Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery

by M. L. Longworth

  Verlaque stopped in the middle of the Place d’Archevêché on his way home. With his hands on his hips, he looked around at the tall plane trees that lined the square, and then tilted his head and looked up at the sky to watch the swifts flying overhead.

  “Salut, Antoine,” someone said, reaching out to shake Verlaque’s hand.

  “Oh, salut, Omar,” Verlaque said, and shook the hand of the owner of the café on the northwest corner of the square.

  “Doing some thinking?” Omar said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Omar smiled and walked on.

  Verlaque stayed in the square, pivoting around once to get a 360-degree view of it. Then he stopped turning and looked at the ground again, kicking aside a leaf. What could Mlles Montmory and Durand have in common? Neither lived in the same village, and Gisèle Durand apparently hardly ever left the house. But the murderer was someone who knew both women, and who knew where they lived and when they’d be alone. Was it someone in Aix? Laure Matour had told him that Gisèle didn’t drive, so she probably rarely came into Aix. He supposed that she could take the bus, though. He often saw them on the ring road, usually full of high-school students from the country who came into Aix to school. Mme d’Arras had taken a bus too, so they must run frequently….

  Chapter Nineteen

  Southern Charm

  Verlaque ran up the four flights of stairs to his apartment and, out of breath, fumbled with his keys to open his door. “Salut, Marine!” he called when he was inside.

  “Hello! I’m in the bedroom,” she answered, “working.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute!” He grabbed his cell phone and called Paulik. “Hello, Bruno. Sorry to bother you. Can you text me Mlle Montmory’s boss’s phone number? What’s his name again?”

  “Kamel Iachella,” Paulik replied. “I’ll send it to you right away.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call you after I talk to him. Ciao.”

  As soon as the bank manager’s cell-phone number beeped on Verlaque’s telephone, he hit dial and waited for Iachella to answer. “Come on…come on…” Verlaque mumbled.

  On the fourth ring, Iachella answered. “Oui, hallo?”

  “Hello, M. Iachella,” Verlaque said. “It’s Judge Verlaque. I have a quick question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did Mlle Montmory drive a car?”

  “Yes.”

  Verlaque sighed. “Oh, I see.”

  “But not recently,” Iachella replied. “Her car conked out about six months ago, and she was saving to buy a new one.”

  Verlaque straightened his back and looked up at the ceiling. “So how did she get into town?”

  “She caught a ride with a colleague or took the bus.”

  “Thanks a million,” Verlaque said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  “No problem. I hope it helped. We’re completely saddened by her death.” He sniffed and choked a little, and then added, “Perhaps we’ll see you at the funeral? It’s tomorrow, at eleven a.m., at La Madeleine.”

  Verlaque closed his eyes. “I’ll try to be there. Goodbye.”

  Marine came out of the bedroom carrying a book. “Hello there,” she said, crossing the kitchen to kiss Verlaque. “Mmm, pastis,” she said.

  “Suzanne, Pauline, and Gisèle all took the bus,” he replied quickly.

  Marine stepped back. “You’re kidding?” she said. “That’s more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? A bus driver?”

  “Possibly, but how would he know where they lived?”

  “And why go after Mme d’Arras?” Marine asked. “That’s the bit that doesn’t fit. By the way, have you spoken to Philippe Léridon yet?”

  “You really don’t like him, do you?” Verlaque asked. “Tomorrow I’ll go. Gilles d’Arras told Bruno about the argument you overheard in the post office; Mme d’Arras had complained to her husband about it.”

  “And Mme d’Arras didn’t hear what Léridon said after she left,” Marine said. “That the world would be better off without women like her, or something to that effect.”

  Verlaque nodded and walked over to the fridge, taking out a bottle of Mâcon white. “I would have said the same thing about her, from what I’ve been told.” He looked at the bottle and saw that it had been opened already. “Hey! How is it?”

