A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  “No one touched your desserts,” Verlaque said, “before the dinner on Sunday?”

  “Absolutely not,” Mme Sumner-Smith answered.

  “Well, there were two boys from the church who came to help us carry things over,” Mme Bennett offered. “But they were just teenagers, and very polite, weren’t they, Eunice? Mlle Dubois sent them. It was too much for Eunice and myself to carry, you see . . .”

  “Of course,” Verlaque said.

  “But we walked beside them,” Eunice Sumner-Smith added, in case the two men thought them guilty of carelessness.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Verlaque said. He glanced over at their desserts, the plastic wrap for the trip from England having been removed, as they now sat on antique porcelain blue-and-white plates, much like the ones his grandmother had loved.

  “Would you like a dessert?” Mme Bennett asked, her voice rising in excitement.

  “Thank you so much,” Verlaque said. “One of those desserts looks like flapjacks. My grandmother used to bake them.”

  “A French woman who makes flapjacks?” Mme Bennett asked. “How lovely.”

  “She was English,” Verlaque said. “She met my grandfather in Paris just before the war.”

  “That’s why your English is perfect,” Mme Sumner-Smith said, pursing her lips by way of a smile.

  Verlaque smiled, even though he wasn’t certain he had just been given a compliment. But he was happy that his English skills had been upgraded from Reverend Dave’s “almost perfect” to this woman’s “perfect.” He looked over at Paulik, who was studying the desserts. Yes, Bruno had understood everything.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After they had each eaten two flapjacks and two Eccles cakes, washed down with some tea that Mlle Bennett had insisted upon, they crossed the path between the stands and stopped at the Americans. The steak fryer was now cleaning his grill. A woman, tall and slim with light brown curly hair, put away bags of sandwich buns and condiments. They looked to be close in age; he was a little shorter and wider with the same coloring.

  The man held up his hands and shrugged. “Sorry, we’re closed for the afternoon. Fermé.”

  “That’s okay,” Verlaque replied in English. “We’re here to ask a few questions about Sunday evening.” The woman set down a crate she had been carrying and came to stand beside her partner. Verlaque and Paulik showed their identification and introduced themselves.

  “Jason Miller,” the man said, shaking Verlaque’s hand. “This is my sister, Kendra.” Verlaque estimated the Millers to both be in their early to midthirties.

  “Hello,” Kendra Miller said. “I’m sure glad you speak English. We’ve been using our junior high school French all week and are exhausted.”

  “That guy died, didn’t he?” Jason said. “Sunday night.”

  Verlaque looked at him, trying to decide if he wore a look of compassion or fear. “Yes,” he replied. “Of poisoning.”

  Both Millers gasped.

  “It wasn’t a heart attack?” Kendra asked. “That’s what we both thought.” She looked to her brother for confirmation, and he nodded.

  “No,” Verlaque answered. “Something he ate had been tampered with. Did anyone other than yourselves touch your food?”

  The Millers shook their heads. “Just us, I can assure you,” Kendra said. “We couldn’t make our steak sandwiches since we didn’t have the grill, so Jason made coleslaw and I made Irish potato candy.”

  Verlaque’s look of confusion made her smile. “Sorry,” she said, her shoulders falling in relaxation. “Coleslaw is cabbage salad, kind of an Irish ancestral thing. And the Irish potato candies are made with coconut, icing sugar, vanilla, and cream cheese. I roll them in cinnamon and they kind of look like little brown potatoes.”

  “I see,” he replied. He held up a finger, signaling a pause, and translated for Paulik, who in turn politely nodded, trying to imagine such a dessert. Verlaque was quite sure he hadn’t eaten either of those things on Sunday evening, but he vaguely remembered Marine talking about coconut.

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No,” Jason replied, looking to his sister for confirmation.

  “Nothing,” Kendra said.

  “Is this your first time here?”

  “We’ve come the past three years,” Jason said.

  “And everyone gets along?”

  “Everyone?” Jason repeated.

