Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (7 page)

“Is everything all right?”

Marine thought she had properly hidden the disappointment that she wouldn't see Antoine that evening. But she had never been very adept at hiding things from her father. “Antoine's back from Paris, but he's working late,” she said, hanging up the phone. Because of the rain, her father had driven her mother to choir practice at Saint-Jean de Malte, and so his visit had been unplanned but very welcome. Marine wished that it happened more often. “Care for a glass of wine?” she asked. “Or herbal tea? I know that you and Maman are crazy for that stuff.”

“I have, late in life, delevoped a love for herbal tea, it's true,”
Anatole Bonnet told his daughter. “But I'll have a glass of wine to keep you company.”

“I have some cheese in the fridge, and olives,” Marine called from the kitchen. She came back into the living room carrying a platter of cheeses: a pyramid of chèvre from the Loire, a slice of Stilton, and a Saint-Marcellin that was so runny it could only be served with a small spoon. She went back into the kitchen for the wine and glasses, and when she came back, her father was leaning over the coffee table, a small knife in hand, anxious to cut into the pyramid.

“A Pouligny Saint-Pierre,” he said, beginning to cut into the cheese, its inside as smooth and white as marble. “I haven't had this in years.” Marine smiled, watching her father cut a generous slice of her favorite cheese.

“There's a new cheese shop on the Rue d'Italie,” she said. “The owner worked for twenty years in high tech and gave it all up to follow his passion.” She thought that if she told her father where the shop was he might go and buy some cheeses for himself. Her mother had always done the grocery shopping—buying food for the price and convenience, instead of the taste and quality—even though both parents had busy careers. But it was her father, a general practitioner, who was the
gourmand
in the family. This was one of the things he shared with Antoine Verlaque.

As if on cue, Dr. Bonnet asked, “How is Antoine, anyway?”

It didn't surprise Marine that her father asked about Verlaque at the same time that she had been thinking of him. The mental telepathy between her and her father happened all the time. “Busy,” she answered. “There's been a wine theft at Domaine Beauclaire. And this thing tonight—I don't know—but, judging from Antoine's voice on the phone, it sounds serious.”

Her father quickly took a bite of the Saint-Marcellin before it
ran off the bread. “I like Antoine,” he said, as casually as if he had said that he liked the cheese.

Marine felt her heart could burst. Her father's opinion meant so much to her. “I'm glad,” she said, trying to sound equally casual.

“And anyone who can make your
maman
laugh the way he did the other night must be okay.”

Marine laughed, remembering what she had feared would be an awkward family dinner the previous week. Antoine had hosted it—he and Marine had cooked a leg of lamb together—and the evening had been a success. Not rip-roaring fun, but passable. “I wasn't sure how Maman would take a religious joke,” Marine said. Mme Bonnet was a retired professor of theology.

“Oh, your mother loves a good joke that involves a priest, a rabbi, and an imam in an airplane together.” He took a sip of wine and made a sound of delight. “What's this we're drinking?”

“A Burgundy, from Givry,” Marine said. “Do you like it?”

Anatole Bonnet took another sip. “Just to recheck,” he said, smiling. “It's very good. Where did you buy it?”

“Antoine orders it from the vintner, by the case,” Marine replied.

“Fancy that,” her father said. “Do you think he could order me a case, next time there's a delivery?”

“Of course.” Marine took this new interest in fine wines as further proof that her parents—or at least her father—approved of Antoine.

“And how's your pal Sylvie?” Dr. Bonnet asked.

“Great. She just called from Mégève—it's already chilly there—they'll be back just before school starts.”

“Just before school?” he asked. “Poor little Charlotte will need more time to get prepared….”

“Papa,” Marine warned, “they're used to doing it that way.
They'd rather stay as long as they can with Sylvie's parents and brothers and sisters in the Alps….”

“Without a father…”

“Papa!” Marine bit her lip to stop herself from getting angry. Her best friend, Sylvie, was a photographer and art historian, and the single mother of nine-year-old Charlotte, Marine's goddaughter.

Anatole Bonnet realized that he had been out of line, so he pointed to the Stilton. “And what kind of cheese is this? It doesn't look like any blue I've ever seen.”

“Stilton,” Marine replied. Before he could protest, she put up her hand. “Try it.”

I
t took Jules Schoelcher two tries to close the car door. “
Scheiße,
” he whispered, trying to close the door with one hand while holding on to his police hat with the other. Roger, his partner today, looked over and laughed.

“It's just a mistral,” Roger said. “It will cool things off.”

Jules shrugged and tried to smile, but the truth was, he was missing home. How could a twenty-seven-year-old policeman tell a fellow officer that? He knew when he signed up for the police force he could be sent anywhere in France, but he hadn't counted on this desperately hot place, still over thirty degrees Celsius even in September. At least the wind—this mistral, they called it—cooled things down. But he couldn't stand Provence: the wind, the dry heat, and his fellow officers with their big hugs and
bise
(real men in Alsace did not give each other the
bise
unless they were family); and their clichéd Provençal nonstop jokes and loud laughter. Everything was “
mon ami
” this and “
mon pote
” that. Was there
never any calm? Alsatians didn't have to bark when they spoke, or didn't feel the need to be the loudest in the room, nor did they jump queues, as Jules had already seen countless times at the post office and bank. Perhaps people in the south didn't respect the queues because there weren't any, just roughly formed huddles, as if they had no idea how to form a straight line. And if there were two bank machines open, or two windows at the post office, what did the Provençals do? They didn't form one single line in the middle, as one did in Colmar or Strasbourg; they formed two lines and then switched back and forth until they were at the front.

