Death at the Château Bremont

by ML Longworth

  A young woman in a top that ended about half a meter above her belly button saw Paulik and came up to him, carrying a stack of menus in her arms. She smiled a genuine smile at Paulik, who was not a beautiful man, and said, “Hi. Are you dining with someone?”

  “Yes, I am,” answered Paulik. “But he’s late. We’ll be two.”

  “Come this way. I’ll give you this nice table under the open roof. Enjoy your lunch.”

  Paulik sat down in a blue velour armchair and looked up. He hadn’t noticed it before—a large portion of the roof, about four meters square, was open to the bright blue, cloudless sky. Still, the restaurant wouldn’t do well in summer, he thought. The Aixois need their terraces.

  The mini-topped waitress returned with a glass of champagne and set it before Paulik. He opened his mouth to complain, and she walked away, calling over her shoulder, “Cin-cin! It’s to celebrate your first time here!”

  Watch, the champagne will be added to the bill, Paulik thought. I’ll bet it’s ten euros a glass.

  Verlaque walked in after a few minutes and stopped to give the same waitress the bises. Paulik watched, not surprised that the judge knew her, for Verlaque had told him that he’d become a regular at Lotus since its opening a few months back. It did surprise the commissioner, however, when the bises took longer than usual and Verlaque put his hand on the girl’s slender waist. Paulik buried his head in the menu, and Verlaque came and sat down, smiling when he saw the commissioner’s flute of champagne.

  “Have you ordered?”

  “No, but I glanced at the menu.”

  Magically the waitress appeared, explaining the daily specials and adding, “There are a number of vegetarian dishes as well.”

  Verlaque looked at Paulik, and then looked up at the waitress, smiling. “Do we look like vegetarians?”

  “I’m going to have the jambon de Bayonne to start with, and then the risotto with three meats,” Paulik ordered, grinning.

  Verlaque looked over the menu. He could still feel his stomach pushing against his belt in a way he wasn’t used to. He would stick with fish today: shrimp wrapped in bacon with salad, and then a grilled trout. At least there was bacon. The waitress took their orders and left.

  The judge glanced around him and noted, happily, two construction workers sitting at the table next to theirs: good food knows no class boundaries.

  Paulik began to speak, ripping off a piece of warm bread. “I made some calls to Cannes, to the police station and to my cousin Fréd. François de Bremont owns a bunch of studios in Cannes and Nice—he rents them out to a modeling agency, and the apartments are used by the models. The girls are legally here with six-month visas. They often come and go on his sailboats, so it’s hard for the cops to keep track of who is who.”

  “And now for the obvious question,” Verlaque said. He sipped some of the champagne that had just arrived and continued, “Are the girls models or prostitutes? Do you remember that case in Paris, with the fourteen- and fifteen-year-old Romanian girls?”

  “Yeah. The photo shoots were done in the nude, to train them into prostitution. One of them got out, didn’t she, by asking to go outside for a smoke? A social worker had arranged to help her and was waiting for her in her car and whisked her to safety. The others . . .” Paulik’s voice trailed off when the waitress came to refill their glasses with wine. “Anyway, this is where it gets gray,” he continued. “The guys in Cannes haven’t been able to determine that. They are models, definitely very jet set, and they go to parties with wealthy, often older, Russian businessmen. The modeling agency is legit, apparently—it’s been around for years.”

  “So we don’t know how much entertaining the girls do,” Verlaque said.

  “Right. The agency is owned by a rich, influential Russian. They’re sending me his dossier later in the day.”

  Verlaque tried not to associate Russians with mafia, but he was always surprised when Nice’s Russian criminal element came to light: the cold war ended and the villains moved to a sunnier location.

  “There’s more,” Paulik continued, diving into his smoked ham, sliced paper thin and served over a bed of arugula, which the young waitress had discreetly placed in front of him. “Pellegrino called me this morning. He’s the cop who plays polo in Cannes.”

  “Go on,” Verlaque said.

