A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  “The candlelit moment,” Verlaque began. “Did they do that last year?”

  “Yes,” Père Fernand answered. “Although I’m not sure of the song. It’s such a dramatic way to end the service. I thought that only we Catholics did drama.”

  Verlaque smiled. He took a bite of a deep-fried boulette, smiling in delight. “Fennel, but with spice—”

  “Karbar bès,” the priest answered. “I’m a big fan of Tunisian cuisine. The spicier the better.”

  Verlaque eyed Père Fernand’s ample stomach and put him down as a fellow fin gourmet.

  “I’m going to look up the recipe for these boulettes,” Marine said, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. “They can’t be too difficult to—”

  “Cole!” a woman’s voice rang out.

  “Oh, dear,” the priest said, grimacing. “Did someone have too much of the Domaine Beauclaire?”

  “Cole! Please, is there a doctor here?!”

  “It’s Debra Hainsby,” Marine said, standing up to see over the heads of Antoine and Père Fernand.

  Voices and the scuffling of feet echoed throughout the hall.

  “I’m a doctor!” a male voice called out. “Let me through, please!”

  Verlaque held Marine’s hand and squeezed it. There was nothing they could do, he felt, but sit there and hope the American was just having some kind of dizzy spell or upset stomach, and not something more serious.

  Père Fernand mumbled, “Excuse me,” and got up, slowly walking to where a small crowd had formed, gathered around the outstretched Cole Hainsby.

  “Cole!” Debra Hainsby called out once more, as she began weeping. Verlaque let go of Marine’s hand and got up from the table, making his way over as people began moving away from Cole Hainsby, their hands in their pockets, one or two of them quietly crying.

  Verlaque arrived and knelt down. A man whom he recognized as a choir member and a doctor friend of Marine’s father leaned over the American’s body. The doctor looked up with recognition when he saw Verlaque. He shook his head. “He’s gone,” he whispered.

  “What happened?” Verlaque asked.

  “I wouldn’t want to guess,” the doctor answered. “As I didn’t see what happened until he was here, lying on the floor. I’m a general practitioner; Jérémy Forestier.” They shook hands and Verlaque looked over at Debra Hainsby, slumped over in a chair, surrounded by people. “It could have been a heart attack,” the doctor said, leaning in closer to Verlaque, “or heart failure.”

  “I’ve called an ambulance,” Reverend Dave said, kneeling beside them. He put a hand on Cole Hainsby’s shoulder. “Heart attack?” he asked, seeming unable to look away from the body.

  “It looks that way,” Dr. Forestier answered.

  “Here’s the emergency response team,” Dave said. “I’ll go and help Père Fernand.”

  Verlaque looked over at the tables. “Where was he sitting?” he asked, getting to his feet.

  Dr. Forestier stood up and pointed. “There, the second table down, in the middle. I was closer to the end.”

  Two young women stood at the end of the table, one of them holding a large tray while the other stacked plates and cups on it. They kept glancing at each other, as if by cleaning they would be helping in some way. Most of the other guests stood around in groups, talking quietly, or not saying anything at all.

  “Thank you, Dr. Forestier. I’ll go and have a few words with Mme Hainsby,” Verlaque said. “My grandfather had a heart attack at an event much like this one, in Normandy . . .” He listened to his own voice trail off, unable to finish his sentence. What words of condolence could he say to the now-widowed Debra Hainsby? But he felt that, as a senior city employee, he should at least introduce himself and offer what comfort he could.

  Verlaque was about to get up when the doctor leaned in, drawing Verlaque close with an arm on his shoulder. “I don’t want to raise unnecessary alarm bells, but there’s something odd—”

  “Go on.”

  “The dead man has a skin rash,” Dr. Forestier said. “Although he may have already had that. I didn’t know him. But he also had what looked like burns around his mouth.”

  “That’s not a symptom of a heart attack, is it?”

