Murder on the Ile Sordou (15 page)

“What in the world was he doing down here?” Max Le Bon mumbled, echoing Shirley Hobbs's same question.

“Perhaps he came for a swim,” Mme Poux said, staring at the body. “He was a champion swimmer,” she continued. “When he was young. Not especially graceful, but a good strong swimmer.”

A Prayer Song

B
runo Paulik's chest swelled when the director of Aix-en-Provence's conservatoire
announced Léa's name. The police commissioner took his wife Hélène's hand and squeezed it. The conservatoire—a former seventeenth-century mansion in Aix-en-Provence's chic neighborhood the Mazarin—wasn't air-conditioned, and Hélène lifted her tanned legs slightly off the wooden chair, whose seat was covered in cheap vinyl.

The pianist, who often accompanied the Paulik's ten-year-old daughter, turned to the page of his songbook where a Post-it was marked “Léa.” Gabriel Fauré's “
En prière
” was one of Bruno Paulik's favorite hymns: a song that Léa had been practicing for eight weeks, and how well—or poorly—she sang it on this hot July day would decide if she progressed to the level of the state-funded conservatoire's choral school.

Léa walked slowly up the stage's four wooden steps, and Bruno thought of how lucky they were—their only child did well at school and was passionate about music (Mozart above all else). He loved his wife even more than on their wedding day. The Syrah and Cinsault grapes were ripening in the sun in
their
vineyard; they had owned the vines for less than a year thanks to a generous gift from Bruno Paulik's boss, Antoine Verlaque. The judge had made it clear that his was a silent financial partnership—Hélène had total control of the wines—but he remained enthusiastic and eager for almost daily news of the grapes. He had even promised to help in September's harvest. Picturing his boss leaning over the vines in his 500-euro English leather shoes made Bruno grin, but he didn't for a second doubt Antoine Verlaque's stamina and physical strength. Bruno was a farm boy from the Luberon, and his wife, Hélène, was one of Provence's star winemakers, but they could never have purchased their own grapes if it hadn't been for Verlaque's investment (something that the judge insisted on calling it).

The pianist began, and Léa pursed her lips in concentration. Slowly, her young soprano voice filled the room. Paulik's eyes watered; he couldn't believe the sounds that were coming out of a young girl's mouth, and it was their daughter, their love child. He sat as still as possible and listened with every muscle in his body tense.

And so he flinched, bumping Hélène's knee, when his professional cell phone began to vibrate. He slipped his hand into the inside left jacket pocket and slowly took out the phone, turning the vibrating mode off. It was Antoine Verlaque; the week before leaving on vacation the judge had given Paulik the name and number of the hotel where he and Marine would be staying, and the commissioner had registered it into his phone. Sordou: that was the name that flashed on his phone's tiny screen. Paulik tried not to cringe when he saw Mme de Montague looking over at him and frowning. He could just imagine what the posh mother of five was thinking:
quel paysan!
Hélène saw his stricken face and put up a hand with one finger pointing in the air, and mouthed the words “one minute.” Verlaque could wait, and Paulik closed his eyes to concentrate, trying to make up for the precious few seconds he missed.

Bruno, who was an opera lover, silently noted that Léa ended on a rather too-high note. But he was thrilled for her, and by the sound of the applause, including that coming from the conservatoire's director, who was now on his feet, he could tell the audition had gone well. Léa had been the last performer, and Bruno moved the chairs out of his way to hug her and then get out of the stuffy room and call Verlaque as soon as possible. Mme de Montague raised an eyebrow when he squeezed his big rugby-player body past her, and he smiled and said, “Wasn't that terrific?” Hélène was right behind him, and they almost ran to meet Léa. He and Hélène gathered Léa in their arms, and he was sure he could feel his daughter's heart pounding.

“How did that feel?” Hélène asked, kissing Léa on the forehead.

“The worst part was walking up onto the stage,” Léa replied. “Then, as soon as I began singing, it felt good. Even really good.”