  Verlaque thought he saw Kendra flinch. “You mean between the sister cities?” she asked. “Of course we do.”

  “No rivalries?” Verlaque asked.

  “No, we come to make a bit of money, that’s for sure,” Jason said. “But we also participate for the fun. It’s a beautiful city, Aix, and we’re proud of this collaboration.”

  Kendra nodded in agreement.

  “Do you know the church people well?” Verlaque asked. “I’m sorry I have to ask these questions, but the dead man was involved in the Protestant church here in Aix.”

  “No, we only met France Dubois,” Kendra said. “She arranges the carol sing dinner every year.”

  “I spoke with the reverend,” Jason offered. “But it was just chitchat.”

  “Do you remember what Cole Hainsby looked like?” Verlaque asked. Paulik understood his question, as he then produced a small color photograph of Hainsby that the APCA had provided.

  Jason shook his head. “I didn’t know him.”

  “Do you remember serving him at the dinner?”

  “No,” Jason said.

  “I don’t either,” Kendra added. “It was really busy.”

  “Yes, it was,” Verlaque said.

  * * *

  “Feel like speaking French for a change?” Verlaque asked as they walked away from the Philadelphia stand.

  Paulik laughed. “Thanks, I could use a break,” he said. “The Tunisian must speak French.”

  “That’s his stand over there,” Verlaque said as he tilted his head to the right. The Carthage stand was a riot of color, every square inch covered in patterned or striped cloth and rugs. Five or six woolen rugs covered the concrete floor, and more hung from the walls, alongside tablecloths and bedspreads. Two tables held kitchen utensils made from olive wood and stacks of colorful earthenware bowls. In the middle was an armchair that had been upholstered in the same wool and zigzag pattern used on one of the rugs.

  “Hélène would have a field day here,” Paulik mumbled as they got close to the stand, their heads turning from side to side to take everything in.

  Behind one of the tables stood Mehdi Abdelhak, who was small and trim with oily black hair. He spoke to a client who was trying to decide which olive wood bowl to choose while Verlaque picked up a small earthenware dish covered in a red and white glaze. “Olives,” Verlaque said, showing it to Paulik.

  Paulik picked up another bowl, slightly smaller, with white and green glaze. “Olive pits,” he replied, grinning, giving it to the judge.

  “Bonjour,” Abdelhak said, now standing before them, the client having paid and gone.

  Verlaque set the bowls down and shook the Tunisian’s hand. “Antoine Verlaque, examining magistrate of Aix,” he said. “This is my colleague Bruno Paulik, commissioner. Do you speak French?”

  “Bien sûr,” the Tunisian replied. “Mehdi Abdelhak. Boutique owner in Carthage.”

  Verlaque smiled, sensing that Abdelhak was slightly teasing him. “We’d like to ask a few questions about Sunday evening’s dinner at the cathedral,” he began. “A man fell ill while there, and died. Did you know him? His name was Cole Hainsby.”

  Paulik held up Hainsby’s photograph.

  “So sad,” Abdelhak replied. “I remember him, though.”

  “You do?”

  Abdelhak nodded. “He liked to eat everything. Everything.”

 
Needle in a haystack indeed, thought Verlaque. Seeing the judge’s expression, Abdelhak asked, “How did he die?”

  “M Hainsby was poisoned,” Verlaque replied. “The poison was added to one, or perhaps several, dishes.”

  Abdelhak held his hand to his chest.

  “We don’t know which dish,” Verlaque continued, “but will soon.” He hoped Dr. Cohen could indeed identify the poisoned food.

  “I can tell you that the dead man ate my eggplant salad twice, and had three pieces of baklava. Perhaps more. Was anyone else ill that evening?”

  “No, thankfully.”

  “Then it was only his food—”

  “Yes,” Paulik answered. “It would seem that M Hainsby was intentionally poisoned.”

  “But who would do such a thing?”

