Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) (12 page)

Marine almost laughed, surprised to hear her mother cuss. “Yes, it’s been terrible. Dr. Moutte’s murder, right in your building on campus.”

“Your…Antoine…was asking me lots of questions this morning.”

“He had to ask everyone questions, Maman. Did he ask you if you had any idea who might have done this?”

“Yes, but I told him I couldn’t imagine anyone killing Georges, or anyone killing another person, period. He kept going on and on about the Dumas, without saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’”

“I’m sorry. He gets a little serious, I would imagine. It
was
a murder. Could it have been love gone wrong, Maman?”

Florence Bonnet dropped her spoon loudly on the table and
then picked it up and set it on her plate. “Why would you ever think such a thing?”

“Dr. Moutte was a handsome man; he may have had a lover?
Non
? Someone his age, perhaps divorced but elegant. Lovers’ quarrels can lead to murder.”

“No! Get your mind out of the gutter! That’s your friend Sylvie’s influence!”

Marine set her coffee down and sighed. She had wanted to come here and for once not have an argument about Antoine or Sylvie. Florence Bonnet saw the frustration on her daughter’s face and decided to divulge some information, although normally such gossiping was against her nature.

“During the party on Friday evening,” she said, leaning over the wooden table, “I did see Georges’s secretary, a mousy little know-it-all, flirting with him.”

“Really?” Marine asked. She highly doubted her mother knew what flirting looked like. “Go on,” she said, pretending to be only half-interested.

Mme Bonnet spread more apricot jam on her croissant and continued. “Yes, she was whispering in his ear, with her eyes half-closed, and then laughing. She did it a few times.”

Marine thought that did in fact sound like flirting. How odd. Moutte must have been in his seventies.

“Could Mlle Zacharie have been cozying up to Dr. Moutte to win him over, perhaps get something out of him? Money?” Marine asked.

“What would she need money for?”

“To live!” Marine regretted that her voice was raised and tried to speak more calmly. “She must make minimum wage, Maman.” The elder Bonnets were blissfully unaware of the soaring cost of living, low wages, and the price of real estate. They were thrifty
too, and had a hard time imagining that others were not—that people could desire things they thought frivolous: nice cars, meals out, designer clothes. “I highly doubt she would be sexually interested in such an old man,” Marine said.

“You said earlier that Georges may have been murdered because of a lover’s quarrel,” Mme Bonnet reminded her daughter.

“Yes, by a lover of his own age and social background, yes, it’s highly plausible.”

“Well, there’s more to the story that I should tell you. Wait till you hear. Let me pour you some coffee.”

Marine moved her chipped coffee cup across the table. Her mother was being uncharacteristically diffident, and nervous. “More to the story? Did you tell Antoine this?” Marine asked.

“I have only just found out. Besides, he…your judge…I can only stand him in small doses. I could smell the stale cigar smoke on him.
Frimeur!
”

“Maman, Antoine’s not a show-off just because he smokes cigars. There are some guys in his cigar club who are not at all rich, nor are they show-offs. Anyway, I don’t want to have this argument. What’s your news?”

“We just had an emergency Dumas committee meeting, to discuss the next recipient—I’m pleased to report it’s someone I like very much—only there are a few problems,” Mme Bonnet reported, dipping her croissant into her coffee and then biting into it. Marine watched the butter slip off the croissant and into the hot coffee, leaving an oily slick on the surface. “We, as a committee, can only recommend the Dumas recipient. This final decision has always been the doyen’s. And with Georges dead…”

“I see the problem,” Marine said. “And the other problem?”

Mme Bonnet sipped some coffee and again leaned over the table, whispering. Marine listened to her mother’s story.

“This does sound odd. I’ll look over the accounts if you want a second opinion,” she said.

“I have the paperwork here,” Mme Bonnet said, handing Marine a yellow folder that looked like it had been reused about a dozen times.

