Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery

by M. L. Longworth

  “A Pouligny Saint-Pierre,” he said, beginning to cut into the cheese, its inside as smooth and white as marble. “I haven’t had this in years.” Marine smiled, watching her father cut a generous slice of her favorite cheese.

  “There’s a new cheese shop on the Rue d’Italie,” she said. “The owner worked for twenty years in high tech and gave it all up to follow his passion.” She thought that if she told her father where the shop was he might go and buy some cheeses for himself. Her mother had always done the grocery shopping—buying food for the price and convenience, instead of the taste and quality—even though both parents had busy careers. But it was her father, a general practitioner, who was the gourmand in the family. This was one of the things he shared with Antoine Verlaque.

  As if on cue, Dr. Bonnet asked, “How is Antoine, anyway?”

  It didn’t surprise Marine that her father asked about Verlaque at the same time that she had been thinking of him. The mental telepathy between her and her father happened all the time. “Busy,” she answered. “There’s been a wine theft at Domaine Beauclaire. And this thing tonight—I don’t know—but, judging from Antoine’s voice on the phone, it sounds serious.”

  Her father quickly took a bite of the Saint-Marcellin before it ran off the bread. “I like Antoine,” he said, as casually as if he had said that he liked the cheese.

  Marine felt her heart could burst. Her father’s opinion meant so much to her. “I’m glad,” she said, trying to sound equally casual.

  “And anyone who can make your maman laugh the way he did the other night must be okay.”

  Marine laughed, remembering what she had feared would be an awkward family dinner the previous week. Antoine had hosted it—he and Marine had cooked a leg of lamb together—and the evening had been a success. Not rip-roaring fun, but passable. “I wasn’t sure how Maman would take a religious joke,” Marine said. Mme Bonnet was a retired professor of theology.

  “Oh, your mother loves a good joke that involves a priest, a rabbi, and an imam in an airplane together.” He took a sip of wine and made a sound of delight. “What’s this we’re drinking?”

  “A Burgundy, from Givry,” Marine said. “Do you like it?”

  Anatole Bonnet took another sip. “Just to recheck,” he said, smiling. “It’s very good. Where did you buy it?”

  “Antoine orders it from the vintner, by the case,” Marine replied.

  “Fancy that,” her father said. “Do you think he could order me a case, next time there’s a delivery?”

  “Of course.” Marine took this new interest in fine wines as further proof that her parents—or at least her father—approved of Antoine.

  “And how’s your pal Sylvie?” Dr. Bonnet asked.

  “Great. She just called from Mégève—it’s already chilly there—they’ll be back just before school starts.”

  “Just before school?” he asked. “Poor little Charlotte will need more time to get prepared….”

  “Papa,” Marine warned, “they’re used to doing it that way. They’d rather stay as long as they can with Sylvie’s parents and brothers and sisters in the Alps….”

  “Without a father…”

  “Papa!” Marine bit her lip to stop herself from getting angry. Her best friend, Sylvie, was a photographer and art historian, and the single mother of nine-year-old Charlotte, Marine’s goddaughter.

  Anatole Bonnet realized that he had been out of line, so he pointed to the Stilton. “And what kind of cheese is this? It doesn’t look like any blue I’ve ever seen.”

  “Stilton,” Marine replied. Before he could protest, she put up her hand. “Try it.”

  Chapter Six

  An Alsatian Tries to Understand Provence

  It took Jules Schoelcher two tries to close the car door. “Scheiße,” he whispered, trying to close the door with one hand while holding on to his police hat with the other. Roger, his partner today, looked over and laughed.

  “It’s just a mistral,” Roger said. “It will cool things off.”

