“I have a feeling the chocolate cake will give us a bit of a jolt,” Paulik said, dipping into his daube.
“Better than Red Bull, eh?”
“Que diable?” Paulik asked, setting down his fork. “You would never drink that stuff, would you?”
“Certainly not,” Verlaque said, taking a sip of wine. “Not when you can drink this,” he added, holding up his glass.
* * *
“There’s a restaurant in Venice,” Verlaque said. “The chef’s wife is the baker. Diane. She’s from Texas—”
“Is there a point to this anecdote?” Paulik asked as they turned the corner onto rue Lacépède. He bent his head down to avoid the wind. “It’s gotten colder out.”
“Diane makes that same kind of chocolate cake.”
“In a Venetian restaurant?”
“In one of Venice’s best restaurants,” Verlaque said. “In my opinion.”
“Well, I’m glad we skipped the coffee, is all I can say.” Paulik rubbed his stomach, which Verlaque thought a bit over the top. Sure, the cake had been rich and sweet, but no sweeter than a slice of Opéra, or a mille-feuille.
“Fanny obviously didn’t know about Cole Hainsby’s death, did she?”
“No, but maybe she’s not that connected to the expat community.”
They stopped in front of the church, and Verlaque looked at his watch. “We’re right on time.”
They rang the buzzer just below the bronze plaque that read APCA and a voice answered, “Please come in.” The door clicked open and they entered, Paulik careful to close the door behind him. Before them was a medium-size office of about three hundred square feet, Verlaque estimated, crammed full with three desks, bookcases, and two trestle tables piled high with books and papers.
Reverend Dave came forward and shook their hands. “Welcome to our mess,” he said in English.
A woman in her late thirties, tall and slim with red hair pulled back, came forward to shake their hands. “I’m Jennifer Flanagan, Dave’s wife,” she said in French. She looked at Verlaque and continued, still in French, “I saw you at the dinner last night, but I was distracted, trying to take care of Debra.”
“Of course,” Verlaque said. “That’s quite understandable. It was shocking for all of us.”
“Your French is very good, Mme Flanagan,” Paulik said.
“Merci,” she said. “I was a French literature major at university, and did a year abroad here in Aix, believe it or not, at the Vanderbilt extension—”
“Rue Cardinale,” Verlaque said. “I know the building.”
“Jennifer’s from Tennessee,” Dave inserted.
Verlaque nodded. Did Dave think he didn’t know that Vanderbilt University was in Nashville? “I must confess,” Verlaque said. “We just had the pleasure of tasting your chocolate cake at Fanny’s.” He shot Paulik a look.
“Oh, I hope you enjoyed it,” she said. “I got up this morning extra early to bake it, but my heart wasn’t in it, I’m afraid.”
“I completely understand,” Verlaque said.
“You said you’d like to talk to us about Cole,” Dave said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “May I ask why? I’m not sure how we can help. . . . It’s true he was a member of this church . . .”
“I had a telephone call from the city coroner this morning,” Verlaque said. “M Hainsby did not die of a heart attack, as we all thought last night. He died of poisoning.”
“Food poisoning?” Jennifer Flanagan asked.
“No, either it was self-administered or he was given a dish with enough of the drug to kill him. That’s why we’re here this afternoon.”
Dave’s face turned pale. “I’m in shock,” he said, barely audible. “Well, then, you can begin with me. I’ve tried cleaning up my office a bit. It’s just through there.” He motioned to an open door.
They walked into his office, a smaller version of the chaos in the main room. “We put two chairs behind the desk,” Dave said, “and one in front for the interviewee. I guess that’s me today.”
Verlaque and Paulik sat down behind the desk, Paulik opening his notebook. “How long did you know Cole Hainsby?” he asked.
“Two years,” Dave answered. “I met him the week we arrived.”
“What were your impressions of him?”
“I figured you’d ask me that,” Dave replied, “but I’m still not sure how to answer. He was a mess.” Dave made a sweeping motion with his right hand around the tiny office. “Much like this. Il était un bordel!”
“Can you clarify?”
“Cole was a train wreck waiting to happen. I had the impression he was always in trouble, or running from trouble. What exactly it was, I’m not sure. Too much work? Not enough? He couldn’t sit still, nor could he pay attention to a conversation for very long.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“He ran an upscale tour company,” Reverend Dave said.
“Did he run the business alone?” Paulik asked, thinking he had detected a bit of envy in the voice of the reverend.
“No, he had a partner. A local kid named Damien Petit,” Dave replied. “Nice young man.”
“What do you know of him?” Verlaque asked.
“Damien? Not much. I’ve only met him once or twice, but I can tell just from those meetings that he’s a good sort.”
“And Mme Hainsby?” Verlaque asked, not putting too much faith in Dave Flanagan’s character assessment of Damien Petit if it was based on only one or two quick meetings.
“Oh, I know her, yes.” Dave paused, biting his lower lip. “It’s not for me to say . . .”
“Please continue,” Paulik prompted him.
“I’m not sure their marriage was a happy one,” Dave said. “At least, Debra isn’t—wasn’t—happy. That was pretty clear to all of us here at the church.”
