A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  “Sorry!” one of them said in French. “Lucas kicked it clear over the building!”

  “It’s no problem,” Verlaque said, handing it to them.

  “It kind of is,” his shorter friend said. “We’re not supposed to be in the parking lot during break.”

  His friend laughed, twirling the ball in his hands. “Yeah, we might scratch the gangsta’s car!”

  “Gangsta?” Verlaque said, trying to join in on their joke. He looked around and saw an enormous German-made SUV, black, with tinted windows.

  “Is that the director’s SUV?” he asked, winking. He knew the car must be Sorba’s, having met him and listened to the math teacher complain about low salaries. He took in the license plate number, and the sticker on the rear bumper that advertised a luxury automotive dealership in Marseille.

  “Yep,” the shorter one answered. “Gangsta Sorba.”

  They broke down in giggles and his friend poked him in the ribs. “Matthew!” he said in warning. They laughed again.

  “But your car is sweet,” Matthew continued. Verlaque marveled at their flawless French. Matthew was obviously Anglophone; his friend, Verlaque couldn’t tell.

  “Yeah, it’s gorgeous,” his friend added, walking around the Porsche and peering into the window on the driver’s side. “But doesn’t it break down a lot?”

  Verlaque frowned. Had they been taking lessons from Bruno Paulik? “No, it’s very reliable,” he insisted.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I met two very funny teenagers at the Four Seasons today,” Verlaque said as he chopped leeks. “Everything was a joke to them. They both had some serious acne happening, poor guys. They reminded me of me and Sébastien at that age.” He went on to tell Marine about the parking-lot conversation, but left out the comment about his Porsche being temperamental.

  Marine laughed at the story. “Did you and Séb have acne?”

  “Oh yeah,” Verlaque replied, putting the chopped leeks in a frying pan. “Didn’t you at that age?”

  “Not a one.”

  Verlaque looked at his wife and she self-consciously put a hand up to her chin. “Until now,” she said.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Liar,” she said, “but thanks. How did I get pimples at my age?”

  “You’re still beautiful,” he said, knowing it was a poor reply. “Are you stressed? You don’t seem it.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m more relaxed than I’ve ever been. Thank you for supporting me in my decision to quit teaching.” She hugged him and he kissed her. “I suppose in the grand scheme of things a few pimples aren’t really important.”

  “No, they aren’t.”

  “Tell me more about you and Séb as kids,” she said. Antoine so rarely spoke of his childhood, unless it was good memories of being with Emmeline and Charles.

  “Well, besides the fact that Sébastien was taller than me even though he was younger, and that we both had acne, I’m not sure it’s very interesting—” Verlaque stopped speaking and looked down at his cell phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. “It’s Bruno,” he said.

  “You’d better take it,” Marine said. “I’ll take over the veggies.”

  Verlaque picked up his phone and took it into the living room, while Marine stirred the leeks, reading the rest of the recipe. She smiled as she imagined her husband as a teenager. She had met his brother, Sébastien, only twice—a week before their wedding, and in Italy on their wedding day. He worked in real estate in Paris, had never married, and Verlaque rarely spoke of him. She turned to get something out of the fridge and saw her husband standing in the doorway, frozen. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Père Fernand.”

  She closed the fridge door and said, “What happened?”

  “He’s been shot,” Verlaque replied, holding on to either side of the door frame.

  “Shot?!”

  “During vespers this evening. I just had a beer with him last night . . .”

  “I vaguely heard the bells at seven o’clock,” Marine said, looking out the kitchen window, which had a view of the cathedral’s octagonal steeple. “But I didn’t hear sirens after. Is he dead?”

  “He was rushed to the hospital. When they took him he was barely alive. I’m going to the cathedral. Normally I wouldn’t go, as Paulik’s there already . . .”

  Marine said, “You should go.”

  Verlaque crossed the kitchen and took Marine in his arms. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said, but he knew she would.

  * * *

  It was a little after 11:00 when Verlaque returned. He could see a light shining in the living room and he called out, dropping his keys and cell phone on the kitchen counter.

  Marine was on the sofa, curled up with a book, covered by a dark red mohair blanket they had bought in Ireland. She quickly set her book down. “How is he?”

  “They’re operating,” Verlaque answered, sitting down and taking off his shoes. “You’ll never guess where he was shot from . . .”

  “The logette?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why so far away?”

  “Why so far away, you ask?” Verlaque said. “So he or she could leave quickly, unseen. It’s possible to get from the bottom of Saint Roch’s chapel to the front doors through a narrow hallway.”

  “And not be seen by the congregation,” Marine said.

  “Because the cathedral is so big, Paulik estimates that by the time one of the younger priests ran down the aisle to the front door, the killer would have been easily out of sight.”

  “That’s so horrible. You must be exhausted. Are you hungry?”

  “No, but I’d love a whiskey.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll bring you some almonds and cashews to eat.” Marine walked to the kitchen and brought back a tumbler of Lagavulin, placing a bowl of mixed nuts on the side table. She closed her eyes and pictured the square in front of the cathedral and the numerous streets the gunman could have run down. “Rue du Bon Pasteur would be my pick.”

