Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) (15 page)

S
hards of colored glass covered the floor of the bedroom like confetti. Paulik instinctively put his arm across Audrey Zacharie to keep her from going any further into the room. The three looked around the room in silence until Verlaque asked, “Mlle Zacharie, how many Gallé vases are lying at our feet?”

“Only one, I think,” she answered, still looking around. She pointed to a dresser and said, “There was a very tall, fat vase that sat on the dresser. That’s it on the floor now. Dr. Moutte had talked about getting the bedroom carpeted exactly for this reason. Nothing withstands a fall onto these
tommettes
.”

Verlaque looked down at the red hexagon-shaped ceramic tiles, common in Provence, and saw that despite the chipped paint and peeling wallpaper elsewhere in the apartment, these were sparkling. “The other vases are fine, I see,” he said, looking up and seeing two vases, one on each of the nightstands, and another on a small desk that sat under the window. The three of them looked
around the room at the open dresser drawers and the desk’s open drawers and scattered papers. “The intruder seems to have only been in this room,” he continued. “How could someone have come in here with the building being watched by a policeman downstairs?”

“
Le toit
,” Paulik said.

“Of course, the roof,” Verlaque said, sighing. “This apartment’s on the top floor.” He turned to Mlle Zacharie and said, “Show us the rooms on the courtyard side. I don’t think a thief would have risked coming in through a street-side window. Besides, they’re all firmly shut; we checked them as we walked through the rooms.”

“Why don’t you call the maid up?” Paulik suggested, looking at the young secretary. “She lives in the building, right?”

“Yes, all right. I’ll go down and get her…she’s lived downstairs for years…in a small apartment on the ground floor.”

Verlaque looked over at Mlle Zacharie and saw that her face was white, her eyes wide, and instead of her usual hands-on-hips stance, she was almost doubled over, her shoulders rounded and her back bent. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Pardon? Oh, yes. I’m fine. Just shocked.”

“I’ll go downstairs,” Paulik offered.

“Thanks, Commissioner Paulik,” Verlaque said. “Why don’t you sit down in the living room, Mlle Zacharie?”

Verlaque led her to the living room, and as she sat down in one of the stiff chairs he noticed that she seemed to have forgotten about Claude Ossart’s papers. He left her and walked out the rear door of the living room and into a hall. He opened the first door he saw, this time using a handkerchief, and seeing it was a broom closet, he worked his way down the hall the same way, opening doors with his right hand as he got to them. A bathroom came next, then a pantry, both windowless. He had just entered the
small kitchen, built in the days when kitchens were only used by staff, when Paulik came in with the doyen’s maid.

“Hello, Madame…” Verlaque said, extending his hand.

“Mme da Silva, Rosa,” she answered, shaking the judge’s hand with a strong grip. She was short and was thick around the middle but wasn’t fat—just thick and strong. Her wavy black hair was kept short and she wore a gold baptismal necklace that shone against her olive skin. He liked the look of her; she reminded him of the Verlaque family maid in Paris, who had worked for the family for years and had died when he was in his early thirties.

Rosa da Silva, who couldn’t have replaced the wallpaper or fixed the rotting windows by herself, could keep the floors cleaned and waxed, which she obviously did with pride and gusto. “Porto or Lisbon?” he asked.

Mme da Silva smiled and proudly tilted her head back. “Porto!” she exclaimed.

Verlaque remembered the shock he had had visiting the city a couple of years previously, stunned by its modest prosperity, evident not only in its well-preserved historical center but also in its many contemporary buildings designed by avant-garde architects. “Ah, Porto! The workers of Portugal,” he answered.

“That’s right!” she replied, smiling.

“We think an intruder came in through a window on this side of the building,” Paulik explained.

“Via the roof.”

