Murder on the Ile Sordou (13 page)

Marine watched Mme Denis, who seemed thankfully distracted by the conversation among the three tables. Marine looked at the woman, not sure if she thought her to be beautiful or a monster who had had too much plastic surgery. From outward appearances Mme Denis had everything: money, a famous husband, a size 6 waist, education, and grace. But Marine saw in her eyes the sadness she so gracefully bore; although she was smiling while listening to the men talk of fish, her eyes watered, and she played nonstop with her multi-diamond wedding ring.

Sylvie kicked Marine under the table as they saw Hugo Sammut walk across the terrace and into the hotel, alone. Marine excused herself and went into the lobby, where the Le Bons were speaking with the boatman.

“No sign of him, Hugo?” Marine asked.

“Nada,” Sammut replied.

“This isn't good,” Max Le Bon said as he began to pace across the lobby. “Not good at all.”

“Famous actor's son dies on Sordou,” Cat-Cat said, folding her arms across her chest and looking out the window.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Hugo Sammut said. “Don't jump to conclusions. He's camped out somewhere. No harm can come to him on Sordou; there are no wild animals, and it's warm out so he isn't going to freeze.”

“Hugo's right,” Marine said.

Hugo continued, “For all we know he's tying one on with old Prosper . . .”

“Hugo, since you no longer work here, you can leave your theories to yourself,” Max Le Bon said.

“Max, Hugo did go out looking for the boy,” Cat-Cat said. “Hugo, did you talk to Prosper?” Cat-Cat asked.

Hugo shook his head back and forth. “Knocked on his door, and on the lighthouse door, but no answer. He must have been out foraging for his dinner.”

Marine looked from Hugo to the Le Bons. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you talking about the recluse? The rabbit hunter?” Marine suddenly thought of the evening's menu.

“Sordou's only full-time resident,” Max Le Bon explained. “He was the lighthouse operator, as were his ancestors, until Marseille automated the lighthouse in 1986.”

Cat-Cat continued, “Prosper was permitted to stay on the island, with a small stipend from the region, provided he keep the glass clean and check the lightbulbs every week. It's still an important lighthouse, after all.”

“We all saw the lighthouse when we came to Sordou, from the boat,” Marine said. “This Prosper may have seen Brice, no? Shouldn't we go and get him?”

Hugo Sammut looked at his ex-bosses and bit his upper lip.

“Well,” Max Le Bon began. “He's a little special . . .”

Just then the group heard a commotion, and loud talking, coming from the dining room. Eric Monnier appeared in the doorway of the lobby, grinning. “I think you're needed in the dining room,” he said, looking at the Le Bons. “We seem to have a . . . guest.”

The Le Bons looked at each other and quickly made a move for the dining room. Monnier made a big theatrical sweeping gesture with his hand, as if to usher them in. He was now openly laughing when Marine asked him, “Who is it, for heaven's sake?” She was getting frustrated at the distraction from their conversation of the missing boy.

“I think it's Vincent van Gogh reincarnated,” Monnier said, looking toward the dining room. “Yes, it's the mad Dutchman himself . . . only instead of sunflowers he seems to be carrying a dead rabbit.”

About the Recluse

M
arine stared at Prosper Buffa; he did indeed resemble Vincent van Gogh, although an older version of the artist who had died too young. Buffa's once-bright-red hair—with a matching scraggy beard now streaked with white—looked like it hadn't been combed or washed in weeks. He was extremely thin, his pants being held up by an old leather belt that he wore, oddly, on the outside of a tattered striped dress shirt, not through the pants' belt loops. The pants, once new, and also once navy blue, were filthy, cut off and frayed just above the ankle, making Buffa look like a shipwreck survivor. But the oddest part of his clothing was on his feet: black leather dress shoes with pointed toes that had been fashionable in the 1980s. Buffa evidently had no use for the leather supporting the ankles, so had worn them down by stepping flat on the leather each time he put them on, transforming the shoes into slip-ons, like slippers.

Marine tried to guess his age, but couldn't; somewhere between fifty-five and seventy was the best she could do. Prosper Buffa was in fact sixty-four. He was an only child; born on Sordou and homeschooled on the island as well, by his mother, a former teacher. His father—Honoré—had inherited the job as lighthouse keeper from his father, Pierre, and Honoré did the job well, and with pride, until Mme Buffa died of the flu when Prosper had been ten years old.

