Murder on the Ile Sordou (10 page)

“No, I think as opposed to a daughter.”

“Oh, I don't think I was easy to get along with at fifteen.”

“Easier than I was, or any other boy,” Verlaque said, picking up his newspapers, which he had held down with a rock. “I'd be terrified to have a son, actually. My parents did such a botched job on Sébastien and me.”

“But that's just it,” Marine said. “It wasn't your fault, being a boy. It was your parents' botched job, as you call it, at raising you, and your brother.”

Verlaque laughed. “Now there's a piece of work, eh? My brother, Parisian real estate mogul who dines every night alone.”

“You don't know that for sure.”

“Yes, I do,” Verlaque said. “Reports from acquaintances tell me that Séb has pissed off so many colleagues in Paris that he's usually alone these days.”

Marine said nothing; what could she say? She'd only met Sébastien Verlaque twice and hadn't enjoyed either meeting.

The Hobbses, having seen Marine and Antoine packing up, realized that they had lost track of time. They had caught up to the Frenchies on the path that led back to the hotel. “Hungry!” Shirley Hobbs called, rubbing her stomach.

“I hope lunch is as good as last night's dinner,” Verlaque said in English.

“Wasn't that a treat?” Shirley Hobbs said.

“I'm hoping to make my own contribution,” Bill Hobbs said, lifting his blue bucket up. The four of them stopped and looked at the dozen or so small reddish fish. “What are they?” Hobbs asked.

“They're little rock-clinging fish called
rougets
,” Verlaque answered. “They're one of the ingredients of a bouillabaisse in Marseille.”

“Oh, we ate that last time we were in Provence,” Shirley Hobbs said. “I'm surprised you'd forget their name, Bill.”

Hobbs shrugged his shoulders. “I'm going to show them to the chef,” he said. “Have to earn my keep.”

Marine smiled and she pointed to Shirley Hobbs's sketchbook.

“Would you like to see?” Mrs. Hobbs asked. She stopped and opened her sketchbook to the first page. It was a watercolor of the sea and Sordou's westerly cliffs.

“You've made the water sparkle,” Marine said, amazed at the painting's effervescent quality. Verlaque translated for Shirley Hobbs, who smiled.

“I've been taking art classes since retirement,” Mrs. Hobbs said.

“She really keeps at it,” Bill Hobbs said, beaming. Marine understood the gist of what he said and smiled.

They walked into the hotel, through the lobby, then through the dining room, out onto the same terrace where they had had breakfast, but it was now shaded by parasols and by white awnings that were suspended from the hotel's walls. Verlaque gave Marine a quick look as if to ask, “Do we join them for lunch?” and Marine nodded in the affirmative. Verlaque posed the question aloud and the Hobbses said that they would be delighted. Bill Hobbs went into the dining room and knocked at the kitchen door, wanting to give his offering to Émile Villey. Verlaque, Marine, and Shirley Hobbs were shown to their seats by Niki Darcette.

“How did you find out about Sordou?” Verlaque asked after helping Mrs. Hobbs into her chair.

“It was Bill's idea,” she replied.

“Where are you from?” Marine asked in slow, careful English.

“Bellingham.”

“Where's Bellingham?” Verlaque asked.

“Washington,” Mrs. Hobbs answered. “Washington State, not the capital.”

“
Washington, mais pas D.C.
,” Verlaque said to Marine.

“
J'ai tout compris
,” Marine said.

“Marine speaks beautiful Italian,” Verlaque said. “She's shy about her English, but she just understood our conversation.”

“Please tell Marine that she looks like a movie star,” Shirley Hobbs said. “But a proper one, not a made-up one.”

As if on cue, Emmanuelle Denis walked into the room, now wearing tennis shorts and sneakers, which emphasized just how skinny her legs were. She saw Marine and Verlaque and walked over to their table, raising her hands in the air. “Still no sign of him!” she cried.

Marine, Shirley Hobbs, and Verlaque saw the panic in the woman's eyes. Verlaque quickly got up and put his hand on her shoulder. “He's lost track of time,” he said.

Emmanuelle Denis wiped her eyes dry with a much-used tissue. “But he could have fallen . . .”