  “François de Bremont has had his hand slapped a few too many times recently. He’s big into gambling at the Casino, but recently he’s been accused of betting on polo, possibly even trying to throw his own games.”

  “Nice guy. A cheat at sports and maybe a pimp. Then it doesn’t make sense what I just witnessed on the cours ten minutes ago.” Verlaque saw Paulik’s look of curiosity and continued, “François and Isabelle de Bremont were arguing. But here’s the interesting thing—Isabelle wants to sell the château and he doesn’t.”

  “Really? I figured he would want the cash,” Paulik replied. “Does he inherit the title now?”

  “No,” Verlaque answered. “Étienne’s son will become le comte. But François gets the château, I would imagine.”

  The two men fell silent, both thinking over the case, knowing that, if the play was dirty, they didn’t have much to go on: Someone sure-footed, a mountain climber, falls out of a window. An empty suitcase that is somehow important to the family, and no hint as to what was in it. A receipt for two brioches from 1954. The brother—a cheat—argues with the deceased’s wife the day before his brother’s funeral.

  Paulik looked up and saw the judge watching a waitress in an impossibly short skirt put candles on the tables for the dinner service. “The waitresses sure are cute here. They must screw up the orders all the time,” Paulik said. He shrugged and mopped the rest of his sauce with a piece of bread, and then wiped his mouth with his linen napkin and sat back, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Though I am sure the waitresses are not half as interesting as your belle Hélène—I remember meeting her briefly at that winemakers’ dinner. What’s she up to?” Verlaque asked.

  “She’s knee-deep in clearing up the vineyard—there are new cuttings to be planted,” answered Paulik.

  Their main dishes arrived, and Paulik looked at his doubtfully. His risotto was stacked high and artfully with different kinds of fried meats and shoots of asparagus pointed up toward the sky. “Tall,” was all he said before he dug in. Paulik didn’t like food that looked more like a sculpture than a meal. Verlaque’s trout was perfectly cooked, served with new potatoes and sautéed fennel.

  Paulik tackled his dish by eating the asparagus first, which was in season in Provence at the moment. It had been roasted in the oven with olive oil, garlic, and lots of salt and pepper, just the way Hélène made it at home. “Taste this,” Paulik said, putting a forkful of risotto and meat on Verlaque’s plate. “The meat juice has been reduced, and they’ve used all different kinds of meat. I think that’s figatelli from Corsica that they’ve fried.”

  “It’s figatelli, all right, and a good one. How do you like the wine?”

  “Outstanding.”

  “And the restaurant?”

  “Fine for a late lunch, but the true test is always a busy Saturday night,” Paulik answered.

  They continued eating and talked about another case—a series of break-ins that had been going on in downtown Aix and whose culprits had just been caught. They both declined dessert and had two espressos each. Verlaque got up to pay the bill—he was usually too impatient to wait for the debit card machine to be brought to the table. Paulik looked around the room; he had to admit that the big velour armchairs were quite comfortable. He could see Verlaque and the waitress talking and laughing. Verlaque gave the waitress his credit card, punched in his code, and then she handed him back the receipt, but first quickly jotting something down on it. The judge smiled and put the slip of paper in his pocket. The men wa
lked through the restaurant, and Paulik looked around the room nodding his head up and down, as if rating the restaurant. “Thank you,” he said. “Next time I’m paying.”

  The drive to Cotignac was beautiful. Neither man spoke, for each was looking out of the window at the springtime that had just arrived, almost magically, after one of the coldest winters in years—snow had stayed on the ground for three full days in December. Fields of fluttering red poppies were everywhere, and the vineyards were sprouting up young shoots of bright green leaves. This trip wasn’t completely necessary, but Verlaque wanted to talk to Auvieux’s sister to check up on his alibi and to tie up all the loose ends connected with Étienne de Bremont and the château. Étienne, the earnest man behind the camera, deserved at least that. Yes, Verlaque thought to himself as he drove, even if the nobleman did die by accident, or suicide, he deserved a proper inquiry. Verlaque added up in his head what they had to go on: everyone had an alibi, although he still hadn’t heard from Flamant about the train tickets. People had doubts, like Marine, or were enraged, as the Bley brothers seemed to be; but still they had nothing, no proof that Étienne de Bremont hadn’t just lost his balance.