Marine looked at her mother, who had jumped up and was now busy washing the coffee cups. The Bonnets had never bought a dishwasher, something that amazed Marine but shocked Mme Bonnet’s five sisters. And could it be that her mother was as afraid of Antoine as he was of her? Marine smiled at the thought of it and got up to leave. She grabbed the folder on the kitchen table labeled “Dumas” and said, “I have a busy week ahead, Maman, but maybe I could see you and Papa next weekend?”

Mme Bonnet continued to face the sink but called out over her shoulder, “Oh, yes, we’ll see what we can arrange. Your father will be back from his medical conference by then.”

Marine nodded, not surprised that she needed an appointment to visit her parents. She walked to the front hall and put on her jacket. She saw her father’s old green quilted coat that he wore when the Bonnets took long walks in the country, and she missed him, as she was sure he missed her. Did her mother ever miss her? She doubted it; even in retirement Florence Bonnet busied herself with committees and theology and church projects, as she always had done.

P
aulik and Verlaque were discussing the possibility of the murderer being someone not at all involved with the university when Annie Leonetti came in for her interview, her arms piled high with thick hardcover books.

“How are you two doing? Can I get you anything?” she asked.

Verlaque looked up, surprised. “We’ve been looked after, thank you,” he said curtly.

She set her books down, the top one sliding off of the pile and toward Paulik. He put out his thick hand and stopped the rest of the texts from following suit, and Annie Leonetti gave him her famous wide smile. Verlaque noted that she had recently touched up her deep red lipstick.

“Hot on the trail of Sainte Dévote,” she said, still smiling. “Thought I could get some work done while waiting for the interview.”

Paulik held out a chair for Dr. Leonetti and she sat down.
Annie Leonetti was very self-assured, Paulik thought, especially given the circumstances.

“So you left the party after helping in the kitchen,” he said. “Do you know what time exactly you left?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I looked at the kitchen clock. It was ten minutes after midnight.”

“How long did it take you to get home?”

“About ten minutes on foot,” she answered. “We live in a cheap apartment on the boulevard Winston Churchill, near the university. Very close to the humanities building, actually.”

“And your husband was still up when you got home?” Verlaque asked. He silently noted the word Leonetti had used to describe her apartment—“cheap.”

“Yes. We stayed up for a bit and talked…I told him about Bernard’s temper tantrum, and how charming I thought the boys, Yann and Thierry, were, and how Garrigue, my own assistant, said absolutely nothing the whole evening,
comme d’habitude
.”

“Are you close to Garrigue?” Verlaque asked.

She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “I think so, yes. It’s not like she confides in me or anything like that…she’s far too proud. But I respect her intellect, and modesty, tremendously. Garrigue’s going to be a bright star someday, which makes her shyness all the more frustrating.”

“Thank you,” Verlaque said. “That will be all.”

Annie Leonetti looked at the judge in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, an officer will speak to your husband to confirm your alibi.”

She quickly got up and gathered her books. She appeared to be annoyed. Verlaque wondered if she perhaps thought that she deserved more attention than three minutes? Or perhaps she had wanted to give her opinion of what happened to Dr. Moutte.
She put her hand on the doorknob and said, “Her head was bashed in.”

“I beg your pardon?” Verlaque asked.

“Sainte Dévote. Her head was crushed by stones, in 304 AD, by Romans. Somewhat like Georges’s.” She opened the door and left.

“I was waiting for her to point a finger at someone,” Paulik said after Leonetti had gone. “Romans equals Giuseppe Rocchia,
non
?”

“Perhaps,” Verlaque answered. “But perhaps it wasn’t meant to be a reference to Dr. Rocchia.”

The door opened and a young man with a short, thick build quickly and quietly sat down. Paulik and Verlaque’s eyes turned to the young man, who had already begun perspiring.

“And you’re…” Paulik said. Officer Cazal seemed to have disappeared.

“Thierry. I mean Thierry Marchive, sir.”

Verlaque looked at Marchive with curiosity. He wore a green woolen sweater over a T-shirt, and clean, pressed jeans. He wasn’t fat, but had the rounded cheeks and stomach of a gourmand. His thick black hair and blemish-free olive skin reflected his Provençal origins…Italian, thought Verlaque, or pure Massalia, the city established by the Greeks in 600 BC on a Phoenician settlement. Verlaque imagined a mother and grandmother somewhere, doting on Marchive.