Verlaque pulled out a chair and motioned for Mme Denis to sit down. She said, “He fights with Alain . . . my husband, and his stepfather, and this April Brice walked out on us. The mother of a friend called us the next day, telling us he was at their place. He stayed the week. . . . It was the longest we've ever been apart.”

Marine looked at Mme Denis with more sympathy than she would have imagined herself capable of. It surprised her that a woman who looked like such a bimbo would be so attached to her son. She wasn't putting it on, either. Her eyes were red and her hands trembling.

“I have two boys,” Shirley Hobbs said in English, reaching across to Emmanuelle Denis and taking her hand. She had understood that the woman's son was missing, and she was pleased that after so many vacations in France, she was finally able to understand the language; she vowed to take a French class once they got back to Bellingham. “They caused us grief in their teenage years, each one in his own way. But they grow up, and if you love them as much as you obviously love your son, they get on with things and end up doing fine. You'll see.”

Verlaque was about to translate when Mme Denis caressed the American's hand and said in flawless English, “Thank you, madame. I know that you're right, but it seems as if I'm still learning this . . . parenting. I've made so many mistakes.”

“Who hasn't?” Shirley Hobbs said, smiling.

“What happened last night?” Verlaque asked. He realized as soon as he said it that it sounded as if he was challenging Mme Denis, but she seemed to take no notice of it.

Mme Denis replied, “They fought again, and I brought Brice up some food from the kitchen. Alain wants Brice to go to a boarding school next year, since his grades slipped this semester.”

To Verlaque, Marine, and Shirley Hobbs, the choice was easy: get rid of Alain Denis. But they remained silent.

“I brought the food up just before we ate, around eight p.m.,” she said. “And this morning saw his unmade bed.”

“Well, Brice can't go far on Sordou,” Verlaque finally said. “We'll look for him if he doesn't show up by three p.m., okay?”

Marine nodded in affirmation. “Please eat lunch with us,” Marine said. “You'll feel better with some food.”

“Thank you,” Mme Denis replied. “I think I'll have a glass of rosé too. I normally don't drink at lunch.”

“I'll order us a bottle of Bandol,” Verlaque said.

Bills Hobbs came back and seemed nonplussed that there was a guest at their table. He pulled out a chair from a neighboring table and introduced himself to Mme Denis. His wife leaned over and quickly explained about Brice.

“Well, I saw the boy last night,” Bill Hobbs said in English.

“Where?” everyone asked in unison.

“I was here, on the terrace, after dinner. Shirley had gone to bed, and I was . . . having a little after-dinner whiskey,” he replied. “It was late . . . about eleven p.m. He had shorts on and headed out behind the hotel, away from the harbor.”

“Bill,” Shirley exclaimed. “Why didn't you say something?”

“Well, I'm telling you all now, aren't I? Besides, the boy wasn't carrying anything, so I thought he was mad about something and was just going for a walk, to let off some steam.”

“Steam?” Marine asked.

“
Vapeur
,” Verlaque said.

“Our Jason used to do that,” Bill reminded his wife.

“You're right,” Shirley said, turning to Emmanuelle Denis. “Our oldest son, Jason, had a hot temper, and whenever he was angry with us he'd go for a walk down to the harbor. So you see, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.”

Housekeeping

“I
f he ogles me one more time . . .” Niki Darcette whispered to Cat-Cat Le Bon as they were checking their bookings for August. She drew her hand across her throat and made a sawing gesture.

“I told Max there's a problem with Alain Denis and women,” Cat-Cat said, taking off her reading glasses and turning toward Niki. “I remember it from the press long ago. And after what happened this morning at breakfast, we'll all have to be careful around Denis. But you have to understand, he's . . .”

“A big shot,” Niki replied. “Or was.”

Cat-Cat nodded. “
Was, indeed
,” she whispered. “Nevertheless, I've asked Serge to keep an eye out for you when Alain Denis is around, and you both need to watch out for Marie-Thérèse. She's so young.”

Niki pursed her lips, remembering her own young self, stuck in Néoules. “Okay, you're right. I can stick up for myself around guys like that—don't worry, I'll be professional—but Marie-Thérèse is so innocent.”

