“Yes, sir,” Flamant said, yawning again.
“This new information doesn’t make things easier, does it?” Verlaque asked Paulik once Flamant was gone. “On the way here I was convinced that the Orezza brothers were responsible for Père Fernand’s attempted murder, and the accidental murder of Cole Hainsby.”
“Will the bar owner testify against them?” Paulik asked.
“Yes, she agreed last night.”
“We can’t accuse them of murder just because they threatened her.”
“We can at least link them to trying to run a cyclist off the road.”
“Only one of them, unfortunately,” Paulik pointed out. “And it isn’t either Orezza brother.”
* * *
Marine made herself tea and was carrying it upstairs to the loft when the downstairs buzzer sounded. She looked at her watch, perplexed and annoyed that someone might be out selling useless products, or insurance, or a new cell phone subscription, before ten in the morning. “Oui?” she said into the intercom, trying to sound harsh.
“Mme Bonnet?” a woman’s voice sounded. “I’m so sorry to bother you. May I come up and talk with you? Oh, sorry, it’s France. France Dubois.”
“France, come right up. Fourth and last floor.” She quickly filled the kettle with water and put it back on the stove, lighting the gas burner. She was still mildly annoyed; she had a chapter to edit in her book, and then had a doctor’s appointment right after lunch. But still, she liked France and was curious as to why she was visiting.
France arrived at the door and the two women shyly gave each other the bises. “Please call me Marine,” Marine said, stepping aside to let France into the apartment. “Mme Bonnet is my mother.”
France giggled. “Your mother is Professor, or Dr., Bonnet to me,” she said. “But okay. It was your mother who gave me your apartment address. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not,” Marine replied, half lying. The location of their apartment, on a small dead-end street, wasn’t known to many people except close friends and family. “Come into the kitchen while I make some tea.” France followed Marine and looked around, wide-eyed, at the marble counters and expensive German appliances that she had only ever seen in magazines. “I have some LU cookies somewhere,” Marine said, opening a cupboard. “If my husband didn’t sneak them all.”
France politely laughed, easily imagining Antoine Verlaque sneaking cookies. She felt that she knew him better now, after their talk by the King René statue. He wasn’t as intimidating as people in Aix said he was.
Marine made more tea and carried it into the living room while France carried a mug for herself and the cookies that Marine had found and put on a plate. “Please excuse the lingering cigar smell, France,” Marine said. “I think my husband was up late last night, smoking.”
“Oh, I quite like the smell, I always have,” France replied, smiling. “My mother’s father smoked Cuban cigars.” France looked around the living and dining rooms. After all, Marine had probably done the same the first time she came to Antoine’s apartment. “Is that a real one?” France asked, pointing to an oil painting of Venice that hung near the dining room table.
“No,” Marine said, smiling and pouring France some tea. “I mean yes, it’s a real eighteenth-century painting, but by the school of Caneletto, not by him.” Marine looked at the small oil, knowing very well that although this painting was beautiful, the large black abstract in their bedroom, by Pierre Soulages circa 1983, was worth a lot more money than the view of Guidecca done by an apprentice.
“Wow,” France said. “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“It had crossed my mind. Did you want to talk about someone at the Sister City fair?”
“More than one person,” France said. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Why don’t you begin with the more difficult story?”
France blew on her tea. Tea made by someone else was so much better than at home, she mused. “All right. I’ll tell you about Jason Miller. Anna told me you were asking about him. About what happened.”
Marine nodded. “Yes, you’ve been watching him.”
“I only wanted to make him think about what he’d done; make him feel remorse.”
“What did he do, France?” Marine asked, leaning forward.
She sighed. “Last Christmas he’d follow me around the Place des Cardeurs. Once he grabbed me behind one of the tents. And another time I could swear that he followed me home.”
“Why didn’t you report it?”
“Because he really didn’t do much.”
Marine nodded again. “And you confided in Anna?”
“Yes,” France replied. “She saw what was going on and asked me about it. She’s very kind.”
“And Cole Hainsby,” Marine said. “Did he bother you in that same way?”
“M Hainsby? Why, no. I had never met him until just before the carol sing.”
Marine breathed out a sigh of relief.
France went on, “Your husband thought I might have wanted to kill him, because of my parents. But that wouldn’t have changed anything, would it?”
“No.”
“Jason Miller’s sister said they won’t be coming back next year, so that’s that.”
“Really? Why not? Although I’m not sad about it.”
“The rent for the stand was too high, she said, and they’re too busy at home.”
“So, what’s the other story you have?” Marine asked, taking a cookie but not really wanting it.
“It’s the Italians,” France said. “From Perugia. I wanted M Verlaque to know.”
“Go on.”
“They’re not from Perugia, for one.” France sat forward, pleased with her information. “I used to go to Perugia, with my parents. I speak a bit of Italian—”
Marine smiled; a kindred spirit.