  “Delicious,” Marine answered. “Helps with the reading.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “I went to try to speak with Mme Joubert…Philomène…today,” Marine said.

  Verlaque poured himself a glass of white wine. “Thanks. What did she say?”

  “She’s away on a pilgrimage,” Marine said.

  “Merde! Is there any way we can contact her?”

  “Frère Benoît tried to find me a phone number; I just got off the phone with him. Their hiking group was held back because of rain, and now they’re off schedule. He’s trying to figure out where they are right now. He also wants to tell Mme Joubert about Mme d’Arras’s death, since they were once good friends. How was the rest of your day?”

  Verlaque took his wine up the five steps that led from the open kitchen and dining room to his living room, and sat down in his club chair. “Shit,” he answered. “Fabrice bawled me out for calling in Christophe for questioning. I felt like I was a teenager.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Marine said, sitting down on the top step, one of her favorite spots. “Do you remember that mud you saw on the tires of Christophe’s fancy car, the night of the party?” she asked, looking over at Verlaque.

  “Well done, remembering that detail,” he answered, smiling. “I did remember, but probably after you. Some of the guys managed to scrape off some of the mud and send it to the lab.”

  “Poor Christophe,” she said. “I hope it’s not mud from a vineyard.”

  “That’s what I told one of my officers today. Christophe doesn’t have an alibi for early Friday evening, before he came to the cigar club.”

  “What did he say he was doing?”

  “Bruno thought he was being cagey,” Verlaque said. “Christophe claims that he was at home, alone.”

  “Did you ask him about the mud?” Marine asked.

  “No. I wanted to have it tested first. I’m not sure if that was a good decision.” Verlaque leaned back, enjoying the Chardonnay from the southern tip of Burgundy, a quarter of the price of its fancier cousins north of Beaune. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Chickpea salad and cold ham,” Marine called from the kitchen. “With fresh chèvre and figs for dessert.”

  “More figs?” Verlaque asked, swirling the golden wine around and watching its legs drip slowly down the sides of the glass.

  “My parents had a bumper crop this year, as did everyone else in Provence.”

  Verlaque laughed. “I sounded spoiled. Sorry.” He picked up the volume of Czeslaw Milosz’s poetry and chose a poem at random in the middle of the book. He read a bit and then set the book upside down on his knee, open, and then picked the book up again. “Listen to this,” he called to Marine. “‘And on and on, into winding dells, until suddenly / It appears high, so high, that jewel of wayfarers…. ’ It’s about Rocamadour,” he said. “That’s on the pilgrimage route, isn’t it? Have you been there?”

  “A couple of times. ‘Winding dells’ is a perfect description of that countryside; I always used to get carsick from the switchbacks that led up to the village. There’s a Madonna and Child in the church that you have to climb to; my parents were nuts over it. I preferred the little round cheeses that came from there. That was our treat for the long car ride.”

  Verlaque sighed. “And your carsickness,” he yelled. “You poor thing. I’m glad I never had to vacation with your parents.”

  “And your vacations?” Marine asked from the bottom of the stairs, a tea towel thrown over her shoulder. “Michelin three-star restaurants with whichever mistress your dad had along that week?”

  “Touché.”

  Marin
e stopped on her way back into the kitchen, then came up the stairs and sat on the arm of Verlaque’s chair. “It bothered me that when I told you of my lump you took it personally.”

  “At the restaurant? But how else was I to take it?” Verlaque asked, surprised at the change of topic.

  “You should have been concerned for me, and not upset just because I took a while telling you. It seemed a selfish response.”

  “I was in shock, I suppose. And with these murders…I’m sorry. I should have asked you how you’re feeling.”

  Marine kissed his forehead. “You did, but after.”

  Marine showed Verlaque the bandage. He ran his fingers gently over it, leaned over, and kissed her. “When will you know?”