Mme da Silva wrung her hands, then suddenly looked down at her flowered apron, remembering the severity of the occasion. “I’ve heard of thieves doing that, here in Aix, and in Paris.” She crossed the room and looked at the kitchen window. “It’s locked,” she said. A look of worry crept up on her face and she continued, “I think I know how they got in. The
cafoutche
.”

“The storage room?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes, the window has been sticking for a few months and you have to give it a really good bang to close it, otherwise it looks shut but isn’t really.” She left the kitchen and the two men followed her, past a bathroom and another smaller guest room, which they quickly looked into, those windows firmly closed and both rooms in desperate need of renovation. “There’s a second bathroom here,” Mme da Silva said as she opened the door for the men to look in. The doyen’s white housecoat was hanging on a peg affixed to the wall and his toiletries still crowded the small 1960s-era pink sink. The bathtub had a small window above it, much too small for any human to enter, and it too was firmly shut. The maid looked around the bathroom and made the sign of the cross before closing the door.

“This is it,” she said before opening the last door in the hallway. The
cafoutche
, lined on two sides with shelving filled with boxes, had a window at the far end, overlooking the garden, and it was wide open. Verlaque looked out as the maid quietly sighed and made “tsss tsss tsss” sounds. He looked up at the roof of the neighboring building to the north, the only one that shared a wall and roof with number 11 place des Quatre Dauphins. It would have been impossible to scale up the building, for there were no trellises or balconies. He looked down at the large rectangular swimming pool, covered for the winter, and the immaculate green lawn that he imagined no one enjoyed. He could hear Paulik and the maid speaking but couldn’t hear what they were saying; all he could hear was a voice, “Come here, Antoine.” He couldn’t see her face beneath the large sunglasses that she so frequently wore, even in winter, but he saw her long tanned legs and thin arms. He knew it was summer, for he could smell the coconut oil, forever a reminder of that summer in Saint-Tropez and why he had never set foot back there.

“Sir?”

Verlaque turned from the window, banging it closed and firmly turning the handle. “Sorry, Bruno.”

“Mme da Silva has had to leave…pie in the oven. She confirms that there was just the one vase broken. She claims that the dresser has always been unstable and she repeatedly told Moutte not to put it there. The thief must have accidently knocked over the vase. I’ll call headquarters and have them send a team over all the same.”

“Thanks,” Verlaque said, then lowering his voice, he whispered, “Do you see any connection? Why would Moutte put a valuable vase on an unstable dresser?”

Paulik whispered, “Because he didn’t care about it? I once did that with a present one of my brothers gave me. It lasted a week on a rickety table in our front hall.”

“So why wouldn’t the doyen care about it? He collected the stuff…” Verlaque said.

Paulik scratched his bald head. “He didn’t like that particular pattern? Didn’t like the color? Didn’t like…come on, Judge, help me here.”

Verlaque smiled. “I’m as confused as you are. Did he like this vase
so
much that he kept it in his bedroom?” Verlaque knew when he spent far too much money on a Pierre Soulages painting that it would not be hung in his living room but in his bedroom, closer to him, his own private joy.

“That’s possible,” Paulik answered. “He may have meant to get it fixed but never got around to it. Still, it seems like an enormous risk.”

Verlaque nodded, afraid that Mlle Zacharie might hear. He then said, “I have a hard time imagining any of our suspects, especially the professors, walking on steep roof tiles and then lowering themselves into a smallish window by their forearms.”

“I agree. The break-in might be a coincidence, which is my guess as to why nothing large was taken. Those rooftop thieves are looking for small objects: cell phones, gold jewelry, and cash. They could have been watching the building, knowing somehow that the doyen wasn’t present.”

“Why only in the bedroom?” Verlaque asked.

“Either they were scared off and only had time for the bedroom, or they knew that what they were looking for was in that room. People often keep their valuables in their bedrooms; you know, in the underwear drawer.”

“Let’s go and see Mlle Zacharie,” Verlaque suggested. “I left her in the living room.”

