A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  She finally relaxed as she drove, avoiding the major roads that led north out of town and instead taking the smaller roads that passed through subdivisions, the roads that her father had taught her to drive on. She traversed the village of Puyricard and was soon in open countryside—most of it vineyards, now barren but still beautiful in their orderly rows—toward their house. She listened to Radio France’s classical music station, relieved that it was commercial-free and that there still was such a thing as arts funding.

  When a flash of bright yellow—a bicyclist’s jersey—went by her on the road she realized just how comfortable she was: She had been driving slower than the cyclist. The cyclist waved as he passed her, rounding a corner just ahead and disappearing. Seeing the corner, she slowed down only to have a large black BMW suddenly behind her flashing its lights. “All right, all right,” she said, slowing down and getting as close to the right-hand shoulder as she could so that the car could pass. The BMW zoomed past, and for a second she worried about the cyclist. She, too, now came around the corner and saw the BMW now far ahead of her, amazed that it could have driven that quickly. “The biker!” she said aloud, realizing that the yellow jersey had disappeared. Music played over the radio—a piano piece she loved by Erik Satie—and the melancholic tune felt ominous. She slowed the car to a crawl, scanning both sides of the road. “Mon Dieu!” she cried as she saw the cyclist’s bent bicycle to the right of her car. She quickly pulled over, stopped, and put on her hazard lights, jumping out of the car. She could hear Satie’s piano as she ran to the cyclist, lying in the grass ten feet beyond the bike, his body almost touching the trunk of an ancient vine.

  She bent down over him; his eyes were closed and she couldn’t see any blood. “Hello?” she asked. From his face he looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. “Are you all right?”

  The young man’s eyes opened slowly. “I’m okay, I think,” he said.

  “Be careful,” Marine said. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

  He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. He answered, “No, miraculously.”

  “It may be this tuft of soft grass you landed in.”

  He lifted his upper body, propped on an elbow. Marine said, “Don’t try to stand yet.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “You’re like an apparition,” he said. “Saved by Beauty.”

  Marine blushed despite herself. “Saved by a helmet, is more like it.”

  He sat up fully and took off his helmet, running his fingers through his hair. “It feels like my head is still attached. Is it?”

  Marine laughed at the expression on his tanned, freckled face. “It seems to be. Shall I call an ambulance?”

  “No, no. I’m fine, though it’s hard to believe,” he said. “That was a lucky fall.”

  “You were hit by that car, weren’t you?”

  He looked toward the road but didn’t answer.

  “I can’t believe they didn’t stop,” she said. She read his reaction at once as fear. “What’s your name?” she asked, trying to be gentle. She had no idea if he was in shock or would go into shock in the next few minutes. “I’m Marine Bonnet.”

  “Damien Petit,” he answered. He slowly got to his feet, aided by Marine. As she helped him she searched her brain: his name was familiar. But why? Her husband’s face came into her head.

  She said, “If you don’t want an ambulance, then I’m going to take you and your broken bike to a hospital, and then we’ll go to a police station to report that BMW.”

  “No, we mustn’t—”

  “What were you going to do, walk from here? Can you even walk?”

  “Look!” he said, walking in a straight line and forcing a smile.

  “Damien Petit,” she said. She stared at him, forcing herself to remember. Damien wasn’t a common name. Then she had it. “My house isn’t far from here. I think you should come back with me, I’ll make us some tea, and you’ll explain why that driver just tried to kill you.”

  He laughed again, but it was as forced as his smile.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” she said. “Your business partner was murdered on Sunday.”

  Damien’s shoulders fell and he sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes.

  Marine placed a hand on his shoulder. “Please, come back to the house. You’ll be safe. I’ll call my husband to come home. . . . You’ve met him.”

  “Who are you talking about, Beauty?”

  “Antoine Verlaque, the examining magistrate.”

  “Merde. Of all my luck.”

  “No, your luck was not getting killed five minutes ago,” she said.

  * * *

  Marine hung up the phone. “My father is on his way here,” she said. “He’s a doctor and wants to check on you.”

  “Your whole family has me covered,” Damien said, leaning back in an armchair. “Next, your mother will be coming.”

  “Oh, you really don’t want that, believe me. Here,” she said, handing him a small glass. “It’s port. My father recommended you drink some.”

  “Thank you for all of this,” Damien said, taking a small sip. “Thank you for the home, and fire in the fireplace, and the drink.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Damien shook his head. “Is your front door locked?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Marine said. “You really are frightened, aren’t you?”

  He closed his eyes. “What crap Cole got us into.”

  “Wait until my husband gets here to explain your story,” Marine said. She wanted to tell him to save his strength, but worried that it sounded overdramatic. Until her father arrived from Aix, she’d have no way of knowing if Damien was really hurt. She looked at the young man, sunk into the chair with a woolen blanket over his bare knees, his bicycle shoes lying at his feet. Could he have been so angry at Cole Hainsby that he poisoned him? But the poisoning, which could have been done by anyone, had nothing in common with a shooting with a precision rifle. And she had just witnessed Damien being run off the road. Or had she? She didn’t actually see the car hit him.

