by ML Longworth
“Why aren’t you going to the funeral tomorrow?” Paulik asked bluntly. He thought it strange that someone who had grown up with Étienne de Bremont, removed as perhaps she was, would not want to pay her respects. In the Luberon, funerals were every bit as important, as sacred, as weddings.
“I have too much work. I co-own a hair salon in Cotignac, my partner is off sick, and we have a full day tomorrow,” she replied. He was surprised to hear that she was a hairdresser, given the state of her own hair.
“All right, then, thank you for allowing us to visit,” Verlaque said, as he got up to leave. “One last thing—your brother noticed that sometime between Friday and Sunday, while he was here, a Louis Vuitton suitcase in the Bremont attic was broken into and its contents removed. Do you remember such a suitcase?”
“No,” she replied, again, coldly. “I didn’t go into the attic very much when I lived on the estate.” Again the resentment, Verlaque noted.
Both men got to their feet, and Paulik said, “Thank you, Mme Auvieux. We’ll see ourselves out.” She remained seated at the kitchen table, looking out of the window onto a treeless backyard, and then took a pinch of tobacco out of a pouch and began to expertly roll a cigarette.
Chapter Ten
Paulik sighed and said, “She’s very sad, non? She doesn’t seem at all interested in the Bremont family, which is odd given that she grew up there and her brother still works for them.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Verlaque agreed, staring straight ahead at the road. “Although she did perk up a bit each time we asked about François de Bremont.”
“Yes! And she seemed genuinely saddened by the death of Étienne, even if she can’t be bothered to go to the funeral.”
“Well, it wasn’t an entirely wasted trip—she confirmed Auvieux’s alibi,” Verlaque said, looking at Paulik. “Plus, Domaine Margui Romanis is about fifteen kilometers from here.”
“So it is! I had forgotten,” said Paulik, rubbing his hands together with childlike excitement. Margui Romanis was one of the Var’s best kept secrets—a winery on par with the best southern Rhône wines but whose prices had stayed moderate due to the underrated appellation Côtes de Provence.
“Would you mind driving? I’d like to sit back and enjoy a cigar.”
“I’d love to, sir,” Paulik exclaimed, already undoing his seat belt as Verlaque slowed down the car and pulled over by the side of the road. They drove past signs for l’abbaye du Thoronet, a twelfth-century Cistercian abbey surrounded by a verdant pine forest. Verlaque suggested that they make a quick detour to visit the abbey but was met with a big smile from Paulik, now at the wheel, who answered dryly, “No thanks.”
The last time Verlaque had been at l’abbaye du Thoronet was with his grandmother, Marine, and Sylvie. He remembered seeing his grandmother, Emmeline, in a ray of light turned golden by the honey-colored stone, standing alone in the middle of the long nave and looking up at the carved capitals atop the columns, the only decoration in the abbey’s simple but majestic church. She was wearing a long, white linen tunic over wide linen pants that made her look a bit like a ghost, floating, rather than walking, through the dark, cool church.
Minutes after they passed the signs for the abbey, the judge and commissioner pulled into the winery’s pristine drive, lined on either side with century-old olive trees. Marc Nagel, the winemaker, came out of the restored stables when he saw the dark green Porsche. “Monsieur le Juge,” he said, putting the two cases of wine he had been carrying next to a stone fountain. “It’s been a long time!” Nagel had perfect big white teeth and a golden tan, the kind of look that Verlaque usually associated with Californians. His smile was, in fact, the work of a dentist-uncle in Marseille—a trade for cases of wine—and the tan came naturally from hours spent in among vines. There was a certain irony in Verlaque’s prejudice: Marc Nagel had spent a very satisfying year studying enology at the University of California, Davis. He hosted, yearly, a visit of American winemakers to the south of France, and made the same kind of trip to the States and other wine-making countries once a year.
“Yes, too long,” Verlaque said as he got out of the car. “I’ve run out of white and only have two reds left.”
Verlaque introduced Paulik and within seconds it was understood that Marc knew Hélène Paulik and greatly respected her. “Hélène is your wife? Well, I’ll be damned! She’s done a lot for the Côteaux d’Aix-en-Provence appellation,” he said. “Her 1998 old-vine red was sublime. We’ve met at some wine fairs, but I didn’t realize that her husband was a policeman. Sorry—a commissioner.”
