Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery

by M. L. Longworth

“Yes, traces could be in her blood. But there’re ways to hide that, even from an autopsy—for example, just by slightly increasing the doses of what she was already being given by IV.”

  “So an autopsy could shed some light, but not necessarily.”

  “And I’m not sure her parents would agree to it,” replied Dr. D’Almeida. “They’re in great shock, and are strict Catholics. And as I said, the only people who had access to her room were hospital employees and her parents, and I have a hard time imagining any of them doing such a thing, as you would with your own staff at the Palais de Justice.”

  Paulik nodded, and briefly turned his head to look at the Cathedral’s steeple.

  “The head nurse wept,” Dr. D’Almeida continued. “We were greatly saddened, especially since it seemed that Mlle Montmory was out of danger. But in medical school we were always told never to assume that.”

  Hélène Paulik and Victor Bonnard walked together through the vines, stopping every so often to look at them, or to hold a heavy bunch of grapes in their hands. “The harvest will be soon, won’t it?” Victor asked.

  “Yes, your dad and I would like to hold out just a few more days. After all that surprise rain at the end of August, the grapes just need a little more sun.”

  “Rain and sun equals weeds,” Victor said, leaning down to pull a bunch out of the dry, rocky ground. “I’ve never seen so many.”

  “Nor have I,” Hélène answered.

  “What if there’s more rain in the next few days?” Victor asked. “Shouldn’t we pick now?”

  “That is a danger, and we used to do what you say…but we were picking too soon. The right moment to pick is when the sugar and acid are in balance; pick too soon and they’ll be out of whack.”

  Victor looked up at the clear sky. “But if it rains…”

  “September rain can bring rot, but that can be fought with fungicides. I prefer to take the risk.”

  Victor saluted Hélène. “Okay, boss!”

  “We’ll test the sugar content with the Cinsault grapes first, and let’s hope it will later give us twelve or thirteen degrees alcohol,” Hélène said. “Why am I worried about the Cinsault?”

  “Because they’re on the northeast slope, down by the road, and so get the least amount of sun.”

  “Right,” Hélène said, smiling. “You have the syringe? Although I suppose I should have asked you that when we started off.”

  Victor patted the backpack that was on his back. “And we’ll check the Syrah next?”

  “Yep. I’m not too worried about them, because they’re on the southwest hill. But we don’t want too much alcohol either. Fifteen degrees alcohol content is too much for my taste.”

  “More bang for your buck,” Victor said, laughing.

  Hélène laughed. “I’m glad you’re able to help out today,” she said. “Thank goodness for teachers’ strikes.”

  “I’d much rather be here than at school, believe me,” Victor said. He was careful not to add, “be here with you.” He had always followed Hélène Paulik around the vineyard like a puppy, but he had recently been keeping his distance, for he had become completely infatuated with the petite brunette. It wasn’t just her looks—thin, muscular, big brown eyes—or her loud laugh. It was her knowledge, and the fact that she never talked down to him. At breakfast that morning, his father had asked Victor to help Hélène in the vines, and although Victor had been reluctant—afraid that he’d show his crush—he was now happily, and easily, walking with her and chatting. He also knew that his father wanted to tour the cellars with that dandy from Paris, who was coming back, and that the cigar-smoking judge would be with them as well.

  “You don’t much like school, do you?” Hélène asked.

  He shook his head and kicked a rock.

  “It could come in useful, down the road,” Hélène suggested.

  “What good is Molière to me when all I want to do is make wine?”

  “Oh voleur, oh voleur!” Hélène called out, and the two laughed.

  “À l’assassin!” Victor cried, lunging forward with an imaginary sword. They went down a small hill, between the narrow vines that were still hand-picked. They could hear traffic on the departmental road that went between Aix and Rognes.

  “Let’s start here,” Hélène said, stopping. “This bunch looks good.” She held some grapes in her hand while Victor took off his backpack. “They’ve already started to shrivel slightly. That’s good.”

  “Lovely Cinsault,” Victor said. He squatted, getting their equipment out, but then quickly jumped up. “What the fuck?” he said. “Excuse my language, Hélène.”

