Death on a Starry Night

by Betsy Draine

  Montoni swallowed some water but he still looked bad.

  “How well did you know the La Font woman?” Curry asked him.

  “Not well. She got in touch with me a few weeks ago when she learned that our conference was coming to the Maeght. She lives close to here. She said she discovered something about Van Gogh’s death while going through her grandfather’s papers. She thought we would want to know about it.” He stopped for air.

  “Well, what was it?” demanded Bennett.

  Montoni said, “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He took a deep breath.

  “You haven’t read her paper?”

  Montoni looked at Bennett with annoyance. “It was just a proposal. She wanted to keep the information to herself until the conference. She may have had the paper with her tonight. It was probably in her briefcase.” He was sweating. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  “You mean that red leather bag?” I asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, it’s missing,” I informed him. “She took it out with her, but it’s gone.”

  “Gone? Are you sure? Could it have fallen into the fountain?”

  “I looked,” I said. “It’s not there. Someone must have taken it.”

  Shelley Bennett had a different explanation. “She was sick. Maybe she wandered around the square and lost her bag and then collapsed when she was trying to splash water on her face. Like this.” She stood at the table’s edge and hinged herself over it, waving her hands as if to scoop up water. She was starting to demonstrate a collapse when her husband grasped her by both elbows and forced her into a seat. She shook her shoulders, silently protesting.

  “When did she first look sick?” I asked.

  Jane Curry said, “Not until after dessert. Then quite suddenly she seemed distressed.”

  I turned to Montoni. “That was after she went back to the bar to talk with that man she knew. They seemed to be having an argument. Do you know who he was?”

  Montoni cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “I do, but let’s wait for the police. Otherwise, I’ll have to go over all of this twice. I don’t feel up to it. They’ll be here soon.” He sighed heavily, then closed his eyes.

  People shifted slightly, to form a circle that excluded him. Bennett was opening his mouth to speak when I heard Jane Curry whispering behind me, “It’s all right, dear. It will be all right.” She was speaking to Angie, who was standing stiffly, visibly upset. Her face was pink from the effort to control herself. My sister feels things keenly, often with the immediacy of a child. I felt a tinge of shame at how rationally I’d just been analyzing the situation. No one spoke again till we heard voices at the door.

  First over the threshold was a slim woman in civilian dress: tight black jeans and a snappy leather jacket that let her curves show in the back as well as the front. In France, even the cops are sexily dressed. Her brunette hair was swept back into a bun at the nape of her neck. A sharp-featured man following behind her was also casually dressed. They were detectives. Then came two gendarmes in peaked caps and short blue jackets with a big white stripe, which made them look like soccer players, except for the handguns hanging from their belts. The gendarmes were from Vence, the next town. The tall one was young and fresh-faced; the short one was lined and weathered. Toby came in behind the officers, with the collar of his coat turned up. It had been a cold vigil, watching over the corpse of Isabelle La Font.

  The woman in the leather jacket introduced herself. She was Lieutenant Monique Auclair, head of the investigative unit of the Police Judiciaire of the Gendarmerie of Grasse. Her French was clear and easily understood. For those whose French was rudimentary, or in Angie’s case nonexistent, the lieutenant tasked the young gendarme to translate. She introduced him as Maréchal des logis-chef Robert Navré. He began by translating his own title: “You may call me Sergeant Navré.” (I love French, but it’s a language that goes in for elaboration. All those verbal sashes and epaulettes for the equivalent of sergeant.)

  “It’s late in the evening,” the lieutenant continued, “so let me pose a few questions while you are together. Later, if necessary, we’ll follow up with individuals. From what we know at this point, it’s possible that the victim died of natural causes. We’ll know more after the medical examination; but since it’s been reported that her purse is missing, I’m treating this as a suspicious death. You all spent the evening with the deceased. I understand you had drinks at the bar, followed by dinner in the dining room. Let’s start with the bar. Who spoke first with Madame La Font?”

  Montoni stepped forward. “I did. Raymond Montoni. We met before the conference opened. I’m the organizer. It’s an international gathering of the leading scholars on Vincent van Gogh.” In asserting his prominence, he seemed to regain his energy.

  “Is everyone in this room a participant in your conference?”

  “Yes. A few are guests related to the speakers.”

  “Go on. You were the first to address Madame La Font?” The lieutenant glanced toward her plainclothes assistant to check that he was taking notes. I was impressed by her brisk, professional manner.

  “Yes,” answered Montoni. “I came up to her to say hello and to introduce her to the others at our conference. But she was talking with someone at the bar when I reached her.”

  “And who was that?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Her brother. His name is Yves La Font.”

  “Was he here as a participant or as a family member?”

  “Neither. I didn’t invite him to the conference, and the restaurant was reserved for our group after six this evening. He seems to have been at the bar for a while. I think he was here to cause trouble.”

  “Oh? And why was that?”

  “He and his sister were not in accord about her intention to address the conference. Madame La Font told me he didn’t want her to discuss matters that were private to the family.”

  “Such as?”

