Murder on the Ile Sordou (20 page)

Past Lives and So On

“W
hat in the hell was that?” Verlaque asked.

“I'm sorry,” Paulik answered. “I shouldn't have cut you off.”

“You're bloody right.”

“It's just that . . . you were getting off topic,” Paulik said, looking straight at the judge.

“I was trying to make Marie-Thérèse feel better,” Verlaque said. “I don't think that someone so young can give us straight detailed answers if they're frightened out of their wits.”

“Brice is younger than Marie-Thérèse,” Paulik suggested.

“
Oui
,” Verlaque replied. “
Mais Brice est un garçon
.”

“So you're tougher on boys?”

Verlaque shifted his weight. “You're right,” he finally said. “I think of boys like me. And I'm hard on myself.”

“Women can commit crimes,” Paulik said. “Although it's hard for me to imagine.”

“As the father of a girl.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Let's use the hotel phone and call the Palais de Justice,” Verlaque said, changing the subject. “Get some officers to dig up Denis's past, especially when he was in his heyday, filming. I've heard that he was trouble on set. Find out if anyone ever threatened him.” Verlaque didn't admit that his source was Sylvie's reading of gossip magazines.

“Then you're assuming that the murderer swam here,” Paulik said.

“I still think it's possible, despite what Hugo said.”

“Or perhaps one of the older guests or staff is a retired film star,” Paulik suggested.

Verlaque straightened his back. “That's not a bad idea,” he said. “Mme Poux, for example. There you go: a woman. She could have been a behind-the-scenes person on set.”

“The script girl.”

“Wardrobe assistant.”

“Caterer.”

“This good brainstorming is making me hungry, and it's going to be more bloody fish,” Verlaque said. “Maybe trout?”

“Or perhaps tuna. Let's go then,” Paulik said, getting up. He took the list in his hand and read, “Next up after lunch, the Americans.”

•   •   •

Antoine Verlaque and Bruno Paulik closed the conference room door and walked down the hall toward the lobby. They crossed paths with Niki Darcette, who was carrying a champagne bucket. “Lunch will be out on the terrace,” she said, gesturing toward the front doors with her head. “It has cooled off a bit, so you won't bake out there.”

Verlaque thanked her, noting that she sounded relaxed; almost informal. She must have been relieved to have the interview over with, he noted.

“Is that for us?” he asked, pointing to the bucket.

“Sorry, no,” Niki replied, smiling. “Mme Denis has asked for some chilled white wine; I'm taking it to her room.”

“Very well,” Verlaque replied. “I'll go into the bar and fetch my whiskey,” he said to Paulik. “Would you like one?”

“No thanks,” Paulik answered. “Maybe later this evening, before I shove off. I'll meet you outside.”

Verlaque walked into the Jacky Bar, soothed by the bar's carefully selected vintage furniture and the gentle whirring of the ceiling fans. Eric Monnier was in his favorite corner, writing in his black book. Monnier saw Verlaque and lifted his Bloody Mary in a toast.

“Too hot out there for you?” Verlaque asked.

“The atmosphere among the diners is just a tad too tense,” Monnier replied. “I thought I'd eat in here and then do some reading.”

“Bon appétit, then,” Verlaque said.

Serge Canzano had already poured Verlaque's drink, setting the crystal glass on the bar along with a small silver-plated pitcher of still water.

“Thank you,” Verlaque said, pouring a tiny bit of water into the whiskey. “Cheers.” He took a sip and then walked over to the French doors that led to the terrace. Before going out he paused and looked at the sea—very much the color of Mme Denis's missing emerald, but much more precious. The limestone cliffs sparkled against the deep-blue sky, and Verlaque looked at the dozen or so scraggy pine trees that managed to grow out of the white rock. He turned his gaze to the terrace, its wrought iron tables beautifully set for lunch with white linen tablecloths, Italian porcelain, and Riedel stemware. But no laughter came from the diners, as it had on previous days. Someone coughed; another diner set down his fork a little too quickly and it rang out when it landed on the plate. It reminded Verlaque too much of formal dinners spent with his parents, in stiff Parisian restaurants that even he knew, as a young teen, were out of fashion. He and his brother, Sébastien, lived for the vacations with their paternal grandparents, Emmeline and Charles, where they would eat in, as Emmeline was a fine, simple cook, or eat out in noisy brasseries. But their favorite vacations with Emmeline and Charles were in Italy, on the Ligurian coast, where they would spend weeks on end in a small family-run hotel.

That's what Sordou should be,
he thought. The kind of hotel where the service is impeccable, and the food delicious, and yet the atmosphere relaxed, familial. It had been like that, he mused, before the murder.

“Over here!” Sylvie hollered.

“Where were you?” Verlaque asked when he got to their table.

“Sorry,” Sylvie replied. “I lost track of time. Marine and I were swimming.”

Marine looked over at her friend, angry to have been made an accomplice.

When Verlaque had sat down, Sylvie leaned in and asked, “Will I still get to be interviewed?”

“Of course,” Verlaque said, putting his napkin on his lap. “Why? You didn't
know
the deceased, did you?”

“Antoine!” Marine said, knowing that he was referring to a previous case where Sylvie had indeed known the deceased, intimately.

“I just saw the poet,” Verlaque said. “He said that the atmosphere was tense out here.”

“Mmm,” Marine said, nodding. “The Viales had some sort of argument, and she left. The Hobbses were obviously upset by it and now seem shaken up, and Mme Denis and Brice aren't even here.”

“They're eating in their room again,” Paulik answered.

“Can't say that I blame them,” Marine said. “Before Alain Denis's death, I had the feeling that we were all becoming friends—Eric Monnier hopping from table to table; Bill Hobbs taking young Brice under his wing; Shirley Hobbs showing me her watercolors . . .”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Verlaque said. Marine's description was much like that small Italian hotel.

