A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  Marine murmured in agreement. She looked over her husband’s head and said, “The Italians are arguing—”

  “That’s too bad. Especially when one is out to dinner.” He took a bit of the fennel and cream sauce that had obviously been strained through a sieve, and closed his eyes. “Heavenly, and I haven’t even tasted the oysters yet.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, savoring, when Marine wiped her mouth with her napkin and said, “Oh, I managed to phone my mother after you called me. She’s looking into the relationship between Père Fernand and Alain Sorba.”

  Verlaque sighed, annoyed. “Why your mother?”

  Marine shrugged. “I didn’t have time. I’m too busy editing my book. And besides, who but my mother would have reliable access to that kind of information?”

  “True.” They continued to eat and made plans for their Christmas dinner, to which Marine insisted that Verlaque invite his brother. He in turn argued that Sébastien would never come.

  “You’ll invite him regardless,” she insisted, finishing the last of her foie gras. “Trop bon,” she said, sitting back.

  The restaurant’s owner came and whisked away the plates and refilled Marine’s wineglass. He was about to do the same for Verlaque when the judge put his hand over the top of the glass. “I’ll switch to red now,” he said. “Do you have anything open?”

  “Well,” the owner said, “with the duck you chose, I’d suggest a red from the southwest. I have a Madiran from the Gers that I can open. How’s that?”

  Verlaque put his hands together in prayer. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” the owner said before leaving their table.

  The owner reappeared in minutes with a bottle of Madiran, which he showed to Verlaque before opening. He uncorked it and was smelling the cork when his wife, complete in her chef whites, came out of the kitchen carrying two plates with tea towels. “The plates are hot!” she said as she placed them on the table.

  Marine and Verlaque shook her hand and introduced themselves. The chef was also in her midthirties and had a long nose like her husband’s, but she had brown eyes. Verlaque and Marine put their noses to their plates and beamed at the chef, all smiles. “Limes?” Verlaque asked. “In my roast duck?”

  “I’m crazy about them,” the chef answered. “We used to travel to exotic places and now I use limes whenever I can. I put two whole limes in the duck cavity and used lime zest with honey and tarragon in the sauce.” She looked at Marine and said, “Your dish is more delicate. The seared pancetta will give a little salt kick and crispiness to the baked cod. I used lemons and capers in your sauce; the limes wouldn’t have been a good match for the pancetta and capers.”

  The chef and her husband left the table. “I love this place,” Verlaque said, pulling his chair closer to the table.

  Marine laughed. “Too bad the Italians don’t,” she said. “Now they are silent. She looks really sad.”

  “Maybe they’re breaking up.” He picked up his fork and knife and was about to cut into a duck thigh when he heard a familiar woman’s voice in the restaurant’s small entryway. He set down his cutlery. “Did you happen to mention to your mother where we’d be eating this evening?”

  Marine gulped and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I may have,” she said. It wasn’t as if we were having a truly romantic, intimate, evening, she wanted to add. But she stayed silent, knowing she shouldn’t have answered her mother’s question about where they were dining if she didn’t want this to happen. In fact, there was something Marine wanted to talk to her husband about, but at the last minute she had decided that a restaurant wasn’t the right place.

  “Hello, you two,” Florence Bonnet bellowed as she strode into the dining room.

  Verlaque and Marine got up and gave her the bises, while the restaurant’s owner came and placed a third chair at their table. Florence thanked him and hung her bicycle helmet off the back of the chair while Verlaque smiled at Marine. “Keep eating, keep eating,” Florence said.

  “Are you hungry, Maman?” Marine asked.

  “Oh, gosh, your father and I ate hours ago. I just heated up some soup.”

  Verlaque looked at Marine with a raised eyebrow and ate in silence, knowing that Florence Bonnet probably opened a tin of soup bought at the supermarket close to their house.

  Florence continued, “I’m so excited about this case I just had to ride up here and tell you what I’ve been finding.” Verlaque coughed and held his napkin up to his mouth. She continued, “Besides, you weren’t answering your phone, Marine.”

