Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery

by M. L. Longworth

  The first poem he came to was about Europe and its postwar citizens; although there were some lovely lines, it didn’t suit his mood this evening. He turned the page and saw a poem titled “Esse,” written in 1954. Today had been a day of women, he thought: Mlle Montmory; the women at the bank; Mme Girard; even Flamant’s fiancée, who he imagined was a kindergarten teacher, or even a nurse: a caregiver to match the gentle Alain Flamant. And now the poet’s Esse, whoever she was. Smoking, he read the poem once, then twice. Marine had said the other night that it might help to understand a poet’s work if one knew about his life. Verlaque still wasn’t convinced of her argument. Did it matter who Esse was? Was she even a real person? And couldn’t he enjoy the poem just as words on a page? He found himself forgetting about his cigar and whiskey as he reread the lines toward the end of the poem four or five times over. He grabbed his notebook and wrote them down:

  “And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!”

  “‘I am, she is,’” Verlaque repeated aloud. “‘I am, she is.’” He closed the book and smoked his cigar, taking tiny sips of his single malt. He had to make a conscious effort not to fall asleep, for the night before he had tossed and turned. He had dreamed of Monique, only in the dream her name was Suzanne. He had been thankful that Marine had not been beside him, however much he missed her, for he was sure he had said Monique’s name aloud, and then woken up, sweating.

  The intercom buzzed and he jumped up, running barefoot to answer it. “Come up!” he said, realizing that he had almost yelled. He couldn’t hear her high heels on the tile steps and became concerned. Perhaps it was a delivery? But then her auburn hair became visible through the wrought-iron balustrade—even though she was still two flights down—and he could hear her familiar humming. He stood in the doorway, anxious to see her. She arrived at the last step, and he saw why she hadn’t made any noise: she was wearing bright-green sneakers. He lurched out of his doorway and stood on the landing, then ran across it to greet her. “I love you,” he said, holding her as tight as he could without hurting her. He was grateful that Marine had the good sense not to speak, just to hold him back.

  Chapter Nine

  Jules’s Little Notebook

  It was a warm September morning as Jules Schoelcher left his small apartment on the Rue du Cancel, making his way toward the Palais de Justice. The mistral had cleaned the air and left a clear blue sky, and he knew that his hometown of Colmar was already covered by low gray clouds and would stay like that well into the new year. His mother had telephoned the previous evening to keep him informed of family news and the weather in Alsace: cool and drizzling, as was most of northeastern France at that time of year. Jules realized that somehow he was becoming acclimatized to the dry heat of Provence, and he began whistling as he walked through the giant Place des Cardeurs; at 9 a.m., its cobblestone surface was empty of the restaurant tables that would fill it up at noon.

  He went under the Tour d’Horloge, ducking to get out of the way of a tourist who was taking a photograph of the sixteenth-century golden stone clock tower. After passing by the town hall, he descended into the Place Richelme and decided that he had time for a quick espresso at a small café that he had recently discovered, the only one in Aix to roast its own coffee beans. He went in and ordered an espresso with a glass of water and sat himself down at one of the outdoor tables, watching the fishmongers across from him chat with each other and their customers, many of whom they greeted by name. It surprised Jules that, although the café’s tables were within reach of the rows of fish stacked neatly on ice, there was almost no smell. He looked over and smirked to see a statue of a wild boar that looked anything but wild.

  The sun felt good on his forearms. He reached into his pocket and put on his Ray-Bans, smiling at the pretty waitress as she brought him his coffee and water balanced on a small tray. “Not bad, this September weather, eh?” she said, passing Jules a demitasse with a small piece of chocolate set on the edge of the saucer.

  “Glorious,” Jules found himself saying. “I’m from Alsace,” he added, opening a sugar packet and slowly stirring it into his coffee.

