Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery

by M. L. Longworth

  “And what if it was someone she knew?” Verlaque asked.

  “She would get into the car of someone she knew,” Marine said. “It was the end of the day, and she must have been tired.”

  “Yes,” Verlaque agreed. “Well, listen, get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow evening.” He added, “I love you.”

  Marine held the phone in her hand, looking at the mouthpiece, and then said, “I love you too.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Bruno Paulik Breaks a Door

  Verlaque dropped Paulik off at the Palais de Justice at 4:00 p.m. and called Marine from his car. “Do I have any clean shirts at your place?”

  Marine took her phone into her bedroom and opened her closet. “Yes, two white and one light blue.”

  “Then I’ll be right over,” he said.

  Thirty minutes later, Verlaque had changed, brushed his teeth, and shaved and was sitting in Marine’s kitchen, pleased to have five minutes just to look at her face. “I’ll have to go back to the Palais de Justice today,” he said.

  “I know,” Marine answered, stirring a sugar cube into her espresso.

  “But when we find this guy, I’ll take a few days off, and we’ll go to Michel Bras.”

  “Any place would do, Antoine. Eating there last night must have cost you an arm and a leg.”

  “Stop sounding like your mom,” he said. “I don’t care about the money.” He leaned across the table and kissed her. “I’m so relieved that lump was benign.”

  Marine took a deep breath. “Me too. My specialist said he wasn’t worried, but I was. I consider I got off very lucky.”

  “Specialist?” Verlaque asked. “I just assumed you went to your family doctor. I’m sorry; I should have been more clued in.”

  Marine laughed. “I didn’t expect you to keep track of my doctors’ names,” she said. “I have many.”

  Verlaque got up and put his demitasse in the dishwasher. “Really? Do all women?”

  “Of course! You men have it easy. Women have their GP, then their gynecologist, some women see dermatologists, others podiatrists to work on their feet….”

  Verlaque suddenly grabbed her and kissed her forehead. “You’re amazing!” he yelled. “I have to run!”

  “Glad to have been of service,” Marine mumbled as Verlaque ran out the front door. She took the rest of her coffee out onto the terrace, where she could look at Saint-Jean de Malte’s steeple, its gargoyles poised and watching the city. The church’s bells began a slow, mournful ringing, and she wondered if it was for Mme d’Arras’s funeral. She looked over at the windows of Philomène Joubert’s apartment, their shutters open, and a fresh load of laundry—a set of flowered sheets—flapping in the breeze. The ever-busy Mme Joubert would probably attend her old friend’s funeral but would put a quick load of laundry up on the line before leaving. Marine sighed and went back into her apartment. Would she ever be that efficient? She put her cup in the dishwasher, beside Verlaque’s. How he had changed. She smiled to think of it. “If you think he’s worth it, stick with it,” her father had advised. She was so glad she had. And funny the way Verlaque had run out of the apartment like that, at the mention of women’s health. Marine leaned against the kitchen counter, her chin resting in her palm, and then it dawned on her.

  Antoine Verlaque walked as quickly as he could up the Rue Thiers; he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, and he was still full from the previous evening’s dinner. He pulled out his cell phone and called Paulik. “Bruno,” he said when the commissioner answered, “I’m almost there. Is Officer Schoelcher around?”

  “He’s sitting across from me,” Paulik replied.

  “Great. Tell him to get his little notebook, the one that has the list of people who went into Mlle Montmory’s hospital room.”

  Paulik said something to Schoelcher and then came back on. “Done. He has it on him.”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes!”

  He was heading across the Place Verdun when he bumped into Vincent, a friend of Marine’s who owned a men’s clothing store. “Antoine,” he said, giving Verlaque the bise, “you have to come into the shop and say hello!”

  “I will,” Verlaque said. “Soon!”

  “I have new tweed jackets for the winter!” Vincent continued. “In very nontraditional colors!”

  “Pick out your favorite and save it for me,” Verlaque replied, walking on toward the Palais de Justice. “You know my size! Ciao!”

  “Ça marche!” Vincent yelled, thrilled to have made a sale while slipping out for a coffee. “Bring Marine in too!”

