Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery

by M. L. Longworth

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “But this isn’t a social call, is it?”

  “No,” Marine said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  Bley nodded and motioned to a chair, then walked around to the far side of his oversized wooden desk, the same desk his grandfather had used, in the same office. Marine sat down and set her purse on the floor; as she did so, her silk top slipped off her left shoulder. She quickly readjusted the blouse and looked up to see Bley staring at her. He had seen the small bandage on her upper chest, where the puncture for the biopsy had been performed.

  “Are you all right?” Bley asked.

  Marine sat up straight. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s all right,” Marine answered. “I went in for a biopsy this morning; that’s why the bandage’s there. It didn’t hurt, but it was extremely uncomfortable. It’s hard to describe.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bley said. “When will they know something?”

  “Possibly by the end of the day,” she answered. “My dad put a phone call through to the lab to hurry things up.” Marine’s father was Aix’s most sought-after general practitioner; he had been the Bley family doctor for years.

  Bley reached across the desk and squeezed Marine’s hand. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  Marine smiled. “Thank you, Éric.”

  “So…what’s going on?” he asked.

  “It’s Mme d’Arras’s death,” Marine said. “And you’re the family lawyer….”

  “That’s right.”

  “We know that Mme d’Arras had an appointment with you that she wanted to keep from her husband.”

  Bley nodded. “That’s confidential, Marine.”

  “But she was murdered,” Marine said. “On Friday night.”

  “What?” Bley asked, his face ashen. “I heard this morning that she died, but not how. I was in Paris all weekend and just came back on the morning train. I’m speechless. How did it happen?”

  “We don’t know yet. Her body was found in a vineyard; she had been hit on the side of the head with a rock, and her wallet was missing.”

  Bley sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you want to know? And why are you here, and not the police? Or are law professors branching out these days?”

  “I’m helping Antoine Verlaque.”

  Bley stayed silent for a few seconds and then said, “Still seeing him, are you?”

  Marine nodded. “We need to know why Mme d’Arras had to keep the appointment with you a secret,” she said. “It seemed an odd secret to keep: I’m told that she and her husband did everything together.”

  “Poor Gilles,” said Bley. “Yes, they were inseparable. But Mme d’Arras came to see me about her money, the Aubanel family fortune.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “She had a separate section of the will, independent of what she and Gilles had written up. I can show it to you if you have a warrant—which, since you’re not a police officer, I assume you don’t.”

  “No, I don’t. But Judge Verlaque doesn’t need one.”

  “Then send him over,” Bley said, his voice curt. “I might even ask why you’re here instead of him.”

  Marine knew that she was now being punished for dating Antoine and for turning down Bley’s advances. It was also, as Bley had pointed out, unusual that Verlaque had sent her on this mission. She thanked him and got up, shaking his hand this time, and quickly left the office. Out on the stairs, she called Verlaque’s cell phone.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said. “How soon can you walk over to Éric Bley’s office?”

  “In about two minutes,” Verlaque said. “I can practically see it from my office.”

  “He won’t tell me what Mme d’Arras came for, but it has to do with her will.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “And as an examining magistrate, you don’t need a warrant, right?”

  “Correct. Just my badge.”

  She hung up and sat on the stairs, which were surprisingly cold given the warm September day. She pulled out a slim volume of Simone de Beauvoir’s memoirs and began reading, but after a few lines her mind started wandering, and she put the book away. She realized that she had just told Éric Bley more about her state of health than she had told her boyfriend, at least until their dinner last night. Was it because she wanted to be strong and healthy for Antoine Verlaque? Was she afraid that he wouldn’t be supportive if she fell ill? Or was it because she had known Éric Bley since they were children, and as all of Aix knew—at least her set of friends and acquaintances—Bley had recently nursed his elderly father through a long and painful cancer?

  Verlaque arrived in two minutes, as he had predicted, and bounded up the stairs. “Lead me to him,” he said, kissing Marine.

