“She’s the older sister of a girl I went to school with, yes. There were six.”
“Six children?”
“Six daughters,” Marine replied as she sliced the bacon and dropped it into a hot frying pan.
“Wow. And now it sounds like she’s married to a Scotsman . . .”
“Yes, but they live here. His name is Jim.” Into another pot, in which water slowly boiled, Marine dropped a dozen tiny Ratte potatoes, some of them no bigger than a walnut. Verlaque looked on, smiling, feeling extremely lucky.
“Claudie and Jim are members of the APCA?” he asked.
“Yes. Claudie made it clear to me that Jim is the religious one, not her. Anyway, she’s still as bossy as she used to be when we were kids. She confided that she and Jim were both quite put out that the Hainsbys were the emcees yesterday. Claudie and Jim had been doing it since it started six years ago.”
Verlaque guffawed at the pettiness.
“I know, I know,” Marine said. “You see why I never liked Claudie.” Marine drained the lentils into a colander, throwing out the clove-studded onion and bouquet garni that had been cooking along with the lentils. She poured the lentils back into the pot and added the cooked bacon.
“Smells lovely,” Verlaque said.
“Mmm, it’s the cloves.” She turned to face Verlaque, leaning against the counter. “Claudie told me that something strange happened on Saturday night between the Hainsbys. Did anyone tell you about it?”
“No. I heard about that meeting, but no details.”
“Cole Hainsby broke something, and his wife ran out of the room crying,” Marine said. “Claudie seemed tickled while telling me.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell us about that?”
“They might think it not their business,” Marine said, turning around to prick one of the potatoes with a sharp knife. “What goes on between couples is private.”
“They might have been each hoping that someone else would have told us,” Verlaque said. “Not wanting to be the one to gossip. I see what you’re saying.”
“It seems odd that Mme Hainsby would cry over a broken glass or dish, doesn’t it?” Marine lifted the pot of potatoes, walked over to the sink, and drained them. “Dinner’s ready.” She took two plates out of a cupboard and arranged big pieces of washed butter lettuce on the plates, spooning the lentils on top. She carefully set a few potatoes on the side of each plate. “How about a red Burgundy?”
Verlaque leaned down and opened their small wine fridge, hoping to find one. He was too tired to walk down the stairs to their basement cellar. He pulled one out, recognizing the vintner’s name. “It’s a Grand Cru,” he said, handing it to Marine as he stood back up.
“We’ll have to suffer through it,” she answered, laughing.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning Bruno Paulik knocked and opened Verlaque’s office door, sticking his bald head in through the gap. “I just got a text message. Hainsby’s business partner, Damien Petit, is downstairs,” he said. “You’re welcome to join.” Verlaque got up and they headed downstairs, walking through the building’s vast courtyard, which was watched over by a seventeenth-century statue of the Comte de Mirabeau. “Petit’s around the corner,” Paulik said. “In room three.”
He nodded, knowing the room, for he had furnished it, along with the building’s other four small rooms used for interrogation. Verlaque had replaced the old wooden tables and chairs, which looked like they had been donated by a high school, with contemporary white tables and transparent chairs designed by Philippe Starck. He craved another coffee.
Paulik opened the door and let Verlaque go through, following behind him. The officer, a woman in her late twenties whom Verlaque vaguely recognized, nodded and left the room. Damien Petit jumped up.
Verlaque crossed the room and extended his hand. “I’m Antoine Verlaque, the examining magistrate, and this is our commissioner, Bruno Paulik.”
Petit mumbled his name and shook their hands. He was sweating.
“Please, sit down,” Verlaque said, gesturing to the chair that Petit had just vacated. He and Paulik sat down opposite.
“Is it true?” Petit quickly asked. “That Cole is dead? I had a garbled message on my cell phone early this morning, and then the police—I mean, you—called.”
Verlaque nodded. “He fell ill at dinner last night, in the cathedral.”
Petit moaned and tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling.
“Who called you?” Paulik asked, taking out a pen and a small notebook from his jacket pocket.
Petit looked surprised. “Dave Flanagan from the Anglo church. Am I being interrogated? Didn’t Cole have a heart attack?”
“M Hainsby died of an overdose,” Verlaque said. “We suspect poisoning.”
“What?” Petit gripped the edge of the table with his fingertips. “Who would do this? Could Cole have taken some pills?”
“We don’t know,” Paulik replied. “But most people don’t choose suicide in a room full of people. When you last saw M Hainsby did he seem edgy? Worried?”
“Cole was always edgy and worried.” Petit thought for a moment and added, “Except when he should have been feeling worried. Then he was carefree, without a worry in the world.”
“I assume you’ll explain at some point what that means,” Paulik said drily. “When did you last see him?”
“We had lunch together, at the Café Mazarin, last Friday.”
“Downstairs or upstairs?” Verlaque asked, knowing he had been there the same day.
“Upstairs.” If Petit thought the question strange, he didn’t let on.
Verlaque tried to remember the other diners that day, but couldn’t.
“How’s business?” Paulik asked.
Petit winced. “Not great, especially since the financial crisis in 2008. Our trips have been halved.”