  Verlaque waved behind him, then ran in the door and up the stairs that led to Paulik’s office. As he ran past Mme Girard, who was busy typing, he said, “Hello, Mme Girard! You look lovely today!” without losing step; he ran into Paulik’s office.

  “Mme d’Arras was seeing a doctor about her thyroid,” Verlaque said. “And Mlle Montmory had her tonsils out—”

  “When the plumber came!” Caromb blurted out.

  “Same doctor?” Verlaque asked no one in particular. “Ear, nose, and throat, right?”

  “Mme d’Arras was giving her thyroid doctor a hard time,” Paulik replied, standing up.

  “How so?” Verlaque asked.

  “M. d’Arras told me that she thought that surgery was unnecessary. That it was a racket.”

  “Probably is,” Verlaque said. “You guys told me that a specialist visited Mlle Montmory’s room…. I tried to visit one of the doctors who went into her room, but he’s away on vacation. Or so the secretary said. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Did Mlle Durand also see a specialist?” Paulik asked. “I’ll call her GP. I have his cell-phone number.”

  “What day is it?” Verlaque asked. “God, now I’m the one with Alzheimer’s.”

  “Saturday, Judge,” Jules Schoelcher answered. Tomorrow was Sunday, Magali’s day off, and they were going to Cassis.

  “Ask especially if she saw an ear-nose-and-throat guy!” Verlaque said to Paulik as he headed out of the room to make the call, already dialing.

  “Officer Schoelcher, get out your little notebook,” Verlaque said. “Did M. d’Arras leave you their family doctor’s name? We’ll have to call him, and not her husband, to get her thyroid specialist’s name, because I think today is her funeral. The doctor might even be there. Merde.”

  “I think the GP’s number should be here in the file,” Schoelcher said. He reached across Paulik’s desk and flipped through the drawer until he got to Mme d’Arras’s section. “Dr. Hervé Tailly,” he said. “There’s a cell-phone number. I’ll write it down. Should I call him?”

  “Please,” Verlaque said.

  Paulik came back into the room. “Bingo,” he said. “Mlle Durand’s GP was at home, thank God. Gisèle did see an ear-nose-and-throat specialist, also for a thyroid problem. A guy in Aix. Dr. Franck—”

  “Charnay!” Verlaque said.

  “Yep!”

  Jules Schoelcher put his hand over his telephone’s mouthpiece. “That’s the doctor who went into Mlle Montmory’s room.” He tossed his notebook to Caromb. “Show them.” He listened to his phone, then set it down. “Answering machine,” he said.

  “He’s probably at the funeral,” Verlaque said.

  Alain Flamant knocked and came into the room.

  “Officer Flamant,” Paulik asked, setting down the phone book, “can you get on my computer and look up Dr. Franck Charnay’s work history? And his address, since he isn’t listed in the phone book.”

  “No problem,” Flamant said, sitting down behind Paulik’s computer. After a few taps, Flamant said, “Here’s his address.” He wrote it down on a piece of paper. “Puyricard.”

  “Nice and close to both Éguilles and Rognes,” Verlaque said. “Have you found his work history yet?”

  “Almost there,” Flamant said, not looking up. He leaned in closer to the computer and whistled. “He’s been in Aix for four years. Befor
e that he was in Lille.”

  “Probably moved here for the weather,” Roger Caromb said, laughing.

  “No,” Flamant said. “He moved down here because in Lille he was suspended for eighteen months. Sleeping with a patient.”

  “Let’s go to Franck Charnay’s house,” Verlaque said. “His secretary told me he was away. Charnay is linked with two of the women, and I’m sure he was Mme d’Arras’s specialist as well.” Verlaque realized he had promised the secretary that he would be back, and because of their last-minute trip into the Massif Central, hadn’t.

  “I suggest we take three cars,” Paulik said. “Judge Verlaque and me in one; we’ll drive right up to the house and ring the doorbell. Officers Caromb and Schoelcher in another; you guys should park it somewhere hidden, at the neighbors’ if you can, and then try to get around to the rear of Charnay’s house to back us up. And, Flamant, get someone to go with you, and the two of you wait out front, but out of sight.”

