Death on a Starry Night

by Betsy Draine

  “And of course you share an interest in theory.”

  “Yes. So you see, working together makes up for the lack of a thick network of colleagues. We’ve published two books together.”

  “And you’ve known each other long?”

  “Let me see. It must be twenty years.”

  From there, it took twists and turns to get to Didier’s link with Isabelle La Font. By the end of lunch, I knew that when Didier was starting his graduate studies at Bordeaux, Isabelle was interning there as a nurse. They met by chance at the Musée des Beaux-Arts and began a relationship.

  “Daniel always remained very fond of Isabelle,” said Jacques. “He could hardly sleep the night she was killed. I didn’t get much sleep that night either.”

  “That’s understandable,” I said. But then I pried on. “Did he know she was going to be at the conference?”

  “Yes, we talked about her on the way here. He was concerned about how they’d get on, I think, after all these years.”

  “What happened between them?” asked Toby. “Why didn’t they stay together?”

  “It ended,” said Jacques simply, with a Gallic shrug. “These things happen. All I know is she moved away. Then she became involved with someone else, and so did he. Daniel said they wrote to each other for a while but never saw each other after that.”

  “Was Isabelle married?” I asked.

  “Daniel said she wasn’t. I believe it all had to do with this man she was involved with. He was married. And Daniel stayed single too.”

  “It must be awful for your friend,” I said. “I mean, seeing Isabelle again after such a long time and then dealing with the shock of her murder.” Awful, I thought, if he still had feelings for her. What if those feelings had turned to resentment? What then?

  “Yes, awful.” Godard fell silent, studying his glass of wine. He picked it up and drained it.

  The half-hour drive from Saint-Paul to Nice wasn’t particularly scenic until the city itself came into view, with its pastel-colored buildings gleaming in the sun and an azure sea lapping its shoreline. While Toby attended to renting the car, Glenda gave Angie and me a flash tour of the seafront. As we strode along the Promenade des Anglais, past belle epoque hotels and palm trees swaying in the breeze, she told us the history of the English Walkway and the story of how the Bay of Angels got its name. The Promenade was named for the English tourists who popularized Nice as a winter destination in Victorian times. As for the bay, according to Glenda, Saint Reparata, a Christian virgin in third-century Palestine, refused to renounce her faith and was beheaded. Her body was placed in a boat and wafted on the breath of angels to the bay of Nice. The city was so honored that it made Reparata its patron saint and christened its waters the Bay of Angels.

  The beach, though, was more the Devil’s work, at least for any sunbather with tender skin. “There’s no sand,” complained Angie. “It’s nothing but rocks.” She was right. The beach of Nice is covered with gray pebbles. But the wide sweep of the bay lifts the spirits.

  For a glimpse of the old city, Sister Glenda whisked us across the street to the flower market in the Cours Saleya and then on to the Place Masséna. There, in the vast square surrounded by arcades and rusty-red Italianate mansions, we met Toby and hurried to reach the car before the meter ran out.

  Our plan for what remained of the day was to see a stretch of the eastern Riviera from the heights of the famous corniches (cliff roads), but not from the most famous of the three, the Grande Corniche. We didn’t have time to complete the treacherous mountain route before sunset. But we could take the Middle Corniche to Monte Carlo and return on the Low Corniche along the coast.

  Toby was disappointed about missing his chance to careen around the Grande Corniche like Cary Grant with Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief.

  “Grace Kelly met her death on the Middle Corniche,” said Glenda. “Drove right over the retaining wall and down the slope.”

  Angie said, “I guess that will be dangerous enough for us.”

  It was. Just dangerous enough to be exciting, with vistas that made you feel you’d entered heaven. Even in the silvery light of a December afternoon, the sea was dazzling. The towns, some hanging off cliffs, others nestled low along the shore, had the flat colors of Cezanne—the sandy orange of roof tiles, the olive green of winter trees, and the teal of palms and shrubs.