  “Hello!” Verlaque’s voice sounded from the hallway.

  “We’re in the living room,” Marine answered, turning to smile at Damien. She wanted him to feel at ease so that he didn’t hold anything back.

  Verlaque hung up his coat in the hallway and walked into the warm living room, pressing his hand on Marine’s shoulder as he walked by her. He pulled up a footstool and sat beside Damien. “Bonjour, M Petit,” he said. “Are you feeling all right? Are you sure you don’t need to visit a hospital?”

  Damien shook his head. Marine said, “My father is on his way.”

  “Apparently I should be relieved that her mother isn’t coming,” Damien said.

  Verlaque snorted and laughed. “How about you tell us your story before the good doctor arrives.”

  Damien sat up straight and sighed. “This may sound childish, but it was all Cole’s idea,” he began. “I didn’t know anything about it. In the beginning, anyway. We desperately need money for our business. I was ready to call it a day; I can easily find work elsewhere. But Cole kept insisting that with a little input of cash we could make the business work again.”

  “So M Hainsby went to someone for money?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes, and not a bank, as you may have guessed,” Damien said. “The banks had already turned us down.”

  “Did he get the money?”

  “Yes, sixty thousand,” Damien answered. “That was last Christmas, and we were to start paying it back this Christmas.”

  “But you haven’t—”

  “It’s impossible,” Damien said, rubbing his hands through his hair. “We just didn’t make enough.”

  “Well, technically it’s not illegal to lend someone money,” Verlaque said. “But it is illegal to try to run someone off the road.”

/>   “And you have a witness,” Marine said. “Although I didn’t get their license plate number. Two men in the front seat.”

  “So all we have to go on is a black BMW sedan,” Damien said.

  Verlaque looked surprised. “Do you mean you don’t know who Cole approached for money?”

  Damien’s back went rigid. “Corsicans. Two brothers named Jean-Paul and Michel. I don’t know their last name; I figured if I didn’t know it I’d be safe, or I could pretend it never happened.”

  “Would Mme Hainsby know more?” Marine asked.

  “I doubt it, but you could try,” Damien said.

  Verlaque motioned to Marine to move toward the hallway. “I’ll go make tea,” Marine said, getting up. She looked at Damien, who was staring into the fire.

  “I’ll look for something to eat,” Verlaque said, getting up and following her. “Do we have any food in the house?”

  They walked into the kitchen and closed the door. “How would Hainsby know whom to contact?” Verlaque asked, whispering. “How does a mild-mannered expat go about approaching the underworld for money?”

  “Precisely,” Marine said. “It’s not like they can ask around at church for someone with mafia connections.”

  They locked eyes and Verlaque put a finger to his lips. “Père Fernand?” Marine hissed.

  “Impossible,” Verlaque said. “Let’s think of another connection.”

  “An expat friend who’s a small business owner,” Marine suggested. “Someone who’s also gone to the mafia for money.”

  “Not bad.”

  Marine started filling the kettle and Verlaque put a hand on her arm. “Gangsta Sorba,” he said.

  “The school director?”

  “Sorba knows Debra Hainsby—”

  “I’ll say he does,” Marine said, putting the kettle on the stove. “Sorba’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll ring her after we figure out what to do with our cyclist.”

  Marine looked at her husband. “We need to be careful with Damien,” she said. “He really might be in danger. Cole Hainsby is dead. And Père Fernand?”

  “Is out of surgery but still in critical condition,” Verlaque said. “I just got the phone call before arriving here.”

  The doorbell rang and Marine set down her tea towel. “That will be Papa.” She passed through the living room, where Damien Petit had drifted off into sleep, his chin resting on his chest. She felt a pang of protection, although he was perhaps only a few years younger than she was. She smiled as she entered the flagstone hallway, realizing that she had also enjoyed Damien’s gentle flirting, and being called Beauty.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Verlaque was grateful that Debra Hainsby had agreed to meet after school, and in downtown Aix. He didn’t want to go back to their house, a house that was once home to a complete—happy or unhappy—family. The café he suggested was in the same square as the Palais de Justice, but he was early for their meeting so decided to walk around the block and look in shop windows to clear his head. He passed by a shop selling foie gras, and a sharp memory came to life of Maria, the Verlaque family cook, asking his mother what she wanted to serve that particular Christmas. Mme Verlaque, holding her ever-present menthol cigarette with its ashes about to fall, breezed through their Parisian mansion waving her hand in the air and said, “Foie gras et vin blanc, comme d’habitude, Maria!” If Marine did get her way with hosting an elaborate Christmas dinner, which by now he had resigned himself to, they would not have foie gras or white wine, he decided. At least not together.