  “Their grandfather claimed to know Vincent van Gogh when he— the grandfather—was a young boy. Madame La Font wrote to me that she had new information about Van Gogh’s death based on her grandfather’s recollections. She had discovered some letters or papers, I don’t know which. What this important information was I don’t know either, but she seemed believable. Naturally, I was interested, so I invited her to the conference. We were all waiting to hear her presentation. Her brother didn’t want her to speak. That’s what she told me.”

  “To protect the reputation of the family?”

  “I couldn’t say. I don’t know the details.”

  “You say they were arguing here tonight?”

  “It seems so, yes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “She became ill during dinner and went outside.”

  The lieutenant walked to the door and looked out. “Did they leave the restaurant together?”

  “No, he left first.” Montoni glanced around for confirmation.

  “You’re quite sure of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long before she left?”

  Montoni hesitated. “I’m not sure. Fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps.” Several others nodded in agreement.

  “Did anyone else leave the restaurant before the body was discovered? Did any of you?” The young gendarme translated, since everyone needed to hear the question. The lieutenant’s eyes swept over the group. No one responded.

  “Tell me, please, who is the person who reported the missing handbag?”

  I raised a finger and identified myself. The lieutenant asked for a description of the bag. “It was large, made of quilted red leather, with a silver chain. Very stylish.”

  “Are you certain she was carrying it with her when she left the restaurant?”

  “Yes, she had it on her shoulder.”

  “Can anyone else confirm that?” Shelley Bennett put her hand up. The lieutenant turned ba
ck to Montoni. “Do you know where the brother lives?”

  “Villefranche, I believe.”

  “And Madame La Font?” Before she got an answer, she turned sharply to the good-looking gendarme. “Sergeant Navré, if you please? You and the young lady, step back a way. I can’t hear myself think.” The rebuke was directed at Angie and the translator. They’d been talking in English, heads together, but too loudly.

  “Quite right,” said Professor Curry. “Have a hearing aid, you know. Hard to understand you, with background noise like that.” His hearing aid had been ringing all evening, but apparently he hadn’t noticed that.

  The lieutenant tilted her head impatiently. “Monsieur Montoni, what else can you tell me about Madame La Font? She had the same surname as her brother. Was she single?”

  Montoni scratched his eyelid. “I think so. She lives in Sisteron. Lived, that is. She worked in a medical center. I’m not sure what she did there. She wasn’t a doctor.”

  “Did she live alone?”

  “I don’t know about her personal life,” Montoni replied.

  “All right,” said the lieutenant. “Who else spoke with Madame La Font? Beyond an introduction, you understand.” The sergeant translated, but no one responded.

  Montoni took up the slack. “Of course there was conversation during dinner.”

  “What was discussed?”

  It surprised me that Jane Curry was the first to answer: she looked so mousy. She spoke in English and Navré translated. “We talked a little about gardening. When I told her I was the manager of the Blackwater Garden Club, back home in Southampton, she invited me to her gardening society in Sisteron. I didn’t know if it would be possible, working around the schedule of the conference.”

  There was a lull. “Who else was at her table?”

  Montoni, Bruce Curry, and the Bennetts raised their hands.

  Ben Bennett spoke up. “I’m afraid I rather dominated the conversation. We discussed the talk she was going to deliver.”

  “Was there anything in that discussion to distress Madame La Font?” pursued the lieutenant.

  “I wouldn’t say so, no,” Bennett replied. He blinked while talking.

  Professor Curry’s ruddy face whipped toward Bennett’s. “I say, man, you badgered the woman senseless. Wouldn’t shut up. She told you to stop.”

  “What is your name, sir?” asked the lieutenant, turning to Bennett, apparently having understood Curry’s outburst in English.

  “Benjamin Bennett, of Drexel University in Philadelphia. I’m working on a new biography of Van Gogh. It will be published in the fall. Madame La Font was here to speak about her grandfather’s knowledge of Van Gogh’s last hours. Of course we had things to discuss.”

  “Did your questions upset her?”

  “That’s not true.” Bennett looked toward Professor Curry. “She simply preferred not to speak about her paper until she delivered it. That was to be tomorrow morning.”

  “Did she converse with anyone else?” Lieutenant Auclair paced the room, scrutinizing faces.

  “She stopped at our table briefly,” said the Dutch professor, when the lieutenant paused in front of him. “To greet Monsieur Didier, I recall.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Professor Didier answered. “Isabelle’s an old acquaintance. We were students in Bordeaux at the same time. She came over to be civil, you know. We greeted each other, that’s all.” Throughout this answer, he looked at Hans de Groot, not the lieutenant.

  She demanded his attention. “Your full name, please.”

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The name is Daniel Didier. Professor of art history at the University of Bordeaux.”

  The lieutenant stared at Didier until he lowered his eyes and met hers. She then pivoted to face the English speakers. “So. We come to the end of dinner, and suddenly Madame La Font goes outside. Is that correct?”

  “She said she needed some air. For a moment she looked woozy,” Jane Curry said. “She thought she had too much of the dessert wine.”

  “Which was?”

  “An excellent Baumes-de-Venise,” said Montoni. “We all drank it.”

  “What happened next?”