  They walked into the office, interrupting the secretary and Bley, who were deep in conversation.

  “Bonjour, Maître Bley,” Verlaque said, and strode across the reception room to shake the lawyer’s hand. “I’m Antoine Verlaque, examining magistrate of Aix-en-Provence. Do you have a minute?”

  Bley motioned with a wave of his hand for Verlaque and Marine to enter his office, and closed the door once they were settled. Verlaque removed his badge from his jacket and showed it to Bley. As required, the lawyer laid it on his desk. “You’d like to see the changes Mme d’Arras made to her will?”

  “Please,” Verlaque said.

  “Mme d’Arras made the changes to her private will,” Marine explained. “She had her own fortune, from the Aubanel family.”

  Bley removed a file from a turn-of-the-century wooden filing cabinet that had obviously been purchased along with the desk decades earlier, and set it on the desk, beside Verlaque’s badge. He opened the file folder and turned to a typewritten page on his office’s letterhead.

  Verlaque leaned over and put his reading glasses on. “What exactly did she change?” he asked as he read. “It seems that she is giving her fortune, eight hundred ninety thousand euros, to the”—he bent down closer to look—“Société pour la Prévention de la Cruauté Envers les Animaux,” he said. He took off his reading glasses and looked at Bley. “The SPCA?”

  Bley nodded.

  “Who was the recipient before she changed it?” Marine asked.

  “Her nephew,” Bley replied. “Christophe Chazeau.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Verlaque Suspects a Friend

  You’re an ass!” Fabrice yelled into the phone. “I never thought I’d say that about you, Antoine, but you’re a total ass! Christophe just called me; he said that the prosecutor was raking him over the coals.”

  “I’m sorry, Fabrice,” Verlaque said, “but Christophe’s aunt was murdered on Friday night, and he was disinherited a few days prior to that.”

  “He was with us Friday night, or don’t you remember?”

  “He would have had time to go to Rognes,” Verlaque answered. “Before the party.”

  “And how did he know he was disinherited?” Fabrice asked. “Huh? Huh? Answer me that!”

  “Mme d’Arras called Christophe’s mother, her sister Natalie, and told her. M. d’Arras confirmed that today.”

  Fabrice stayed silent for a few seconds. “It’s all very circumstantial. And you arrest him for that?”

  “I didn’t arrest him, Fabrice,” Verlaque replied. “I only called him in for questioning. He’s at home now.”

  “He must feel like shit. Way to go.”

  Verlaque didn’t tell Fabrice that, while he was questioning Christophe, Officers Flamant and Schoelcher were out in the parking lot, taking samples of mud from the tires of Chazeau’s new Porsche SUV. “What’s most unfortunate is that he doesn’t have an alibi for Friday night from the time he left work at five-thirty p.m. until he came to the cigar-club dinner at eight p.m.,” Verlaque said.

  “I’m not sure I have an alibi for those hours!” Fabrice yelled into the phone. “So am I a murderer?
”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Verlaque said.

  “You’re upsetting la fraternité! We’re a club!”

  “‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers…’”

  “What are you going on about? No one is happy at the moment, especially poor Christophe. I’m going to hang up now, Antoine, and I want you to think very hard about what you’ve just done. Goodbye.”

  Verlaque hung up and put his head on his desk, resting it on his forearms. Someone knocked at the door. “Entrez,” he said without looking up.

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” Jules Schoelcher said. “Should I come back?”

  “No, no. What is it?” Verlaque lifted his head.

  “Since it rained the other night, M. Chazeau’s car was pretty clean….”

  “Merde.”

  “But there was some dried mud clinging to the inside of the wheel well that we managed to scrape off. It’s already in the lab.”

  “Excellent,” Verlaque said. “Let’s hope it’s not from a vineyard.”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “Christophe Chazeau is a friend.”

  “Oh, I see. That must be very awkward.”

  “To say the least. Have you seen the commissioner around?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes, he’s at his desk.”

