A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  Verlaque signaled for the bill and asked, “How did you manage to pay the steep tuition at the Four Seasons?”

  She said, “Because I worked there, we got a seventy-five-percent discount.”

  “And the remaining twenty-five?”

  Mme Hainsby blushed and got up to go, collecting her coat and purse. “I think you can work that out on your own.”

  Verlaque watched her leave the café, a million questions swimming in his head. He got up and walked to the bar and ordered a glass of sherry. Cole Hainsby must have wondered how they were managing to pay even a quarter of the very steep tuition. Did he finally figure it out and threaten Sorba? And did Hainsby confide in Père Fernand? Or did Sorba, who was probably a churchgoer and might have even gone to confession, regretting it immediately after? And what about the Tunisian, who seemed very interested in the chapel of Saint Roch, situated right below the logette from where the shots were fired? As he sipped the sherry he stared straight ahead at the glass and brass shelving that held dozens of liquor bottles in need of dusting. He couldn’t see any connection between a rug seller from Carthage and an old priest in Aix, and a failing expat businessman.

  The waiter stood at the end of the bar and slowly turned the pages of a dog-eared L’Équipe while watching Verlaque. Verlaque finished his sherry and put some money on the zinc counter and saluted to the waiter.

  “Take it easy,” the waiter said. “Have a nice meal tonight, relax, put a log in the fire . . .”

  Verlaque smiled as he opened the door. “That’s exactly what I intend to do. Ciao.” He walked out and turned left into the Passage Agard, a shortcut to the Cours Mirabeau that was built by a nineteenth-century lawyer—Maître Agard—who wanted to get from his property in the Quartier Mazarin to the Palais de Justice quicker. One landowner refused to sell, at the end of the passageway closest to the Cours, hence one section of the alley was narrower. Verlaque stopped at the top of the bottleneck to let some people pass through. He thought of the millions of people over the course of almost two hundred years who had also walked through the passageway, stopping at this exact point to wait their turn: lawyers and judges, policemen and thieves, servants and nobility (the nobility albeit rarely, he guessed), students and teachers, mothers and children, tourists, and Paul Cézanne and Émile Zola.

  Once out in the wide-open Cours, he looked up at the blue sky and walked south toward the cigar shop on the rue Clémenceau. He quickly walked past the Café Mazarin, not wanting to run into anyone he knew, as it was getting close to 7:00, when the shops closed, and turned right on Clémenceau. Two doors up was Carole’s tobacco shop; the smell of it drove him wild. As he opened the front door a small bell sounded, and Carole looked up from where she had been arranging cigars in the glass-fronted humidor. “Well, stranger,” she said, grinning. Verlaque’s fussiness and Carole’s flirting were of equal amusement to them both, as well as to Carole’s young trainee, a shy man in his early twenties.

  “Hello, dear,” Verlaque said, leaning over the counter to give Carole the bises. The trainee watched out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to be captivated by dusting the mahogany shelves.

  “What can I do for you today?” she asked, still grinning.

  Verlaque swallowed. Before he got married, flirting with other women—which was a French pastime—had been easy. Now it only made him nervous. “Two Wide Churchills, please.”

  She opened the humidor and reached in, pulling out a familiar cigar box. The Romeo y Julieta label was one of his Cuban favorites: a velvet-leotard-wearing Romeo who reaches up to kiss Juliette, who’s leaning over her Verona balcony, the image surrounded by a row of gold medals the cigar company had won over the years, beginning in 1885. Carole put the cigars in the palm of her hand and let Verlaque touch them. He did so, smiling. She said, “They’re humid, just to your taste. You’re my only customer who likes his cigars so humid they’ve got green mold.”

  “I can almost smell the dampness coming off of them,” he said, putting one up to his nose.

  “Is there anything else?” she asked. The trainee coughed.

  “Some information.”

  “I should have guessed.”

  “About a cigar buyer named Alain Sorba,” he said.

  Carole tilted her head to one side. “Describe him.”

