Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (38 page)

“That's it! You roast your own beans,” Verlaque said. “And how's your leg, Jules?”

“Much better, thanks,” Schoelcher replied. “Apparently, the bullet didn't go in very far. Is that woman all right?”

“Yes, she just stayed in overnight for observation,” Verlaque said. “She was roughed up and was in shock, but wasn't harmed in any great way.”

“Why did she cover up for that guy?” Schoelcher asked.

“Love,” Verlaque said. “She loved him, but she didn't know what he did to those women.”

“But why kill the old lady?” Schoelcher asked. “I keep going over that part in my head.” Magali discreetly pretended to be arranging the vases of flowers and gifts across the room.

“Either Mme d'Arras saw or heard something,” Verlaque said, “or he
thought
she did.”

“M. d'Arras told us that she accused the doctor of unnecessarily removing thyroid glands. Could she have accused him of that when she saw Dr. Charnay in Rognes, and he thought she was accusing him of murdering Mlle Durand?”

“Or, when she heard about Gisèle's murder and where she was found, Mme d'Arras would have told the police she saw Dr. Charnay at that address,” Verlaque said.

“Has he confessed?”

Verlaque nodded. “To all three. He blames all women for his eighteen-month medical suspension in Lille. Are you going to open your present?”

Schoelcher fumbled with the wrapping paper as Magali came back beside him to watch. He tore off the last piece of paper and pulled out five small black-covered books. “Notebooks?” Schoelcher asked.

“For your copious note taking,” Verlaque said.

Magali picked one up. “They're Moleskines!”

“Thank you, Judge,” Schoelcher said. “I'll make good use of them.”

A nurse came into the room, carrying a tray. “Medicine, and rest time, M. Schoelcher,” she said. “I'm afraid your friends will have to leave. Your mother will kill me if you're not back on your feet by the end of the month.”

Schoelcher grimaced. “I hope she isn't calling your desk too often.”

“Only a few times a day,” the nurse said, smiling.

It took much less time than Verlaque had expected to sign the papers at the notary's office. Jean-Marc, who had cosigned as a witness, told Verlaque that the fact that he was paying in cash sped up the process. Jean-Marc had tried not to flinch when he saw the amount of money involved.

Verlaque had already made up his mind to put Emmeline's mansion in Normandy on the market, which would help recover some of the costs. His brother, Sébastien, wanted to buy a real-estate company—in addition to the building it was located in, in the expensive Passy neighborhood of Paris—and had immediately agreed to the sale.

Verlaque invited Jean-Marc to have a celebratory glass of Champagne at the Café Mazarin. They chose a table on the terrace, and both sat cross-legged, watching the Aixois stroll up and down the Cours Mirabeau.

“It's none of my business,” Jean-Marc said, looking over at his friend, “but does Marine know you're doing this?”

Verlaque sipped some Champagne and nodded. “I told her last night,” he said. “She loved the idea.”

“She's entirely unselfish, isn't she?”

“Yes, one of her many qualities,” Verlaque replied. “But I see this as a winning business deal; it's bound to work and bring in money, and maybe even a little fame. So, you see, I'm not nearly as selfless as Marine is.”

“Glad to know you haven't changed,” Jean-Marc said, tipping his glass toward Verlaque's. “I was getting worried that you had gone all soft and mushy.”

Hélène Paulik drove, with Léa beside her in the front seat. Paulik sat in the back, in the middle, so that he could talk to his girls and see the road. Since the three of them were susceptible to motion sickness, they usually took turns in the back. “Now that I'm ten, I'm always going to sit in the front,” Léa said. “The law says I can.”

“You can sit in the front the whole way there,” Paulik said, trying to concentrate on the white lines on the road. “Do you feel sick?”

“Not at all, Papa,” Léa answered. “It's great up here.”

“Wonderful,” Paulik whispered.

“Can you read me the directions after the traffic circle, Bruno?” Hélène asked.