  “What is it, Victor?” Hélène asked. “Too much Molière?”

  “There’s a pink purse lying over there.”

  “What?”

  He bent down to pick it up but quickly recoiled. “Oh my God!” he yelled, stepping backward and almost falling into Hélène’s arms. He turned and fell down on his knees and retched.

  “Victor!” Hélène said as she knelt down and rubbed his back.

  “Don’t look at it, Hélène,” he mumbled. She took a Kleenex out of her pocket and gave it to him, then stood up, craning her neck over the thick four-foot-high vines to try to see what lay beyond the pink purse. “Dad, go get Dad,” he mumbled.

  “What in the world is it?” she asked as she walked to the end of the vine and back up around the other side. “Oh my God.” Hélène Paulik held her hand to her mouth and turned around, looking at Victor.

  “What happened to her?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  Hélène shook her head. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” Her mouth was dry; she kicked herself for not bringing a bottle of water, especially for Victor.

  “I can’t leave her alone,” Hélène replied.

  “Why not? She’s…dead.”

  “That’s why,” Hélène said. She came back around the vine and sat down beside Victor. “Out of respect. She’s an old woman. Can you go?”

  Victor got up and brushed the red dirt off his pants. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll run.”

  And he was off.

  Verlaque rushed to his interview, not at the underfunded hospital where Paulik and Schoelcher now were, but at an elegant former hôtel particulier in the Quartier Mazarin. He would have just enough time to speak to the doctor before driving out to Domaine Beauclaire. As soon as he was buzzed in by the secretary, he walked quickly up the stone steps, glancing at the wall frescoes of gardens as he did. The massive wooden door to the doctor’s office was open, an elegant woman in her mid-fifties holding it for him. “Come in, Judge,” she said, stepping aside. “But I’m afraid Dr. Charnay just left last night for vacation. How may I help you?”

  “Dr. Charnay visited a patient last Thursday in the hospital….”

  The secretary looked at him as if he were a dimwit. “Dr. Charnay regularly visits his patients in the hospital, Judge.”

  “Yes, I would assume so, Mme…”

  “Blanc.”

  “Mme Blanc,” he continued. “We’re interviewing all hospital staff who paid this woman a visit, because she died while in the hospital. Dr. Charnay wasn’t this woman’s general practitioner, so I’d like to know why he visited the young woman.”

  The secretary flinched for the briefest of moments. “Dr. Charnay is an otolaryngologist.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “An ear-nose-and-throat specialist. It’s very likely she was one of his patients.”

  Verlaque nodded. “Could I see his patient list, Mme Blanc?”

  “You may.”

  “Thank you,” Verlaque said. He felt as if he were walking on eggshells.

  “Next week,” she added, “when the doctor returns from his vacation.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The doctor?” the secretary answered. “I believe he’s in…the Ardèche.”

  Verlaque stared at the woman. “I’m an examining magistrate, ma
dame,” he said. “And I can look…”

  “Cher monsieur,” she answered, “I don’t care what kind of judge you are. Please have some respect for my position as the keeper of the doctor’s records while he is away. You may look at them with Dr. Charnay’s permission, next week.”

  Verlaque opened his mouth to speak, but the sound that was heard in the office was his cell phone ringing. He excused himself and took the call, seeing it was Bruno Paulik on the other end. “Oui, Bruno?”

  “Sorry to disturb, sir. But I have bad news.”

  “Go on, Bruno.”

  “We found Mme d’Arras’s body; she’s been dead for a few days.”

  “I see,” he answered, glancing in the direction of the secretary, who was watering a small plant on her desk and seemed to be speaking to it. “I’ll be right there. Tell me where to find you.”

  He hung up and said to Mme Blanc, “I have to go, but I’ll be back, with or without Dr. Charnay’s permission to look at his patient list. Thank you for your…your…”

  “Goodbye, Judge,” she answered quickly, walking across the room to hold the door open for him. “I will tell the doctor you called.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Love Story

  The Bonnards sat at their twelve-foot-long wooden kitchen table with Antoine Verlaque and Bruno and Hélène Paulik. “If you want to cry, son, go ahead,” Olivier Bonnard said to Victor, reaching over to put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Bugger off, Dad!” Victor said. He got up and left the table so quickly he almost upset his chair.

