“You found her, didn’t you?” Verlaque asked the young man, who wore a pressed suit and shirt and tie. He looked young to be already working in a bank, and then Verlaque remembered that he was a recent Sciences Po graduate.
“Yes,” Lapierre said, looking down at the worn carpet. “I was at the Palais de Justice last night.”
“Fine. We’ll talk about that later, in private,” Verlaque said. “Who has known Mlle Montmory the longest?”
Kamel Iachella and Charlotte Liotta raised their hands. “We—I mean, Kamel—hired Suzanne, but I was already working here,” Mme Liotta said, having just come back into the room with her boss’s tea. “I’ve been here almost twenty years.”
“That’s right,” M. Iachella said. “Suzanne started here just a few months after I did. She had just completed a B.T.S. in finance and was the first employee I hired.”
“Is she from Éguilles originally?” Paulik asked.
“She grew up in Aix,” M. Iachella answered. “So she was thrilled to find full-time work so close, here in Éguilles.”
“And does she have friends and family in Aix?”
“Oh yes—family, at least,” Mme Liotta replied, for M. Iachella had sat down and was mopping his brow again. “Her parents live north of the downtown, and she has a brother and a sister, both older and both married. No nieces and nephews yet, though!” Mme Liotta looked to the rest of the group, and Gustav Lapierre rolled his eyes.
“No boyfriend?” Paulik asked.
“No,” Mme Liotta said.
“No, that’s right,” Gustav Lapierre confirmed. “She told me so.”
Sharon Pallard guffawed.
“Sharon! Hold your tongue!” Mme Liotta said.
Verlaque glanced at Paulik with an exasperated expression, and Paulik said, “It seems that private interviews may be more revealing. We’ll begin now. Both of us will speak to M. Lapierre, and then we’ll speak to each of you individually. Where can we hold the meetings?”
“In my office.” Mme Liotta spoke up. “I’ve already prepared it for you. Would you like coffees?”
“Yes, please,” Verlaque and Paulik answered in unison.
They entered Mme Liotta’s office with Gustav Lapierre and closed the door. Verlaque sat in Mme Liotta’s chair, and the other two men sat opposite. “I know you met Commissioner Paulik last night.”
“Yes,” Lapierre said.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you some of the same questions and go over what happened last night, which must have been traumatic, to say the least.”
Lapierre nodded, and his eyes welled up with tears. Verlaque glanced over and saw a box of tissues; he wondered whether Mme Liotta had put them there especially for today’s interviews or if they were always there.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘Traumatic’ isn’t a strong enough word,” Lapierre said. “‘Harrowing’ might be better.”
Verlaque stared at the young man, impressed. “Is there a front-door buzzer?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lapierre said. “I rang it, but of course there was no answer. I was about to leave when a neighbor came in from work and she let me in.”
“What time was it?” Paulik asked.
“Just before seven-thirty. I left the bank around six-thirty, at the same time as M. Iachella, and then I drank a beer at the bar across the street. To get up my nerve, as it were.”
Verlaque looked at Paulik, who nodded and took notes. The murderer could have also been let in by a neighbor. It was unfortunate that none of those neighbors had heard anything.
“The attacker could have got in the same way I did, or he might have known Suzanne and she buzzed him in,” Lapierre said. “I just thought of that.”
“Right,” Verlaque answered. “Tell me about Suzanne. You seem to know her well, and respect her.”
“As I said last night,” Lapierre said, looking in Paulik’s direction, “I was heading over there not so much to check on her health—it was just a sore throat—as to ask her out for dinner. It seemed impossible to do it here, at work. You’ve seen a bit of the atmosphere…with Mme Liotta babying us, and Sharon being the prima donna in her tacky short skirts….”
Verlaque noted Lapierre’s disgust at Sharon’s short skirts.
Lapierre reached across the desk, took a tissue, and blew his nose. “The more I worked with Suzanne, the more interested I became in her. She was mysterious in a way, not like other girls I’ve met. She was pretty and wore trendy clothes, but she talked about knitting and watching those costume dramas on television that my mom likes to watch. She was different. Do you get it?”
