Murder on the Ile Sordou (19 page)

•   •   •

Marie-Thérèse brought Verlaque and Paulik two more espressos and placed them down on their makeshift desk. “
Émile vient de faire des financiers
,” she said, pushing a plate of small rectangular almond cakes toward the two men.

“
Encore chaud
,” Paulik said, dipping one into his coffee.

Verlaque tried not to be disgusted by his commissioner's spoiling of a delightfully fluffy cake by turning it into a soggy mess. “Please thank Émile for us,” he said.

Marie-Thérèse nodded and quickly left, leaving the door open for Brice. The teen walked in, softly closing the door behind him. “Technically, my name comes after my mom's,” he said, sitting down. “Dortignac . . .”

“
Financier?
” Verlaque asked, motioning to the cakes.

“Gross,” Brice said, wrinkling his nose.

“We thought we'd speak to you before your mom,” Paulik said, finally acknowledging the boy's comment.

“You don't like
financiers
?” Verlaque asked, perplexed.

“But Dortignac comes after Denis,” the boy continued. “I never had that name, Denis. Never.”

“We realize that,” Paulik said.

“We'll talk about your food tastes another time,” Verlaque said, omitting the word “bad.” “So, no desire to carry the Denis name, eh?”

“Prosper says we should only eat things that come from the sky, and sea, and land . . .”

Paulik stifled a yawn, while Verlaque suspiciously looked at his
financier
. “Let's get back to the name Denis,” Verlaque said, setting his cake down, “and we'll talk about Prosper later.”

“I never wanted the name Denis because I never liked him,” Brice said, crossing his arms.

“Enough to kill him?” Verlaque asked.

“What?” Brice cried.

“You were down on the cove on Monday,” Verlaque said.

“So were a lot of people,” Brice answered.

“You could have been checking the cove out, trying to figure out how to get Alain Denis down there.”

“That's crazy!” Brice yelled. “Besides, where would I get a gun? This isn't the U.S.”

“In the U.S.,” Verlaque suggested. “You're back and forth a lot, no?”

“Yes, but I don't have the desire nor competence to sneak a handgun back to France on an airplane.”

“Nicely phrased,” Verlaque said, his eyebrows raised. “Do you read a lot?”

“Yeah,” Brice slowly replied.

“Poetry?”

“Nah,” the boy answered.

“Too bad. Prosper has a gun,” Verlaque suggested. “And you were with him on Monday.”

“He has a hunting rifle,” Brice said.

“I didn't say what kind of gun was used to kill your stepfather,” Verlaque said.

“Besides,” Brice said, his voice finally cracking, “I was with Prosper all day. He can tell you.”

“All right,” Verlaque said. “When did you get there?”

“Around midnight,” Brice answered. “I was angry and so I stormed out of the hotel. I didn't know where to go, so I kept walking toward the lights of the lighthouse. When I got close to it, Prosper heard my footsteps and came running out with his rifle. It scared me to bits.”

“I can imagine. Continue.”

“He invited me in—when he saw I wasn't going to rob him—and made me tea. We talked for a bit—or he talked, and I listened, trying to figure out what he was saying. He must have seen me yawning, because he then gave me this moth-eaten wool blanket and told me I could sleep on a cot in the corner of his kitchen.”

“And the next day?” Verlaque asked.

“We ate breakfast out on his pier,” Brice said. “And he told me about the fish, and birds, on Sordou. He knows as much about all that as M. Hobbs does. We had a lunch of cheese and bread—I was starving—and then he took me out into the land behind the lighthouse, looking for rabbits. We didn't find any though. We spent the late afternoon playing chess; he won both games . . . and then I told him I thought I should be going back to the hotel . . . and you know the rest.”

“Your father lives in New York,” Paulik said, wanting to get back to the U.S. connection. “Right?”

“Yeah, in Manhattan,” Brice replied. “But I hardly see him anymore. He's married to this young model, and they have twin girls . . . babies.”

“I see,” Verlaque said more quietly than he meant to. “And M. Denis never took on the role of father?”

Brice laughed. “Didn't even try.”

“Did you know that your stepfather was a champion swimmer?”

Brice looked genuinely surprised. “No. When he was a kid?”

“About your age,” Verlaque said, lying. Since they hadn't yet interviewed Mme Poux, he really had no idea when.