  “No,” the doctor replied, looking around the room as he did. “It’s more a sign of poisoning. Please let me know what conclusion the coroner comes to.” He handed Verlaque a business card and they shook hands once more. Verlaque watched the doctor cross the room and exit through the green door.

  Verlaque turned around and walked the other way, pulling up a chair beside Debra Hainsby. “Are you all right, Mme Hainsby?” Verlaque asked in English. “My name is Antoine Verlaque and I’m the examining magistrate here in Aix. That’s like a—”

  “A judge,” she replied, looking at him with a vacant stare. “But you take an active role in crime solving with the police. I’ve read French crime fiction.” She buried her head in her hands. “Our children . . .”

  “Are they here?” Verlaque asked, aghast. Had they just seen their father die?

  “No, they’re on a weekend ski trip with their school,” she replied, looking up at him. “How will I tell them? They were so disappointed to miss this service.” From her tone, the irony was not lost on her, nor was it lost on Verlaque.

  Verlaque tried to focus on making her as comfortable as possible. He could hear voices around him, and people moving. He heard the doors being opened and what he knew to be the ambulance. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

  Debra Hainsby shook her head.

  “Was your husband ill?” he asked.

  Debra shook her head. “Never. He didn’t even get colds.”

  “Did heart attacks run in his family? They do in mine.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Cancer, yes, but the Hainsbys all have strong hearts. What just happened?” she asked, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “He kept complaining of a raging thirst, and had me feel his forehead a few times. He was burning up.”

  “We’ll know more soon,” Verlaque said. “Did he complain of anything else? A tightening of the chest? Or an aching sensation in his chest or arms?”

  “No.”

  A friend of Debra’s approached them, putting her arms around her shoulders. “Let’s get you home,” she said.

  “No, I want to go with the ambulance,” Debra replied, trying to get up.

  Verlaque and the other woman helped her to her feet. “Debra, do you want me to go with you?” her friend asked.

  Mme Hainsby shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  Her friend turned to speak to someone else, and Debra took hold of Verlaque’s arm. “I wasn’t a good wife,” she said, barely audible.

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the dining hall was as hushed as one would expect. People spoke in whispers and hovered at the edges of the room, as if they thought it in bad taste to continue eating or drinking. Père Fernand stood in front of one of the food tables and raised his hands. “My friends,” he said, looking around the room. “What just happened, in God’s home, has shocked all of us. I’d like to thank you all for your discretion and attention to Mme Hainsby. I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank our sister cities, who have generously supplied food for this evening’s dinner. Please, continue eating if you so wish, and if you could clear your tables afterward that would be a great help to our volunteer clean-up crew. Now I’d like to properly introduce this gentleman on my left, Maître Antoine Verlaque, who is Aix’s examining magistrate. Please give him your utmost attention. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Père Fernand,” Verlaque said. “Please do not be alarmed by this request, but since by chance I was here during M Hainsby’s death, I’d like to ask you each to leave your name, address, and telephone number with two police officers who will be standing at the door. This is a precautionary mea
sure only.”

  “What’s going on?” a man standing in the far corner of the room asked. “Why can’t we just go home now?” Various other people mumbled in agreement.

  Verlaque raised a hand, his palm facing outward. “Please don’t worry. I repeat, this is only a precautionary measure. M Hainsby’s death was very sudden, and there’s no reason for me to believe that it was not a natural one, but since you are all here now, this would make things much easier once the cause of death is determined.” Verlaque looked at the crowd and saw a few puzzled faces, and heard more grumbling, so he repeated his request in English. He stepped away, thinking he’d very much like a glass of wine.

  “You look like you can use one of these,” a voice said, handing him a glass of Olivier’s red.

  “Merci, Mme Bonnet,” Verlaque said, smiling, as he took the glass from his mother-in-law. Florence Bonnet stood beside him, holding a plate in her hands.

  “I think you may have frightened some of the people here.”

  “Yes,” Verlaque agreed. “I’m not sure I handled that very well.”