And from there, things went downhill for Honoré Buffa. Although getting supplies to Sordou was always difficult, the supply of vodka was sure to never run out. At the turn of the century a Russian ship had capsized in a freak storm, just off the island. Pierre Buffa, Honoré's father, had managed to save seven of the sailors, but the rest, including the captain, had perished. The ship's cargo, much of it vodka, had run up on the shore on the far side of the island, and Pierre Buffa found the crates and hid them, out of sight of his wife, Ginette, who was a teetotaler. Now and again, on a day of celebration, or at the end of a long hard season, Prosper's grandfather would remove a bottle from its hiding place and bring it to the lighthouse, where he hid it, pouring a little into a glass, savoring it (Ginette Buffa, when she saw the clear liquid in her husband's glass, and the smile on his face, knew exactly what it was, and where it came from). Years later, Prosper's father found his own father's secret, buried in the ground near the orchard that his own wife, before she fell ill, had so lovingly tended. The supply was endless, and Honoré—unlike his father—became addicted to the clear drink, washing away his sorrows in it. Prosper, by then twelve, assumed as many of the lighthouse duties as he could, taking over completely after his father's death in 1979. And when, in 1986, the government sought to automate the lighthouse, Prosper too took to the drink.

“
Mesdames et monsieurs
,” Prosper Buffa said, bowing, “
bon appétit
.” Prosper was pleased with himself; he hadn't slurred his words because today, an unusual and surprising day, he had not drunk any vodka. But he would tonight; he deserved it.

“M. Buffa,” Max Le Bon said, quickly approaching the recluse. “Let me escort you to my office . . .”

“Not so fast, fancy pants!” Buffa exclaimed.

Sylvie and Antoine laughed out loud, as did Eric Monnier, who had pulled up a chair at their table.

“I have here another rabbit for the chef . . . the boy you hired to cook . . .” Buffa laughed at his own joke and looked at the dining patrons, hoping for more encouraging laughter. He held the dead rabbit up by the ears for the diners to see. “Tell him Prosper can catch as many bunnies as he needs.”

Delphine Viale gasped and put her napkin to her mouth.

“Will do, will do,” Max Le Bon exclaimed, gritting his teeth. “Come with me, M. Buffa, and our bartender will pour you a pastis.”

“Better make that a double,” Monnier whispered to the others at their table. “Vincent looks like he likes a tipple. Speaking of that, we need another bottle of wine.”

“Hear hear,” Verlaque replied, signaling to Marie-Thérèse, who was standing at the far end of the room, her large brown eyes widened to a maximum, mesmerized by the scene. She saw the judge's finger pointing to the wine bottle, and she ran to the bar to tell Serge that he needed to find another bottle of Vermentino.

“Come along, M. Buffa,” Maxime Le Bon repeated. “And you're not supposed to be shooting in the late afternoon,” Le Bon hissed in Buffa's ear.

“Who was shooting?” Buffa asked. “Certainly not me.”

“Come along,” Le Bon repeated.

“Not so fast, I repeat, dear hotel proprietor,” Buffa said, now walking around the dining room, enjoying the spotlight. Stopping at the Hobbses' table he picked up their bottle of white wine and peered at its label. Shirley and Bill Hobbs looked at each other, frozen. “Good choice,” Buffa said. “Oh, the many fine Burgundies I have had in my life. . . . Such memories of Montparnasse . . .”

Monnier slapped his knee and laughed out loud. “He's never been to Paris in his life!” he cried out. “At least I would bet on it,” he added.

Buffa carefully set the bottle down and winked at Mrs. Hobbs before continuing his rounds. He slowed down at Clément and Delphine Viale's table. He looked closely at Mme Viale—who still had her napkin up to her face—and then with a wave of his hand said, “You must be the Parisian. Not the person I'm looking for this evening. However, dear madame, if you get lonely, my lighthouse is just—”

“M. Buffa!” exclaimed Max Le Bon. “That will be enough!”

“I told you,” Buffa said, running his hands through his hair, his eyes suddenly looking wild. “I'm
looking for someone
.”

He walked on, stopping before Mme Denis, and, smiling, placed his gnarled, freckled right hand on his heart. He bent down on one knee. “My dear and glorious madame,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

Emmanuelle Denis closed her eyes, trying to block her nasal passages.

“You would be Mme Denis, would you not?” Buffa asked.

“Yes, how did you know?” she asked, looking down at him.

“Because someone speaks very highly of you,” Buffa said. “Not of your dim-witted husband. Him, he hates. And with good reason, might I add . . .”

Mme Denis's eyes widened and she stood up, pulling Buffa to his feet. “
Where
is
my son?”

If Buffa was surprised by the woman's sudden strength, he didn't show it, but the other diners stared, open-mouthed. Antoine Verlaque put his napkin down and got up.

“No need for a show of strength, dear gentleman,” Buffa said, holding his hand up toward Verlaque. “All right!” Buffa hollered in the direction of the French doors that led to the terrace. “You can show yourself now!”

Brice Dortignac walked in slowly, looking tired and even thinner, if that was possible in one night and one day. Mme Denis ran across the dining room and hugged him, crying softly. “My boy, my boy . . .”

“
Je suis desolé, maman
,” Brice said.