  The way back on the Low Corniche took us through peaceful seaside villages. Hardy flowers spilled out of stone tubs and clay pots. Buildings glowed with washes of pink, or red, or white. The towns seemed timeless. They’d been visited by Roman sailors, settled by peoples who would later be called Italian or French, conquered by this duke and retaken by that one, accumulating architectural features, religious customs, and favorite foods from each.

  When the sun was low on the horizon, it was time to choose a place for dinner. It seemed sensible to pick the last port before Nice, and right on schedule, we left Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat with its euro-millionaire mansions and entered Villefranche at twilight. Of all the ports along the Riviera, Villefranche-sur-Mer may be the prettiest. With its salmon-colored houses stacked above the harbor, its brightly painted fishing boats bobbing at their moorings, its cobblestone streets and cheerful restaurants crowding the waterfront, it’s postcard perfect.

  We entered the town high above the harbor, but without the car’s navigation system we never would have found the port. Over millennia, Villefranche has been built up in tiers cut into a high cliff. At the bottom is the original settlement. Slanted into the cliff are mansions with wide stone balconies, as well as apartments sheathed in metal and glass. The hill is too steep for a street to run straight from the top to the bottom. Instead, the road slides along the cliff, then takes a sharp turn and sinks to the next level, then the next, and keeps zigzagging without an obvious plan. If you try to follow your nose to the port, you’ll get lost. But with the aid of the GPS, we eventually found the parking lot by the Citadel and embarked on our search for a meal.

  We walked the length of the quay, checking out menus posted in display cases in front of each restaurant. We picked the most appealing and made a reservation for 7:00 p.m. (19:00 in French time), which is the earliest a respectable French restaurant opens its doors. That gave us an hour at liberty. A drink before dinner seemed a pleasant way to fill the gap. We retraced our steps and picked the Cosmo, a café and brasserie with a glass front. The clients had a view of the port, and the passersby had a view of the clients. Even midweek on a cool winter’s evening, the place was filled with locals—middle-aged women drinking coffee with their daughters, workmen ending the day at the bar with a pastis, lovers touching hands and forgetting to sip their wine.

  We went in and grabbed the first vacated seats, trading off a dirty table for a great window view, looking out at the dock. As my eyes adjusted to the low light of the interior, I took in the other patrons— and was startled to see Yves La Font sitting with a man wearing a worker’s cap. A carafe of red wine, three-quarters empty, rested on the table between them. “Toby,” I whispered, pointing to La Font.

  “What?” Angie wanted to know.

  I shushed her. “That’s Yves La Font sitting in back over there, Isabelle’s brother. He was arguing with her at the restaurant in Saint-Paul the night she was killed. Don’t stare.” She stared. Yves glanced in our direction. “Don’t call attention to us,” I whispered.

  Yves looked back at his companion and raised his glass to his lips.

  “I don’t think he recognized us,” Toby said.

  When a waiter came over, Angie and I ordered white wine, Toby asked for a Cinzano, and Glenda ordered Scotch. The drinks arrived and we turned our eyes on the water. By now it was dark outside. Streetlights illuminated the port, and the lighthouse on the spit of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat blinked on and off. Every so often I stole a glimpse toward the back of the room. “I’d love to know what they’re talking about,” I said to Toby.

  “You’d be conspicuous if you got up
. I’ll go to the men’s room and drift by them on the way back.”

  He returned a few minutes later. “I couldn’t catch much, but La Font sounded peeved.”

  “What’s the other guy like?”

  “Rough-looking. A drinking buddy, I guess.”

  We learned nothing else before it was time for dinner. The brasserie was still crowded and Yves was still sitting with his friend when we left and walked to the restaurant.

  La Grandmère Germaine had the reassuring air of a classic French bistro: crisp white tablecloths and sparkling cutlery, enticing aromas wafting from the kitchen, and a brace of hovering waiters, even though at this early hour we were the only diners. On the patron’s advice, we paired goose-liver mousse with vin doux naturel—the poor man’s Monbazillac. As soon as we put down our forks, a flutter of waiters arrived with our main course. Toby and had I ordered the sea bass grilled with fennel; it was delivered on a side table. With a flourish, the waiter lit the bass on fire—a douse of pastis and a flame, he explained. Sister Glenda’s and Angie’s tureen of bouillabaisse arrived in a haze of garlic. They were assured that the fish in the soup had been caught that very morning in the Villefranche bay.