Mme Le Bon smiled. “She is, isn't she? It's so refreshing.” She thought of her spoiled nieces and nephews in Paris, and their demands for the latest Apple this and that, the right kinds of shoes, and handbags, and sunglasses.

“I would prefer Hugo looking out for us,” Niki said. “Serge isn't too . . .”

Cat-Cat held up her hand. “No Hugo discussion right now,” she said. “We're all fond of Hugo, but we had to fire him.”

“He was defending her.”

“I know, I know,” Cat-Cat said. “But we have to show our guests, and staff, that we won't accept violent behavior.”

Unless it's a movie star being violent
, Niki thought. “When is Hugo going?”

“In the next few days,” Cat-Cat replied. “We've told him to lay low and stick to his cabin; we need him here until a replacement can be found. But Max is furious; now Hugo's gone out somewhere with the boat.”

“Really?” Niki asked, feigning surprise. She knew that Hugo, when upset, went to the sea. And she guessed that he was probably with Mlle Grassi, the artist. It didn't bother her; she wasn't the slightest bit attracted to him.

Both women turned their attention toward the computer screen, lost in their thoughts: Niki worried about Marie-Thérèse, wondering if such a young girl could be happy working on an island. She vowed that at break later this afternoon she'd try talking to Marie-Thérèse; more than just a chitchat. Cat-Cat Le Bon looked at the screen, thankful that the slow modem brought the hotel Internet; and she was thinking, as she did almost daily now, that she regretted not having children. If she had, when she and Max were first married, they would now be Marie-Thérèse's age.

•   •   •

Maxime and Catherine Le Bon knew enough about hotels before opening their own to guess that one of the biggest occupations at Sordou would be the laundry. This is where Yolaine Poux, the head housekeeper, found herself now, thankful that her bosses had wisely thought to make the laundry area large enough to comfortably work in, and with windows on two sides to allow a cross draft. The Le Bons, worried about their budget, and the heat that electric dryers would let off, had rebuilt an existing high-walled courtyard where the housekeeper could hang the sheets, towels, and tablecloths up to dry, out of view of the hotel's guests. The island's sun and wind dried the sheets, sometimes in under an hour, and they needed minimal ironing afterward. Mme Poux hummed as she ironed the crisp white pillowcases, spraying them with lavender water.

It was almost a luxurious area to work in, every bit as luxurious as the hotel itself, and it was by far the best job Mme Poux had ever had. The terra-cotta floors and stone walls reminded her of a posh redone farmhouse, the kind that she knew Parisians and foreigners bought in the Luberon and around Saint-Rémy. There were long, wide wooden tables in the middle of the room on which she could spread out her folding and sorting, and an armchair in the corner for when she needed a break. From the chair, where she would have an espresso made by Serge every day at 4 p.m, she could stare, not out to sea, as the laundry room was in the back of the hotel, but out onto the
garrigue
that led to Sordou's interior. She loved the view; for years she had worked in the laundry rooms of the Hôpital Nord in Marseille, where the small, high windows gave onto the employee parking lot.

Marie-Thérèse came into the room, carrying a linen bag, dumping its contents onto the floor in front of one of the industrial-size washing machines. Mme Poux treated these machines like some young men treat their cars; she washed them every second day, cleaning their round windows and buffing the stainless steel handles and window surrounds. She set down the iron and walked over to where Marie-Thérèse was standing, gazing at the washing machine.

“He sure uses a lot of these tea towels,” Mme Poux said, lifting them up and setting them into an empty machine. “But he's a good chef, I'll give him that.”

“Mmm . . .”

“Cat got your tongue?”

“It's that boy, the sad one . . .”

Mme Poux said, “He missed lunch, right? He'll be back for dinner, you can bet on it.”

“The judge—oops, I'm not supposed to know that—and his girlfriend went out looking for him,” Marie-Thérèse said, bending down to help Yolaine load the washing machine. She liked to help Mme Poux, whom she thought to be about one hundred years old.

“Is that so?”

“Yep. They made it sound like they were just going on a walk, but I know they're trying to help Mme Denis. She's really upset.”