“Well, he didn't drown anyway,” Brice said.

“Right,” Paulik said, setting down his pencil.

“Take good care of your mother,” Verlaque said. “You can send her in now.”

Brice left the room, and Paulik leaned over toward Verlaque. “He's a little too . . . smug.”

“He just could be bright,” Verlaque said. “He reads.”

“Being a reader doesn't automatically make him innocent. You were digging into him, getting some good reactions, but then you let up,” Paulik said.

Verlaque shrugged. “I feel sorry for him.”

“The sun and heat has . . .” Paulik was about to finish his sentence when the door opened and Brice came in with Emmanuelle Denis, guiding her to a chair with his arm. He helped her to sit down and turned to go, whispering, “
À tout à l'heure, maman
.”

Mme Denis looked up at the two policemen, her eyes red and swollen. “How are you feeling, madame?” Verlaque asked.

“Rotten,” she answered, blowing her nose. “That's the surprising thing.”

“Surprising?”

“Well, yes. I haven't loved Alain for years. So why do I feel so lousy?”

Both men stayed silent, hoping that Mme Denis would elaborate. She did. She went on, “I think it's partly because it's messy, this death. And we're still married, so I'm the one who will have to deal with the inquest, the reporters, the fans. . . . Had we been divorced, this wouldn't have been my job. I don't want to do any of this. . . . I just want to go away and start a new life, with my son.”

“Well then, let's try to get this solved as quickly as possible,” Verlaque said. He was surprised by Mme Denis's narcissism, and had Alain Denis been a kinder man, Verlaque would have been angered by it. But Alain Denis, although not quite a monster, had been extremely unlikable—and so Verlaque continued, “You can put M. Denis's agent and manager in charge of dealing with the press; that's what they're paid for. Did you see M. Denis after he ate lunch in your suite?”

“No,” she replied. “Brice's room has two beds, so I've been sleeping in one of them.”

Verlaque leaned forward. “If you and Brice have been sharing a room, how did you not see that he was absent that night he spent down at Prosper's?”

Mme Denis bit her lip. “I was with someone else, in another room.”

“M. Viale?”

“Yes,” she answered. “There's an empty room at the end of our hall that we've been using . . . until the commissioner came, of course. I had Mme Le Bon make up the room, and I paid for it. Both nights. I hope that doesn't make me sound like a harlot, but I'm lonely.”

“It's not our business,” Verlaque said. “Unless it interferes with the investigation. Where were you on Monday evening at six p.m.?”

“I was in my room . . . our room . . . the one I share with Brice. You were out looking for him, and I was upset, so I just went to the room and lay down.”

“Did anyone come to your room?” Paulik asked. “Or phone the room?”

“No, why?” Mme Denis asked. “Oh, I see. To establish my alibi. No, no one came by, or called.”

“Did your late husband have enemies?” Verlaque asked.

Mme Denis smiled. “Of course; but I can't think of anyone who would want him dead. He was an obnoxious man, more and more so the older he got. There are directors and fellow actors who have been enraged by Alain's selfish behavior on set, but as I said, murder is an extreme way to . . . settle disagreements.”

“And you've never considered murder?” Verlaque asked.

Emmanuelle Denis stared at him, wide-eyed. “I can't even kill flies,” she said. Verlaque stayed silent; he had heard that before, from murderers.

“Thank you, Mme Denis,” Verlaque said, pushing his chair out.

“One last thing,” she said, ignoring Verlaque's cue that the interview was finished. “And I'll tell the Le Bons this as well: my emerald and diamond ring has gone missing.”

Dreaming of University

“A
re you sure?” Verlaque asked.

“Positive,” Mme Denis replied.

Verlaque sat back down.

“I keep all of my rings together—especially when I travel—in a small silk Chinese purse,” she went on. “I put them on, religiously, each morning, after I have dressed, and take them off—also religiously—just before I get into bed, setting them on the dresser. I love the ritual; so I know I'm not mistaken.”

“And Brice?” Paulik asked.

“He looked under the dresser and bed, just to confirm for me that I'm not losing my marbles,” she answered.