“I overheard the Le Bons arguing,” Sylvie said. “Should I tell you now, or wait until my interview when you have a cheap desk light shining in my face?”

Verlaque laughed despite himself. “Save it for later.”

Marie-Thérèse arrived and announced the lunch menu. “We didn't have time to type it up,” she said. “Because of the . . . interviews. So, the starter today is a grilled tuna salad . . .”

Verlaque looked at Paulik and winked.

“Um, made with tuna, of course, and avocado, coriander, spring onions, and a chili pepper.”

“Sounds great,” Verlaque said.

“And the dressing,” she went on, “is made with soy sauce, lemon grass, and limes.”

“Wonderful,” Marine added.

“The main dish today will be crab and Gruyère tartlets,” Marie-Thérèse continued. “Chef Émile has made individual puff pastry shells and filled them with crab, Gruyère, and spices. Serge recommends a chardonnay from Burgundy.”

“And with the tartlets?” Verlaque asked. “Vegetables?”

“Um, salad.”

“More salad,” Verlaque said, pouting.

“A light lunch today,” Marine said.

“Well, Isnard didn't come,” Marie-Thérèse said.

“Oh dear,” Verlaque said. “I'm afraid my commissioner may have frightened him.”

“What?” Paulik asked, finally joining the conversation. He had been trying in vain to get some reception on his cell phone.

“I'll be right back with the wine,” Marie-Thérèse said, anxious to be gone. “That is, if you want some.”

“Sounds lovely,” Marine said. “And please bring us two bottles of sparkling water.” After the girl had left, Marine asked, “How did it go this morning?”

“Fine,” Verlaque replied. “But no earth-shattering discoveries. About the most interesting thing to come out of it is that Niki Darcette has spent time in jail for robbery.”

“Really?” Marine asked.

“I'll fill you in later,” Verlaque said. He wasn't especially keen to talk about the case in front of Sylvie. “And that Alain Denis was unpleasant to just about everyone here.”

“It's funny how things come out about people after an awful event like this one,” Marine said. “Past lives and so on, or how they react to tragedy. For example, who would have known that soft-spoken Mme Hobbs, who paints watercolors, was also a nurse during the Vietnam War?”

“That's so true,” Verlaque agreed. “Some people get tense, and others—like Niki and Marie-Thérèse—seem more relaxed.”

“How is Mme Denis?” Sylvie asked.

“Sad, and angry, but not necessarily about her husband's death,” Verlaque replied. Marie-Thérèse appeared with the salads, and he tilted his body to the side so that Marie-Thérèse could set down the starter in front of him. “That reminds me,” he went on. He waited until the girl had gone and then told Marine and Sylvie about Mme Denis's missing ring.

They discussed the ring, and expensive jewelry in general, while eating their first course. “The food is wonderful here,” Marine said, finishing her salad. “But I have a craving for . . .”

“A steak,” Verlaque said. “Rare.”

“Gummy bears,” added Sylvie.

“I was going to say potato chips,” Marine said. “Those English ones that you buy, Antoine, at Monoprix . . .”

“French ones are just as good,” said Paulik. “Especially the handmade chips from Allauch. I have a cousin . . .”

Conversation stopped as a gray-haired, uniformed man came bounding up the terrace steps. Despite the warm July day he wore a jacket, whose multiple medals and stripes could be seen from yards away. He stood at the edge of the terrace and it didn't take long, as there were few diners, to spot whom he was looking for. The “
merde
” that he whispered could be heard by everyone on the terrace, which was followed by a long sigh. He then walked over to Verlaque's table.

Paulik set his napkin down and quickly got up. “Général Le Favre,” he said. “Hello . . .”

“Welcome to Sordou,” said Verlaque, who was also on his feet. Sylvie and Marine looked on. “May I present Dr. Marine Bonnet, and Sylvie Grassi.”

Le général
nodded briefly in their direction and shook their hands.

“Do you have news for us?” Paulik asked, perplexed.

“News?”
le général
repeated. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded newspaper, throwing it on the table. “Gentlemen, do I have news for you.”

Verlaque grabbed the newspaper and opened it up. “
Merde
,” he said, handing it to Marine.

“
Merde
is right,” Le Favre said. “And more expletives were said this morning at the precinct. The phone has been ringing off the hook.”

Marine said nothing and passed the paper to Paulik. He looked at it, then said, “
La Provence
. Figures.”

“Granted, it doesn't have a circulation like
Le Figaro
or
Le Monde
,” Le Favre said. “But, it means we've lost a few days of investigation without the whole world knowing where—and how—Alain Denis was murdered. Plus . . .
that photo
!”

“Let me see,” Sylvie said, taking the newspaper from Paulik. She looked at it and then laughed.

“The journalist obviously had a front-row seat in the dining room,” Le Favre continued after he had glared at Sylvie.

“I have no idea how,” Verlaque said, shaking his head back and forth.

“
Les hublots
,” Marine suggested. Marine looked at the photograph again and said, “The photo was taken from the kitchen. I went in there yesterday, looking for Marie-Thérèse, and I saw that some of the round mirrors in the dining room and bar are actually windows, so that the chef can observe the diners.”

“The cook took these photos, and wrote the article?” Le Favre asked, the sarcasm in his voice heavy.

Verlaque thought of Niki Darcette. “The cook . . . unlikely . . . more probable one of the hotel staff; they are desperate to fill up the rooms.”

“Antoine,” Marine said. “I can't imagine . . .”

“Commissioner,” Le Favre said, looking at Bruno Paulik. “Outsiders were strictly forbidden to come onto Sordou.”

“And they didn't,” Paulik replied. “There were two policemen on the dock, and a boat at the mouth of the harbor.”