“And now I'll take that pastis!” Prosper Buffa yelled to Max Le Bon. “Delivery of rabbit, and teenager, done. Next: drinks.” He turned and gazed around Marine and Antoine's table and stopped when he saw Sylvie. “Saw you out on the rocks today,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

•   •   •

Antoine Verlaque leaned back, resting his head on the wrought iron chair's cushion, and relishing the taste of his cigar, a Sir Winston. The summer night's air, much cooler on the island than on his terrace in downtown Aix, blew across his face. He could hear his friends—Marine, Sylvie, and Clément (Mme Viale had gone to bed, professing a headache)—discussing Émile Villey's deceptively simple meal, plate by plate. Every time Marine spoke Verlaque's ears perked up; even after three years, he still loved to hear her voice.

During the dessert course Bill Hobbs had sat down beside Brice, and Verlaque had watched them talking, Mr. Hobbs's hand now and again touching the boy's skinny shoulder. Brice hadn't cringed in the way other teenagers would have; instead, his head was bent down, intently listening, and he now and again looked up at the American, smiling. His mother told them that Brice's father lived in New York, and they had lived there when Brice was in grade school.

Some men were so comfortable around children, Verlaque pondered, and if they weren't, it was immediately obvious, especially to the child. Bill Hobbs had that gift, or genuine interest, in the young. Verlaque's father did not, but his grandfather had. His commissioner back in Aix, Bruno Paulik, although from outward appearances looked like some hardened medieval warrior, was a kitten around children; Verlaque had seen Paulik on the job with distressed children, and with his own ten-year-old daughter, Léa. Paulik had sent Verlaque a text message a few hours before they arrived on Sordou. It had said, “Enjoy your much-deserved holiday. Think of me here in Aix with soaring temperatures and hordes of tourists. The grapes will be well on their way by the time you get back; Hélène has done miracles bringing them back to life, and Léa says they look like little green pearls.
Bonnes vacances
, Bruno.” Antoine Verlaque hadn't erased the text message as he usually did, but kept it and read it again before coming down to dinner. As the inheritor of a flour fortune, Verlaque had more money than he knew what to do with and had recently bought a vineyard and crumbling farmhouse, giving it to Bruno Paulik and his wife, Hélène. Hélène Paulik was a rising star in the French wine world, but without a family fortune she was destined to make someone else's wine. Verlaque had done enough research that he knew he might never make money on the vineyard, but it would be Hélène's wine, not someone else's, and he had been thrilled to give her that chance. The money was no good to anyone sitting in a Parisian bank, and the funny part of it was, there was still much more.

He thought of Bruno, his father, grandfather, and men like Alain Denis. And where was Antoine Verlaque in this lineup of men? He had little experience with children, and they sometimes frightened him more than hardened criminals; but perhaps it wasn't fear, but merely worry about his own inexperience? Why not learn from others? He could begin to treat children, whose ever they were, as he had been treated by Charles and Emmeline, his paternal grandparents: with attention, intelligence, and kindness. He looked over at Marine and she was staring at him, smiling. She winked and his heart melted.

Serge Canzano came out onto the terrace with a bottle of champagne. “The champagne is on the house,” Canzano said, popping the cork. “In celebration of the boy's return.” He gently set the bottle down—giving it a twist—into a silver bucket and walked away, looking forward to cleaning up the bar and getting into bed with volume three of his Napoleon biography.

“The champagne is also in hopes that we keep our mouths shut about Prosper Buffa when we get off Sordou,” Verlaque said, leaning over and taking the bottle out of the champagne bucket and pouring, beginning with Marine's and Sylvie's flutes. He looked up at Clément Viale, remembering that his old friend had invested in Sordou's hotel. “Sorry, mate. That came out wrong; I was completely amused by the island's resident madman.”

“As was I,” Viale said, a little unconvincingly.

“Have you ever seen a kid eat so much?” Sylvie asked.

“What's going to become of him?” Marine asked. “His stepfather isn't going to change. It's only a matter of time before he runs off again.”

“Where is M. Dortignac, Brice's father?” Sylvie asked.

“Emmanuelle told us that he lives in New York,” Marine replied. “He's a commodities trader.”

“Ah, that's why the kid speaks such good English,” Clément said.

Verlaque pictured Brice's father, yelling down the phone in some Wall Street high-rise. Rotten with kids, he imagined. Alain Denis was obviously in competition with other men and had no interest in children. What made women like Emmanuelle Denis, obviously intelligent and strong—as she had proven this evening with Prosper Buffa—choose men like Denis?

“Bill Hobbs has offered to take Brice fishing,” Marine continued. “I overheard them talking about it during dessert.”

“Adorable,” Sylvie said. “Maybe Brice can give the Hobbses some fashion advice. So, did Brice tell Prosper Buffa
all
about us? I certainly got that impression.” Sylvie closed her eyes for the briefest second; she didn't care that old Prosper had seen her and Hugo making love, but she cringed at the thought that the young teen might have also been watching. She prayed not.

“I did too,” Verlaque said, puffing on his cigar and looking up at the sky. “And no wonder. We're a pretty odd lot.”

“Speak for yourself, Dough Boy,” Clément said. The group laughed.

“Was that your first meeting with Prosper Buffa?” Verlaque asked ClémentViale.