A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  “Jean-Paul? Michel? Who is us, exactly?”

  Mareschi sat back and pursed his lips together.

  * * *

  On his way back home Verlaque called Marine but got her voice mail. He walked up Gaston Saporta and was about to turn left to go home when he saw, just past the cathedral, one of the Orezza brothers standing in the door of Père Fernand’s favorite bar. Orezza was speaking to someone inside the doorway, and gesturing as if angry. He then swung around and walked away, up the street toward the ring road. Verlaque quickened his pace when he saw that it had been Pierrette who was taking the brunt of Orezza’s anger. By the time he got to the bar she was behind the counter, busying herself with loading the small glassware dishwasher. He walked up to the bar and sat down on an available stool, next to an old man with a yellowed mustache who was drinking a pastis and reading La Provence.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” Verlaque said, gesturing to the pastis.

  The old man overheard and held up his glass, smiling. “To pastis in winter,” he said.

  “It was almost warm out today,” Verlaque said, smiling.

  “Positively,” Pierrette said, placing a glass of the alcohol, a bowl of ice cubes, and a small pitcher of water before him.

  “No wind, that’s why,” the old man added, and then turned back to the newspaper.

  “Peanuts?” she asked.

  “Sure, thanks,” Verlaque said. As he watched Pierrette he thought of Florence Bonnet again, and her news that Sorba and Père Fernand had had a falling out. And why did Sorba so badly want to be on the cathedral’s board of directors? It’s not as if that would help him get more students into his school, as the parents were mostly expats. Pierrette slid a small bowl of peanuts to Verlaque and he took a handful, half surprised that they were fresh.

  He poured water into his pastis and added two ice cubes, wondering if she remembered him from the other evening. She looked at him, hesitated a little, then came over and put her hands on the linoleum counter. “I heard Père Fernand might make it,” she said.

  So she does remember me, Verlaque thought. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m not religious but I did consider lighting a few candles in the church for him.”

  “I thought of doing that, too,” she said. “And although I’m against what the Catholic church preaches for so many reasons, they do good work, too.”

  Verlaque looked at her Castro T-shirt and the rainbow across it and nodded.

  She went on, “Especially priests like Père Fernand.”

  Verlaque looked toward the old man, but he was gone. Verlaque then spotted him at the back of the bar, watching two other old-timers play chess. He took the opportunity to be direct with Pierrette. “I just saw one of the Orezza brothers here,” he said. “It looked like he was threatening you. Or he was angry—”

  Pierrette looked toward the old men and then turned her gaze to Verlaque. “I can handle him.”

  “I’m afraid you might not be able to, Pierrette.” She turned slightly and he went on, afraid that he would lose the opportunity to speak frankly with her. “There’s some ugly business going on in Aix. One person has died in the cathedral, and another has been shot, and the cathedral is your neighbor. This bar is almost built up against it.”

  “I’ve always loved the irony in that,” she replied. “As did my grandfather, who was a Communist and an atheist.”

  He went on. “The Orezza brothers are connected to one of the men who came to harm in that church, an American businessman. But what do the Orezza brothers have to do with our friend the jolly priest?”

  “Père Fernand was helping me,” she said quietly and quickly. She rubbed her eyes and muttered, “I’m so tired of all of this.” She poured some pastis into a glass and added half the water Verlaque had put in his own.

  Verlaque asked, “What do they want? How was Père Fernand helping?”

  “They want this bar, of course.”

  Verlaque breathed out. “Of course. It’s so well located.”

  “Across from Science Po, where rich bourgeois kids learn politics,” she said. “And it’s on the way down into town, with hundreds of well-heeled tourists walking by daily.”

  “And you won’t sell?”

  “Not on your life,” she said. She looked around and whispered, “Where would these old guys go?”

  At that moment he wanted to jump up and embrace her. Instead, he raised his glass to hers and they toasted. He asked, “And Père Fernand stood up to them?”

  She blinked twice and nodded.