  “Big Marseillais about my age or a little older,” Verlaque said. “Wears cheap—no, expensive but tacky—suits and has a loud laugh. I’d guess buys only Cohibas.”

  She laughed. “That describes a lot of my clients,” she said.

  Verlaque smiled, knowing she couldn’t explain why without criticizing her own clients: the ones who paid for her one-thousand-square-foot apartment near the Hôtel de Ville. Show-offs who bought the most popular, and most expensive, cigar brands. Verlaque added, “He owns a private bilingual school north of Aix.”

  “Nope,” she said. Her trainee coughed again. “What is it, Edouard?”

  “I know him,” the young man said, shyly approaching the counter. “He was in here the other day, buying a big Cohiba.”

  Verlaque grinned and winked at Carole. “And how do you know it’s him?” Carole asked.

  “Because he was talking . . . well, bragging . . . about the school with another man.”

  “Who was the other man?” Verlaque asked. “Can you describe him?” Was it Damien? Or Cole? Or one of the Orezza brothers, who owned the clothing shop on Papassaudi, which was his next visit?

  The trainee answered, “He’s easy to describe. He was a priest.”

  Verlaque turned to Carole and asked, “Do you have today’s edition of La Provence?”

  Carole pointed to the newspaper rack behind Verlaque, beside the front door. He walked over and grabbed the top paper, turning quickly to page 2. He laid the paper out flat on the counter so that it faced Edouard. PRIEST GUNNED DOWN WHILE CELEBRATING vESPERS; IN CRITICAL CONDITION ran the headline. Below was a not-very-flattering photograph of the jolly Père Fernand.

  “That’s him,” Edouard replied.

  “Thank you,” Verlaque said, paying for his cigars and the newspaper. “For the cigars and the information.”

  “Come by more often,” Carole said, putting his purchases in a small bag. She walked around the counter to give her favorite customer a bises good-bye. Edouard went back to dusting, watching them as he slowly spread the dust around with his cloth. Carole opened the door for Verlaque, who walked out into the street and waved.

  As he walked up Clémenceau he called Paulik and got a busy signal. He dialed Marine’s number and she picked up on one ring. “Oui?” she asked.

  “How’s Damien?”

  “My father says he’ll be fine,” she said. “They both just left. Papa’s dropping him off at his apartment.”

  “Guess what,” Verlaque said. “Alain Sorba of the Four Seasons may have helped Cole get that loan, and Sorba was in the cigar shop the other day with Père Fernand.”

  “Carole’s shop?”

  Verlaque paused. “Um, yes.”

  “Is she still crazy about you?”

  “Nah,” Verlaque replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just tried Paulik but his line’s busy. Can you find out what the cathedral’s head priest and Sorba could possibly have in common?”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said. “If you take me out for dinner. There’s a new restaurant on the rue Lieutaud that’s getting good reviews.”

  “All right. Text me its name and I’ll meet you there at eight o’clock.” He hung up and turned left onto Papassaudi, quickening his pace, as it was almost 7:00. Del Carlo Men’s Clothes was halfway down on the right, and the lights were still on. He walked in, recognizing at once one of the Orezza brothers, Jean-Paul, standing behind the counter talking on the phone. Verlaque looked around; there seemed to be hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of stock in their shop. He knew they had thre
e other shops in Aix, all with the same amount of merchandise. For years rumors had circulated around the Palais de Justice that the shops were a front for the Corsican mafia, but the slick Orezza brothers had never dirtied their hands to the point of being caught.

  “May I help you?” a young man with too much gel in his thick black hair asked. He wore his designer sunglasses propped up on the top of his head, a fashion statement that had always annoyed Verlaque, especially indoors in winter.

  “Do you have any Harris Tweed jackets?” Verlaque asked, smiling and faking an English accent.

  The salesman snickered, not hiding his contempt for this new customer. “No,” he said.

  Jean-Paul Orezza barely glanced up from his phone, seeing that Verlaque, while he was wearing Weston brogues and an expensive wool coat, dressed much too conservatively for their crowd.