  Mlle Cosette Auvieux hadn’t returned his Sunday call until that morning. Since she had said that she wouldn’t be coming to the funeral, Verlaque had arranged the meeting at her place in the Var. He preferred to interview people where they lived, so they’d be more comfortable, but also so he could see their surroundings. Cosette sounded surprised that the judge was willing to drive an hour and a half to meet with her.

  Just outside of Cotignac, Verlaque remembered that he had forgotten to call Marine. While driving with his left hand, he dialed her number with his right. She answered on the second ring. “Hi,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t call you back right away.” Be polite, he reminded himself.

  “Hello,” Marine replied, slightly annoyed but also curious. “Can I help you, Antoine?” she asked, trying to sound detached.

  It was obvious to Verlaque that Marine was upset with him. He should have invited her over last night, after she left the church. “I went up to Saint-Antonin this morning and toured the attic with Jean-Claude Auvieux. He was shocked to see that the suitcase was empty. He said it had been full and locked last Friday, before he went up to his sister’s in the Var. I’m on my way to her place right now.”

  “So someone, either Jean-Claude or possibly even Étienne, took the contents out of the suitcase after Friday and before Sunday,” Marine answered.

  “Yes. And I really don’t think it was Auvieux—he was genuinely shocked and upset to find the suitcase empty.”

  “I agree,” said Marine, pausing. “I believe that Jean-Claude is trustworthy, even if it’s been fifteen years or so since I last saw him. He’s always been so respectful when it comes to that place.” Verlaque also filled in Marine on Paulik’s recent discoveries. François de Bremont wasn’t looking too good. “Why don’t you come around for a drink tomorrow night?” Verlaque asked.

  Marine hesitated. She hadn’t been to Verlaque’s apartment since they had split up—it might do her some good to see his flat again. Arthur had just left for California, so she was free to go. Even if Arthur had been in Aix, she could still go if she wanted to: she was thirty-five years old after all.

  “Sure, but I won’t stay late,” Marine said. “I have papers to mark,” she added, lying. They agreed on a time, and Paulik motioned to Verlaque to say hello to Marine for him. Hélène and Marine had got on well the one time they had met at Hélène’s boss Olivier Bonnard’s party. When they heard about the break-up, Paulik, but especially Hélène, thought that Marine was better off without Antoine Verlaque. During that dinner party at the Bonnard’s, Verlaque had openly criticized Marine in front of the other guests because she had called some Roquefort simply “blue cheese.” “If you ever do that to me, I’ll kill you,” Hélène had told Paulik on the drive home. Hélène had a theory that Antoine Verlaque wanted a perfect girlfriend at his side—one who spoke several languages, was well traveled, said the right things at social gatherings, was an experienced sportswoman, and was, of course, beautiful. But he would never be satisfied, for Marine was, from what Hélène’s saw, a wonderful and near-perfect woman. And if he did find his perfect woman, on Mars or in Geneva or Monte Carlo, she knew he could never get close to her.

  “Ah come on,” Paulik had said to his wife, “everyone becomes intimate with someone when they’re in love.”

  “Not Verlaque,” Hélène insisted. “He can’t get close to any woman. He can flirt. He can seduce. He can go through the motions. But he can’t show his true self to a woman.”

  Paulik shook his head. He finally said, “Nobody’s perfect. Besides, we don’t know what’s going on inside other people’s heads. With the judge there could be some real messy stuff—his rich, uptight family—half-English too. They say that the English keep everything inside, right?”

  “Ha! And the French don’t? Look at your family,” Hélène argued. Paulik looked at her, surprised. “Sorry, honey,” she continued, “I don’t mean it like that. I love your family, but they are weird, non? We can’t, as adults, keep blaming our childhoods in order to justify our improper adult behavior.”