Paulik smiled. “Yes, she tends not to talk about my job. I’ll pass on your greetings. And I agree about the red. It was so good she sold out.”
The three men made their way into the cool recesses of the renovated stables, where they would taste the château’s wines. Towering above them were giant stainless steel vats where this year’s rosé was being aged. The floor was wet with water and wine, and Verlaque tried to stand in a dry spot to protect his Westons. Paulik noticed his boss’s sidestepping jig and turned away to hide his grin.
“What brings you to the Var?” Marc asked as he took three glasses down from a shelf.
“We’re investigating the death of an Aixois,” Verlaque replied. It was very unlikely that Marc knew Étienne de Bremont. Marc’s winery was a good hour and a half east of Aix, and in a different department, but Verlaque saw that Marc’s curiosity had been aroused and so he continued, “Étienne de Bremont. Did you know his films?”
“Bremont, Bremont . . . any relation to François de Bremont from Cannes?” Marc asked as he opened the door to a mini refrigerator and took out a bottle of white.
“His brother,” replied Verlaque.
“Small world, then. François comes here every other weekend and stays in my bed-and-breakfast.” Immediately after he said this, Marc seemed to realize that perhaps he had revealed too much—Verlaque and Paulik both saw the winemaker grimace for a split second.
“Alone?” Verlaque and Paulik demanded in unison.
Marc kicked aside a rubber hose that stood at his feet. “Will this information help, I mean, with your investigation?”
“Yes,” answered Verlaque. “And we won’t make your information public knowledge unless absolutely necessary.”
Marc took a breath, and then he began: “François de Bremont drives up from Cannes every other Friday or so. At least I think he said Cannes—anyway his car has 06 plates. A woman arrives in a separate car, a white BMW, with Bouches-du-Rhône license plates. They usually stay just the night and leave early in the morning, after they’ve finished breakfast in their room.” He then added, “They are very discreet,” as if wanting to protect them.
“What make of car does François de Bremont drive?” Verlaque asked. Marc Nagel looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “A small VW, I seem to remember.” He poured out three glasses of white wine and passed them to Verlaque and Paulik. The three men held the glasses in the air, looked at its pale golden color. Not at all cloudy, thought Verlaque. They then smelt the wine, which Verlaque thought had a peach bouquet, and tasted. Both Nagel and Paulik made a lot of noise swirling the wine around in their mouths and then spitting in the spittoon. Verlaque winced—he knew that the loud smacking noises were what wine professionals did, but it embarrassed him all the same. He didn’t spit either—he drank. Verlaque opened his mouth to compliment Nagel on the wine but was interrupted.
“It’s a soft top, maybe a Golf?” Nagel said. Verlaque and Paulik exchanged looks and were both perplexed by the same thing—the car that was parked right outside the Bremont château was a VW Golf convertible with 06 plates. Why would François de Bremont drive all the way to Aix to pick up the car and then drive an hour and a half back east to the Nagels’ B and B?
“What does the lady look like?” Paulik demanded, beating Verlaque to the quest
ion.
“Very preppy, very thin. The jacket with the gold buttons, the Tod’s leather loafers—she doesn’t like wine. In her late thirties, I’d guess.”
“Not blonde and tall with an eastern European accent?” asked Paulik, with more than a bit of voyeurism in his voice. Marc looked at him and smiled, “Oh, no. Very French.”
Verlaque and Paulik exchanged surprised looks. “Do you know her name?” Verlaque asked.
“Sorry. They always sign in under his name. He pays in cash. No, wait, once she had to pay. He had forgotten his wallet, and she had to put the room on her card. After we taste the red we can go and check the records. My wife, Véronique, is inside.”
Verlaque finished drinking his white and Paulik, on his best behavior, poured the remainder of his out into the silver spittoon. Nagel opened a red wine with a very simple label that looked as if it might have been hand written, with no imagery, no color. And no pencil drawing of a château behind wrought-iron gates, like so many Bordeaux winemakers fancied. Verlaque nodded in approval.