Jules ran into the hospital and held the door open for Roger, who was taking his time strolling across the parking lot, smiling like an idiot. “Slow down,” Roger said, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “We're ten minutes early. Time for a ciggie.”

“You go ahead and smoke your cancer stick,” Jules said.

Roger laughed out loud. He hadn't heard anyone refer to cigarettes as cancer sticks since fifth grade. Come to think of it, he thought that was when he had started smoking: fifth grade. “Hey, Jules, did I ever tell you about the time we played hooky from school and went out to sea with some old fisherman?”

Jules sighed. “No, but I'd love to hear all about it, another time. I bet you caught a fish this big, eh?” He held out his hands a yard apart.

“Yeah! It was about that big!” Roger said. “But we've fished the Med clean now; they don't make fish that big anymore.”

Jules laughed, not believing his good luck at trapping this Marseillais into the biggest stereotype of all. The French made fun of Provençals, especially those from Marseille, for their habit of exaggerating stories. An eight-inch-long fish became a yard long; the wind blew not thirty-five miles an hour but fifty-five. Jules waved goodbye and walked up the hospital's cheap linoleum stairs,
still chuckling to himself. Well, Roger could be late if he wanted to—typical for the south, always five or ten minutes late, even on the job—but he would be on time.

Roger in turn watched Jules skip up the stairs. “What a geek,” he whispered under his breath, lighting his cigarette and smiling at a passing nurse. Jules had hardly spoken to anyone Tuesday night at Alain Flamant's
pot,
except for some of the female officers and a couple of the secretaries. Roger had overheard Jules saying that he didn't drink pastis and that he only liked white wines—preferably Rieslings. Most of the officers had changed into civvies for the party, and one of them had nudged Roger and pointed to Jules's jeans—ironed, with two big pleats running down either leg. Jokes about ironing abounded, until no one listened anymore to Roger and the other policeman, so they poured each other another pastis and consoled each other over the Marseille soccer team's losing streak.

Jules was thinking of this moment as he came down the brightly lit hallway toward Mlle Montmory's room. He had heard the ironing jokes and knew that they were referring to his jeans, but none of the other policemen had paid attention to them, and Commissioner Paulik had even smiled at Jules and rolled his eyes.

Jules could see Officer Flamant standing at the end of the hallway, speaking to a young red-haired policeman whom Jules knew by sight only. The young man was a rookie and always seemed nervous yet willing to please, and to work hard. Unlike Roger, downstairs smoking. Jules walked up to both men and shook their hands, and was briefed on Mlle Montmory's condition (critical) and told that only hospital staff, with badges, were to be permitted into her room. In the late afternoon, the girl's parents would be allowed to visit. Flamant had a photograph of them, which he passed to Jules.

“Where's Roger?” Flamant asked.

“He'll be up in a minute,” Jules answered. “Um…he forgot something in the car.”

A doctor wearing a white lab coat emerged from Mlle Montmory's room and stopped when he saw the two officers. “Hello,” he said, shaking hands with them. “I'm Dr. Charnay. Glad to see that Mlle Montmory's room is being guarded.”

Jules Schoelcher read the doctor's name tag and studied his face; the young officer wanted to try to memorize the names and faces of all hospital personnel who visited Mlle Montmory's room. “I'm a specialist,” the doctor said, seeing that the younger policeman had studied his name tag. “Have a nice evening,” he said, looking at his watch. “I hope the evening isn't too dull for you. You can always bug the nurses if you get bored,” he added, laughing.

“Goodbye, Doctor,” Flamant said. The doctor waved and said something to the nurses; Jules saw one of the nurses roll her eyes as he walked out of the ward. Roger suddenly appeared, smelling of smoke, and Flamant sighed and repeated what he had just told Jules. “You'll be relieved at five p.m.,” Flamant told the two officers. “It goes without saying that you'll spell each other off when one has to eat or do other business. I want one officer here at all times.”

The young redhead began moving from side to side, and Flamant realized that he probably had to relieve himself in the men's room. “You may leave,” he said. “Get a good sleep, and see you tomorrow.”

Roger laughed as the rookie raced down the hall. “Will Commissioner Paulik pass by today?” he asked.

“Probably,” Flamant answered. “He's at the bank now, interviewing the employees. He may stop by with Judge Verlaque.”

“Ahhhh,” moaned Roger. “Christ!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Good thing he wasn't at your
pot,
eh, Alain?” Roger went on, slapping Flamant's arm.

Jules stared in disbelief. He hadn't met the judge, but couldn't believe that Roger would speak of a superior this way.

“That's enough,” Flamant said. “Careful what you say, Roger.” Alain Flamant said goodbye to the men and walked down the hall, thinking of his fiancée, whom he would see this evening, and Judge Verlaque. What was it about him that others thought irritating? Was he really that much of a snob? The judge hadn't been at his
pot,
but had he been invited? Flamant felt bad—he didn't like to see anyone left out. He stood at the top of the stairs and looked down the hall, its walls painted in what he thought was always a hospital color—mint green. There was the young Alsatian policeman, standing at attention at Mlle Montmory's door, and Roger, famous at the Palais de Justice for his Marseillais bravado and jokes, chatting with the nurses at the front desk. Flamant sighed and ran down the stairs, anxious to get back to the Palais de Justice to do research. He wanted to find out anything about Mlle Montmory's life that might shed light on her attack, and attacker.