  “What did I say?” Olivier asked.

  Élise Bonnard rolled her eyes and tilted her head in the direction of Hélène Paulik.

  “Oh…” Olivier and Élise had talked about Victor’s crush on Hélène. Olivier felt stupid and realized that he would once again have to apologize to his son. Or perhaps he should just let it go? Pretend that he and Élise hadn’t noticed the crush?

  “Olivier?” Élise said. “Bruno asked you a question.”

  “I know harvest is around the corner,” Paulik repeated, “but we’ll have to rope off part of that vineyard as a crime scene. Will that be a problem?”

  Olivier Bonnard shrugged. “Cinsault is a bulk grape, so it’s not a catastrophe. It’s never good to lose grapes, but we’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “We’ll try to disturb as little as possible,” said Paulik. “Unfortunately, last night’s rain will have removed any foot or tire prints.”

  “What happened to her?” Olivier asked.

  Verlaque leaned forward. “Someone hit her on the head with a rock. We don’t know if it happened in the vineyard or if her body was dragged there; we’ll be able to establish that after the autopsy.”

  “Oh, my word,” Élise said. “Chez nous!”

  “And that purse?” Hélène Paulik asked.

  Bruno Paulik turned to his wife and rubbed her shoulders. “Her wallet was gone, so there’s a chance it was a robbery.”

  “Imagine that,” Élise said. “Killing an old woman for money.”

  Paulik and Verlaque exchanged looks; they were both thinking of the same person: Didier Ruère, who three years ago attacked an elderly woman in Aix in order to steal her purse. The old woman lived, and Ruère was thrown in jail, but he would soon be released, if he hadn’t been already.

  The kitchen door opened and an elderly man walked in, wearing a plaid wool beret. “Dad!” Olivier Bonnard said.

  The old man looked at the people gathered around the table. “What’s going on? A meeting of some kind?”

  “Sort of,” Olivier answered. “We’re meeting with Hélène and her husband…you know him…Bruno…we’re just discussing the…”

  “The new proposal to build an hypermarché in Rognes,” Élise said. “Commissioner Paulik and his colleague are giving us ideas on how to stop the megastore from being built.”

  “Very good, very good,” Albert Bonnard said. “Well, I’m going up into the vines to check on them.”

  Olivier shot up out of his seat. “I’ll go with you, Dad.”

  Élise Bonnard mouthed the word “Alzheimer’s” to Verlaque, and he nodded slightly in acknowledgment. He thought of Mme d’Arras, found dead in the vines, her body now at the morgue in Aix, and how she too had probably had the disease.

  “As you wish,” replied Albert Bonnard.

  When Olivier and the old man had left, Élise said, “Albert takes long naps in the afternoon, thank goodness. He slept through everything; I was worried he would hear the ambulance come into the courtyard, but he didn’t. They didn’t have their sirens on, since she was…”

  “He must be upset about the wine thefts,” Bruno Paulik said.

  Élise shrugged. “Oddly enough, he’s taking it better than we thought he would. He even told us the other day that he preferred a French thief over a German.”

  “German?” Hélène asked.

  “He’s talking about the war again,” Élise replied. “He does that now and again. He was a small boy when his uncle Bertrand was killed because he was un résistant. With the dementia, all that stuff is coming back to him.”

  On his way back into Aix, Verlaque telephoned Marine and proposed that they have dinner at a restaurant in the perched village of Ventabren, a fifteen-minute drive west of Aix. It was a clear, warm night, and they’d be able to eat out on the restaurant’s terrace, which had a view south almost to the sea. The chef had just been given his first Michelin star, and Verlaque was relieved that they were open and that he was able to reserve the last remaining table.

  “It’s odd, these stories,” Verlaque said, once they had been seated and were sipping Champagne, “how they’re all beginning to overlap. Mme d’Arras’s body found not far from Rognes, in the Bonnards’ vineyard. Coincidence?”