“
Ca, alors
,” Mme Poux replied, pouring soap carefully into the machine and turning it on. “That woman doesn't look like she would care one bit about her son, but I've only seen her once, in the hallway.” Mme Poux, who dressed in traditional aprons and flat comfortable shoes, didn't like the high heels and leopard prints.

Marie-Thérèse shrugged. “She does care. She was crying, and yelling at her husband after lunch yesterday. They're not even sharing a room; she sleeps in Brice's room, in the extra twin bed; did you notice? She said—”

Mme Poux put her hand up. “I don't want to hear. You shouldn't be listening to them.”

“I couldn't help it . . .”

“Still, I don't want to hear about other people's problems, especially rich people's problems. I worked in a hospital, where people were sick and dying, but every day I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't a nurse or doctor, having to deal with all that mess.”

Marie-Thérèse didn't reply that she'd rather
that
mess—helping people get better—than the hospital mess Mme Poux must have found daily on the sheets and towels: blood, shit, piss, vomit, and who knows what else. She knew that the other employees didn't like Mme Poux very much; it wasn't like she was mean or anything; she just kept to herself, and was a maniac about her laundry room. But, then, Émile was fanatical about the kitchen; he climbed up on the stove every night and cleaned the hood, and Serge was constantly wiping down the bar and checking glasses for spots, so why did they make fun of Mme Poux? If it was because her name, Poux, was the same name for lice, then they were stupid and immature.

“Want me to get you your coffee?” Marie-Thérèse asked.

Mme Poux pulled her watch out of her apron pocket. “It's a quarter to four. That would be awfully nice of you.”

“It's no problem; then I'll take my break.”

“Yes, you should,” Mme Poux said. “You get a long break; don't forget that you need to rest as you work at dinner this evening.” Mme Poux then made a hissing sound with her mouth. “They really need more employees.”

“They have to watch their money the first year,” Marie-Thérèse replied.

“Oh, so you're an expert, eh?”

Marie-Thérèse put her pointer finger up to her eye and tapped three times. “I keep watch, and listen too.”

“
Ah oui!
You listen a little too much, missy,” Mme Poux said, laughing despite herself.

Marie-Thérèse swung around, grinning. It pleased her to make Yolaine smile. She'd get the coffee and then see if Émile had any cookies left that she could put on the saucer. It was just a little bit extra effort, and if it made people feel better—whether they were staff or guests—then it was a good thing in her books.

Mme Poux finished ironing a pillowcase—it was her last of the day—and carefully folded it and set it in a wicker basket. She walked across the room and sat in her armchair and looked out at the bright-blue sky. She reached into her pocket and took out her watch, flipping it over and rubbing its smooth back, tracing the inscription with her fingers:
Yolaine, ma chérie
. She remembered clearly the day that Rémy had given her the watch; a clear summer's day, much like this one. He had saved for months, and bought it at Levy's on the Rue Paradis. She still had the velvet box. And it was a day like today that he had died, at forty-two years of age.

“Oh, you're alone,” a voice said from the doorway. “I thought Marie-Thérèse was here.”

“She was,” Mme Poux replied. She didn't care for Niki Darcette; there was something about her that was just a little
malhonnête
. Yolaine Poux didn't like the way Mlle Darcette waltzed around the hotel in short skirts and tight blouses, thinking that she was on the same social standing as the Le Bons, or even crazier, as the hotel's guests. If Niki wanted to speak to Marie-Thérèse she could just go and find her.

“Ummm, sorry to bother you,” Niki said, smiling and not hiding the sarcasm.

Mme Poux said nothing, but turned her head back toward the window, signaling that their conversation was over.

“
Oh mon dieu
,” Niki muttered as she walked away. “What did I ever do to Mrs. Lice?”

Yolaine Poux put the watch back in her apron pocket and began humming Charles Aznavour's “
Elle
.” It had been Rémy's favorite song. She looked outside the window but then quickly leaned back; she didn't want to make it seem like she was snooping on the clients. For Alain Denis was not far from the window, a small white piece of paper in his hands, and it seemed to Mme Poux that he was laughing.