  “Could you send him in, with Flamant, please? You come back too.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Within minutes, the three men were in Verlaque’s office. “Please tell me that there’s something linking Mlles Durand and Montmory,” Verlaque said.

  “Nada,” Paulik answered. “We’ve checked all we can think of, from hairdressers to dentists.”

  Verlaque said, “Keep going over everything. I’m going to meet with Gisèle Durand’s old boss from the clothing shop. She works in Aix now, and we’re to meet at a café in”—he looked at his watch—“five minutes. Keep me posted if you find anything, and I’ll see you all here tomorrow morning, in my office, at nine.”

  Verlaque had suggested a café on the Rue Gaston Saporta that he rarely went to, where he knew he wouldn’t run into people he knew, especially cigar-club members; they tended to frequent the cafés on the Cours Mirabeau, their favorite being the Mazarin. He wanted Mlle Matour—or Mme? he wasn’t sure if she was married—to feel as comfortable as possible. He was relieved that she now worked in Aix and he didn’t have to drive to Rognes to meet her. When he got to the café, a few minutes late, he scanned the terrace for women who looked as if they might work in the garment industry in Provence. Since most of the patrons looked either like preppy-type Sciences Po students who had come to Aix before the term started, in a mad rush to find an overpriced studio apartment, or like old men drinking pastis, the choice was easy.

  “Excuse me,” he said, leaning down over the only woman who was alone. “Mlle Matour?”

  “Oui,” she said, holding her hand out for Verlaque to shake it. “Sit down…please.”

  Verlaque sat down and ordered a coffee from the waiter, who then disappeared.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet on such short notice,” Verlaque said.

  “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not good company,” Mlle Matour said, taking a drag on her cigarette and then placing it in the ashtray. “I’m in shock over Gisèle’s…murder. There, I said that word. I never thought I’d have to say ‘murder’ along with the name of someone I knew.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Verlaque said. “You worked with Mlle Durand a long time, didn’t you?”

  “Twelve years. She was a good employee, and I hope a good friend.”

  “You hope?” Verlaque asked.

  Mlle Matour nodded, taking another drag on her cigarette. “I worked alongside her for twelve years, but when I look back on it, I’m not sure we were ever friends. Colleagues, yes, but friends?”

  “Was she hard to get to know?”

  “Yeah. Easy to like, but hard to get to know. I think she had a bad childhood, and then seemed to pick rough guys as boyfriends. It never worked out. They flocked to her, though.”

  “Ah bon?”

  “Yeah, she was a beauty. Still, even into her forties, she got mistaken for a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Petite, healthy hair, clear olive skin. The poor thing.” Mlle Matour lowered her head and rubbed her eyes, crying softly.

  Verlaque looked across the street at the Cathedral’s Gothic statues, guarding its front doors, and waited for Mlle Matour to collect herself.

  “Who needs a drink?” she finally said, wiping her eyes on a paper napkin.

  “Pastis?” Verlaque asked. He looked at her streaked, dyed hair and tattooed shoulder and guessed that she might like the anise-flavored drink.

  “I will if you will,” she replied, a smile forming at the edges of her mouth.

  “Allez,” Verlaque said, waving to the waiter. “Deux pastis, s’il vous plaît!”

  Mlle Matour took a deep breath and said, “You don’t know who did it, do you?”

  “No, not yet.” He paused and then said, “Do you?”

  Mlle Matour shrugged. “Any one of her useless past boyfriends, except the last one, André. One of them…Georges…I had to chase out of the shop with a broom.”

  Verlaque smiled. He liked her spunk. “Can you give me a list of names?”

  “Delighted.”

  The waiter brought two tall, thin glasses with an inch of yellow liquid in the bottom of each, a carafe of water, a bowl of ice cubes, and two swizzle sticks.

  “Merci,” Verlaque said. “May I?” he asked Mlle Matour, holding the carafe of water over her glass of pastis.

  She nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  He poured the water in, watching the pastis turn cloudy. Mlle Matour signaled with her hand and he stopped, then poured water into his own glass and stirred in two ice cubes.

