by ML Longworth
Marine interrupted, “On the morning of the funeral?”
Verlaque nodded. “I asked Auvieux the same thing, but he said that he walks in the olive orchard every morning. He told me it was like coffee for some people.” He continued, “As Auvieux was coming back through the orchard, he heard a car and ran out to the drive. A black Mercedes was pulling quickly out of the gates. The license plate had mud smeared on it—something that could have happened on la route de Cézanne, since it rained last night. But Auvieux could vaguely make out that the license ended in 06. He told me that, quite rightly, he didn’t like the look of the car, and ran over to the château as quickly as he could. He said that he went inside and called François’s name from the bottom of the stairs, but the house was silent. He went back outside, and it was from the steps of the château’s entryway that he saw the body floating in the pool. He ran and pulled up François’s head, but he was dead. The medical examiner says that Bremont was strangled first, with bare hands it seems. It could have taken less than five minutes, and Auvieux said that he was in the orchard at least fifteen minutes.”
“Bare hands?” Marine asked. “François wasn’t big but he was strong, as I remember.”
“He was in good shape,” Verlaque agreed. “But someone bigger and stronger than him could have murdered him. Someone of Auvieux’s size, for example.”
Marine winced. “Or there could have been more than one of them?”
“It’s possible,” Verlaque answered. “It’s also thanks to his daily tour of the olive orchard that Auvieux was spared. The murderer probably checked the house but didn’t think of walking behind it or didn’t have time.”
“I have some information for you,” Marine said. “I’m not sure if it’s important.”
“Go on.”
“It happened by accident, or sort of. I went to see Vincent, you know, my friend with the boutique on the rue d’Italie. I wanted to buy some new jeans, but also I think I went in subconsciously knowing that Vincent knows everyone in Aix.”
Marine noticed Verlaque flinch. “Yes. He has my suit and shirt size memorized,” he said.
“Exactly,” Marine said. She went on to tell Verlaque about her conversation with Vincent and the argument the Bremonts had had. Verlaque in turn told Marine of the argument on the cours between François and Isabelle.
“Do you trust Isabelle de Bremont’s word?” Marine asked, finally able to look at Verlaque.
“No. She’s hiding something, as is her sister. In fact, everyone is hiding something—Jean-Claude is as well. It’s turning into one of those old-fashioned plays in which everyone has a secret, all the characters casting sideways glances whenever someone moves an inch in the elegant living room.”
“Ah, yes. The flower-filled salon. The women wearing dark velvet, and the men handsome tweeds, and everyone smokes from long ivory cigarette holders.”
Verlaque laughed. “Exactly.” He stared at Marine, unable to take his eyes off her. He had a lump in his throat, and Marine broke the silence by asking, “So . . . what happens next?”
“Right. I spoke with Bruno about it this afternoon. I’d like you to talk to Auvieux’s sister, first to explain to her what happened, and then try to get whatever information you can from her—I’d like to know if the caretaker liked François, or hated him, or had some kind of grudge against him. As I told you on the phone, you knew each other growing up.”
“If she remembers me. Here,” Marine said, handing him his cigar while he handed her a glass of champagne.
“Wow. A 46. What a treat. Thank you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. Marine’s cell phone rang, and she reached into the depths of her purse to see who was calling. “It’s probably Sylvie,” she said to Verlaque, who was staring at her. “She wants me to babysit on Saturday.” Marine looked at the caller’s name; it was her friend Marie-Pierre from the bank. “Hello, Marie-Pierre,” she said.
“Listen, I don’t have much time because we’re off to a movie,” Marie-Pierre said. “But I looked into the accounts of Étienne and Isabelle de Bremont. I could lose my job for telling you this.”
“Don’t worry,” Marine said. “It’s in the name of the law.”
“I know, I know. Well, here it is. The Bremonts aren’t poor.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s not much money in their joint account, but lots in a separate account that Étienne seemed to use. I almost didn’t spot that second account because the address is different—the statements get sent to Saint-Antonin.”