  “Would you testify against them?” he asked. “We can protect you, and the bar.”

  She nodded again, this time smiling.

  The old man came back to the bar and said, “That chess game is going to go on all night. You’d better fix me another pastis while I wait to play the winner.”

  “Coming right up, Yannick.” Pierrette said.

  Verlaque finished his drink and put a couple of coins down on the bar. “I’ll see you around,” he said.

  Pierrette nodded and busied herself with Yannick’s drink and he left, anxious to see Marine.

  Verlaque got home to find Marine upstairs, in a loft that she used as an office, surrounded by books that she had pulled off the shelves. He sat down in an armchair and watched her as she scanned the shelves, sometimes pulling books out or making an opening in the middle of a row with her hands to see what was behind. “I knew one day I’d regret doubling up all these paperbacks,” she said without turning around.

  “You mean there are two rows on those shelves?” Verlaque asked. “One in front and one behind?”

  “Yep. At least they’re sort of in order, theme-wise. I thought when I quit the university and emptied out my campus office I’d have lots of time to sort out my books.”

  “I take it that you’re looking for something for a text you’re writing,” Verlaque said, getting up and stretching. “I’m going to have a glass of white wine. And you?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Verlaque looked at Marine with raised eyebrows. “What? No wine?”

  “And I’m not looking for this book for me,” Marine said, changing the subject. “It’s for you. For the case.”

  Verlaque sat down again. “You sound like your mother.”

  Marine laughed and then snapped her fingers. “Bingo!” She reached behind a row of books and picked one out, holding it up and waving it in the air. It was a thin paperback with a yellowed cover. She walked over and kissed Verlaque, then sat down behind her desk, opening the book and hurriedly flipping to the contents pages.

  “What’s the book?” Verlaque said, intrigued.

  “Italian short stories from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.”

  “I married you partly for your reading choices.”

  “Here it is,” she mumbled, ignoring his joke. “Page 145. ‘The Reverend Walnut’ by Luigi Capuana. Sicilian, born in Catania in 1839.”

  “Is it in Italian or translated into French?”

  “French,” she said, turning the pages. “My Italian wasn’t good enough then. I bought it in junior high.”

  Verlaque grinned, amazed that he had married someone who bought books like this one when she was not yet sixteen. “Hold on, I will get that glass of wine. Nothing for you? Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Marine said. “Hurry up, though.”

  “All right, all right,” Verlaque called from the stairs. A few minutes later he came back up to the loft, carrying a large glass of wine the color of straw. He sat back down, took a sip, and said, “Ready.”

  Marine said, “‘Walnut’ is a nickname for the young man in this story, Lucio, born prematurely. The midwife holds him up and says, ‘He’s as small as a walnut,’ and the nickname sticks.”

  “Even when he becomes a priest?”


  “Yes,” Marine answered.

  “So are we talking here about Père Fernand? Listen I have some news about him—”

  “No. We’re talking about Lucio Somebody-or-other, the name tattooed on Vittoria Romano’s lower arm. There’s a small walnut tattooed there, too.”

  “I saw that walnut too. It looked so odd. . . . Listen, Marine,” he said, holding his hand up. “I was wrong about the importance of the tattoo. The Orezza brothers and Alain Sorba are behind all of this.” He went on to tell her of Pierrette’s story.

  Marine sat back in the chair and sighed. “The tattoo is a better angle.”

  Verlaque snorted. “The Reverend Walnut?” He took a big gulp of wine.

  “Do you really think that small-time thugs like the Orezza brothers would shoot someone? In a church? Just because they want to buy a bar?”

  “It’s more plausible to me than the walnut short story. The bar owner just confirmed . . .”

  “The Italians are somehow connected to this,” Marine said as she rubbed her eyes.