They walked down the long dark hallway—like the kitchen, it had been only ever meant for servants—until they got to the wide double doors of the living room. Laughter could be heard from the square below and a car was honking its horn, a noise that Verlaque was finding more and more irritating as he got older. But the chair that Mlle Zacharie had been sitting in was now very much empty.

S
ylvie was already seated inside Le Mazarin when Marine arrived at just past 1:00 p.m. Marine was late so used the café’s side entrance, avoiding the front terrace and main room where she would have run into people she knew. She ran up the stairs to the café’s small, intimate dining room and remembered a girlfriend’s tenth birthday that had been celebrated there. When Marine stepped into the room, she realized that nothing in it had changed in twenty-five years, and she suddenly remembered many details from that day: what she wore, the presents her friend had received, and what she had eaten. M. and Mme Genzana were very unlike her parents—the father was an entrepreneur and the mother a painter. It had been one of Marine’s first meals in a restaurant, and she had never forgotten it. This small room, with its chandeliers and the oval gallery that opened down onto the café below, was still one of her favorite rooms in Aix. She realized, as she saw
Sylvie checking her phone messages, that although she could remember what she had eaten that day—steak au poivre and profiteroles for dessert—she could no longer remember her childhood friend’s first name.

“It’s about time!” Sylvie said, sighing as she put her cell phone back in her purse. “I was going to call you.”

“I’m not that late, Sylvie. It was short notice too. You called me at 11:00 a.m. for a lunch at 1:00 p.m., remember?”

“Yeah, well, it’s urgent. Here, have some wine,” Sylvie said as she filled Marine’s wineglass.

“Whoa!” Marine cried, trying to stop her friend from filling the glass to the rim. “I have to give a lecture at 3:30!”

Sylvie poured more wine into her own glass, which had been emptied in the ten minutes she had been waiting for Marine. “Believe me, you’ll need it.”

“What’s going on?”

Sylvie leaned in and whispered, “You know that theology professor who was found dead in his office?”

“Yes. Georges Moutte. I didn’t know him, but my mom did, quite well.” Marine took a sip of wine and took a small slice of salami from a glass dish that sat between them. As she ate she watched in curiosity as her friend folded and unfolded her napkin.

“Yeah, well, me too. I knew him too,” Sylvie finally said.

Marine, distracted by a couple who were squeezing into their seats at the table next to them, asked, “Really?” She took another sip of wine, recognizing it as Château Revelette.

“Yes. I was sleeping with him.”

Marine choked on her wine, bringing the white linen napkin up to her mouth, coughing. A waiter whom she didn’t recognize came running to her. “Was something wrong with the wine, Madame?”

“No, no, it’s lovely,” Marine answered, still coughing and her eyes watering. “I’m fine, thank you.” The waiter nodded and moved away. Marine leaned in closer to Sylvie, who looked as if she had just been caught shoplifting. Marine took a sip of water and said, “Let me get this straight. We’re talking about the same man, right? An elderly theology professor, le doyen.”

“He wasn’t that old.”

“Ah! Come on, Sylvie! He was so! How in the world did you ever meet him? How long did this go on?”

“One question at a time!” Sylvie cried. Both women had to sit back, giving them time to gather their thoughts, as their plat du jour arrived, baked tomatoes and zucchini stuffed with beef and rice. “I met him at an art opening. He was charming. Older, yes, but not that old.”

“When was this?” Marine asked, not able to eat yet.

“About a month ago. It was an art opening at the château in Lourmarin. It’s usually dreadful stuff, local art, way too many oil paintings of poppy fields and mont Sainte-Victoire, but we were both jurors. He was really very charming, and there was free-flowing champagne on the opening night.” Sylvie smiled and began vigorously eating.

“Oh, man. When did you stop the…relationship?”

Sylvie put her fork down and thought for a few seconds. “We didn’t, really. Stop, I mean. The last time I saw him was a week ago last Friday. He was really quite good at—”