  “I put it on silent when I walked into the restaurant.”

  “Well, no matter. Lucky for you I’m in great shape. I made some phone calls and in less than five minutes,” she said, snapping her fingers, “I got some great info, very odd.”

  “Do tell,” Verlaque said.

  Florence leaned in and looked from her daughter to her son-in-law. “Alain Sorba and Père Fernand certainly know each other,” she whispered. “Sorba is on the board of directors of Saint-Sauveur!”

  “Wooow!” Verlaque said. Marine kicked him under the table.

  “Maman,” Marine said calmly. “Is that very odd?”

  “It certainly adds a whole new chapter to the case, doesn’t it?” Florence asked.

  “Perhaps Sorba is a practicing Catholic,” Verlaque suggested.

  “He is, according to my sources, which I’d like to keep anonymous for now—” This time it was Marine who coughed, taking a sip of water to clear her throat. Florence added, “But he’s the only nonclergy on the board. My source says that he forced his way on.”

  “But he’s on friendly terms with Père Fernand?” asked Marine.

  “They had a falling-out recently,” Florence said. “Just before the carol service. But no one knows what about.”

  Marine looked at Verlaque and raised an eyebrow. She thought her mother might be onto something.

  “Thank you, Mme Bonnet,” Verlaque said flatly. “I’ll go and talk to Sorba again.”

  Marine shot Verlaque a glance; she knew he was being sarcastic and wouldn’t speak to Sorba.

  Florence smiled and reached behind her, grabbing her helmet. “Glad to help.” She stood up and said, “Don’t get up. Carry on with your dinner.”

  “Please thank Papa again for helping out with the cyclist,” Marine said.

  “Yes,” Verlaque quickly added. “We’ll have to come here again sometime, the four of us!” He immediately regretted it.

  But Florence leaned in once again and said, “Tsss. Can you imagine all the food I can buy at the supermarket for the price of one of these meals?”

  Verlaque was about to reply when Marine beat him to it. “Yes, we can imagine,” she said, cutting into her fish and taking a mouthful, smiling at her husband.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The next morning Verlaque left for work later than he usually did, stopping on the landing to kiss Marine, who was standing in the doorway of their apartment. “What are you doing today?” he asked.

  “Oh, editing and some Christmas shopping, perhaps,” she replied. “And I’m having lunch with Sylvie.”

  “Let me know if you have any gift ideas for my father or Rebecca.”

  “Will do,” she said, waving to her husband. She listened to Verlaque skip down the stairs as she closed the door, then walked to the living room windows, where she could see the narrow rue Adanson down below. In about two minutes she saw the top of her husband’s head, and his shoulders covered in a navy wool coat. He walked down the street toward the Palais de Justice.

  She cleared the breakfast dishes. She’d arranged to meet her best friend, Sylvie, for a coffee and then visit some of the shops, looking for Christmas presents. She hadn’t seen Sylvie—who taught photography at the Beaux Arts—in ages, as she knew that Sylvie would be
busy with end-of-term grading and meetings. Sometimes the friends saw each other every day, and sometimes only twice a month, but it never worried Marine. They always picked up where they had left off, sometimes laughing so hard that if they were out in public they got stares, or, more often than not, Aixois smiled back, sharing in their happiness.

  Grabbing her purse and keys, Marine left the apartment and walked the same way that Verlaque had, toward downtown.

  * * *

  Verlaque sat at his desk, sipping an espresso from his favorite demitasse and reading over, a second time, Mme Girard’s resignation letter, which she had left on his desk late Friday night. It didn’t surprise him that his secretary—always so elegant and of an indeterminate age—was leaving the Palais de Justice. He’d plan a going-away party for her, although he couldn’t imagine Mme Girard tipsily swaying back and forth with a glass of inexpensive champagne in her hand, tears in her eyes, telling her colleagues how much she’d loved working with them and that they just had to stay in touch. Perhaps a lunch, just the two of them, would be better? Or a dinner, with M Girard and Marine, at last night’s restaurant? He was mulling these ideas over, playing with the letter, when Paulik walked through the open doorway, knocking on the door frame as he did.