  Verlaque knew he had spoken unkindly. It had been his idea to send Marine on that wild-goose chase, and she had done it, even though she had sounded so tired on the phone. “How did you manage to see the tattoo? Was it difficult?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t tell him that when he called her she had been struggling to remove all of the war paint Margaux had applied to her face, and despite the fact that she had secretly loved dressing up and acting in front of Sorba, it had exhausted her. It was a little like teaching, she reflected, with all those young eyes on you. She continued, “It’s cold out, so she had a long-sleeved sweater on. I bought my cheese, then asked for a glass of water, which she kindly gave me. I then purposely spilled some water on her arm. What do you do when your arm gets wet but you’re wearing long sleeves?”

  Verlaque set his glass down and looked at his right arm. He shook it and immediately pulled up his jacket sleeve. “You’re smart,” he said, laughing.

  “I grabbed some paper towels that had been lying on the counter and tried to help her dry her arm,” Marine said. “It was then that I could see the walnut, with its distinctive little ridges, and the name. It triggered memories of this short story, as his name is the same in the story—Lucio.”

  “You remembered all of this because of the name Lucio?” Verlaque asked, doubting the importance of this bizarre short story but not wanting to offend Marine.

  “Yes, because Lucio became one of my favorites.”

  “Favorites?”

  “Favorite names. You know, when teenage girls pick out their future baby names.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” He took a sip of wine and looked at Marine over the top of his glass. She had closed the book and was holding it in her hands, smelling its pages with her eyes closed. “Did you have any other favorites?” he asked quietly.

  “Rosa,” Marine answered.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Verlaque met Paulik on the steps of the Palais de Justice. He shook Paulik’s hand and said, “We seem to arrive at the same time most mornings.”

  “Mental telepathy,” Paulik said, smiling.

  “No, it means I’m slower than you are, as my apartment is a three-minute walk away and your house is a fifteen-minute drive.”

  “To be honest, having a kid helps,” Paulik said. “Léa starts school now at eight o’clock.”

  “Right, I forgot,” Verlaque replied.

  “Flamant sent me a message,” Paulik said. “He got here early and found out more information on that Italian family.”

  “Forget about that,” Verlaque said, opening a door for the commissioner. “Père Fernand was helping the owner of the little bar next to Saint-Sauveur fight off the Orezza brothers, who were trying to threaten her into selling.”

  “So Père Fernand was at it again, helping the little guy.”

  “Yeah, in this case girl, a woman named Pierrette Lapierre.”

  Paulik said, “What? She has Pierre twice in her name, poor thing.”

  “I know, Bruno,” Verlaque said, smiling in spite of himself.

  “Is she willing to testify?”

  “Yes.” He thought of Vittoria Romano’s tattoo, the name Lucio, and the walnut, and didn’t bother telling Paulik. It was too inconsequential next to Pierrette and the threats of the Orezza brothers that he had seen with his own eyes last night.

  “Does Mlle Lapierre know for a fact that one of the Orezza brothers shot Père Fernand?” Paulik asked.

  “No.”

  “How did they poison Cole Hainsby?” Paulik asked as they walked up a flight of stairs.

  Verlaque stopped and looked at the commissioner. Before he could say “I don’t know” they ran into a magistrate from Marseille, shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries. The magistrate, a thin, gaunt man with white hair and a hawkish nose, was also a lover of old cars. He asked Verlaque about his Porsche.

  “It’s in the shop,” Verlaque replied. “I think I may have to make that decision one always faces with old cars. Do I sink a lot of money into it, or sell it and buy a newer model? I stayed up late last night smoking a cigar and making one of those pros-and-cons lists.”

  The magistrate wished Verlaque good luck and excused himself; he had to get back to Marseille.

  Paulik chuckled as he and Verlaque walked on. “Hélène and I do those lists, too. The last one was a long time ago, though; maybe twelve years or so.”

  “That’s a long time,” Verlaque said. “You obviously make decisions more easily than I do.”

  “We were trying to decide whether to have children or not. We talked about it for five years after we got married. It wasn’t an easy decision; or, I should say, it was one we didn’t take lightly.”

