Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (23 page)

“
Ah bon?
”

“Yeah, she was a beauty. Still, even into her forties, she got mistaken for a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Petite, healthy hair, clear olive skin. The poor thing.” Mlle Matour lowered her head and rubbed her eyes, crying softly.

Verlaque looked across the street at the Cathedral's Gothic statues, guarding its front doors, and waited for Mlle Matour to collect herself.

“Who needs a drink?” she finally said, wiping her eyes on a paper napkin.

“Pastis?” Verlaque asked. He looked at her streaked, dyed hair and tattooed shoulder and guessed that she might like the anise-flavored drink.

“I will if you will,” she replied, a smile forming at the edges of her mouth.

“
Allez,
” Verlaque said, waving to the waiter. “
Deux pastis, s'il vous plaît!
”

Mlle Matour took a deep breath and said, “You don't know who did it, do you?”

“No, not yet.” He paused and then said, “Do you?”

Mlle Matour shrugged. “Any one of her useless past boyfriends, except the last one, André. One of them…Georges…I had to chase out of the shop with a broom.”

Verlaque smiled. He liked her spunk. “Can you give me a list of names?”

“Delighted.”

The waiter brought two tall, thin glasses with an inch of yellow liquid in the bottom of each, a carafe of water, a bowl of ice cubes, and two swizzle sticks.

“
Merci,
” Verlaque said. “May I?” he asked Mlle Matour, holding the carafe of water over her glass of pastis.

She nodded. “Go ahead. I'll tell you when to stop.”

He poured the water in, watching the pastis turn cloudy. Mlle Matour signaled with her hand and he stopped, then poured water into his own glass and stirred in two ice cubes.

“Chin-chin,” Mlle Matour said, holding her glass up to his.

“Salut,” he answered. He took a sip of pastis, surprised at how
refreshing it tasted. He loved licorice, and yet this was a drink he rarely ordered. Was it out of snobbishness? he wondered.

“You either love it or hate it,” Mlle Matour said.

“Pastis?”

“Or licorice in general.”

“You're right. Like coriander,” he said, thinking of his love of the herb, and Marine's dislike.

“Or…oysters.”

“Love them,” he answered, smiling.

“I hate them.”

The waiter brought a small bowl of peanuts and one of popcorn, setting them down on the table.

“Why did you close your shop?” Verlaque asked, taking some popcorn.

“Too hard to compete with the big clothing stores in Aix, especially since they've built that new shopping complex at the bottom of the
cours
.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Verlaque replied. “I can't imagine who wanted it, except for the real-estate promoters, big clothing-store chains, and the mayor. And Mlle Durand left when you closed the shop?”

“Yes. I found a job in Aix straightaway, and I encouraged her to do the same. I even offered to drive her into Aix, since she didn't drive. But she sort of got depressed, I think, and then rarely went out.”

“Was she dating André Prodos at the time?”

Mlle Matour drank some pastis and nodded. “Yes, but they broke up about a month or two after I closed the shop. He's an okay guy, if you want to know. I ran into him shortly after they broke up, and he seemed pretty sad. He said that he just couldn't get her out of her blues, so they stopped seeing each other. But he still called her now and again. I think he really loved her.”

“He found her,” Verlaque said. “Last night.”

“Oh my God. I didn't know that.” Mlle Matour lit another cigarette. “Poor André. I've seen enough television shows to know that you'll have to question him,” she said, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing out the smoke. “But André's not your man.”

Philippe Léridon was relieved that his wife was on a shopping spree in Paris, picking out furniture and drapes for their new house. How could someone take so long looking at fabrics? he wondered. His wife couldn't stand Pauline d'Arras, and now, with the old woman dead…murdered…any moment now the police would come ringing his doorbell. He knew he must be a suspect; Mme d'Arras had harassed him over and over again, and he had finally blown up at her—in the post office, of all places. And the judge's girlfriend had been there; he had recognized her at the cigar club's party. Who wouldn't recognize her? A tall, thin, elegant woman with hazel eyes and curly auburn hair, and those charming freckles…

He walked across his small back lawn; actually, it was big for a downtown garden, narrow but fifty meters deep. The garden had been neglected, and the only plants that remained were two tall palm trees at either edge, near the back, and a couple of oleander plants. He felt his loafers sink down into the grass, surprisingly green and lush for Provence, thanks to the recent unexpected rain, and stopped at the edge of the garden, under a lean-to that his mason had built quickly to protect the digging site. He got down on his hands and knees, removed the tarp, and shone a flashlight below, where his state-of-the-art wine cellar would one day be. He had purposely stopped the construction of his wine cellar and redirected the workers into another big project, the Italian kitchen. Each day, he couldn't wait for his workers—the ones who showed up—to leave, at 6:00 p.m., so that he could go and inspect his prize. He almost shooed them out the front door.