Paulik said nothing; Mme Denis had misunderstood his question: he had wanted to suggest that the boy had taken the ring. He had seen it before: to buy drugs, or even the latest gadget. Mme Denis's next statement confirmed Paulik's suspicions that perhaps Brice had taken the ring. She said, “I've recently had my jewelry valued, at Drouot in Paris. That diamond and emerald ring was antique; eighteenth century. It was valued at two hundred fifty thousand euros. It was given to me years ago, by . . . well, it doesn't matter.”

“This is indeed serious,” Verlaque said. “When did you first notice it missing?”

“Yesterday morning,” she replied. “I looked for it during the day, but to no avail, and after dinner Brice helped me search the room. I went to bed upset, and I was planning on telling the Le Bons this morning, but—”

“Yes,” Verlaque cut in. “Do you think,” he said, slowly, “that M. Denis could have taken the ring?”

Mme Denis looked at the judge in amazement. “What for?”

“I don't know . . .” Verlaque's mind raced.
Did Alain Denis need money that badly? Would someone kill for the ring? Or did Denis take the ring because it was given to his wife by a former lover?
“Money, perhaps,” Verlaque went on. “Were your late husband's finances in order?”

“His accountant keeps them in order, yes,” she replied. “But there's not much to keep in order, as I understand. Hence the television commercials. This week's stay was a splurge, and we got a discount from the Le Bons; they were hoping Alain's staying here would attract business.”

“All the more reason for your late husband to take the ring,” Paulik suggested. Mme Denis didn't reply.

“Have you seen M. Denis's will?” Verlaque asked.

“Our lawyer is arriving tomorrow,” she answered. “Provided you'll let him on the island.”

“Of course,” Verlaque said, smiling. “We'll leave you in peace now. Try to rest a bit more.”

“I'll try. Thank you . . . for your help. I know that you're meant to be here on vacation.”

Verlaque considered making a joke that he had been getting bored by the sun and sea, but kept the thought to himself. “It's no problem.”

The minute Mme Denis was out the door Verlaque said, “I'm ravenous.”

“Coincidence that we just interviewed a hotel employee who was jailed for theft,” Paulik noted, seeming not to have heard his boss's declaration, “and then a ring goes missing . . .”

“I don't see Niki stealing anymore,” Verlaque said, getting up to stretch.

“Oh really?”

“Nah,” Verlaque said, not having heard the sarcasm in Paulik's voice. “She's got too much to lose.”

“But it would be so tempting,” Paulik continued. “I can't believe a ring could be worth that much money.”

“I can,” Verlaque replied, thinking of his grandmother Emmeline's jewelry, now in a safe in a bank on the Rue d'Opéra in Paris.

“With two hundred fifty thousand euros Hélène could buy one of those new stainless steel grape presses from Italy,” Paulik said, “Or even two.”

“Does she need a new press?” Verlaque asked.

“No, no, don't worry,” Paulik quickly replied. “The old one is fine.”

“Who's next on the list?”

“Sylvie, and then Marie-Thérèse Guichard.”

“Marie-Thérèse Guichard,” Paulik said. “Is she the waitress?”

“A sort of girl Friday,” Verlaque answered. “She's one of the sweetest people I've ever met. And no, I don't think she's a murderer, or a thief. Sylvie should have been here by now. I'll pop my head outside the door to see where she is.” Verlaque opened the door and looked up and down the hall. He saw Marie-Thérèse and asked if she had seen Mlle Grassi.

“No, sir,” Marie-Thérèse answered. “Would you like me to run outside and look?”

“No, thank you,” Verlaque answered. “You can come in now, since you're the next person on the list after Mlle Grassi.” He ushered her in and put the “do not disturb” sign back on the door.

The girl sat down quickly. “Stop ringing your hands, Marie-Thérèse,” Verlaque said.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, separating her hands and placing them, palms down, under her thighs.

Paulik leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. “At what time did you find the body of Alain Denis?”

“Um, just before seven a.m.,” she replied, swallowing.

“Are you normally out walking around in the early morning?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“So why yesterday?”

Verlaque looked sideways at his commissioner but stayed silent. He didn't want to upset the girl.

“I start work at seven-thirty a.m. . . .”

“Yes, but not down at a small cove, no?”

“I went down to . . . think . . .” she answered.

“Really?” Paulik asked, leaning even more forward. “That's a little far, isn't it? For a think?”

Marie-Thérèse bit her lip and her eyes filled up with tears.

Verlaque now leaned forward. “We're sorry to upset you,” he said. “Please go on.”