  Verlaque nodded and mumbled, “Merci.” It was a little too much information; a Parisian would never have been that forthcoming. He didn’t need to ask Bruno Paulik if the decision had been a good one. The Pauliks openly adored their daughter, as did he.

  “I’ll meet up with you in a few minutes,” Verlaque said suddenly.

  “All right,” Paulik said, hoping he hadn’t gotten too personal. “I’ll be with Flamant if you need me.”

  Verlaque turned around and headed toward his office. Once inside, he closed the door and picked up his telephone.

  “Oui, cheri?” Marine answered on the first ring. Verlaque couldn’t see his wife, but she was standing in the kitchen, smiling.

  “We’ve already checked, and the man who died in the warehouse fire in Ethiopia, Vito Giraldi, isn’t related to either of the Italians running the Perugia stand.”

  “Vittoria Romano’s never been married?”

  “No.”

  Marine paused. Verlaque could hear her breathing. “My mother’s maiden name was Ardevol . . .” she said.

  “Yes . . .”

  “And when I was little she’d sometimes joke that Bonnet and Ardevol were such dull names compared to her maternal grandfather’s name.”

  “Which was?”

  “Voltaire.”

  Verlaque burst out laughing. “No relation to the philosopher I take it?”

  He could hear the smile in Marine’s voice as she replied, “None whatsoever. But you see what I’m getting at . . . names can go back several generations.”

  “It’s worth a try. Thank you.” He hung up and walked quickly out of his office, heading down the corridors and flights of stairs that took him to the office where Flamant was hunched over his computer.

  Flamant saw Verlaque and jumped up, waving him over.

  “Any news?” Verlaque asked as he sat down.

  “I just found a connection between Elite Clothing and those people from Perugia,” Flamant said. “We were waiting for you to arrive, sir, before I explained.”

  “Is the connection through Vittoria Ro
mano?” Verlaque asked, almost missing a breath.

  “Yes,” Flamant replied. “Her maternal grandfather was Vito Giraldi.”

  “The man who died in the fire,” Paulik said.

  “Exactly,” Flamant said. “I didn’t make the connection right away because their last names are different. The business closed, as you know, and her father went into a depression and committed suicide.”

  “Ah,” Verlaque mumbled.

  “And his son, Lucio Romano, also went into a downward spiral and has been in and out of jail, down in Bari.”

  “Lucio?” Verlaque asked, thinking of the tattoo. Apologies to Marine were in order. No, champagne. Except she seemed to be off wine at the moment.

  “Yes,” Flamant answered.

  “How did you manage to dig all this up so fast?” Paulik asked.

  “This Google Translate thing is amazing,” Flamant said, trying and failing to suppress a yawn. “It was easy enough at first when I was just looking for names. But when the names started appearing in small Italian newspapers, I had entire articles translated. That got me onto the Romano family, and then I was able to double-check everything with Interpol and the carabinieri down in Bari.”

  Verlaque thought of the city employee who hadn’t liked Flamant’s questions about the stall renters. “Is it possible that Matteo Ricci is really Lucio Romano?” he asked, again thinking of Vittoria Romano’s tattoo.

  Flamant shook his head. “I thought of that, too, as I can’t see Vittoria shooting a priest, especially from far away. But, no, Matteo Ricci is a real person and seems to be her boyfriend.” He held up a finger. “But,” he went on, “I dug some more and found out that Matteo and Lucio are best friends. One of the officers down in Bari told me; everyone knows them.”

  “There’s Matteo Ricci’s motive,” Paulik said.

  “Call her in first, before him,” Verlaque said, looking at Paulik. “What do you think?”

  “Excellent,” Paulik replied, picking up his cell phone. He spoke to another officer and gave him instructions to pick up Vittoria Romano as soon as she appeared at her stand and to accompany her to the Palais de Justice. He hung up and said, “Flamant, go home and get some sleep, or take a nap downstairs in the quiet room.”