Paulik beamed and stopped himself from imagining an adult Léa singing at La Scala in Milan. “
Chérie
, I have a quick, very important call to make. I'll be right back.”

“To Judge Verlaque?” she asked, smiling.

Paulik nodded up and down.

“Okay then,” Léa said. “Tell him I say hi.”

•   •   •

The hotel was eerily quiet. No jazz music came from the Jacky Bar, and the guests all seemed to have gone back to their rooms while the Marseille police examined the cove and the body of Alain Denis. Marie-Thérèse had stayed in the kitchen, watching Émile cut vegetables for lunch, but he was unusually quiet and refused all offers of her help. After an hour of sitting on a stool in the corner she got up and said that she was going to set the tables in the dining room and terrace, and Émile replied with a grunt.

Marie-Thérèse loved the dining room and sometimes pretended that it was her own. Not a dining room in her house, but a dining room in her hotel, one that she would one day share with her husband—someone like Émile, who was talented, hardworking, and kind. She loved the marble floors and white linens, and as she passed a table she flattened down a tablecloth that had buckled. She opened the terrace doors and walked out, setting up the parasols one by one as there was no wind today. As she was cranking up one of the umbrellas she paused and looked down over the edge of the terrace. She could just see Sordou's harbor, where uniformed policemen were coming and going, like ants, she thought. Letting out a big sigh, Marie-Thérèse went back into the dining room to get linen napkins out of the buffet and opened it up to find only five. She'd have to go to the laundry room and get more from Mme Poux. She walked down the hall and as she walked she made a mental note of all she had to do before lunch—ask Niki for today's menu; get wineglasses from Serge and set them on the tables; double-check the salt cellars and pepper mills—there was a fourth thing, and she stopped, thinking that would help jog her memory, when she heard the Le Bons talking.

“I can't believe you'd think of his death in such a way,” Max Le Bon said.

“I'm being realistic,” Cat-Cat answered. “You're the dreamer in this relationship, remember.”

“
Oui, chérie
,” Le Bon replied, sighing. “
I
wanted Sordou, as you remind me of daily.”

“Well, we have Sordou now, like it or not,” Cat-Cat answered. “And Alain Denis's death will bring us publicity.”

Marie-Thérèse leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She knew—everyone knew—that Sordou was in “Phase One” as Émile called it, and the hotel's investors were waiting to see how this first season went before contributing more money to finish construction on the two remaining wings. But the Le Bons hadn't managed to fill the hotel—only seven of the eight rooms were booked this week, and only six next week. As Émile had told her, Sordou, beautiful as it was, was too close to Marseille, too far from Saint-Tropez, had a limited menu and only eight rooms, and no nightclubs or boutiques. “What about the Jacky Bar?” Marie-Thérèse had questioned Émile.

Émile had buckled over his chopping block, laughing.

She went on, “When I have a hotel . . .”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, Émile,” Marie-Thérèse had calmly replied. “I'm going to have a bar just like the Jacky, and play nice soft jazz like Serge does.”

Cat-Cat Le Bon's voice caused Marie-Thérèse to open her eyes. She knew she should keep moving along the hall, toward the laundry room, but it was as if she were frozen. She also didn't want her bosses to see her.

“He was an awful guest,” Cat-Cat said. “And if his death can bring us some notoriety, then I'm thankful.”

The telephone rang. “There you go,” Max said. “More guests!”

“Don't be daft,” Cat-Cat replied. “Nobody even knows yet.”

Marie-Thérèse coughed and loudly banged her feet as she walked, hoping she was making an impression that she had just arrived.

“Marie-Thérèse,” Max said when he stepped out of his office. “How are you? Are you feeling better?”

Relieved, she stumbled out a “
Oui, merci
” and hurried along to find Mme Poux.

Cat-Cat came out to stand beside her husband. “The commissioner of Aix wants to speak to Judge Verlaque,” she said. “He's holding.”

“He'll have to call back,” Max said. “The judge is down at the cove.”