  “I’ll grab Javallier,” Flamant said. “He was downstairs complaining about being bored.”

  Verlaque watched as his colleagues adjusted their holsters. “Do you want one of these?” Paulik asked.

  “No, thanks,” Verlaque said. “I trust you to protect me.”

  In fifteen minutes, they were in front of Franck Charnay’s faux bastide, built in the 1990s rather than the 1790s. Two newer-model French cars were in the carport. Verlaque and Paulik got out of their car, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. No one came, but when Paulik rang it a second time they heard a loud thump and a cry coming from inside the house. Verlaque pounded on the door and tried opening it; it was locked.

  Paulik said, “Move aside.”

  “Are you for real?” Verlaque asked.

  “I play rugby, remember?” Paulik said. He lunged at the door, and on the second thrust it opened, the wood splintered. “Cheap nineties construction,” he said.

  “Charnay!” Verlaque called as they ran in, and they heard a moan coming from the living room. Charnay’s secretary was on the floor, gasping for air. The sliding doors that led to the patio were open. “I’ll go after him,” Paulik said.

  “Stay still,” Verlaque said to her. “I’m calling an ambulance for you.”

  She swallowed and whispered hoarsely, “He has a gun.”

  Flamant and Javallier came running in. “We heard the yelling,” Flamant said.

  “Charnay ran out the back, and he’s armed,” Verlaque said. “Javallier, stay here with her and call an ambulance. Flamant, go back out to the street in case he makes his way around to the front!”

  Verlaque got up and was running out the front door, thinking to check the carport, when he heard a shot. He ran back inside and through the living room, pausing long enough to see the look of fear on the secretary’s face and to think, but resist saying, “That’s the last time you’ll lie for your boss.”

  He ran across the green lawn and saw Paulik hunched over someone. Verlaque ran up and saw that Paulik was on his cell phone, calling for an ambulance. Jules Schoelcher lay on the ground, breathing heavily. Another shot was fired; it sounded as if it was coming from the front of the house. “Merde!” Verlaque yelled as he ran back inside and out the front door. Flamant was at the end of the driveway, his gun pointed at Franck Charnay. The doctor had his back up against a plane tree, and Roger Caromb was handcuffing him.

  Verlaque walked down the drive as two ambulances pulled in. He motioned them to the house, and told the driver that an officer on the back lawn had been shot. Alain Flamant didn’t move as he continued staring at Charnay, his gun pointed at the doctor. “Officer Caromb caught him from behind,” Flamant said. “Charnay’s gun went off as it fell.”

  “Well done,” Verlaque said. He went up to Charnay and showed his badge and read the man his rights.

  Chapter Thirty

  Antoine Verlaque’s Gift

  Verlaque came into Jules Schoelcher’s hospital room as Magali was fluffing his pillows.

  “Bet you didn’t think you’d end up back here,” Verlaque said, handing the officer a wrapped package.

  “Luckily, I already knew all the doctors and nurses,” Schoelcher said.

  “They’re spoiling him,” Magali said, smiling. “As they should. Hi, I’m Magali.” She extended her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Schoelcher said, “I should have introduced you.”

  Verlaque laughed. “No worry.” He shook Magali’s hand and said, “Antoine Verlaque.” He stared at her and then asked, “Where do I know you from?”

  “The café on the Place Richelme,” Magali said. “By the wild-boar statue.”

  “That’s it! You roast your own beans,” Verlaque said. “And how’s your leg, Jules?”

  “Much better, thanks,” Schoelcher replied. “Apparently, the bullet didn’t go in very far. Is that woman all right?”

  “Yes, she just stayed in overnight for observation,” Verlaque said. “She was roughed up and was in shock, but wasn’t harmed in any great way.”

  “Why did she cover up for that guy?” Schoelcher asked.

  “Love,” Verlaque said. “She loved him, but she didn’t know what he did to those women.”

  “But why kill the old lady?” Schoelcher asked. “I keep going over that part in my head.” Magali discreetly pretended to be arranging the vases of flowers and gifts across the room.

  “Either Mme d’Arras saw or heard something,” Verlaque said, “or he thought she did.”