  “Oh la la,” she said, laughing. “Different weather up there! Do you have all of this in Alsace?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, indicating the market, its tables laid out with colorful displays of fruit and vegetables, fish and shellfish, honey and soaps, mounds of spices, and tubs of olives.

  Jules shrugged. “A little less colorful. More potatoes and turnips.”

  “Ha!” She laughed again. “Still, it must be nice up there. I’ve never been to Alsace. In August it’s too hot for me in Aix, and I was born here.”

  Jules smiled, taking in her petite figure and big brown eyes. “Yes, I suffered this summer too, especially at work.”

  “What do you do?” she asked, clearing the next table and putting the empty cups on her tray.

  “Um, I’m a policeman.”

  “Oh! I’ll let you know if I ever need assistance!” she said, laughing once more. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, usually on my way to the Palais de Justice.”

  “You’re not wearing a uniform,” she said.

  “I’m supposed to be off today,” he answered, “but I have to go into work for a quick appointment.”

  “Next time wear your uniform,” she said, winking.

  “Hey, Magali!” the fishmonger yelled from across his display of freshly caught Mediterranean fish. “Stop flirting with the customers!”

  Jules and Magali—he was glad to know her name—laughed, and the fishmonger, encouraged and now with an audience, continued. “You have a half-dozen customers inside dying for their first coffee of the day! They need to get to work and make some money! The European economy is going to crash, thanks to you!”

  “Oh, Anne can serve them!” Magali called. “The customers on the terrace take priority at the moment!” She looked at Jules and winked again.

  “Yeah, I can see that!” yelled the fishmonger. “I’ll have espresso, whenever you think you have the time! Sometime between now and noon!”

  Magali laughed. “Coming right up!” she said. “But you’ll be lucky if you get a piece of chocolate!”

  “See you around,” she said to Jules, and he nodded and gave her a salute. When he finished his coffee, he put 1,50 euros on the wooden table and hurried off; the fishmonger was now busy, showing a customer his spiky purple sea urchins and instructing the buyer on how to prepare them.

  Jules walked to the Palais de Justice on autopilot, thinking of Magali, and almost ran into Roger Caromb on the way in the front door.

  “Wakey wakey!” Roger said, stubbing out his cigarette butt on the sidewalk.

  “There are garbage cans for that,” Jules said.

  “Oh! Miss Prim!” Roger said. “Remind me next time to sweep the sidewalk for Your Royal Highness!”

  “It’s just that if we all acted like you, Provence would be even dirtier.” Jules looked at the sidewalk, where a few pieces of newspapers floated by, accompanied by a crushed-up pack of Marlboros and an empty Orangina soda can.

  Roger looked around him. “Provence is dirty?”

  Jules sighed and held the door open for his partner. “Forget it.”

  “Say,” Roger said as they walked up the stairs toward Verlaque’s office, “what’s this meeting about?”

  “They’re firing you,” Jules replied.

  “Ah, such a kidder!” Roger said, slapping Jules on the back.

  Verlaque and Paulik were already in Verlaque’s office when the two young policemen arrived. “Sit down,” Verlaque said. “That was terrible news about Mlle Montmory’s death yesterday, and even though it was cardiac arrest, I’d like to know the names of each hospital
staff member who went into her room.”

  Roger looked at Jules and then at Verlaque. “We looked at their name tags, Judge, but didn’t memorize their names.”

  Verlaque sighed. “You didn’t write them down?”

  “I did, sir,” Jules said, thankful that he had remembered to bring his little orange notebook with him. He pulled the book out of his jacket pocket, opened it to the appropriate page, and passed it to Verlaque. “Mlle Montmory’s parents were the only nonhospital people who went into her room.”

  “That’s right,” Roger quickly added. “We looked carefully at each nurse’s and doctor’s name tag.”

  “And the orderlies’?” Verlaque asked.

  Roger looked at Jules, bewildered.

  Jules said to Roger, “Those big guys who came in to help move Mlle Montmory for the nurses. Yes,” he went on, now looking at Verlaque, “we checked everyone; the cleaning staff too.”