The two men nodded. They were both in partnerships with women whom Gustav Lapierre would have considered “different,” even “mysterious.” Verlaque thought of Marine, curled up on the sofa, drinking single-malt whiskey and reading Jean-Paul Sartre’s memoirs. Paulik thought of Hélène, wearing the blue cotton overalls worn by agricultural workers around the world, kneeling on the rocky ground of Domaine Beauclaire, snipping leaf samples from the vines, then bringing them home and checking on them daily. “I’m watching them for parasites,” she told her husband. “When there are more of the black spiders, life is good. Too many red spiders, I’ll have to spray.”
“Go on,” Verlaque said, leaning back on Mme Liotta’s swivel chair.
“So…I walked over there to ask her out; that’s all. But you may as well know now, before that policeman I spoke to last night tells you first…”
“Prosecutor Roussel?” Paulik asked.
“Yeah, that’s him. He asked me how I knew where Suzanne lived. I could have looked up her address here, at the bank, but I followed her home one night last week. I was curious.”
Both men looked at each other. Verlaque raised his eyebrows; Paulik took notes.
“And when you found her last night?” Verlaque asked.
“I didn’t touch anything,” Lapierre answered. “I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know I shouldn’t, plus I could see that Suzanne was badly hurt. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called an ambulance right away. She looked awful.”
Gustav Lapierre drew his arms in around his waist, leaned down, and began to sob. Paulik looked at Verlaque; the judge put his hands on his head, rubbed his thick black hair, and stayed silent.
Chapter Seven
Lemon Cake
Kamel Iachella, although not sobbing, seemed as distressed as Gustav Lapierre had been. The bank manager’s eyes were puffy and watery, and he moved Mme Liotta’s box of tissues closer to him as he sat down opposite Verlaque.
“I’m sorry you have to meet me, and my small but very efficient staff, under these circumstances,” he said quietly.
“So am I,” Verlaque answered. “Mlle Montmory seems to be a quiet, reserved young woman.”
Iachella nodded. “She is. She was so quiet during my first interview with her that I had to ask her to speak up. But I could see that she was bright.”
“Do you know anything about her personal life?” Verlaque asked.
“Not anything more than Gustav could have told you. I know that her parents and siblings live in Aix. I should know more about her; I feel bad about that, you know? Especially now.”
“I understand,” Verlaque said. “Did she seem upset recently? Out of sorts?”
Iachella shook his head back and forth, looking surprised. “No…no. I wish now I had been more observant. But she seemed like the same quiet Suzanne. It’s unfortunate, but as a manager I tend to deal more with the employees who are having problems or are dissatisfied. The quiet, hardworking ones just get on, don’t they?”
Both Paulik and Verlaque smiled.
“And that day, when she left early?” Verlaque asked. “Normal?”
“She was behaving normally, yes,” Iachella answered. “As the day went on, we could all hear that she was losing her voice. Mme Liotta was worried that it was a sinus infection coming on, and sent her home around four p.m.”
Verlaque thought sil
ently that if she was losing her voice she wouldn’t have been able to call out for help. A team of policemen were spending the day interviewing the tenants of Mlle Montmory’s three-story apartment building. Perhaps one of them had unintentionally let in the attacker?
“What time did the rest of you leave the bank?” Verlaque asked.
“We close at six p.m. and usually have the place tidied up—I mean the financial transactions, not the housekeeping—by six-thirty. I left at six-thirty, with Gustav. The others had gone before us, between six and six-thirty.”
“Thank you,” Verlaque said. “That will be all.”
“You’ll keep us informed?” Iachella asked, his eyes watery. “Mme Liotta tried calling the hospital this morning, but they wouldn’t give out any information.”
“They were told not to,” Verlaque said. “We’ll keep you informed, yes. Goodbye. You can send in Mme Liotta now.”
When Iachella had quietly left the room, Paulik turned to the judge. “The attacker must have known her working hours. But he wouldn’t have known that she’d be home earlier than usual unless he works here. So I think the attack took place closer to seven-thirty p.m.”
