A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  They turned into the square and Verlaque was relieved to see his beautiful green car still there. He fumbled for his key and found it, opening the doors. They jumped in. Verlaque put the key into the ignition and turned. The Porsche made a sad, whining sound, then stopped making the noise altogether. He looked at Paulik, who said nothing but couldn’t help grimacing. Verlaque tried again, and not a sound came out.

  “No worries,” Paulik said. He took his phone out of his pocket and called the police station, giving them the license plate number. He ordered someone to follow the car and stop it for a routine check. “Hopefully they’ll be able to match the scratches on the car’s right-hand side with the paint of Damien Petit’s bike,” he said, glancing over at Verlaque, who had let his hands drop from the steering wheel and was staring straight ahead.

  “I think I’ll upgrade our lunch wine to a Grand Cru,” Verlaque said, opening his car door.

  Paulik shrugged and got out of the car. He wasn’t about to argue.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Marine and Sylvie, on the other hand, did eat lunch at the restaurant she and Verlaque had so enjoyed the previous evening. Marine sipped sparkling water, feeling tired. Although she loved Sylvie dearly, shopping with her was an Olympic sport. Every time Marine had picked out an object, Sylvie came up with two or three reasons why it would be an inappropriate gift. Sylvie’s choices, on the other hand, Marine found too expensive, too luxurious. Her parents didn’t care about luxuries, nor did Antoine’s father, who had lived surrounded by luxury, and now, in his old age, appreciated simpler things. And what to buy Rebecca, the elder Verlaque’s American girlfriend, thirty years his junior and who looked like Naomi Campbell? In the end Marine chose for Rebecca a showy coffee table book about Venetian palaces—“With recipes!” the sticker on the book boasted. She was sure Rebecca would never use the recipes, but she could imagine the supermodel lookalike curled up by the fire in winter, enjoying the dreamlike images of the palaces. After two hours of shopping, that had been Marine’s only purchase.

  Marine ordered the winter soupe au pistou, and Sylvie, a pot-au-feu. “You can have a glass of wine if you want,” Marine heard Sylvie saying. “Just because I’m not having one doesn’t mean you can’t.”

  Marine said, “No, but thanks. I don’t feel like wine.”

  Sylvie rubbed her temples and moaned. “Who would have thought that the older I get, the more fun end-of-semester parties are? Never mix gin and vodka cocktails.” She looked at her friend and expected a laugh, but instead Marine was staring off into space.

  Their meal arrived, and Sylvie took a piece of bread and dipped it into her broth. “This pot-au-feu will cure my hangover,” she said. “Nothing like beef broth and veggies on a cold day.” She looked at Marine, who was slowly twirling around her bean and vegetable soup with a large spoon. Marine sighed. Sylvie ate her bread, delicious now that it had soaked up the salty broth. She swallowed and said, “What’s going on with you?”

  Marine took in a big breath and blew it out. She told Sylvie of her recent fatigue, the unusual impulse to stay clear of coffee and alcohol, the nonconversation that she had had with her husband about children, and her current self-diagnosis. And for the rest of the lunch they talked of nothing else.

  Less than hour later they said good-bye at the restaurant’s front door. Marine found herself walking toward the Place des Cardeurs, hoping some of the stands would still be open. She might find something interesting from Italy or Tunisia for her parents. She smiled, thinking that she could surprise Antoine with a Tunisian carpet, since he was hinting so badly about wanting one the other night. She walked with a purpose now, feeling better about so many things.

  She was glad to have had such a good talk with Sylvie; in contrast with Sylvie’s gift-buying opinions, her advice was constructive and thoughtful. “I have only your best interests in mind, Marine,” Sylvie had said. “But you need to tell Antoine as soon as possible. Once you do, you’ll feel relieved, and you can discuss the options and make a decision that’s right for both of you.”

