by ML Longworth
“Let’s pay up. I have a class to prepare for tomorrow,” Sylvie said.
“Yeah, good idea. I think I’ll get to bed early,” replied Marine. But when the two women gave each other a farewell bises, Marine did not head straight home via the rue Frédéric Mistral but instead walked up the cours and slipped into the passage Agard, a narrow pedestrian way that emptied into the place des Prêcheurs, where the church of her childhood, the large half-neoclassical, half-Baroque église de la Madeleine, stood guarding the square. The doors were still open, and she walked into the cold church. It was the same one where she had attended mass as a child—a church she knew well but had never liked. She preferred the smaller Saint-Jean-de-Malte, its architecture somewhere between Romanesque and Gothic and built out of the warm golden local stone. But she had come into la Madeleine for the same reason she had been visiting it since she took her first high school exams—for good luck. And there was a particular painting on the left-hand side of the nave that she loved. It was an annunciation scene, a northern Flemish one by some van Eyck, not Jan van Eyck but possibly a relation, Sylvie had explained. Marine liked to stare at the details in the painting—all the symbols that Sylvie had taught her to unravel in such paintings—how there were always white lilies present, and a dove that usually came flying toward Mary through an open window. Marine and Sylvie had made two “annunciation vacations,” one to Florence and another to Venice, trying to track down as many annunciation paintings as they could find. The many moods of Mary, as Sylvie liked to say, fascinated them—how at times she could be frightened by the news that she was about to carry the Son of God, or proud or pensive or sometimes even bored, depending on the painter and his background.
Marine stared at the painting she knew so well and tried to ignore the sound of skateboarders outside the church. She moved closer to the painting, and, glancing around to make sure nobody was near, she stood up on one of the pews to get a better look. She probably never would have done this had it not been for the wine—Château Revelette, was it?—at Le Mazarin. She wanted to get a better look at the golden dove that flew in through an open window, about to impregnate the young virgin. Squinting, she saw, after all these years, that it was not a bird, as she had thought, but a fat little baby, only millimeters long. She inched along the pew and got a better look—yes, it was a baby, a fat little jewel of a baby.
She slid down off the pew and walked out of the church, smiling, walking across the place des Prêcheurs, and then its neighbor, place de Verdun, stepping out of the way as cars drove into the squares much too quickly, their drivers desperate to find parking places. When she reentered the dark and damp passage Agard, she thought of the Bremont attic and all the details that could so easily be missed, crowded into that one room. What did Antoine want me to see in that attic? she wondered. They had talked about the view, and she had agreed with him that Étienne was probably not standing at the window to take advantage of it. And then Antoine had scolded her for bumping into the Louis Vuitton suitcase, when the policemen had already dusted and there was not much harm in the tattered suitcase moving a bit. Another Verlaque scolding, another raised eyebrow. But what was it about the suitcase that bothered her, even more than Antoine’s remark? As children they had tried to play with it, especially Marine, who was aware of its prestige and value. But the suitcase was always so heavy it that took two of them to pick it up, and the boys would usually lose interest, not wanting to play Marine’s hotel games.
“That’s it!” she said aloud, causing a beggar who sat in the passageway to look up at her hopefully. She entered the busy cours and walked toward her apartment, dialing Verlaque’s cell phone at the same time.
Chapter Six
Verlaque got back to the courthouse at six thirty that evening and found Paulik waiting for him in the outer office, sipping an espresso and reading the local newspaper. “Anything interesting?” Verlaque asked. La Provence was the paper one read for soccer scores or for the times and locations of local pétanque games, but not usually much else.
“Actually, quite a lot today,” answered Paulik. He took a sip of coffee and made a face—the office coffee remained as terrible as usual, despite Verlaque’s constant complaints. “Nicole Kidman a real star on the Croisette,” Paulik said, reading the headlines. “But also two things of a more professional nature, sir. They’ve sent fifteen policemen down to Casablanca to investigate that suicide bombing at a hotel that killed four French citizens. And, the cut-up remains of a body were found in some garbage bags in a park in Marseille.”
“Man or woman?” asked the judge.
“A man. Dead about a month,” Paulik replied.
Verlaque imagined Procureur Roussel’s disappointment at missing such a grisly find, even if Marseille was out of his jurisdiction. He didn’t like Roussel—a short, annoying man who thought authority came to those who yelled the loudest. Verlaque was reminded of Marlon Brando in The Godfather and how the actor had told Francis Ford Coppola that a man with power needn’t yell and, in fact, could almost whisper, which is exactly what Brando did.
“Well, if the commissaire in Marseille needs extra police, he’ll be calling here,” Verlaque said.
“We’re very busy,” Paulik replied, tapping at the newspaper.
“Hey! What happened in court today?”
“Case thrown out,” Paulik replied, leaning back in his chair.
Verlaque raised his eyebrows. “Let me guess . . . on a technicality. Who’s that punk’s lawyer? Philippe Castel?”
The commissioner nodded ruefully.
Philippe Castel, a lawyer from Marseille, charged an hourly rate well beyond the means of petty criminals.
“I wonder which branch of the family paid Castel’s bill?”