  “Is everything okay?” Paulik asked, sitting down across from the judge, who had a faraway look in his eyes and was twirling a piece of paper around on his desk.

  Verlaque pointed in the direction of the outer-office area, where Mme Girard worked from a spotless desk. “She just resigned,” he whispered.

  Paulik got up and closed the door, then sat back down. “Merde,” he said.

  “Well, it’s not that bad,” Verlaque said. “And it’s hardly surprising. She’s been here forever.”

  “Exactly,” Paulik said. “You’ll have no say in who HR sends up here to replace her.”

  Verlaque stared at Paulik. “Merde. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m now realizing how much good work she did for me . . .” He let his voice trail off, feeling guilty that he had rarely thanked Mme Girard for her efficiency and, at times, the discrete background checks or delicate phone calls he had asked her to handle. How could she be replaced?

  “I’m just here for a short visit. I have a meeting in ten minutes, but I wanted you to know that last night I got hold of that guy from Lyon who wasn’t happy with Hainsby and Petit’s bike tour.”

  Verlaque said, “I can’t remember his name. Did he tell you anything interesting?”

  “Cédric Farou,” Paulik replied. “And, yes, he did. He complained about the usual tour hiccups—some of the days starting too late because of bicycle problems, not liking the lunches or dinners, that kind of thing. He was a real whiner, actually. But his biggest beef was with Cole Hainsby.”

  “What about?”

  “Reckless driving.”

  “Did he file a complaint?”

  “No, he just didn’t sign up for any more tours.” Paulik looked at his watch and got up. “I’ll be through in an hour or so,” he said. “Then I’ll check whether Flamant is back.”

  “Are you free for lunch?” Verlaque said. He’d suddenly had the idea to go back to last night’s restaurant. Perhaps they had a decent lunch menu?

  “Sure. See you in a bit.” Paulik opened the door and asked, “Did you find any interesting connections between Sorba and Père Fernand?”

  An image quickly came into Verlaque’s head in Kodachrome color: a small, neat Art Deco–era white stone building with a neon sign swinging back and forth in the wind that read DR. FLORENCE BONNET, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. “No,” he answered. “Nothing interesting.”

  Verlaque sat at his desk for another minute, but when more details of the detective agency began to appear in his head, including Mme Bonnet’s bicycle propped up against one of the walls of her stately office, all shiny mahogany and glittering glass, he got up and put on his coat and scarf. He had no idea where he was going, but it was better than waiting for information to come to him.

  The minute he was outside, the cold, crisp air and wind heightened his senses. He stood on the steps and looked at the Place de Verdun with its agreeable, old-fashioned café; the clothing store that hadn’t changed its look since the 1950s that sold sensible sleepwear and lingerie for grandmothers; and, on the corner, the Hermès shop that had replaced one of the city’s independent bookstores (there were still three or four in Aix, he consoled himself). From here he could also see the top of the Protestant church’s steeple. He walked down the steps, now sure that he had to go back and start at the beginning: the APCA. Cole Hainsby and Père Fernand had both been present the day of the Anglo church’s carol sing service. He traversed the square and began trudging up the rue Emeric David, his upper body bent into the oncoming wind. He shoved his hands into his pockets and flinched as he felt the soft wooly head of the elf, having forgotten that he had bought it. In less than three minutes he was ringing the doorbell of the APCA offices.

  “Good morning, Judge,” Dave Flanagan said as he shook Verlaque’s hand, which was red and cold from the walk.

  “Good morning, Reverend,” Verlaque said. “I just have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Dave said, motioning toward his office.

  “I’d like to speak to Mlle Dubois as well.”

  Dave shrugged. “She isn’t in this morning.”

  “Still off sick?”

  “Non,” Dave said. “I mean, she did come in, but then left.”

  Verlaque looked surprised. “Is that normal?”