  Marine got to the Cardeurs and stopped to tighten her scarf as the wind ripped through the big open square. She saw the man from Philadelphia holding on to a section of his tent’s canvas while a woman quickly retied it to a pole. Marine looked across to get her bearings; she couldn’t quite remember where the Tunisian’s stall was, and then she saw France Dubois standing in the wind alone, staring at the Americans. Marine waved and yelled France’s name. France saw Marine and turned her back, running behind another stall. “France, wait!” Marine hollered. Marine began to run and noticed the German woman watching the whole thing. Anna Rösch saw Marine and quickly looked down, pretending to furiously scrub down her counter.

  “Bonjour,” Marine said as she approached the Tübingen stand. “What’s going on? I saw you watching Mlle Dubois.”

  “Perhaps,” Anna said quietly.

  “Why is she behaving like that? In this cold wind?”

  Anna shrugged.

  “Listen,” Marine said. “Mlle Dubois may be in trouble . . .”

  Anna looked up, surprised. Marine continued her bluff. “Mlle Dubois is a prime suspect in Cole Hainsby’s murder. I need to know why she keeps watching the stand from Philadelphia. It may help her case.” Marine leaned in and explained that Hainsby had been responsible for the death of France’s parents.

  “Well, I don’t know very much,” Anna whispered. She looked over at her husband, who was chatting with a customer. “Come, follow me,” she said as she led Marine to a spot out of the wind in the back of their tent. “Mlle Dubois is watching monsieur. The man.”

  “The American?” Marine asked. “Why?”

  “Last year he was here, and he accosted Mlle Dubois.”

  “You mean he harassed her?”

  “Yes, in a . . .” She paused, putting a finger in the air. “An inappropriate way,” she said, having found the correct word in French. She took hold of Marine’s arm. “I told mademoiselle to report it, but she’s afraid to. So she comes and watches him.”

  “Did you witness it?” Marine asked. “Last year?”

  “No, this is our first visit to Aix,” Anna said. “But I saw him grab France this year, trying to talk to her, and it was clear to me she wanted nothing to do with him. When he was gone I took her a cup of warm tea with some schnapps and she broke down, crying, and told me everything.”

  “He sees her watching him, obviously,” Marine said.

  Anna nodded. “I think that she is trying to wear him down, make him feel guilty. That, or she’s trying to decide what to do. Waiting.”

  “Thank you,” Marine said. “It makes sense now, her strange behavior.”

  “She’s a sweet girl,” Anna added.

  “Yes,” Marine said. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  They parted and Marine walked slowly up the path, keeping an eye out for France Dubois. She saw the stand from Carthage and went up to it, smiling at the owner, who was folding a large piece of bright yellow fabric. She touched it and said, “It’s beautifully soft.”

  “And perfect for a bed in the summer, when it’s hot but you still need a coverlet,” Mehdi Abdelhak answered. He looked at Marine and asked, “Don’t I recognize you from that evening at the cathedral?”

  “You have a good memory,” Marine said. “I did help myself to some of your food more than once.”

  Abdelhak smiled and introduced himself. “I never forget a client, especially one who loves Tunisian food.” But the truth was, she was so beautiful he could hardly take his eyes off her. Like his wife, whom he dearly missed. He wished they could have afforded to buy a plane ticket for her to accompany him to Aix.

  Marine asked to look at some of the carpets, and Abdelhak was only too glad, as he had sold only three so far. “And the priest?” he asked as he held up one of his favorites. “Is it true he was sh
ot?”

  “Yes, he wasn’t killed,” Marine said. “But he may not live.”

  Mehdi dropped his head and clasped his hands.

  “I’ll take this one,” Marine said. “It will be lovely in our kitchen.”

  He brought his head back up and looked at her, relieved and happy. This sale would help pay for part of his flight. It was then that Marine noticed a thin gold chain around his neck, with a small crucifix hanging from it. “You’re a Christian?” she asked.

  Mehdi nodded. “Here, I can wear this chain, but not back home. It would cause too many . . . misunderstandings. My wife is Muslim.”

  “She knows about your faith, I take it.”

  “Oh, yes, I told her when we met. She didn’t mind then, and doesn’t now.”

