time! Sometime between now and noon!”

Magali laughed. “Coming right up!” she said. “But you'll be lucky if you get a piece of chocolate!”

“See you around,” she said to Jules, and he nodded and gave her a salute. When he finished his coffee, he put 1,50 euros on the wooden table and hurried off; the fishmonger was now busy, showing a customer his spiky purple sea urchins and instructing the buyer on how to prepare them.

Jules walked to the Palais de Justice on autopilot, thinking of Magali, and almost ran into Roger Caromb on the way in the front door.

“Wakey wakey!” Roger said, stubbing out his cigarette butt on the sidewalk.

“There are garbage cans for that,” Jules said.

“Oh! Miss Prim!” Roger said. “Remind me next time to sweep the sidewalk for Your Royal Highness!”

“It's just that if we all acted like you, Provence would be even dirtier.” Jules looked at the sidewalk, where a few pieces of newspapers floated by, accompanied by a crushed-up pack of Marlboros and an empty Orangina soda can.

Roger looked around him. “Provence is dirty?”

Jules sighed and held the door open for his partner. “Forget it.”