  “You did what you had to do. It’s unusual to see such a young man keel over like that,” she said as she dipped a carrot stick into some hummus and surveyed the room. “Usually it’s those old folks,” she added, gesturing toward a group of white-haired women.

  Verlaque shot her a puzzled glance, as he knew that Mme Bonnet was in her midseventies. Before he could recover she said, “Seventy is the new fifty.”

  He laughed. “That’s great news.”

  “I read it in Elle,” she continued. “At the dentist’s office.” She pointed the carrot stick at him. “What happened to that emcee, exactly? I saw you talking with Forestier.”

  “It’s a bit of a mystery,” he answered, doing his best Gallic shrug. “It looks like a heart attack.”

  “Do you and Forestier think he died of something else?” she asked.

  “No, no,” Verlaque said, looking desperately around the room for Marine.

  Mme Bonnet said, “Agatha Christie’s favorite murder method was poisoning.”

  “I didn’t know you read Christie.” Had she heard their conversation? He now remembered seeing her standing just behind Dr. Forestier when they were speaking over Cole Hainsby’s body.

  “When I was young,” she answered. “Hiding in my room.”

  “Same.”

  “Same what? You read Christie, or you had to hide to read her books?”

  “Same, I read Christie,” he answered. “I didn’t have to hide; my parents didn’t care one way or another what books I read.”

  Florence knew, via Marine, the story of his cold, much-absent parents, and raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment. She said, “We weren’t permitted to read popular books. Only classics, preferably in Greek or Latin, or the saints’ stories.”

  Verlaque smiled. He didn’t have to say it served you well; it was understood in the way she had said it, as her voice had had a tiny ring of pleasure and satisfaction. Florence Bonnet had had a stellar education and career.

  “During dinner I happened to observe that young man who died,” she went on. Verlaque tried not to cringe, mad at himself that he hadn’t been quick enough to change the subject. “He was in front of me in the queue and was flittering around like a butterfly. Such a chatterbox. And he kept trying the food while he was still in line, then helping himself to more.”

  Verlaque looked at his learned mother-in-law, as usual not surprised, but dismayed, at her love of gossip. He nodded and wondered, for the first time, if Cole Hainsby could have been a drug user. “He had a good appetite, eh?”

  “And how! People kept refilling his plate.”

  “The Sister City hosts?”

  “Yes, and various friends of his who kept coming up to him, egging him to try this and that. His wife even force-fed him some deep-fried thing. He really was holding up the line! Philomène thought she was going to faint from hunger!”

  Merde, Verlaque thought to himself. It sounded like chaos, the perfect chance for an opportunistic killer. He then checked himself; he was jumping to conclusions. An autopsy would be done; until then he shouldn’t be worrying. But he couldn’t get the strangeness of the whole event out of his head, and the doctor’s words rash and burns around the mouth. He studied the faces around the room, as Florence complained about the city’s recent decision to change all the bus routes. “That’s him,” she said, causing Verlaque to turn his head to look at her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That big guy over there,” she said, again gesturing with another half-eaten carrot stick. “He looks Italian, or maybe Corsican. Anyway, he’s new money.” She wrinkled up her nose and went on, “I saw the emcee’s wife talking with him.”

  “Debra Hainsby is her name. And?” Verlaque tried to stay patient with Florence Bonnet’s primness, and her nosiness.

  “I see your look. I know that it’s not unusual for a married woman to speak to another man.”

  Verlaque smiled. “Indeed.”

  “But it is rather unusual for a woman to eat off of another’s man’s plate, and to drink from his wineglass.”

  * * *

  Marine had been watching her mother and husband, imagining their conversation and trying not to laugh, when a young woman approached and held out her hand. “You’re Dr. Bonnet’s daughter, aren’t you? My name is France Dubois. I work at the Protestant church here in Aix.”