  “The lab should have called tonight, but they didn’t. So I hope first thing tomorrow.” She jumped up. “Dinner awaits, on the dining-room table. I’m just going into the bedroom to change.”

  Verlaque tried to smile; he loved the fact that Marine changed for dinner, out of what she called her “town clothes” into her “comfy clothes,” both equally elegant. He loved Marine’s strength of character; she had obviously been bothered by the lump over the weekend but now seemed to be taking it in stride. Something had changed in her mood. Had it been going to church on Sunday? Had she spoken to her parents about it? He certainly hadn’t helped, and he felt like an ass—just as Fabrice had called him.

  He sighed and read some more of Milosz’s poem about the pilgrimage. That was one of the things he loved about poetry: he could select one or two lines at random and he’d have something to take away from it, something to reflect upon. “Nor the maiden in the tower, though she lures us with a smile / And blindfolds us before she leads us to her chamber.” It was Monique to a tee; she had lived on the sixth floor in Saint-Germain, without an elevator. And she had died of breast cancer, years later.

  He closed the book and went down the steps into the dining room, to watch Marine lean over the table and light two candles.

  Jules immediately regretted that he hadn’t reserved a table ahead of time. He walked down the Rue Frédéric Mistral with Magali; it was impossible for them not to bump into each other, for the sidewalk was impossibly narrow, and he purposely walked on the street edge of the sidewalk, giving Magali the interior. He had been raised that way and hadn’t given it a second thought. Magali had immediately noticed Jules’s chivalry and been impressed. Years later, she would tell their two daughters that she fell in love with her young policeman that very night.

  Jules would have a different story to tell of their first date. He always began it the same way: how they had bumped into each other in the Place Richelme, Jules on his way home from work and Magali having just closed the café, which wasn’t open in the evening. Something about her smile when she saw him gave Jules the courage to ask her out that night. He made it sound like a whim, suggesting that they try Lotus, a trendy new restaurant, but in fact he had been thinking of inviting her there for days. Now, just a few meters away from the restaurant, he regretted his decision. Not in asking Magali out for dinner, but in choosing Lotus. It was packed; they could hear the music, and a crowd spilled out the door and down onto the sidewalk. “Scheiße…” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Pardon?” Magali asked, stopping in front of the restaurant.

  “I didn’t reserve,” Jules said.

  Magali shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. We can go someplace else.”

  Jules smiled weakly. “I’ll just pop in and try.”

  “I’ll wait out here,” she said.

  With much effort, he finally made his way through the crowd and managed to get inside to talk to a big burly man who was standing at the door. It seemed to Jules more like a nightclub than a restaurant. When he looked at the kitchen, which was open to the dining room, he suddenly felt very hungry. “Is there any chance of getting a table for two?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” the bouncer/host asked.

  “I guess your answer is no,” Jules said. “Even for later?”

  “We’re fully booked, even for later.” The man handed Jules a business card.

  Jules mumbled a thank-you and went back outside, where he found Magali standing against the stone wall across the narrow street.

  “No chance,” he said, walking beside her. “Should we try Les Deux Garçons?”

  Magali frowned. “What did it look like in there?” she asked.

  “Cool. Open kitchen. The place was buzzing.”

  Magali raised an eyebrow. “I might know some of the staff,” she said. “Everyone gets coffee sometime or another at our café. Mind if I try?” She would later tell friends and family that she knew she was risking their date, and future ones, right there. Jules had proved himself a gentleman and was probably a little old-fashioned, and here she was taking the situation in hand.

  “Go ahead,” he said after some thought. “I’ll wait here.” It was at this point in telling the story that Jules always reminded his listeners of the short life span of Aix’s restaurants. Within six months, the lines at Lotus had disappeared. The prices had gone up, the guys in the kitchen had gotten sloppy, and Lotus was no longer the place to be. Two years later, it was closed.