  Sister Glenda was telling Angie about the morning session and sharing her impressions of Thierry Toussaint. Angie had her head in her soup, but occasionally she nodded to indicate that she concurred with Glenda’s assessment. “He’s a bright young man,” said Glenda. “He may be Professor Didier’s protégé, but he’s hardly a puppet. He hinted that Didier has never advanced beyond the heady days of soixante-huit.”

  I translated for Angie: “Soixante-huit means 1968, the year when students protested in Paris and the revolution of the sixties began.” I turned to Glenda. “So you think Thierry realizes that Didier never got beyond poststructuralism?”

  “What’s poststructuralism?” asked Angie.

  “Let me guess,” said Toby. “It’s what came after structuralism.”

  “What’s structuralism?” asked Angie.

  “Ask your sister,” said Toby.

  “Never mind,” said Glenda. “The point is that Didier used to be at the cutting edge of his field but he isn’t anymore.”

  I scraped my plate for the final few flakes of sea bass. “You don’t think that Thierry will suffer from being Didier’s student?”

  “Not necessarily. Didier made his reputation decades ago, but all it takes is a recognizable name like his to make a university notice his student’s job application.”

  Angie wiped her pretty mouth and interjected, “But if Didier’s old-fashioned, won’t that be bad for Thierry?”

  “Look at me,” said Sister Glenda. “I’m as old-fashioned as they come. The difference is that in my world, beliefs don’t go out of style. Besides, it’s up to Thierry. If he’s got what it takes, he’ll learn all he can from his mentor. Then he’ll become his own man.”

  I had the impression that Sister Glenda wasn’t talking only about Thierry. She was also saying something she wanted Angie to hear about their relationship.

  For dessert Angie chose a sorbet perfumed with roses, Toby a cup of berries tossed with candied sage. Glenda and I shared a Soufflé Grand Marnier. Dramatic, caloric, and scrumptious. Toby ordered coffee but ignored the chocolates that came with it. They didn’t go to waste.

  By the time we were ready to leave, the restaurant had filled up. On our way to the car we had to pass the Cosmo, and out of curiosity, I looked through the window to see if Yves was still inside. He was, but now he was sitting with someone else, and that brought me to a halt. “Toby, look!”

  “Daniel Didier. What’s he doing there?”

  Yves and Didier were hunched over a table in close conversation, and both were scowling. Apparently their voices were raised, for though I couldn’t hear them outside, people at nearby tables were frowning in their direction.

  As we watched through the window, Yves pushed his chair back and stood up—and so did Didier. But as Didier got to his feet, Yves shoved him, hard enough to send him backward, crashing into another table. Didier said something to the man he banged into and drew himself up. Yves took a menacing step toward Didier, and that brought the bartender out from behind the counter to separate them. Instantly the big, burly bartender had one palm on Didier’s chest and one palm on Yves’s, pushing them away from each other. Didier raised his hands in surrender.

  Yves shoved the bartender’s restraining hand away from his chest. And just as he did so, Didier saw an opening and threw a punch at Yves that glanced off his cheek. Then the bar erupted. For a minute it looked like a rugby huddle. Soon several men plus the bartender were pushing the combatants out the door. Didier tumbled to the pavement right in front of us. Yves reeled but kept to his feet, as did a third man. I recognized him as the one Yves was drinking with earlier.

  “Go home, all of you!” shouted the bartender. “Or I’ll call the police.”

  Yves said something defiant. The third man looked sullen. Didier got to his feet and started straightening his clothes.

  “Are you all right?” Toby asked him. Didier seemed at first not to recognize Toby. Then he nodded and said, “Ça va.” His hands hung at his sides.