  He walked on, deciding to leave the foie gras for another time, and put his mind back to current-day Aix. This case began with Cole Hainsby, and he realized how little they really knew about the man. It seemed unjust. He was married, with children, had a business, and went to the University of Michigan. Is that all a life adds up to in the end? As he approached the café he felt his mood souring. He walked in and chose a table near the front, where Debra could easily spot him when she arrived.

  “Hard day?” the waiter asked as he stood beside Verlaque’s small round table, the tray balanced on his hip.

  “Not especially,” Verlaque answered. “I was just mulling over some thoughts about life and death. What does our short life add up to? And what—”

  “Give me your order before I shoot myself.”

  “An espresso. Please.”

  The waiter nodded and walked away, glancing over his shoulder and rolling his eyes in Verlaque’s direction. Verlaque liked this café but rarely came as it was too close to the Palais de Justice. But no colleagues were here this afternoon. He knew the waiters, but not their names. He was quite sure they knew him, including his name. He looked out the window and saw Debra Hainsby parking her car in the square. She got out, locked the door, and strode into the café, her back straight. He had expected her to have the hunched shoulders of the bereaved.

  Verlaque shook her hand as she sat down. “Congratulations,” he said in English.

  Mme Hainsby looked at him, confused.

  “On your parking spot.”

  She smiled. “Once in a while I find a spot on the Place de Verdun.” The waiter appeared and Debra ordered an apple juice.

  “How are you?” Verlaque asked. “And the children?”

  “Fine. My sister and her husband are helping enormously,” she replied.

  He leaned his forearms on the table. “Did your husband confide in you about his business?”

  “Yes and no,” she said. “We’d talk about trip ideas, and good restaurants and hotels for clients. But never about the details, like the finances, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was referring to,” Verlaque said. “You told me at your house that M Hainsby was worried.”

  “Yes.”

  “But that just before his death he seemed lighter; in better spirits.”

  She nodded.

  “His business partner told me that your husband went to some unsavory characters for a business loan.”

  Debra laid her head in her hands, shaking her head back and forth. “Stupid, stupid,” she muttered. “I was worried that he might have done something like that.”

  “Do you have any idea whom he may have gone to?”

  “He told me a few weeks ago that he had a meeting with Alain . . . M Sorba . . . I think that Cole got it into his head that M Sorba may have connections . . . who would lend him money.”

  “Do you think that’s true?” Verlaque asked. He wondered if it was Debra herself who told her husband of Sorba’s friends.

  “Probably,” she said, sighing. “Alain would hint about the underworld. He idolized the film The Godfather. He was constantly quoting from it.”

  Verlaque said, “That doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  She waved her hand. “I know. But it was more than that. He’d brag, after a few drinks, about dangerous friends of his, in Marseille. Powerful friends.”

  “We’ll look into this,” Verlaque said. “But do you mind my asking why you’ve turned against M Sorba? And why you held back this information when I visited your house with the commissioner?”

  Debra picked up her cell phone. She scrolled through some messages before stopping at one, then showed the screen to Verlaque. Verlaque put on his reading glasses and read aloud, “C’est fini, chérie. Désolé. Alain.”

  “He ended our affair with a text message,” she said, her voice cracking. “That’s also why I won’t be going back to that school, nor will my children. Cole and I both have very good life insurance plans, so thankfully I won’t have to.”

  “Do you have any idea with whom M Sorba is acquainted? When, as you said, he’d brag about his dangerous friends?” Verlaque asked, already forming an idea in his head of the number-one suspects in Aix and Marseille. He remembered the automobile dealership stic
ker on Sorba’s car, from Marseille, and someone Verlaque knew was linked to the Corsican mafia.

  “No,” she said. “But I do know that when Alain came into downtown Aix, he always made two stops. He preferred Marseille.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “To a cigar shop on rue Clémenceau,” she said as Verlaque tried not to wince. He hated the myth that all mafiosi were cigar aficionados. But he could go and talk to the proprietress, Carole, who was a friend. Debra went on, “And to a men’s clothing shop. On the rue Papassaudi. It has an Italian name—”

  “I think I know the one,” he replied, knowing exactly the shop. “Del Carlo?” The owners were Jean-Paul and Michel Orezza. The names fit with what Damien had told him.

  “That’s it.”

  “One last question. How well did Cole know Père Fernand at Saint-Sauveur?”

  “Not at all,” Debra answered. “He met Père Fernand for the first time on Saturday afternoon when we went to the cathedral for a sort of dress rehearsal.”

  “And you?”

  “The same,” she answered, looking genuinely surprised. “Why do you ask?”

  “Père Fernand was shot in the cathedral last night.”

  She put her hands up to her face. “Oh, my God. That’s awful. Was he killed?”

  “No. He was operated on late last night and is in intensive care.”

  Debra pushed aside her half-finished juice and sat back, tears forming in her eyes.