“So do I,” Verlaque answered. “If she left the bank daily between six and six-thirty, and it’s a ten-minute walk home, he could have been waiting for her. But it’s risky, isn’t it, an attack like that in broad daylight? Why not wait until evening, when no one will see you entering the building?”
“A family man?” Paulik suggested. “Or he worked nights?”
“Or he wasn’t worried about anyone seeing him?” Verlaque asked. “Because he’s respectable. No cause for worry. Wearing a suit and tie.”
“A banker?”
“Or any professional. Nice-looking. Handsome people have an easier time in this world. People are more trusting of them.”
Paulik nodded. The commissioner had a bald, scarred head; a pug nose; and one ear that was beginning to “cauliflower” from too many rugby scrums. He looked across the desk at Verlaque, whom, although he was not classically good-looking, women thought of as handsome.
There was a knock at the door, and Mme Liotta came in, carrying a tray. “Funny to knock at my own office door,” she said, setting the tray down. On it were placed three cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar with three spoons, and three pieces of cake. “I baked the lemon cake last night, after Kamel phoned me with the news of Suzanne’s attack. I needed to keep busy.” Smiling, she served each of the men a coffee and a slice of cake, without asking them if they wanted the cake. As she sat down, she adopted a more serious expression—her stint as mother hen had been completed. “I don’t know very much about Suzanne’s private life,” she began, uninvited. “But I do know that, about two years ago, she dated a young man from Aix. I gathered that it had become quite serious, for Suzanne at least, until he up and left.”
“Left?” Verlaque asked.
“Yes, he moved to Montreal. With hardly a warning. Suzanne told me that one morning, when I made her a coffee and sat her down. I could see she had been crying.”
“He couldn’t have just moved to Montreal like that,” Verlaque said. “It takes a few months, if not a year, to get the paperwork together to immigrate.”
Mme Liotta nodded. “That’s just it. He had already done all the paperwork, without telling Suzanne. It was her opinion that he had been using her.” She leaned in and whispered, “For his own benefit.”
“What do you mean?” Verlaque asked. “For sex?”
“Oh no,” Mme Liotta said. “Suzanne told me that she thought she had been courted by him to impress his family. She cried in my arms when she said she believed he had asked her out only so he could have a charming date for two family weddings that summer.”
“Did they part on good terms?” Verlaque asked.
“No,” replied Mme Liotta. “They fought, Suzanne told me, and she also told me—in the strictest confidence—that he was awkward…um, in bed….”
Verlaque glanced at Paulik, who was writing in his notebook. Mme Liotta now sat back and ate some cake, her eyebrows arching in delight at its taste.
“Can you at all remember his name?” Verlaque asked.
“His first name was Edmond. Unusual, old-fashioned name, quite bourgeois. Perhaps her family would know his surname? I do know that he worked in logistics, at the Marseille airport. Suzanne said that the Canadians were hiring French with experience in those sorts of jobs.”
“Thank you, madame. Is there anything else you can tell us about Suzanne’s life outside the bank?”
She set her cake down and wiped her hands clean on a paper napkin. “No. Suzanne’s a quiet girl. I was surprised that morning when she told me so much about Edmond. Since then, there’s been nothing.”
“Her routine is fairly consistent?” Verlaque asked.
“Yes, except yesterday, when she left early, and once last week, because she had a doctor’s appointment. Routine, she told me. I didn’t pry.”
“Do you know the name of her doctor?” Verlaque asked.
“I can’t remember, but Patricia, our loan officer, will be able to tell you. She was the one who suggested that Suzanne see him, because she was looking for a doctor here in Éguilles.”
“Thank you, Mme Liotta. And thank you for the cake. I’ll try it now.”
As Mme Liotta left, the judge and commissioner leaned over the desk, both quickly eating their cake.
“This is very good,” Verlaque said. “Too bad Mme Girard doesn’t bring in food like this.”