  Verlaque looked at the neat, well-dressed man, who was the first person to ask what he regarded as natural questions to an event such as this one.

  “I’m sorry,” Abdelhak said. “I’m curious. And I’m saddened by this.” He once again put his right hand to his heart and gently pressed down.

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, nothing at all. It was the same ceremony, same dinner, as last year.”

  “You went to the ceremony, too?” Verlaque asked. “I did as well. Did you see anyone else there from the sister cities?”

  “Yes, the German couple,” Abdelhak answered. “No one else. But as you saw, the church was full.”

  “And when did you bring in your food?” Paulik asked.

  “Mlle Dubois arranged to meet us at the green door in the square just before the ceremony. I was there early, and so were the Germans. The others must have come after the ceremony, or perhaps earlier. She gave us all her cell phone number.”

  “And when you brought the food in,” Verlaque asked, “was anyone else there?”

  Abdelhak crossed his arms and looked down. “Yes,” he replied after a few seconds. “Mlle Dubois, of course, the American reverend, and the old priest. That’s it, I think. No, wait. There was a thin elderly woman wearing glasses; they kept calling her ‘Doctor.’ She was very bossy.”

  “Dr. Bonnet?”

  “I think so. Yes, bonnet, like ‘hat.’ That was it.”

  Paulik put his hand to his mouth, pretending to stifle a yawn. He rubbed his cheeks in an attempt to hide the creases from his smile.

  “Thank you,” Verlaque said, trying to get the image of his mother-in-law out of his head. “If you think of any other details, please call us.” He handed the Tunisian his business card. “In the meantime, I’d like to buy these bowls.”

  “And me, a small rug,” Paulik said.

  Verlaque looked at the commissioner, surprised.

  “For Léa’s room. The tile floor is cold in the winter,” he explained.

  “We’ll speak to the Germans and the Italians later,” Verlaque said as they walked away. “They seem to have cleaned up and gone for the afternoon anyway.” Verlaque now carried a small plastic bag containing the two bowls wrapped in newspaper. Paulik had the rolled-up rug under his arm, a rug that had grown from small to medium by the time he made his final decision. “Mme Hainsby is due at the Palais de Justice in an hour,” Verlaque continued, looking at his watch. “Do you mind if I speak to her on my own? I’ll explain later.”

  “That’s fine,” Paulik said. “I’ll see if the officers speaking to the cathedral staff and choir singers have discovered anything interesting. I’ve also asked Flamant and Schoelcher to dig up the backgrounds of the church employees, Damien Petit, and the Hainsbys.”

  “It’s just occurred to me,” Verlaque said, slowing down his pace in order to look at Paulik and to gather his thoughts. “If only Cole Hainsby was poisoned, the murderer must have been someone standing behind those serving tables at the dinner. Someone who was meant to be there. When they saw Hainsby, presto. They added the crushed acetaminophen. Otherwise it would have been too dangerous; the dish, had it been poisoned earlier in the evening, could have been given to anyone.”

  “Or it could have been someone standing beside Hainsby in the queue,” Paulik suggested. “I know what a frenzy those buffet dinners can be.” As they walked back to the Palais de Justice Paulik told the judge about the various buffet dinners he had been to recently, most of them for weddings or baptisms of cousins and their children. Verlaque smiled as he listened, glad that buffet dinners were something he knew nothing about.

  * * *

  Verlaque showed Debra Hainsby to a chair opposite his glass-topped desk. He hoped his stomach didn’t growl. On their way up the stairs inside the Palais de Justice, Verlaque and Paulik had each bought a chocolate bar from the second-floor vending machine. Verlaque had passed by the small kitchen behind Mme Girard’s desk, hoping to find an apple or orange in the fruit bowl, but it was empty.

  “How are you doing?” he asked in English.

  “Still shaken up,” Mme Hainsby replied. “But a bit better now that my sister and brother-in-law have arrived from California. Do you mind if we continue in English? My French is good but I’m feeling so tired . . .”