  “That’s the loveliest thing I’ve heard all week,” Marine said, getting her wallet out of her purse. She paid, and then helped him to roll up the rug and tie it with a piece of rope at either end.

  “Will you manage?” he asked. “I can bring it to your apartment after I close the stand, perhaps? If it’s downtown . . .”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” Marine answered. “We live near the cathedral, and it’s a small rug.”

  “I will go to the church this evening,” he said. “And light a candle for the priest.”

  Marine nodded and thanked him. She took the carpet and hoisted it up on her right shoulder, holding on to its bottom end with both her hands. “Good-bye, and happy holidays if I don’t see you again!” she said.

  Halfway home she began wishing that she had taken up M Abdelhak’s offer of bringing the carpet to her apartment. But it was a surprise for Antoine, and it wasn’t that heavy. She just hadn’t counted on the wind. Every so often she looked at a shop or a landmark and told herself, Not far now. You just passed the Museum of Old Aix . . . now the shop that sells expensive scented candles from Paris . . .

  Once inside their building she set the carpet down and rested, sitting on the cane chair that had always stood in the corner, waiting for someone to use it. She had never sat in it before. She felt like an old woman. After a few minutes she picked the carpet back up—it really wasn’t that heavy—and ascended the four flights to their apartment. She put her key in the lock and opened the door with her hip but stopped when she heard voices. “Merde,” she mumbled as she made straight for the back of the apartment and their bedroom.

  “Marine!” Verlaque yelled. “We’re in the dining room!”

  “I’ll be right there!” she answered, walking into their walk-in closet and shoving the carpet behind a row of her colorful summer dresses. She closed the closet door and walked down the long hallway, past the kitchen, to the dining room, where Antoine and Bruno Paulik were sitting.

  Paulik jumped up and gave Marine the bises.

  “Marine, you have to try this wine,” Verlaque said, grabbing the bottle. “Oh, sorry, there isn’t any left.” Paulik smiled sheepishly.

  “That’s all right,” Marine said, sitting down. “I have some information for you.” She told them about France Dubois and Jason Miller, and about Mehdi Abdelhak’s Catholicism. “Now we know why Abdelhak was taking pictures of Saint Roch’s chapel,” she said as she finished.

  “Yes,” Verlaque agreed. “But France Dubois . . .”

  “Oh, she’s harmless, Antoine,” Marine said. She looked over to Paulik for support but he was now standing in the doorway, listening to a message on his cell phone.

  “The BMW was pulled over,” Paulik said as he hung up. “Alexandre Mareschi’s license is no good, too many traffic violations, so they’ve been able to impound the car and are checking it with Damien Petit’s bike.”

  Verlaque clapped. “Perfect.”

  Marine yawned. “You can fill me in later about this BMW,” she said. “I’m off to bed.”

  Verlaque gave her a sideways look; Marine never napped, unless on summer holidays after a sea swim. He was about to ask her about it when Paulik said, “Flamant is back and already has some info for us.” Verlaque leaned back in his chair so he could watch Marine walk down the hallway, and he noticed she hadn’t even bothered to take off her winter coat.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When she heard the front door close, Marine hopped out of bed and phoned Margaux, who was waiting at a nearby café for the go-ahead. Margaux arrived in ten minutes and soon Marine found herself sitting in front of the bathroom mirror wearing a dressing gown, her hair tightly gathered into a bun and secured with netting. She grimaced without her thick auburn-colored hair framing her face. It made her features come into sharper view.

  Margaux begged Marine to sit still as she applied foundation, eye shadow, and mascara, none of which Marine normally wore. “Stop flinching,” Margaux said as she rubbed—violently, in Marine’s opinion—the foundation onto her cheekbones. “You’re lucky that this isn’t taking hours, as it can sometimes take in my business.”

  “Mon dieu,” Marine said.

  “It’s a long process, but it can be fun, too,” Margaux continued, “because with makeup and a wig you’re completely transformed. You’re suddenly a different person. You can pretend to be anybody; change your accent, country, or even era.”