“Was M Hainsby worried?” Verlaque asked. “Or was that what you were referring to when you said he should have been worried more than he was at times.”
“Yes,” Petit replied. “Cole was an optimist, and always seemed to believe that business would bounce back. And strangely enough, it usually did. Up until about a year ago. Since then we’ve been in a real slump.”
“During the investigation, we’ll need to look at your financial records,” Verlaque said. “I hope you’ll cooperate.”
“Yes . . . of course,” Petit said, his voice shaking slightly.
“Did M Hainsby have any enemies?” Paulik asked.
Petit shook his head back and forth, avoiding eye contact.
“Do you have any idea who would want to kill him?”
Petit rubbed his hands together. They trembled. “No.”
“Are you all right?” Verlaque asked.
“The trembling hands?” Petit asked. “I get it often.”
“How was his marriage? Did he confide in you?”
“We were business partners, but not friends, if that makes sense,” Petit said. “I could see that he frustrated Debra, his wife. I like her. It was sometimes Debra’s ideas that got our business back on track. But it didn’t seem to me that the marriage was in great danger. They both doted on their two kids. What do I know? I’ve never been married. My parents bickered, too. But they stayed together for us three kids and made it work. Now they’re quite close.”
Paulik looked at the young man’s hands. “We’ll let you go now, M Petit. Please stay close to home so we can contact you again. You didn’t go to the service last night. Why not?”
Petit shrugged. “Why would I go? I’m an atheist and I don’t particularly care for Christmas, or that church crowd.”
“What did you do?”
“I was at home, if you’re asking me for an alibi,” Petit replied. “But I was alone.”
“Did anyone call your landline?�
��
“No. I made myself a croque monsieur for dinner, then watched television.”
“What was on?” Paulik asked.
“I don’t know,” Petit said, wincing. “I began by watching the news, but I must have quickly fallen asleep. I woke up on the sofa around midnight, turned the television off, and crawled into bed. I had biked to Arles and back that day.”
Verlaque tried not to show his displeasure. Why would anyone be masochistic enough to choose to ride a bike between those two cities? He looked at Petit, whose hands still trembled as he lifted up his water glass and took a sip. Petit had been honest about one thing, though—the church. Because the more Verlaque thought about that day, however joyful he thought it had been and however enthralled with the ceremony they all seemed to be, there was now something disturbing about that “church crowd.” He thought of the gossiping: his own mother-in-law; Marine’s high school acquaintance. Damien Petit, even though he might be holding something back, was at least honest about religion.
Chapter Thirteen
“I thought we could kill a few birds at once,” Paulik told Verlaque as they cut through the produce market on the Place Richelme. “When I called the APCA they told me that France Dubois is at the Sister City food fair around the corner.”
“Let’s try to speak to her and some of the people who supplied dinner at the church,” Verlaque suggested. He loosened his scarf; it was warmer than when he had left the flat that morning. “Has anyone else reported being ill?”
“No. Officer Flamant is keeping tabs on that; no one from the church has been to the emergency room with food ailments.”
“That’s a relief,” Verlaque said. “It means that the killer was careful, at least. But we have our work cut out for us, as Hainsby ate so many different things that night. We all did.”
Paulik said, “I’ve assigned three officers to call Sunday’s dinner guests this afternoon and begin arranging interviews. I’m glad you had the presence of mind to get everyone’s name and contact information.” They walked past the Hôtel de Ville and passed under the arch of the medieval clock tower, aware that their backs were now in a few tourists’ photographs, and turned left onto the Place des Cardeurs. A sea of white tents spread out before them. Paulik said, “When I called the APCA they told me that only Mlle Dubois has a list of the Sister City participants who donated food Sunday night.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Verlaque said. “I think in small organizations like theirs it’s always one person who has the master list in their head.”
“Let’s find her, then.”
They walked slowly, their hands in their winter coats, watching crowds gather around certain stands. A queue had formed at the Philadelphia stand and both men slowed, looking for France Dubois but also taking in the smell of the fried steak and onions. Verlaque saw Paulik glance at his watch and he grinned. It was indeed lunchtime. “I’d suggest we eat,” Verlaque said. “But I don’t want to miss seeing Mlle Dubois.”
“I agree,” replied Paulik. He stopped walking and gently pulled Verlaque aside, so that they stood behind a raised bar table where a group of four Aixois happily ate lunch. “That’s her,” he said.
Verlaque looked across the crowd to where Paulik’s head was turned. Standing opposite, with her back to a stand selling Provençal soaps and lavender sachets, was France Dubois. She had her hands in her pockets, her spine rigid, her face fixed on the Philadelphia stand. Verlaque followed her gaze; she seemed to be focused on the American man frying steaks. “Yes,” Verlaque said. “I’d love to know what she’s thinking.”
“I’d say they aren’t friendly thoughts,” Paulik replied. “Let’s go have a chat.”
“Mlle Dubois,” Verlaque said, his hand outstretched, once they had zigzagged through the crowd.
She looked at him, he would later tell Marine, with a vague annoyance. She shook their hands, and when Verlaque asked where they could talk, she began walking, saying nothing, in the direction of the information tent.