  Paulik let it drop at that—he had enjoyed the few times he had worked with the judge and felt uneasy speaking about him behind his back. Besides, they didn’t really know Verlaque, or the professor, that well.

  Verlaque pulled the car up to the address he had written down on the back of a receipt from the tabac. It was a cheap-looking house, with thin stucco coating hiding cement block, as in all new Provençal houses, and the neighbor’s houses were identical. No attempt was made at a front lawn—weeds surrounded a beat-up Citroën AX that was parked in front of the house. A small, thin woman stood erect at the front door, and she watched the two men climb out of Verlaque’s tiny Porsche. Verlaque tried not to frown as he got out of the car. Why live in the country if you’re going to live in such a place? he asked himself. She would be better off in the village, where at least she could buy a baguette on foot, instead of this half country, without charm or even many trees.

  “Mme Auvieux?” Verlaque asked. She was well into her fifties, he thought. It was hard to imagine that this small woman was the sister of Auvieux the Giant.

  “Yes,” she replied. Her face had seen too much Provençal sun over the years; her hair was spiked and cut short around her ears and dyed a burgundy color that many woman in the south seemed to think chic. Verlaque only liked long hair on women.

  “I’m the examining magistrate in Aix-en-Provence, Antoine Verlaque, and this is my colleague, Commissaire Paulik.”

  Still in the doorway, she shook their hands without a word and then told them to come inside. Her house was as clean and sparse as her brother’s cottage. They sat in the kitchen, around a table that was covered with the kind of waxy cloth that Verlaque detested—you never wanted to touch it for fear you’d stick to it.

  “Thank you for letting us visit, Mme Auvieux. It is Auvieux, right?”

  “Yes, I never married,” she replied.

  Verlaque stayed with Madame, for she was well over the age where one is addressed as Mademoiselle, even if unmarried. “We are investigating the death of Comte Étienne de Bremont, and from what I understand, you’ve had relations with the Bremont family, going a while back.”

  “Going back to my birth, Judge. I was born at Saint-Antonin, as was my brother, nine years after me.”

  “Your brother told us that he was with you throughout the entire weekend when Étienne died.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did he arrive here?”

  “He got here just in time for dinner on Friday, around 7:00 p.m. He would have been earlier, but he was sent on a treasure hunt by François de Bremont,” she said. Both Verlaque and Paulik made mental notes of the sarcasm in her voice. “When Fran
çois de Bremont wants something, it’s always an emergency.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Some stupid polo trophy,” she replied.

  “When did your brother leave here?”

  “He went back to Aix on Sunday morning, ten o’clock or so.”

  “Did you both stay here all weekend?”

  “Yes. We did a little shopping in Cotignac on Saturday afternoon, and we had a coffee on the square, at the Bar Centrale.” She then added, “They can confirm that. I know the barman.”

  “And Saturday night?”

  “We watched a movie at home.” Jean-Claude Auvieux had also mentioned it to Verlaque.

  “What movie?”

  Mme Auvieux looked annoyed. “The Matrix, but don’t ask me which one. They’re all the same to me.”

  Verlaque didn’t acknowledge her answer, but it corresponded to the caretaker’s story. It was in fact the first Matrix, as Auvieux had tried to explain the movie in detail but was thankfully cut off by a call on Verlaque’s cell phone.

  “Were you close to Étienne de Bremont?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, looking away from Verlaque and out the window. Normally it would have been impossible for the daughter of the Bremont’s servants to be friends with the young count, but Verlaque had asked the question anyway, especially since her brother seemed to have been so close to the family. “But I liked him very much,” she continued, unprompted, with sadness in her voice. “He was a nice child, and he grew into a nice man. It works like that, doesn’t it? Children who are pleasant grow into pleasant adults.”

  “It should work like that, Madame, but it doesn’t always,” Paulik replied. “And how well do you know François de Bremont?”

  “Not very well. He lives in Cannes. He only associates with fancy businessmen and fashion models.” Her voice was edged with a bit of resentment.