  The three men, none of them young, were breathing heavily. “Go home,” the bartender said again. He turned and went inside.

  Didier started walking down the middle of the street. Yves and his drinking buddy hung back near the entrance to the café. They eyed us resentfully.

  “Looks like it’s over,” said Toby, watching Didier walk away. “I guess we should get on home. Why don’t you go to the car? I’ll keep an eye on things here for a minute.”

  Glenda, Angie, and I started toward the parking lot, but after a few yards I halted because I saw Yves and his pal disappear into a side alley. I waited for Toby, and he began coming toward us. But then there was a shout and the thud of running feet. Yves and his pal darted out of another alley farther down the quay and cut Didier off. They threw themselves at him, and the three went down, rolling close to the edge of the quay. Toby ran toward them.

  When I reached them, Toby was pulling the third man off the pile. Didier was on the pavement taking a pounding from Yves. Toby’s opponent was bigger than he was, but Toby was younger and quicker. The guy took a wild swing at Toby, missing completely. Toby bobbed, then stepped in and threw a right, which caused the man to lean away, off balance. As he swayed back, Toby caught him on the side of the head with a looping left-handed punch, and the man went down.

  He was in no hurry to get up. Meanwhile, Toby pulled Yves off Didier, whose face was bloody. Spectators were gathering. Someone called out that the police were coming. Yves shook Toby off and helped his pal to his feet. Before anyone could stop them, they disappeared into the alley from which they had emerged.

  “Are the police really coming?” Toby asked the spectator who had shouted.

  “No, I just said that to make them stop.”

  “Then we better call them,” said Toby.

  “No!” cried Didier. “That’s not necessary.” He was sitting up, holding a handkerchief to stanch his bleeding nose. “We don’t need the police. Just help me up.”

  Toby gave him a hand. “Are you sure? Can we take you home?”

  “Thank you, but I have my own car.” Didier was adamant. He was standing now, wiping his face with his bare hand. He had a scrape over one eyebrow and scratches under the other eye. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said. “As you see, I can walk.”

  “Can you drive?”

  Didier waved his hand dismissively.

  “What happened?” asked Toby, placing a hand on Didier’s shoulder.

  Shaking off Toby’s hand, Didier headed to a row of cars parked along a wall.

  With misgivings, we let him go.

  That was an impressive left hook,” Glenda observed on the drive back to Saint-Paul. “He thought you were going with the right jab.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a fight fan,” said Toby
, eyeing her in his rear-view mirror.

  “Can’t get enough of ’em. Friday nights on ESPN.”

  “Isn’t fighting wrong?” asked Angie in a shocked tone of voice.

  “Oh, yes. It’s wrong.” After a moment, Glenda added: “I’m not perfect, you know. I have my vices.”

  All Angie could say to that was, “Oh.”

  “I didn’t know nuns were allowed to have vices,” Toby said.

  “Depends which ones,” said Glenda. “We’re human.”

  Angie was silent on the rest of the ride back. I was too. I was worried. I don’t like to see Toby getting into fights.

  It was after eleven by the time we reached the hotel. As we were undressing for bed, I said, “Toby, that makes two fights in a row. Yesterday it was Curry, and now this.”

  “Curry wasn’t a fight. It was the opposite of a fight. I restrained him.”

  “It was still a physical confrontation.”

  “Well.”

  “And tonight you got into a real slug fest.”

  “I couldn’t just stand there and watch those two beat up on him, could I? What did you expect me to do?”

  “We should have called the police.”

  “By then you could have picked up Didier with a blotter.” Toby sat on the bed, removing his shoes. “By the way, have you asked yourself what Didier was doing there in the first place? It isn’t likely they met by chance.”

  “Are you saying he set up a meeting with Yves?”

  “Or the other way around. Maybe Yves set up a meeting with him.” He stood up, unbuttoned his shirt, and hung it in the armoire.

  “The lieutenant said there may have been two people involved in the murder. You think Yves and Didier were working together?”

  “Could be.” Toby shucked off his pants.