The girl stifled a sob and began speaking. “I thought it would bring me good luck. . . . When I got the job on Sordou I had done the same thing . . . in Marseille . . .”

“Went down to a cove?” Verlaque asked.

“Well, I walked to the end of the old port,” she said, sniffling. “There were a bunch of us being interviewed the next day, and I didn't think I had a chance to work at such a fancy hotel, so I sat at the edge of a pier, looking at the sea . . . and . . .”

“Prayed?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Prayed. That's what I wanted to do at the cove yesterday. I wanted to be alone.”

“What were you praying for?” Verlaque asked. Paulik looked at him sideways.

She began to cry. “Lausanne . . .”

“The city in Switzerland?” Verlaque said, trying to coax her on.

“Hotel school,” she went on, sniffing.

“Oh, I see,” Verlaque said. “You've applied to university in Lausanne?”

“Yes, but it's all for nothing, even if I do get in,” she said, blowing her nose.

“Why is that?” Verlaque asked, but as soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew the answer. “Oh, it's a private school, isn't it?”

“It's so expensive,” Marie-Thérèse almost wailed. “I was so stupid to even apply.”

“What about a scholarship?” Paulik asked, leaning forward again.

“I phoned them,” Marie-Thérèse answered. “That's when you saw me,” she said to Verlaque.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Marie-Thérèse, if I spoke sharply to you,” Verlaque said. “I was trying to figure out who leaked the murder to the press.” He looked at Paulik and explained that on Tuesday he had come across Marie-Thérèse in the office, making a phone call but hanging up when she saw him.

“It's okay,” she whimpered. “I forgive you,” she said, now smiling a tiny bit. “The Swiss secretary I spoke to on the phone was mean and told me that even if I did get a scholarship, it would never cover the costs of living in such an expensive city.”

“Don't give up hope,” Verlaque said. “Where there's a will, there's—”

“What did you do when you first saw M. Denis's body?” Paulik asked, cutting off his boss.

“I screamed.” She looked at the men and realized she was meant to continue. “I ran over to him . . . his body, I mean. . . . He was lying on the beach, facedown. I didn't want to touch him. I screamed again . . . and ran.”

“How would you describe M. Denis?” Paulik asked.

“Um . . . not very nice . . . and snooty.”

“Was he rude to you?” Paulik asked.

“Yes, but that doesn't mean . . .”

“No one is accusing you, Marie-Thérèse,” Verlaque said, glancing at Paulik.

“When was he mean?” Paulik asked.

“Um, most of the time,” she replied. “He was fussy, and impatient. I was upset by it at first, but Émile calmed me down. He told me that M. Denis was like that with everyone, so I shouldn't take it . . . um . . .”

“Personally?” Paulik asked.

“Yes.”

“You must see a lot of what goes on around Sordou,” Paulik said.

“Um, I guess . . .”

“Did you ever see M. Denis and one of the other hotel guests, or staff members, have a fight?”

“Well . . . he yelled a lot at his wife,” Marie-Thérèse replied, shifting in her seat. “And we all saw Hugo get mad at him. Plus, M. Denis told Émile that his food was boring!”

Paulik tried to keep a straight face. “Émile must have been upset by that.”

“Yeah! He said that Alain Denis wouldn't know a trout from a tuna.”

This time both men had to hide their grins. “Anything else, Marie-Thérèse?” Verlaque asked. “Anything at all, even if it seemed insignificant at the time.”

“Well, there was this thing he was doing.”

“Who?” Verlaque asked. “M. Denis? Go on.”

“He,
M. Deni
s, was walking in the garden the other day. Twice I saw him do it that day . . .”

“What?”

“I'm trying to tell you,” she said, huffing. “He was walking around, and he pulled out of his pocket . . .” She stared at Verlaque and went on, sitting up straight. “Pants pocket, to be specific . . . I mean
precise
 . . . a little piece of paper, and he read it.”

Verlaque looked at Paulik and then asked, “And?”

“Well,” she said, “I'm telling you this because it happened twice, and both times he read the note he laughed. To himself.”

Paulik wrote the information down. “Thank you,” he said. “You've been very helpful.”

“That means I can go?” she asked. “It's almost lunchtime.”

“Yes,” Verlaque replied, getting up.

“Thanks!” she said, already at the door before either man could ask her about Mme Denis's ring.