Nagel slowly poured the red into the rinsed-out glasses. “It’s 100 percent Syrah, so I’m not allowed to give it the Côtes de Provence appellation. We’re far from the Rhône valley here.” A waft of raspberries hit Verlaque in the face as he stuck his nose in the glass, closed his eyes, and breathed in further. He held the wine in his mouth for some time before swallowing. It had a peppery taste with a smooth, long finish. “I’ll take two cases,” Verlaque said. He was already thinking of having the wine with the local lamb he bought at his butcher shop. “I’ll take two as well,” Paulik added. “But we’ll have to jiggle them around to fit four cases in the Porsche,” he added, looking at Verlaque.
“I’ve seen worse. One guy came up on a motorcycle and drove away with a case. He divided up the bottles between his saddle bags and knapsack.” Marc said.
They finished their tasting—this time no one used the spittoon—then made their way toward the farmhouse, its red shutters partly closed to keep out the afternoon sun. Véronique was at her desk inside, doing paperwork. Introductions were made, and Marc explained to his wife about the death of Étienne de Bremont. She opened a drawer and paused for a minute. “Let’s see, they argued out on the driveway after she had paid the bill, and it was cold. Yes, it was cold, because I kept thinking, why don’t they argue in the car where it’s warm? I suppose it’s because they came in two cars. So it was winter, and we’re closed December and January. I’ll start with February.” She picked out a red folder and started shuffling through the names. “Many of the names are foreign, so it should be easy to spot the French names.” After less than a minute’s search she said, “Voilà! Friday, February 21.” Véronique looked slowly at each of the three men, proud to be the bearer of news, but at the same time she whispered, as if the walls could hear her: “Mme Sophie Valoie de Saint-André. Does that help?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Verlaque, nonplussed. “I’ll make a note of the name just in case I need it later on. In the meantime this information won’t go beyond these walls.” Verlaque then reassured Marc and his wife that they had broken no rules by telling Verlaque about the Friday nights François de Bremont spent at their bed-and-breakfast. He gave Paulik a look that said I’ll fill you in later.
Nagel walked the two men out to their car and helped them load the wine into the Porsche’s miniscule trunk.
The judge and commissioner said their good-byes and got into the car slowly, as if leaving too quickly would look like they wanted to get away from the bad news that seemed to be lurking at the Nagel household.
Paulik was impatient. “What gives? Do you know something about the mysterious Friday-night guest?” he asked, as soon as they had rolled up the car’s windows and waved good-bye to Marc and Véronique.
“She is Isabelle de Bremont’s sister,” Verlaque answered, now at the wheel.
“No kidding? I guess it pays to buy wine on work days.”
“It sure does.”
“From Marc’s description, she doesn’t sound like François de Bremont’s cup of tea, though.”
“No, she isn’t what François would call a babe, but you know, le goût des autres,” Verlaque said, shrugging. Other People’s Tastes was a popular intellectual movie that had been released a few years before. Verlaque remembered that it was one of Marine’s favorite films.
“That’s true,” Paulik said, laughing. He was not thinking of the film but of the strange assortment of girlfriends his divorced brother brought home for Christmas over the years.
“If Monica Bellucci sat down beside me in some dark bar in Paris and started flirting with me, and then went on to tell me that she wasn’t really into food and she didn’t drink wine, I’d be turned off immediately,” said Verlaque out of the blue. He thought of Marine and realized that although she was an inexperienced cook, and could never remember that red burgundy was only pinot noir, she really did love good food and wine, and it had been a pleasure to cook for her. “I could support the Tod’s loafers, maybe, but no wine?”
“Even Monica Bellucci?” Paulik asked.
“Sure, even Monica. Wouldn’t you be turned off, I mean, if you weren’t married?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Paulik said, looking out of the car window. “But, you know,” he continued, turning to look at the judge, “Monica Bellucci is Italian, so there’s a good chance she drinks wine.”
“I know, Bruno. She was just my example,” said Verlaque, laughing.
“In fact, I’ll bet she drinks wine at lunch and at dinner,” Paulik continued. “She probably even likes grappa.”
“Stop it, or I’m going to drive off the road thinking of Monica drinking grappa in my apartment.”
“Sorry, Judge. I’ll get you back to reality and this Sophie Valoie de Saint-André. It’s quite a scoop. She’s married, I take it.”