France said, “I asked them a few questions about the city, at first in innocence, excited to speak to Perugians. But it was obvious to me they didn’t know much about it. So then I asked them a few specific questions, trying to trap them, which I did. They answered incorrectly every time.”
Marine got nervous. “Did they catch on?”
“Oh, no, I was discrete. It’s easy, as most people don’t notice me.”
Marine was about to argue and France waved her hand. “I thought you should tell your husband about the Italians, since he’s investigating the murders. I’m not saying they are guilty, but they’re lying about something. Plus, this may be unimportant, but on the first day I went to say hello and ask about the carol sing dinner, they had lots of photographs up in their stand. You know, like all the stands do. A few of the pictures were of him, the man, hunting. He was holding a very big gun, with a dead boar at his feet. There were some prize ribbons hanging from the photographs.”
“That’s not unusual, France,” Marine said. “Hunting is popular in Italy, like here.”
“Oh, I know. But the next time I went, after Père Fernand was shot, the photographs had been taken down.”
“Now, that’s interesting.” Marine handed France the plate of cookies. “Eat some LUs before my husband eats all of them.”
* * *
Paulik turned on the recording machine. Verlaque sat to his left and a uniformed officer stood behind them, his back to the wall, watching. Vittoria Romano played with a package of cigarettes. Verlaque remembered Marine’s reportage of the Italian couple in the restaurant, and of their arguing, and he was glad that Romano was here on her own. He also knew he owed Marine an apology for last night; he had brushed off her hypothesis about the Italians and the walnut tattoo.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Paulik said. “Whose idea was it to put crushed-up acetaminophen in Père Fernand’s dinner?”
She stayed quiet. Verlaque
could see that she was actually biting her tongue.
“It had to be done quickly,” Paulik went on. “As there was a lot of commotion at the buffet table. But you couldn’t know that Père Fernand would be in line next to someone notorious for his absentmindedness and lack of attention. Cole Hainsby somehow managed to take Père Fernand’s plate. Then Hainsby fell ill and died that evening. So you needed a plan B, and quickly. Matteo Ricci is a hunter; there’s good hunting in Provence, especially at this time of year. He had his gun with him.”
“Ricci has won hunting tournaments,” Verlaque added. “We spoke with hunting colleagues of his who have confirmed to us what a good long-distance shot he is.” Verlaque was bluffing here, having just received France Dubois’s information via text message from Marine a minute before walking into the interview room.
Vittoria Romano held her head in her hands.
Paulik pressed on, “Your grandfather, then your father, and now your brother. All victims, in your opinion, of Père Fernand’s meddling.”
She still wouldn’t look at them. Verlaque had stayed up late reading Luigi Capuana’s short story while he finished his cigar. Little did he know how useful that short story would be. Marine’s intuition and exceptional memory were once again spot-on. He now tried a different tactic. “The walnut,” he said. “Your brother, Lucio. Born prematurely, no? He was named after the character in the Capuana short story, wasn’t he? And you protected him, like Sister Celeste in the story. But unlike the story, your Lucio doesn’t turn to the priesthood, desperate to give his life a purpose, but to petty crime. And like Capuana’s Lucio, he’s always being taken advantage of; he’s too meek, and kind. Easy for bigger crooks to frame him. So he’s taking the rap, in and out of jail—”
She kept her head down, staring at the top of the table that separated them. “Go to hell with your walnut story,” she whispered in Italian.
* * *
“If Vittoria Romano won’t speak,” Verlaque said as he and Paulik walked together fifteen minutes later, “then we’ll go have a chat with Matteo Ricci. He must be beside himself, wondering why we are still keeping her.”
“The longer we keep her,” Paulik said, “the more nervous Ricci will be.”
Verlaque said, “Call a team to search his stand as well. If he’s a prize hunter, then he might not be able to tear himself away from his prize rifle.”
“Although it would be a million times easier to dump it in the sea,” Paulik said. “But I agree.”
When they got to the fair, Ricci was putting fresh pasta into a plastic container for two elegantly dressed elderly Aixois. Verlaque watched Ricci, who, despite his smiles, didn’t look like the other Sister City hosts. His heart wasn’t in it. Would he have been able to see that before? Verlaque wondered. Before he knew the background story of the clothing warehouse in Ethiopia?
The couple left, and Ricci saw Verlaque and Paulik. “Where is Vittoria?” he asked in rough French.
“We are keeping her in custody a bit longer,” Paulik answered. “In the meantime, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m working.”
Verlaque turned around; there was no one else there. “You don’t have any customers at the moment,” he said. “We won’t take long.”
Paulik began, “You’ve taken down the hunting photographs and your medals.”
Ricci shrugged. “So many people are against the hunt these days. I thought it best.”
“May we see them?”
“I threw them out.”
“Threw out medals, and photos of you winning shooting prizes?” Verlaque asked. “That’s odd.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Your hotel room and truck are being searched,” Verlaque said.