The door opened, and Verlaque’s secretary, Mme Girard, came in. “They’ve just buzzed me from downstairs. M. François de Bremont is here,” she said. Verlaque smiled at Mme Girard and noticed that, although always dressed impeccably, as were most women of her age and position in Aix—somewhere between fifty-five and sixty years of age, married, with three grown children—she was today especially striking in an emerald green suit with a short skirt that showed off her muscular, tanned legs.
“Send him up,” answered the judge. And then he said to Paulik, “You can sit in on this, unless you still need the soccer scores.”
“I’ve got them. Thanks, though, sir,” Paulik answered, smiling.
Furnished with a large glass-topped desk that Verlaque had ordered from Conran in Paris, the office belonged to a man with an authority that inspired either confidence or fear, depending on the visitor’s state of mind and their level of culpability. A juge d’instruction was supposed to be impartial. A bookshelf was up against one wall, heavy with law journals and casebooks. Two windows faced south and west. For the walls he had chosen an olive green, or “Empire green,” as Mme Girard had insisted on calling it. Green was a color known to calm and reassure people, and Verlaque had thought it a good idea. Sylvie had furnished the only wall decorations: four large black-and-white photographs that Verlaque had bought at one of her openings.
Paulik took a corner seat, and Verlaque sat behind his desk, looking up at one of the photographs—a detail of three leaves floating in one of Aix’s fountains. Infrared film dramatized the photographs, turning the leaves bright white and the water in the fountain black, jet black, like ink. The photograph reminded him of a scene from his childhood: one bright morning when he had been playing by himself in the Tuileries gardens, not far from the Verlaque family mansion. He had come across some perfectly formed leaves floating in a fountain. He called over his English nanny, hoping to show them to her, and when she heard Verlaque, she merely lifted her head slightly in acknowledgment of his excitement. “Don’t get yourself wet before lunch,” was all she had said, in English.
Mme Girard stepped into the doorway and gestured for the young man
to step into the room. “M. François de Bremont,” she announced. “Judge Verlaque and Commissioner Paulik.”
“Hello,” Bremont said, giving the judge a herculean handshake. He turned to Paulik and delivered the same grip. Verlaque was blown over by his resemblance to Étienne—the only difference was that François’s hair was a bit lighter, and he had the tan and big shoulders of a serious sailor.
“Thank you for coming straight here,” Verlaque said.
“You were very insistent,” Bremont replied. “I can’t stay long, though. I’m anxious to get to the house in Saint-Antonin and check on things . . . especially on Jean-Claude.”
“Fine. Please sit down,” the judge said. “I’m sorry about the death of your brother. I only met him a few times—he was filming a documentary in Marseille—but I liked him very much.”
“Everyone liked Étienne,” Bremont said pointedly. “He was always affable and very good at his work.”
“You’re probably wondering why we called you here,” Verlaque said. “The death of your brother was, as far as we can tell, accidental. But because of the nature of his death, falling from a place so familiar, and because there were no witnesses, we have to be as thorough as we can.”
Paulik then added, “And, to be frank, given your brother’s notoriety in the filmmaking world, and his stature in Aix, we would like to be extra thorough.”
“Sure,” replied Bremont, sitting up straighter, proud either of his brother or the family title. Verlaque quickly looked at the commissioner in acknowledgement of his tactic: Paulik, the farm boy, could care less if the deceased had been rich or famous. François then asked, “What went on up there anyway? Was it a break-in?”
“No. Nothing was disturbed or taken from the château. The caretaker went through the place with me on Sunday.”
“How sure can you and Jean-Claude be?”
Verlaque looked at Bremont and answered, “Quite sure, M. Bremont. Our policemen also made a thorough search. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Bremont answered.
“You seemed worried. You must have a reason,” Paulik challenged.
“It’s just that the château is so remote. Anything could happen up there.” Paulik noticed the sailor slowly rubbing his hands together, the way his grandmother had at his grandfather’s deathbed.
“Do you think that your brother was capable of suicide?” Verlaque asked, changing the subject. He had noticed the wringing hands as well and thought François de Bremont had something in his voice that resembled fear.
“No way,” answered Bremont, in a strong, clear voice. “Not Étienne. Judge Verlaque, I believe that my brother was a happy man. We may not have been close over the past few years,” he paused, and looked at the judge and the commissioner, and then added, “You probably know that we live very different kinds of lives.”
Paulik thought of the tall blondes on the sailboat. Bremont continued, “But I knew him well enough to know that he would never kill himself. He was too dedicated to Isabelle and the kids.” François’ voice broke slightly, and he took a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbing the corners of his eyes. He sniffed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Étienne’s death is a shock. I didn’t sleep all night.” Verlaque couldn’t tell if the tears were forced or real, but the dark circles under the nobleman’s eyes were genuine.
“I understand. Do you think that anyone had any reason to regard Étienne as an enemy . . . or vice versa?” the judge asked.
“Not likely,” Bremont answered, then adding, after a pause, “but who knows?”
“Your brother never mentioned being worried about something? Or upset?”