  Jules shrugged and tried to smile, but the truth was, he was missing home. How could a twenty-seven-year-old policeman tell a fellow officer that? He knew when he signed up for the police force he could be sent anywhere in France, but he hadn’t counted on this desperately hot place, still over thirty degrees Celsius even in September. At least the wind—this mistral, they called it—cooled things down. But he couldn’t stand Provence: the wind, the dry heat, and his fellow officers with their big hugs and bise (real men in Alsace did not give each other the bise unless they were family); and their clichéd Provençal nonstop jokes and loud laughter. Everything was “mon ami” this and “mon pote” that. Was there never any calm? Alsatians didn’t have to bark when they spoke, or didn’t feel the need to be the loudest in the room, nor did they jump queues, as Jules had already seen countless times at the post office and bank. Perhaps people in the south didn’t respect the queues because there weren’t any, just roughly formed huddles, as if they had no idea how to form a straight line. And if there were two bank machines open, or two windows at the post office, what did the Provençals do? They didn’t form one single line in the middle, as one did in Colmar or Strasbourg; they formed two lines and then switched back and forth until they were at the front.

  Jules ran into the hospital and held the door open for Roger, who was taking his time strolling across the parking lot, smiling like an idiot. “Slow down,” Roger said, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “We’re ten minutes early. Time for a ciggie.”

  “You go ahead and smoke your cancer stick,” Jules said.

  Roger laughed out loud. He hadn’t heard anyone refer to cigarettes as cancer sticks since fifth grade. Come to think of it, he thought that was when he had started smoking: fifth grade. “Hey, Jules, did I ever tell you about the time we played hooky from school and went out to sea with some old fisherman?”

  Jules sighed. “No, but I’d love to hear all about it, another time. I bet you caught a fish this big, eh?” He held out his hands a yard apart.

  “Yeah! It was about that big!” Roger said. “But we’ve fished the Med clean now; they don’t make fish that big anymore.”

  Jules laughed, not believing his good luck at trapping this Marseillais into the biggest stereotype of all. The French made fun of Provençals, especially those from Marseille, for their habit of exaggerating stories. An eight-inch-long fish became a yard long; the wind blew not thirty-five miles an hour but fifty-five. Jules waved goodbye and walked up the hospital’s cheap linoleum stairs, still chuckling to himself. Well, Roger could be late if he wanted to—typical for the south, always five or ten minutes late, even on the job—but he would be on time.

  Roger in turn watched Jules skip up the stairs. “What a geek,” he whispered under his breath, lighting his cigarette and smiling at a passing nurse. Jules had hardly spoken to anyone Tuesday night at Alain Flamant’s pot, except for some of the female officers and a couple of the secretaries. Roger had overheard Jules saying that he didn’t drink pastis and that he only liked white wines—preferably Rieslings. Most of the officers had changed into civvies for the party, and one of them had nudged Roger and pointed to Jules’s jeans—ironed, with two big pleats running down either leg. Jokes about ironing abounded, until no one listened anymore to Roger and the other policeman, so they poured each other another pastis and consoled each other over the Marseille soccer team’s losing streak.

  Jules was thinking of this moment as he came down the brightly lit hallway toward Mlle Montmory’s room. He had heard the ironing jokes and knew that they were referring to his jeans, but none of the other policemen had paid attention to them, and Commissioner Paulik had even smiled at Jules and rolled his eyes.

  Jules could see Officer Flamant standing at the end of the hallway, speaking to a young red-haired policeman whom Jules knew by sight only. The young man was a rookie and always seemed nervous yet willing to please, and to work hard. Unlike Roger, downstairs smoki
ng. Jules walked up to both men and shook their hands, and was briefed on Mlle Montmory’s condition (critical) and told that only hospital staff, with badges, were to be permitted into her room. In the late afternoon, the girl’s parents would be allowed to visit. Flamant had a photograph of them, which he passed to Jules.

  “Where’s Roger?” Flamant asked.

  “He’ll be up in a minute,” Jules answered. “Um…he forgot something in the car.”

  A doctor wearing a white lab coat emerged from Mlle Montmory’s room and stopped when he saw the two officers. “Hello,” he said, shaking hands with them. “I’m Dr. Charnay. Glad to see that Mlle Montmory’s room is being guarded.”