“Did she hear us?” Cat-Cat whispered, looking down the hallway toward the laundry room.

“Every word, I would imagine.”

•   •   •

“Small gun at close range?” Verlaque asked, trying not to too obviously stare into Dr. Cohen's dark eyes.

“Yes,” she replied, turning slightly to look at the lifeless body of Alain Denis. “There doesn't seem to have been any physical violence, or a fight, but I'll know more when I get him to the lab at La Timone.” She looked out to sea and then turned back to Verlaque. “Can a boat get in here?”

Verlaque was about to hazard an answer when Hugo Sammut was at his side. “You'll be able to better answer that than me, Hugo,” Verlaque said.

Hugo nodded. “It's too shallow for any kind of proper boat, except a dinghy perhaps,” he said. “But a larger motorboat can come into the entry of the cove and stop very close to that cliff to the east.” He pointed, and Dr. Cohen and Antoine Verlaque looked. “Do you see that large white rock, touching the water, just below where there's a small pine tree growing out of the cliff?” he asked. The doctor and judge nodded. “That can be used as a step; you'd hop off the boat and then walk toward this beach on a small path that hugs the cliff, just about three feet off the water. It's doable, even for someone not very sporty.” He looked at Verlaque.

“I guess that means that M. Denis's body will have to be taken back to the main harbor by that path we came down,” Dr. Cohen said.

“I'm afraid so,” Verlaque said.

“But the real problem,” Hugo went on, “was yesterday's wind.”

Verlaque looked at him. “In the early evening the sea was rough, wasn't it?”

Hugo nodded up and down. “Yep. Too rough to get into this cove, and rough enough that a sailor wouldn't risk even leaving the port on the mainland. I sailed more often when I lived on the Atlantic than I do in Provence. People don't realize how windy it is here.”

“So a swimmer couldn't get in here?” Verlaque asked.

“What, with the gun wrapped in plastic, taped to his chest?” Hugo asked, laughing.

“Something to that effect . . .”

“No way, José.”

Hugo stepped aside as two policemen carefully lifted Denis's lifeless body onto a stretcher and began making their way up the path. Two other policemen followed, to take a turn carrying the body, with the crime photographer bringing up the rear.

“After you.” Verlaque gestured to Dr. Cohen. “I'll wait for your phone call from Marseille,” he said. “Thank you for coming out to Sordou.”

“Don't mention it,” she replied. She turned back to look at the sea; today it was as smooth as glass. “I can imagine it's heavenly to spend a week here.”

Verlaque nodded. “It was,” he replied.

•   •   •

“Fifteen for two points,” Marine said, laying a five of hearts on top of the jack Eric Monnier had opened with. She moved her tiny colored peg along two holes in the hotel's wooden cribbage board.

“
Merde
,” Monnier mumbled. He then laid down a five on top of hers and said, smiling, “Twenty for two points.”

“Twenty-five for six points,” Marine said, quickly laying down another five.

“
Merde!
” Monnier said louder this time. “And don't worry, I don't have another five. Go. I can't go any further.”

She laid down a six. “Thirty-one for two points.”

Monnier groaned. He turned the cards over and reopened, playing an eight.

Marine slapped a seven on top. “Fifteen for two points.”

Monnier played his last card, a ten. “Twenty-five for one tiny point. Well played.”

Marine had dealt so Monnier counted his hand first. Using the starter card, a four, he had four points. Marine, on the other hand, had a double run, plus two combinations of fifteen using the starter card and the fives and six in her hand. “Fourteen points,” she said, pegging.

“And now you get to count your crib,” Monnier said, sighing sarcastically.

Marine flipped her second hand over. She had a queen, a king, a two, and a three. “Fifteen for two, fifteen for four, and a run of three makes seven points. Not bad.”

“I gave you the two and three,” Monnier said. “That was asking for trouble.”

“Yes, considering how many ten-spot cards there are in a deck,” Marine said, smiling.