“Did he ever confide in you about it?” Verlaque asked.
“Like a confession? We don’t do those here.” He smiled. “But I know what you mean. No, like I said, he couldn’t sit still long enough . . .”
“Thank you,” Verlaque said, leaning back in the chair. “One last thing. I saw you leave the ceremony during the candlelit song. Why is that?”
“Oh, yes,” Dave answered, his face neutral. “I had my phone on vibration mode. My mother . . . she’s quite ill . . . so I asked my brother in San Diego to call me if her condition worsened. Unfortunately he did call me, in the middle of ‘O Christmas Tree,’ so I snuck away to take his call.”
“Was everything okay?”
Dave waved his hand. “It was nothing serious,” he said. “My brother had no way of knowing that I’d be in the middle of our biggest service of the year.”
* * *
Verlaque noted that Jennifer Flanagan had brushed her hair and applied a bit of red lipstick for their meeting. Like Marine, she wore no other makeup. “How are you feeling, Mme Flanagan?” he asked.
“Bruised,” she answered in French.
Verlaque nodded. He liked her.
“Did you know M Hainsby well?” Paulik asked.
“Not really,” she answered. “Truth be told, I tried to avoid him.”
Paulik raised an eyebrow, and she continued, “It seemed to me that he was the kind of person who invited bad luck.”
“Did he ever seem worried?”
Jennifer squinted, as if thinking. She then nodded. “Yes, I’d say he was worried . . . but . . . didn’t want to show it.”
Paulik tilted his head slightly, egging her on.
“You see, there were certain signs,” she said. “Like when he spoke, he’d laugh at things that weren’t really funny, and he’d be wringing his hands at the same time. My guess, if I may say this, is that he was worried about money. Many men are, aren’t they? Cole would always make it clear to everyone that
they lived in Saint-Marc-Jaumegarde. It came up every time you spoke to him. So that made me think that he was pretending to have a lot of money.”
Verlaque crossed his legs, impressed with Mme Flanagan. He hated Saint-Marc-Jaumegarde. For lack of a better word, he found it, and the people who lived there, bling. The houses weren’t any grander than those along the Route Cézanne, between Aix and Le Tholonet, but those who lived on Cézanne’s favorite road were of a different class. They either came from old money, so purposely drove old cars and wore threadbare suits, or had so much money that they had long ago abandoned bragging about it.
Verlaque asked, “Are you close to his wife?”
She shook her head back and forth. “No.” She straightened her back and went on, “You see, as the minister’s wife, I’m friendly with everyone, especially since some of the expats still don’t speak French. But I’m not good friends with any of them, if that makes sense. I’m busy enough: with my own family and friends, my baking, and I’m keeping up with my French studies. I’m taking a graduate class at the university on existential literature.”
“In French?” Verlaque said. “That’s impressive.”
She smiled and folded her hands in her lap, twisting her wedding band.
“Thank you for speaking to us,” Verlaque said. “Would you mind sending in Mlle Dubois?”
“Not at all,” Jennifer said, getting up from her chair and leaving quietly.
A minute later France Dubois knocked lightly on the door. “Come in,” Paulik said, leaning forward with his forearms on the desk.
“Asseyez-vous,” Verlaque said, gesturing to the empty chair before them. France slid down into it. She patted down the rough wool of her skirt and then pushed it toward her knees, as if it were too short, but it was an unfashionable length that was neither short nor long. She had none of Jennifer Flanagan’s poise or confidence, but Verlaque liked her big brown eyes, which looked at him steadily, almost without blinking. He thought he’d begin this meeting the same way, asking her how she was doing.
“I’m all right,” France replied, her voice cracking slightly. “A little tired is all.”
He introduced Bruno Paulik, who reached across the desk and shook the young woman’s hand. “How long have you worked here?” Verlaque asked.
“Six years,” France said. Verlaque tried to guess her age. “I did two internships, one in Paris and one here in Aix, and then had a series of semi-permanent jobs for six years, until I was lucky enough to find this permanent position.”
Verlaque nodded. Mlle Dubois’s career path sounded very typical for someone of her generation. So she must be around thirty-five. “Are you an Aixoise?”
She smiled, slightly, for the first time. “I was born here.”
“Neither of us are real Aixois,” Paulik said, smiling. He pointed to Verlaque and said, “He’s Parisian, and I’m from the Luberon.”
“Oh, the Luberon is so lovely,” France said. She hesitated and then added, “But I suppose it’s changed a lot since you lived there.”
Paulik held up his hands in mock helplessness.
“Bloody Parisians!” Verlaque said, clenching his fist in what he hoped what a good imitation of an angry farmer. The three laughed.
“What happened last night was very upsetting,” Paulik began, “and any information you could give us about Cole Hainsby would be very helpful.”
Verlaque nodded in seriousness, and wondered to himself why they both seemed to be treating Mlle Dubois with kid gloves. For all they knew, she could be a shark.
“Did you think his death . . . suspicious?” she asked.
“Cole Hainsby died from poisoning. He consumed more than eight tablets of Doliprane, which, as you saw, proved to be fatal.”
France’s cheeks turned red and she brought her hands up to her face. She took some deep breaths and asked, “Someone killed him?”