  Jules Schoelcher read the doctor’s name tag and studied his face; the young officer wanted to try to memorize the names and faces of all hospital personnel who visited Mlle Montmory’s room. “I’m a specialist,” the doctor said, seeing that the younger policeman had studied his name tag. “Have a nice evening,” he said, looking at his watch. “I hope the evening isn’t too dull for you. You can always bug the nurses if you get bored,” he added, laughing.

  “Goodbye, Doctor,” Flamant said. The doctor waved and said something to the nurses; Jules saw one of the nurses roll her eyes as he walked out of the ward. Roger suddenly appeared, smelling of smoke, and Flamant sighed and repeated what he had just told Jules. “You’ll be relieved at five p.m.,” Flamant told the two officers. “It goes without saying that you’ll spell each other off when one has to eat or do other business. I want one officer here at all times.”

  The young redhead began moving from side to side, and Flamant realized that he probably had to relieve himself in the men’s room. “You may leave,” he said. “Get a good sleep, and see you tomorrow.”

  Roger laughed as the rookie raced down the hall. “Will Commissioner Paulik pass by today?” he asked.

  “Probably,” Flamant answered. “He’s at the bank now, interviewing the employees. He may stop by with Judge Verlaque.”

  “Ahhhh,” moaned Roger. “Christ!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Good thing he wasn’t at your pot, eh, Alain?” Roger went on, slapping Flamant’s arm.

  Jules stared in disbelief. He hadn’t met the judge, but couldn’t believe that Roger would speak of a superior this way.

  “That’s enough,” Flamant said. “Careful what you say, Roger.” Alain Flamant said goodbye to the men and walked down the hall, thinking of his fiancée, whom he would see this evening, and Judge Verlaque. What was it about him that others thought irritating? Was he really that much of a snob? The judge hadn’t been at his pot, but had he been invited? Flamant felt bad—he didn’t like to see anyone left out. He stood at the top of the stairs and looked down the hall, its walls painted in what he thought was always a hospital color—mint green. There was the young Alsatian policeman, standing at attention at Mlle Montmory’s door, and Roger, famous at the Palais de Justice for his Marseillais bravado and jokes, chatting with the nurses at the front desk. Flamant sighed and ran down the stairs, anxious to get back to the Palais de Justice to do research. He wanted to find out anything about Mlle Montmory’s life that might shed light on her attack, and attacker.

  The square that held both the town hall and the church of Éguilles had always pleased Verlaque. From the edge of the Place Gabriel Payeur there was a magnificent vista south; cypress trees dotted vineyards as they did in Tuscany, and Verlaque thought that the square reminded him of Cortona’s, especially the view. He turned around and looked at the imposing four-story golden-stone town hall, built in the Renaissance for a wealthy local family. It seemed too big to be the mairie for a town of only eight thousand inhabitants. The church was dwarfed by its neighbor.

  The Banque Populaire was around the corner—he had passed it on the way into the town but had parked his car in the square so he could admire the view. He walked to the bank now, head bent against the mistral wind. When he looked up, he saw Bruno Paulik locking the door of his Range Rover.

  “Salut, Bruno,” Verlaque said.

  “Good morning,” replied Paulik. “Merde ce vent!”

  “You never get used to it?”

  “I never have!” Paulik shouted over the wind. “And I was born here! I spoke to Olivier Bonnard last night and relayed the information your wine expert…contact…told you. He’s taken the key to the cellars off the hook and now has it with him at all times, and he’s doing an inventory of the wines with his son.”

  “The inventory is a good idea, but the thief may have taken an imprint of the key to be copied.”

  “I know; I told him the same thing.”

  “Is there someone who copies keys in Puyricard, or Rognes?” asked Verlaque as they crossed the street.

  “No, unfortunately,” said Paulik. “Because a key maker in a small town like Rognes might remember a face.”

  “Well, there must be a dozen key makers in Aix, and with an attempted murder on our hands, there’s no way we can spare the manpower to go and talk to every one of them.”

  Paulik nodded. “I know.”

  They arrived at the front doors of the bank, its metal shutters closed. A note had been firmly taped to them: “We regret to inform our customers that due to the attempted murder of one of our staff we will remain closed this morning and will reopen at 2 p.m.”