“Yes,” Verlaque said.
“Do you know who her husband is? Is that why you gave me that look back there? Her last name rings a bell.”
Verlaque nodded. “It should!”
“Okay, okay. Where does he work?” Paulik demanded.
“With me. He’s a judge in Marseille,” Verlaque said, looking over at Paulik.
“Henri Valoie de Saint-André? Mon Dieu!” Paulik exclaimed, whistling through his teeth. “Mon Dieu!”
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday morning, Marine stood under the hot shower unable to move. She didn’t want to see Verlaque at the funeral. She would do her best to avoid him, which she hoped would be easy, as she expected Saint-Jean-de-Malte to be full to capacity. She lingered under the shower, watching the hot water roll over her tummy, which was beginning to protrude a bit, down to her toes. She got out and dressed in black pants and a white blouse, both from Agnès b. across the street. She applied her various face creams—she didn’t buy much makeup but loved face creams—and she put on an extra helping of foundation powder. The buzzer at her door rang—it would be Sylvie coming to pick her up. She quickly put on her black high-heeled boots—the weather had turned cloudy and cold—and ran down the hall to buzz Sylvie up.
“Thanks for taking such good care of me last night,” Marine said, as they stood in the kitchen while she made them both coffee. Sylvie had invited Marine over for dinner, and they had watched, after Charlotte went to bed, reruns of ER.
“Hey, you would do the same for me,” Sylvie answered. They both started laughing, and Sylvie answered, “Okay, okay, you have done the same for me, time and time again!” Sylvie sipped her coffee and added, “It’s normal to be upset. You haven’t seen Verlaque in months, and now you see him while he’s investigating the death of your old friend.” Sylvie started rummaging around in her oversized purse. “Hey, do you have Kleenex?”
“Yeah, I emptied almost a whole box into my purse,” Marine answered.
The c
hurch bells started, not their melodic ringing for morning mass, but a slow, forlorn pealing, each strike about five seconds apart, which seemed an eternity to Marine.
Although it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, when Sylvie and Marine went down to the rue Cardinale it was full of people slowly making their way to the funeral. The small square in front of the church, with one lone chestnut tree beginning to flower, was bursting with mourners, some of whom looked at the dozens of bouquets of flowers that had been set out in front of the church doors. Others had formed a long queue, waiting to sign the family’s guest book. The bells continued their sorrowful dirge. Marine saw her parents through the crowd and immediately burst into tears at her father’s embrace.
“I’m so sorry, mon coeur,” her father whispered, stroking Marine’s hair.
“Do you want to sit with us, chèrie?” asked her mother. “We’ve promised to sit with Étienne’s aunt. She’s taking this whole thing very badly.”
Marine couldn’t stand Étienne’s tante, Mathilde, an old busybody who talked in clichés or gossip, nonstop. “No thanks,” answered Marine. “Sylvie has promised to hold my hand.”
“Good old Sylvie,” said her father, smiling as he saw her across the crowd, looking at the flowers. He hugged Marine once more and shrugged when his wife nudged him to move along, his way of telling Marine that he too would rather not sit with Mathilde Bley.
The bells stopped their ringing, and the crowd became hushed as the guests filtered into the church. It took Marine a while to walk through the crowd to reach Sylvie. Sylvie passed her arm though Marine’s, and they walked up the stairs together. Marine began to feel a sudden twinge of panic, a feeling of too many people in one place, all of them wanting to be near the front. She felt like she was in an airport, late for her flight. She began to sweat and breathe deeply, when someone tugged on her sleeve and whispered in her ear, “Marine.” Marine swung around, half relieved and half anxious. It was Verlaque. Sylvie gave him a cold stare and said nothing. He moved forward, about to take Marine by the arm, but the throng of mourners pushed Marine forward. Sylvie pulled her quickly, and she turned around only to see Verlaque walking toward the back of the church, against the flow. She moved on, glad to have Sylvie’s lead. The nave was filling up fast, so Sylvie ushered Marine toward a chapel on the south side, where they found two empty cane-seated wooden chairs side by side. They were on the edge of the chapel, so they could see Étienne’s coffin, the choir on the left side of the altar, and a group of schoolchildren sitting on short stools in front, just to the right of the altar and the casket.