  Marine crossed her arms and stared at Verlaque. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Really?” Verlaque bit into a petit four and waited for Marine to answer.

  “It’s too coincidental,” she said. “What was Pauline d’Arras doing in Rognes, and why did she meet her death there, so close to where she grew up and where there have been recent wine thefts?” Marine picked up one of the petits fours and tasted it. “Oh my,” she said, wiping her mouth with a large white linen napkin, “what’s in these things?”

  “Sun-dried tomatoes?” Verlaque asked. “Mme d’Arras’s Filofax was still in her purse. “We’ll go over it tomorrow morning; her lists of phone numbers and appointments may be useful.”

  “People still use Filofaxes?”

  “You do if you don’t have a cell phone,” Verlaque answered. “And I may go visit Mme d’Arras’s sister Clothilde, who’s a nun in the southwest. Care to join me?”

  Marine shook her head. “Tempting, but I have too much work, and way too many useless meetings to prepare for the new semester. I was supposed to hand in my syllabus two weeks ago. This happens every year—I think I have all summer to prepare and then, all of a sudden, c’est la rentrée.” I’m still not telling him about the lump: the little pea.

  “It’s not like you weren’t doing anything.” Verlaque leaned back so that the waitress could bring their first course, a sea bream delicately spiced with chervil and tarragon, surrounded by thinly sliced potato rounds. “How’s your writing going, anyway?”

  “I’m very excited about it,” Marine answered, cutting into her fish. “You gave me the strength to move on and try another discipline. I’ve picked my subject for the biography and started researching. It’s not law-related, which somehow feels very liberating.”

  “But you seemed sad the other day,” Verlaque said.

  Marine set her fork down. Perhaps it is time. “Yes, I was. But going to church helped, and today I had a long talk with…my doctor.”

  Verlaque leaned forward across the table. “Doctor? Marine, what’s going on? Are you ill?”

  “I found a small lump in my breast last week,” she replied. “And…”

  “Why
didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it may be benign—we don’t know yet. I’m having a bit of it taken out tomorrow morning, at the hospital.”

  “You should have told me!” Verlaque said. “I’ll go with you.” Just then his cell phone, which was sitting on the table, beeped.

  “Shit!” Verlaque cried in English. “I’m sorry, Marine, it’s Bruno. I’ll have to take this.” He grabbed his telephone and left the restaurant’s terrace to cross the tiny village street so that he was out of earshot of the restaurant’s patrons.

  Marine watched him, admiring his thick black-and-gray hair and broad shoulders, which were hunched over as he spoke. She was glad she had been honest with him; it had been her father’s advice, and her doctor’s. But something about Antoine’s reaction bothered her. She couldn’t put her finger on it.

  Her doctor had felt the lump that morning and was confident. “Most of these are benign, Marine,” she had said. “Noncancerous breast lesions are very common, and they are never life-threatening. We’ll take a sample of it, but don’t worry. I’ll set up an appointment for you. It’s a fast procedure: you’ll be in and out in a jiffy. Are you afraid of needles?”

  Marine shook her head. “No. Worms, yes; deep seawater, yes. Needles, no.”

  Her gynecologist smiled and explained the procedure that a radiologist at the clinic would perform with a thin, hollow needle. “He or she will take some fluid from the cyst with the needle and perhaps use an ultrasound to guide positioning the needle. The fluid will then be sent off to the lab.”

  Marine had walked home, not happy exactly, but calmer than she had been in days. She spent the afternoon reading a dull but thorough biography of her subject that had been written in the 1960s. She hadn’t seen the time go by and was still reading when Verlaque called her, suggesting dinner out. It was a fantastic idea, and she treated herself by running across the street to agnès b. and buying a blouse that she had been eyeing. She had been waiting for the blouse to go on sale, but agnès b. rarely did sales, and when they did it was for clothes that no one wanted. It was frivolous to do this the night before a biopsy, but she wanted to think of other things. That very night she wore the blouse, which was covered in pink roses, with white jeans and flat Tropézienne leather sandals.