  “Wow,” Paulik said, turning to Verlaque. “That’s direct.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? Let’s walk around to the back door, since they’re expecting us.”

  They moved along the side of the bank and waved to a woman through an office window; she motioned to the back. When they arrived, she opened the door and ushered them in. “We were watching for you,” she said. “We couldn’t open the front door, because then we’d get a crowd of customers wanting in. I’m Charlotte Liotta, the assistant manager. Please come in.” She held her hand out and shook the men’s hands. Mme Liotta was in her mid-fifties, and she wore a crumpled pink silk blouse and a gray polyester pantsuit. Her hair needed another rinse: about a half-inch of her gray roots were showing, creeping down into her bright-red curls. Verlaque imagined her being the mother figure to the other employees, making them tea and coffee when they felt down or too harried. He realized that they didn’t have anyone like that at the Palais de Justice. Mme Girard would think it below her to perform such tasks.

  Mme Liotta walked quickly down a hallway, past a few offices whose doors were open and a very untidy kitchenette. She glanced at the kitchenette and said over her shoulder without slowing down, “Sorry about the mess. We’re all in shock here. But I’d imagine you’ve seen much worse.” She stopped and turned around. “On the job, I mean, of course. Not at home.” They came into a small lobby, where the rest of the staff had gathered, some sitting and drinking their coffee, others pacing. Verlaque took a quick count; there were, including Mme Liotta, five employees.

  “Okay, everyone, listen up,” she said. “The examining magistrate and commissioner are here to talk with us. We’ll be interviewed until noon and then will reopen for business at two p.m. sharp.” She put her hands on her wide hips and nodded in the direction of Paulik.

  “Thank you, Mme Liotta. I’m Commissioner Paulik, and this is Judge Verlaque. What happened last night was terrible, and we’ll need to try to think of any connection, any reason why you think this may have happened to Mlle Montmory. We’ll…”

  “Is she going to be okay?” a young man broke in, his voice cracking.

  “She’s in critical condition,” Paulik said. “But the doctor I spoke with this morning was optimistic.”

  The group murmured their relief, and a gray-haired North African man, who had been pacing back and forth, patted his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Wearing out the carpet won’t make Suzanne better, Kamel,” Mme Liotta said to him.

  “You’re M. Iachella, the branch manager?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes. I beg your pardon,” he said, crossing the room to shake Verlaque’s an
d Paulik’s hands. “I’m completely distraught. Forgive me.”

  “I’ll get you a tea, Kamel, with lemon and honey,” Mme Liotta said. Verlaque was pleased that he had guessed correctly as to Mme Liotta’s caregiving nature.

  Paulik continued. “We’ll speak as a group, then we’ll conduct private interviews with each of you. For now, I’d like to begin by asking you if Mlle Montmory has said anything to any one of you this past week about her private life, anything at all…any worries she may have been having, any boyfriend trouble, anything.”

  The group looked around at one another until a young woman wearing a short, tight skirt stepped forward. “Suzanne was super-quiet. Never spoke of her private life, and she’d never come out with us, right?” The woman looked around at her co-workers, who nodded.

  “That’s because you weren’t nice to her, Sharon,” the young man said.

  “That’s so not true, Gustav!” she returned. “Sorry, Officers. I’m Sharon Pallard. Sharon, as in Sharon Stone.”

  Verlaque was thankful that Paulik had stepped forward to shake the woman’s hand, because Paulik’s wide shoulders temporarily hid his grin. Mlle Pallard may have been wearing a short skirt, but with her black hair held up in a ponytail and her large lips painted bright pink, she had little in common, at least physically, with the actress.

  “Mlle Pallard,” Paulik said, “why do you think Mlle Montmory was quiet?”

  The young woman pulled at her skirt and shrugged. “Dunno. Just shy, I guess. Or maybe she thought she was better than us, eh?”

  “She isn’t dead, so stop referring to her in the past tense. I’m Gustav Lapierre,” the young man said to Verlaque. “Suzanne isn’t at all a snob. She just doesn’t mix work and her private life.”