  “Chin-chin,” Mlle Matour said, holding her glass up to his.

  “Salut,” he answered. He took a sip of pastis, surprised at how refreshing it tasted. He loved licorice, and yet this was a drink he rarely ordered. Was it out of snobbishness? he wondered.

  “You either love it or hate it,” Mlle Matour said.

  “Pastis?”

  “Or licorice in general.”

  “You’re right. Like coriander,” he said, thinking of his love of the herb, and Marine’s dislike.

  “Or…oysters.”

  “Love them,” he answered, smiling.

  “I hate them.”

  The waiter brought a small bowl of peanuts and one of popcorn, setting them down on the table.

  “Why did you close your shop?” Verlaque asked, taking some popcorn.

  “Too hard to compete with the big clothing stores in Aix, especially since they’ve built that new shopping complex at the bottom of the cours.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Verlaque replied. “I can’t imagine who wanted it, except for the real-estate promoters, big clothing-store chains, and the mayor. And Mlle Durand left when you closed the shop?”

  “Yes. I found a job in Aix straightaway, and I encouraged her to do the same. I even offered to drive her into Aix, since she didn’t drive. But she sort of got depressed, I think, and then rarely went out.”

  “Was she dating André Prodos at the time?”

  Mlle Matour drank some pastis and nodded. “Yes, but they broke up about a month or two after I closed the shop. He’s an okay guy, if you want to know. I ran into him shortly after they broke up, and he seemed pretty sad. He said that he just couldn’t get her out of her blues, so they stopped seeing each other. But he still called her now and again. I think he really loved her.”

  “He found her,” Verlaque said. “Last night.”

  “Oh my God. I didn’t know that.” Mlle Matour lit another cigarette. “Poor André. I’ve seen enough television shows to know that you’ll have to question him,” she said, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing out the smoke. “But André’s not your man.”

  Philippe
Léridon was relieved that his wife was on a shopping spree in Paris, picking out furniture and drapes for their new house. How could someone take so long looking at fabrics? he wondered. His wife couldn’t stand Pauline d’Arras, and now, with the old woman dead…murdered…any moment now the police would come ringing his doorbell. He knew he must be a suspect; Mme d’Arras had harassed him over and over again, and he had finally blown up at her—in the post office, of all places. And the judge’s girlfriend had been there; he had recognized her at the cigar club’s party. Who wouldn’t recognize her? A tall, thin, elegant woman with hazel eyes and curly auburn hair, and those charming freckles…

  He walked across his small back lawn; actually, it was big for a downtown garden, narrow but fifty meters deep. The garden had been neglected, and the only plants that remained were two tall palm trees at either edge, near the back, and a couple of oleander plants. He felt his loafers sink down into the grass, surprisingly green and lush for Provence, thanks to the recent unexpected rain, and stopped at the edge of the garden, under a lean-to that his mason had built quickly to protect the digging site. He got down on his hands and knees, removed the tarp, and shone a flashlight below, where his state-of-the-art wine cellar would one day be. He had purposely stopped the construction of his wine cellar and redirected the workers into another big project, the Italian kitchen. Each day, he couldn’t wait for his workers—the ones who showed up—to leave, at 6:00 p.m., so that he could go and inspect his prize. He almost shooed them out the front door.

  He needed time to decide what to do, and how to do it without anyone’s knowing. Mme d’Arras was now no longer around, but her husband could be watching him. Perhaps she had told her husband about Léridon’s secret? He looked up at the Hôtel de Barlet’s windows, but since the sun was still shining he couldn’t see anyone at the windows. It was a risk to come out and look at it during the daylight hours, but he got too impatient thinking about it sitting there, waiting for him. No one knew about this, except him and his mason, who was sworn to secrecy. The mason had been paid in cash for keeping his mouth closed. Philippe Léridon had never seen anything like it; it brought tears to his eyes to imagine that it was his.