“‘Left at the first traffic circle toward Rousset,'” Paulik read aloud, trying not to look for too long at the printed page. “‘Follow the N7 toward Puyloubier and Peynier, making a left on the D12 toward Puyloubier.' As soon as the village's church steeple comes into sight, we'll see a small road on our right with a mailbox marked ‘G. Herblin.' We go in there.”

Léa sang the rest of the way, and didn't stop until she saw the mailbox. “There it is!” she cried. “Turn here, Maman!”

“Yes, dear, I am.”

They drove up a narrow dirt lane bordered by olive trees, their glittering silver leaves dancing in the wind. Through the trees they could see acres of vines, with dried and shriveled grapes on the branches.

“These are old vines,” Hélène said, pointing to her left. “No one harvested here; what a shame.”

“How old, Maman?” Léa asked. “One hundred?”

“Almost, sweetie,” she answered. “Isn't that amazing?”

“I guess. Does someone live here?” Léa asked.

“Not anymore,” Paulik said. “This belonged to an old man, but he just died. He had no family.” That was all that Paulik had been told.

“G. Herblin,” Léa said. “It could be Georges, or Gilles, or Guy….”

“That's right,” Paulik replied. He felt his jacket pocket for the letter; it was to be read aloud on the front steps of the house. The house came into view, an old
mas
that had, years ago, been painted an earthy red that matched the soil.

“Pretty!” Léa exclaimed. “Is someone here? There aren't any cars, and the shutters are all closed. I like that they're painted blue. Shutters should always be painted blue. Blue's my favorite color….”

“Léa, please,” Paulik said. “I don't know what's going on either. All I know is that we are to get out of the car and read a letter that I have in my pocket.”

“Okay!” Hélène said. “Let's go, troops!”

They got out of the car, and Léa raced ahead to stand on the front doorstep. “You can see mountains in front of us!”

“Mont Aurélien,” Paulik said.

Léa ran to the back of the house and turned around to look behind her. “Mont Sainte-Victoire!”

The Pauliks followed her and stared up at the mountain. “These vines are all AOC Sainte-Victoire,” Hélène said. “The vintners around here were just awarded their status not long ago. They've been trying for years.”

“Is it that important?” Paulik asked.

“Sure. It protects their vines, and how the wine is made around here, for one thing,” Hélène said. “So somebody can't come in here and make a wine from Merlot grapes.”

“Well, they can….”

“Right,” Hélène said, “but they can't call it AOC. The AOC status…”

“You two!” Léa said. “Let's go back by the front door and read the letter! That's what we're supposed to be doing! Hurry up!”

Hélène and Bruno laughed. “We're coming!”

N
atalie Chazeau was sure that another elderly woman, seated one row behind her in first class, had stared at her brooch and nodded and smiled. Mme Chazeau lifted her hand up to her jacket's lapel and felt the silver brooch, embedded with two interlinked flags, one French, the other German. “The woman behind us knows my story,” she whispered to her son. “Perhaps she's one of us. Wouldn't that be wonderful?”

Christophe Chazeau smiled and took his mother's hand. “Perhaps, Mother. It's also possible that she just liked the brooch.”

Mme Chazeau shook her head back and forth. “Oh no, I don't think so. We're over two hundred thousand. And your generation, there are more than a million of you. Our story has been getting a lot of press, you know.
Le Monde, Figaro,
they're all publishing stories on it. Even
Paris Match
. And there was a television documentary in July….”

“It's about time,” Christophe said, stretching his legs.

“It tak
es time to heal
.”

Christophe looked at his mother in surprise. She had never spoken like that before. He was quite certain she had never in her whole life ever said the words “It takes time to heal.”

Mme Chazeau took out of her jacket pocket a newspaper clipping that had been folded and refolded dozens of times, and began to read aloud to her son. “Listen,
chéri,
to what this journalist said of us: ‘There were so many cases that I realized I couldn't write an article on these children; it would have to be a book.'”