  “Certainly. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “What could be worse than my husband dying?”

  “M Hainsby was poisoned. Or the food that he ate was poisoned.”

  Debra Hainsby looked at him, wide-eyed. “That’s ridiculous. Was the food that off? And why did no one else get food poisoning?”

  “No, someone put poison in his food. Enough crushed acetaminophen to kill.”

  She put a hand to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. Verlaque slowly nudged a box of tissues toward her on the desk. “I’m sorry,” he said. She let out a loud sob, her head moving up and down as she held a tissue to her face. Verlaque looked out his office window at the clear blue winter sky and flinched when he saw a seagull fly past. He sometimes forgot how close Aix was to Marseille and the sea. He looked back at Mme Hainsby as she dried her eyes. “Will you go back to the States?” he asked. He had more pressing questions, but he wanted her to calm down a little bit first.

  Mme Hainsby shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. We like it here, and I have a job.”

  Verlaque nodded, knowing where she worked.

  She went on, catching her breath, “We’ve been here for ten years. We love it, you know; the great food, the markets, the slower way of life. When my sister visits all she talks about are their big four-by-fours, their credit card debt, and how worried they are about hospital bills and health insurance.”

  “I can’t imagine having to pay to go to the hospital,” Verlaque said, honestly. “You told me something on Sunday evening. A sort of confession.”

  “Oh, did I? I can’t remember anything clearly from that night . . .”

  “You said that you hadn’t been a good wife.”

  Mme Hainsby pulled at the end of her sweater in what seemed an affected way. “Did I,” she said, neither a statement nor a question.

  “Yes.”

  “I meant it in a general sense.”

  “It’s an odd thing to say when your husband’s just died, to someone you don’t know,” Verlaque said. “It very much sounded like a confession.”

  “That I don’t doubt,” she replied. “We had just been arguing. That’s why I said it.”

  Verlaque opened a file folder and took out the advertisement he had clipped from La Provence. “I assumed you were referring to this man,” he said, pointing to Alain Sorba. “To your love affair with him.” He didn’t have much doubt that Florence Bonnet was right in her observations.

  Mme Hainsby brought her hand to her chest, much like Mehdi Abdelhak had done, confirming what Marine’s mother had suggested. “So that’s what some of the teachers were laughing about,” she quietly said, choking on the last few words. She stopped, gathered herself t
ogether, and continued, “I saw them last week, gathered around that newspaper in the faculty room. When I came in they stopped laughing and quickly put it away.”

  “Were they jumping to conclusions?”

  She paused and then looked straight into his eyes. “No. I warned Alain that people at the school knew about us.”

  “Bon,” Verlaque said, putting the clipping back in the folder. “I’m afraid I have to ask you this: Would M Sorba be capable of poisoning your husband? Or would you?”

  “Never. To your first and second questions.”

  “How are you so sure? About M Sorba, I mean.”

  “Alain? Why would he want to hurt Cole?”

  “To get him out of the way? Because M Sorba wants to marry you? Because he’s jealous that Cole was married to you and not him? Should I go on?”

  “No, no,” she answered.

  “How serious is it between you and M Sorba?”

  “We’ve been . . . seeing each other . . . for almost six months.” She held her head down.

  “Is he married?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “But his wife lives in Marseille.”

  Verlaque pursed his lips. What did she mean by that comment? Marseille was hardly far, a twenty-minute drive. The seagull had just reminded him of that fact. “There was a meeting on Saturday night at the Protestant church,” he said. “Your husband broke something and you ran out of the room crying. Why?”

  “Can’t a woman get emotional sometimes?”

  “Crying over a broken glass or plate?”

  “I was frustrated with Cole that evening,” she said. “I was so confused—”

  Verlaque asked, “Were you going to leave him?”

  “I told myself I’d wait until after Christmas before telling him.”

  Verlaque nodded. He felt so tired; he wanted only to be at home, alone with Marine, looking at her bright green eyes. Making a silly joke and seeing her laugh.