“So, Thierry,” he said gently. “Could you take us through Friday night’s events?”

Marchive coughed and began. “Well, we got to Dr. Moutte’s party just after 8:00 p.m. I remember that it was after eight because Yann was worried about being late, and it ended up not mattering at all as lots of guests arrived after us.”

Paulik stared at the young man and stifled a yawn. The university’s coffee was terrible. “Anything unusual happen at the party?”

“Well, just that argument between the doyen and Dr. Rodier. I couldn’t hear what they argued about. We were all surprised by the doyen’s announcement.”

“Really?” Verlaque asked.

“Yeah, because, well, he was old, and seemed tired. Tired even that night. So you’d think that he would have wanted to retire. Plus he told me so.” Paulik and Verlaque leaned forward and looked at Marchive.

“When? What did he say to you, Thierry?”

“Well, it was the day before. I was in his office…did you see his office? Nice, eh?”

Verlaque said, “Yes, we saw it. Please continue.”

“Well, I was in there getting him to sign some paperwork for my housing loan, and he just started talking to me, sighing, and asking me questions about what I wanted out of life. And I told him that after I finished my doctorate I hoped to teach theology and maybe someday be head of the department, just like him. I wasn’t making it up to schmooze…I really do hope to become an academic. A small department somewhere, maybe not even in France. And he said that sounded like a fine idea and that he was really looking forward to retiring himself, and maybe traveling a bit. I felt sorry for him. I mean, he seemed like a real person, not just the doyen.” Thierry now realized that he hadn’t told Yann about this meeting with Dr. Moutte. Perhaps this was why, when they found the doyen on the floor of his office, Thierry had been more shaken than Yann. Or maybe he was just more sensitive? He then chastised himself for thinking ill of his best friend. Yann was a good scholar and deserved the Dumas just as much as anyone else. But would the fellowship, or a graduate degree in theology, be of any use in banking?

“And what time would this have been?” Paulik asked.

“Um, well, let’s see,” Marchive answered, scratching his thick
hair. “After lunch, because I went to the snack shop across the street with Yann for a
croque-monsieur
and was worried I’d be late or that Dr. Moutte would still be out at lunch when I got back…so I’d say between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m. Does that help?”

Verlaque nodded. They spoke for a few more minutes on the details of the break-in, which matched almost word for word Yann Falquerho’s report, except that Marchive began each sentence with “well.” Marchive didn’t remember the American girls’ names, but did remember their faces.

Marchive rose to leave and Verlaque said, “I hope you get that wish, Thierry, to become an academic.”

Marchive managed a slight nervous smile. “Thank you, Judge. If I can stay out of trouble.”

“Yes, just stop breaking into buildings. All right?”

“Yes, sir!”

When Marchive had closed the door behind him Paulik turned to the judge and said, “You’re compassionate today, sir.” Paulik thought that Verlaque had been even too kind; they were interviewing suspects over a murder, not job candidates. But he found it hard to believe that Thierry or Yann could hurt anyone, and in his career as commissioner he had never been wrong. But there was always a first time, and this was a crime of passion.

Verlaque managed a smile but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I hate to see lost youth. It would be such a shame…”

“Yes, it would…”

Verlaque broke in. “He seems so innocent, doesn’t he? He hasn’t been tainted yet.”

Paulik didn’t know what to say and was relieved of his response by Officer Cazal, who opened the door and announced the next visitor.

“Claude Ossart, sirs.”

Where Marchive, Falquerho, and Garrigue Druon still looked young, Claude Ossart looked tired, aged. He had a receding hairline; his eyes were a pale gray framed by dark circles. Verlaque thought that could come from worries or from spending too much time in the library. Ossart was of medium height but thin. He wore an oversize polyester sweater and baggy jeans, so it was impossible to tell if his time spent at the gym gave any results. Ossart sat down, neither smiling nor frowning. His was, as Verlaque stared at it, a face that gave nothing away.