  “M. d’Arras told us that she accused the doctor of unnecessarily removing thyroid glands. Could she have accused him of that when she saw Dr. Charnay in Rognes, and he thought she was accusing him of murdering Mlle Durand?”

  “Or, when she heard about Gisèle’s murder and where she was found, Mme d’Arras would have told the police she saw Dr. Charnay at that address,” Verlaque said.

  “Has he confessed?”

  Verlaque nodded. “To all three. He blames all women for his eighteen-month medical suspension in Lille. Are you going to open your present?”

  Schoelcher fumbled with the wrapping paper as Magali came back beside him to watch. He tore off the last piece of paper and pulled out five small black-covered books. “Notebooks?” Schoelcher asked.

  “For your copious note taking,” Verlaque said.

  Magali picked one up. “They’re Moleskines!”

  “Thank you, Judge,” Schoelcher said. “I’ll make good use of them.”

  A nurse came into the room, carrying a tray. “Medicine, and rest time, M. Schoelcher,” she said. “I’m afraid your friends will have to leave. Your mother will kill me if you’re not back on your feet by the end of the month.”

  Schoelcher grimaced. “I hope she isn’t calling your desk too often.”

  “Only a few times a day,” the nurse said, smiling.

  It took much less time than Verlaque had expected to sign the papers at the notary’s office. Jean-Marc, who had cosigned as a witness, told Verlaque that the fact that he was paying in cash sped up the process. Jean-Marc had tried not to flinch when he saw the amount of money involved.

  Verlaque had already made up his mind to put Emmeline’s mansion in Normandy on the market, which would help recover some of the costs. His brother, Sébastien, wanted to buy a real-estate company—in addition to the building it was located in, in the expensive Passy neighborhood of Paris—and had immediately agreed to the sale.

  Verlaque invited Jean-Marc to have a celebratory glass of Champagne at the Café Mazarin. They chose a table on the terrace, and both sat cross-legged, watching the Aixois stroll up and down the Cours Mirabeau.

  “It’s none of my business,” Jean-Marc said, looking over at his friend, “but does Marine know you’re doing this?”

  Verlaque sipped some Champagne and nodded. “I told her last night,” he said. “She loved the idea.”

  “She’s entirely unselfish, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, one of her many qualities,” Verlaque replied. “But I see th
is as a winning business deal; it’s bound to work and bring in money, and maybe even a little fame. So, you see, I’m not nearly as selfless as Marine is.”

  “Glad to know you haven’t changed,” Jean-Marc said, tipping his glass toward Verlaque’s. “I was getting worried that you had gone all soft and mushy.”

  Hélène Paulik drove, with Léa beside her in the front seat. Paulik sat in the back, in the middle, so that he could talk to his girls and see the road. Since the three of them were susceptible to motion sickness, they usually took turns in the back. “Now that I’m ten, I’m always going to sit in the front,” Léa said. “The law says I can.”

  “You can sit in the front the whole way there,” Paulik said, trying to concentrate on the white lines on the road. “Do you feel sick?”

  “Not at all, Papa,” Léa answered. “It’s great up here.”

  “Wonderful,” Paulik whispered.

  “Can you read me the directions after the traffic circle, Bruno?” Hélène asked.

  “‘Left at the first traffic circle toward Rousset,’” Paulik read aloud, trying not to look for too long at the printed page. “‘Follow the N7 toward Puyloubier and Peynier, making a left on the D12 toward Puyloubier.’ As soon as the village’s church steeple comes into sight, we’ll see a small road on our right with a mailbox marked ‘G. Herblin.’ We go in there.”

  Léa sang the rest of the way, and didn’t stop until she saw the mailbox. “There it is!” she cried. “Turn here, Maman!”

  “Yes, dear, I am.”

  They drove up a narrow dirt lane bordered by olive trees, their glittering silver leaves dancing in the wind. Through the trees they could see acres of vines, with dried and shriveled grapes on the branches.

  “These are old vines,” Hélène said, pointing to her left. “No one harvested here; what a shame.”

  “How old, Maman?” Léa asked. “One hundred?”

  “Almost, sweetie,” she answered. “Isn’t that amazing?”