Marine was dumbfounded, and then realized that she hadn’t thanked her friend. “Thanks, Marie-Pierre. Have fun at the cinema.”
“I doubt it. It’s a Harry Potter—I’m taking the kids. Bises, ciao!”
Marine hung up the phone and told Verlaque what her friend had said. “That’s so typical of the nobility,” Verlaque said.
“What do you mean?” Marine asked, helping herself to a handful of cashews.
“To pretend you don’t have money when you really do. What’s the shame in having a nice car? Why are the nobility so proud that they have to hide their money?”
They had had this argument a thousand times. “They see it as being discreet, I think.” But she thought of the rickety baby buggy and had to agree a bit with Verlaque. “Wait a minute . . .Vincent said that they argued about money in his shop, and that Isabelle said that she was tired of being poor.”
“So she didn’t know about the second account.” Verlaque poured them both some more champagne. Marine was having a hard time figuring out why she was there—Verlaque was doing a good deal of staring but not much more. They could have said any of this by telephone. But the champagne worked its magic, and Marine saw that Verlaque was smiling and leaning back and rubbing his tummy, something he always did when he was completely comfortable. He said, “That was very moving this morning, the little I saw of it. The lawyers in their robes, the school kids . . . What did you think?”
“I agree. It was somehow magical. After you left, the children offered drawings they had done of heaven. They made me think of Paradiso, our Italian hideaway.”
“That was heaven, wasn’t it?” Verlaque closed his eyes and drew on his cigar, and then suddenly asked, “How’s your new boyfriend?” leaning toward Marine with mock sincerity.
Marine looked back in pretended shock. She refrained from telling Verlaque that she and Arthur were definitely not yet boyfriend and girlfriend. It wasn’t any of his business. “How do you know about him? He just left for California anyway.”
“I know. Stanford University.” Verlaque saw the look of surprise on Marine’s face. “Do I always have to remind you, darling, that Aix is small? Word gets around. We have some of the same friends, remember. So, what’s going on between the two of you? What do you do for fun?”
“Shut up!” Marine tried hard not to laugh. She felt almost delirious being on the terrace with Antoine, and she wanted time to stand still. No—she wanted to reverse the clocks and have Étienne still be alive. And François.
“Where does a vegan go out for dinner?”
Marine laughed aloud. “He’s a vegetarian, not a vegan, and I’m going to kill Jean-Marc!”
“Don’t be too hard on Jean-Marc. He was looking out for your best interest. I forced him to tell me all about the good doctor.”
“And why would Jean-Marc do that?”
Verlaque’s smile faded slightly but still played on his charming, wide mouth. He stared at Marine. He paused, and in a quiet voice said, “Because, my silly, beautiful girl, he knows how much I still care for you.” Marine looked at him, stunned, unable to answer. The silence stretched for minutes as they stared at one another, neither daring to move or to breathe. Verlaque broke the ice by standing up, leaning his back against the terrace’s wrought-iron balcony.
“Hey,”
Verlaque said, looking down at his stomach. “Do you think I’ve lost weight?”
Marine laughed out loud and reached over and patted his middle. She looked up at Antoine, keeping her hand on his stomach.
“You always did have a soft spot for my big tummy, didn’t you?”
Verlaque’s cell phone then rang, and, seeing that it was Paulik, he excused himself, mussing Marine’s hair as he walked by her to take the call in the kitchen. “I called my cousin Fréd and asked him what kind of vehicle François de Bremont drives on the Côte,” Paulik told Verlaque. “A black Range Rover. And in the summer he zips around on a Vespa,” Paulik continued.
“So he doesn’t have a fetish for VW Golfs?” Verlaque asked, looking at Marine through the glass doors.
“Apparently not,” Paulik replied. “But why go to all that trouble to get the Golf from Saint-Antonin?”