  “Me, too,” Verlaque said, lifting his glass up as a thank-you. “You’re most quickly out of sight, and off Bon Pasteur there are three or four subsidiary streets, all of them narrow, quiet, and dark.”

  Marine asked, “How many people were there? A dozen?”

  “Twelve, exactly,” Verlaque answered, leaning back and stretching his legs. “Three nuns and four priests, counting Père Fernand. And five obligatory old women. The young priest who was the quickest to run after the assailant was so nervous that he chipped a tooth drinking from an Orangina bottle while we were questioning him.”

  “How did the gunman get up into the logette, anyway? Isn’t it closed off?”

  Verlaque laughed. “It’s blocked off by an old wooden chair sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Remember you saw someone up there during the carol service?”

  “Yes, of course I do,” Marine said. “I thought it was someone being nosy, or trying to find a better seat.” She took a sip of his whiskey and frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It doesn’t taste good tonight,” she answered, setting the glass on the coffee table. “Why Père Fernand?”

  “We began by asking his colleagues that very question this evening, and will continue tomorrow and all week if we have to.”

  “And?”

  “Tonight, no one had any answers,” Verlaque said, finishing his whiskey. “He hadn’t argued with anyone, didn’t seem to have enemies, was well respected . . .”

  “It may be something from his past,” Marine suggested. “Was he ever accused of . . . anything untoward? You hear about priests . . .”

  “Not that we know of. That was one of the first things we thought of. But he was an old man, so we’ll have to dig around some more.”

  “To ruin a childhood like that—”

/>   “Marine, don’t. It’s late.”

  She went on, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every couple on earth had one child, and gave them a happy upbringing. Not perfect, because that would be impossible, but happy.”

  “What would be a happy childhood for you?”

  “Much like my own, I suppose.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Neither Marine nor Antoine slept well that night. They ate breakfast in the kitchen standing up, neither taking pleasure in the good, strong coffee or the buttered toast. Verlaque finished quickly, went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and came back, kissing Marine. “I’m off,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything about Père Fernand.”

  “Please do,” Marine said, loading the plates and cups into the dishwasher. “I’m going to go to the house this morning and check on things. If we’re going to have Christmas there, which is right around the corner, I want to make sure the kitchen and larder are well stocked.”

  “Say hello to the house for me.” With that, he was out the door.

  * * *

  Despite herself, France Dubois realized that she was being caught up in what the media referred to as Christmas spirit. She knew, intellectually, that it was all a phony business; a poorly disguised competition among shopkeepers to entice shoppers. The storefronts of Aix were covered in bright green pine branches, with sparkling white lights and touches of artificial snow here and there. The two independent bookshops on the Cours had each installed gift-wrapping services outside on the sidewalk, and every time France passed there was a queue of buyers chatting happily holding stacks of books. François Mitterrand’s Lettres à Anne seemed to be a popular choice, and France shrugged at the idea of choosing to read more than a thousand pages of letters that the former president had written to his much younger lover. Letters should be kept private, she believed, especially love letters. Or had the president intended for them to be read one day?

  The cafés and bars had turned on their overhead heaters and arranged wool throws on the backs of chairs so that their patrons could still sit on the terrace and have a glass of hot mulled wine while they decided what shop to hit next.

  France would be staying here for the holidays. After her parents died she had been invited to an aunt’s in Lyon two Christmases in a row, until her aunt’s own daughter married a man from Picardy, where the aunt now spent her holidays. For the first few years France had been invited to join them, but she couldn’t see the point of traveling to the opposite end of the country for a holiday she no longer enjoyed. Besides, her cousin now had three small children and, as her aunt had reported, a small house.

  She walked toward the statue of King René, which stood proudly at the top of the Cours. She saw Judge Verlaque, his hands in his coat pockets, looking up at the king. “Hello,” France said, stopping to stand next to him.

  Verlaque turned to look at her. “Bonjour, Mlle Dubois,” he said. “Are you out Christmas shopping?”

  “No,” France answered. In fact, she wasn’t doing anything, really. Just walking. Should she make something up? “I heard about the shooting last night. Will Père Fernand be all right?”

  “I hope so,” Verlaque said. He looked back up at King René. France studied the king, shown here as a young man with long wavy hair and a prominent jawline. “Do you think he liked Christmas?” she asked Verlaque.

  “Undoubtedly,” Verlaque replied, smiling. “Good King René was one of our most cultured monarchs, and cultured people always go in for Christmas in a big way.”

  France laughed. “I did a research paper on him when I was young,” she said. “I still remember lots of odd facts. For instance, King René hated olive oil so brought his cows with him from the Loire to ensure a supply of milk and butter.”

  “The Mediterranean diet hadn’t got around yet in the 1400s,” Verlaque said. “Anything else? I like going home and impressing my wife with facts like these. She has a photographic memory.”