  “Enchantée,” Marine said, shaking her hand. She assumed that France Dubois knew her mother and not her father. Marine quickly assessed the young woman, remembering her from the Christmas market. Mlle Dubois—Marine supposed France was unmarried since she wore no rings of any kind—would have been a perfect candidate for a makeover. She immediately suppressed the idea, although she meant no harm in it. She imagined herself as an older sister, or cousin, perhaps, choosing more flattering clothes for France in one of Aix’s many clothing shops. They’d giggle, then go out for a drink to celebrate, or ice cream. “That was very upsetting, what just happened,” Marine said, realizing she’d taken a bit too long to say something. “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” France replied with a wave of her hand.

  “Did you know him?”

  France seemed to hesitate before answering. “Only in passing.”

  Marine looked at her, curious. France didn’t seem upset; perhaps the young woman saw the look of bewilderment on Marine’s face, as she wiped her forehead, sighed, and said, “Sorry, I’m very tired. I organized this dinner, you see. It’s been quite a lot of logistics.”

  “Congratulations on a job well done. Everything was delicious, and the room is transformed.”

  “Thank you. I do hope people feel like they can stay and continue eating,” France said, scanning the room. “The desserts from England are wonderful, although there’s probably too much butter in them. But the latest studies now say that butter’s good for us!” France giggled and Marine felt herself warming to her.

  “I’ve stopped reading those studies,” Marine replied honestly. “Just eat meals made from good fresh food three times a day.”

  “Well, you’re certainly doing something right, if you don’t mind my saying.” France’s face turned slightly red, but she went on, “You’re the kind of person who could probably teach someone like me a thing or two about style!”

  It was now Marine’s turn to turn red in the face. She hoped it didn’t show. She was sometimes superstitious around religious people, which she took France Dubois to be. She worried they could read minds, or have magical powers. She put it down to reading too many biographies of the saints when she was a young girl. “Well, I’ll go and do my bit at the dessert table,” Marine said. “Thank you for the compliment and the food tips.”

  “My pleasure,” France replied.

  Marine could feel the young woma
n’s eyes on her back as she turned and walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  Neither Verlaque nor Marine slept well. They had come home separately, Verlaque staying at the cathedral past midnight, in part to speak to Père Fernand and make sure he was well, and in part to watch the last of the carol sing organizers. At 3:00 a.m. Verlaque switched on the light beside his half of the bed, tired of both of them tossing around. “Should we read a bit?”

  “Was I keeping you awake?” Marine asked, leaning on her side, facing him.

  “No. I thought I was keeping you up.”

  Marine leaned over and switched on her light and picked up a book, a mystery set in Venice.

  “Did you know that your mother was eavesdropping on my conversation with Dr. Forestier this evening?” he asked.

  Marine laughed. “She’s an expert at that. What did she hear?”

  “Forestier said he was only guessing, but Hainsby showed more signs of someone who had died of poisoning than of a heart attack victim.”

  “Do you think Hainsby was a drug user?” Marine asked. “He did have that kind of frenetic energy, from the little bit I saw of him.”

  “That occurred to me, too.” Verlaque looked at the cover of her book with its stock photo of a gondola in a blue night. “Armchair traveling?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I heard a report on France Inter that that author doesn’t live in Venice anymore. Too many tourists.”

  Marine set the book down. “You’re killing me. I always thought we’d retire there. Do you think that could happen here?”

  Verlaque looked at her over his reading glasses. “In Aix? Nah. Our mayor will have paved over the whole city in concrete by then, so no tourists will want to come.” He made quotation marks with his fingers and said, “Improvements.”

  “You’re right,” Marine said, smiling and turning back to her book.

  The next morning Verlaque awoke before the alarm. He looked at the clock; it was 6:45 a.m. He decided to get up and have a coffee in town, and let Marine sleep in. He felt like walking and thinking about the strange Sunday they had had. He threw on some clothes and brushed his teeth, trying to be silent, and ten minutes later he was downstairs in the street.