Once inside the tent the commotion and noise of the fair fell away. She had chosen well; since it was after noon, most of the visitors were outside getting something to eat. They stood off to one side beside a stack of colorful brochures about Tunisia.
“Sorry to bother,” Verlaque began, “but we have more questions about Sunday evening, specifically about the dinner.”
“Really?” France asked.
Verlaque said, “We understand that you arranged the dinner.”
“Yes, I did. I came here”—she motioned outside the tent—“last week, asking the Sister City guests to participate. They all obliged. Some of them have been helping out with the carol sing since it began.”
“Were you physically there, in the dining hall, when they brought their food on Sunday?”
“Yes, of course,” France answered. “I had to open the back door for them. There’s a green door that gives onto the Place de l’Archevêché.”
“I know it well,” said Verlaque.
Paulik asked, “And you stayed while they set up the dinner?”
France looked directly into his eyes. “I was back and forth. You see, the service had begun, and I so wanted to sing.”
“That’s understandable,” said Verlaque. He knew he could be frank with her. She was a formidable person, of that he was more and more sure.
“I was discrete,” she went on. “I had an aisle seat, so it was easy to slip back and forth between the church and the dining hall.” Verlaque nodded. He couldn’t imagine anyone more discrete than Mlle Dubois.
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“No, nothing out of the ordinary, although it was all rather chaotic, as these things tend to be.”
“Was anyone else around?” Paulik asked. “Other than you and the Sister City folks?”
She thought for a moment before answering. “Reverend Dave came in. He was talking on his cell phone.”
“That’s odd, don’t you think?” Verlaque said. He had thought it strange that Flanagan would leave during the service, and wanted to hear her opinion.
She nodded. “He explained to me why, after he hung up. His elderly mother, who lives in California, is unwell, so he took the call, even though the service was still going on.” Verlaque wondered whether Dave had offered that information voluntarily, or if Mlle Dubois had outright asked him. Or it might have been a combination of the two, Mlle Dubois giving Dave one of her piercing looks of disapproval, and he in turn blurting out the explanation for the call.
“And when they were serving the dinner?” Paulik asked. “Did anything seem out of the ordinary?”
“No, nothing at all,” she answered. “There was a constant queue, but our Sister City guests were calm and gracious while serving.”
Verlaque and Paulik exchanged looks. It was an impossible task: Any one of the people serving could have slipped the crushed Doliprane into Cole Hainsby’s food. With the crowd and the commotion, no one would have seen. Except, perhaps, someone standing next to the murderer. Verlaque said, “Thank you very much, Mlle Dubois.”
“You’ve been a help,” Paulik said, shaking her hand.
She said good-bye, put her hands into her coat pockets, and left the tent.
* * *
“Needle in a haystack,” Paulik said as they walked through the fair.
“Yes, and we’ve missed lunch,” Verlaque said. He turned to look at the Bath stand, where two elderly ladies sat, both knitting. “They have some desserts left,” he said, motioning to their counter.
“Better than nothing.”
They walked over and both women looked up. The dark-haired one, Verlaque noted, was able to keep knitting while she spoke. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Welcome to Bath,” her colleague quickly said, having set down her knitting. She smiled broadly.
“Lovely city,” V
erlaque said in English. “That crescent of Georgian buildings—”
“The Royal Crescent,” the dark-haired woman said.
Verlaque smiled. “Right.” He got out his identification card and showed it to the women. He then introduced Bruno Paulik, explaining to Paulik that he’d speak in English and to ask if he had trouble understanding. Paulik gave him a thumbs-up.
The dark-haired woman put a long, thin hand to her chest. “Is anything wrong?”
“We have some questions regarding Sunday evening’s dinner at the cathedral,” Verlaque replied, pronouncing his words slowly and carefully for Paulik’s benefit.
“That poor man—” the white-haired one said. “Oh, do excuse us. I’m Sally Bennett.” She offered her hand.
“Eunice Sumner-Smith,” the other one said in turn, offering a limp but thinly elegant hand to the two men.
“M Hainsby died of poisoning,” Verlaque said bluntly. “It was administered into something he ate that night.”
“My word!” Mme Bennett exclaimed. She looked at Mme Sumner-Smith, who had finally set down her knitting and looked equally shocked.
“The food,” Mme Bennett said. She leaned in toward the men and lowered her voice. “You must think the poison came from our food.”
“From that dinner, yes,” Verlaque said. “But not necessarily yours. We’d just like to know if you can help us in any way—”
“We don’t actually bake the food ourselves, you understand,” Mme Sumner-Smith explained. “It’s sent to us from England. It’s fresh, mind you.”
Verlaque glanced at Paulik, who rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. The commissioner had clearly understood the English. And, yes, what a needle in a haystack. They’d have to have someone check on the facilities in England. Why would anyone in the UK want to poison someone they didn’t know? Unless they were mentally unstable. He looked now to the two old women, neither of whom he could imagine putting crushed acetaminophen into an Eccles cake. And what would be their motivation? Or that of anyone else at the Sister City fair? How would they have known Cole Hainsby? He then realized he was wasting their time, and missing lunch.
A Noël Killing Page 11