“I have no idea. It’s really beginning to bother me.” Verlaque thanked Paulik for the call, and they wished each other a good evening and hung up.
Marine noticed with surprise that they had very quickly drunk a bottle of champagne, and now Verlaque was opening a bottle of red. She looked at the label and saw that it was a Gigondas; the name rang a bell: she was fairly certain that it was a small town in the Rhône. Sylvie had a theory that one should always check the alcohol level of a wine, especially when one was alone with an attractive man whom one wasn’t dating—if the alcohol was above 12.5 percent, the evening could become dangerous. Verlaque turned away to put some lamb chops on the grill—there was also some tiny, thin asparagus in the oven, with loads of olive oil and garlic—and Marine grabbed the bottle and saw that the alcohol was 14 percent. But she had already drunk enough champagne that her ability to reason was, well, beyond reason.
They ate their dinner, laughing and talking of a trip to Piedmont they had taken while still together, a trip on which Marine must have gained five kilos. She didn’t have a scale in her house, but she could not fit into her favorite jeans after the trip. They teased each other, and Verlaque began to caress her leg while he ate. It didn’t seem unnatural for him to do this, despite their recent months apart. She let him continue. He caressed her throughout the dinner, and through the cheese and more wine, and during the fresh strawberries.
“We’re just like an old couple,” he finally said.
“No, Antoine, we’re not a couple,” said Marine. “Are you happy?” she asked gently, after a pause.
“So-so,” he answered, looking at his wineglass.
Marine began to feel panicked. “Vincent hinted today that you’ve been up to something lately. Is there someone else in your life?”
“No,” replied Verlaque, not looking at Marine.
She shivered and wanted to be home, alone. “I have to go,” she said, folding her napkin and setting it beside her plate.
“Wait. Please. Don’t go yet,” he said, this time looking at her.
“All right. Wait two seconds,” Marine answered, and she walked quickly toward the bathroom. As usual, she had to go pee at a crucial moment in the evening. Was he going to ask her to sleep over? And what if she did? Who would care? Except Sylvie, and she needn’t find out about it. Marine maneuvered her way down the hallway and up the two stairs that led to his bathroom. She locked herself in and breathed deeply, leaning against the wood door.
She sat down on the toilet and Sylvie’s musical message came into her head. Be careful, she thought. She began flipping through the magazines on the tiled floor—Verlaque’s usual assortment: sailing magazines; two Cigar Aficionados; an Economist, in English. And, then, at the bottom of the pile, a French Vogue. Verlaque hates fashion magazines, she thought. She picked it up and flipped it over to the front cover—it was this month’s Vogue. It had an address label still attached—Lady Emily Watford, 76 rue d’Assas, 75006, Paris. Marine knew the street well. She had spent a year researching law at the Université Panthéon-Assas, located on that same street, across from the Jardin du Luxembourg. Even small apartments cost a fortune in the sixth arrondissement. She felt sick to her stomach. Someone with a posh name and address had been visiting Verlaque very recently. Stupid Lady Emily had probably read the magazine on the TGV on the way to Aix. Marine imagined a blonde sitting in first class, her Prada miniskirt showing off her thin, long legs. Tanned, long legs. That’s who rearranged the fucking kitchen! That’s what Vincent was referring to! He must have seen them around town. Aix is small, indeed.
Marine walked back out onto the terrace and picked up her purse. “Are you leaving?” Verlaque asked, looking up at her. “Don’t you want to stay and hear what I want to tell you?”
“No, I can’t. I mean, I don’t have time. I have papers to mark, and I’m exhausted.” She heard Verlaque speaking behind her, but she couldn’t make out his words—she was at his front door in seconds, ran down the stairs out into the street, not stopping until she had turned into the place de l’Archevêché. She spotted a garbage can in front of her and discreetly, she hoped, threw up the contents of her dinner. As Sylvie said later, it wasn’t the champagne or the wine that caused her to be sick, but her heart and her stomach were so full of love that something had to give, something had to escape. Maybe it was Verlaque finally leaving her system? “That’s our worst nightmare,” Sylvie added, placing a warm washcloth on Marine’s forehead. “To discover that the man we love is screwing somebody else.”