“No! I already told you that we rarely spoke. And now, if you don’t mind,” François said, getting up quickly from his chair, “I really need to be going.” The nobleman looked past Verlaque and out the office window, as if he was worried that the weather would suddenly change.
“Thank you, and again, I’m sorry for your loss,” Verlaque said, extending his hand to say good-bye. Bremont, glancing at his watch, left the office.
“Not much, eh? He was in a hurry,” Paulik said.
“So I noticed. He seemed almost frightened. Would you mind doing some further checks on him, since you’ve become such a computer whiz these past few months?” The police officers in Aix and Marseille had been given free computer-training sessions, and Paulik had offered to go on behalf of himself and le juge. Verlaque would have done it as well, but the first weekend of training sessions happened to coincide with a wine festival in Bordeaux, where friends of Verlaque’s had a winery, and the second fell on the weekend of an important corrida in Nîmes, and Verlaque had managed to get, thanks to his position, two exclusive seats for the bullfight. He admitted to himself that his lack of patience had much to do with his avoidance of computers.
“And while you’re at it, check with Officer Pellegrino, the polo player in Cannes, and see what he can tell you about François de Bremont.”
“Right,” Paulik said.
A loud laugh echoed down the corridor, and the closer and louder it got the quieter the judge and commissioner became, as if both knew that their conversation would soon be over. They could hear some officers laughing politely, while others guffawed, genuinely having a good time. The comedian had a heavy Midi accent, so that putain—his favorite word—became “putainge,” with the famous southern emphasis on the last consonant.
“Ma belle!” Procureur Yves Roussel exclaimed, approaching Mme Girard’s carefully decorated desk. “It’s so good to see Provence’s sun shining. Ce putain d’Écosse!”
“Didn’t you have a good time in Scotland, Monsieur le Procureur?” Mme Girard asked, puzzled.
“Good time? It was ex-tra-or-din-aire. Just not enough sun for a southern boy.”
Paulik and Verlaque both stayed silent. Paulik looked out of the window, and Verlaque sat at his desk, with his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. They both knew the routine: Roussel would go into his office—he had been named prosecutor before Verlaque had arrived and had snagged the bigger one, next door—and take a tour of it, like a dog, making sure that nothing had been moved or touched in his weeklong absence. He would then knock loudly on Verlaque’s door and, before being asked to do so, enter. The tour of his office was very quick this time, for almost immediately he was back with Mme Girard, his conversation peppered with loud laughs and phrases describing Scotland, most of them beginning with putain. Just before he knocked on Verlaque’s door, the words “putain haggis” were overheard. Paulik looked at the judge and said, “I’ve always wanted to try that. Haggis, I mean. Not putain haggis.”
Verlaque laughed. “It’s delicious, actually, especially with a single malt or a good strong ale, but the butcher should be recommended to—” Before he could finish there was a loud knock and the door immediately swung open, revealing a short man made two inches taller by his turquoise cowboy boots.
“Mates!” Roussel bellowed in English, his hairy arms outstretched. Verlaque smiled and got up from behind his desk and shook Roussel’s hand, the prosecutor’s oversized watch and thick silver bracelets sliding down his wrist as they did.
“How was your trip?” Verlaque asked. Roussel was obnoxious and had terrible taste, but Verlaque knew that he loved his job and the citizens of Aix and would protect them to the ends of the earth. Verlaque had been in such a slump lately that he wondered if he had actually missed Roussel’s joking presence in the office.
“Su-per. Fan-tas-tique. What a beautiful country! They love the French, you know!” Roussel answered.
“Yes, because we’re not British,” Verlaque replied.
“How was the grass?” Paulik asked.
“Su-per. Beau, beau, beau,” Roussel replied, not picking up on the rugby man’s tease aimed at golf. “Great golfing. Terrible food. Overpriced win
es. Good whiskey, though.”
Verlaque shot a glance over to Paulik, who smiled. Both men amused by the three sentences that summed up a country for Yves Roussel.
“So, what’s this mess with Étienne de Bremont, eh? Suicide, eh?”
“No, I think not,” Verlaque said.
“Ah, then he fell, poor lad. I knew his father. We’d best keep this quiet, eh? Such an important family.” Verlaque now remembered why he couldn’t stand Roussel: he was constantly trying to ignore, or forget, his humble background. Paulik, on the other hand, wore his with pride.
“I’m investigating it, actually,” Verlaque said.
Roussel looked down at him sharply. “What the hell for? You told me on the phone that you had ruled out foul play.”
“Because, just as you say, they are such an important family.”
Paulik turned and looked out of the window, hiding his smirk.
“More importantly, Eric and Charles Bley have demanded an inquest. Procureur Levy came up from Marseille in your absence.”
“Levy?” Roussel asked with a smile. “Nice gal. Fine legs.”
Verlaque stayed silent, and Roussel stopped daydreaming about his fellow prosecutor and asked, “Do you have any evidence that Bremont was murdered?”
“Zero,” Verlaque answered. Verlaque didn’t tell Roussel about the caretaker’s nervousness, the brother’s fear, or the widow’s dishonesty. He wanted to work on this alone, not because the Bremonts were “such an important family” but because Aix was such a small town.
“Death threats?”
“No.”