  “Oh, yeah. But since she’s such a good worker I leave her to it.”

  Verlaque sat down opposite Dave. He began, “I understand that on the evening before the carol sing the Hainsbys argued here, during a potluck dinner.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you remember what about?”

  Dave rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid not. It happened often, you see.” He looked through a small window in his office door and said, “My wife, Jennifer, just walked in. Perhaps she’ll remember.” He got up and opened the door, calling to his wife.

  “Bonjour, Judge,” Jennifer said. She continued in French, “I’ve been delivering cakes to Fanny’s.”

  “Lucky Fanny, and lucky Aix,” Verlaque said, smiling. He motioned for Mme Flanagan to sit down beside him.

  Dave said, “Honey, Judge Verlaque wants to know if you remember what the Hainsbys were fighting about last Saturday night.”

  “Here, at our dinner?” she asked. She crossed her arms and looked at the floor for a second or two. “Cole broke a wineglass,” she said, looking up.

  “Oh, yes!” Dave said.

  Verlaque asked, “Is that the only reason Mme Hainsby was cross with her husband?”

  “No, there was something else,” Jennifer continued. “I remember now. Cole ate off someone else’s plate. That was it. He picked up the plate of someone else and started eating.”

  Verlaque looked at Mme Flanagan, stunned. “Thank you so much,” he said, getting up.

  “Oh, my!” Jennifer said. “Do you think?”

  “I’m a bit slow,” Dave said, puzzled, looking from his wife to the judge for an answer. “Oh!” he said after a few seconds. “Do you think it’s possible?”

  “It’s entirely possible,” Verlaque said from the door. “Thank you both. I’ll see myself out.”

  Five minutes later Verlaque was back in his office, thankful that downtown Aix was so small. He hung up his coat and sat down, dialing Paulik’s number and getting his voice mail. He called Flamant’s number with the same result. He signed off on Mme Girard’s retirement letter, then began pacing around his office, wondering why, despite everything pointing at the Orezza brothers, he found France Dubois’s behavior so strange.

  Paulik arrived and watched Verlaque from the open doorway. “You’re going to wear ou
t the carpet.”

  “Let’s go,” Verlaque said, getting his coat. “We can have lunch at my apartment, if you don’t mind leftovers.”

  “Your leftovers are going to be just as good as any restaurant lunch.”

  “I may have a few surprises down in the cellar, too.”

  “Let’s not waste any time, then,” Paulik said, turning to go. As much as he loved his wife’s wines, he loved when his boss used the words surprise and cellar in the same sentence.

  As they walked, Verlaque filled Paulik in on his visit to the APCA. Paulik called Flamant’s phone and left a message to call him as soon as he got back to his desk. It seemed that Père Fernand might have been the intended victim all along. A car pulled up behind them as they strolled up the rue Gaston de Saporta. “Okay, okay,” Verlaque said, standing aside so the car could pass on what was normally a pedestrian street, save for merchants or residents who had passes. The car was a black BMW, and he caught a glimpse of the driver as it passed. It was the salesman from Del Carlo, gesturing to a group of tourists in front of him to get out of the way. “Look!” Verlaque said to Paulik. “The Orezzas’ thug.”

  Paulik grabbed Verlaque’s right arm. “The right-hand side of the car is smashed up.”

  They walked behind the car, which was still driving slowly, creeping up the road because of the heavy pedestrian traffic. “Look at the bumper sticker,” Verlaque said. “It’s the same auto dealer that Sorba bought his giant four-by-four from.”

  “He’s getting through,” Paulik said as the road cleared and the BMW picked up speed. He got out his phone and typed in the BMW’s license plate number.

  “Let’s follow him.” Verlaque had started jogging. “My car is parked up the road, in the square,” he said, thankful that he had been too tired to park his car in the garage. When had he used it last? He couldn’t remember; he just remembered parking it, turning off the engine, and putting his magistrate’s permit on the dashboard so the traffic police would see it. Everyone knew his car anyway, but you never know.