  “Any Burberry?” Verlaque asked, trying on his best idiotic grin. He was enjoying this.

  “Pas du tout,” the young man replied firmly.

  Verlaque looked around, waiting to see if the other brother would appear, but then realized he’d be better off heading back to the Palais de Justice, where he could ask Paulik, or another officer, more detailed questions about the Orezzas.

  The salesman looked at his watch and walked to the door, opening it. Verlaque smiled and passed through, not bothering to say thank you.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When Verlaque got to the Palais de Justice, Paulik was at his desk, hunched over, typing on his computer keyboard. “I thought Flamant was looking into all this?” Verlaque asked, pulling up a chair.

  “He’s on a two-day extra-learning conference,” Paulik replied, not looking up.

  “What? Can we pull him out?”

  “I tried for today but no luck,” Paulik answered. “Flamant sent me a text that he’d sneak out early tomorrow. Q. Where is the Q?”

  Verlaque smiled and watched the commissioner one-finger type. “Far left. You didn’t take typing, either?”

  “It was an option at our high school,” Paulik said. “But my parents made me take Spanish instead.”

  “I had to take Latin. Why are you here so late?”

  “Léa has choral practice tonight,” he answered. “I’m picking her up at nine.”

  Verlaque thought of the Pauliks’ rustic farmhouse in Puyloubier, about a fifteen-minute drive east of Aix, at the foot of Mont Sainte-Victoire, and the vineyards that surrounded the house, in which he was a silent partner. “What are you looking up?” he asked.

  “I thought I’d help out Flamant a bit and get a head start on looking up information about the priest.” Paulik stared at the keyboard, with his right index finger hovering over it.

  Verlaque ran a hand over his mouth to hide a grin. “Anything?”

  “Most of the information is recent, about the cathedral. Touristy stuff.” Paulik sat back and sighed. “Flamant will have more luck tomorrow. I got your message about the Orezza brothers and pulled their file.” He tossed a worn-out folder toward Verlaque.

  Verlaque opened the file and leaned forward, adjusting his reading glasses. He began reading, slowly turning the pages. “Jean-Paul and Michel have never been caught at anything,” he said, looking up at Paulik. “As I thought.”

  “But linked to lots of things,” Paulik said. “Read on.”

  Verlaque turned another page and read. “Well, hello, you.” He brought the page up close to his face and examined a mug shot. “Now I really don’t like you.”

  “You know him?” Paulik asked, looking over to get a look at the portrait.

  “He’s their salesman. He basically just threw me out of Del Carlo.”

  “What for?”

  “For having good taste in clothes.” Verlaque read more. “Alexandre Mareschi is the salesman’s name. Thirty-four years old, born in Porto-Vecchio. Hello! Three times arrested, twice in Corsica and once in Marseille. First time for theft, age twenty. Second, armed robbery four years later. And in Marseille, pimping. That was three years ago. He just got out.”

  “Read on,” Paulik said.

  Verlaque turned a page. “What? There’s another Orezza?”

  “Gérard. The oldest son. Alexandre Mareschi is a lightweight in comparison.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of him?”

  “Because he died ten years ago,” Paulik said. “A shoot-out in an underground parking garage in Marseille.”

  Verlaque looked at the commissioner. “What in the hell does this have to do with a food-loving priest?”

  Paulik shrugged. “I can’t figure it out. Was Père Fernand responsible somehow? The Orezza brothers finally got their revenge?”

  “The shooting certainly had the operatic qualities that the mob loves: during vespers, in a church . . .”

  “Père Fernand visited the cigar shop here in Aix with Alain Sorba.”

  “Carole’s place?” Paulik asked dreamily.

  Verlaque huffed. Carole was his crush. “That’s the one. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”

  “Yeah, what’s he doing with Sorba? It’s not like the priest has kids that he sends to the bilingual school.” Paulik snapped his fingers. “Some Catholic organization? Some sect. That Opus Dei thing.”

  Verlaque tilted his head. “I don’t know about Opus Dei. I think they’re too powerful for our little lot here in Aix.” He looked at his watch. “Merde. I’m late for dinner. See you tomorrow.”