  Maggie spoke up. “My dog followed her out and came back without her. He was barking. He was agitated. We went outside to see what the trouble was, and that was when we found her, slung over the fountain.”

  “Her head was in the water,” Toby added.

  “And you moved her onto the ground?”

  “That’s right. At that point I didn’t know if she was still alive. My wife tried to revive her, but it was too late.”

  “Did anyone else touch the body?”

  “No,” Toby replied.

  “You’re certain?” She looked at Toby steadily.

  “Yes. I don’t think anyone did.”

  “Bon. Have you got everything, Lucien?” the lieutenant asked the assisting detective, the one taking the notes.

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “Does anyone have anything else to add?” She waited but no one spoke. “Very well. You’ll be at your conference—for how long?”

  “A week,” answered Montoni. “We’re staying at the Hotel des Glycines, on the Route de la Colle. Our conference sessions will be at the Maeght Foundation.”

  “Understood. We will need to see your passports and identification papers, so we will accompany you to your hotel.” She turned to the older gendarme. “Please organize the company for their return to the hotel. The shuttles are in the parking lot.” She turned back to her partner. “Lucien, remain with the body until the medical examiner and the technicians have done their work and the body has been removed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the detective replied smartly.

  Montoni and the others who had shared a table with the victim followed the lieutenant out the door. The older gendarme asked the people from our table to follow him. With a strong flashlight, he led us down the narrow lanes to the car park and saw to it that we boarded as quickly as possible. The only stragglers were Angie and the translator, who were chatting away outside the van door, until he gave her a hand up and then sat beside her. I marveled at the change in Angie—a half hour ago she’d been near tears. That’s Angie, though. Her moods can shift dramatically. The attention of a good-looking gendarme of her own age and height had certainly raised her spirits.

  During the ride to the hotel, there was hardly any talk, except between Angie and the sergeant. She was whispering to him in the seat in front of us, and I was frustrated because I couldn’t hear them. What was she thinking? Wasn’t she on the verge of becoming a nun? Flirting wasn’t exactly on the program. Maybe it was an automatic reflex. Angie has always been attractive to men, and she’s had a long string of boyfriends, mainly unsuitable ones. But not when she was living in a convent. I wondered if Sister Glenda noticed.

  Glenda had been given the front passenger seat, behind the driver, and Maggie, who had helped her get in, sat beside her, with Emmet at her feet. It would be awkward, but maybe later I could ask Maggie whether she picked up any of Angie’s conversation with the handsome sergeant. The best thing was to ask Angie herself, but she sure would be annoyed. Big and little sister dynamics.

  Our hotel was only a quarter mile beyond the village walls, but it was on a steep hill and was too far to walk at night, at least for the older conference participants. I was grateful that the van brought us speedily “home.” The hotel lights looked welcoming.

  The first shuttle had preceded us, so Montoni was already there with his table partners, and so was Lieutenant Auclair. We walked in as he was asking her, “Can you tell us if the conference can proceed tomorrow?”

  “Certainly,” she replied. “You may go about your business. If we need to interview some of you further, we’ll work around your schedule.” She asked him for a copy of the program.

  After the last shuttle arrived, the lieutenant gave us her parting words, with the assistance of Sergeant Navré: “As I said before
, we don’t know what happened tonight. Until we do, I caution you all to be careful and on the alert. Please report any suspicious activity to me. The sergeant has handed out my card. It has my number. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any information that might be useful. Don’t decide that your observations are insignificant. Let me be the judge of that. Finally, please provide your passport or identification papers before you retire for the night. We’ll copy the information we need and return them to you. Thank you for your cooperation. Monsieur Montoni, would you instruct your people on what to expect tomorrow morning?”

  Montoni looked at a loss. Shelley Bennett cut in: “We were going to have breakfast here at seven thirty and then take the shuttles to the Maeght at nine fifteen. Why not stick to that?”

  “Quite right,” said Professor Curry, as if approving a solved equation.

  “Yes, fine,” agreed a flustered Montoni. “I’ll have to adjust the schedule, but we’ll follow the program as best we can. You all have a copy. Will that be all right, Madame Richarde?” His question was addressed to our hostess.

  “Of course, monsieur. Till seven thirty, then. Or when you rise. Breakfast is open between seven and ten. Do you all know your rooms and have your keys?”

  That was true of all but Daniel Didier and his colleague Jacques Godard. They had driven together and had arrived only in time to join us in the village for dinner. Madame Richarde wished the rest of us good night and went to fetch the keys to the room the French professors were sharing.

  Toby was at my side. It had been a trying night, and I was looking forward to a comforting hug. We rose and looked around for Angie and Sister Glenda, who had the rooms next to ours. Glenda was talking with Montoni. Angie was off in a corner saying good night to her dashing gendarme. I gave her a wave, and she dipped her head toward him and took her leave. When she moved to join us, Sister Glenda did likewise, stopping to say her good nights to Maggie and her dog. Glenda leaned over to pet Emmet and set his tail wagging. He had forgotten whatever disturbing sensations had been aroused by his discovery of a corpse. He had recovered completely. We humans had not.

  What’s death to a dog, I wondered?