Murder on the Ile Sordou (26 page)

Prosper Has More Guests

“M
y grandfather always said ‘never trust a skinny chef,'” Verlaque remarked as he watched Bruno Paulik gather up his papers and slide them into his leather satchel. They had just finished interviewing Émile Villey; throughout their meeting the chef had made a valiant attempt to stifle his yawns.

Paulik grunted. “Émile seems honest to me,” he replied, “just very focused on cooking.”

“Oh, I agree with you there. He wouldn't shut up about his monkfish with the ginger and chili.”

“Don't forget the noodles and cilantro,” Paulik said, keeping such a straight face that Verlaque thought he might be serious. “And I don't see Émile having the time to think up a murder, contact Denis, rush down to the cove, and then make it back in time to cook,” Paulik continued. “He doesn't have a motive either.”

“Alain Denis complained about the lamb on our first night.”

Paulik laughed this time. “I mean, the meals are fairly simple here, and he's only cooking for ten people plus staff, but all the same, he's a busy guy.”

“Yes, I agree: Émile is solo in the kitchen; he even makes the hotel's bread and jam,” Verlaque said. “Then would he kill for someone else? Is he sweet on Emmauelle Denis? Or was he defending the honor of Niki Darcette?”

Paulik shook his head back and forth. “It was a premeditated murder,” he said. “I know that Émile claimed not to have heard the shot because he was too busy banging pots and pans around, and no one came into the kitchen at that time to give him an alibi, but I think that our murderer knew Denis well and planned this.”

“Then that even puts Hugo Sammut lower down on the list.”

“Exactly,” Paulik said. “From what you told me about that outbreak at breakfast, Hugo is strong, but doesn't think before he acts. And to shoot someone, you don't have to be strong. You just have to know how to handle a gun and have decent aim.”

“But Hugo, unlike Émile, has a motive. He got fired because of Alain Denis. Let's check the public shooting ranges,” Verlaque said. “In Marseille, and the Paris region. Especially for someone who fits Hugo's profile, and for women who have recently signed up.”

“I'll put someone on it tomorrow,” Paulik said, putting on his sunglasses. “Okay, I'm ready to face the sun and boat.”

•   •   •

“Say hello to Hélène and Léa,” Verlaque said as he and Paulik shook hands on the dock.

“I will,” Paulik said, gently stepping into the speedboat that awaited him. “I'll start the research tomorrow morning, and will call you ASAP.”

Verlaque saluted and the boat backed quickly up and sped off. He turned around and saw Marine standing just a few feet behind him. “You're a beautiful sight,” he said, kissing her. “What are you up to?”

“I wanted to say goodbye to Bruno,” she said. “I've been swimming, and then working.”

“Working?” Verlaque asked as they walked on the path that led up to the hotel's front steps.

“Yes, it's getting my mind . . . elsewhere,” she said. “And Sylvie's off somewhere with Hugo.”

Verlaque bit his tongue; although he liked Sylvie Grassi more and more, he also knew that she was the kind of woman who prioritized things, and her comfort and happiness came first. “Care to take a trip to the lighthouse?” he asked.

Marine looked at her watch. “Dinner isn't for another couple of hours,” she said, knowing that they could show up on the terrace anytime before 9 p.m. “I'd love to.”

“We need to interview Prosper,” Verlaque said. “I'll fill you in on the other interviews as we walk. The housekeeper had one humdinger of a story.”

They walked along the north side of the island, on a path that Hugo Sammut and Max Le Bon had worked at clearing. The smells of wild thyme and rosemary surrounded them, combined with the briny smell of the sea that seemed to come in waves. The
cigale
noise was almost absent here; there were fewer trees. They walked most of the path in single file, but when they could walk side by side they did so holding hands. “So, no people can be linked to Alain Denis except his wife and stepson,” Marine said after Verlaque had filled her in on their sessions with the hotel's staff and guests.

“So it would seem,” Verlaque said. “Except Mme Poux, from way back when. Bruno will begin tomorrow with more detailed research into every guest's and staff's background. We can't possibly do that from here.”

Marine laughed. “I'm amazed the hotel's phone even works. Did you meet with Mme Denis's lawyer?”

“Yes, very briefly,” Verlaque said. “He showed up just as we were finishing our interviews. He met with Mme Denis alone for about a half an hour, then spoke with Bruno and myself. She's to inherit.”

“Everything?”

“Yep.”

“And the lawyer has gone?”

“Yes. It was like he couldn't wait to get off of Sordou.”

“Don't tell me our lovely island has become sinister,” Marine said, pulling at some rosemary and rubbing the stalk between her palms and then smelling them. “All the same, I can't see Emmanuelle Denis shooting a gun.”

“Nor can I.”

“A hit man?”

“A hit man who's a champion swimmer?” Verlaque asked. “Why not?”

Marine told him of her conversation with Sylvie, and the idea that Alain Denis was involved in something not quite legal. “Mme Denis could be involved too,” she added. “That's why she asked for protection.”

“And she was faking hating her husband?”

“That part was Sylvie's idea.”

“Not bad.”

“Mme Poux could have hired the hit man,” Marine said, grinning. “At Le Cercle des Nageurs . . . that was quite a story she told you two.”

“There may be something there,” Verlaque said, slowing down. “She is the only person, outside of his family, that has a link to him. A swimming link. Come to think of it, Eric Monnier told me he swam too.”

“When he was young,” Marine said. “I can't imagine it now. It's funny, but I have a hard time imagining certain people with wet hair.”

“I know what you mean,” Verlaque replied. “Mme Poux, for instance.”

“And you say they're all the same age?”