  Marine muttered something in agreement, seeing the appeal of it for some people, but not for her. She looked at herself, her dozens of freckles now hidden by the sand-colored foundation.

  “Time for the wig,” Margaux said. “Wait until you see this.” She put her hands into the wig and placed it firmly on Marine’s head, tucking in any loose hairs.

  Marine turned her head from side to side, grinning. It looked rather good. The wig was made from jet-black hair cut with blunt bangs, or, as Margaux had described, “Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.” Marine thought that it would have been impossible to get all of her thick wavy hair tucked up into the wig, but Margaux obviously knew what she was doing.

  “Now for the clothes,” Marine said, sounding a little more excited than she meant to.

  “The outfit is hanging for you in the bedroom,” Margaux said. “Luckily we’re the same size.”

  Marine got up, tightening her bathrobe, and entered her bedroom while Margaux packed away her makeup and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Five minutes later Marine walked into the kitchen and Margaux flinched, spilling some water onto the floor.

  “No longer Uma Thurman,” Marine said, turning around. “Even better.”

  “True,” Margaux replied. “More like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

  “The skirt’s a little short, isn’t it?”

  “You’re taller than me, that’s why.”

  “I do like the blouse,” Marine said, walking around the kitchen and wondering what Antoine would think if he were to walk in.

  “Leopard prints are classic,” Margaux said. “And that blouse is good and tight on you. But I just have to fix something.” Margaux walked over and undid one of the buttons on the blouse, revealing more of Marine’s chest. “Leave it like this for him.”

  “All right,” Marine said.

  “Can you walk in heels that high?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Margaux looked at her watch. “It’s time to go,” she said. “I’ll drive you and wait down the road in the car. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  Marine said, “It was my idea. He knows you, and even if he does remember me from the carol sing, we’ve never met and I’m very nicely disguised.” Marine walked around the apartment a bit more, getting used to her new height, hair color, and clothes. Margaux watched, smiling, as she saw her new friend embracing the role, as she herself had done dozens of times. She knew as she had applied the makeup that Marine was going to try to resist—as many nonactors did—the idea that they could so easily be physically changed, and that they might enjoy the transformation, even revel in it.

  “Take me to the ca
r,” Marine said in a strange voice, grabbing a coat and purse, also specially chosen by Margaux for the occasion. “I don’t want to be late.”

  “I like the Sophia Loren accent,” Margaux said, trying not to laugh.

  Marine was thrilled that Margaux recognized it. She lowered her voice and said, “I was born in Aix but raised near Naples in my mother’s family villa.” She closed her front door, locked it, and shook her head so that her new black hair swished back and forth as she slowly descended the stairs, holding tightly to the handrail. She turned around and continued her story, adding huskiness to her newly acquired voice. “I’ve just had a terrible divorce and have come back to Aix to raise my children. No more money to repair the villa. I’m feeling so sad, so sad.”

  “Perfect,” Margaux said, privately thinking the repetition of “so sad” was overacting a bit. “We’ll rehearse more in the car. What’s your name?”

  “Valentina,” Marine answered slowly.

  “All right, Valentina, just try not to break your neck in those heels.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later Margaux dropped Marine off at the Four Seasons bilingual school, parking the car down the road under a leafy plane tree. She brought a film script about the painter Cézanne to read, sent by her agent. She would be auditioning for the part of his ill-treated wife, Hortense. Margaux felt that she was too pretty to play frumpy Hortense, but with makeup these days . . . She frowned, doubting it would be an interesting role, but at least much of the story took place in Aix, so she wouldn’t have to leave her family during filming. And costume dramas were popular, so perhaps the film would be profitable. She tried to concentrate on the script and not worry about Marine.

  Marine managed to walk into the school, introduce herself to the ambivalent secretary, and make it up the narrow stairs to Alain Sorba’s office without falling. While she waited for her appointment she squirmed, feeling the microphone that Margaux had wired her up with, the cord running through the inside of her blouse and a tiny battery pack hidden, she hoped, by her velour blazer. She yawned, wishing she had a taste for coffee these days.