  Magali skipped across the street and made her way through the crowd, saying hello to some and giving the bise to others. He could hear her loud laughter, and then he watched her go in and speak to the same bouncer/host, who now had a smile on his face. Jules watched the bouncer scan the restaurant and say something to Magali; then he saw Magali motion to him with a wave. He walked across the street, saying pardon every few seconds as he edged his way through the crowd.

  Magali reached out and put her arm through his. “They’re setting up a place at the end of the bar for us, with two stools.”

  Jules tried to smile. It wasn’t normal that the rules had been changed, even for a girl as pretty and charming as Magali. Either you’re full or you’re not full. Either you have a place available or you don’t. That’s the way it was in Alsace. He felt guilty about the people waiting outside too. But perhaps they also knew the secret code, as Magali had?

  A waitress came and said, “Follow me,” and they made their way through the restaurant and sat down. Magali leaned over toward Jules and put her hand on his forearm. “I hope you don’t mind what I just did. That’s the way it works here.”

  “You mean Lotus?” Jules asked, almost having to shout over the noise of music, laughter, and clattering cutlery and plates.

  “No, in the south,” she answered. She squeezed his arm, delighted to feel his muscles.

  The bouncer/host appeared and slapped Jules on the back. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I didn’t know you were with Magali!”

  “Next time, I’ll make sure to tell you,” Jules answered, trying to sound lighthearted.

  “I’ll bring you guys something nice from Corsica to whet your palates,” he said. He snapped his fingers, and a bartender appeared and leaned over the bar.

  “Bring my friends two glasses of our sparkling wine of the month,” the bouncer/host said. “Domaine Martini!”

  The bartender nodded, and in under a minute, two flutes of sparkling wine appeared. Jules and Magali toasted each other, and the bouncer/host, now back beside the front door, waved and winked.

  “It’s going to be hard to speak tonight,” Magali said over the noise.

  “I know,” Jules answered. “But at least we’ll eat well, from all I’ve heard about this place. The commissioner raves about it.”

  Magali laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve ever had a restaurant recommendation from a commissioner of police!”

  Jules laughed and sipped his wine. He looked up, surprised. He was loyal to Alsatian wines, and at family gatherings they always drank an Alsatian Crémant as an apéritif. “This is good. Really good.”

  Magali took what he thought was a rather large gulp, hiccupped, and laughed. “It is!” She set her glass down. “So where do you get these?” She squeezed h
is forearm again, and then reached up and squeezed his biceps.

  “What do you mean? My arms?”

  Magali let out a howl of laughter. “No! Your muscles! Do you work out at a gym?”

  Jules laughed at his own naïveté. “No, I row.”

  “Really?” Magali asked. “Where?”

  “Well, when I was in Alsace it was on rivers,” he answered. “But I’ve just joined the Rowing Club de Marseille.”

  “I’ve seen it! Well, I’ve walked by it. By the Pharo, right?”

  Jules nodded. “What do you do, when you’re not working at the café?”

  “I paint.”

  “Pictures?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind?” Jules yelled. It seemed to him that the restaurant was getting noisier. A waitress appeared with a plate of thinly sliced figatelli sausage from Corsica, took their orders, and then disappeared.

  “Promise you won’t laugh,” Magali said.

  Jules made the sign of the cross, immediately regretting it.

  Magali leaned over. “Still lifes.”

  “Really?” Jules asked. “With fruit and stuff?”

  “Yeah. It’s been my obsession for a while. I love going to the market and buying fruit and veggies, and then bringing them back to my apartment and painting them. I have a collection of old jugs and vintage tablecloths that I use. It’s really fun.”

  Jules beamed. This was by far the most interesting date he had had in a long time. “Could I see them sometime?” he asked.

  Magali winked at her tall blond Alsatian. “Of course!”

  Chapter Twenty

  A New Bus Pass

  Instead of thinking of what they did in common,” Paulik said as they stood in Verlaque’s office Wednesday morning, “you thought of what they didn’t do…drive.”