“That would be against her dietary rules,” Paulik said, his mouth full. He used the last bit of cake to pick up the remaining crumbs.
Verlaque smiled. “Make sure you get all the bits.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Let’s bring in this loan officer and talk to her next,” Verlaque said. He stuck his head out of the door and called for the loan officer.
Patricia Pont was an elegant woman in her mid-to late thirties. Slim, of medium height, she was dressed conservatively in a pale-blue suit that, unlike Mme Liotta’s crumpled polyester, was made of good-quality linen. She had a long face with bright-blue eyes and wore a touch of pale-pink lipstick. Her necklace suggested that when she was not at work she dressed with panache—the necklace was unusual, made of large transparent glass beads, worn close to her neck like a choker.
“I work here part-time,” she said, wasting no time. “And part-time at a slightly larger branch in Ventabren, where I live.”
“And do you know Suzanne Montmory well?” Verlaque asked, but he was already sure of the reply.
“No, since I’m sort of in and out. No.”
“You have the same doctor, I’m told,” Verlaque said.
“Yes, Dr. Vilion, Jean-François. His practice is just up the street, at number 46, on the second floor, above yet another new real-estate agent in town. That makes four now, I believe.”
Verlaque said, “I used to think that hairdressers outnumbered all other services in Provence. But you’re right, I believe now it’s Realtors. Why did Mlle Montmory need a new doctor?”
“Her doctor retired.”
“What was wrong with her?” Verlaque asked.
Mme Pont flinched for a second but answered his question. “Stomach flu.”
“What else do you know about her?” Verlaque asked.
Mme Pont smiled. “Other than sharing the same general practitioner, I can’t say that I know much about Suzanne. I have three children, so when I leave work I switch off my banking mind.”
“I couldn’t help hearing the antagonism in Sharon’s voice whenever Suzanne Montmory was mentioned,” Verlaque said.
“Oh, that Sharon,” Mme Pont said, sighing. “That’s not a big story. Sharon and Suzanne were up for the same promotion, and Suzanne won. I think Sharon’s jealous, that’s all.”
“That may explain it,” Verlaque said. “Thank you. And if you think of anything at all unusual about Suzanne’s recent behavior, or moods, you
’ll call us?”
“Certainly,” Mme Pont said. “By the way, did you see my note on the door?”
“You wrote that?” Paulik spoke up. “It’s very direct.”
“Yes, and I wanted to add ‘raped’ on it, but Kamel wouldn’t let me.”
Verlaque nodded and stayed silent. He agreed with the bank manager’s decision.
“I have two daughters,” Mme Pont went on. “This man has to be caught, for all of us.”
“He will be,” Verlaque replied. “I promise.”
Mme Pont quietly left the room, but Verlaque and Paulik had no time to debrief: Sharon Pallard was already at the door.
“Hello, hello,” she said, quickly walking into the room and taking a seat. “I’m ready! Fire away.”
Couldn’t she even pretend to be shocked by the attack on Mlle Montmory? Verlaque thought to himself. Irritated, he said, “You don’t like her, do you?”
If Sharon Pallard seemed surprised by his directness, she did not show it. “Um, I wouldn’t say that,” she answered. She paused for a few seconds and added, “And I am sorry about what happened to her. Can you imagine?”
“No, I cannot,” Verlaque said. “Did she ever confide in you?”
Mlle Pallard laughed. “No! We stay clear of each other!”
“Why?”
“Well…we just have nothing in common, that’s all.”
“So you don’t know anything about her? Even though you’re both women, and the same age?”
“I’m older,” she said, tugging at her skirt and sitting straighter. “Um…you know…I know just little things about her. Like, she lives this totally boring life, and watches old-fashioned movies, and sucks up to M. Iachella and Mme Liotta.”
“Really?”
“If you must know, we were up for the same promotion last month, and she got it. I have more experience, I’m older, and she still got it. You should see her with the customers! So sober and serious! I chat them up, you know? Make them happy about their day. Ask about their children and grandchildren. That sort of thing.”
Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery Page 6