  “Right,” Paulik said, turning back to the computer. “I’ll just do a little more snooping around on the internet.”

  Verlaque got up and as he left heard Paulik mumbling to himself that he couldn’t fine the E key. He was still smiling when he walked out the front doors of the Palais de Justice.

  * * *

  “Sorry I’m late,” Verlaque said as he sat down across from Marine.

  “It’s no problem,” Marine said. “I ordered a glass of champagne, as you can see.”

  Verlaque caught the waiter’s attention and pointed to Marine’s glass and then to himself. He looked around the restaurant. The walls were painted a shade of red that was a little off—was it too bright? Too maraschino cherry? Hanging from the walls were a few not very interesting African masks, a framed photograph of a French village from the turn of the century, and a couple of abstract paintings. “Looks like they’re still working out the theme of this place,” he said.

  “Linen napkins!” Marine said, unfolding hers and putting it on her lap.

  He smiled, remembering that it was Marine who had selected the restaurant and made the booking. His mood improved when he looked at the wine list, which had plenty of local beauties—including Hélène Paulik’s—and only a few Bordeaux. A waiter in his midthirties with a long, hawkish nose and bright blue eyes recited the chef’s daily specials with zeal. They each chose off the daily menu and the waiter left Verlaque to scour the wine list. “This is heaven,” Marine said, lifting her glass. “To be in a small charming restaurant, with you, alone.”

  Verlaque set the wine list aside and let his reading glasses fall to his chest, hanging by their chain. He tapped his champagne glass to hers. “I agree,” he said. “I like your first course choice of foie gras with lentils, by the way.” He winked. “The queen and her maid. The elegant and the earthy.”

  Marine laughed. “It’s the chef’s choice, not mine. He or she invented it this evening. Your warm oysters with fennel and curry are a bit bling, in my opinion. Like they don’t know where they belong. In Provence or Brittany or India.”

  Verlaque couldn’t think of a funny reply and was saved by the waiter, who reappeared to take their wine order. “Châteauneuf-du-Pape white,” Verlaque said, pointing to the one he wanted. “It’s rare to see their whites on a menu.”

  The waiter straightened his back and smiled. “It’s a big favorite of ours. My wife is from Avignon. She’s i
n the kitchen right now.”

  “She is?” Marine asked. “Is she the chef?”

  He bounced back and forth on his heels. “Yes. I’m proud to say we are breaking with tradition. The husband in the front room and wife in the kitchen.”

  “The menu looks and sounds fantastic. We can’t wait to start,” Verlaque said.

  A new couple entered the restaurant and the waiter excused himself to greet them. “You’re getting over your problem with the decoration,” Marine said.

  “Not quite yet,” Verlaque replied, grinning.

  “Oh, it’s the Italian couple,” Marine whispered, leaning over the table toward her husband. “Don’t turn around.”

  “From the sister cities?”

  “Yes. But only the wife can see me, and she doesn’t seem to recognize me. In fact, why would she? I don’t think I bought anything at their stand. It all seemed a bit overpriced.”

  Just as Verlaque and Marine were finishing their champagne and fighting over the last black olive, their first course arrived. The waiter had brought the white wine, and to their amusement asked which one of them was to taste. “In all the years I’ve been eating at French restaurants,” Verlaque said, “I’ve seen that question raised only two or three times.”

  “It’s something we’re learning now in hôtelière school,” the waiter, who they now knew must be the owner of the charming restaurant, said. “There are more and more women cooks and sommeliers, even in Europe, although we’re way behind North America.”

  “Have you been long out of school?” Verlaque asked, as the owner looked well into his thirties.

  “We went back to school late, both of us,” he answered. “Aline was a travel agent, and I worked in a busy Parisian bank. With the disappearance of travel agencies as a trade, and the stress of banking, it was time to change careers.” He served them each some wine and then left them to enjoy their first course.

  Verlaque lifted a spoon and said, “Travel agent. That explains the weird deco.”