  “Yes,” France said. “René also sponsored Christopher Columbus.”

  “Really? That’s a good one.”

  “René was fascinated by world maps and globes. Provence didn’t have a fleet back then, but they did charter boats between Marseille and Genoa.”

  “Genoa,” Verlaque said. “Hence Christopher Columbus.”

  “Exactly. In one of Columbus’s journals he thanks good King René for his sponsorship.”

  “No doubt paid for by increased taxes here in Provence.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Well,” Verlaque said. “I suppose I’d best be getting home, even if I haven’t bought any gifts.”

  “There’s always perfume,” France suggested.

  Verlaque laughed. “I may end up getting that for my father’s girlfriend. For my father, I have no idea.”

  “Brightly colored thin down jackets are the rage in this winter’s menswear,” France said flatly.

  “I know!” Verlaque said, huffing. He hated fads. “What happened to good old wool?” Exactly on cue, two middle-aged men walked by, both with gelled gray hair, both wearing the down jackets, one bright green and the other silver.

  “Dare to be different. You could buy your father a traditional wool sweater.”

  “I think I may,” Verlaque said. “From Donegal or Yorkshire, one of those wild places.”

  “Out on the wily, windy moors,” France said in English.

  Verlaque did a double take at Mlle Dubois, surprised. Was she referencing that old Kate Bush song? It had always reminded him of a former girlfriend from Edinburgh. He had forgotten all about her.

  “Good luck shopping,” France said, turning to leave.

  “Thanks for the chat,” Verlaque said, surprising himself. Mlle Dubois was really quite funny.

  France gave him a little wave and crossed the Cours, stepping out of the way of a Diabline, the new electric tiny buses that moved people—mostly seniors—around the downtown area. She smiled as she watched the four occupants, all with shopping baskets balanced on their laps, chat with one another. It made her miss her parents.

  Her mind wandered as it usually did when she walked through Aix; she was on autopilot, quickly making her way toward the Place des Cardeurs, passing by the shoppers and cafés and spruced-up boutiques in a whirl of colors and smells that alternated between strong espresso and woodsy perfumes. When she got to the Place d’Albertas she realized that she must have been daydreaming more than she usually did, as she had missed her turn. No problem, she’d walk up the rue Aude for a change. She was about to head up the narrow street when she heard a voice behind her call out, “Mlle Dubois!” She stopped and saw a middle-aged man wearing a think woolen coat and a wool toque, with a camera hanging from his neck.

  “M Abdelhak, good morning,” France said, shaking his hand. “Were you taking pictures of the Place d’Albertas before you open up your stall?”

  Abdelhak nodded. “This is my favorite spot so far. Such a beautiful building that surrounds this square. But why isn’t all of it restored? Only two sides? Such a shame.”

  “I agree. I’m not sure why they haven’t finished. I know it’s been a difficult renovation job as the building was very poorly constructed and put up in a hurry in the eighteenth century.”

  Abdelhak asked, “Why so?”

  “The marquis who owned the palace behind us,” France said, gesturing to the Hôtel d’Albertas behind them, “wanted something attractive to look at from his windows. He bought the buildings on this street, kicked out the tenants and had the small houses torn down, then commissioned a local architect to build this square with the three-sided building that now surrounds it.”

  “But he didn’t want to spend a lot of money—”

  “Exactly, as he didn’t care about the people who would live in the new building. It was only for his view.”

  “That doesn’t sound
very kind of him. Perhaps the marquis met his end in the revolution.”

  France smiled. “Worse. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Oh, yes,” M Abdelhak said.

  “One evening, as the marquis was at dinner, he raised a glass of wine to toast his wife on their anniversary, but out of nowhere a young man appeared and brutally stabbed him.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He was avenging his father,” France said. “In those days the nobility had a strong hand in the running of a town, including schools. The young man claimed that the marquis was responsible for the dismissal of his father, who was the much-loved head schoolmaster in a nearby town. The family fell into ruin, and the young man was obliged to learn the butcher’s trade instead of carrying on with his studies.”

  “The marquis died?”

  “Yes, as did the young man, who was easily captured.”

  “Well, it’s still beautiful,” Abdelhak said, turning to look at the delicate fountain and the small rounded river pebbles that paved the square. “But a sad story for such a beautiful place.”

  France shrugged. “Some might say the young man did the honorable thing.”

  * * *

  Marine walked toward where she had parked her car. As she turned out of the Place de l’Archevêché she considered walking down the narrow medieval streets near the cathedral but realized that was silly—what could she find that the police couldn’t? She felt angry as she imagined the assailant walking, not running, away from the church on the streets that she loved and knew by heart. How would he have hidden the gun? A duffle bag, or even a cello case, like something out of a movie? This was la ville de musique, after all—in Aix it wasn’t unusual to see people carrying musical instruments or hear opera scales being sung from open windows. She felt her muscles tightening as she got close to the cathedral and instead turned to watch the laughing students file into the Sciences Po university building across the street.