  “Thank you for writing the names down, Officer…”

  “Schoelcher. Jules Schoelcher.”

  “Can you make us a photocopy, please?” Verlaque asked.

  “I’ll do it,” Paulik said; he took the book and left the office.

  “And nothing seemed out of the ordinary?” Verlaque asked.

  “Of course not,” Jules replied. “Like Roger said, except for the girl’s parents, only hospital staff went in and out. Quite a few doctors and nurses.”

  Roger glanced at his partner, relieved that Jules was sticking up for him, and doubly relieved that Jules had thought to record names in the little notebook that Roger had suggested contained girlfriends’ phone numbers.

  Mme Pauline d’Arras enjoyed the view from the bus windows. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been on a bus, and she was thankful that she had had enough money in her change purse for the fare. The high-school students at the back of the bus had been making quite a racket during the first part of the trip, but now most of them were sitting back, listening to music with little white earphones. She folded her long, beringed fingers across her lap and looked out of the window at the passing bright-green vineyards, heavy with big bunches of red grapes. There were so many more houses now, ugly sprawling bungalows built in a Provençal style with bright-yellow walls and new, cheap-looking roof tiles. They had none of the charm of her beloved Hôtel de Barlet in Aix, or her family home, the Hôtel Bollène, a large seventeenth-century manor house that was just outside of the village where she was now headed. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to find the Hôtel Bollène. It had been in the Aubanel family for centuries, until it was sold after the death of her father. In fact, she couldn’t remember why she had come, but it had seemed important. She couldn’t get the image of her former home, and the village chapel, out of her head. At any rate, she had the time, and she was happy with her decision to take the bus. Why, she was getting a sightseeing trip out of this as well. She missed her sister Clothilde, and looked forward to the next time she would see her, so that she could tell her all about her neighbor, the show-off with the vulgar car and his little secrets. Clothilde would know what to do.

  She looked up and saw a man in a uniform looking down at her. “Yes?” she asked him. “Is there a problem, young man?”

  The man wearing the white shirt and blue tie coughed. “It’s just that we’re at the end of the line, madame. This is the last stop.”

  Mme d’Arras looked around her. The students had all gone, and the bus was no longer moving. What had she been doing? Ah, she had been enjoying the scenery. So few people did that these days. She picked up her pink Longchamp purse from the seat beside her and got up. “Excellent,” she said.

  “Do you need some assistance?” the man asked her.

  She realized that he must be the bus driver. She certainly did not need any help from someone who drove a bus for a living. “No, thank you, young man. I just didn’t recognize the”—she looked out the window and saw the village wine cooperative—“the wine co-op. I’ll pop in and buy a bottle of wine to take to my friend…Philomène. Perfect.”

  “Very well,” the bus driver said. “Bonne journée, madame.”

  She got off the bus and walked across the street to the wine cooperative. Why had she lied? But the name Philomène had rolled easily off her tongue, and she thought of her childhood girlfriend, from this same village, her jet-black hair and loud, hearty laugh. She had told Philomène the Aubanel family secret, late one night when they were supposed to have been sleeping. They must have been twelve, perhaps thirteen. Pauline had immediately regretted it, and for a while lived in fear that Philomène would spread the secret, but she never did.

  “I just got off the phone with Dr. Bouvet,” Verlaque told Paulik after Officers Schoelcher and Caromb had left. “He says it’s possible that Suzanne Montmory’s heart attack was induced by one of the hospital staff.”

  “I hate to think that,” Paulik said. “Certainly it could have been natural, non?”

  “Yes, but she was doing so well earlier in the day,” Verlaque said. “Even that young officer from Alsace said so. He said he saw Mlle Montmory open her eyes and squeeze her father’s hand.”

  Paulik closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. “Let’s talk to each staffer, then. I’ll put in a request to the family to let Bouvet perform an autopsy.”