He needed time to decide what to do, and how to do it without anyone's knowing. Mme d'Arras was now no longer around, but her husband could be watching him. Perhaps she had told her husband about Léridon's secret? He looked up at the Hôtel de Barlet's windows, but since the sun was still shining he couldn't see anyone at the windows. It was a risk to come out and look at it during the daylight hours, but he got too impatient thinking about it sitting there, waiting for him. No one knew about this, except him and his mason, who was sworn to secrecy. The mason had been paid in cash for keeping his mouth closed. Philippe Léridon had never seen anything like it; it brought tears to his eyes to imagine that it was his.

Verlaque stopped in the middle of the Place d'Archevêché on his way home. With his hands on his hips, he looked around at the tall plane trees that lined the square, and then tilted his head and looked up at the sky to watch the swifts flying overhead.

“Salut, Antoine,” someone said, reaching out to shake Verlaque's hand.

“Oh, salut, Omar,” Verlaque said, and shook the hand of the owner of the café on the northwest corner of the square.

“Doing some thinking?” Omar said.

“Yes.”

“Well, I'll leave you to it.” Omar smiled and walked on.

Verlaque stayed in the square, pivoting around once to get a 360-degree view of it. Then he stopped turning and looked at the ground again, kicking aside a leaf. What could Mlles Montmory and Durand have in common? Neither lived in the same village, and Gisèle Durand apparently hardly ever left the house. But the murderer was someone who knew both women, and who knew where they lived and when they'd be alone. Was it someone in
Aix? Laure Matour had told him that Gisèle didn't drive, so she probably rarely came into Aix. He supposed that she could take the bus, though. He often saw them on the ring road, usually full of high-school students from the country who came into Aix to school. Mme d'Arras had taken a bus too, so they must run frequently….

V
erlaque ran up the four flights of stairs to his apartment and, out of breath, fumbled with his keys to open his door. “Salut, Marine!” he called when he was inside.

“Hello! I'm in the bedroom,” she answered, “working.”

“Okay, I'll be there in a minute!” He grabbed his cell phone and called Paulik. “Hello, Bruno. Sorry to bother you. Can you text me Mlle Montmory's boss's phone number? What's his name again?”

“Kamel Iachella,” Paulik replied. “I'll send it to you right away.”

“Thanks. I'll call you after I talk to him.
Ciao
.”

As soon as the bank manager's cell-phone number beeped on Verlaque's telephone, he hit dial and waited for Iachella to answer. “Come on…come on…” Verlaque mumbled.

On the fourth ring, Iachella answered. “
Oui, hallo?
”

“Hello, M. Iachella,” Verlaque said. “It's Judge Verlaque. I have a quick question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did Mlle Montmory drive a car?”

“Yes.”

Verlaque sighed. “Oh, I see.”

“But not recently,” Iachella replied. “Her car conked out about six months ago, and she was saving to buy a new one.”

Verlaque straightened his back and looked up at the ceiling. “So how did she get into town?”

“She caught a ride with a colleague or took the bus.”

“Thanks a million,” Verlaque said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“No problem. I hope it helped. We're completely saddened by her death.” He sniffed and choked a little, and then added, “Perhaps we'll see you at the funeral? It's tomorrow, at eleven a.m., at La Madeleine.”

Verlaque closed his eyes. “I'll try to be there. Goodbye.”

Marine came out of the bedroom carrying a book. “Hello there,” she said, crossing the kitchen to kiss Verlaque. “Mmm, pastis,” she said.

“Suzanne, Pauline, and Gisèle all took the bus,” he replied quickly.

Marine stepped back. “You're kidding?” she said. “That's more than a coincidence, wouldn't you say? A bus driver?”

“Possibly, but how would he know where they lived?”

“And why go after Mme d'Arras?” Marine asked. “That's the bit that doesn't fit. By the way, have you spoken to Philippe Léridon yet?”

“You really don't like him, do you?” Verlaque asked. “Tomorrow I'll go. Gilles d'Arras told Bruno about the argument you overheard in the post office; Mme d'Arras had complained to her husband about it.”

“And Mme d'Arras didn't hear what Léridon said after she
left,” Marine said. “That the world would be better off without women like her, or something to that effect.”

Verlaque nodded and walked over to the fridge, taking out a bottle of Mâcon white. “I would have said the same thing about her, from what I've been told.” He looked at the bottle and saw that it had been opened already. “Hey! How is it?”

“Delicious,” Marine answered. “Helps with the reading.”

“I'm sure it does.”

“I went to try to speak with Mme Joubert…Philomène…today,” Marine said.

Verlaque poured himself a glass of white wine. “Thanks. What did she say?”

“She's away on a pilgrimage,” Marine said.

“
Merde!
Is there any way we can contact her?”

“Frère Benoît tried to find me a phone number; I just got off the phone with him. Their hiking group was held back because of rain, and now they're off schedule. He's trying to figure out where they are right now. He also wants to tell Mme Joubert about Mme d'Arras's death, since they were once good friends. How was the rest of your day?”