Murder on the Ile Sordou (32 page)

“What else is on the menu?”

“Top secret,” Émile said. “There's some meat for him,” he said, gesturing with his head toward Antoine Verlaque, who was now swimming toward the rocks with Sylvie.

“Antoine will appreciate it,” she said. “For someone who spent a lot of his youth near the ocean in Normandy, he's a real meat and potatoes guy.”

“I'll see you later then,” Émile said, picking up his basket. “Still one or two ingredients to hunt down, then into the kitchen I go.” He looked out at the sea and said, “I'm glad they found the body.”

“Me too.”

“I didn't want to think of M. Monnier out there.”

“No,” she answered.

“I saw you playing cards with him,” Émile said, “from one of the
hublots
. It looked like you beat him.”

Marine smiled. “I did,” she said. “But he took it well.”

•   •   •

Max Le Bon banged the edge of a glass with a small spoon.

“Don't break the glass,” Cat-Cat said.

“I'm being careful,” Max whispered, vexed. “Good evening everyone,” he called out. “Welcome to our last dinner on Sordou. Émile has prepared yet another stellar meal, and I hope you all enjoy it. Cat-Cat and I will be joining you for dinner, and we've taken the liberty of inviting the rest of our small staff to join us as well. We thought, that given the eventful week, they merited a gastronomic meal.”

“Plus there are no more guests left,” Sylvie whispered. They applauded, and Marie-Thérèse, Niki, Mme Poux, Hugo, Serge, and Émile stood up and bowed.

“Although they will be getting up periodically to help serve,” Max said, smiling. “I'd also like to welcome M. Buffa and Général Le Favre. You both look very regal this evening, gentlemen.”

Prosper Buffa beamed, fingering his bow tie.
Le général
straightened his back, as if that would allow the guests to better see his medals.

“Most of all, Cat-Cat and I would like to thank Judge Verlaque and Dr. Bonnet for their help this week,” Le Bon went on. The staff applauded. “You managed to keep us all calm, be discreet in your investigation, and you both retained your smiles and good humor throughout. Thank you.”

Cat-Cat stepped forward to speak. “Thank you all, from the bottom of our hearts. And on a business note, I'd like to congratulate Niki Darcette, whose hard marketing work has paid off; we're now fully booked until the end of September.” She paused while the guests finished clapping. “Despite the fact that some of you seemed to think that Alain Denis's death may bring clients to Sordou,” she said, avoiding looking at Verlaque and Bonnet. Marine kicked Antoine under the table. “It was Niki's riveting press releases and gorgeous photographs that did the trick, and now six of the world's best travel and architecture magazines will be publishing articles on Sordou, including Mme Hobbs's favorite,
Architectural Digest
. And, thanks to Mlle Darcette's persistent phone calls, Chef Émile will be interviewed and photographed next week for
Le Figaro
.”

Antoine Verlaque clapped, remembering that at the time of the murder Niki had been making phone calls. She had been trying to promote the hotel on its merits—its beauty, and Émile Villey's talent—not using the murder to win clients, as he had accused her of.

“I'd also like to congratulate Marie-Thérèse,” Cat-Cat continued, “who just this afternoon found out that she has been accepted into the prestigious École hôtelière de Lausanne.”

Marie-Thérèse got up and did a quick curtsy, then shrugged and sat down, staring at the tablecloth.

“It was a great honor for Marie-Thérèse to have been selected out of the thousands of applicants the school gets every year,” Cat-Cat said. “And although she won't be able to accept their invitation, we're all so very proud of her all the same.”

“Time for dinner,” Max said, taking his wife's arm. “Chef Émile's appetizer has been made using a local plant found here on Sordou, isn't that right, Émile?”

Émile stood up. “Yes,” he answered. “Marie-Thérèse and I will go and get it. I've made butter biscuits that incorporate little pieces of Serrano dried cured ham, topped with slices of powdered black currant and Sordou's own delicate
pourpier
.”

“
Pourpier
?” Sylvie called out.

“It's a seaside lettuce,” Émile said.

“Emmeline picked that in Normandy,” Verlaque whispered to Marine. “Purslane, she called it.”

“Bon appétit, tout le monde,”
Max said, raising a glass of champagne in the air.

•   •   •

Later that evening, Marine and Verlaque sat out on their private terrace, drinking herbal tea. Sylvie was spending what she called “a last hurrah” with Hugo, in his cabin. “How do you feel about leaving tomorrow morning?” Verlaque asked.

“I leave Sordou with mixed feelings,” Marine said.

“Me too.”

“I love it here,” she continued. “But I somehow think if we were to come again it wouldn't be as good.”

“Well, at least there wouldn't be a murder,” joked Verlaque.

“It's more about the people,” Marine said, as if she hadn't heard his comment. “I'd miss Eric, and the Hobbses.”

“Even Mme Denis and Brice added something special to our little gang,” Verlaque suggested. “It's only the Viales I don't miss.”

“I agree,” Marine said. “Some people mark you more than others, don't they?”

“I love the silence here, and the breezes.”

“And the smells,” Marine said. “Part sea and part plant. I'm not looking forward to the summer's heat and lack of air in downtown Aix.”

“Perhaps it's time we buy a seaside apartment,” Verlaque suggested. “In Provence, or Italy. Remind me to call my banker on Monday afternoon.”

Marine turned toward Verlaque. “You're not serious?”

“It's about something else,” he said, his voice slightly quieter. “Mme Médéric, my bank manager, gets anxious if I don't check in every week.”

“Oh, I see,” Marine said, nodding. “You're going to pay Marie-Thérèse's tuition, aren't you?”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” Marine answered. “I would.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You know,” she continued. “Our personalities were reflected in the way we—each one of us—entered the sea yesterday afternoon.” They laughed, remembering the impromptu group swim: Marie-Thérèse had run the length of the pier and jumped in, plugging her nose. She resurfaced yelping for joy. Niki Darcette carefully dove in, after testing the water with her toes, her hands and feet perfectly parallel. Cat-Cat's dive was almost as faultless as Mlle Darcette's, and Max tried, with not much success, to do a cannonball. Mme Poux sat down, her slim legs dangling over the pier's edge. She wore a brightly colored silk kimono, a stark contrast to her usual black-and-white uniform. Marine jumped in, although with less childlike glee than Marie-Thérèse, and Sylvie did a backflip, followed by the aahs of the swimmers, who were now all treading water. “Come on, judge!” Marie-Thérèse yelled.

“Cannonball coming up,” Verlaque called out. “And this one will soak Mme Poux.”

Antoine Verlaque ran the length of the pier, trying to blot out the faces of Élodie, and Cécile-Marie Hobbs, and Eric, and Bill, and Alain Denis. As his body soared over the sea, he brought his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and preparing his body for the shock of hitting the water. It hurt more than he had remembered. As he surfaced he heard everyone laughing. Mme Poux was now standing, and thoroughly soaked.

“I'm sorry,” he called. “I wasn't expecting it to have been that powerful.”

“Just come in, Mme Poux!” Marie-Thérèse cried. “It's beautiful!”

Mme Poux smiled and slipped off her kimono, revealing her modest one-piece suit and toned body that a thirty-year-old would have been proud of.

“Wowsa,” Sylvie whispered, treading water.

“Yolaine, if you go in by the ladder,” Cat-Cat called out, “you won't get your hair wet.”

Yolaine Poux didn't respond but stood at the dock's edge, standing still and straight. And with one quick movement she put her head down and dove in.