Verlaque asked, “Did you know M Hainsby?”
“I didn’t know him. We spoke on the phone a few times, that’s all. And then I met him for the first time on Saturday evening. We had a meeting to make last-minute preparations for the carol sing.”
“Was he well liked?” Paulik asked.
“By whom? The people here at the APCA? I never heard anyone complain about him. He wasn’t a mean person or anything like that.”
“And his business partner?” Paulik asked. “His name is Damien Petit.”
France’s eyes widened and she pulled at her skirt. “Um, I’ve never met him.”
Verlaque said, “But you know of him, it seems.”
“Well, not exactly,” she replied. “But I sat next to them last week, at Café Mazarin.”
“What day was that?” Paulik asked, flipping back a few pages in his notebook.
“Friday lunch.”
“I was there, too,” Verlaque said.
“I know,” France said in a firm voice. “I saw you.”
“Oh . . . of course you did.” He turned to Paulik and explained, “I was there with an old friend, who’s married to Margaux Perrot. She was with us. I imagine we turned a few heads.”
France continued, making it clear that she wasn’t interested in film stars, or that perhaps she was tiring of the questions, “They sat next to me, but Cole didn’t know who I was. I recognized his voice, and they called each other by their first names, so I figured it out pretty quickly.”
“Did you happen to hear what they were talking about?” Verlaque asked. “Those tables at the Mazarin are jammed so close together,” he added, hoping he sounded nonchalant.
France nodded. “Damien was upset,” she said. “Cole made a business decision without consulting Damien. It had to do with money, I think.”
Paulik wrote down the information, and neither man spoke. When it was clear that France had nothing more to add, Verlaque asked, “And Mme Hainsby. Do you know her?”
“Not well,” France said. “I only met her for the first time on Saturday night as well. She doesn’t volunteer here. I think she’s a secretary at the bilingual school.”
“Oh, the one in Lambesc?”
“The Four Seasons,” France said. She looked like she was about to add something, then stopped.
“What is it, Mlle Dubois?”
“Nothing. I just realized I have a telephone call to make. A lot of expats call us when they arrive in Aix, asking about schools.”
“And you suggest the Four Seasons?” Verlaque said.
“Yes. The children don’t usually speak French, and most families only stay for a year or two.”
“A year or two? It would be hard to make friends,” Verlaque said.
“Yes, it would be hard to make friends,” she said, with, Verlaque later thought, a bit of sadness in her voice.
* * *
“I feel like an old fool,” Verlaque said, taking off his brogues and setting them under the coffee table. “There’s something about this afternoon’s meetings that bothered me.”
“What was it?” Marine asked, walking into the living room carrying two glasses of white wine.
“We spoke to two women, both of them very different. One is confident and outgoing, the other shy, and yet both are very intelligent.”
Marine laughed. “And that’s a problem, Antoine?”
He took a sip and shook his head. “What I mean is, they are both observant and seem to be far too intelligent to be doing what they’re doing. Jennifer Flanagan studied French literature but now she bakes, and why in the world has France Dubois worked at that church for all these years? She is only a bilingual secretary.”
“For one thing,” Marine said, setting down her glass and talking a handful of salted almonds, “expats, especially those who move here for their husbands’ work, have to make due with whatever they find in France. They’re away from their families and friends, and often have had t
o give up good jobs to accompany their husband over here.” She tossed the nuts into her mouth and held up her hand, signaling she wasn’t finished. After she swallowed she said, “As for France Dubois, does she have a CDI?”
“Yes,” Verlaque said, feeling like he was being scolded. “She has a permanent contract.”
“You know how hard those are to come by in France, Antoine,” Marine said. “Perhaps she’s tried to find another job, but it’s slim pickings in Aix. And she’s not the type to make contacts, or use those contacts, to work her way up the ladder.”
“Are you?”
“Hell yes!” Marine said, reaching for her wineglass. “You and I both are.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“We wouldn’t hurt anyone, or misuse that ability to, for lack of a better word, schmooze. But some people aren’t capable of it. Like France Dubois.”
“I saw you talking to her at the dinner,” Verlaque said.
“I like her,” Marine said. “There’s more to her than meets the eye.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. France seemed nervous, like she kept hesitating, as if she were holding something back.”
“You always think that of people.” Marine got up and kissed him. “I have to get our meal ready. Now, if you follow me into the kitchen with our wineglasses, I’ll tell you what I found out at the dinner.”
Verlaque did as he was told, frustrated that his evening was turning into one much like his afternoon.
“I spent a while last night chatting with Claudie Pirone,” Marine said as she faced the stove, stirring something in a pot. Verlaque peeked and saw green lentils. He looked at Marine.
“No meat tonight,” she said. “I didn’t make it to the butcher’s. Oh, there’s bacon in the fridge. I can add that.”
Verlaque made a praying gesture and looked up at the ceiling.
Marine grinned as she got the bacon. “To continue, Claudie isn’t Claudie Pirone anymore, she’s Claudie McGregor.”
Verlaque took a sip of wine. “She’s an old high school friend, I take it.”
A Noël Killing Page 10