“Do you have to be so blunt? What are you saying? That Verlaque loves this Emily?”
Sylvie put the washcloth down and had a sip of green tea. “Maybe you should consider that possibility.”
“Thanks a lot, Sylvie,” Marine moaned. “So why am I so upset? I’m seeing someone too!”
“Are you in love with Arthur Vassan?” Sylvie asked. She then snorted.
“What’s so funny?”
“Arthur Vassan. Antoine Verlaque. Same initials.”
Marine paused before snapping, “That doesn’t mean anything.”
Sylvie put her hand on Marine’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right. But . . . you could get an ‘AV’ with a heart tattooed on your butt.” They both burst out laughing.
Chapter Fourteen
His cell phone rang, forcing him to move away from the doorway of the terrace where Marine had left him standing, perplexed, for some minutes. She was so frustrating, so unbelievably stubborn, so intoxicating.
“Oui, Verlaque here.”
“This is Olivier Madani, president of Souliado Films in Marseille. I’m sorry to call you at this hour, Judge Verlaque, but we were editing until late this evening. One of your officers visited me on Monday, and we were so busy that I couldn’t spend much time with him.”
“Thank you for calling,” Verlaque answered. He was a little surprised that Madani would call him personally. He closed the front door to his apartment, left open by Marine, and walked across the living room to close the windows. It was cooler now.
“Morale here is pretty low, Judge. Étienne was well liked—he kind of held this place together. Artists are difficult at times, but he wasn’t,” Madani said.
Verlaque answered sincerely, “It doesn’t surprise me—I was very impressed with Étienne de Bremont when he filmed me for your crime documentary.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. The crime documentary . . . I should have told the sergeant about it, but we were so busy, and I’d been sitting in a dark room too long, so I was a little foggy. That documentary was released nine months ago, but while Étienne was filming we received a call from, um,” Madani hesitated, “them.”
Verlaque understood but carefully asked, “Who?”
Madani paused. There was a silence on the phone. Madani cleared his throat. “I think we both know whom we’re talking about here.”
Of course, thought Verlaque, the Mafia, with ties to Ajaccio in Corsica. While tourists slept, after a da
y of taking pictures of Aix’s seventeenth-century mansions and fountains, the Corsican mafia was setting off bombs in nightclubs or bars that refused to pay protection money. In February an English pub that poured, in Verlaque’s opinion, a fine Guinness, was bombed. Nobody was hurt, as the bomb went off at 4:00 a.m., but the owner packed his bags and moved back to Manchester.
“Judge? Are you there?”
“Yes, go on.”
Madani continued, “During the filmmaking, after Étienne had finished his first few interviews, I was invited—told—to come to lunch. Lunch with”—here Madani lowered his voice—“Fabrizio Orsani.”
“Ah,” Verlaque answered. He knew the name well. Orsani was the godfather for the Marseille region.
Madani, relieved of this weight, continued quickly, unprompted by the judge: “He came with about four young guys, huge guys. They were all Corsican—I know because my parents both grew up in Cargèse. He was very pleasant. I must admit, I kind of liked him. He just told me to be careful, careful with what we chose to put in the film, careful with what we chose not to put in. He wanted to meet Étienne, but I told him that Étienne was my best director, and I had full confidence in him. It’s funny, because Orsani then laughed and said, ‘I hope he’s nothing like his idiot brother.’”
“And since then, nothing?” Verlaque asked.
“Nothing. They couldn’t have been displeased with the film—it was fairly neutral, I thought. I later heard, after we won the award, that Orsani was even a bit flattered at the references made to him.”