  “Good. We also need to find Edmond Martin as soon as possible,” Verlaque said, “although it’s next to impossible that he could have disguised himself and got the name tag of one of the hospital staff.”

  “The Martin family was genuinely surprised that he was in Provence,” Paulik said. “As far as they were concerned, he was coming home for Christmas, not before. They were shocked.”

  Verlaque got up and began pacing around his office. “Why not tell them that you’re coming home?”

  “Because you were coming home to rape and try to kill your ex-girlfriend?” Paulik asked.

  “Innocent before proven guilty,” Verlaque said. “Although he’s also my number one suspect. And if he really is on vacation, why keep it a secret from the family?”

  “Because he’s with someone they would disapprove of?”

  Verlaque nodded. “That could be it. Do you mind if I have a cigar?”

  “No,” Paulik said, smiling. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I’ll open the window, but if Mme Girard gets a whiff of this…” Verlaque sat down and pulled a double corona out of its leather holder and lit it. “What kind of woman would be ‘not their type’? You met them last night.”

  “A working-class girl wouldn’t do,” Paulik said. “The Bonnard family knows the Martins, and Olivier warned me that they are real snobs; that was confirmed at our meeting last night. Plus, their wine isn’t that great.”

  Verlaque laughed. “I know. I bought it once, and then never again. Zero finish. How about an older woman? Or a married one?”

  “Possibly,” Paulik replied. “Alain is on the phone right now, trying to get access to Edmond Martin’s bank records, so we can try to find a purchase record of hotels, rental cars, etc.”

  “And this list of names,” Verlaque said, smoking and looking down at Jules Schoelcher’s photocopied list. “Edmond Martin may or may not have raped his ex-girlfriend, and she may or may not have died of natural causes, but we still need to talk to everyone on this list. Can you pull that kid from Alsace off the beat and onto this case? His first task can be organizing the hospital staff for interviews.”

  “Will do.”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Verlaque said, hiding his cigar under the desk and waving the smoke toward the open window.

  “Smells nice,” Alain Flamant said as he came into the office. “Don’t worry, Mme Girard isn’t at her desk.”

  “Thank goodness,” Verlaque said. “Were you able to understand the Québecois police?”

  “This time, yes. One of the guys emigrated from Paris a few years ago; he didn’t have that accent yet. But they are sticklers for rules and didn’t w
ant to give me any information. Said we have to go through the ‘proper channels.’”

  “Merde,” said Verlaque. “So what did you do?”

  “Bypassed them and called Edmond Martin’s bank directly.”

  Verlaque looked up at the officer, his eyebrows raised. “How did you know his bank?”

  “I called the roommate back, and he told me, only too willingly. Martin is behind on the rent. I managed to understand him this time.”

  Verlaque and Paulik laughed. “Bravo, Alain,” said Verlaque. “So what did you get out of the bank?”

  Flamant stepped forward and handed the judge a few papers that he had just printed. “Edmond Martin’s on a cruise that left Toulon on Sunday, September third. They get back tonight.”

  Verlaque squeezed the edges of his glass desk with both hands and looked at Paulik.

  “Hard to be on the Mediterranean and in Éguilles at the same time,” Paulik said.

  Flamant coughed. “Unless you board farther down the coast—at the stop in Genoa, for example, on Wednesday evening.”

  Chapter Ten

  Judy Cruises

  Right,” Verlaque said. “Alain, can you stay here and call the captain of this cruise line and have them hold on to Edmond Martin until we get to Toulon? Guilty or not guilty, Martin needs to be told of Suzanne Montmory’s death.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s get one of the officers to drive us,” Verlaque said to Paulik. “It’s at least an hour’s drive to Toulon, and the ship’s due to dock in an hour and a half.” He looked at the papers that Flamant had printed for him. “We’ll take these with us. You’ll have to print out more for yourself.”