Verlaque said, “Yes. Bill and Shirley Hobbs are a tad younger, born in 1945 and '47. I saw their passports.”

“Senior discount week at Sordou,” Marine said, laughing. “I still think that Mme Denis is hiding something. She's a strong woman. We were all surprised at that, the night Brice came back, remember?”

“Yes, I think Prosper was quite taken aback.”

“Could a hit man have camped out overnight?” she asked. “Swum here from a boat? Or got dropped off, even Sunday, and then waited. Near the cove.”

“Interesting theory,” Verlaque said. “Let's ask Prosper about any boats hovering near Sordou over the past few days.”

“Does Prosper know about Alain Denis's death?”

“Yes,” Verlaque replied. “Max Le Bon told him.”

“What was his reaction?” Marine asked. “Did Max say?”

“Max said that Prosper rolled his eyes and snickered.”

“How odd. And was Prosper born in 1940 as well?”

“We don't know,” Verlaque said. “I asked the Le Bons but they had no idea, so we'll have to ask Prosper that question.”

“If he even knows,” Marine said.

“Bruno sent an officer to Paris to study the lighthouse archives,” Verlaque said. “I'm hoping we'll be able to fill in some of the missing details, like Prosper's birth date, when he gets back.”

The path narrowed and they walked on in single file, sometimes stopping to look out at the sea. The coastline of Marseille and Cassis was off in the distance, but too far to make anything out; it was just a hazy gray smudge. The lighthouse, however, got bigger and bigger the closer they got. “You don't realize how tall the lighthouse is when you're out at sea, on the boat coming,” Marine said.

Verlaque looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “It must be sixty meters high.”

“Yes,” Marine said. “It's not as charming as other lighthouses I've seen, like those in Britanny.”

“No, this one is meant for business,” Verlaque said. “It's a serious structure; it's as if it's soaring right out of the sea.”

“Look, there's a boat pulled up to his dock,” Marine said. “Is that Prosper's?”

“No, I don't think so. It looks too big to be his, but I can't imagine him entertaining.”

“Prosper did well enough with Brice.”

“You're right,” Verlaque said. “Brice was even quoting him earlier today.”

Marine laughed.

“It's nice to hear you laugh,” Verlaque said, stopping and taking her in his arms.

“The atmosphere isn't exactly jolly,” she said. “Whenever someone walks into the dining room or bar, we all jump.”

“And people aren't telling us everything,” Verlaque added. “Sylvie said that Marie-Thérèse overheard that same argument between the Le Bons,” he said. “But Marie-Thérèse didn't mention it. And Bill Hobbs won't tell us what Brice divulged when they were out fishing; I'm sure it was something about Alain Denis.”

“How can we break the ice?” Marine asked. “It's not like we can have a party.”

Verlaque stopped walking again. “Why not?”

“Listen,” Marine said, holding her pointer finger to her mouth. “It sounds as if Prosper is having his own party.”

The closer Marine and Verlaque got to the small stone house that stood at the foot of the lighthouse, the louder the laughter. The house's small multipaned windows were open, but from what they could tell no one was inside.

“It's coming from the side of the house,” Marine said. As they rounded the corner there appeared a pair of filthy bare feet resting on an old wooden stool. It was clear that Prosper had company as two men were laughing, and Prosper's right foot twitched in time along with his laughter.

“
Bonsoir, mes amis
,” Verlaque said.

“Well hello, dear judge,” Prosper said, quickly getting up, bumping the wood table. Marine lunged forward and grabbed an almost empty bottle of rosé before it fell over.

“Good reflexes, my dear,”
le général
said, flashing a smile at Marine.

“Do sit down,” Prosper said, motioning to two empty chairs. He picked up the bottle and waved it at his friend.

“I'll be right back,”
le général
said. “Emergency trip to the cooler on the boat is needed.”

“The jacket looks nice on you,” Verlaque said.

Prosper looked down at his upper chest and touched
le général
's medals with his fingers.

“Have you two always been friends?” Verlaque asked.

Prosper shrugged. “Depends what you call friends . . .”

“Come off it,” Verlaque said.

“We've been friends for about ten or twenty years,” Prosper said.

“Good,” Verlaque replied dryly. “Very precise. I'll get right to the point; where were you Monday evening around six p.m.?”

“Monday? What happened Monday night?”

Verlaque sighed and looked at Marine. “It's the night of Alain Denis's murder.”

“I mean what was the sky like that night?” Prosper asked. “Dates and days of the week don't mean anything to ol' Propser.”

“The sea was rough,” Verlaque said. “It had been calm all day, and at the end of the afternoon it was rough. I don't remember the sky.”

“Ah, you should always pay attention to the sky.”

“It was the day you saw the couple on the rocks,” Marine added. “And Brice was here with you.”

Prosper slapped his knee. “And there was a gunshot by the cove,” he said. “And it wasn't me.”

Le général
returned, opening a new bottle of chilled rosé as he walked.

“So where were you?” Verlaque repeated.

Prosper shrugged. “Here, where else?”

“And Brice was with you?”

“Why does it matter?” Prosper asked.

“Because,”
le général
said, leaning over to pour wine in his friend's glass tumbler, “you need an alibi.”

“As does Brice,” Verlaque said. “You two showed up at the hotel late that night, remember?”

“What night was it again?” Prosper asked, scratching his flyaway red hair.

“Monday,” Marine said.

Verlaque leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands.

“The sea, and sky, were . . . busy,” Marine continued. “And you may have heard a shot, sometime in the late afternoon.”

Le général
set the glasses down and Marine looked on, amazed at how dirty they were. “I was here!” Prosper said. “I did hear the shot, with the boy.” Relieved, he grabbed the empty glasses and the bottle of rosé.