“Without a warrant?” Ricci asked, his eyes direct.
“I don’t need one,” Verlaque replied. “As a magistrate.”
Ricci shrugged. “Good for you,” he replied. “You won’t find anything.”
“I’d suggest that you pack in here for the day, as a team is on their way to search this stand,” Verlaque said.
“Here they are now,” Paulik said, turning around to see the two police vehicles that had just parked at the top of the square. “We’ll keep Mlle Romano with us a bit longer, until we hear from the officers searching your possessions.”
Verlaque and Paulik swung around and walked away before Ricci could reply. They heard him cuss and set down his knife with a thud. He lit himself a cigarette and walked out of the tent, leaning against a pole as he watched six officers walk into his tent and begin working. Verlaque and Paulik watched from the opposite side of the tent as the white-gloved officers carefully picked up objects—blocks of cheese, cartons of plastic dishes and utensils—looked at them, turning each object over in their gloved hands, and setting them back down. Verlaque’s eyes scanned the stand’s interior, searching for a long, thin object that could conceal a gun. He rocked back and forth on his heels to stay warm, wishing they could be drinking one of the Italian’s Illy espressos. The officers continued searching, and after fifteen minutes one of them gave Paulik a worried I give up look. “Merde,” Paulik whispered. Verlaque looked over at Ricci, smoking his third or fourth cigarette, playing some video game on his phone.
Verlaque’s eyes took in the scene, beginning at the top of the stand, its sides, then its interior, from the back wall to the front counter. His eyes then moved outside the stand, to the makeshift bar area that most of the sister cities had set up—except those from Bath and Carthage—where customers could eat or at least set down their drinks. He then said, “Bruno, do you see something different about the columns today?”
Paulik was startled at the judge’s use of his first name. “Yes,” he said. “One of them doesn’t have a tabletop on it anymore.”
“That’s what I thought,” Verlaque replied.
Paulik walked up to the stand and spoke to one of the officers inside. The officer turned to a colleague, said something, and they came out of the tent, one of them leaving to walk up to their vehicle. In a minute she was back with a pickax. Matteo Ricci looked up from his game and his face went pale. The officers laid the column gently on its side and the female officer began to tap at its top. Verlaque walked over to watch and Paulik whispered, “The top looks like it’s been recently plastered.”
Verlaque whispered back, “He would have broken the tabletop—either on purpose or accidentally—to get at the inside.”
Paulik nodded and they watched as she continued gently picking away while her colleague took pieces of broken plaster with a gloved hand and set them aside. With a final tap she broke a large piece from the top third of the column and Paulik said, “Okay, that’s enough.” They set the column back upright and Paulik leaned over and reached in, pulling out a rifle. Ricci turned to flee, but it was no use. There were four officers standing beside him, one with handcuffs ready.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The first thing Verlaque did when they got back to the Palais de Justice was telephone Debra Hainsby. Much to his relief she answered on the second ring and he told her about the Italians, and that Cole had not been the intended victim. He could hear her breathing heavily, a gasp, and then he heard nothing.
“Are you still there, madame?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“So your husband did nothing wrong.”
“Except be his usual absentminded self,” Debra said. “Eating off the wrong plate.”
“I’m sorry.”
She sniffed and said, “Thank you for calling.”
“How are you? The children?”
“Mary won’t get her head out of her books, and Sean won’t leave his room,” Debra said. “But they’re starting a new school next week so I think that will help. And I have good news . . .”
“Really?”
“I start a new job in two weeks,” she said, “at HeliIndustries.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“Yes, I’m quite thrilled. They advertised a position on the internet, I applied for it, and at the interview they said they had been impressed with me when I visited their offices earlier this year with . . . Alain Sorba.”
Verlaque smiled, happy for her, knowing that she wasn’t bragging, but just needing to share this good news with someone. Verlaque said, “They’re a great company. Again, congratulations.” Before saying good-bye they joked about running into each other at the café across from the Palais de Justice. He did not tell her of Alain Sorba’s involvement with the Orezza brothers, or their threats on both Damien and Pierrette. Debra Hainsby had enough to deal with, and for some reason he couldn’t explain, despite the fact that he had never met them, his heart ached for Mary and Sean. He hung up, and much to his relief Paulik came into his office.
“Espresso?” Verlaque asked.
* * *
Marine walked out the front door of her doctor’s office on the rue Espariat and stared, her eyes trying to adjust to the late-afternoon sunlight, at the Place d’Albertas across the narrow pedestrianized road. It was a three-sided square with a not very interesting fountain in the center, but it was paved with river stones that veered off in every direction, forming wonderfully organic patterns that made it charming. Two sides of the eighteenth-century three-story buildings had been renovated and painted a bright, deep yellow; the third façade, in the back, was waiting its turn, and not very elegantly: Its dull dark brown paint chipped and flaked off the walls, and the whole building looked like it was leaning inward, about to topple over into the fountain.
A Noël Killing Page 24